Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

PICT Presents STEVE ALTEN

CMash October 23, 2013 1 Comment

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WELCOME STEVE ALTEN

STEVE ALTEN

Steve Alten earned his Bachelors degree at Penn State University, a Masters Degree in Sports Medicine from the University of Delaware, and a Doctorate of Education at Temple University. Struggling to support his family of five, he decided to pen a novel he had been thinking about for years. Working late nights and on weekends, he eventually finished MEG; A Novel of Deep Terror, a thriller about Carcharodon megalodon, the 70-foot prehistoric cousin of the great white shark. MEG went on to become an international best-seller, with movie rights sold. The Mayan Calendar plays a big part in his Domain series — another international best-seller sold in the U.K. as THE MAYAN PROPHECY series. Steve’s other work includes The LOCH — a modern-day thriller about the Loch Ness Monster, The SHELL GAME — about the end of oil and the next 9/11 event, and GRIM REAPER: End of Days — a modern-day Dante’s Inferno which takes place in New York when a man-made plague strikes Manhattan. His best work yet, THE OMEGA PROJECT – was released in August 2013. As an author, Steve has two goals. First, to continue to work hard to become a better storyteller and create exciting page turning thrillers. Second, to remain accessible to his readers. Steve reads and answers all e-mails, uses the names and descriptions of his loyal fans as characters in all his novels, and even hires readers as editors, depending on their particular expertise.
Connect with Steve at these sites:

Q&A with Steve Alten

ABOUT THE BOOK

In The Wizard of Oz, a runaway finds herself transplanted to a strange land, only to learn it was all a dream. In Planet of the Apes, an astronaut awakens to find himself in a strange land, only to realize he is still on Earth. The Omega Project ups the ante, and neither the hero nor the reader will know the true reality until the very last page. In 2028, twelve astronauts and a scientist are cryogenically frozen for 30 days beneath the Ross Ice Shelf to prep for a mission to Europa. Only one will awaken… 12 million years in the future!

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When the oil stopped flowing death became a game of musical chairs. Accepting isolation over the insanity of anarchy, I remained alone in my fortress of solitude, waiting for the world’s population to drop from seven billion to just under six hundred million, knowing that if I could safeguard my chair then maybe I’d live to see a different, wiser world. Instead, I found myself quarantined against a society gone mad in every sense of the word. After sixteen months of rationing, I was forced to venture out of my prison — and that’s when I met my new companion.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Fiction
Published by: Tor/Forge
Publication Date: August 6, 2013
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 0765336324

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Guest Author, Harper Collins/William Morrow, Partners In Crime Tours

Guest Author JAMES HAYMAN

CMash October 23, 2013 1 Comment

WELCOME JAMES HAYMAN

JAMES HAYMAN

James Hayman is a native New Yorker having been born in Brooklyn and raised in Manhattan. Like many city kids, he was sent off to a New England boarding school at fourteen. Eight years later he graduated from Brown University and returned to New York where he spent the next twenty-five years working as a copywriter and creative director at some of Madison Avenue’s biggest ad agencies, creating print and TV advertising for clients like the US Army, Lincoln Mercury, Merrill Lynch and Procter & Gamble. After deciding that the New York agency business was “no country for old men,” Jim left Madison Avenue and moved to Portland, Maine where he worked for several years as a freelance business writer, publishing dozens of articles and two non-fiction business books. In 2007 he decided to follow in the footsteps of other former “Madmen” (James Patterson, Stuart Woods, Chris Grabenstein and Ted Bell to name just a few) and begin a new career writing suspense/thrillers. His debut novel, THE CUTTING was the first in a planned series featuring Portland homicide detectives Michael McCabe and Maggie Savage. It was quickly published and garnered rave reviews both in the print media and online. THE CUTTING was followed by THE CHILL OF NIGHT. Both books have been published around the world and translated into six languages. The third McCabe/Savage thriller, DARKNESS FIRST, is due from Harper Collins’ new Witness imprint in October. Jim lives in Portland with his wife, the artist Jeanne O’Toole Hayman.
Connect with James Hayman at these sites:

Q&A with James Hayman

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
Absolutely, both in terms of character and plot. I think every writer does.

For example, the story in Darkness First centers around the epidemic and very real abuse of and addiction to prescription painkillers in rural Maine. Much of what I wrote in the book grew out of conversations I had with the real life sheriff of Washington County where the book is set and an officer assigned to the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. Darkness First also reflects the growing poverty of coastal towns in Washington County like Eastport and Machias where a once thriving fishing industry has largely crashed with the disappearance of the fish. Eastport was once home to more than a dozen sardine canneries. None of them survive today, not even as the fictitious ruin in which I set a climactic scene in the novel.

My earlier book, The Chill of Night, is about child abuse. Much of it is based on the scandals in the Catholic Church. A book titled Our Fathers was an invaluable resource as was a passing acquaintance I had with Father Bruce Ritter, a Franciscan priest and the celebrated founder of Covenant House in New York. Ritter was later accused and found guilty of abuse, all the while posing as a champion and protector of runaway teens.

As for my characters, both my detectives, Mike McCabe and Maggie Savage, are drawn from real life. As I’ve said elsewhere, McCabe is my alter-ego. We were both born and raised in New York City and later moved to Portland, Maine. We both like good scotch whiskey, old movie trivia and the New York Giants.

Maggie, who I have a huge crush on, is based on a number of women I’ve known and cared for in my own life including my wife Jeanne. I’ve also raised a beautiful intelligent daughter not unlike McCabe’s daughter Casey. All my books reflects that experience.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
Both. My story in Darkness First grew from a comment made by my source in the Maine DEA, that the nightmare scenario for the agency would be the smuggling of a huge quantity of Oxycontin tablets, by water, from Canada into the US. The book opens with exactly that scene.

You can read the prologue and first chapters for free on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Darkness-First-McCabe-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00CGZXQDU/ref=pd_sim_sbs_kstore_1 or Barnes & Noble.com www.jameshaymanthrillers.com/books .

Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
I mostly don’t write at home even though I have a beautiful house overlooking the ocean with a room I call my office. When I’m there, I find it is too easy to be distracted by things that have to be taken care of. Especially, when I reach a hard place in the writing.

Consequently, I try to treat writing as a job I have to report to. I get up and go to work each morning in the great reading room in the Glickman Library at the University of Southern Maine in Portland.

Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
Writing is, for the most-part, my full-time job. When I say the most part, I mean that I also do some other things. I manage a couple of rental properties we own which, happily, takes relatively little time. I also occasionally accept freelance advertising or business writing assignments which can be fun and also help with any cash-flow issues. I’ve also served on the boards of a couple of non-profits, the Salt Institute of Documentary Studies and the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance which supports writers and writing in the State of Maine.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
There are many.

My favorites among mystery and thriller writers include James Lee Burke, Dennis Lehane, Tana French, Michael Connelly, Kate Atkinson, Alan Furst, Tony Hillerman, an Irish writer named Alan Glynn and, based on one book, “Gone Girl,” Gillian Flynn. I’m sure I’m forgetting others because I do read a lot.

Outside of the mystery/thriller genre, I like the books of Ian McEwan, J. M. Coetzee, Larry Brown, Erik Larsson, David McCullough, and greats like Saul Bellow, John Cheever and Philip Roth. And, of course, there is Hemingway and Fitzgerald.

What are you reading now?
I’m currently in the middle of a very strong novel by a writer named Roxana Robinson who is quickly becoming one of my favorites. The book is called “Sparta,” and it’s about a young marine officer returning home from two tours in Iraq with a severe case of PTSD. Robinson writes the book from the marine’s point of view and does a brilliant job of capturing the confusion and disorientation of suddenly finding oneself beyond the dangers of the war and back in the ease of middle class suburban life.

Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I am. The book (as yet unnamed) is about McCabe and Savage investigating a series of murders in Portland that exactly mirror murders that took place on an island in Casco Bay more than one hundred years ago. Mccabe’s photographic memory proves to be a help in unraveling the mystery. Beyond that I can’t say much without spoiling the tale.

Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
That’s a tough one. I sort of see McCabe as someone like Gerard Butler, or maybe Clive Owen or possibly Patrick Dempsey.

I see Maggie as Anne Hathaway. Or maybe Katherine Heigl. Or Claire Danes.

Would you rather read or watch TV/movie?
Read. While there are TV shows that I think are terrific and that I’ve enjoyed (The Killing, Breaking Bad and The Wire among others), I find novels give me much more access to and involvement with the characters.

Favorite food?
I’m definitely an omnivore. As long as it’s well prepared, I love all kinds of food from great New York hot dogs to the fanciest French cuisine. You name it, I’ll eat it.

Favorite beverage?
I’m a Diet Coke addict. And a coffee addict. I drink four or five cups of strong black brew a day. Beyond that, like my hero McCabe, I’ve always enjoyed good single-malt Scotch Whiskey. Unlike McCabe, I now drink more red wine than whiskey, mostly Cabernets and Malbecs. I also like a lot of the terrific microbrews available in Maine, especially Peak Organic IPA and Geary’s Hampshire Special Ale.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Darkness First by James Hayman is the third book in the McCabe and Savage series.

The sadistically mutilated body of a young woman is found in the secluded seaside town of Machiasport, Maine and detective Maggie Savage is drawn home to solve the murder and restore peace. Maggie is the daughter of a sheriff, and justice is in her blood. What makes her so desperate for answers, though, is the fact that her dearest childhood was found just a few steps away from the corpse, comatose, with 150 tablets of Canadian Oxycontin in her pocket.

Maggie delves through the darkest parts of Machiasport, trying to find whichever doomed corner the murdered girl wandered into. After casing old haunts and interviewing the locals, whispers of a menacing character begin to surface: a faceless and nameless man who nobody knows but everybody fears.

In the tradition of John Sandford and William Kent Kreguer, Darkness First is a gruesome thriller about a small town rocked by a savage crime.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Witness
Publication Date: 10/1/2013
Number of Pages: 434
ISBN: 9780062301697

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Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author PATRICIA HALE

CMash September 27, 2013 2 Comments

WELCOME PATRICIA HALE

NAME

Patricia Hale is a graduate of the MFA program at Goddard College in Vermont. She is a member of Sister’s in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, NH Writer’s Project and Maine Writer’s and Publisher’s Alliance. Her essays and articles have appeared in New England literary magazines and the anthology, My Heart’s First Steps. When not writing, she enjoys hiking with her dogs and kayaking on the lakes near her home. Patricia lives in New Hampshire with her husband and two German shepherds.
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ABOUT THE BOOK

Everybody thought brilliant Cecily would leave dead-end Miller’s Falls for something better. But a two-decades-old tragedy locks her in place. Few understand the fierce bond that Cecily and Amelia share with Hilary, who was assaulted one summer as the two other girls watched helplessly. It’s a bond of love and guilt…and a desire for vengeance that cuts clear to the bone.

So Assistant DA Cecily Minos waits, eager to see the guy in her courtroom. When Amelia meets a man who has the tattoo the girls remember seeing that day, they think they’ve finally caught a break. But the police refuse to reopen the case, and it’s up to Cecily and Amelia to pursue their suspect.

Their investigation soon uncovers secrets best left buried. But the law is slow, and they’ve waited long enough for revenge…

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My lungs were tight as fists and the voice inside my head said run, but my legs couldn’t be trusted. Standing up wouldn’t have gotten me out of there, it would only have drawn attention to the pee that was warm in my shorts and it might have gotten Hilary killed if he was serious about running that blade across her neck.

All of a sudden the man stood and keeping his back to us, lowered the kerchief and put a cigarette in his mouth. Hilary never moved though I saw her blink. She was looking at something far away like she was somewhere else entirely and I hoped that that was true so she wouldn’t have to know what happened. He pulled his baseball hat low over his face the same way it’d been when we first climbed into the railcar and without ever looking at us he jumped to the ground and walked away.

“Stay here,” I’d told Amelia, though I knew she wasn’t going anywhere. And I ran. I ran faster than I’d ever run not even caring about the pee burning the inside of my legs. I’d taken the woods instead of the path, running in the opposite direction from the way he’d gone. My legs were scraped and bleeding by the time I’d reached the road and the stitch in my side had made it almost impossible to breath, but I just kept thinking of Hilary laying there and I couldn’t stop until I was pulling open my own back door. I ran into the kitchen and through the house until I found my mother kneeling beside her bed, rosary beads draped around her prayerful hands like a spider web. I stood in the doorway and looked at her, imagined wrapping my arms around her neck and her drawing me in, holding me. I imagined feeling safe. She glanced at me standing there then dismissed me with a nod of her head, knee deep in Jesus. I turned and ran for the telephone.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Mystery/Suspense
Published by: Carina Press
Publication Date: July 15, 2013
Number of Pages: 280
ISBN: 978-14268-9584-5

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Guest Author, Harper Collins/William Morrow, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Partners In Crime Tours Presents: FAYE KELLERMAN

CMash August 1, 2013 Leave a Comment

WELCOME FAYE KELLERMAN

FAYE KELLERMAN

Faye Kellerman lives with her husband, New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Kellerman, in Los Angeles, California, and Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Connect with Ms. Kellerman at these sites:

ABOUT THE BOOK

Over his years with the LAPD, Peter Decker has handled a number of tough cases and strange killers. Few of his previous assignments compare to his latest case—the most bizarre of his storied career.

When Hobart Penny is found dead in his apartment, the cops think that his pet cat—an adult female tiger—attacked the reclusive elderly billionaire. But it soon becomes clear that the beast that killed the eccentric inventor is all too human. Digging into the victim’s life, Decker and his colleagues, Detectives Marge Dunn and Scott Oliver, discover that Penny was an exceptionally peculiar man with exotic tastes, including kinky sex with call girls.

Following a trail of clues that leads from a wildlife sanctuary in the San Bernardino Mountains to the wild nightlife of Las Vegas, the LAPD detectives are left juggling too many suspects and too few answers. To break open a case involving the two most primal instincts—sex and murder—Decker wrestles with a difficult choice: turning to a man with expert knowledge of both—Chris Donatti, the dangerous man who also happens to be the father of Decker’s foster son Gabriel Whitman, a boy not without his own problems.

As their work and intimate worlds collide, Decker and his wife, Rina, find themselves facing tough questions. It just might be that family crises and work-related responsibilities prove too much for Decker’s career. A confluence of ordeals can stress even the most intact of families. And when all these shocking truths comes out, exactly how well will Decker and Rina cope as well as survive?

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THE BEAST By Faye Kellerman

It was the stuff of nightmares, starting with the slow walk down the courtroom aisle: as if his stall tactics had the power to stop the inevitable. Seven hours of testimony, but it wasn’t the length of time that was horrific. When practicing the piano, Gabe had done marathon sessions twice as long as that. But he had always used his music to zone out, and that was impossible to do when being grilled on the witness stand. It had required concentrating on things he was trying so hard to forget: how that day had started out so normal and within minutes had turned into something almost deadly. By four in the afternoon, the trial had finally recessed and the prosecution was essentially done, although Gabe knew the lawyers would have more questions on redirect. He walked out of the courtroom with his foster mother, Rina Decker, on one side and his foster dad, the lieutenant, on the other. They guided him into a waiting car. Sergeant Marge Dunn was behind the wheel. She maneuvered the silent group through the streets of the San Fernando Valley—a suburb of L.A.—until they reached the driveway of the Decker house. Once inside, Gabe collapsed on the living room couch, took off his glasses, and closed his eyes. Rina took off her tam, liberating a sheet of black, shoulder-length hair, and regarded the boy. He was nearly bald—courtesy of an indie film he had starred in—and his complexion was pale and pasty. Little red bumps covered his forehead. She said, “I’m going to change and get dinner ready.” At the sound of her voice, Gabe opened his eyes. “You must be starving.”

“Actually I feel queasy.” He rubbed his green orbs and put his specs back on. “Once I start eating, I’m sure I’ll be okay.” Decker and Marge came in a moment later, chatting about business. The lieutenant loosened his tie, and then took a seat next to the boy. The poor kid was constantly jockeying back and forth between the teen and adult worlds. For the last year, his foster son had been at Juilliard, finishing almost two years in one. Decker threw his arm around the kid’s shoulder and kissed the top of his peach fuzz head. Gabe wasn’t totally bald, but what was growing in was blondish. Gabe asked, “How’d I do?” “Phenomenal,” Decker said. “I wish every witness I had was half as good as you.” Marge sat opposite the boys. “You were a dream for the prosecution: completely credible, plainspoken, and damn cute.” When Gabe smiled, she said, “Plus being a movie star doesn’t hurt.” “Oh Jeez. It was barely above a student film on a shoestring budget. It’ll never go anywhere.” Decker smiled. “You never know.” “Believe me, I know. Did I ever tell you about my breakdown scene? I’m running down this long hallway of the sanitarium buck naked with my hair flying in back as attendants in white coats try to catch me. When they catch me, they start to shave my head and I’m screaming, ‘not my hair, not my hair.’ I haven’t seen the movie, so I’ll have to take the director’s word that it was a great scene.” “You haven’t watched your own movie?” Marge asked. “No. Too embarrassed. Not at me being naked, but I’m pretty sure I’m a dreadful actor.”

Marge smiled, stood up, and picked a piece of pilled wool off of her beige sweater. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve got to go back to the station house. I left a pile of paperwork on my desk.” “Not to mention everything dropped in your lap,” Decker said. “Thanks for picking up the slack.” Rina walked in. She had donned a long-sleeved black T-shirt, a jean skirt, and slippers. “You’re not staying for dinner, Marge?” “Can’t. Too much work to do.” Decker looked at his watch. “I’ll come join you in about an hour if you’re still around. I’ll bring you a care package from tonight’s dinner.” “In that case, I’ll make sure I’m around.” Marge waved and left. Decker said to his wife, “You need any help?” “I’m fine. It’s been a long day and a little quiet is okay with me.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Gabe said, “I should shower. I smell pretty bad. I was sweating a lot.” “Normal.” “I suppose this is only a warm-up for tomorrow. Defense is going to have a field day with me.” “You’ll be fine. Just stick to who you are and tell the truth.” “That I’m the son of a hit man?” “Gabe—” “I mean who are we kidding? You know they’re gonna bring him up.” “Probably. And if they do, your lawyer will object, because Christopher Donatti is irrelevant.”

“He’s a criminal.” “He is, but you aren’t.” “He runs whorehouses.” “Whorehouses are legal in Nevada.” “He cut up Dylan Lashay and turned him into a mass of jelly.” “Now you’re speculating.” Decker looked at the boy. “Okay. I’m the defense and cross direct, okay.” He cleared his throat and tried to act like a lawyer. “Have you ever participated in anything criminal? And be careful what you answer.” Gabe thought a moment. “I smoked pot.” “Ever take pills?” “Prescription medication.” “Such as.” “Paxil, Xanax, Zoloft, Prozac … a cornucopia of pharmaceuticals. My doctors rotate around to see what’s affective. And the answer to that is—nothing.” “It is sufficient to just list the medications, Gabriel.” “I know.” “Are you anxious now?” “I’m very anxious.” “Good answer,” Decker said. “Who wouldn’t be anxious during this process? The prosecution has presented you today as a gifted teen that has gone through a very traumatic experience. On cross, defense will try to trip you up. They’ll ask you about your dad, they’ll ask you about me. Always pause before you answer to give the prosecution time to object. And whatever you do, don’t speculate. On redirect, the lawyers will make sure that the jury knows that you are not your father’s son.” Gabe said, “I don’t really care about myself. I’m worried about Yasmine. It kills me to picture her being hammered at by some jerk lawyer.” “She’s sixteen, sheltered, an A student, and physically, she’s small and delicate. She’ll probably cry. Everyone will go lightly on her. What they’ll do is ask her to repeat verbatim what Dylan and the others said to her and argue about the meaning of their statements. I’m sure the defense will say something like they were just kidding around. Bad taste, but no serious intent.” “Dylan was going to rape her.” “He might have even killed her if you didn’t step in.” Decker paused. “It could be she won’t make it to the witness box. After your testimony, they may try again for a plea bargain.” “Dylan’s completely physically messed up. Why didn’t they plea bargain in the first place?” “The Lashays wouldn’t agree to jail time. We offered them a prison hospital, but the parents wouldn’t take it, claiming the prison hospital doesn’t have the wherewithal to care for Dylan in his current state.” “Surely someone can wipe his drool,” Gabe muttered. “I hope he dies a terrible death.” “He probably will,” Decker said. “In the meantime, he’s living a terrible life.”

Riding with the windows down, Decker enjoyed the air after being locked away in a stuffy and tense courtroom. He wasn’t anticipating anything more than a mountain of paperwork to deal with, but then his cell went off just as he was parking in the station house’s lot. Bluetooth told him Marge Dunn was on the line. “Yo, Sergeant, I’m right outside.” “Stay there. I’m coming down.” The phone disconnected. A few minutes later, she came out of the building and jogged over to the car. Sliding onto the passenger seat, she closed the door. The night was cool, and she wrapped her hands in the sleeves of her knitted hoodie. She gave him the address, which was fifteen minutes away. There was a tense look on her face. “We have an issue.” “Yeah, I ascertained that.” “Do you remember an eccentric millionaire named Hobart Penny?” “Some kind of engineer-inventor. Made his money in aerospace I want to say?” “That was Howard Hughes. But you’re not too far off. He holds about fifty different patents for high-heat polymers including glues and plastics used in aerospace. The consensus on the Internet says he’s worth around a half-billion dollars.” “Sizeable chunk of change.” “Exactly. And like Hughes, he became a recluse. He’s now either eighty-eight or eightynine, depending on what site you’re at. Did you know he lived in our district?” “Lived?” “Or maybe it’s still the present tense, but I don’t think so. He rents an apartment in the Glencove district and has resided there for the past twenty-five years.” “I had no idea.” “Neither did anyone in the complex. We got a call about a half-hour ago from a unit adjacent to his. Something stinks inside Penny’s apartment.” “That’s not good.”

“Not good but not unusual, considering his age. Okay. So he’s been dead for a couple of days. We can deal with that. But here’s the problem. The complainant has been hearing strange sounds coming from his apartment.” “Like?” “Clicking, scratching, and an unmistakable roaring.” “Roaring? As in a lion roaring?” “Or it could be some other big cat. The complainant had gathered up some of his fellow apartment dwellers along with the building’s manager whose name is George Paxton. I talked to the manager, told him I was sending some people down to get everyone out of the apartment building—as in immediately.” “God yes! We need a total evacuation of the structure.” “If you want the apartment buildings adjacent to be evacuated for good measure, I’ll radio for more units.” “Yeah, go ahead. Better to be safe, right. You’ve called animal control?” “Of course. I’ve requested people with experience working with big cats. That might take awhile.” Decker shook his head. “This is crazy.” “It’s a first for me.” Silence. Decker said, “How did you end up with the call?” “Someone in-house transferred the call to Homicide. Not a bad decision, considering we’ve got an old recluse, a rotten smell, and a roaring animal. I’d say the chance for finding a dead body is very high.”

The area was largely residential: a mix of apartments, condos, and single-family homes, but there was a small strip mall of businesses located across the street from the address. The black night mixed with floodlights and with blinking lights from the bars on the cruisers. Several ambulances had been called and were standing by, just in case. After double parking, Decker and Marge got out, flashed their badges, and were allowed entry into the activity. About fifty yards up was a huddle of animal control agents in tan uniforms. He and Marge fast walked over to the circle and displayed their badges. At that specific moment, something bestial let out a ferocious bellow. Decker jumped back. The roar was especially eerie because it was a foggy and moonless night. He held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “What the hey?” A sandy-haired, muscular man in his thirties stuck out his hand, first to Marge, then to Decker. Introductions were made all around—three men and a woman roughly ranging in age from midtwenties to midforties. “Ryan Wilner.” Decker said, “I thought it was going to take a while for you guys to get here.” “Me and Hathaway were in GLAZA, teaching a seminar on big cats. Zoo is a straight shot to here if there’s no traffic.” Hathaway was tall and bald. His first name was Paul. He said, “We’re usually the big cat guys, but we do everything.” Marge said, “How often do you deal with wild animals?” “Wild animals all the time—raccoons, skunks, possum … even bears coming in from Angeles Crest. Exotics are another bag of tricks. We deal with a big cat maybe once a year,

mostly lions or tigers, but I’ve done jaguars and leopards. Couple times I’ve been asked to help out with wolf hybrid packs that had turned on their owner.” Wilner said, “I just did a chimp about a month ago.” “Lots of reptiles.” The woman who spoke had close-cropped blond hair and gray eyes and stood about six feet. Her name tag said ANDREA JULLIUS. “Local poisonous snakes like California rattlers or sidewinders. But like Ryan said, we get the exotics. Just recently, me and Jake pulled out a Gaboon viper and a monitor lizard from a trailer in Saugus.” Jake was Jake Richey. He was in his twenties with yellow hair. He looked like a surfer dude. “I’ve done lots of snake captures, but that was my first Gaboon viper.” Andrea said, “You wouldn’t believe the things people keep as pets—snakes, monitor lizards, crocs and alligators.” “What about that grizzly about a year ago?” Hathaway said. “That was a trick.” Wilner said, “And how about that female Asian elephant two years ago? In the same month, we captured a runaway male bison that was the family pet until it went into puberty and nearly took down the entire house.” But Decker was concentrating on the problem at hand. “How on earth do you get a big cat into Los Angeles?” “Mail order. You acquire some land and a license and say you’re going to set up a breeding program or a for-profit zoo or circus.” “That is crazy!” Marge said. “Not as crazy as the people who keep them as pets,” Andrea Jullius said. Wilner said, “People are delusional; always think that they have magical powers over the beast. Inevitably a wild animal lives up to its name. That’s where we come in. If everything

works out well, the animal winds up in a sanctuary. It’s no fun putting down an animal that isn’t doing anything wrong except being what it is.” Another fierce roar pierced the miasma. Decker and Marge exchanged glances. She said, “That animal sounds pissed.” “It’s very pissed,” Wilner said. “We’re going over our next step.” “Which is?” Decker said. “Drill some peepholes and see what we’re dealing with.” “My bet’s on a Bengal female tiger ,” Hathaway said. “I agree,” Wilner said. “A male lion would be five times as loud. When the area is cleared out, we’ll put on some protective gear and drill some holes. Once we see what we’re working with, we figure out how to tranquilize it and get it out of here before we have a major problem.” Another howl echoed through the dripping fog. It was engulfing, as if being swallowed alive. Decker spoke to Marge. “We should assign some agents to the apartment doorway, just in case our friend feels like busting loose.” “One step ahead of you. It’s already done,” Wilner said. “I got one with a tranquilizing gun, one with a hunting gun. We aren’t taking any chances.” He turned to Agent Andrea Jullius. “What’s going on with the equipment from the zoo?” “Twenty more minutes.” Wilner tossed keys to Hathaway. “You wanna go get the protective gear?” “Sure,” Hathaway said. “Do you have a vest for me?” Decker said. “I want to take a look through the peepholes. Homicide was called because the apartment was rented to an old man.”

“Our policy is no civilians,” Wilner told him. “And what are the chances that the old man inside is still alive?” Decker said, “This is my community, and I feel responsible for everything that goes on here. I want to see the layout of the apartment so I know what I’m dealing with.” “It’s gonna be grisly.” “I’ve done grisly before. Once I saw a dead guy being gnawed on by a wild mountain lion. It bothered me, but that’s okay. When things stop bothering me, I’ll know it’s time to quit.”

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Published by: Harper Collins/ William Morrow
Publication Date: August 6, 2013
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 9780062121752

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Partners In Crime Tours Presents: BLACK CAESAR by RON CHEPESIUK

CMash July 7, 2013 Leave a Comment

WELCOME RON CHEPESIUK

RON CHEPESIUK

Ron Chepesiuk is an award-winning author and a publisher, screenwriter and documentary producer and director. He’s a two-time Fulbright Scholar to Bangladesh and Indonesia and a consultant to the History Channel’s Gangland TV series. His books include Sergeant Smack, Gangsters of Harlem, Gangsters of Miami, among others. He is also Executive Producer and co-host of the popular radio show Crime Beat (www.artistfirst.com/crimebeat.htm). For other books by Ron Chepesiuk go to www.strategicmediabooks.com.
Connect with Mr. Chepesiuk at these sites:

ABOUT THE BOOK

In 1973, 29-year old Frank Matthews jumped bail and disappeared with 15-20 million and beautiful mistress and has never been seen again. The book chronicles the meteoric rise and fall of Frank Matthews, history’s biggest African American drug dealer and one of history’s biggest manhunts to apprehend him.

READ AN EXCERPT

Prologue
Jumping Bail

“Mr. Deary, am I going to get that life count they’ve been talking about?”
Frank Matthews

JULY 2, 1973—a typical hot, muggy day in New York City. Frank Matthews, alleged drug kingpin, is scheduled to appear in a federal court in Brooklyn, New York. He is already facing six charges of drug trafficking and conspiracy, but the new indictment will add charges and supersede the first one. On December 20, 1972, federal prosecutors swore out a warrant for Matthews’ arrest, accusing him of possessing 15 kilos of cocaine worth an estimated $3.6 million at street prices. About two weeks later, the authorities finally arrested Matthews in Las Vegas, one of his favorite haunts, as he prepared to leave the city and fly to Los Angeles for the Super Bowl VII game between the Miami Dolphins and Washington Redskins.

After being extradited from Las Vegas to New York City, Matthews had managed to secure bail despite the claim of the federal government that he is the U.S.’s biggest drug trafficker. Federal prosecutors and law enforcement officials who investigated the Matthews organization considered the bail of $325,000 a bad joke, and they worried that Matthews would skip town. After all, investigators had evidence that Matthews may be been quietly stashing $1 million a month for the past several months. So why, they wondered, would the drug kingpin be doing that unless he was preparing for his imminent flight? All Matthews had to do to meet the bond requirements was to report regularly to the U.S. Attorney’s office and stay within the jurisdiction of the Eastern District of New York. Being short of manpower, law enforcement had no way of keeping tabs on Matthews.

The suspect’s attitude and demeanor reinforced the authorities concern. The charismatic and handsome Matthews swaggered into the federal courthouse and greeting everyone he met with a broad smile and a friendly nod, while flirting with the ladies. Law enforcement officials could only look on and marvel. “Frank looked and acted like the King of New York City,“ said Ray Deary, the Assistant United States Attorney for the Eastern District who had served in the Appeals Division since 1971. “He walked around our turf like he owned it.”

Deary was right. Frank Matthews is no ordinary criminal. On the mean streets of the urban jungles of America Matthews’ exploits have earned him the moniker of “Black Caesar.” He is charismatic as well as dangerous and even his adversaries, the authorities, have a grudging respect for him.

Matthews seemingly unconcern about the serious charges that could put him in jail for several decades baffled the authorities. They could not tail him, but they had received reports that Matthews has been conducting business with his associates even before securing bail. Sources within the West Street Detention Center, where Matthews had been detained after his arrest, observed that top lieutenants of his organization, as well as his lawyer, Gino Gallina, were visiting him frequently, and it seemed to the sources that Matthews was giving instructions and orders.

After his release on bond, Black Caesar was seen in the company of several leading drug dealers and gamblers. Moreover, Matthews was in the constant company of Cheryl Denise Brown, a beautiful light skinned black woman who turned heads wherever she went. It should have been an embarrassment to the alleged drug kingpin since he had a common law wife, Barbara Hinton, and three kids waiting for him at home. But Hinton, herself an attractive woman, did not seem to be bothered or embarrassed by Matthews’ apparent public infidelity, even after the family was forced to leave their luxurious surroundings for a more modest apartment at 2785 Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn. In better days, Matthews had used the Ocean Parkway apartment as a getaway and a place to stash his many paramours. In their effort to nail Matthews, prosecutors hauled Hinton before a grand jury, offering her immunity if she would cooperate with their case against her husband. Hinton refused, even though she faced a possible conspiracy charge herself.

Then a few days before his scheduled court appearance, Matthews arrived in the Brooklyn federal court building with his lawyer, Gino Gallina when he bumped into Federal Prosecutor Raymond Deary as Deary was leaving a room. Matthews said to Deary, “Mr. Deary, am I gonna get that life count they been talking about?” Matthews was referring to part of section 848 of the Controlled Substances Act of 1970: “Any person who engages in a continuing criminal enterprise shall be sentenced to a term of imprisonment which may not be less than 20 years and which may be up to life imprisonment.” The thought of Section 848 terrified many traffickers because they feared that, if convicted under the statue, they would spend the rest of their lives in prison.

Deary looked at Matthews and said, “It’s very possible Frank….very possible.” Later, Deary said he was joking, but for Matthews, spending his life in jail was no joking matter. “Frank knew what the 848 could do to him,” recalled Liddy Jones, a former drug kingpin and an associate of Matthews. “No way was he going to spend the rest of his life in jail.”

Inside the steamy courthouse on this sweltering July day in 1973, the electric fans whirred as the judge, federal prosecutors and the defense team waited patiently for Frank Matthews to appear. But he never did. Instead, he became a fugitive from justice. In the coming weeks, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), the lead agency in the investigation of Frank Matthews, is confident they will apprehend the fugitive. After all, don’t law enforcement officials always get their man? The weeks turned into months and the months into years, and law enforcement did not catch him. The U.S. Marshal Service took over the hunt for Matthews from the DEA. There were alleged sightings of Matthews in more than 50 countries. Cheryl Brown, Matthews’ mistress disappeared the same time he did, and her whereabouts were just as mysterious. No informant stepped forward. No bodies were ever found. No fingerprints were discovered. No solid leads appeared. Nothing.

With time, law enforcement moved on to other priorities. New generations of law enforcement officials replace the old guard and they knew little about Matthews. Periodically, Matthews’ story appeared briefly in the press and rekindled speculation. Is he alive or is he dead? The public wondered. But then the reports faded from public consciousness and people focused on other crime stories.

What follows is the remarkable story of the legendary Frank Matthews, one of organized crime’s most original gangsters. It is the story of the biggest gangster mystery of all time. It is a story with an improbable beginning and a story with no conclusive ending.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: True Crime
Published by: Strategic Media Books
Publication Date: June 1, 2013
Number of Pages: 210
ISBN: 9098524401 // 978-0985244019

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DISCLAIMER
No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

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Guest Author MATTHEW DUNN

CMash June 30, 2013 Leave a Comment

WELCOME MATTHEW DUNN

MATTHEW DUNN

As an MI6 field officer, MATTHEW DUNN recruited and ran agents, coordinated and participated in special operations, and acted in deep-cover roles throughout the world. He operated in environments where, if captured, he would have been executed. Dunn was trained in all aspects of intelligence collection, deep-cover deployments, small-arms, explosives, military unarmed combat, surveillance, and infiltration.

Medals are never awarded to modern MI6 officers, but Dunn was the recipient of a rare personal commendation from the secretary of state for work he did on one mission, which was deemed so significant that it directly influenced the success of a major international incident.

During his time in MI6, Matthew conducted approximately seventy missions. All of them were successful. He lives in England, where he is at work on the fourth Spycatcher novel.
Connect with Matthew Dunn at these sites:

Q&A with Matthew Dunn

Former MI6 agent and author of the Spycatcher series, Matthew Dunn gives readers a peak into his former life.

1. How did you conceive of the character Will Cochrane? How is he like you, at least you when you were working? How is he different?
I wanted to create a character who personified the reality of intelligence work that operatives do in the field – the loneliness, the requirement to make tough decisions on the ground without being able to call for support from headquarters, the moral ambiguities of those decisions, the strong intellectual prowess, and the relentless mindset. An operative also needs a tough body, yet one that can be filled with both love and respect for the people around him. Cochrane is a lot like me when I was in MI6, though his family background is different. I’m now ten years older than he is, have two children, am recently married, and write for a living. I’m no longer Will Cochrane.

2. Do you see writing spy novels as a way to shed light on popular misconceptions or educate readers about the realities of international politics today?
In essence, there are two primary activities of spy agencies: the long-game of running foreign spies to obtain intelligence that can inform the foreign policies of the agency’s government; and covert, frequently extremely violent, paramilitary actions. The primacy of either activity ebbs and flows depending on the circumstances of the times. During the Cold War, all sides knew that pulling a gun was counterproductive as there was a standoff on all levels. Since then, things have been very different and that was reflected in my work as an operative, though I was also very involved in the running of foreign assets and at one time was living under deep cover with 15 different alias identities. My novels are fiction of course, but they reflect what can and does happen in the field, all of which never makes the papers unless something goes terribly wrong. Even then there are mechanisms in place to block or misdirect public scrutiny. The biggest misconception about the reality of espionage is that it is not exciting and extremely dangerous. That is very wrong. My novels reflect the realities of being in the field. I have no point to make, beyond telling it how it is.

3. While you probably can’t get too specific about this, how do you translate your experiences as an MI6 agent into the scenes and characters in your novels?
One of the joys of writing fiction is that I can disguise my experiences inside a fictional tale. In SLINGSHOT, you’ll read about real events and people. The names of the people have obviously been changed, and the events take place in different locations and under different circumstances. I will leave it to readers to attempt to deduce truth from fiction.

When I write, I see everything through the prism of being an MI6 officer. A frequent question I will ask myself is, “what would I have done?’ It’s a useful question and there is often no right or wrong answer, just as it is in the field when you’re an operative and you’re faced with intractable problems. Will Cochrane makes mistakes, as I have done in real life, has to recover from those mistakes, and has to keep going. The people I write about are similar to people I know. The events are similar to those that I and others have been in. That’s the world I know. I concede it’s very different from the world that most others know.

4. From James Bond to Will Cochrane, what do you think accounts for the timeless appeal of fiction featuring dashing spies?
Though I never wrote the Spycatcher series with comparisons in mind to Bond (or for that matter, at the opposite end of the spectrum, John le Carré’s George Smiley), it is understandable that comparisons are made. I write my novels with a contemporary and very precise understanding of espionage and for that reason Cochrane is different to other fictional espionage characters.

Regardless, all share in common a dislocation from the real world in favor of an understanding of a very real, yet secret world that is all pervasive and often deadly. Such characters’ ability to operate in that world, and to be supremely intelligent, often charming, frequently deadly, is very intriguing. But more than that, I think the ability of operatives to be chameleons has a tremendous appeal. Readers want to know who they really are. That is a challenge.

5. SLINGSHOT concerns some of the Cold War “loose ends” left behind in Europe after the fall of the Berlin Wall. What do you think most people don’t know about what’s going on in that part of the world today?
Most people don’t understand the threat from foreign states. Right now, Russia, Iran, the Israel/Palestine conundrum, China, North Korea, and Syria are the biggest threats to world peace. Terrorism pales in comparison to what these states can do. After the collapse of communism, Russia re-built itself on a capitalist platform. It is aggressive to the West and, alongside China, does not want to be a responsible world power, as evidenced by its repeated vetoes in UN Security Council proposed resolutions to stop genocide in places like Syria.

The nuclear powers who have the capability to destroy the world are the United States, Great Britain, France, Russia, and China. Three of those “big 5” are responsible. Two are not.

6. What are Will Cochrane’s greatest weaknesses as a spy and as a person?
Cochrane has a huge heart and yearns for another life, particularly with a woman who would love him for who he truly is. This is his strength, rather than weakness, but of course – in the world in which he operates – love and compassion are honorable traits that evil men will use against him.

7. Could a frightening story like the one in SLINGSHOT actually take place today?
Something similar and dreadful nearly took place. I know, but can’t reveal details.

8. There are a few pivotal roles played by women in SLINGSHOT: a retiredoperative named Betty who’s brought in on a vital assist; and a whip-smart CIA analyst named Suzy. Did these women come to life entirely from your imagination? Or did you work in the field with women like these?
I’ve met some of the bravest women and men in the world. Gender doesn’t differentiate them; they are the same breed of unique animal. I can’t give you details of specifics about people I knew beyond one anecdote.

During one of my trips to MI6’s training facility, I walked off the shooting range and confronted an old woman. It was common to meet unusual people in the facility as we often received briefings from Cold War warriors, for example, from both sides of the Western/USSR fence in order to inform the contemporary work we did. But I’d never seen this woman before. She asked me what I was doing and I told her that I’d just been testing a new customized handgun. She immediately had a look of horror and said, “Guns terrify me!”. I smiled, walked her to the range and showed her how to shoot it. She took the gun from me and, ignoring my instructions to position the weapon at eye-level, then held the gun against her belly and fired five shots at the target. All hit a tiny radius around the target that any Special Forces operative would have been proud to strike. I asked her how she did it, given she looked as fragile and as old as my grandmother. She didn’t answer, but just smiled and walked off.

That evening I found out she was a former British Special Operations Executive officer who’d been parachuted into Nazi-occupied France and the Netherlands, who’d blown up German transportation lines, had – together with the resistance civilians she’d rallied – killed hundreds of Nazis, and had ultimately been captured by the Gestapo who put her in dungeons, brutally tortured her, before sending her to an extermination camp.

Men and woman, young and old, risk their lives every day by operating in the secret world. I know many of them, and in my novels you’ll meet some of them as well. Women like Betty and Suzy existed. SLINGSHOT is my heartfelt homage to them.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Master spy Will Cochrane must catch a missing Russian defector as well as one of Europe’s deadliest assassins in this action-packed follow-up to Sentinel, written by real life former field officer Matthew Dunn.

Will Cochrane monitors the nighttime streets of Gdansk, Poland—waiting for the appearance of a Russian defector, a man bearing a top secret document, who Will believes is about to step out of the cold and into the hands of Polish authorities. But suddenly everything goes sideways. The target shows up, but so does a team from Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) hell-bent on keeping the man from walking. Then, in a hail of crossfire, a van speeds into the melee and snatches the defector out from under them all. Everyone wants the man and the codes he carries—but now he’s gone and it’s up to Will and his CIA/MI6 team to find him before the Russians.

Will tracks both the missing Russian and his kidnappers, believing the defector has his own warped agenda. But soon it’s apparent that the real perpetrator could be someone much more powerful: a former East German Stasi officer who instigated a super-secret pact between Russian and US generals almost twenty years ago. An agreement, which if broken for any reason, was designed to unleash the world’s deadliest assassin.

Then Will learns that the Russians have tasked their own ‘spycatcher’—an agent just as ruthless and relentless as Will—to retrieve the document. Now Will knows that he faces two very clever and deadly adversaries, who will stop at nothing to achieve their aims.

READ AN EXCERPT

Chapter 1
Berlin, 1995

Each step through the abandoned Soviet military barracks took the Russian intelligence officer closer to the room where men were planning genocide.
Nikolai Dmitriev hated being here.
And he loathed what he was about to do.
The barracks were a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. Icy water dripped over the stone walls, covered with paintings of Cold War–era troops and tanks; the air was rank with must; the officer’s footsteps echoed as he strode onward, shivering despite his overcoat and fur hat. Previously, the complex would have housed thousands of troops. Now it resembled a decaying prison.
He turned into a corridor and was confronted by four men. Two Russians, two Americans, all wearing jeans, boots, and Windbreakers, carrying silenced handguns. The Special Forces men checked his ID and thoroughly searched him. It was the seventh time this had happened as he’d moved through the barracks. Two hundred Russian Spetsnaz operatives and an equal number of U.S. Delta, SEALs, and CIA SOG men were strategically positioned in the base to ensure that every route to his destination was defended. Their orders were clear: kill any unauthorized person who attempted to get near the men in the room.
The men motioned Nikolai forward.
Reaching the end of the corridor, he stopped opposite a door. Extending his hand to open it, he hesitated as he heard a high-pitched noise. Glancing back, two rats in a stagnant pool of water and grease were ripping skin and flesh off the dying carcass of another screeching rat, neither predator attempting to fight the other for the meat; instead they seemed to be cooperating. He wondered if he should turn around and leave while there was still time. Everything about his presence here was wrong. But he was under orders.
He entered.
It was a large mess hall. Ten years ago, he would have seen long trestle tables and soldiers eating their meals. Now it was bare of any furnishings save a rectangular table and chairs in the center. Graffiti covered the walls, most of it crude, deriding the Soviet Union. Cigarette smoke hung motionless in the stagnant air. Rainwater poured from cracks in the high ceiling onto the concrete floor.
Sitting on one side of the rectangular table were a U.S. admiral, a U.S. general, and a CIA officer. Opposite them were two Russian generals. Between them were two files, and ashtrays. None of the men were in uniform; the presence in Germany of America’s and Russia’s most powerful military commanders was secret.
As was the presence of the intelligence officers. Nikolai himself was Head of Directorate S—the SVR’s division with responsibility for illegal intelligence, including planting illegal agents abroad, conducting terror operations and sabotage in foreign countries, and recruiting Russians on Russian soil. The CIA officer at the table was Head of the Special Activities Division—responsible for overseas paramilitary activities and covert manipulation of target countries’ political structures.
At the head of the table was a small, clean-shaven, middle-aged man with jet black hair. Dressed in an expensive black suit, a crisp, woven white silk shirt, and a blue tie that had been bound in a Windsor knot, the man removed his rimless circular glasses, polished them with one end of his tie, and smiled. “Always late for the party, Nikolai.”
Nikolai did not smile. “A party requires salubrious surroundings. You’ve chosen unwisely, Kurt.”
Kurt Schreiber nodded toward the vacant chair next to one of the Russian generals. “Sit, and shut up.”
Nikolai said with contempt, “You’ve no authority over me, civilian.”
Kurt chuckled. “When you and I were colonels in the KGB and Stasi, you’d have called me comrade.”
Nikolai sat and nodded. “Different times, and I’d have been lying to your face.”
Kurt’s shrill, well-spoken words were rapid: “The Russian premier chose me to chair this meeting. Not you.” He placed his manicured fingers together. “That is telling.”
“I agree. It tells us how low we’ve stooped.” Nikolai looked at the Americans. “Have the protocols been drawn up?”
“They have.” Admiral Jack Dugan nodded toward the Russian generals. “It took us two days.”
General Alexander Tatlin lit a cigarette. “It was worth the effort.” The Russian exhaled smoke. “The results are precise.”
“Seems to me,” CIA officer Thomas Scott said, eyeing Nikolai with suspicion, “that you’re not comfortable with this.”
Nikolai laughed, his voice echoing in the bare hall. “How can any sane man be comfortable agreeing to this?”
“Kurt Schreiber’s idea is brilliant.”
“It’s psychotic.” Nikolai looked at Schreiber and repeated in a quieter voice, “Psychotic.”
U.S. general Joe Ballinger pointed across the table. “Schreiber’s right. The act has to shock the fuckers into submission. Man comes at you with a knife; you defend yourself with a gun. Trouble is—we haven’t got anyone on our side of the fence who’s got the balls to do another Hiroshima or Nagasaki. So we make the decision, and it’s a sane one—as uncomfortable as it may make us.”
Nikolai frowned. “You haven’t reported the true meaning of the protocols to your president?”
The U.S. commander shook his head. “Nope, and we’re never going to. Nor are subsequent presidents going to find out.” He gestured toward his two American colleagues. “We’re the only Americans who’ll know the secret. No one else stateside would ever agree to this plan.”
“And that’s because they lack my . . . imagination.” Kurt withdrew two ink pens, handed one to General Leon Michurin and the other to Admiral Dugan. “Signatures, please.”
The Americans signed a sheet of paper inside one of the files; the Russian generals did the same in their files; they exchanged documents, countersigned, and moved both files in front of Nikolai.
The SVR officer stared at the two files. All that was needed to make this official was his signature on both documents.
“Nikolai, we’re waiting.” Kurt’s tone was hard, impatient.
Nikolai looked at the men opposite him; ordinarily they were his enemies. He pictured the two large rats, feasting at opposite ends of the third rodent.
“Nikolai!”
The Russian intelligence officer shook his head. “This is wrong.”
“And yet the alternative isn’t right.”
“If I sign this, millions of people could die.”
“Not millions, you fool.” Schreiber smiled. “Hundreds of millions.”
Nikolai couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d always hated Kurt Schreiber. The man was undoubtedly highly intelligent, but also untrustworthy, manipulative, and cruel, and since the collapse of East Germany he had made millions through illegal business ventures. Now he had the ear of the Russian president, and that made him more dangerous than when he’d been a Stasi officer. “How can you live with yourself?”
Schreiber shrugged. “I view the deaths as necessary statistics. I suggest you do the same.”
Nikolai was tempted to respond but knew there was no point.
Schreiber would not listen to reason.
Pure evil never did.
Nikolai gripped the pen, momentarily closed his eyes, muttered, “Forgive me,” and signed both documents.
“Excellent.” Kurt reached across, grabbed both files, shoved one at the Russian generals, the other at the Americans. The former Stasi colonel smiled. “The protocols for Slingshot are now in place, ready for use should ever the need arise.”
“Great.” General Tatlin stubbed his cigarette out. “So now we can get out of this shithole.”
“Not yet.” Kurt placed his hands flat on the table. “How can we ensure that no one in this room ever reveals the secret of what’s missing in the files?”
Thomas Scott huffed. “Slingshot won’t work if one of us talks. We’ve agreed that.”
Kurt stared at nothing. “We have, but we need more than agreement.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Insurance.” Kurt looked at the men before resting his cold gaze on Nikolai. “Time can erode a man’s resolve. But fear can keep him resolute.”
“Speak plainly.”
Kurt nodded. “One day, one of you may wake up with a crisis of conscience and decide that he can no longer carry the burden of this secret. That can’t happen. So, my solution is simple and effective. The Russian president has authorized me to activate an assassin. He will be deployed as a deep-cover sleeper agent, and his orders are to kill any of you”—he looked at the CIA officer and smiled—“who talks.”
General Tatlin lit another cigarette and jabbed its glowing tip in the direction of Schreiber. “You expect us to live our lives with a potential death sentence hanging over us?”
Schreiber interlaced his fingers. “Yes.”
Dugan laughed. “Take a look around this base, Schreiber. We’re the kind of men who like to have impenetrable security wherever we go.”
“Impenetrable?”
“Damn right.” The admiral’s tone was now angry. “Send out your assassin, for all we care. But you’re going to need better insurance than that.”
“There is no better insurance.”
Nikolai wondered why Schreiber looked so smug. “Who’s the assassin?”
The sound of rainwater striking the concrete floor seemed to intensify as Schreiber momentarily closed his eyes. “You know of him by the code name Kronos.”
“Kronos!” Nikolai’s stomach muscles knotted. “Why was he selected for this task?”
Before Schreiber could answer, General Ballinger asked, “Who the hell is Kronos?”
Nikolai looked at the American commanders as he began to sweat. “He was a Stasi officer, tasked on East Germany’s most complex and strategic assassinations. Since the collapse of communism, he’s been on the payroll of Russia. He’s . . . he’s our most effective killer. One hundred and eighty three kills under his belt. Always successful.” As he returned his attention to Schreiber, he felt overwhelming unease. “Why was he selected?”
Schreiber opened his eyes. “Because the Slingshot secret is so vital. We needed our very best assassin to ensure that”—he swept his arm through air—“no amount of impenetrable security can protect a man who might betray us.” Schreiber checked his watch and looked toward one of the far corners of the mess hall. In a loud, clipped tone, he called out, “Show them.”
Nikolai and the others immediately followed Schreiber’s gaze. At first nothing happened. Then, movement from within the shadows at the corner of the room.
A big man stepped into the light.
Standing directly underneath one of the streams of water pouring down from the ceiling.
Was motionless as he allowed the icy rain to wash over his head.
His handgun held high and trained on them.
Kronos.
Schreiber smiled and looked at the others. “Not only did Kronos get past all of your men, he did so with very precise timing. I ordered him not to enter this room until one minute ago, so that the contents of our discussion would remain confidential to only the men around this table. Since then, he’s been pointing his weapon at you.”
General Michurin slammed a fist down onto the table. “How dare you make fools of us!”
Schreiber responded calmly, “It wasn’t my intention to make fools of you. Rather, to demonstrate to you that you do indeed have a potential death sentence hanging over you.” He darted a look at Kronos. “Give them what they need.”
Nikolai felt fear course through him as he watched the German assassin take measured steps toward the table, his gun still held high. Though Nikolai was one of only a handful of SVR officers who was cleared to know all about the Kronos operations, he didn’t know the assassin’s real name. Moreover, this was the first time that he’d been in the presence of the man. Kronos was well over six feet tall, muscular, had black hair, and was wearing clothes identical to those Nikolai had seen worn by the base’s protection detail.
Kronos lowered his weapon, withdrew a piece of paper from his jacket, tore it in half, and slapped one piece of paper on Admiral Dugan’s chest before moving to the other side of the table and doing the same with the other bit of paper on General Michurin.
Schreiber spoke to the Americans. “I suggest you bury your paper deep in the vaults of the CIA.” Then to the Russians, “Put yours in the SVR vaults.” He cupped his hands together. “Never combine them, unless there is reason to do so.”
“Reason?”
“One of you needs Kronos to put a bullet in your head.”
“You . . .”
“Enough, admiral!” Schreiber composed himself. “The relevance of the two pieces of paper will be made known to you if the need arises. Until that time, Kronos will vanish. No one, not even me, will know of his location. He’ll wait for years, decades if necessary, until he is . . . needed.”
Thomas Scott shook his head. “Our men have been here for three days.” The CIA officer felt disbelief. “And when they arrived, they searched the entire base.”
General Ballinger shrugged. “There’s no way he could’ve penetrated the base today. He must have entered the complex before our men arrived and hid in a place they failed to search.”
“That’s the only possible explanation.” Admiral Dugan pointed at Schreiber. “Next time we’ll be more thorough.”
Schreiber grinned, though his expression remained cold. “Kronos—show them where you were two and three days ago.”
The German moved around the table, placing a photograph each in front of the Russians and Americans. Incredulity was on all of the men’s faces as they stared at the shots.
Each showed the inside of their homes in America or Russia.
A local newspaper clearly showing the day’s date.
And Kronos pointing the tip of a long knife toward family photos.
“Bastard!”
Kronos retrieved each photo, placed them in a pile in the center of the table, and lit them with a match.
Schreiber watched the flames rise high. “Our meeting is concluded. You will take the Slingshot protocols back to your respective headquarters. You will secrete the torn papers as instructed. You will keep your mouths shut. Otherwise, my assassin will find and kill you.”
Kronos stepped away from the men, hesitated, then turned to face them. In a deep voice, he said, “Gentlemen, I left all of your men alive, though I must apologize for the harm I had to cause some of them.”
Then he disappeared into the shadows.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Fiction
Published by: William Morrow / HarperCollins
Publication Date: June 25, 2013
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 9780062038029

PURCHASE LINKS:

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author R. FRANKLIN JAMES

CMash June 26, 2013 1 Comment

WELCOME R. FRANKLIN JAMES

R. FRANKLIN JAMES

R. Franklin James was born and raised in the San Francisco East Bay Area. She graduated from the University of California at Berkeley and completed the masters program in Public Policy at California State University East Bay. She has also received her paralegal certification.

She and her husband live in northern California with their English Springer Spaniel, Bailey.
Connect with Rae at these sites:

ABOUT THE BOOK

The Fallen Angels Book Club has only two requirements: the members must love books and have a white-collar criminal record. Hollis Morgan fits the bill. Left holding the bag in an insurance fraud scheme concocted by her now ex-husband, she served her time and is trying to rebuild her life. All she wants is for the court to pardon her conviction so she can return to law school.

After one of her fellow members is murdered in a scenario straight out of a club selection, Hollis is once again the subject of police scrutiny. Refusing to get stuck with another bad rap, she sets out to investigate her fellow club members. Is one of them really blackmailing the others? As a second member dies in yet another book-inspired murder, Hollis realizes that time is running out. Everything rides on her finding the killer–not just her career aspirations. She must identify the killer before she herself becomes the next victim. Everyone is convinced she knows more than she lets on. But what is it, exactly, that is she supposed to know?

The Fallen Angels Book Club is the first book in an exciting new mystery series featuring amateur sleuth Hollis Morgan.

READ AN EXCERPT

Tonight it was my turn to come early and set up the space for our book club meeting. Our monthly gatherings were held in a small windowless conference room adjacent to the San Isidro Library’s main reading area. The Fallen Angels Book Club was an exclusive group, not only a love of books was required. You also had to be a white collar ex-felon.

I rubbed my hands together and peeled off gloves. My fingers felt like icicles. Thank goodness someone remembered to turn on the heat. The door opened and a gush of wind blew a cluster of leaves into the room along with Gene Donovan who tossed his hoodie and a small brown leather “man purse” onto one of the folding chairs.

“Hollis, let me help you with that.” His tousled blond hair was more askew than usual. Placing his book on the floor, he came over to where I struggled to roll out the meeting table.

“Appreciate it.” I straightened my back and allowed him to carry the bulk of the table’s weight. Fortunately, when I was with Gene, we didn’t have to speak. I caught a glance at his manicured nails and tucked mine into my palms. I liked Gene. He wasn’t afraid to show his feminine side.

We took special care not to drag the metal chair legs across the glowing veneer of the hardwood floor. Its beauty came from the handiwork of the night cleaning crew who waited for us to leave so they could begin their labor.

We settled into our chairs when Rory Norris strode in, let the door slam and dumped his books on the table. His hazel eyes did a sweep across the room as if expecting an ambush. A few more pounds had crept onto his already thickening frame.

Rory patted his black leather jacket as he laid it over the chair. “Hey, people, did you notice if they lock the gates to the parking lot? My Beemer just got detailed and I don’t want some neighborhood juvenile mistaking it for a marker board.”

“Nice touch, Norris, letting us know you got a new BMW.” Richard Kleh came in pulled off his knitted skull cap, revealing an emerging bald crown. He nodded toward the door. “Go check for yourself. Hey, Hollis, did you finish the read?”

“Of course. You’re the one who never finishes a book.”

“Well, I finished this one. It had me going until the end. The characters were realistic and…and…”

“Memorable?” I could tell from his frown he wasn’t kidding.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Mystery / Amateur Dective
Published by: Camel Press
Publication Date: May 1, 2013
Number of Pages: 264
ISBN: 1603819177 / 978-1603819176

PURCHASE LINKS:

If you’d like to join in on an upcoming tour just stop by our sites and sign up today!

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author JOHN LANSING showcase & giveaway

CMash June 2, 2013 4 Comments

Today I have the pleasure and distinct honor to introduce you to today’s guest as he begins his VBT with Partners In Crime Tours. I ask for your help in welcoming Mr. John Lansing to CMash Reads. Welcome John Lansing!!!

JOHN LANSING

John Lansing started his career as an actor in New York City. He spent a year at the Royale Theatre playing the lead in the Broadway production of “Grease.” He then landed a co-starring role in George Lucas’ “More American Graffiti,” and guest starred on numerous television shows. During his fifteen year writing career, Lansing wrote and produced “Walker Texas Ranger,” co-wrote two CBS Movies of the Week, and he also co-executive produced the ABC series “Scoundrels.” John’s first book was “Good Cop Bad Money,” a true crime tome with former NYPD Inspector Glen Morisano. “The Devil’s Necktie” is his first novel.
Connect with John at these sites:

John will be appearing, today, on Suspense Blog Talk Radio, 10am PST/1pm EST. Tune in here.

Q&A with John Lansing

Many thanks to Cheryl Masciarelli for hosting me on her blog.

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
I borrow liberally from my personal experience, the local news, books, magazines, things I overheard in a diner or bar, and occasionally, my own creative juices.

I’m a big proponent of writing what you know. That’s why my retired Inspector, Jack Bertolino, moved from NYC, to Marina del Rey, California. I can bring a sense of realism to his environment and surroundings because it’s the move I made, and the Marina is where I live.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
When my partner and I wrote a television episode or MOW, or feature film, we always had a concise outline in hand. You needed a strong map because there were times writing network television that you had to knock out a script in a week. There wasn’t time for changes, because of production constraints.

The Devil’s Necktie is my first novel. And for the first time in my career, I was flying without a net. No outline. I started with a simple premise – one night of passion for retired Inspector Jack Bertolino sends him on a deadly collision course with his past – and I let it fly.

I ultimately had a powerful beginning in mind that would propel me forward, and that informed what had to occur by the end of the book. But for the life of me, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get there. It was a total exercise in trust. Not for the faint of heart. Your readers can tell me if it worked out.

Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
When I’m knee deep in a first draft it’s a 24/7 experience. It’s impossible for me to shut if off at the end of the day. I go to bed trying to problem solve and wake up in the middle of the night worrying it, and jump out of bed in the morning with the answer, or least an approach that might lead me to the answer.

Then I sit down at the computer for an hour or two, walk the dog, eat some breakfast, and get back in the trenches, reworking my first ideas of the day. Then it’s off into unchartered territory.

I just keep cranking it out the same way, every day, until I’m finished. I’m very goal oriented and can’t really relax until, “I have written.”

Is writing your full time job?
Yes it is. I’m very fortunate to be able to dedicate myself to my projects on a full time basis. I spent many years working in television to be able to afford myself that luxury.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
It’s a lengthy list, but here goes. Walter Mosley, Michael Connelly, Ian Rankin, Robert Crais, John Sandford, Lee Child, T. Jefferson Parker, Susan Grafton, and James Lee Burke, in no particular order. If these men and women are releasing a book, I pre-order it for downloading on my Kindle.

What are you reading now?
I just finished John Sandfords, “Silken Prey, Dennis Lehane’s, “Live by Night and Ian Rankins, “Standing in Another Man’s grave. I’m a few chapters into Harlan Coben’s, “Six Years” and enjoying the read.

Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us about it?
I’ve spent the past nine months completing a first draft of my next book in the Jack Bertolino series. It’s entitled, “Working the Negative.”

Jack Bertolino grew up on a Staten Island where there were more wise guys than good guys. His neighborhood was populated with “made men,” and friends of the Mafia. He cut all ties with the dark side when he entered law enforcement and thought he’d left his past securely behind when he moved out to California.

But now that he’s retired, Jack finds himself owing a favor to a local mob boss who may have saved his son’s life.

It’s a matter of honor for Jack, and a request he just can’t refuse.

Fun Questions:
Your novel will be a movie, who would you cast?
Jon Hamm is Jack Bertolino. Penelope Cruz is Mia.

Would you rather read, or watch TV/Movie?
Read a great book.

Favorite food?
Italian.

Favorite beverage?
Eighteen-year-old Macallan.

Thank you John for stopping by today!

ABOUT THE BOOK

Retired Inspector Jack Bertolino had strict rules when dealing with confidential informants. But Mia had the kind of beauty that could make a grown man contemplate leaving his wife, his job, and his kids. After a passionate night together, Mia is found murdered, and Jack is the lead suspect. Facing threats from the LAPD, the 18th Street Angels, and a Columbian drug cartel, Jack delves deeper into the seedy world of drug dealers and Murderers. Jack is torn between fearing for his life and seeking revenge for his slain lover… either way the body count will rise.

READ AN EXCERPT

Jack Bertolino stood on the balcony of his loft in Marina del Rey, tending a dry-aged New York steak on his prized possession, a top-of-the-line Weber gas grill. He didn’t miss winter, not one little bit. Here he was manning the barbecue in his new uniform, a black T-shirt and jeans, while his cousins were chasing heart attacks shoveling snow off their Staten Island driveways. That image never ceased to put a smile on his face. That and the salty ocean breeze that floated in over the marina.

Jack nursed a glass of cabernet and watched the long line of bright white FedEx trucks return home from their final deliveries and park in neat rows in the lot next to his building. It sure beat the sight of patrol cars jammed onto the sidewalk in front of a precinct house.

Early evening was Jack’s favorite time of day. The sun was just starting to paint the clouds a muted orange. From his fourth-floor vantage point, Jack could see a string of jumbo jets in the distance, silently making their final approach to LAX. Stacked eight planes deep, their slim silver bodies glinted in the setting sun. For the first time in Jack Bertolino’s life, he felt at ease.

His cell phone chirped, snapping him out of his reverie. He tossed some Japanese eggplant onto the grill, closed the lid, and checked his cell phone screen for the name of the caller.

“Hello.”

“How’s my Italian stallion?”

“Mia . . . ,” he said instantly, his tone neutral, giving away nothing. “All the planets are aligned, Jack. It’s time for you to man up and make an honest woman out of me.”

Jack couldn’t help but smile. Mia’s throaty voice and light Colombian accent had the power to make a grown man weep. More important, it could make a bad man give up his secrets. He hadn’t really been surprised when he received her text. He knew it was only a matter of time. Payback’s a bitch.

“What can I do for you, Mia?”

“It’s what I can do for you, papi. My lips . . . they’re still magic.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

“Only for love or money.”

Although Jack was enjoying the back and forth, he was no longer in the business. “Why are you calling, Mia?”

Mia dropped her act as well. “We need to talk.”

“It’s not a good time,” Jack said as he opened the lid of the grill and pressed his fork against the steak, checking for doneness.

“Face-to-face, Jack.”

“I’m not in New York.”

“That’s why I’m in Los Angeles.”

Jack didn’t reply right away. He did a quick analysis of how Mia could know he was living in L.A., what kind of trouble she might be in, what kind of blowback he was going to suffer just from having this conversation. He came to the instantaneous conclusion that however this new wrinkle in his life played out, it would definitely have an impact on his newly found state of bliss.

Mia answered some of his unspoken questions. “I’m still connected, Jack, and you’re still on the radar screen. There are certain people—who will remain nameless, because I’m not on your payroll anymore—who are not convinced you’re out of the game.”

“I’m happily retired,” Jack fired back, wondering if his response sounded forced, wondering why he cared.

“And happily divorced?”

Jack didn’t respond. His private life was none of Mia’s business. He had strict rules when dealing with confidential informants, a line in the But Mia had the kind of beauty that could make a man contemplate leaving his wife, his job, and his kids. Jack had never taken the bait, but had to admit he’d been tempted.

Mia was one of the best CIs in the business, and she and Jack had done groundbreaking work together.

With the help of Mia and DEA agent Kenny Ortega, Jack and the team of NYPD narco-rangers he headed up had put away a heavy hitter in the cocaine trade. Manuel Alvarez was the head of a Colombian drug cell that had been importing a thousand keys of coke into Florida on a weekly basis, and the poison was dripping into New York City. Jack and his group had put away a major cartel scumbag, and Mia had gotten rich. The feds had a financial equation in place when dealing with CIs. The greater the quantity of drugs an informant was responsible for delivering, the more money it was worth to the United States government. They were happy to give to get. Mia did very well for herself at great personal risk. Informants had a short shelf life. Once a major domo got busted, the cartels worked very hard to discover where the “sickness” had come from. If your name ended up on the short list, you turned up dead.

Jack had made a promise to Mia that if things ever got too hot to handle, he would do whatever he could to help her out of the jam.

Mia was turning in her chit. “Meet with me in an hour, after I get settled in.”

“I’m about to have dinner, Mia.”

“Vista Haven Road, 3468. You owe me, Jack.”

“It was a two-way street,” he reminded her.

“And I don’t want it turning into a dead end.”

Jack was about to protest, but she clicked off. He turned back to his grill, but now he was unsettled. Mia had always been a cool customer, but there was an edge of panic in her voice. Jack let out an irritated groan. He shut off the grill with a hard snap. He wouldn’t be able to eat anyway until he found out what the hell was wrong.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Crime/Thriller
Published by Simon & Schuster
Publication Date: 12/31/12
Number of Pages: 295
ISBN: 1451698348

PURCHASE LINKS:

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GIVEAWAY: BIG NEWS

Mr. Lansing is giving away one kindle for this tour. Complete Rafflecopter form below.

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Don’t forget – We’re hosting giveaways at each stop of this tour. Mr. Lansing is giving away copies of his book and a kindle!

FILL OUT RAFFLECOPTER ENTRY FORM BELOW

GIVEAWAY ENDS JULY 31st, 2013

WINNER WILL BE CHOSEN BY RAFFLECOPTER AND NOTIFIED VIA EMAIL AND WILL HAVE 48 HOURS TO RESPOND OR ANOTHER NAME WILL BE CHOSEN

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.