It was a typical February Day. Locals referred to the month as Febrero Loco, crazy February, because the daily weather was as unpredictable as a roulette wheel. It was unseasonably warm and just to be on the safe side, the air conditioning at Buffalo Thunder Casino, north of Santa Fe, was cranked up.

The casino was gearing up for the upcoming Valentine’s Day, pulling out all the stops with promotions geared toward attracting patrons with the cherry red Toyota Camry give-away. Blackjack modules formed a large circle around the Craps and Texas Hold’em tables. The electromagnetic field and the thousand flashing lights could easily illuminate an entire city. Waitresses attired in short frilly skirts and low cut tank-tops stopped at each console to offer cold sodas, water and coffee, and friendly smiles to encourage tips.

She walked through the automatic doors, the strong odor of cigarette smoke assaulting her senses. Vanity precluded her from wearing sorely needed eyeglasses and she squinted her eyes in hopes of seeing a familiar face, preferably male and old enough to buy her a drink. She navigated her world in a blur, peering out of heavily made-up brown eyes and beneath thin, perfectly arched eyebrows. Dark red lipstick and a heart-shaped face framed by recently touched-up auburn hair completed the picture. She was dressed in black pants, a sparkly jacket and stiletto heels. The first was to hide the extra ten pounds she carried and the second was to give her four-eleven height a boost.

She found her favorite slot machine in a corner next to the lounge, where she could sometimes score a few drinks and maybe a place to stay for the night. Of late, she frequented the casinos on Highway 85staying until closing and hitching a ride back to Santa Fe, where she hung out in the laundry rooms of motels on Cerrillos Road. She was not a hooker. She was a forty-year-old woman down on her luck, having burned all the bridges behind her. She was desperate to win a jackpot to get her back on her feet.

She glanced through the corner of her eye at the man playing next to her. He was exactly her type—brown-skinned, tall, sleeveless t-shirt to show off bulging biceps, tattooed arms, long hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. Before the night was over, they were snuggled in a corner of the lounge, sipping rum and Cokes. If she played her cards right, she had a good idea where the evening was going to end up.

Prologue:

On the day the rebellion was finally quelled, Vanessa Kovalic emerged from her grandmother’s apartment and joined other survivors on the street. Tacked to every tree and taped to streetlights, storefronts, and abandoned cars was a flyer printed on a single sheet of white paper.

It read:

THE BULLETIN

Edenton, New York Volume 1, Issue 1

Where there is no need, there is no greed Citizens of Edenton, before we lost all communications, we learned rebels on the mainland released a bio-weapon.

Known as the Blue Flu, the weapon is wreaking havoc and millions of our brethren are dying. Through God’s grace, we have been spared and may be the last hope for humanity.

We advise you to stay away from birds as they are potential carriers of the Blue Flu. We are under absolute quarantine. No one may come ashore or leave the island. Arrangements have been made to supply the city and keep it safe.

In response to the rebellion – staged by members of the People’s Protest – and the effects of the Blue Flu on the mainland, a new government has been formed. Under its guidance, we will implement a New Social Order. Together, we will eradicate greed and ensure equality. From the ashes, we will build a society free from strife.

All citizens are required to work. Managers will assign jobs based on prior experience. The managers are our drivers, for they will steer us where we need to go. Workers, united as equals regardless of race or gender, will be provided with food, clothing, and other necessities. Those who fail to report immediately, work, or comply with the new mandates will be cast out. The Fallen will not share our resources or benefit from our protection.

Finally, law enforcement departments have merged. They will be housed under one roof, known as the Watch Tower.

Watchers are establishing a safe zone so workers can perform their duties unmolested. Families and married couples may petition to relocate inside the Zone.

Join us in praying for our fellow man in these sad times.   With God’s help and yours, we will overcome the challenges ahead.

The Administration

Vanessa’s mouth fell open and she paled. Young, frightened, and unsure, she followed the crowd through silent streets toward the new sorting office. The staggered progression was like a funeral procession, only no one shed tears for the dead.

Prologue

“Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked in the still, quiet courtroom, packed to capac- ity. The trial of the State of Virginia versus Sheppard Granger had lasted for five weeks, and the eight men and four women had deliberated for sixteen hours.

“Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

“Will you hand the verdict form to the court, please?”

Within seconds, the bailiff presented the form to the judge, who took a moment to read the document before handing it in turn to the clerk who faced those in the courtroom.

Sheppard Granger showed no emotion as the clerk began reading what would be his fate. At one point, he was tempted to glance over his shoulder to look at his three young sons—Jace, sixteen; Caden, fourteen ; and Dalton, who would be turning twelve in a few days. He hoped and prayed that, no matter what the jury decided, they would believe he was an innocent man. There was no way he would have killed the mother of his beloved sons.

Instead, he listened as the clerk spoke the words… “Of the charge of first degree murder in the death of Sylvia Granger, we, the jury, find Sheppard Granger guilty.”

Sheppard suddenly felt his knees weaken, but he re- fused to go down, and he refused to glance back at his sons. His father, Richard Granger, would know what to do now. Richard would now become responsible for his grandsons, and he would be there for them since Sheppard would not.

The judge was talking, addressing the court. But whatever he was saying Sheppard couldn’t hear for the pounding in his head. As far as Sheppard was concerned, nothing else mattered. Only one thought repeated itself in his head with blinding clarity—his life as he’d once known it was over.

PART I

We do not remember days; we remember moments. –Anonymous

Chapter One
Fifteen years later

Hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was watching the time, Jace Granger took a sip of his wine and looked straight ahead at the huge clock hanging on the wall, directly above the entrance of the upscale Los Ange- les restaurant. He’d been there for exactly one hour and twelve minutes, and was biting at the bit to call it a night.

He appreciated his friend Alan Carter’s concerns about his solitary life, but blind dates had never been Jace’s thing, and he had known after the first ten min- utes that he’d made a mistake by letting Alan talk him into one tonight. No doubt Angela Farlow was a looker—he would give her that, but so far it had been one hell of a night. For starters, she talked too damn much. She had a lot to say…a lot about practi- cally nothing.

Jace took another sip of his wine and listened…or at least pretended to do so. The last couple of times he had tried interjecting his own thoughts and views, she had unabashedly cut them down, letting him know what she thought of any opinions other than her own.

Noticing a lull in the conversation, Jace shifted his gaze from the clock back to her and saw the sultry pout that touched her lips.

“Why do I get the feeling that I’m boring you?” she asked in a low tone.

Because you are, he was tempted to say. But being the gentleman that he was, instead he said, “On the contrary, I happen to find you anything but boring,” plastering a smile on his face. “In fact, I find you sim- ply fascinating.” Now, that wasn’t a lie. He doubted there were many women like her. Hell, he hoped not.

“Well,” she said, smiling all over the place at the compliment. “I’ve talked enough about me. Now I want to hear about you. Alan tells me the two of you went to law school together and that, as a government attorney, you’re in charge of making sure the great state of California stays on a straight and narrow path.”

She rested her chin on her hands. “What made you want to work for the government instead of going into private practice? Alan said you graduated from UCLA at the top of your class.”

Jace forced his body not to tense, something that usually happened whenever he was questioned about his decision to work in the public sector instead of the private, where he could have become a millionaire if he’d set his mind to it. Little did she know he had been groomed for just that kind of life and had intentionally walked away a long time ago.

His shoulders mimicked a careless shrug before giving her the same spiel he gave anyone who had the audacity to inquire. Briefly and thoroughly, with a not-so-smooth edge, he basically told her that he preferred working for the people instead of kissing asses for any amount of money. He really didn’t expect people to un- derstand and didn’t really give a damn if they didn’t.

He took a sip of his drink and smiled inwardly. The woman was finally at a loss for words, and he under- stood her dilemma, honestly he did. She thought the same way his ex-wife did. Eve’s belief had been that the more money you had, the happier you were. All he had to say to that theory was bullshit.

It didn’t surprise him when his date suggested they end the evening. That was fine with him, since the last thing he wanted was to become involved with another woman who had the same mindset as his ex-wife.

An hour later, he was entering his condo, grateful the evening with Angela had ended and that his path wouldn’t cross hers anytime soon. He figured she was probably on the phone with Alan at that very moment, giving him a piece of her mind about setting her up on a blind date with a man who evidently hadn’t any plans of making anything of himself.

Jace pulled off his jacket and was about to take it to the closet and hang it up when his cell phone rang. He wondered if it was Alan calling him already. He checked caller ID and saw it wasn’t Alan but his grand- father. It had to be past midnight in Virginia, and he wondered why the old man was calling so late.

“Yes, Granddad?”

“Jace?”

He frowned. It was not his grandfather’s deep, authoritarian voice but that of a woman. A woman whose voice he recognized immediately as the fam- ily’s housekeeper’s. “Hannah?”

 “Yes, it’s me. You need to come home immediately.”

His heart nearly stopped at the thought of return- ing there, a place he hadn’t thought of as his home for years. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s your grandfather. He’s had a heart attack, and it doesn’t look good. It’s serious, Jace.”

Jace drew in a deep breath. His strong, robust grand- father? Heart attack? But he knew Hannah. She had been housekeeper to the Grangers for years. She wasn’t one for theatrics or drama. If she said it was serious, then it was. He rubbed his hand down his face. “All right, I’m on my way.”

“What about your father, Jace? Can you get word to him?”

“Yes, I’ll contact Warden Smallwood right away.”

“All right. I tried calling Caden, but I couldn’t leave a message. His voice mail box is full, and I have no idea how to reach Dalton. He changes phone num- bers probably more than he changes his underwear,” she quipped.

Jace couldn’t help but smile. Hannah was still Han- nah. “I’ll get ahold of them, don’t worry.” He pushed to the back of his mind the memory of the heated ar- gument between him and his brothers when they were together last year.

“But I am worried, Jace.”

He knew she was and he could hear it in her voice. The usual no-nonsense tone was diluted with distress. Something that was uncommon for his grandfather’s unflappable housekeeper. “Okay, just take it easy. We don’t need you in the hospital, as well. Granddad’s at St. Francis Memorial, right?”

“Yes, on the Ava Granger wing.”

“Okay,” he said, trying not to think about the fact that his grandfather was in the part of the hospital that had been dedicated to Jace’s grandmother over twenty years ago. Jace could remember that day well, especially the ceremony. They’d all been there. His grandfather, his brothers, his father…and his mother.

He immediately pushed the thought of his parents from his mind. To think about his mother meant re- membering how she had died and that the law had decided his father had been the one responsible for ending her life.

“Jace, it will be good seeing you again, although I wish the circumstances of your coming home were different.”

He wished the circumstances were different, too. “I’ll catch the next available flight out, Hannah. Hold down the fort until I get there.” He clicked off the phone and immediately called the airlines. He knew how to reach his brother Caden, but getting in touch with Dalton would be a challenge.

Moments later, after securing a flight, he went into the bedroom to pack.

DATELINE: ATLANTIS is a contemporary fantasy featuring a female Indiana Jones who dives underwater and accidentally discovers what just might be the lost world of Atlantis. After she and her photographer document fabulous pyramids and other structures under the Caribbean sea, they return to their newspaper in the Los Angeles area, only to have all their evidence stolen. The sea rolls back and reclaims the buildings, and the photographer is kidnapped by unknown criminals

The simple news assignment becomes more complicated with each turn and takes the Amaryllis Lang (pen name: Amy Quigley) to Chicago, Florida, Mexico and the Bahamas.

An ever-skeptical reporter, the Amaryllis Lang finds that her search for humanity’s first family (in the possible Atlantis) dovetails with her own search for her own lost roots. Long ago someone murdered her archeologist parents—and they may be the same villains who are working against her own efforts to bring the Caribbean discovery to light.

In the midst of the tension, a testy romantic triangle develops. Plus, the pressure never stops as editor Noel Wright III keeps badgering her for a Pulitzer Prize-winning story. After escaping the villains’ traps with her life intact, Amaryllis emerges a more open-minded adventurer, a better journalist, and an adventurer who is never afraid to let a historical find change written history.

She dives underneath the waves. Next to her is the tip of a giant stone structure. It widens as it plunges down to the ocean floor, filling her line of sight. She surfaces and swims toward the top of the rock. Amaryllis fights for breath as the waves roll up toward her chin and away. She dives again. The structure is a pyramid, without a doubt. It can’t be a natural formation. Its lines are too regular. The stones used to fit the pyramid together are huge—twenty-ton boulders at least—yet they are meshed with knife-edge precision. She can’t get her fingernail between them. Another thing occurs to her: this pyramid is not built in steps, but is smooth-sided like the monuments of Egypt.

She bobs up and down, diving and surfacing for a quarter of an hour, finding more impossible things. These walls, unlike those of the Maya structures they found on land, are still smooth. They are weathered and pitted, but not covered over with barna- cles and seaweed. She sees the remnants of writing carved into the rock near the top, but can’t tell what language it is. It has neither the pictorial intricacy of Maya glyphs nor the simplicity of Roman characters. It has a modern aspect, clean and stylized, proportionally balanced, as if it were a font designed by an adver- tising agency. Yet, some of the figures recall the ancient themes of the American Indians: swirling vortices, men with large heads, hunting dogs. The most prominent of all symbols is a cross in- scribed with concentric circles.

Amaryllis’ strength is nearly gone, but she dives once more if only to give the fullest of reports to her cohorts sleeping back onshore. She slips below the surface and feels along the eastern wall, pulling herself down. She is looking for a dark square she glimpsed before, gaping and black. It yawns at once before her, its edges wavy in the ocean swells. A sea turtle darts in front of her, and she constricts her lungs. She streaks to the surface, gulps a huge lungful of air and immediately she’s at the opening again. Seconds disappear as she measures the portal. It’s just big enough to slip through, but will she be able to get back out? A shining gem illuminated by a sun ray catches her eye. She swishes inside.

With lungs screaming, she scans a tiny chamber, carved from top to bottom with ancient writing. Gold glints from porticos on the sides. A painting is still visible on the ceiling. A carved hand, claw-like and strong, rests on a pedestal in the center of the space. The red hand holds a stone so beautiful, she can’t bear to leave it. In the filtered sunlight that passes through the door- way, the gem dazzles like Venus in the night sky. The morning star—the guide that Amaryllis can rely on. She grabs the jewel.
Through the door, up to the surface, sucking in the air—she’s free.

I am one of those annoying writers for whom ideas flow freely. Characters and half-formed plot lines seem to spring out at me from every direction. I never, ever struggle for a new story idea to develop.

Does that sound like bragging? Many talented authors have trouble finding the seeds of inspiration that will easily bloom into narrative, so my declaration may ruffle a few feathers. That said, my intention is not to boast. Oh, no. The truth is, a surplus of ideas is not always a good thing.

At any given time, there are four or more unborn stories pinballing around in my head, competing for my attention. The constant cacophony makes it rather difficult to focus on any one idea and nearly impossible to maintain the level of attention required to finish the first draft of a novel. I am constantly being tempted to abandon a writing project to pursue the Next Big Idea. And yet, resolutely ignoring new inspirations for weeks and months at a time doesn’t feel like a good solution. After all, story ideas are a lot like snowflakes…each one is beautiful and unique, but they can quickly melt away.

That is why the care and feeding of ideas is such an important topic for me.

The most oft-repeated piece of advice in every creative writing class – Always carry a notebook – is not bad advice, but it’s incomplete. While it seems absurdly obvious, the notebook will not do you any good unless you also have a writing implement and a free hand to scribble out those wild, fleeting bits of fantasy. I commute an hour to work (each way) and I cannot tell you how many plot twists have popped into my head while navigating through heavy traffic. This is where the voice memo feature on my iPhonecomes in handy. Once I’m safely parked, I’ll play back my own excited babble to see if I’ve captured something worth being transcribed into my trusty notebook…or something that should be deleted and quickly forgotten.

Which brings me to another, fairly obvious point. The practice of faithfully jotting down ideas day in and day out quickly results in page after page of vague, half-formed bits and pieces that may or may not support a full story. So, the next logical step, is to regularly go back through those pages to determine if anything tempts the writerly brain to explore and expand.

If I find any treasure among the flotsam and jetsam in my notebook, I’ll sit down with pen and paper, set a timer for 30 minutes, and free write. There’s only one rule for this exercise – keep the pen moving for the full 30 minutes. Write, write, write. Do not stop. Do not read. Do not edit or censor anything. If I find myself losing interest or feeling blocked, that’s a good indication that this little spark of inspiration that seemed so promising will burn out quickly without producing a finished story. However, if I’m still excited by the possibilities after 30 minutes, I move on to the fun part.

This is the artsy crafty phase where I allow myself to get a little weird. Some of the things I do to feed and grow my inspiration may not appeal to everyone, but here’s some of the projects I’ve used to build the creative fires:

• Create a collage or vision board for the story
• Design a front cover for the finished novel.
• Search Pinterest, Google Images, Flickr, Photo Pin &/or DeviantART (my favorite) for characters and/or settings in my story
• Write the back cover copy (yes, before writing the story)
• Write letters from the main character(s)
• Using only doodle drawings (arrows, circles, stars, hearts, flowers, etc) map the main plot
• Draw a map of the setting

Now, I love these types of projects a little too much so I have to be careful not to get stuck in my arty phase for too long. But it can be equally dangerous to rush into the first draft too soon. Usually, I’ll reach a point when I feel near to bursting with the need to start writing the story. Then and only then, will I launch into the first draft.

One warning…in the earliest stages of nurturing a new inspiration, I strongly recommend keeping your project a secret. Don’t discuss it with anyone. The earliest stages are so very fragile. Discussing what you want to create prematurely is the surest way to destroy it. Trust me. Nothing kills a promising concept faster than premature feedback.

Now tell me, what are your secrets for nurturing a new writing project?

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.