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Aileen G. Baron has spent her life unearthing the treasures and secrets left behind by previous civilizations. Her pursuit of the ancient has taken her to distant countries—Israel, Turkey, Jordan, Greece, Britain, China and the Yucatan—and to some surprising California destinations, like Newport Beach, California and the Mojave Desert.
She taught for twenty years in the Department of Anthropology at California State University, Fullerton, and has conducted many years of fieldwork in the Middle East, including a year at the American School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem as an NEH scholar and director of the overseas campus of California State Universities at the Hebrew University. She holds degrees from several universities, including the University of Chicago and a Ph.D. in Anthropology from the University of California, Riverside.
The first book in the Lily Sampson series, A FLY HAS A HUNDRED EYES, about the murder of a British archaeologist in 1938 in British mandated Palestine, won first place in the mystery category at both the Pikes Peak Writers conference and the SouthWest Writers Conference. THE TORCH OF TANGIER, the second novel in the Lily Sampson series, takes place in Morocco during WW II, when Lily is recruited into the OSS to work on the preparations for the Allied invasion of North Africa, Operation Torch. In THE SCORPION’S BITE, Lily is doing an archaeological survey of Trans-Jordan for the OSS.
Connect with Ms. Baron at these sites:
Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
For A FLY HAS A HUNDRED EYES, I drew on my own experience as an archaeologist and on my passion for the mystique of Jerusalem. The story is based, in part, on an actual event. During the British Mandate of Palestine, in 1938, a famous British archaeologist, James Starkey, was murdered on his way to the opening of the Rockefeller Museum in Jerusalem. He was noted, incidentally, for his stinginess, his surly disposition, and lack of sympathy for his workers. The British police never bothered to find out who killed him, and the story going around was that he was so nasty that nobody cared. Eventually, failure to look into his murder became a standing joke among archaeologists. In the field, students working on sites in the Near East would sometimes say to their professors, “Don’t work us too hard, or we’ll pull a Starkey on you,” and start laughing. So for my first mystery, I had a ready-made murder to solve.
Jerusalem was in chaos in the summer of 1938. Terrorists roamed the countryside, the British were losing control of the Mandate of Palestine, and the atmosphere was fraught with conflict, as Europe prepared for World War II. With this backdrop of Palestinian and international tension, I changed the name of the murdered archaeologist, and let my imagination take off from there.
Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
I usually start by leading up to a critical incident, like Starkey’s murder, and try to find a satisfactory resolution, weaving in scenes, going back and forth in my mind until a story takes form.
Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
When I am into writing a book, wonderful words and phrases tumble into my head while I’m in the bathtub. Sometimes by the time I get out of the tub and dry off, the words and phrases are gone, or not as wonderful as I thought. On the other hand, I do my best thinking while on the freeway. I sort of zone out and drive automatically, just following the car in front of me. Once I followed a car into someone’s driveway in Pasadena. I felt like a fool, looked around and said, “Where am I?” like someone coming out of a blackout.
Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
I began writing mysteries after I retired from my full time job as an archaeology professor at Cal State Fullerton.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
It’s hard to say. I like to read. If the book is well-written, I can get lost in it. I like Mark Twain, read everything he ever wrote. When I was a child, I adored Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-glass and laughed and laughed when I read them. I still love them. The first book I read all by myself was The Last of the Mohicans, and said nothing but Ugh! for the next two weeks because I was Chingachgook. After that, I read all of Cooper’s Leather-Stocking tales. Natty Bumpo became my hero, although I sometimes conflated him with Robin Hood, because both were heroes, were extraordinary marksmen, and lived in the woods. I seem to be the exception to the rule about woman mystery writers. Nancy Drew mysteries were not my favorite reading. The mysteries I read were in the pulp magazines that my father read on his commute into the city. The Shadow knows!
My favorite mystery writers from the golden age of mystery are Raymond Chandler, for his skill with words, and of course, Agatha Christie, because she is the patron saint of archaeologists. Of current writers, I like Lawrence Bloch and Ken Follett and Daniel Silva and Rhys Bowen and others too numerous to mention.
What are you reading now?
I just started reading Dark of the Moon, a Virgil Flowers book by John Sandford.
Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I just finished working on Return of the Swallows, the next book in the Tamar Saticoy series, in which Tamar, part-time archaeological consultant for Interpol, becomes mired in the devious world of museums and the antiquities trade, ranging from Thailand to California. Tamar was first introduced and recruited by Interpol in the mystery, The Gold of Thrace, published by Poisoned Pen Press in 2010.
In Return of the Swallows, Tamar finds a burnt body while working on the salvage excavation of a burnt mud-brick wall at Mission San Juan Capistrano. Tests reveal that the body is that of a contemporary murder victim, probably a native of the Khorat Plateau in Thailand, where an archaeological site is being looted. Tamar becomes embroiled in a labyrinth of deception and danger in her attempts to identify the body of the victim at the Mission and, working with Interpol, his link to the looted Thai site.
The looting of archaeological sites can be lucrative, and has resulted in murders, as well as connections with international contraband activities. The plot of Return of the Swallows is based, in part, on a real occurrence. I was personally aware of all the details, and knew all the principals, from the archaeologist whose site had been looted to the curators in the museums that received the stolen goods. A Red Notice by Interpol involving the tie-in between the looted Thai site and several museums in the Los Angeles and Orange County areas resulted in Federal indictments.
In the summer of 1938, Jerusalem is in chaos and the atmosphere teems with intrigue. Terrorists roam the countryside. The British are losing control of Palestine as Europe nervously teeters on the brink of World War II.
Against this backdrop of international tensions, Lily Sampson, an American graduate student, is involved in a dig—an important excavation directed by the eminent British archaeologist, Geoffrey Eastbourne, who is murdered on his way to the opening of the Rockefeller Museum. Artifacts from the dig are also missing, one of which is a beautiful blue glass amphoriskos (a vial about three and a half inches long) which Lily herself had excavated. Upset by this loss, she searches for the vial—enlisting the help of the military attaché of the American consulate.
But when she contacts the British police, they seem evasive and offputting—unable or unwilling either to find the murderer or to look into the theft of the amphoriskos. Lily realizes that she will get no help from them and sets out on her own to find the vial. When she finds the victim’s journal in her tent, she assumes he had left it for her because he feared for his life.
Lily’s adventurous search for information about the murder and the theft of the amphoriskos lead into a labyrinth of danger and intrigue.
This impressive historical mystery novel has already won first place in its category at both the Pikes Peak and Southwest Writers Conferences in 2000.
CHAPTER ONE
Later, Lily would remember the early morning quiet, the shuttered shops in the narrow lanes of the Old City. She would remember that few people were in the streets — bearded Hassidim in fur-trimmed hats and prayer shawls over long black cloaks returning from morning prayer at the Wailing Wall; an occasional shopkeeper sweeping worn cobbles still damp with dew.
She would remember the empty bazaar, remember that the peddler who usually sold round Greek bread from his cart near Jaffa Gate was gone.
She would remember the crowd of young Arabs, their heads covered with checkered black and white kefiyas, waiting in the shade of the Grand New Hotel, leaning against the façade, sitting on window ledges near the entrance; remember them crowded under Jaffa Gate in a space barely wide enough to drive through with a cart, standing beneath the medieval arches and crenellated ramparts, faces glum, arms crossed against their chests, rifles slung across their backs, revolvers jammed into their belts. One wore a Bedouin knife, its tin scabbard encrusted with bright bits of broken glass. Only their eyes moved as they watched her pass. Lily remembered holding her breath, pushing her way through, feeling their body heat, snaking this way and that to avoid touching the damp sweat on their clothing. No one stepped out of her way.
She would remember the bright Jerusalem air, fresh with the smell of pines and coffee and the faint tang of sheep from the fields near the city wall; the empty fruit market, usually crowded with loaded camels and donkey carts and turbaned fellahin unloading produce, deserted and silent. Vendor’s stalls, looking like boarded shops on a forlorn winter boardwalk, shut; cabs and carriages gone from the taxi stand.
She would remember the pool at the YMCA, warm as tea and green with algae, and the ladies gliding slowly through the water, wearing shower caps and corsets under their bathing suits, scooping water onto their ample bosoms, gathering to gossip at the shallow end. She would remember swimming around them with steady strokes, her legs kicking rhythmically, and the terrible tempered Mrs. Klein, blowing like a whale, ordering Lily to stop splashing. A tiny lady holding onto the side of the pool and dunking herself up and down like a tea bag nodded in agreement; Elsa Stern, the little round pediatrician with curly gray hair, gave Lily a conspiratorial wink and kept swimming laps.
She would remember it all. Everything about that day would haunt her.
###
Lily Sampson was on her way to the new YMCA on Julian’s Way that morning, to catalogue pottery from the Clarke collection in the little museum being built in the Observation Tower.
She had stayed at the YMCA four years ago when it first opened in 1934 and reveled in its splendor, in its graceful proportions, in its arches and tiled decoration, its tennis courts and gardens, and the grand Moorish lobby paved with Spanish tiles. It had a restaurant, an auditorium where Toscanini played, and a swimming pool — the only one in Jerusalem. Tourists came to ooh and ah and told her this was the most beautiful YMCA in the world. They would climb the Observation Tower for a view of the city and look through telescopes into windows of apartments on Mamilla Street and Jaffa Road.
Lily went there to use the swimming pool three times a week when she was in Jerusalem, walking from the American School through the quiet lanes of the Musrara quarter, or cutting through the Old City.
At five minutes to nine, her hair still damp against her ears, her eyes stinging from chlorine, Lily climbed the six flights to where the little museum would be.
Sheets of glass and wooden shelving for cases were stacked against the wall in the corner of a large, bare room that held only an old table, two wooden chairs, pottery wrapped in newspapers and stowed on the floor in old grocery cartons, and a wall clock that said four minutes before nine.
Eastbourne had said he would be here around nine o’clock. Lily suspected that if Eastbourne agreed to help her today, he had reasons of his own. She was grateful that he recommended her for this job, grateful for the small windfall from cataloguing pottery during the short break in excavations at Tel el Kharub.
Lily stepped onto the balcony that opened off the museum, holding her breath at the sight of Jerusalem, creamy gold in the morning brightness. The great gilded cupola of the Dome of the Rock glinted in the sun. The Old City, its stone walls adorned with towers and battlements, steeples and minarets, loomed behind the King David Hotel.
She could see the crowd of grim-faced young Arabs she had passed this morning at Jaffa Gate, now grown to two hundred or more. The tops of their heads bobbled like so many black and white beach balls.
Smoke twisted from small fires in the Valley of Hinnom. Lily looked through the telescope toward Government House on the crest of the Hill of Evil Council. She could just make out the Union Jack, flopping limply from its tower.
In the street, a dapper American tourist in a Panama hat and seersucker suit came out of the King David across the way.
The ladies left the YMCA one by one — Mrs. Klein, still frowning, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, marched down the street; Dr. Stern walked toward the corner.
Lily heard Eastbourne enter the museum. “Let’s get to work.” He looked at his watch. “I don’t have much time.”
Full of his usual charm this morning, she thought. “I was watching for you,” Lily told him. “I didn’t see you in the street.”
“I had breakfast downstairs.”
“You actually ate here?”
“I was hungry for some good English cooking and a real breakfast.”
Of course you were, Lily thought. Good British housewives get up early every morning to cool the toast and put lumps in the porridge.
“You don’t have a cook at the British School?”
“He’s an Arab. This morning I had ham and eggs.”
Lily noticed the newspaper under his arm and twisted her head to read the headlines. Eastbourne folded it into a small packet and put it in his pocket.
“I haven’t finished with the paper,” he said, looked out at the street, and checked his watch again.
On the wall clock, it was exactly 9:00 a.m.
The sound of an explosion from somewhere in West Jerusalem rocked the air.
After a tick of silence, a shout of “Allah Akbar” erupted in a fullthroated roar from the crowd gathered at Jaffa Gate.
Lily rushed to the balcony, with Eastbourne close behind her. A mob spewed out of the Old City, propelled by the rhythmic chant, onto Mamilla and around the King David Hotel, and spread in a torrent toward West Jerusalem.
Five or six men carrying rifles ran down Julian’s Way and encircled a truck, rocking it back and forth until it turned over. At first the impassioned madness and destruction seemed strangely distant to Lily, choreographed and rehearsed, like a slow-moving pageant. She watched three men rush from the gas station at the turn of the road with full jerry cans, spilling gasoline on the street as they ran.
Waving fists, brandishing rifles, kefiyas flying in the wind, the horde swarmed into the warren of back streets with old Jewish shops and houses, down Jaffa Road toward Zion Circus. The blare of sirens, scattered shouts and screams carried from the direction of West Jerusalem on wind heavy with smoke.
Lily heard the crash of shattering glass and looked toward Mamilla to see a man with a jerry can splash gasoline through a shop window. A rumble of flames erupted and danced in the currents of heat from the rush of the blaze.
“It’s that bloody Grand Mufti, el Husseini,” Eastbourne said. His nostrils dilated with anger, and he wiped his hand across his mouth. “You can’t trust him. He must be orchestrating this from Syria, with the backing of Hitler and his crowd.”
The tourist from the King David, his back arched in a posture of fear, stood in the middle of the street now, tilted this way and that by rioters who swirled around him as if he were a lamppost. Eastbourne watched from the doorway, looking toward the tourist in the Panama hat, and glanced at his watch again.
Mrs. Klein advanced on the rabble like a tank, shouting and flailing her arms. The mob surrounded her while she punched and kicked and screamed. They pressed against her, pushing her back onto the road. She floated to her knees, her skirt billowing around her, falling to the asphalt, her hair undone and sticky with blood that began to puddle on the pavement.
Dr. Stern turned back, hurrying toward her friend splayed on the sidewalk. A man careened to face Dr. Stern, stepping into her path, thrusting a fist in her direction as if to greet her. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, and she staggered against him. He pushed her away and slowly, carefully, she plummeted straight down, silent, onto the sidewalk. Lily closed her eyes and turned away from the balcony back to the notebook on the table, back to the comfort of the past to count clay lamps, juglets, burnished bowls with turned-back rims. She picked up a lamp, the nozzle smudged with ancient soot, and put it down again, drawn back to the balcony with a horrified fascination.
The tourist in the seersucker suit, without his Panama hat, disappeared into the revolving door of the hotel.
“Get inside,” Eastbourne said. “This isn’t a peep show.” He looked at the street. “When this is over, they’ll cover the bodies, take them away, and hose down the streets.”
What will be left in two thousand years, Lily wondered? Just a thin layer of charcoal, without memory, without skeletons to mark the day, just one more level in the stratigraphy of Jerusalem?
People hung out the windows of the King David Hotel, one man with field glasses, others leaning against balcony railings, some aghast, some curious. A father led his small daughter inside, shut the door and pulled down the blinds.
The tourist in the seersucker suit was gone now.
Dr. Stern lay on her side in the street. Little rivulets of blood seeped from beneath her, flowing downhill and staining the pale blue cloth of her skirt. The little tea bag lady lay stretched out on the steps of the YMCA as if she were sleeping in the wrong place.
Mrs. Klein lay in a widening dark pool, her hair, beginning to mat with blood, loose and wild against the asphalt. She looked oddly peaceful, her frown gone, her jaw fallen open in death. False teeth lay beside her softened cheek. A man stopped, looked at the teeth on the sticky pavement, picked them up, wiped the blood on his sleeve, and put them in his pocket. He pulled a knife from his belt and, brandishing it, ran on toward Mamilla.
“The name Jerusalem means City of Peace, you know,” Eastbourne said. Shuddering, Lily edged back to the table. The haze of smoke from the fires, the blare of fire trucks, the sounds of sirens from ambulances, of sobs, of wounded and mourners, of shutters ringing down with a clatter, penetrated the room. Lily was drawn to the balcony, and back inside to the table, too mesmerized to stop, too terrified to watch, mourning for the ladies who would never again skim across the green water, for Canaanites and Jebusites, for Israelites and Judeans, for Crusaders and Mamelukes who fought in this city with its twisted streets, its strange mystique and power, its heritage of blood and vengeance.
“Go downstairs and get me a packet of Players,” Eastbourne said, reaching into his pocket. “Here are fifty mils. Bring me the change.”
Lily dropped the money when he held it out. Her fingers numb and shaking, she picked it up slowly. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking,” she said and turned toward the door.
In the lobby, the desk clerk looked at her dumbly, his eyes glazed, his face pale. A bushy mustache hid his mouth and quivered when he spoke.
“Rioting in the streets and you ask for cigarettes,” he said in a hushed monotone. “Cigarettes? Are you mad?”
“Players,” Lily repeated.
“I don’t sell them here. In the dining room.”
Lily went into the dining room. The desk clerk followed and placed himself behind the bar.
“Players,” Lily said again and put the money on the counter. He counted it and pushed back the change. “You cold-blooded English. You have no feelings. Here are your cigarettes.”
“I’m an American.”
“Crazy American. You’re all the same.”
Lily climbed the stairs, catching her breath at the landings, looking down empty halls at laundry carts stacked with fresh linens for unmade beds. She felt heat from hidden pipes radiate through the whitewashed walls, heard the elevator knock and clatter as it moved from floor to floor.
On the sixth floor, the museum was silent. The notebook was still open on the table; the clay lamp was where she had put it down. And Eastbourne was gone.
BOOK DETAILS:
Genre: Mystery
Published by: Aileen Baron
Publication Date: September, 2013
Number of Pages: 217
ISBN:
Mobi: 978-0-578-12887-0
epub: 978-0-578-12888-7
POD: 978-0-578-12956-3PURCHASE 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.
Victoria L Trenton is an author, freelance writer, and a self-professed dreamer. She is a dedicated student of the BDSM arts, and is highly interested in the inner workings of the criminal mind.
Her tamer pursuits include sailing, horseback riding, traveling, and cooking.
She currently resides in Miami, Florida with her beloved Muse, Mentor, and long time Life Partner, along with her furry feline best friend Z.
Connect with Victoria at these sites:
Live life out loud.
Chrissie Laursen doesn’t date models. Having barely survived her battle with alcoholism and just out of a ten-year marriage that lasted nine years too long, she’s laser focused on her thriving Miami Beach business: promoting erotic photographers in local galleries. She has no time for the ego driven pretty boys that proliferate in that business. For so long she’s wondered if life and love would ever truly touch her that she decides to go it alone. Then she sees the glacial blue eyes and rugged, animal intensity of Nick Jessup, and her resolve begins to fracture.
Irresistibly drawn to him, she begins a relationship with Nick and soon becomes obsessed with his dominant, controlling personality. Even his dangerous past doesn’t scare her. But before their charged sexual energy culminates in passion, the peril of Nick’s past explodes into the present and he is sentenced to thirty-five years in prison for a horrific crime. Faced with the reality that her life can either return to the empty normalcy she’s always known or continue through the terrifying and exhilarating doorway that Nick’s arrival has opened…she makes a decision to do something that will never allow her to go back to the fragile life she’s just rebuilt.
A wild, erotic, and powerful journey of self-discovery, The Outmate shimmers with the intensity of what it means to be human-and the clarity that comes with finding your truth before it’s too late.
Paperback: 388 pages
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Publication Date: September 7, 2013
ISBN-10: 1490313869
ISBN-13: 978-1490313863
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.
WINNER OF the INTERNATIONAL BOOK AWARDS (Beyond Justice), #1 bestselling author Joshua Graham’s award-winning novel DARKROOM hit 3 bestseller lists on Amazon the night of its release.
CBS NEWS described DARKROOM as a book with “action, political intrigue and well-rounded characters…a novel that thriller fans will devour.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY described BEYOND JUSTICE as: “A riveting legal thriller…breaking new ground with a vengeance…demonically entertaining and surprisingly inspiring.”
Suspense Magazine listed BEYOND JUSTICE in its BEST OF 2010, alongside titles by Scott Turrow, Ted Dekker, Steven James and Brad Thor.
His short story THE DOOR’S OPEN won the HarperCollins Authonomy Competition (Christmas 2010.)
Many of Graham’s readers blame him for sleepless nights, arriving to work late, neglected dishes and family members, and not allowing them to put the book down.
Josh grew up in Brooklyn, NY where he lived for the better part of 30 years. He holds a Bachelor and Master’s Degree and went on to earn his doctorate from Johns Hopkins University. During his time in Maryland, he taught as a professor at Shepherd College (WV), Western Maryland College, and Columbia Union College (MD).
Today he lives with his beautiful wife and children on the West Coast. Several of Graham’s short fiction works have been published under various pen names by Pocket Books and Dawn Treader Press. Writing under the pen name Ian Alexander, Graham debuted with his first Epic Fantasy novel ONCE WE WERE KINGS, an Amazon #1 Bestseller in multiple categories and Award-Winning Finalist in the SciFi/Fantasy category of The USA “Best Books 2011 Awards, as well as an Award-Winning Finalist in the Young Adult Fiction category of The USA “Best Books 2011 Awards, and an Award Winner in the 2011 Forward National Literature Awards in the Teen/Young Adult category. ONCE WE WERE KINGS is available in ebook and hardcover editions.
Connect with Joshua at these sites:
Writing and Reading:
Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
To some extent. In the case of Beyond Justice, when imagining and conjuring up the emotion of the opening scenes, I used my own home and neighborhood in my mind. It was very difficult, because these are things no one even wants to imagine. But for the sake of realism, I made myself go there. It’s not something I would chose to do lightly and certainly not something I enjoy. I also draw upon life events—job loss, loss of loved ones, etc., because it’s the only way I can be genuine in my depiction of my characters’ reactions and feelings during such times.
Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
I do either or both, depending on how the story tells itself to me. It does help to know the ending, or at least part of it, so you can set it up and drive at it with a clear direction. In fact, for mystery, knowing the ending helps me as a writer to be more tricky.
Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
I typically write in the afternoon, after I’ve sent the kids to school, or have finished teaching homeschool lessons (we do both school and homeschool). As for idiosyncrasies, I try to clear my mind and pray before I begin. Besides the plot and characters, I try to remember my whole purpose for writing, and that is to entertain as well as bring about thought provoking ideas, and a sense of hope.
Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
My full time job is being a husband and a father. By day, I pose as a thriller author, but no one really knows my secret identity.
Oops.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
C.S. Lewis, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, John Grisham, James Rollins, Steve Berry… the list goes on.
What are you reading now?
DEADLINE, by Sandra Brown
Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I am always working on my next novel, and I could tell you, but… well, you know. 😉
I grant clearance and access to that information to my newsletter subscribers. If you want clearance, you can get it by subscribing here: www.joshua-graham.com/newsletter
Fun questions:
Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
For Sam Hudson, I think there are a few choices, but you know what? I would love to see Will Smith portray him.
Manuscript/Notes: hand written or keyboard?
Both, lots on my mobile phone too.
Favorite leisure activity/hobby?
Hanging out with friends, laughing and playing Texas Holdem
Favorite meal?
Probably a nice Italian combination of pasta, chicken and salad. Not sure what it’s called but it usually has sun dried tomatoes included.
How do people get in touch with you?
My website has information on me and my books www.joshgraham.net
And I’m on twitter www.twitter.com/J0shuagraham
And facebook www.facebook.com/j0shgraham
I blog occasionally too: www.joshua-graham.com/blog
Check out the trailer for my most recent book TERMINUS: www.joshua-graham.com/terminustrailer
THE DESCENT INTO HELL IS NOT ALWAYS VERTICAL…
Sam Hudson, a reputable San Diego attorney, learns this when the authorities wrongfully convict him of the brutal rape and murder of his wife and daughter, and sends him to death row. There he awaits execution by lethal injection.
If he survives that long.
In prison, Sam fights for his life while his attorney works frantically on his appeal. It is then that he embraces the faith of his departed wife and begins to manifest supernatural abilities. Abilities which help him save lives- his own, those of his unlikely allies-and uncover the true killer’s identity, unlocking the door to his exoneration.
Now a free man, Sam’s newfound faith confronts him with the most insurmountable challenge yet. A challenge beyond vengeance, beyond rage, beyond anything Sam believes himself capable of: to forgive the very man who murdered his family, according to his faith. But this endeavor reveals darker secrets than either Sam or the killer could ever have imagined. Secrets that hurtle them into a fateful collision course.
BEYOND JUSTICE, a tale of loss, redemption, and the power of faith.
“…A riveting legal thriller…. breaking new ground with a vengeance… demonically entertaining and surprisingly inspiring.”
The descent into Hell is not always vertical.
Bishop Frank Morgan
PART I
Chapter One
THE QUESTION MOST PEOPLE ASK when they first meet me is: How does an attorney from a reputable law firm in La Jolla end up on death row? When they hear my story, it becomes clear that the greater question is not how, but why.
I have found it difficult at times to forgive myself for what happened. But a significant part of the answer involves forgiveness, something I never truly understood until I could see in hindsight.
Orpheus went through hell and back to rescue his wife Euridice from death in the underworld. Through his music, he moved the hearts of Hades and Persephone and they agreed to allow Euridice to return with him to Earth on one condition: He must walk before her and not look back until they reached the upper world. On seeing the Sun, Orpheus turned to share his delight with Euridice, and she disappeared. He had broken his promise and she was gone forever. This failure and guilt was a hell far worse than the original.
My own personal hell began one night almost four years ago. Like images carved into flesh, the memories of that night would forever be etched into my mind. The work day had been tense enough”my position at the firm was in jeopardy because of the inexplicable appearance of lewd internet images in my folder on the main file server.
Later that night, as I scrambled to get out the door on time for a critical meeting with a high profile client, my son Aaron began throwing a screaming fit. Hell hath no fury like a boy who has lost his Thomas Train toy. In my own frenzied state, I lost my temper with him.
Amazing how much guilt a four-year-old can pile on you with puppy-dog eyes while clinging to his mother’s legs. His sister Bethie, in all her seventh grade sagacity, proclaimed that I had issues, then marched up to her room, slammed the door and took out her frustration with me by tearing though a Paganini Caprice on her violin. All this apocalypse just minutes before leaving for my meeting, which was to be held over a posh dinner at George’s At The Cove, which I would consequently have no stomach for.
I couldn’t wait to get home. The clock’s amber LED read 11:28 when I pulled my Lexus into the cul-de-sac. Pale beams from a pregnant moon cut through the palm trees that lined our street. The October breeze rushed into the open window and through my hair, a cool comfort after a miserable evening.
If I was lucky, Jenn would be up and at the computer, working on her latest novel. She’d shooed me out the door lest I ran late for the meeting, before I could make any more of a domestic mess for her to clean up.
The garage door came down. I walked over to the security system control box and found it unarmed. On more than one occasion, I had asked Jenn to arm it whenever I was out. She agreed, but complained that the instructions were too complicated. It came with a pretty lame manual, I had to admit.
The system beeped as I entered the house, greeted by the sweet scent of Lilac”her favorite candles for those special occasions. So much more than I deserved, but that was my Jenn. Never judging, never condemning, she understood how much stress I’d been under and always prescribed the best remedy for such situations.
From the foot of the stairs I saw dimmed light leaking out of the bedroom. It wasn’t even date night, but I had a pretty good idea what she was thinking. So before going up, I stopped by the kitchen, filled a pair of glasses with Merlot and set out a little box of chocolates on a breakfast tray”my secret weapon.
As I climbed the stairs I smiled. The closer I got, the more I could smell the fragrant candles. From the crack in the door classical music flowed out: Pie Jesu from Faure’s Requiem. Must’ve been writing a love scene. She always used my classical CDs to set her in the right mood.
A beam of amber light reached through the crack in the doorway into the hallway. The alarm system beeped. She must have shut a window. It had just started to rain and Jenn hated when the curtains got wet.
Kathleen Battle’s angelic voice soared.
Pie Jesu Domine,
Dona eis requiem,
Requiem sempiternam.
Jenn didn’t know a word of Latin. She just liked the pretty tunes.
I nudged the door open with my foot.
“Honey?” Caught a glimpse of a silky leg on the bed. Oh, yes. I pushed the door open.
Shock ignited every nerve ending in my body like napalm. The tray fell from my hands. Crashed to the ground. Glasses shattered and the red wine bled darkly onto the carpet.
Jenn lay partially naked, face-down, the sheets around her soaked crimson. Stab wounds scored her entire body. Blood. Blood everywhere!
“Jenn!”
I ran to her, turned her over.
She gasped, trying to speak. Coughed. Red spittle dripped from the corner of her mouth. “The kids…”
I took her into my arms. But her eyes begged me to go check on them.
“You hang on, honey. With all you’ve got, hang on!” I reached for my cell phone but it fell out of my belt clip and bounced under the bed.
On my knees now, I groped wildly until I found the cell phone. Dialed 9-1-1. Barely remembered what I said, but they were sending someone right away.
Jenn groaned. Her breaths grew shorter and shorter.
“Bethie… Aaron.”
Her eyes rolled back.
“I’m going. Hang on, baby. Please! You gotta hang on!” I started for the door. Felt her hand squeeze mine twice: Love-you.
No.
Tears streamed down my face. As I began to pull away, she gripped my hand urgently. For that split second, I knew. This was the end. I stumbled back to her. Gathered her ragdoll body in to my arms.
“Jenn, oh God, Jenn. Please don’t!”
“Whatever it takes,” she said. Again, she squeezed my hand twice.
“Mercy, not…sacrifice. One last gasp. She sighed and then fell limp in my arms, her eyes still open.
Holding her tight to my chest, I let out an anguished cry.
All time stopped. Who would do this? Why? Her blood stained my shirt. Her dying words resonated in my mind. Then I remembered. The kids. I bolted up and ran straight to Bethie’s room.
Bethie’s door was ajar. If my horror hadn’t been complete, it was now. I found her exactly like Jenn”face down, blood and gashes covering her body.
Though I tried to cry out, nothing escaped the vice-grip on my throat. When I turned her over, I felt her arm. Still warm, but only slightly. Her eyes were shut, her face wet with blood.
“Bethie! Oh, sweetie, no!” I whispered, as I wrapped the blanket around her.
I kissed her head. Held her hand. Rocked her back and forth. “Come on, baby girl. Help’s on its way, you hold on,” I said, voice and hands trembling. She lay there unconscious but breathing.
Aaron.
Gently, I lay Bethie back down then got up and flew across the hall. To Aaron’s door. His night light was still on and I saw his outline in the bed.
Oh God, please.
I flipped the switch.
Nothing.
I dashed over to the lamp on his nightstand, nearly slipping on one of his Thomas Train toys on the carpet. Broken glass crackled under my shoes.
I switched on the lamp on his nightstand. When I looked down to his bed, my legs nearly gave out. Aaron was still under his covers, but blood drenched his pillow. His aluminum baseball bat lay on the floor, dented and bloodied.
Dropping to my knees, I called his name. Over and over, I called, but he didn’t stir. This can’t be happening. It’s got to be a nightmare. I put my face down into Aaron’s blue Thomas Train blanket and gently rested my ear on his chest.
I felt movement under the blanket. Breathing. But slowly”irregular and shallow.
Don’t move his body. Dammit, where are the paramedics?
I heard something from Bethie’s room and dashed out the door. Stopping in the middle of the hallway, I clutched the handrail over the stairs. Thought I heard Aaron crying now. Or maybe it was the wind.
My eyes darted from one side of the hallway to the other. Which room?
Faure’s Requiem continued to play, now the In Paradisum movement.
Aeternam habeas requiem.
Something out in front of the house caught my attention. The police, the paramedics! Propelled by adrenaline, I crashed through the front door and ran out into the middle my lawn which was slick with rain. I slipped and fell on my side.
Nobody. Where were they!
Like a madman, I began screaming at the top of my lungs. My words echoed emptily into the night.
“Help! Somebody, please!”
A dog started barking.
“Please, ANYBODY! HELP!”
Lights flickered on in the surrounding houses.
Eyes peeked through miniblinds.
No one came out.
I don’t know if I was intelligible at this point. I was just screaming, collapsed onto the ground, on my hands and knees getting drenched in the oily rain.
Just as the crimson beacons of an ambulance flashed around the corner, I buried my face into the grass. All sound, light, and consciousness imploded into my mind as if it were a black hole.
Genre: Mystery
Published by: Dawn Treader Press
Publication Date: July 2010
Number of Pages: 430
ISBN:978-0-9844526-0-6
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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.
USA Today bestselling author Jessica Scott is a career army officer; mother of two daughters, three cats and three dogs; wife to a career NCO and wrangler of all things stuffed and fluffy. She is a terrible cook and even worse housekeeper, but she’s a pretty good shot with her assigned weapon and someone liked some of the stuff she wrote. Somehow, her children are pretty well-adjusted and her husband still loves her, despite burned water and a messy house.
She’s written for the New York Times At War Blog, PBS Point of View: Regarding War Blog, and Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America. She deployed to Iraq in 2009 as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom/New Dawn and has served as a company commander at Fort Hood, Texas.
She’s pursuing a PhD in Sociology in her spare time and most recently, she’s been featured as one of Esquire Magazine’s Americans of the Year for 2012.
Connect with Jessica at these sites:
All Sergeant First Class Reza Iaconelli cares about is staying sober and leading his platoon. He wants everyone to stay out of his way; what he gets is Captain Emily Lindberg. Fort Hood’s newest shrink is smart as a whip, sexy as hell, and full of questions. Emily has devoted her life to giving soldiers the care they deserve, so when Reza agrees to help her understand what makes a soldier tick, she’s thrilled. It helps that the sexy warrior touches a part of her she thought long dead. He’s the man who thinks combat is the only escape from the demons that haunt him. The man who need sher most of all.
Emily watched her friend weave through the crowd of broad-shouldered Cavalrymen and toward the captain. Alone at the bar, Emily twirled her wine in the glass, staring into the swirling pale golden liquid.
She sipped her wine and glanced around the wide open space, feeling the warmth. She was comfortable in this place. A drink after work. A good friend. This was a good life. It was simple. It had purpose. So much better than the complicated mess she’d left behind.
She lifted her glass, savoring the freedom of her rebellion. She might not fit into her uniform just right but she fit here among these soldiers better than she’d ever fit back home.
She saw Olivia gyrating slowly with the captain across the dance floor. Her friend’s movements were slow and sensual, a sultry undulation that spoke of power and of sex. She smiled at her friend’s pleasure. It was enough that Emily could enjoy another’s happiness. She’d come here tonight to relax, to help Olivia celebrate.
“You don’t come here often, do you?”
Emily glanced at the man who’d appeared at her shoulder. He’d been standing with the group of captains that Olivia had just infiltrated.
“Not really,” she said, sipping her drink. She thought about easing away, putting space between where their upper arms touched.
Personal space much? she thought.
“Are you here with friends?” he asked. She caught a heavy scent of beer from his direction, beer mixed with cigar smoke. It was not unpleasant.
She glanced over at Olivia. “Yeah.”
“Not up for company?”
She smiled and finally glanced back at him. “Not really. Thank you though.”
He brushed the tip of his hat with two fingers. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
He swaggered off, leaving her alone at the bar. That had been nice. Too bad she wasn’t interested. Once upon a time, she might have danced but there was something missing from the way he’d carried himself.
He was missing that power that Sergeant Iaconelli wore like it was second nature.
She shook her head and took a long sip of her wine. She’d done nothing but argue with the man but now she was thinking about him in a way that was purely unprofessional.
The heavy iron door swung open at that moment and Emily’s breath caught in her throat.
“Speak of the devil,” she muttered.
Reza Iaconelli stood in the doorway, his gaze scanning the room as though he was taking a headcount. What was it about the man that he was always walking through doors at the wrong time? And this time, his gaze swept the bar and landed directly on her.
His eyes lit up, his mouth flattened. Just a faint flicker, but it was enough to tell her he’d recognized her.
And the familiar hostility was gone.
Her mouth went dry and she took another sip. He wasn’t going to come over. It was going to be fine.
They would keep the rampant hostility and no lines would be blurred.
It would be fine, right?
Except that he was now coming over. Weaving through the crowd, his Stetson adding to his height.
What the hell was she supposed to do about that? The closer he got, the more her stomach flipped beneath her ribs.
She was too tired to fight. And the alcohol would probably allow her to say something that she’d regret come Monday.
His clean white shirt accented his shoulders and made his skin look darker, more appealing. His face was shadowed by the brim of the Stetson.
He was there. A short space separated them. He radiated something—a power.
A rawness.
She was doomed.
BOOK DETAILS:
Print Length: 307 pages
Publisher: Forever
Publication Date: February 4, 2014
Sold by: Hachette Book Group
ASIN: B00EHMFCPKPURCHASE LINKS:
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Ms. Lite’s titles are considered a resource for parents, psychologists, therapists, child life specialists, teachers, and yoga instructors. Her Indigo Dreams® audio book/CD series has been awarded the CNE Award of Excellence. Ms. Lite has been interviewed and written articles for several media outlets, including: Family Circle, NY Times, MSNBC, ABC Radio; CBS News; USA Today; Web MD; Stress Free Living; Mind, Body, and Soul; and Job Club with Tory Johnson. She has also been featured in several publications which include Prevention Magazine, Parent Guide New York, Family Circle, Kiwi Magazine, and Aspiring Woman. Lori is a certified children’s meditation facilitator and Sears’ Manage My Life parenting expert. She gained national attention when she appeared on Shark Tank, an ABC/Mark Burnett production.
Connect with Lori at these sites:
Stress management solutions for you and your children!
Kids today are more stressed, overwhelmed, and struggling with anxiety than ever before. Children are not born with the coping strategies needed to navigate today’s increasing demands of technology, bullying, academics, and family dynamics. You yourself might wonder how your own stressed-out lifestyle is affecting your children. Based on Lori Lite’s award-winning series, Stress Free Kids provides relaxation techniques you can use to free your child from stress.
Lite shows you how to apply breathing, visualizations, affirmations, and muscle relaxation exercises effortlessly throughout the day. These parenting solutions to everyday stressors will reduce worries and anxiety while increasing self-esteem. You and your children will gain freedom as you live a more joy-filled life with less stress.
With this complete resource as your guide, your family will create your own collection of stress-free moments that add up to peace and confidence–for you and your children.
BOOK DETAILS:
Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Adams Media
Publication Date: January 1, 2014
ISBN-10: 1440567514
ISBN-13: 978-1440567513PURCHASE LINKS:
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Mailbox Monday was created by Marcia of A girl and her books and is now hosted on its own blog. According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.
Click on title for synopsis via IndieBound (I am an IndieBound affiliate)
Monday: Pressed Pennies by Steven Manchester (signed ARC from author)
Friday: Eyes Closed Tight by Peter Leonard (ARC The Story Plant)
Murder Has Consequences by Giacomo Giammatteo
Series: Friendship & Honor
Published by Inferno Publishing Company
Publication Date: May 21, 2013
ISBN-10: 0985030267
ISBN-13: 978-0985030261
Pages: 380
Review Copy from: Author
Edition: Kindle
My Rating: 5
Synopsis (Amazon):
A Thriller about Murder, Mystery, and Family. It’s easy to give your life for someone you love. It’s much harder to kill for them. ~Nicky Fusco For a select few people, friendship lasts forever. Nicky Fusco and Frankie Donovan were friends like that, but that was years ago. Now Frankie’s a detective in Brooklyn’s Homicide department, and Nicky is a reformed hit man. But when Frankie gets in trouble–and the law can’t help him–he turns to Nicky. The problem is that Nicky promised his family, and God, that he’d go straight.
My Thoughts and Opinion:
I was first introduced to this author when I read the first book in this series, Murder Takes Time. I was blown away with his debut novel, and quite honestly, was skeptical if the 2nd book would do the same. Did it?
Within the first few sentences the reader is reacquainted with Frankie “Bugs” Donovan, NYPD and Nicky “The Rat” Fusco. And thus begins a page turning read. A book of non stop action including murders, kidnapping, drugs, friendship, honor and loyalty.
Short chapters, alternating with the characters, had mini cliff hangers that teases the reader to “read just one more chapter” and realization that another 5 chapters have been read. I found myself trying to read faster so I could get to the next few chapters to find out where the story would bring me. The writing fluid and descriptive so that the imagery created was vivid. The story believable.
Was the 2nd in this series as good? Absolutely!! It was another “could not put down” experience that has left this reader waiting anxiously for the next book, Murder Takes Patience due out in March.
REVIEW DISCLAIMER
This blog was founded on the premise to write honest reviews, to the best of my ability, no matter who from, where from and/or how the book was obtained, and will continue to do so, even if it is through PICT or PBP.
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.
(2014 Challenges: Mt TBR, EBook, Where Are You, A-Z, Turning the Pages, Outdo Yourself)
