$25 GC – Len Buonfiglio Caribbean Mystery Series by Brian Silverman @partnersincr1me

FREEDOM DROP & CALYPSO BLUE by Brian Silverman Banner

Len Buonfiglio Caribbean Mystery Series

FREEDOM DROP & CALYPSO BLUE

by Brian Silverman

May 19 – June 27, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

FREEDOM DROP

 

A Len Buonfiglio/St. Pierre Caribbean Mystery

Len Buonfiglio is a former New York bar owner and family man. He has the perfect life until he yearns for more—for something he knows will destroy everything he had, but something he can’t resist. He makes his choice and that, along with a traumatic event, shatters his world. His life and what he had now broken, his only choice is to leave the city and his family. His flight takes him to the remote Caribbean island of St. Pierre where he opens a sports bar that he runs with his friend and partner, a young local islander named Tubby Levett.

In Freedom Drop, a genial tour guide, Rawle “Big Tree” Johns is a suspect in an American woman’s fall from a cliff and held in custody. John’s mother enlists Buonfiglio to help free her son and to prove that he had nothing to do with the woman’s death. Conflicted by the need to spend time with his sixteen-year-old daughter who he hasn’t seen in two years, Mr. Len as he’s known on the island, reluctantly agrees to help.

Buonfiglio’s search for the truth reveals that there are other, much more powerful forces involved in the woman’s death that threaten both his life and his family. In the course of his investigation, he confronts a high-ranking island politician, the local superintendent of police, the dead girl’s mother, and, ultimately, a shady yet powerful outsider investor. Was the girl’s death an accident or did Johns cause that accident? Or was she murdered? The lack of clarity—the mystery of what really happened to the girl—he realizes, reflects the enigma that is St. Pierre. It’s a riddle that, despite living on the island for several years, he still cannot solve.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: April 7, 2025 by Down & Out Books

Read an excerpt from FREEDOM DROP:

CALYPSO BLUE

 

A Len Buonfiglio/St. Pierre Caribbean Mystery

In Calypso Blue, Brian Silverman crafts a gripping tale of mystery, revenge, and redemption set against the backdrop of New York and the Caribbean. The novel follows John Saint John, a man torn between his faith, past, and responsibilities as a father, as he grapples with a life-altering decision driven by a desire for justice. As his story unfolds in the shadow of a significant historical event, another narrative emerges—one centered on Leonard Buonfiglio, an American expatriate running a bar on the island of St. Pierre. When a legendary calypso singer, Lord Ram, dies under suspicious circumstances, Leonard is reluctantly pulled into an investigation at the behest of the island’s police superintendent.

Blending elements of crime, culture, and personal reckoning, Calypso Blue explores themes of loss, second chances, and the ghosts of the past that refuse to be forgotten. With vivid storytelling and rich atmospheric detail, Silverman transports readers into a world where music, memory, and mystery intertwine.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: June 30, 2025 by Down & Out Books

Read an excerpt from CALYPSO BLUE:

Praise for FREEDOM DROP:

“An impressive debut…Silverman capably captures the feel of his setting en route to a satisfying conclusion. A sequel is warranted.”
~ Publishers Weekly

“Silverman had me at the Caribbean setting, and held me with his fully human characters—of both good and bad natures—and their situation.”
~ SJ Rozan, Edgar-winning author of The Murder of Mr. Ma

“A mystery steeped in authentic Caribbean atmosphere. Silverman knows his territory, as does his hero, an ex-Marine-turned-sleuth who discovers that, even in paradise, things aren’t always what they seem.”
~ Wallace Stroby, author of Heaven’s a Lie and Some Die Nameless

“A buddy book, a whodunit, and a family drama, Freedom Drop is mystery magic.”
~ Reed Farrel Coleman, author of Sleepless City

“Brian Silverman’s Freedom Drop is an exciting and welcome new addition to the crime writing pantheon.”
~ S.A. Cosby, author of Razorblade Tears and All the Sinners Bleed

 

Author Bio:

Brian Silverman

Brian Silverman’s writing career has spanned over 30 years. He has written about travel, food, and sports for publications including the New York Times, Saveur, Caribbean Travel and Life, Islands, the New Yorker, New York, and others. From 2004 through 2013, he was the author of the annual Frommer’s New York City guidebook series. He co-authored the acclaimed Twentieth Century Treasury of Sports with his father, Al Silverman.

His short fiction has appeared in numerous publications, including Mystery Tribune, Down and Out Magazine, and Mystery Weekly. His stories have been selected to appear in The Best American Mystery Stories in 2018 and 2019, and The Best American Mystery and Suspense Stories 2021. His other short fiction has appeared in publications such as Down and Out Magazine, Mystery Magazine, Dark Waters, and Vautrin. Freedom Drop is his first published novel. He lives in Harlem, New York, with his wife, Heather, and his sons, Louis and Russell.

Catch Up With Brian Silverman:

www.BrianSilvermanWrites.com
Goodreads
BookBub
X – @BSsilverman

 

 

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$25 GC – Afterward by Bristol Vaudrin @partnersincr1me

Afterward by Bristol Vaudrin Banner

AFTERWARD

by Bristol Vaudrin

May 19 – June 13, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Afterward by Bristol Vaudrin

In an unnamed city, a young woman deals with an unspeakable tragedy, and her boyfriend’s subsequent hospitalization.

Torn from her normal routines—coffee, sex, barhopping, and disc golf—she finds herself in an unfamiliar world of hospital visits and doctor’s appointments, all while navigating an unexpected move to a new apartment and enduring the disapproval of her boyfriend’s mother, as well as the gossip of her friends and coworkers. (Plus the suspicious looks of strangers, and the unbearable strain on her credit card…and did we mention the gossip of her friends and coworkers?) Along the way, she meets every obstacle with…well, not grace, exactly. In fact, pretty much the opposite of grace. Maybe more like bitchiness, truth be told. And all the while, the aftereffects of the tragedy cast a pall over everything she does—and threaten to destroy everything she has.

Bristol Vaudrin’s fascinating debut novel is an engrossing and darkly comedic read with an unforgettable narrator/protagonist. Watching her struggles—real, imagined, and in-between—we too must choose between kindness and judgment, between condescension towards someone who simply doesn’t have a clue, and empathy with a person struggling to deal with something we all must face: the desire to hold on to the things we enjoy when the world around us changes in ways we didn’t expect.

Praise for Afterward:

“Afterward is a perfectly titrated novel. In this taut, voice-driven, and viciously subversive debut, Bristol Vaudrin proves herself a master of withholding, cleverly navigating the chasm between said and unsaid as she exposes the underside of humanity at its most self-absorbed. A terrific debut!”
~ Sara Lippmann, author of Jerks and Lech

“Bristol Vaudrin’s Afterward describes contemporary work and social life in lyrical, almost anthropological, detail, but the traumatic event that sets the novel in motion suffuses it with dread and forces a reckoning with the way we live now. The combination of emotional intensity and dry humor evokes European writers like Elena Ferrante and Fleur Jaeggy, but the void Vaudrin stares down, and even comes to terms with, is unmistakably American. A powerful meditation on grief that isn’t afraid to make you laugh amid the pain.”
~ Christian TeBordo, author of Ghost Engine and The Apology

“Bristol Vaudrin’s debut is a marvel that pulls the reader along with sophisticated sentences that manage to be both haunting and hilarious. Afterward will keep you stunned from its first page.”
~ Avner Landes, author of Meiselman

Book Details:

Genre: Literary Fiction
Published by: Tortoise Books
Publication Date: March 4, 2025
Number of Pages: 242
ISBN: 9781948954914 (ISBN10: 1948954915)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Tortoise Books

Read an excerpt:

Afterward, I broke open. I cried. I held him so tight I left nail marks in his skin. What were a few more marks now?

The EMTs ungently separated us, and, with the coordination of motions necessitated a thousand times, they deftly lifted Kyle from the malignity of our apartment floor to a gurney that could barely contain his tall frame. They secured him under a thin blanket pulled all the way up to his chin and rushed him out our door into the hallway, past building onlookers, toward a waiting elevator, shouting to me which hospital to meet him at.

Then I was there, by myself, panting, kneeling on the floor, staring at my still-connected phone nearby with the 911 operator trying to get my attention. I disconnected and a moment later listened to the sirens reverberating off the impenetrable glass apartment towers around us as the ambulance pulled away.

I stared straight ahead, so flooded with emotion that none could get out. I fingered one of the smooth buttons on the front of my jacket until it felt uneven, and realized I had loosened the thread holding it on. I looked down at the ruined thread, thinking about how much effort it would require to fix it later.

I raised my eyes from the thread to the unholy mess that surrounded me, and thought of the money we had to put down to get this place, the most we had ever had to come up with, what almost kept us from getting the apartment.

The wailing of the ambulance was farther away now, and I could hear the disquieted murmuring of our neighbors outside our still-open door.

I picked my keys up off the floor, gathered my phone and purse, smoothed down my skirt, and walked—unsteady, chin raised—out the door into the sea of rubberneckers, locking our apartment behind me.

I do not remember getting in the elevator or pressing P so it would sink me down to the level of my car. But that is where I found myself. I do not remember making my way out of the gray parking cavern, across the snowy streets filled with work day stragglers trying to get home, to the hospital. But there it was. It loomed into view ahead of me, and I did not know if I had come to it or it to me. I followed the burning red Emergency signs, as this undeniably was an emergency, right? Or had that moment passed? Then I just kept following—following signs, following instructions, following people. It was all I could do.

I answered endless questions from untouchable people in glass enclosures whose entire job was to guide people through this plane that existed outside our normal lives. Finally, when all the check-ins were completed and necessary information provided, I sat down to wait. I was in the emergency room waiting area, my face paralyzed in a thousand-yard-stare, as hours or years slipped by, surrounded by people stuck in the sucking mud of sickness and trauma.

I needed to call Kyle’s mom.

Instead, I called my mom. Voicemail. I wanted the recording of her voice to come alive and talk to me. But I forgot, it is Wednesday. Mom is on a plane to Italy with two of her friends: her dream trip. “Mom, something’s happened. Give me a call when you can.”

I lowered my hand to my lap, still holding the now-dark phone. I stared, mute, at an empty wall opposite me. A woman in dull blue scrubs appeared in the way of my stare, and I slowly raised my eyes to hers.

“Lauren?” she said.

I considered the question, then nodded.

“I’m Nurse Lindsay. You can come back now.”

I nodded again, and followed her out of the waiting area through a set of double doors.

The doors opened into a large, antiseptic hallway, housing beds separated by nothing more than what looked like heavy sheets hanging from the ceiling, and I found it impossible to not look at the other patients as we went by. I wanted someone—patient or staff—to scold me for the intrusion, but no one had the energy.

I was so distracted watching a gray-looking man in a bed weakly calling for help that I almost ran into the nurse, who had stopped in front of me at the foot of a bed. I did not recognize that I was standing at the foot of Kyle’s bed until the nurse said, “Here we are,” and gestured at his sleeping figure.

I gasped slightly, as if I’d come upon him like this without warning. Maybe I had, but that moment was hours in the past now. Now the gasp only indicated a crack in the wall of composure I had been building.

The nurse swung a cheap, hard plastic chair up to the bed. “Go ahead and have a seat, but let him sleep if you can. The doctor will be in after he’s had a chance to look at the X-rays.” With that, she pulled a ceiling sheet near the foot of the bed partway closed, and left. She may have done it to create the illusion of privacy, but I knew we were now just part of the lineup for the other emergency room voyeurs.

I stood next to him and stared while he slept, inanimate, under the harsh judgment of the fluorescent lights. How could it be Kyle?

I studied him, hunting for something to betray the imposter, but it was Kyle’s free range brown hair, his eyebrow divided by a scar from where a baseball caught him trying to steal second base when he was eleven, and another nearly undetectable scar on his lip from mountain biking the year we met. He had shown up that night four years ago for our planned dinner with a cold pack on his swollen face, still leaking blood. My roommates had fawned over him while I pouted about the ruined dinner I had spent all afternoon preparing. He just grinned that quirky smile of his and said he was starving. Watching him eat my dinner that night, despite what had to be withering pain (and what I realized after taking a bite was terrible food), had stoked a spark. That was not the last time Kyle would show up injured, grinning, and packing a great story. It was one of the keys to his magnetism. I smiled at the memory, and cried.

I pulled the chair closer and positioned it next to his chest, where he would be able to see me without contorting himself. Or at least, he could once he woke up.

Outside his tiny, curtained pseudo-room I could hear the staff talking about a bad date one of them had had. Their laughter here seemed like a flower growing in rubble—hopeful, misplaced?

I noticed the black dress shoes of someone standing on the other side of our half-wall who seemed to be working there, because they were not moving off like all the other shoes. I stared at them; they were worn but immaculate.

A loose strand of my dark brown hair fell into my peripheral vision, and I tucked it behind my ear to delay having to take care of it properly. I looked reflexively at my phone to see if I had missed anything, but there was nothing.

I looked at Kyle again. I briefly, selfishly, thought about waking him. I needed to know what happened, and for him to tell me everything would be all right.

Beneath the blanket, his chest rose and fell with percussive monotony. I watched it, transfixed, tears streaming freely now.

Then, a doctor with a clipboard appeared in the opening between the curtain walls. “Knock, knock,” he said, stepping in. “Hi, I’m Dr. Moreno. Are you Lauren?”

“Yes.” I stood up but looked away, smearing tears across my cheek in a failed attempt to wipe my face clean of giveaways.

“Great, have a seat.” He gestured to my chair and pulled another chair up to face mine. We both sat.

“And what is your last name?”

“Delgado.”

“D-E-L-G-A-D-O?”

“Yes.”

“So, Spanish?” he said, as he wrote it on the clipboard paper.

“My father was from Mexico.”

He continued ticking boxes and flipping pages on the clipboard. “Ah, I just spent some time down there volunteering in a village. Where is your father from?”

“I don’t know. He died before I was born.”

He looked up. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

I smiled politely, accepting the obligatory sympathy.

“Is your mother also from Mexico?”

“No, New Hampshire.”

The doctor chuckled. “That’s a long way from Mexico.”

I smiled weakly. It was. And growing up in one looking like the other had left me feeling like a citizen of neither. Because in the small, friendly college town where I grew up, there were only a few others like me, and none I saw regularly—not on the playground, not in class pictures. In the Thanksgiving play I was cast as a Wampanoag Indian. Again. And again. And again. Until finally I came home in tears and my mother called my third-grade teacher, Ms. Martin, to suggest someone else have a chance to experience the role. (I can still remember Ellie Thompson’s anguish when she lost her role as Pilgrim and was recast in my place. “But my family came over on the Mayflower!” she wailed.)

My mom said we were helping to educate good people. But that was a job I had never asked for.

She also worked hard to explore my father’s culture with me. Every year for Día de los Muertos, we painted our faces and dressed up as skeletons. My grandparents would play my father’s cassette tapes and the three of us would dance around by candlelight while Mom was cooking. We would buy the local florist out of marigolds, eat sugar skulls, and set up an altar for my father. On it, below his picture, we would set Coca-Cola, his favorite (though as a kid I preferred apple cider), and the special foods Mom had made, including his favorite enchiladas. We would take a raft of pictures, mostly of me, and send them, along with a letter carefully translated by the high school Spanish teacher for some cash on the side, to his mother, my abuela. We never heard back from her, but every year we continued to send pictures and a letter.

I remember when I was four or five, after checking the mailbox every day for weeks, I asked, “Why doesn’t abuela write back, Mommy?”

She stopped what she was doing and took my hands. “Well honey, your father grew up very poor out in the country, so she may not have the money for paper and pencils and postage. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy receiving our letters and pictures.”

I nodded, hearing but not fully understanding this new detail about the man who contributed half of my genetic material, with no sense of what it meant to be him.

Even after I went away to college, my mom would send me a care package to celebrate my father on that day, and ask me to send pictures she could print out to send to her. Despite her best efforts, I still wore that culture like a backpack, rather than feeling it in my veins. The majority-white people of New Hampshire were my people, even though I was always a side glance away from feeling they were not. I did not have to codeswitch, because no one had told me the code.

The doctor with the clipboard was saying something. “And you live with Kyle, is that right?”

“Yes.”

He made a note.

“Is he your boyfriend?” he asked, without looking up.

“Yes.” This was all information I had given before, but I was thankful to be asked questions I had the answers to.

“It’s been a rough day for you, hasn’t it?” Now he looked at me earnestly, and I tried to push down the brick that had just developed in my throat. I nodded and lowered my eyes, refusing to believe I was going to cry in front of this doctor, though fresh tears were already rallying.

The doctor put his hand on my arm, then reached for a box of tissue. “Here.”

I pulled the top tissue to my face and met the doctor’s eyes again, as if lack of moisture proved composure, as if my red eyes were not already blazing the banner “not composed.”

The doctor continued, flipping through several pages on his clipboard and looking at Kyle. “We have him on something for the pain. He didn’t break any bones, fortunately, but there is obviously some other trauma. We’re going to be moving him to a room in the regular part of the hospital, so that’ll be more comfortable than our little tents here.” He paused to look at me and smile, then continued. “And, of course, we want to make sure he’s doing okay before he leaves the hospital.”

I nodded.

He paused, looking at his clipboard. “The EMTs said you didn’t know how long he had been like that when you found him, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He looked at the clipboard again, then rapped his pen against it and stood up. “Okay! Do you have any questions?”

I shook my head, lying.

“We’ll get him set up in that room as soon as we can. Would you like to wait here with him?”

“Yes, if that’s okay. I mean, I know I’m not actual family.”

He smiled. “In here, it’s whoever shows up.”

I smiled.

“Someone will check back in with you in a bit.” He laid his hand on my arm again, giving me a reassuring nod. “Take care.”

“Thank you. I will.”

I still needed to call Kyle’s mom.

***

Excerpt from Afterward by Bristol Vaudrin. Copyright 2025 by Bristol Vaudrin. Reproduced with permission from Bristol Vaudrin. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Bristol Vaudrin

Bristol was born in Alaska, and named after Bristol Bay, where her parents fished commercially. Later, she was raised in Southcentral Alaska, splitting time between her family’s off-the-grid homestead at Flat Horn Lake, and attending school in Anchorage.

She now lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband, dog, and way too many books.

Catch Up With Bristol Vaudrin:

www.BristolVaudrin.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BlueSky

 

 

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$20 GC – Swipe by R G Belsky & Bonnie Traymore @partnersincr1me

SWIPE by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore Banner

SWIPE

by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore

May 12 – June 6, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

SWIPE by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore

Sonya’s fed up with bad internet dates.
But she never meant to kill anyone.

After a stressful day at work and a creepy first meetup, Sonya Romano goes on a mission: teach a lesson to the smarmy guys she’s meeting on her dating app. But when one of them falls to his death as a result of her confrontation–a married man posing as a single guy–she realizes she’s gone too far.

Meanwhile, Jake Parker, former Pulitzer nominee, has hit rock bottom. His boss gives him an assignment: go undercover and produce a click bait story about dating apps. Things start to look up when another married man on the app is murdered, and Jake suspects that there may be a serial killer targeting cheaters.

With Jake hot on her trail, Sonya races to cover her tracks, until they finally meet. Fighting a powerful mutual attraction but suspicious of each other, neither of them know that a deranged psychopath is closer than they think, and much more of a danger than either of them realizes.

Can they figure out what’s going on, before one of them is next?

Praise for SWIPE:

“You may think you see it coming–but in Swipe, the final twist is more shocking and explosive than you can imagine.”
~ Emily Shiner, Bestselling Author of Meet the Parents

Swipe is a chilling, taut and twisty psychological thriller that will have you frantically turning pages until its stunning end. Riveting from the very first page, Swipe is a roller coaster ride with complex, intriguing characters who will draw you in and not let you go. Clear your schedule because once you start reading, you won’t be able to stop.”
~ Lisa Regan, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Josie Quinn Series

“RG Belsky and Bonnie Traymore have teamed up to create a journalistic cat-and-mouse game that’s suspenseful, addictive, thoroughly modern and loads of fun. Swipe right on this one — you’ll be glad you did!”
~ Alison Gaylin, USA Today Bestselling author of WE ARE WATCHING

SWIPE Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Thriller
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: May 1, 2025
Number of Pages: 300
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

ONE

Sonya

Is he dead?

He must be.

I watched his body fall backward off the jagged Palisades cliffs, bouncing off the rocks like a crash car dummy before plunging into the Hudson River five hundred feet below. Nobody could survive a fall like that.

I’m not a violent person.

I didn’t want him to die.

But who would believe me?

And now what?

Competing thoughts flash through my mind in rapid succession.

Call for help.

Get out of here as fast as I can.

I opt for the latter.

Thankfully, he’s a morning person. It’s early autumn in New York, and there’s a chill in the air. I passed a few other hikers on my way up here. But looking around, I don’t see anyone here now. No one saw us together.

My body starts to tremble as I turn around, nice and easy, and head back down the short, steep path toward the spot where I locked up my bike. I wasn’t stupid enough to bring my car with its GPS and identifiable license plate number. I’ve learned a few things over the last month or so about being stealthy.

Funny. I actually kind of liked this guy. I thought it might go somewhere, and that my string of disaster dates would finally be broken. Then I could retire this little mission of mine and get on with my life. Silly me. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. No one finds love on the internet these days.

We’d been chatting on MetMee for the last few weeks. He called himself Greg. I found out later he was using an alias—but then so was I. At one point, I thought he was a catfisher because he kept saying he wanted to get together, but I couldn’t pin him down. He was average-looking, though, and if one were making a fake profile, wouldn’t they put up the hottest photo they could find? But he was attentive and funny, as much as I could tell over chats, and we were actually getting to know each other. Perhaps he simply liked to take it slow.

Then we made plans to meet up, about a week ago, but he canceled at the last minute. Something about a sick dog. We hadn’t exchanged our real names yet. This seemed to validate my suspicions that something was hinky. By coincidence, earlier this week, I recognized his photo on a real estate website.

Matt Furman.

He worked in White Plains, I discovered, about thirty miles north of Manhattan, but lived over on the other side of the Hudson, in New Jersey.

He’d told me that he was a real estate agent, so at least that much was true. I suppose it wasn’t a complete coincidence that I found him online, because I’d been looking at real estate company websites, trying to figure out if he was stringing me along. And with a first and last name, his life unfolded before me.

I discovered that he liked to hike.

His social media was peppered with scenic vistas, and he revealed that the one he was on this morning was his weekend favorite.

Oh, and I also found out something else.

Something very important.

He’s married.

With two small kids.

I couldn’t let it go.

I needed to teach him a lesson.

My plan was to confront him somewhere where he would least expect it, but secluded enough so I wouldn’t be making a scene. I wanted to record him admitting what he’d done so that I could tell his wife.

It wasn’t that hard to find him. The guy’s a serial poster, providing the world with a play-by-play of his every move, as if we are all waiting on the edge of our seats to see what he’ll do next.

Can’t wait for my Palisades hike tomorrow.

Stopping for a latte.

Heading up the trail now.

I caught up with him as he was stepping out on the rocks to take a selfie, beyond the warning sign, over the railing they put there to stop people from getting themselves killed.

That’s how idiots die.

“Hey, Matt,” I called out, a little out of breath. I had planned to catch him in the parking lot but my timing was off, as it had been all morning. So, I high-tailed it up the trail to try to catch him, but he was fast.

His brow furrowed. “Oh, hi…”

I could see the wheels turning in his head as he struggled to place me. I wore black bike shorts and a tan cycling jersey. Nothing too flashy so I wouldn’t stand out. My hair was in a ponytail and sunglasses covered my eyes and forehead. I was standing a few feet away from him, so it wasn’t too surprising that he didn’t recognize me.

“Gina,” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the phone in the palm of my hand, recording our conversation.

His mouth froze half-opened, until it finally clicked. “From…the app?”

I stared him down, one hand on my hip. “Yes, Matt. Gina. From MetMee.”

“How did you…? Um. Hi!”

I walked toward him.

He took a step back, although he was already dangerously close to the edge.

I smirked. “I decided to take your recommendation. About how nice and peaceful this trail is at this time of day.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about…”

He squinted, his mouth still agape, as if seeing me more sharply would clear the fog in his brain.

Then he shook his head. “Wait. You what?”

“You really should be more careful about what you put on your social media. You never know who might see it.”

Maybe it was my snarky tone, but his attitude shifted. He narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, Gina.”

“What I’m trying to pull? Seems like you’re the one who’s trying to pull something, Matt. You’ve got a wife and two little kids. Is this how you get your kicks? Chat up single women on dating sites and get their hopes up? Or did you actually plan to cheat on your wife at some point?” I struggled to contain my growing outrage, gritting my teeth so hard, I feared I might chip a tooth.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? My wife and I are having problems. I should’ve told you the truth. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got carried away.”

“Well, you’re going to have bigger problems when I play this for your wife.” I held up my phone, which was recording our conversation. “Hi, Olivia. Sorry about this. But I thought you deserved to know.”

A hint of fear flashed in his eyes. For a moment, I thought he might bargain with me or beg me not to do it. Then his face contorted like an angry, cornered reptile.

“Are you some kind of psycho?” he barked. “Everyone lies on those sites. Look at you! You must be ten pounds heavier than you were in those photos you sent me. What’re they, from college? Olivia will never be able to handle this. My wife’s unstable. Fragile. If you play that recording for her, I’m warning you, it might be the last thing you ever do.”

“You’re threatening me?”

Fury exploded in me.

I lunged toward him, waving my phone in his face. “You hear that, Olivia? He says you’re crazy. He doesn’t want to take responsibility, just like my—”

Matt reached over the railing and tried to grab the phone out of my hand, but I pulled away. He stumbled but regained his footing, or so I thought. But then a look of confusion washed over his face and he started to wobble. And then he fell backward—and went barreling down the Palisades cliffs, plunging into the river, five hundred feet below.

The ground seemed to shift under my feet as the enormity of what had just happened hit me. My knees went weak. For a moment, I felt dizzy. Maybe it was a touch of vertigo. Expecting a wave of panic, I braced myself, but it didn’t come. Instead, I felt detached, like I was watching a movie. Like this couldn’t possibly be happening for real.

I didn’t push him, I swear.

But who would believe me?

It’s still my fault that he fell, and even if I could convince the cops that I didn’t shove him off that cliff, I would probably end up in prison. Involuntary manslaughter, isn’t that what it’s called?

Especially if they find out what else I’ve been up to on that dating app.

This was an impulsive move.

What was I thinking?

He could have grabbed me and hurled me off that cliff. I try to remain calm as I make my way down the trail, passing a few other hikers heading up. I replay the events in my mind, thinking of how I can spin this if someone sees me, but hoping to reach the end of this trail without being spotted. This little mission of mine has gone way too far. On the plus side, Matt Furman will never cheat on his wife again.

That’s probably not a normal thought to have at a time like this, and I wonder for a moment if I’m some kind of sociopath. But if I’m worried about being a sociopath, I’m probably not one. I’m in shock, I decide. Anyone would be in my position. I’m in self-preservation mode, and I’m sure the guilt will hit me at some point.

But not right now.

Now, I need to focus on getting out of here, unseen.

I reach the end of the trail, hop on my bike, and pedal like my life depends on it—hoping that he hasn’t, by some miracle, survived the fall.

***

Excerpt from SWIPE by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. Copyright 2025 by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. Reproduced with permission from R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

R.G. Belsky Author Bio:

RG Belsky

R.G. Belsky is an award-winning author of crime fiction and a journalist in New York City. His newest mystery, BROADCAST BLUES, was published by Oceanview. It is the sixth in a series featuring Clare Carlson, the news director for a New York City TV station. The first book, Yesterday’s News, was named Best Mystery of 2018 at Deadly Ink. The second, Below the Fold, won the Foreward INDIES award for Best Mystery of 2019. Belsky has published 24 novels—all set in the New York city media world where he has had a long career as a top editor at the New York Post, New York Daily News, Star magazine and NBC News. He also writes thrillers under the name Dana Perry. And he is a contributing writer for The Big Thrill magazine and BookTrib.

Catch Up With RG Belsky:
www.rgbelsky.com
Goodreads
Amazon Author
BookBub – @dickb79983
Instagram – @dickbelsky
Threads – @dickbelsky
Twitter/X – @DickBel
Facebook – @RGBelsky

 

Bonnie Traymore Author Bio:

Bonnie Traymore

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon International Bestselling author of nine domestic/psychological thrillers. Her “popcorn thrillers” feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time. She’s an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

Catch Up With Bonnie Traymore:
www.BonnieTraymore.com
Goodreads
Amazon Author
BookBub – @btraymore
Instagram – @bonnietraymore
Threads – @bonnietraymore
Twitter/X – @btraymore
Facebook – @bonnietraymore

 

 

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$50 GC – Loon Cove Summer by Donna Galanti @DonnaGalanti #looncovesummer

Hi Donna, It is wonderful having you on fundinmental today.

How Real-Life Inspiration Influenced Writing a Book

I never knew my Great Uncle Elmer, but he lived on in stories my mom told me—and the dozen or more large-framed photos he took that I inherited. He was an avid photographer and organic gardener back in the mid-20th century before organic was mainstream. His articles and photos were even in Organic Gardening magazine.

And in 1968 when he was in his 60s, Uncle Elmer solo thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail from April to October—hiking 2,200+ miles from Georgia to Maine. He even got invited to visit the White House by President Johnson for his adventures but refused to leave the trail to attend. His wife would drop food packages at designated spots along the way, but he mostly ate seeds and berries.

Uncle Elmer at the start of the Appalachian Trail in Georgia, April, 1968

After his 6-month trek in the wild, Uncle Elmer stopped at my parents’ house in New York on his way home and when my mom asked what he wanted to eat he heartily replied, “Fried chicken!” Then he slept on the floor in the guest room as he was so used to sleeping on the ground.

Uncle Elmer alone in the wide-open spaces of New Hampshire

On his thru-hike, an October snowstorm prevented Uncle Elmer from climbing Mount Katahdin in Maine and reaching the end of the trail at this mighty peak. But he returned the next year to Maine and completed the final five miles of the trail up the mountain.

Uncle Elmer carefully crossing a Vermont pond

A hiking lover myself, Uncle Elmer was my inspiration behind featuring adventures on the Appalachian Trail and Mount Katahdin in Loon Cove Summer, my next middle-grade novel being released on May 6th. His real-life scenarios played a role with a death-defying adventure in Loon Cove Summer. I wish I could be brave enough to solo through-hike like him.

Thanks so much for sharing the wonderful guest post, Donna.

Goodreads

Donna Galanti is a talented author that can write fabulous stories that appeal to all ages. Her latest, Loon Cove Summer comes out at the perfect time of year. She draws from real life stories and experiences to make Sarah Richardson’s story feel authentic.

Thirteen year old Sarah Richardson has not been on the lake since her mother’s death. She is determined to turn her life around. She will return to the lake and save the loons. She loves volunteering at the wild bird rehabilitation center.

Sarah becomes friends with Theor and his mother, Maggie, when she comes to study the loons. When Maggie becomes too close to Sarah’s father, her emotion run amok. Then, she finds that the campground she has loved may have to be sold.

She wanted her father to be happy, but she felt Maggie was a threat. Would she lose her father to her? Or would her life become fuller with the addition of Maggie in their lives?

As Sarah struggles to face the challenges in front of her, she will be forced to grow and accept the things she cannot control. She will come to terms with her grief.

I like that Sarah uses her mother’s diary for inspiration.

I love stories that weave fact and fiction together as seamlessly as Donna Galanti has and I love how she uses her own love of the environment to supply us with food for thought. Loon Cove Summer is an adventure that had my emotions mixing with Sarah’s as she grows and develops into a fully fleshed out character.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

Thirteen-year-old Sarah Richardson is determined that her life will finally get unstuck this summer. She just knows it. Her to-do list? Brave the lake again. Save the loons. Stop missing Mom. Her one bright spot: volunteering at the local wild bird rehabilitation center. The summer looks even brighter when Sarah meets Theo, the boy staying at her family’s Maine lakeside campground who cares about protecting the loons just like she does. But when Sarah’s family may have to move, she adds a new to-do item: save their home. And when she suspects Dad is dating Theo’s aunt, the naturalist helping research environmental dangers to the loons, Sarah is caught in a new world of grief. With the looming reality of losing her dad, her home, and the loons, Sarah must make a big statement to take control of her life. Capturing inspiration from her late mother’s Appalachian Trail hiking journal, she boldly plans a solo wild adventure. But as her challenges mount, she wonders if her courage will earn her the voice she seeks—or if she’s made a reckless choice that just might claim her life.

You can order Loon Cove Summer here in hardcover, paperback, or eBook from your favorite bookstore: https://www.donnagalanti.com/loon-cove-summer/

Praise for Loon Cove Summer:
“A warm-hearted novel that balances profound loss with humor and hope.”
– Kate Allen, author of The Line Tender

“As sparkling, refreshing, and mysterious as a Maine lake in summertime.”
– Cathy Carr, author of 365 Days to Alaska

“An original and fun read from start to finish … unreservedly recommended.”
Midwest Book Review

“A page-turning read set in the wilds of Maine.”
– Paul Greci, author of Surviving Bear Island

“The cast of unforgettable characters and tender relationships stays with you.”
– Jessica Rinker, author of The Dare Sisters 

Theo slowed the canoe as the sun burned the fog away. We glided into Lambert Cove, a favorite place for kids to hang out. A forgotten dock jutted out around the turn. Some pine trees dotted the island. The old Lambert house stood there, its weathered boards fading more each year. The front shell was all that remained after a fire. I’d reminded Theo of the fire again, but too late now.

We eased the canoe onto the sandy beach. The wind picked up and water lapped up against the canoe. We sat in the warm sun for a long moment.

Theo rubbed his nose. “Wanna talk?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then let’s explore.” He grabbed his bag and stepped out, pulling me with him.

We pulled the canoe up farther onto the sand. Just offshore sat two massive boulder, the Gunks, names for the twin, giant flat-topped rocks that kids spent time together on. Set ten feet or so off the beach in the water, they were each wide enough to hold several people. A cool spot to hang out from spring to fall, with great views of the lake. Remnants of campfires were strewn across the small beach, blackened logs sunk in ash. Theo clicked photo after photo of the Lambert house, taking off through the overgrown trail leading up to it. Charred timbers stood among the trees. They didn’t seem to bother him.

“What is this place?” he said.

“Jeremy Lambert built it for his wife over one hundred years ago.”

His camera clicked faster. Something new to photograph that was disappearing.

“What happened to it?” He stood back for a wider shot.

“I heard they had kids who didn’t like the lake. So, when his wife died, Jeremy left it to nobody.”

Theo lowered his camera. “This Lambert guy didn’t want anyone to have it who didn’t love it like he did.”

“I guess so.”

He ran a hand over the sagging porch railing, peering through the front door, still guarding the blackened remains.

I looked up at the now cloudless blue sky, the sun bright in my eyes. “It burned down one night when a bunch of kids lit a fire in the old fireplace. It went up like a torch, some town people said. You could see it all the way to our beach. It happened before we moved here.” I kicked an old crunched-up beer can. “Can you imagine seeing that?” The moment it came out, I wanted to suck the words back in.

Theo lowered his camera. “I can. Wood burns fast.”

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay.” He slid his camera away and headed back for the tiny beach, setting his bag down and tossing off his shirt in one swift movement. Scars crisscrossed up and down his back, pain and healing painted on him. I stood, clasped in the shadows of an ancient pine, moved by his sharing this and all the words we left unspoken. His loss. Mine.

He strode in, shivering as waves rippling around him. He pushed through the water and hauled himself up on the iron stairs built into the Gunks. Sitting on top, he leaned back on his elbows and peered up at the sun, water drops glimmering along his curls and shoulders.

I inched toward the beach, staying in the shadows as he shimmered on the rock. A sailboat skimmed waves in the far distance. An osprey soared overhead, searching the deep blue for his next meal. Waves rolled into shore from a speedboat that passed a moment ago. I breathed in the fresh scent of Nikuwoss Lake as I’d done a thousand times.

I’d breathed it in with tears flying, overlooking Loon Cove.

I’d breathed it in with six breaths a minute then four then two, then none.

I’d breathed it in with laughter before death came to our house.

“Come on in, Wes,” Theo called, peering over at me.

I went for it and plunged in, fully clothed.

Donna Galanti is the author of two middle-grade book series, Unicorn Island and Joshua and the Lightning Road, and the paranormal suspense Element Trilogy for adults. She has lived in fun locations including England, her family-owned campground in New Hampshire, and in Hawaii where she served as a U.S. Navy photographer. Donna is an avid outdoor adventurer and nature lover. She volunteers for the Old-Growth Forest Network and the National Audubon Society. When Donna’s not wandering the woods seeking magic and wonder, you can usually find her biking or kayaking. For more information on her books, school visits, and events, visit her at: www.donnagalanti.com.

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$50 GC – Intimate Secret by D C Stone @xpressotours @DCStoneauthor

Intimate Secret
D.C. Stone
(Empire Blue, #6)
Publication date: April 17th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense

A murder was captured on satellite and multiple law enforcement agencies are trying to solve it. One of the detectives on the case, Jake Gonzalez, is led right to the front door of a local author, Francesca Conti. Sparks fly as Jake realizes he’s insanely attracted to his primary suspect, and her father is one of the most ruthless mafia bosses in the city, and someone he’s been investigating for years.

Francesca wants to escape this life her father has set for her and has been putting money away, looking for her opportunity to disappear. And much to her dismay, lately her father has been pushing her toward marrying his right-hand man, someone no woman has ever been able to say no to.

Just when she thinks she’s getting closer to escaping, Detective Gonzalez lands on her doorstep asking alarming questions, and making her heart race unlike ever before.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Smashwords

EXCERPT:

There’s only so many times one could say they’d been shot by the woman they loved.

Jake stared at Francesca’s shaking hands wrapped around the butt

of a SIG .229. She held the gun with as much confidence as one would

expect with someone who had little to no experience with such a

weapon. Like a toddler taking their first wobbling, unsteady steps. Or

a young child holding a chicken’s egg for the first time and being told

they could break it if they weren’t careful.

Under the full moon, silver tears trickled down her face. A moderate

wind teased at hair that had escaped the messy bun held low at the back

of her head. Russet tendrils brushed along her neck and cheeks like

phantom fingers. She ignored those things. But he saw it all, as if the

world moved in slow motion, tracking the shifting of her eyes and

hands from one person to another. Saw the way her finger tightened

ever so slightly over the trigger.

The safety was off, so if she applied a touch of pressure to that metal

hook, approximately ten pounds for the first shot to go off, the gun

would fire the bullet waiting within.

“Frankie,” he called in a soothing yet firm voice, using the

nickname he’d started saying a few nights ago. One he’d discovered

she liked when he whispered it in her ear as he sank slowly inside the

heat between her legs. Her attention shifted to him for only a fraction of a second before

she refocused on Dante, her father’s right-hand man. A man many did

not want to fuck with. One who’d killed his fair share of folks both in

and out of the city. A man who was known to be one of the most ruthless

enforcers around. Dante did things in the most violent way to set

examples or make a point. It was the only way he communicated. And

it was the way he got into the position he did, leading one of the most

ruthless organizations in New York City.

And lucky, lucky Jake was currently in a three-way face-off, like

something from the Wild Wild West, with a woman he loved and a man

he’d been hunting for years.

And as if his luck couldn’t get any worse, the two had a serious

history he hadn’t been able to wrap his mind completely around.

He quickly glanced around, wishing for that backup he’d called for

about ten minutes ago to show up. But with how deep they were in

Central Park, that wish would never come to fruition in time. The dull

light coming off the yellow haze of a streetlamp reflected dark shadows

of trees in the standing puddles leftover from the rainstorm earlier. The

only sound outside the passing cars on the streets lining the park and

Frankie’s harsh breathing was that of leaves hitting the ground, the

season of fall in full swing.

“Frankie, listen to me,” he tried again, his chest growing tight with

unease. “Put the gun down. Let’s talk about this.”

“I don’t want to be a woman you love,” she said, lips trembling.

Her arms shook with either fear or adrenaline, both equally dangerous

when holding a weapon.

Jake Gonzalez’s heart clenched at the words, but he pushed them

away. He had to stay focused, had to sort through this mess and prevent

any additional loss of life. As it was, there’d already been too much.

And if she pulled that trigger, there was nothing he could do. He

wouldn’t be able to protect her. As frustrating as it was, he had an oath

to uphold. Even against a woman he loved.

Francesca Conti looked broken, disheveled, and cornered. The first

two had him angry and concerned. The last…frightened.


Author Bio:

D.C. “Desi” Stone is a best-selling romance author and full-time fraud investigator. She lives in the northeast with her incredibly supporting husband, two kids, a cat, and the ever-growing family of dogs.

After serving eight years of service with the United States Air Force, she went on to transition into the world of financial crimes and became a lead investigator for many years.

Reading has always been a passion of hers, getting lost in a good, steamy romance is one of her favorite past times. She soon after discovered her own love for writing and recreating stories and characters in her head. Her writing concentrates on romantic with specifics in paranormal, suspense, and erotica.

Now, when she isn’t trying to solve a new puzzle in the world of fraud, she is engulfed with coffee, her laptop, and all those crazy characters in her head. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Hudson Valley Romance Writers, New Jersey Romance Writers, RomVets, RWA Kiss of Death, and the Liberty State Fiction Writers. She served as the 2014 NJRW Vice President and Conference Chair. Come stop by on Facebook, Twitter, or her website and say hello!

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Twitter


GIVEAWAY!



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$25 GC – The Whisper Legacy by T J O’Connor @partnersincr1me

The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor Banner

THE WHISPER LEGACY

by Tj O’Connor

April 28 – May 23, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor
Curran’s enemies thought he was dead.
They were wrong.
He thought his past was left on the Voula Beach Road.
He was wrong.
Now, that nightmare is drawing his enemies out.
The halls of power are being targeted—but by who?
Is the secret of the Voula Beach Road behind the chaos?
Curran knows the answer.
It’s all in
The Whisper Legacy . . .

Marlowe “Lowe” Curran was once a freelance intelligence operative swashbuckling around the world—until Greece—until the Voula Beach Road. There, he lost everything and nearly his life. Now, he’s a luckless, aging PI living on guilt and nightmares—barely paying his rent if not for Tommy Astor, a well-connected Washington powerbroker. Curran becomes a suspect in the murder of a philandering husband. He has an alibi—but that will get him arrested. Is committing crimes trying to resolve other crimes still a crime? For Curran it is, especially after he’s a suspect in two murders. Chasing the real killer, Curran is haunted by his demons from the Voula Beach Road, and something called Whisper. On his trail is an angry, vengeful US Deputy Marshal, gun-happy assassins, and a shadowy figure thwarting Curran’s every success. For each step forward, there’s another threat, another roadblock, another piece of evidence stacking up against him. Whisper is at the center of his nightmares—whatever Whisper is. Is Whisper why Charlie Cantrell had to die? Why bodies are dropping across Washington? Why the President’s short list for running mates is getting shorter? Faced with old foes and aided by his last surviving Voula Beach friend, Curran must stay ahead of the assassins, rescue a kidnapped little girl, and find the deadly secrets hidden within The Whisper Legacy.

Praise for The Whisper Legacy:

“O’Connor’s The Whisper Legacy is an addictive joyride. Sometimes the loudest sound is a whisper when PI/Consultant Marlowe Curran finds himself in the crosshairs as political figures drop. The secrets are buried in The Whisper Legacy.”
~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series

“Former intelligence operative/now down-and-out PI Marlowe “Lowe” Curran is a fascinating character who takes us on a wild ride through murder, kidnapping, high-ranking political scandal and long-buried secrets in The Whisper Legacy. Author Tj O’Connor does a masterful job of providing chills, thrills, excitement, suspense – and lots of fun too – along the way. Highly recommended!”
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Clare Carlson series

“With The Whisper Legacy’s heart-pounding pace, well-written characters, plot twists, action, and intrigue, TJ O’Connor once again proves why he is a master of the political thriller.”
~ Westley Smith, author of Some Kind of Truth and In The Pale Light

“Tj O’Connor has a rare gift of combining unique character development with a fast-moving story pace that not only transports you into his world, but also makes you want to stay. From elaborate settings, to plot twists you won’t see coming, to larger-than-life but relatable characters, O’Connor’s story continues to gain momentum, and I would recommend everyone come along for the ride.”
~ Jay W. Foreman, award-winning author

“Tj O’Connor’s spy thriller novel The Whisper Legacy is a tour de force that grabs readers by the scruff of the neck, impelling them forward, and it doesn’t let go until the last word. Though Lowe Curran is a compelling and humorous protagonist, who endears himself to the reading audience with ease, there are truly spine-tingling moments of terror and horror that he must endure to stay alive and unravel the intricate web of intrigue at the highest echelons of power. The author shows real tradecraft not only in his writing style and character. ”
~ Seth T. Thatcher, award winning author of the epic sci-fi novel Zendra of the Periphery

“Binge read in one sitting! THE WHISPER LEGACY has all the makings for sleep deprived night. ”
~ TG Wolff, co-host Mysteries to Die For podcast

THE WHISPER LEGACY Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Political Thriller, Action Thriller, Detective Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: March 25, 2025
ISBN: 978-1685129149
Series: A Pappa Legacy Novel, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Marlowe “Lowe” Curran

Getting old is not for the meek. Especially when in your youth, you were an adventurer and risk taker—a man of mystery and worldliness. You know, stuff that made your heart rumba and your pulse sizzle. Having to perform menial, boring deeds in your later years is tough. Especially when you sit around with good bourbon and reminisce about the old days. You tend to drink too much and pine for those glory days and lost adventure. So much that it eats at you. Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Just saying, you know, it happens to other people.

For instance, if anyone had told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing outside an old, two-story brick Rambler in Leesburg, Virginia, at ten in the evening, wearing old, raggedy pajamas, an ill-fitting robe, and carrying a dog leash—absent the dog—I would have been offended. Such a scenario might have suggested I’d lost my faculties too early in life. Perhaps I’d gone crazy or became homeless. Of course, I’d never seen a homeless person wearing pajamas and a robe at ten in the evening, crazy or not. Still, you get my concern.

I’m Curran. That’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an. It’s Irish—not that it matters. But pronunciation is important.

Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t normally dress up in old pjs and walk neighborhoods with a dog leash. It just seemed like the thing to do tonight. I’m also not that damn old, either. At present, I’m pushing my early-mid-fifties and have a full head of dark, reddish hair, and almost always in need of a shave. It’s not that I’m trying to be suave and cool. I’m sorta lazy about shaving. I’ve been told I look like the dashing Sean Bean. No, not Mr. Bean—Sean Bean. Anyway, that’s me and I’ll explain more later. For now, my pjs were falling down and the ratty robe I had on wasn’t fitting all too well, either.

My feet were sore from my ambling down a block of crumbling sidewalk in the middle of this beautiful August night. Of course, August in Virginia was hot, humid, and, well, hot. My ensemble was cooler than jeans and sneakers, but it did not include slippers. Barefoot was not accidental. It’s for effect.

See, I was going for that crazy old dude persona.

Most concerning to me was my partner. Or lack thereof. Actually, he was my long-time friend and co-conspirator in many such episodes of my life. He’s missing. Stevie Keene should have been here an hour ago and running countersurveillance. He should have been watching my back and ensuring I wasn’t walking into a gunfight or a pair of handcuffs.

He wasn’t.

Stevie hadn’t responded to my cell calls. He also wasn’t in the van parked across the street from our target like he should be. That was bad. Real bad. I was going in blind.

“Stevie? Where in the flying monkeys are you?” I whispered to his voicemail again. “You’re late. I can’t wait any longer. If you get here while I’m inside, stay put and watch my escape route. And brother, you better have a good story—like being abducted by aliens.”

I peeked at the old Rambler’s front windows and dangled the dog leash. I called out as loud as I could, “Rufus? Come on boy. I’ve got cookies.”

No, I had no dog named Rufus. I also had no cookies. Try to keep up.

The house windows were blacked out—odd even for this part of town. I knew someone was inside. First, a thin sliver of light escaped through a corner of the window. Second, the electric meter around the side was whirling away like a NASA satellite station. Third, and perhaps most important, I’d seen the short, pudgy, receding hairline kid with his embarrassing attempt at a beard slip inside an hour or so ago. He looked like he’d glued stray hair here and there on his cheeks. His eyes were inset, or maybe his fat cheeks hid them.

Billy Piper reminded me of that dumpy loser who tried to smuggle dinosaur eggs off the island in Jurassic Park. He got eaten in the first thirty minutes of the movie. Served him right—poor defenseless dinosaurs.

“Rufus? I’ve got cookies.” I banged loudly on the door and rattled the doorknob. “Don’t hide on me, Rufus. Don’t be a bad dog.”

If Piper was trying to be stealthy, he failed. I heard him approach the door inside before he peeled back the window covering and glared out.

“What are you doing, old dude? Get lost.”

As I’ve already said, I’m not that old. But, given I’d put on a shaggy gray wig and plastered fake beard crap on my face, I give it to him.

A dog barked then yelped as the face pushed closer into the window. “Shut up, mutt. What good are you? This old fart is almost in the house and you just noticed?”

Time to play the role.

“You got my Rufus? Give me my dog.” I banged on the door again. “Now, before I call the cops. Dog napper.”

“It’s my dog, old dude,” Piper yelled. “Get off my property or I’ll kick your old ugly butt.”

I held up the leash and took a step back, turned in a slow circle to appear dazed. Then, I began to cry. It took nearly a full minute before Piper opened the door and stepped cautiously outside.

“What the hell is wrong with you, old dude? My dog isn’t Rufus.”

I turned to him, reached up to wipe my tearless eyes, and let my bright red identification bracelet show below my pajama sleeve.

“Where am I? Who’s Rufus?” I turned in a circle again and let a few more whimpers out. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

At first, Piper turned red-faced with anger. Then, when he saw my medical bracelet, he reached out and grabbed it. “Oh, you’re one of those Alzheimer’s people. Get the hell out of here. Understand? Go home. Shoo.”

Home, indeed. “This is my home. What are you doing here?”

Beside Piper, a brawny black lab trotted into the doorway and barked. Not a threatening bark. More like an obligatory “woof.” After two such woofs, he trotted up to me and sat wagging.

“Useless dog. What are you doing inside?” He grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him past me. He shook him several times, cursing. After berating him again with another smack to his hindquarters, he found a short chain affixed to a big walnut tree in the front yard and clipped it on his collar. “Flippin’ mutt. You’re supposed to warn me before they get to the door.”

“Don’t hurt my Rufus,” I yelled.

The chain was twisted and wrapped around the tree. The lab only had about two feet of room to move. There was no water bowl and no signs of one anywhere. The wear marks on the grass suggested the dog spent too much time chained to that tree.

What an asshole.

“What are you doing to my Rufus?” I growled. “Where’s his food and water?”

“Screw the dog. Maybe now he’ll bark when he’s supposed to.” Piper shoved me sideways and reentered the house. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”

“Call? I didn’t call you.”

“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” He squared off on me in the doorway. “Get lost, old dude.”

“What about my Rufus?” I shoved Piper back a step. That surprised him. I guess old men with Alzheimer’s should be weak and defenseless. “Get out of my house.”

Piper reared back to strike me and held his fist in a threat. “I’m gonna put you straight.” His smartwatch buzzed wildly and flashed like Dick Tracey was calling. If you don’t get the shout out to Dick, forget it. You’re way too young to understand. “Go dammit.”

“Not until I get my Rufus.”

His watch signaled him again.

“Ah, shit. No. No. No.” Piper shoved me sideways and I feigned a fall just inside the doorway. He kicked at me and barely connected as I parried with my arm. “Get outta here, old dude. Wander or doddle your way back where you came. I got my own problems.” He shoved me out the doorway, swung the door to shut it, and ran down the hallway.

I, not being a confused old geezer, lodged my foot in the door before it closed. With no more than a sore big toe when it hit, I kept the door ajar.

I followed his footfalls to the back of the house. I might be committing a few felonies soon, so I slipped on leather driving gloves to eliminate the chance of any fingerprints. After all, my felony count had just started and the night was young.

I know cool TV stuff like that.

At the end of the hall, I descended the stairs into a dark basement. There, a small room lay ahead, lighted by a single overhead light that bathed the room in a hazy illumination. There were only a few old boxes stacked around and a bicycle hanging on a wall rack. Ahead was a heavy, steel door, still ajar. A carnival of flickering lights escaped through the opening. Beyond, I heard Piper cursing and babbling in a panicked voice.

I eased inside and found a larger section of the basement. The space was lined with soundproof tiles and heavy industrial carpeting. There was a refrigerator and small stove on one side of the room, and cabinets of computers and electronics on the other. Between them was a command console and two gamer’s chairs facing a wall of computer monitors and large video screens. The walls not blocked by computer gadgets were covered with movie and book posters of every major spy thriller I’d ever heard of. One was a poster of a pale-faced Alec Guinness wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses—an aged, probably original collector’s poster of John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People.

Holy crap, Billy Piper was a wannabe spy.

“Shit, they caught me.” Piper stood in front of a shelf of electronics and spun around when I stepped inside. “What the hell, old dude?”

We had to talk about that old dude thing. I was getting there, but really, how rude?

“I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave.” Piper balled his fist and came toward me. “It’s gonna cost you. You should’ve left to find Rufus.”

“Who the hell is Rufus?” I asked.

I don’t know if it was my sudden calm, steady voice, or the silenced .22 pistol in my hand—aimed at him—that startled him the most. Either way, I had his attention.

“What the … who are you, old dude?” He stared at the pistol. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”

“Nope.”

“Who then?” He took a step back as his face tightened and filled with so much anger his cheeks were ablaze. “Ah, shit. Are you with them?”

“Them?” I waived my pistol back and forth to keep his attention. “Explain.”

“Screw you.” He spun around as his computers began wailing some kind of alarm. “Come on man, I got bigger problems than anything you can bring. If you don’t get outta here, those problems are going to be yours, too. Go find Rufus or whatever. Get out.”

I aimed the pistol at his head. “I think not, Billy.”

He spun back around at me. “You know me? Did they send you?”

“Oh, I know you.” Boy was he slow. “I’m here about money and information. I have no idea who ‘they” are. Although, ‘they’ might be like my clients. You hacked them and now they want their files and money returned. Right, Chip Magnet?”

“Oh, man. You are them.” His face blanched and the tough guy drained away. “Dude, I got money. I can pay. I pay you and you say I wasn’t home. Deal?”

Desperation replaced his bravado he’d taunted me with moments ago. “Chip Magnet, are you for real? What a totally bullshit handle, Piper.”

He shrugged. “It means—”

“I know what it means, idiot. Look, Billy, you hacked the wrong people—my people. I’m here to fix things. And in the future—if you have one—you might take care who you hack. Some folks out there don’t go to the police. They don’t hire lawyers or call the credit bureau.”

“Huh?” His eyes locked on my pistol as it raised to eye level. “What?”

“They send me.”

Chapter Two

U.C.

The man in the expensive Saville Row suit and Gucci loafers sipped his vodka martini and settled back on his king bed, pillows plumped and perfectly positioned by the staff. He glanced around his Waldorf Astoria suite feeling very pleased with himself. Never had his accommodation been as nice. Never had his payment been as nice—nor as often—as with this assignment. He wondered how long it would be before it would all end.

The man wore a collarless shirt that fit snug over ripped muscles. His head was mostly bald but for close-cut, thinning dark hair around the sides and back. His face was narrow and strong, accentuated by a salt and pepper beard that was three days of growth meticulously trimmed for effect—a dangerous, stay-clear effect. In the years he’d operated at the higher end of his profession, he found his persona and image as daunting to his prey as his skills. The million-dollar benefactors he serviced expected a little refinement and image, not to be confused with Hollywood assassins cloaked in black leather feigning brooding personalities. His clients demanded thoughtfulness, the ability to move in any surroundings—Washington dinner clubs or Bangkok brothels.

U.C. had mastered the chameleon persona years before.

The satellite phone on his nightstand vibrated. He scooped it up. The Controller didn’t like to wait. Not for the million-dollar price tag for U.C.’s services. Glancing at the screen, the call wasn’t from the Controller, but one of the minions sitting in a lesser hotel room somewhere in the bowels of Alexandria, Virginia.

“Yes?”

The voice was frantic. “U.C., I found him. There’s a problem.”

“Problem?” U.C.—bestowed upon him many years prior because of his preference to operate against his targets Up Close—sipped his drink. “If you found the target trying to hack our servers, just send me the address and—”

“He got through.”

“What?” U.C. bolted upright and spilled his drink. “You told me the security was impenetrable.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Someone left some nodes insecure, maybe. I don’t know.”

U.C.’s mind raced. “An inside job?”

“Maybe.”

He closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”

“U.C.?” The caller hesitated. “The hacker got all the way into the E-Suite.”

He was on his feet now, moving around the room gathering his things—the most important ones—his shoulder bag, jacket, and silenced pistol.

“Did you hear me?”

U.C. grunted, “Text me the address. Get four men there fast. I’ll meet you there.”

Hesitation, then, “Orders?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

U.C. tapped off the call and instantly activated the satellite text program. As he did, the Sat phone concurrently launched an encryption program that NSA would take years to break—another luxury of working for the Controller.

He typed out a simple message—Urgent. Hack successful. Compromised. I’ll contain.

Miles away, across the Potomac, the Sat Text arrived at the Controller’s private office. It took only moments to return a response.

U.C. rarely initiated such calls. Rarely one marked with “Urgent.”

The Controller—Define compromise.

U.C.—Total.

The Controller—Confidence?

U.C. finished his text and exited his suite—Whisper is compromised.

***

Excerpt from The Whisper Legacy by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Tj O'Connor

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.

Catch Up With Tj O’Connor:

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Twitter/X – @Tjoconnorauthor
Facebook – @TjOConnor.Author
YouTube – @tjoconnorauthor3905

 

 

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$50 GC – After Pearl by Stephen G Eoannou @partnersincr1me

After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou Banner

AFTER PEARL

by Stephen G. Eoannou

April 14 – May 9, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou

A Nicholas Bishop Mystery

 

1942. War rages in Europe. Pearl Harbor still smolders. And alcoholic private eye Nicholas Bishop wakes up on a hotel room floor with two slugs missing from his .38 revolver. The cops think he’s murdered lounge singer Pearl DuGaye, mobsters think he saw something he shouldn’t have, and Bishop remembers nothing…

Together with his indomitable assistant Gia Alessi, who he may or may not have fired, a WWI vet who often flashes back to 1918, and a one-eyed female dog named Jake, Bishop tries to piece together the events that took place during his disastrous five-day bender. Along the way, he stumbles across a dirty politician, a socialite and her unfaithful husband, and a cabal of American Nazis who are undoubtedly up to no good.

Written in the spirit of classic noir, Eoannou adds his own unique voice and flair to the genre in this, the first action-packed outing of the Nicholas Bishop Mysteries…

Praise for After Pearl:

“…thanks to Stephen Eoannou, Buffalo has a hard-boiled detective to call its own. Say hello to the irrepressible Nicholas Bishop”
~ Tim Wendel, Author of Rebel Falls

After Pearl is a wonderfully rendered hard-boiled historical mystery reminiscent of Chandler’s Marlowe novels.”
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, International Bestselling author of The Turner and Mosley Files

“Mickey Spillane and Dashiell Hammett would be proud of this next generation author who takes their styles and not only matches them but adds his own unique flair and voice to the genre. This is a novel dying to be made into a movie.”
~ Historical Fiction Company 5 Star Review

AFTER PEARL Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Noir
Published by: Santa Fe Writers Project
Publication Date: May 1, 2025
Number of Pages: 260
ISBN: 9781951631475 (ISBN10: 1951631471)
Series: A Nicholas Bishop Mystery, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Talking Leaves Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Nicholas Bishop named the one-eyed dog Jake even though she was female. Jake seemed like a good name for a pup missing an eye. He couldn’t remember where the mutt had come from. When he awoke on the floor of his room at The Lafayette Hotel, she sat close by, giving him a single eye stare. Strong odds said he stole the dog. She didn’t weigh much, maybe ten pounds, easy enough to scoop under his arm as he staggered home.

He struggled to a sitting position and waited for the room to stop teetering. Vertebrae ground together as he rolled his head, hoping that would end the pounding between his ears. It didn’t. He massaged his closed eyelids. The corneas felt swollen beneath his fingertips. Jake watched all this, never once taking her eye off him.

Bishop took inventory when the world righted itself. Rubbing his chin, whiskers whispered against palm. He tried to guess how long it’d been since he’d shaved. Two days? Three? His shirt cuff was dirty and frayed. He pushed it higher on his arm. The Bulova was still on his wrist, the crystal cracked, hands frozen at 2:30. His pewter-handled cane was on the floor next to an empty bottle of Four Roses. The pain in his right foot stabbed sharper than usual. He wondered if it would swell when he unlaced his shoe. No memory of reinjuring it came to him. He patted his suitcoat and felt his wallet in the inside pocket and the .38 Detective Special holstered near his heart. The wallet was empty. There were four slugs in the snub nose. Not six. He sniffed. It had been fired.

He crawled to bed and pulled himself on the mattress, not bothering with his clothes. Jake hopped up, circled twice, then settled by the footboard, keeping her eye on Bishop as if her doubts about him were increasing now that he was conscious.

Memories were slivered as he tried to recall when he had fired the gun:

Day drinking at the Kitty Kat.

The revolving bar at The Chez Ami.

Perfume.

A blonde.

A car ride.

No recollections about a one-eyed dog or gunshots.

He checked the .38 again. Who had he fired at? Had he hit them? Killed them?

The ringing phone was an ice pick to his ear. The only way to stop the pain was by answering.

“Hello,” Bishop said, his voice raspy.

“Coppers.”

It took a heartbeat for the desk clerk’s voice to register. The line died. When it did, Bishop slammed the receiver into its cradle and swung his legs to the floor. The world again tottered. He swallowed bile until his swollen eyes teared. His damaged foot bore weight but each metatarsal sent ripples of agony with each step. He retrieved his cane and hat from the floor without toppling, something he considered miraculous, and felt grateful to the angel or demon in charge of keeping crippled detectives upright.

The hallway was deserted. He limped to the stairwell before the elevator full of cops arrived at his floor. Bishop didn’t mind talking to the police, but he wanted to know what they were after before he did, certain it had nothing to do with a stolen dog but everything to do with two fired slugs. Guilt, thick and dark, oozed through him but he couldn’t tell if it was old remorse or something new, heavier.

It was slow going down the stairs. He couldn’t outrace the fattest cop, not with his 4-F foot. He gripped the railing and leaned on the cane as he eased down each step, moving like a man much older than thirty. Jake waited on the landing, tilting her head as if to listen for shouts or thunderous feet descending from the floors above. There were none.

Was Buffalo’s Finest tossing his room, rifling through drawers, pulling suits from hangers, checking pockets for…what? His gun? He wished he could walk into The Allendale Theater, buy a nickel bag of popcorn, and watch the last few days of his life projected on the silver screen, certain it would be more informative than any newsreel.

When he reached the ground floor, he pushed open the fire exit and was blinded by sunshine reflected off the sidewalk and car fenders.

So, it’s afternoon, he thought. But was it Monday or Tuesday? Bishop raised his hand to shield his eyes. He didn’t see his Packard anywhere.

Benny The Junk Man stood by the hotel’s dented garbage cans. His cart was loaded with the day’s salvaged items—bundled rags, andirons, dresses, blouses. The clothing looked newer and of better quality than what Benny usually found. Bishop wondered if they’d been pulled from clotheslines. Unlike the mean drunks and meaner children who tormented him, Bishop knew Benny wasn’t stupid. He’d left the best part of himself in the Argonne still fighting that battle two decades later. He spent his days pushing his cart through the streets, crisscrossing Buffalo, searching for discarded treasures. His body passed through alleys rummaging for things to pawn, but what remained of his mind was mired in that burning forest surrounded by the dead and dying. Still, Benny sometimes saw and heard things that were real:

A woman got her purse snatched on Genesee Street.

There was a new girl, a real doll face, working at the Michigan Avenue brothel.

A big card game was going on above The New Genesee Restaurant.

He would whisper these truths to Bishop, and the shamus would pay for the information—a quarter, fifty cents, maybe a buck—even if it had nothing to do with the case he was working. Other times Bishop asked him to keep an eye out for a certain car or dame—nobody paid attention to a junk man lingering on a corner, just like no one had paid attention to a fifteen-year-old Bishop when he’d started working the streets. The information that Benny provided that was relevant to Bishop’s investigation was worth a fin or more—a fortune to a rag collector. Benny was still the good soldier, putting the mission first, and most times getting information the gimpy detective needed. Jake sniffed the junk man’s unlaced army boots.

“Benny, what do you know? What do you hear?”

Benny turned from the garbage pails and squinted as if trying to pick Bishop out of a crowd of gathering ghosts. Recognition registered in stages from the top down—brow wrinkled, eyes widened, mouth curved to a smile. “I didn’t know you had a dog, Bishop.”

“You see her, too?”

The junk man wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Have you seen my car, Benny? The Packard?”

“Your car?”

“The green convertible.”

Benny looked around the hotel alleyway and down Ellicott Street. “There’s no green car here, Bishop.”

“Keep your eyes open for it, all right? You know which one it is, don’t you? Let me know if you spot it.”

“You think someone stole your green car?”

“It’s probably parked in front of The Kitty Kat or The Chez. Hopefully, it’s not in a ditch somewhere.”

“Why would you leave your car in a ditch, Bishop?”

“For safekeeping,” Bishop said. “Say, you hear anything about a shooting or why the cops are looking for me?”

“I haven’t heard about those things.”

“Okay, maybe it’s nothing. But if you hear something or find my car, you come tell me. If I’m not here, leave a message with Corbett at the front desk.”

Benny saluted, his hand slicing the air as sharp as it had in 1918.

“Good man. Carry on,” Bishop said, and the junk man resumed rummaging through the garbage pails.

It was a four-block limp to The Kitty Kat to hunt for his car. Bishop wasn’t sure he could make it. He was considering sticking out his thumb when Lieutenant Darcy rounded the corner. His face, flushed pink from the heat, broke into a wide grin when he saw Bishop.

“Rats are always in alleys, but I found a weasel. You think you can outrun the law with that crippled foot, Bishop?”

“I’m not running, Lieutenant. I’m walking my dog.”

“That’s a dog? It’s in worse shape than you.”

“Me and Jake aren’t morning people.”

“Morning people? The day’s half done, Bishop.”

“Time flies.”

“Not in prison it don’t. Which is where you’re headed, draft dodger.”

Bishop winced and hoped it didn’t show. “Is sleeping late a crime?”

“No, but murder is. What do you know about Pearl DuGaye, smart guy?”

“Never heard of heard of her. Who is she?”

“A singer from The Chez Ami gone missing. We found her purse not far from here. Cleaned out, of course, except for one thing.”

“Trolley fare?”

“Your business card.” Darcy pulled out the card and read, “Bishop Investigations. Civil. Criminal. Missing Persons Located. Licensed and Bonded. Who the hell would bond a coward like you?”

Bishop took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “When did this DuGaye woman go missing?”

“Saturday.”

“What’s today?”

“Thursday.”

Jesus.

Darcy wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Funny you never heard of her. Not only was your card in her purse, I got a revolving bar full of people at The Chez Ami who saw you two together. They say you weren’t exactly acting like brother and sister.”

“You ever seen my sister, Lieutenant? She’s a looker.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. I wouldn’t put anything past a guy who sticks his foot in front of a moving taxi to keep out of the army. Were you working for DuGaye or just working her?”

“I honestly can’t say, Lieutenant,” Bishop said, and wondered if she was blonde.

“If she hired you to protect her, it looks like you did your usual swell job. Speaking of which, how’s business?”

“It pays the light bill.”

“Not at your office it don’t. Heard you had to close that down. Got rid of that good-looking secretary, too. Lucky Teddy Thurston must be rolling in his grave.”

“I work out of The Lafayette now. Teddy would be fine with that.”

“The hell he would. Only whores work out of hotels. Funny how business dried up on you. I guess folks who lost husbands and sons on December seventh and at Bataan don’t want to hire a chicken-shit Jap lover. Makes me wonder why DuGaye hired you. She must be as shady as Fat Ira. I read you work for him these days.”

“I hear you work for Joey Bones. Have been for a long time.”

Darcy took a step forward and jabbed a finger at Bishop. “Listen, you crippled shit. If this Pearl DuGaye shows up dead, I’m pinning it on you. I got a nice frame already picked out.”

“Pleasure talking to you, Lieutenant, but I’m late for an appointment.”

“With which bottle?”

“Say hello to Joey for me.”

“Watch out for taxis, weasel. Wouldn’t want you to have two crippled feet.”

Bishop caned his way down Ellicott as Jake trotted ahead. The sun was hot on his neck. He could smell bourbon seeping through his pores. His stomach cramped and he wondered when he’d last eaten, uncertain he could keep anything down if he ate now. Guilt weighed on him, its cause remained unclear.

***

Excerpt from After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou. Copyright 2025 by Stephen G. Eoannou. Reproduced with permission from Stephen G. Eoannou. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Stephen G. Eoannou

Stephen G. Eoannou is the author of the award-winning short story collection Muscle Cars and the novels Rook, Yesteryear, and After Pearl. He holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte and an MA from Miami University. He has been awarded an Honor Certificate from The Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and the Best Short Screenplay Award at the 36th Denver Film Festival. His latest novel, Yesteryear, was awarded the 2021 International Eyelands Award for Best Historical Novel, The Firebird Book Award for Biographical Fiction, and Shelf Unbound’s Notable Indy Books of 2023. He lives and writes in his hometown of Buffalo, New York, the setting and inspiration for much of his work.

Catch Up With Stephen G. Eoannou:

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BookBub – @seoannou
YouTube – @stepheneoannou341
X – @StephenGEoannou
Facebook – @steve.eoannou

 

 

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$25 GC – I Can’t Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent @partnersincr1me

I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent Banner

I CAN’T GET NO SATISFACTION

by Teresa Trent

April 7 – May 2, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent

The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series

 

After finding herself in the middle of murder investigation in her last two secretarial jobs, Dot finds the only place that will hire her is her local funeral home.

Why not? At least there all the clients are safe from what the town calls her murderous “Curse of Camden”. It is 1965 and Dot is planning her wedding with a Twiggy like mini-bridal gown, but secretly she’s not so sure it’s a good idea. If she really is cursed, what might happen to the one she loves? Is she willing to put him in danger? She and Ben put wedding planning on the back burner when one of the town’s teenage girls gets hit by a drunk boater who gets away. The closer they get to the answers, the more Dot feels the curse is coming for Ben.

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Historical Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: February 2025
Number of Pages: 215
ISBN: 978-1-68512-870-8
Series: The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series, Book 4 | Each is a Stand Alone Novel
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

After leaving Oliver, I decided to speak to the marina owner one more time to try to figure out who took the boat used in Henry’s murder. Grabbing a sandwich at my apartment, I called Ben to see if he would like to go along with me. He was covering court this week for a reporter on vacation, so I was lucky to catch him at his desk.

“Yes, I’d love to go with you, and as luck would have it, the judge rescheduled the court case.”

Even though some people might think a reporter’s life is glamorous and full of intrigue, Ben was covering a case of stolen pigs for The Camden Courier. Shorty Wyckoff, a pig farmer, claimed Bill Wheeler, another pig farmer, snuck up in the cloak of darkness and loaded up an 1100-pound sow into the back of a pickup truck. What made her so valuable was her nickname, Fertile Myrtle. It was reported that she could get pregnant with only one try, and the results were dozens of little piggies. The newspaper had dubbed the case “Makin’ Bacon Caper.” It was a popular series of articles, considering it was one step up from the farm report and featured the sex lives of pigs.

“I’ll pick you up, but I have to warn you, ol’ Bernice isn’t doing too well. I think she’s on her last breath.”

“Ol’ Bernice, a 1955 Oldsmobile, had several dents, bald tires, and a constant wheezing coming out from under the rusty brown hood. “Should we take my car?”

“Nice of you to offer, but I want to take Bernice today. I have plans for her.”

Besides setting her on fire or pushing her off the nearest cliff, I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. I knew Ben had arrived when I heard the familiar wheezing and sputtering of Bernice in my driveway.

Ben and I returned to the marina, but this time the marina owner was nowhere to be found. The marina office and residence stood atop a small hill overlooking the glistening waters of the bay. Selma, the guard dog Shep had praised, did not bark or even growl, but playfully nudged her snout against my hand, her tail wagging vigorously in excitement. We knocked on the glass panes of the marina office, and after not getting an answer, I clasped my hands around my eyes and, leaning on the glass, looked inside. As I drew closer, I could hear the low rumble of jazz, heavy on the bass. It created a melodic backdrop with the gentle lapping of the waves. “I think he must be farther back in the house. I hear a stereo.”

Ben put his ear to the glass and then turned around to face the parking lot. “Hmmm. How many cars do you see parked here?”

I turned back and scanned the parking area. “Three.”

“Right. Ours, his, and whose is that?” He pointed at a wood-paneled station wagon. It was the kind of car a family with children would use.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else around here. Maybe someone has taken their boat out.”

“Maybe, but when we were here last, there were twelve boats in twelve boat slips. Today I only see eleven. Considering Bubba Jenkins’s boat – was just impounded for a murder investigation. I would say all the remaining boats are here.”

“Which means whoever is driving that station wagon is inside, listening to jazz with Shep. Let’s try knocking at the backdoor,” I said.

We made our way around, and as we did, the sound of the music grew louder, along with a few other sounds.

Ben smiled and blushed a little as we heard rhythmic moans coming from an open window. “They must be big music lovers.”

I giggled. “Regular jazz nuts.” There was no doubt about what they were doing, and from the sounds of it, things were going quite well.

Ben raised his hand to knock, but then stopped. “Not the best time.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can figure this out on our own. I don’t think I could erase a memory of hot and sweaty Shep, but I am curious about who he has in there with him.”

“Let’s go look at the boats.” We walked around the house to the parking lot. Selma followed along, her tail still wagging. As the jazz and the sound of other things faded in my ears, I asked Ben, “What exactly are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure, just something out of the ordinary. Maybe Henry’s killer left something important on the dock.”

“You mean like his I. D.? That would make things easier. Do you know a lot about boats? We didn’t do much boating at our house, although I have been waterskiing with friends.”

“A little.” He shrugged. “Not much. We need to concentrate, and hearing about you in a bathing suit is not making my thoughts flow.”

I giggled. “Billie Holiday will do that to a person.”

We walked on the wooden pier as the surrounding water was still. There was little call to take a boat out on a weekday. The boats were in a variety of sizes, but most were small speedboats, with a pontoon moored at the end. Inside a few boats, there were remnants of beer bottles and sandwich wrappers.

“Not very tidy, these boat people, and from the looks of the empty beer bottles, there are several drunk drivers out on the lake at the same time. No wonder Betty Weaver got hit,” I said, walking to the end of the pier. The pontoon was covered with a canvas drape. Looking underneath, the insides were as neat as a pin.

“Look at this,” Ben said, crouched down by the tip of a small speedboat. “It looks like they’ve sustained some damage here.”

On the side of the boat, a scrape had cut through the sleek paint, making a line through the boat name, Lucky Me. Not as lucky as the boat owner might have thought.

“So, somebody isn’t very good at putting the boat back into the dock. I hardly think that has anything to do with boat thefts.”

Ben nodded. “You’re probably right, but we know there has been a boat thief out here. What’s to say this person only used one boat?”

“You mean like a serial boat thief?” Could a person get away with stealing different boats periodically from the marina? Was starting one boat as easy as starting another?

“Think about it,” Ben said. “Just how many days a week are Romeo and Juliet in there playing Billie Holiday on the stereo?”

The boat dock was at least fifty yards from the combined house and office. Someone could be out here starting a boat, and if the marina owner was busy, he would hear nothing. “He wouldn’t hear it, and Selma, the guard dog, gets put outside on occasions, so happy for a visitor, she doesn’t even bark.”

Ben snapped his fingers. “Bubba Jenkins is Al’s friend, right? We need to talk to him. He might be sitting on information.”

“You know, Al has mentioned him, but I’m not sure what he does.”

“Then we’ll have to ask him.”

As we turned to head back to Ben’s car, the sound of a screen door opening peeled through the air. Shep, his cheeks rosy and his shirt half on, edged around from the back of the house and immediately spotted Ben’s car. His gaze shifted to the dock.

“Can I help you, folks? How long have you been standing out here?”

I walked forward. “We tried knocking, but there was no answer.”

“Yes, you must have been busy,” Ben said.

Shep lifted his chin slightly. “Working on the books. Guess I got involved. Numbers are not my thing.”

We knew just what his thing was.

Ben walked forward and extended his hand. “Ben Dalton, Camden Courier.”

Shep reached out with a measured amount of enthusiasm. “I remember you. What can I do for you this time?”

“We were wondering if you could provide a list of the boat owners here at the marina. I would also like to get in touch with Bubba Jenkins. Ben said this with such efficiency. Shep let go of his hand and stepped back.

“Why would I do that?”

Ben swept his hand back toward the boats. “In the interest of the investigation. Two deaths on the water don’t exactly put the security of your marina in a good light.”

Shep raised a single finger in the air and shook it at Ben’s face. “Lookie here, son. If I hand over a list like that, it will be to the police, and only the police will get it. Hear me? You and your lady friend need to quit nosin’ around here. If I see you again, I’ll call the cops on you for trespassing. Get me?”

“This is public property. There’s not much you can do.”

“Watch me.”

“You seemed more than willing to let people nose around and steal other people’s boats. I think you’re a little late with your righteous indignation,” I said.

“Yeah, well, a tiger can change its spots. I don’t need a lot of folks here getting into my business.” He glanced up at the house. “Talking to you has been a mistake, and now I’m fixing it. Out with you.”

As we made our way to the car, Ben turned and spoke. “We’re leaving, but remember, if you ever want to talk…”

“Out!”

***

Excerpt from I Can’t Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2025 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

Author Bio:

Teresa Trent

Teresa Trent started out teaching English in Colorado, but life and children intervened, and with all that new spare time, she began writing. Besides The Swinging Sixties Series, Teresa has penned the Pecan Bayou, Piney Woods and Henry Park Mystery Series and always has a little idea in the back of her mind for the next one. She is also the author of several short stories and is teaching writing at her local library encouraging new writers. Teresa lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her podcast, Books to the Ceiling, features authors with new mysteries on the market.

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Giveaway – The Organ Broker by Deven Greene @partnersincr1me

THE ORGAN BROKER

by Deven Greene

March 31 – April 25, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Organ Broker by Deven Greene

A devoted wife and mother faces the unimaginable as her life crumbles.

Crystal Rigler seems to have a perfect marriage. Derek, her handsome and charismatic husband, and their adult daughter, Cordelia, are her whole world. In addition to her already busy life, Crystal supports the volunteer organization she and Derek started: STOP (Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners).

STOP aims to end a new government policy of harvesting organs from executed prisoners. They learn that these organs are not distributed by the national transplant list, established to allocate organs fairly. Instead, a shadowy figure known as Broker Al pulls the strings. He expedites the execution of young and healthy prisoners and sells their organs at a high price to the rich and well-connected.

After Crystal learns a disturbing secret, events are set in motion that will potentially dismantle STOP, change her life, and cost her everything. Unless she is willing to do the unthinkable…

Praise for The Organ Broker:

The Organ Broker by Deven Greene was intricate and captivated my attention from the first page. The story was fast-paced with not a single dull moment.”
~ Readers’ Favorite

“If you enjoy moral dilemmas, complex characters, and a plot that feels uncomfortably plausible, this book will leave you thinking long after the ending.”
~ Literary Titan

“…electrifyingly intense… Introspective and entertaining, The Organ Broker navigates the delicate balance between principles and priorities.”
~ Indies Today

The Organ Broker … teeters between thriller, novel, a story of medical and social challenge, and more. It stands out from others about organ harvesting simply because it evolves a complex plot that engages characters and readers in a moral and ethical dance spiced with intrigue and the unexpected.”
~ D. Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

THE ORGAN BROKER Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Panthera Publishing
Publication Date: April 2025
Number of Pages: 321
ISBN: 9781964620060 (ISBN10: 1964620066)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Google Books | Apple Books | Kobo | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

The East Texas sun was hotter than usual for September, the few clouds high above providing no relief. A half-hour earlier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, Crystal had let her sign reading “Save Kwami” slip to the ground. Standing near the front of the crowd, Crystal pushed up the visor on her baseball cap to get a better look at her surroundings. She was pleased with the impressive turnout which she estimated to be close to one thousand people. It was the largest they’d ever had. Most of the other protestors continue to hold their placards high, displaying myriad slogans such as “Justice for Kwami,” “Let Kwami Live,” “Impeach Gov. Percy,” and the most popular, “STOP.” She took a deep breath and lifted her sign again, fighting the pain in her fingers as she held it as high as she could.

The crowd of protestors was comprised of a cross-section of the community— young, old, couples, families, Black, White, Hispanic, and Asian. A colorful array of baseball caps, bucket hats, visors, straw hats, and cowboy hats protected most of the heads from the constant flood of the sun’s rays.

The makeshift podium and public address system were rudimentary, and there was the usual milling around often seen in large gatherings, but the audience, for the most part, was paying attention to the pudgy young man with a man bun speaking to them. At times, the crowd burst out in synchronous claps and hoots of approval. The assembly was peaceful, with only a few skirmishes breaking out at the edges where police stood watch.

Still thirsty after having finished her bottle of water, Crystal let her mind wander as the speaker droned on about the immorality of what was about to take place. Her clothes clung to her sweaty body, and despite wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses, the bright sun hurt her eyes. Looking down, she swatted away a bug that landed on her arm. Uncomfortable and impatient, she was eagerly awaiting the next speaker.

Finally, the man at the podium looked up and announced, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting to hear, the leader of our organization, Mr. Derek Rigler.”

The mood of the crowd changed, and participants started chanting “STOP” in unison as they raised and lowered their signs. A tall, muscular man with tan skin and wavy blond hair, took to the stage next to the previous speaker and scanned the crowd with his magnetic blue eyes. Crystal looked up and smiled. His handsome, chiseled features gave him the look of a confident leader. Although he was nearly fifty years old, he looked at least ten years younger. He hasn’t lost the ability to attract attention whenever he enters a room.

Derek took his place on the podium and held out his arms as if to give a benediction. After almost a full minute of roaring applause, he raised and lowered his hands several times to quiet the crowd.

Crystal looked around, energized by the enthusiasm bubbling over. She noted more press vans set up around the perimeter than in the previous protest. Their organization, STOP, was gaining traction.

She wondered if Derek had picked her out of the crowd. If she were taller, he’d probably see her—she wasn’t far from the front—but she imagined her five-foot two-inch frame made her visage difficult to identify in the sea of people. From what she could glean, Derek hadn’t spotted her. After all, she was just another brunette under a baseball cap, surrounded by many others. Even so, Crystal smiled widely, wondering if anyone nearby recognized her. After all, she was notable as Derek’s wife and the mother of his child, Cordelia.

As Derek started his familiar diatribe against the Texas death penalty laws, Crystal tried to lock eyes with him, but his eyes never found her. Instead, he focused on members of the audience near and far, concentrating his gaze on one person for several seconds before moving on to the next pair of waiting eyes.

Crystal recognized the usual arguments against the event that was scheduled to take place momentarily—the uneven death penalty sentencing, the ugliness of exacting revenge, and the irreversibility of the punishment once meted out. The speech was powerful, and she agreed with everything Derek said. She could recite the words by heart, not only because she had heard them during Derek’s practice sessions, but because she had written them herself. Every time the crowd reacted with hollers and claps, she felt taller, each breath a bit more satisfying. She’d been to over six of these rallies in the past year, each protesting the execution of a prisoner found guilty of a crime deemed fitting for capital punishment.

The death penalty had never sat well with Crystal, but over the past two years, the practice had escalated, with four more executions scheduled over the next six months in Texas alone. Not only was the ultimate punishment meted out more often, but the evidence leading to convictions was frequently less convincing. She’d made up her mind to do something to stop the injustice and had established STOP almost a year earlier. A small, grass-roots collection of like-minded people, it was taking hold, thanks to her speech writing, community outreach, and organizational skills, bolstered by her husband’s charisma. He was the face of the organization.

Derek’s address was interrupted by a loud commotion as the officers stationed around the perimeter began to forcefully clear a path through the protestors to the entryway of the large building looming behind the speaker. Despite shouting and resistance from the crowd, with the most passionate demonstrators being handcuffed and dragged away, the police were able to open a wide berth.

“We are nearing the time,” Derek shouted above the commotion, “the time when our brother Kwami will be taken from us in an act that can only be described as state-sponsored murder. Let all those who have participated in this mockery of justice one day pay for their crimes, and let all those who directly benefit from this violent act realize the wrong they have participated in.”

A police transport moved through the clearing in the crowd as demonstrators chanted “Kwami, Kwami” in unison. Although the windows of the vehicle were covered, all knew who was inside—Kwami McKinney, sentenced to be executed that day. The van didn’t stop until it was a mere five feet from the door to the building. A massive construction of cement and glass six stories high, the structure dwarfed the trees and other buildings nearby. Derek was silent as he turned to watch the Black prisoner, his head shaved, exit the van’s side door.

Dressed in an orange jumpsuit accessorized with ankle and wrist shackles, Kwami was escorted by two armed guards, each holding onto one of his arms. Two more prison officers took up the rear. As the party of five walked towards the glass doors of the building, a Black woman around fifty years old ran towards them screaming. She was forcibly stopped by police, who grabbed onto her arms long before she could interfere.

Everyone there knew the woman was Sally McKinney, Kwami’s mother. She yelled and cried hysterically, flailing against those restraining her as her son was led through the automated doors that opened before him and the guards. They disappeared inside the structure as the glass doors shut.

People in the crowd yelled and cried, drowning out Ms. McKinney’s wails. Frustrated tears filled Crystal’s eyes; their protest had done nothing to dissuade the authorities from carrying out their sentence. She hadn’t expected the proceedings to be halted, but held onto a glimmer of hope until now, irrational as it was.

She looked to Derek for comfort, hoping they might finally lock gazes and convey their sadness to each other, but Crystal’s thoughts were interrupted by a female acquaintance. “Fantastic speech,” the woman said.

“I can’t disagree,” Crystal answered, buoyed momentarily by the woman’s words.

“You must be very proud, being his wife. He’s so handsome, and brilliant to boot. You two are the perfect couple. I’d sure like to be a fly on the wall at your dinner table to hear about all his great ideas.”

The words stung slightly, as Crystal chuckled politely. She was accustomed to being thought of as a mere appendage of her charismatic husband, but, she’d tried to convince herself that a successful protest, with Derek delivering a resounding speech, was all that was important. She didn’t need the admiration of others like he did. “Our dinners aren’t as interesting as you might think. Mostly, we talk about how we’re going to pay our bills.”

Members of the press, who until now had been scattered amongst the protestors while taking notes and silently recording videos, were now talking and interviewing people on camera. The crowd thinned, but Crystal didn’t want to leave. She’d have liked to remain until she knew Kwami had taken his last breath, but that moment was hours away.

She listened as a nearby male telecaster spoke into a camera. “Emotions are again high as another execution is about to take place. While many people feel that the crimes Kwami McKinney was convicted of, armed robbery and hostage-taking, justify the death sentence, some feel the punishment is too severe for the crimes the prisoner was convicted of. Still others believe he is innocent of the charges against him.”

The reporter turned to a middle-aged female bystander and asked, “What do you think of today’s events? Do you think justice is being carried out today?” After posing the question, he shoved the microphone close to the woman’s mouth.

“This is a travesty of justice,” she answered. “The real criminal was wearing a ski mask during the robbery, and escaped capture immediately following the crime. That was made clear during the trial. We also learned that Mr. McKinney was picked out in a lineup by two unreliable witnesses days later. There was a boatload of evidence that the so-called witnesses had drug charges against them dropped shortly after identifying Mr. McKinney. What kind of justice is that?”

The telecaster quickly turned to the camera and continued his reporting. “Despite the controversy, Kwami McKinney is still scheduled to be executed here and now at New Lake Hospital. While we are happy for the families of the six unnamed individuals who will be the recipients of much-needed organs, many are questioning the legality and morality of what is now becoming a common method of organ procurement. The objections are being led by the organization STOP, which stands for Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners.”

***

Excerpt from The Organ Broker by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Deven Greene lives in Northern California, where she enjoys writing fiction, most of which involves science or medicine. She has degrees in biochemistry (PhD) and medicine (MD), and practiced pathology for over twenty years.

She has previously published the The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy (Unnatural, Unwitting, and Unforeseen), and Ties That Kill, as well as several short stories.

Catch Up With Deven Greene:

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Subscribe to Deven’s Blog
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Facebook @DevenGreeneFiction

 

 

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$20 GC – Someone Had To Lie by Jack Luellen @partnersincr1me

Someone Had to Lie by Jack Luellen Banner

SOMEONE HAD TO LIE

by Jack Luellen

March 31 – April 25, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Someone Had to Lie by Jack Luellen

THE JAMES BUTLER MYSTERIES

 

Some cases never let you go.

Reeling from the sudden death of a close friend, James Butler and Erica Walsh are pulled back into the shadow world of Mexican cartels and the CIA. Seeking to avenge the murder of their friend with only his haphazard notes to guide them, they puzzle through the possible connections searching for anything concrete. As they investigate his murder, and his notes, they find unsettling links between drug trafficking, American gangs, the CIA, and the opioid epidemic.

Determined to find the truth hidden among cases they thought were long closed, Butler and Walsh call on friends and colleagues to help them survive the crosshairs that got their friend killed. With the threat spreading across more of their contacts, they must uncover the truth before they are buried in lies.

The James Butler mysteries from Jack Luellen seamlessly weave fact with fiction, introducing nonfiction material in the midst of fast-paced murder mysteries.

Praise for Someone Had to Lie:

“Jack Luellen crafts an intriguing tale, interwoven with proven facts about the deadliest drug in our society, Fentanyl. Someone Had to Lie takes the reader on an educational journey into the biggest cartels and Narcos in the world and provides a behind the scenes glimpse of cartel operations through his lead character James Butler. Gripping storytelling! A must read!”
~ Leo Silva, Author of Reign of Terror, Former DEA Supervisory Special Agent

Book Details:

Genre: Crime; Mystery
Published by: Torchflame Books
Publication Date: March 11, 2025
Number of Pages: 294
ISBN: 9781611533705 (ISBN10: 1611533708)
Series: The James Butler Mysteries, Book 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Torchflame Books

Read an excerpt:

“Is that music playing in your office? You never listen to music at work?”

“I do on rare occasions.”

“That’s Alice Merton. How are you even aware of her music?” Erica asks, gobsmacked.

“I’m not, but I met Detective Torres at a Starbucks this morning and it was playing, and I liked it. I asked a Gen Z barista who the artist was and played it when I got in,” James says.

“I’m in shock.”

“I’m evolving,” James says, his words interrupted by the playing of the Johnny Rivers hit “Secret Agent Man” from his cell phone. “Alexa, off. Tim, hi, thanks for calling back. Erica is here with some information to share.”

“Hi, Erica. What’s going on?” Tim says.

“After we left the jail today, I went back to the office to work, and a few minutes ago, Belmonte called me to tell me that the DEA had been quote, ‘Requested,’ end quote to refrain from investigating or prosecuting Javier and that Javier was being moved to a different facility. Belmonte said the directive apparently came from the DNI. He called me from a burner phone and suggested we keep the circle of information as small as possible,” Erica explains.

“Holy crap,” Tim says.

“Any idea who could have that kind of juice?” James asks.

“None in particular,” Tim says.

“You didn’t tell anyone about meeting Javier?” Erica asks.

“Of course not,” Tim replies.

“Then how did anyone—” Erica begins.

“I have no idea,” Tim interrupts.

“One thing seems certain,” James says. “Aguilar was spot on. It is bigger than we knew.”

***

Excerpt from Chapter 24 of Someone Had to Lie by Jack Luellen. Copyright 2025 by Jack Luellen. Reproduced with permission from Jack Luellen. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

author

Jack Luellen is a Denver, Colorado, attorney with more than 30 years of experience. In practice, Jack has tried cases to courts and juries, and has written hundreds of briefs, motions, and memoranda, to state and federal courts, including federal courts of appeal and the United States Supreme Court.

In 1990, Jack first started working on cases related to the 1985 kidnapping and murder of DEA Agent Enrique Camarena and has investigated the case in the years since that time. Jack’s investigations have taken him to foreign countries and included interviews with witnesses both notorious and infamous. This work has been the background to Jack’s upcoming novel Someone Had to Die.

Jack is the proud parent of an amazing daughter and is a weekend warrior on the tennis courts.

Catch Up With Jack Luellen:

LuellenWriting.com
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