$25 GC – Houses Of Crime Mystery Series by Jenny Dandy @partnersincr1me

Houses of Crime Mystery Series by Jenny Dandy Banner

Houses of Crime Mystery Series

by Jenny Dandy

May 5 – June 13, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD

 

When FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski goes undercover at Isabelle Anderson’s brownstone on E. 83rd, he thinks he’s the one calling the shots. Isabelle knows she is. As Isabelle’s butler, Ronnie Charles is privy to all her schemes—knowledge that will take her in a direction she never anticipated.

THE PENTHOUSE ON PARK AVENUE

 

FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and former street thief Ronnie Charles team up once again in New York City, this time to take down John Anthony, suspected money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel who is known for their own brand of evil. Embedded as his live-in butler at the penthouse, Ronnie must reconcile her hatred of drugs with her need to work for Frank. Mateo Rosas de Flores, head of the cartel, comes to town and tests Ronnie’s loyalty. When she passes, her reward is a deeper involvement in his organization. But Mateo’s interest in her might not be enough to protect her as the danger mounts.

Frank’s search for his drug addicted daughter continues in the seamier side of the city, taking him places he never thought he would go. He becomes unexpectedly entangled with the very criminals he’s pursuing, threatening not only his career but his family as well. What they require of him is a betrayal of everything he believes in. Frank must find a way to protect his daughter and finish the case. And walk away with his morals intact.

Praise for the Houses of Crime Mystery Series:

The Brownstone on E. 83rd grabbed my attention from the first page. Jenny Dandy’s debut has all the hallmarks of a veteran writer: blistering pacing, rapid-fire dialogue, and characters that not only keep you guessing, but caring about what happens to them. Dandy is an author to watch.”
~ Carter Wilson, USA Today bestselling author of The Father She Went to Find

“Jenny Dandy’s The Brownstone on E. 83rd hits the ground running and doesn’t let up. Sharply drawn characters, evocative language, knockout pacing, and a strong sense of place make this one of the year’s best crime novel debuts. It’s ambitious, polished, and beautifully crafted. I can’t recommend it enough.”
~ William Boyle, author of Shoot the Moonlight Out and Gravesend

“The Brownstone on E. 83rd is an amazing debut with sharp, hard-edged dialogue, lyrical and strong prose, and a fantastic setting in New York City. The story of FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and small-time thief Ronnie Charles will keep you guessing as well as rooting for these vivid and compelling characters. I hope to read more from Jenny Dandy!”
~ David Heska Wanbli Weiden, award-winning author of Winter Counts

The Penthouse on Park Avenue grips you from the start, never letting go through the twists and turns as Ronnie and Frank pursue a money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel. Jenny Dandy’s characters stay with you long after you finish the book.”
~ Abbott Kahler, New York Times best-selling author of Eden Undone, Where You End, and The Ghosts of Eden Park

“Jenny Dandy’s new novel delivers everything you crave in a mystery—hardboiled-yet-scrappy protagonists, high stakes, suspense, dry humor, and true villainy. Written with compassion and an appetite for justice, The Penthouse on Park Avenue lures us even more deeply into Dandy’s Houses of Crime series. I can’t wait for the next one!”
~ Erika Krouse, author of Save Me, Stranger

The Penthouse on Park Avenue sneaks up on you, comes alive, and won’t let you go. Whether Dandy takes us to high end restaurants or low end diners, penthouses or homeless encampments, we’re along for the ride. You’ll care deeply about what might happen to Ronnie and Frank, eager for the next in the series.”
~ Diane Capri, New York Times Bestselling author of the Hunt for Jack Reacher series

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Series: Houses of Crime Mystery Series (on Amazon)

Read an excerpt from THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD:

Prologue

Ronnie Charles slotted the dirty champagne flutes into the plastic racks as fast as she could, two at a time, her arms flashing between trays and crates. Her skin tightened, an overall prickling that never failed her. It meant danger, meant she had to be out of there quick. The bracelet lay heavy in the secret pocket of her trousers, bumping her thigh as she moved. Someone shifted behind her, too close, and she worked faster. She didn’t have time to fight off one of those ass-grabbers who always seemed to work these big charity dos, creeping on anyone. Even when Ronnie dressed as a man like tonight, they would reach out and squeeze a handful. Ronnie swung her bangs out of her eyes, peeked over her shoulder.

“You’ll give me back my bracelet, or I’ll rip your balls off.” The silky voice caressed her ear, the woman crowding her into the boxes before she could turn around.

The Feline. Ronnie didn’t usually name her marks, but those two words had sprung into her head as she watched the way the calculating woman slinked through the room, eyed the crowd, pounced on her targets. Ronnie took a deep breath, got a whiff of expensive perfume, and then did the only thing she could in a situation like this. She made her voice higher than normal and said, “Ma’am, I don’t have any balls.”

The tall blonde stepped back. Ronnie whipped around and saw the guys lugging chairs and tables into the truck, the caterer with her clipboard, and the cleaning crew hard at work. She so needed to keep this job.

The Feline tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, examined her through mascaraed lashes. “Well, well.”

She scanned Ronnie up and down, checked over the details of her slim hips in the black pants, her flat white shirt and bow tie, her short hair in a boy’s cut. She studied the one thing Ronnie couldn’t fake: her lack of an Adam’s apple.

“It’s not often I’m fooled.” The Feline’s voice was low, dark clouds in the distance. “We both know you have my bracelet. I let you take it because I wanted to see how good you are.”

Ronnie sucked in a breath and watched the certainty come over her, her brown eyes shining. The Feline wasn’t trying to hide her age with makeup the way a lot of women did. She proudly wore the fine lines around her eyes, the smile lines on her cheeks. She was as beautiful up close as she had been in the crowds. Ronnie had watched her, watched as the men and women gathered around her as if just being near her would save their lives.

“And you’re good,” The Feline continued, “but I’m better. I could’ve taken it back from you.” Her eyes flickered to Ronnie’s hand, which had moved all by itself to cover the secret pocket in her trousers. The Feline smiled, lines etching her skin. “I could have, but I was curious about someone almost as brazen as I am, working a crowd of this caliber.”

Tiny beads of sweat gathered at Ronnie’s hairline, and she crossed her arms to keep herself still. The first time she got caught by a mark and it was this willowy goddess. She didn’t know why she’d taken it in the first place. Not like she needed it. “Look, lady.” The caterer approached them. “You have to go. Here, I’m giving it back.” She reached into her pocket and fumbled around, for some reason, not finding the opening. “I’ll give it to you, and you can leave. I really need to keep this job.”

The Feline ran her eyes over her once more then grabbed her upper arm and started walking Ronnie away from the crates. She smiled and nodded at Ronnie’s boss. Under her breath, she said, “No, you don’t.”

Ronnie tried to pull away, but the woman tightened her grip and kept walking.

“I’ve decided you’re going to come work for me.” Her heels punctuated her words as they strode toward the exit. “You have skills I can use.”

Ronnie caught a glance from another waitperson as they passed. Pure envy. Amazing the feelings this woman could pull out of people.

“I have a garden apartment you can live in while you work off the bracelet.” Isabelle cut her eyes to Ronnie, a lioness eyeing her prey. “Your androgyny will throw my marks off balance. I can teach you so many, many things.” Her voice was hard, yet somehow soft at the same time. “I’m giving you an offer of a lifetime.”

Ronnie stopped walking, planted her feet, and the woman’s voluminous gown swirled around her legs as if to trap her.

The Feline stopped, too, but didn’t let go of her arm. “Or I can call the cops.”

No way. Ronnie could not go to jail again. She’d used up whatever goodwill the system had for her, and it would be prison for sure this time. She knew she could run, spin out of her grip, jump off the loading dock, and into the night. Down alleys and through back doors, up fire escapes and over rooftops, disappear into the grit and the cold and the peculiar community of the homeless of New York City. She sucked in her breath. Did she say “garden apartment?” The woman’s earrings glittered at her. No more sleeping on the streets. No more dumpster diving. Okay, one night, that’s it. She’d scope the place out, learn the alarm system and The Feline’s habits. Tuck the information away for when she was desperate, and tonight, she could sleep in a soft bed. An offer of a lifetime.

“I have to get my backpack.” Before Ronnie turned toward the setup tables where she’d stashed it, she caught the grin spreading over the woman’s face, her eyes dancing.

Chapter One

Frank Jankowski burst through the emergency room doors, his sixteen-year-old daughter in his arms. He rushed to the front desk, pushed past people in line, yelled at the staff, tried to get someone to pay attention. Cathy moaned, her sweaty head lolling as if she had no neck. A rushing in his ears drowned out all other sounds, and his eyes darted from one person in scrubs to the next. When he opened his mouth to yell again, Cathy vomited on the floor. As if a director had yelled Action, everyone moved at once. A woman with a wheelchair waved aside the guy with the clipboard and yelled, He can do that later! They asked Frank for symptoms, for his daughter’s name, then told the nurse at the desk to page the doctor. The curtain screeched as they yanked it back and deftly placed Cathy on the bed.

She looked like a rag doll. More nurses, stethoscopes, pulse-ox on her finger, someone in scrubs pulled him aside to quietly go over the symptoms with him, poking the iPad she cradled with each thing he said. The nurse turned him away as they inserted an IV in his daughter’s arm and led him back to the waiting room to fill out the paperwork.

He got as far as “Catherine A. Jankowski” when his gut roiled, and he clutched the clipboard tighter, knuckles whitening, scalp tingling as he waited for it to pass. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, counting breaths as images of his daughter surrounded by medical staff, machines, an IV hookup swam behind his eyes. Not again.

Damn. Susan. He called her, told her they were in the emergency room. “Everything’s under control. Don’t worry. I’ll explain when you get here.” He didn’t want her to think it was as bad as it had been a year and a half ago. “Really, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Her worry would make her anxious, and her anxiety would make her yell at him. He pressed the button to end the call.

Whatever this was, and it certainly warranted the ER, it couldn’t compare to the hit and run that took more than a year from Cathy’s life. The long hospital stay, the painful rehab. But she was past all that, seeing friends, catching up on her schoolwork. So this was just—dehydration from whatever cold or flu had laid her low.

He gazed down at the clipboard as if it had just leapt into his hand. He wrote the address of Susan’s apartment on the form. His old apartment. The apartment they had found when he was first transferred to the New York Field Office, the one he thought they would stay in forever, stretching for a two-bedroom because they planned on children. He had been glad she’d kept the walls white, hung cheerful photographs, so when he came home, put his keys in the dish on the table, trying to shed the thoughts of all the evil things people did to other people, the nastiness he worked hard to fight every day, he would pause and try to put himself in the photograph, try to hear the people in them laughing, feel the gentle breeze—

Someone sat down next to him and he shifted in the plastic chair, irritated that a stranger would invade his space like that.

“Frank.”

Susan, his wife—ex-wife—pulled the clipboard away from him and began filling in the form, glancing up at him as if trying to determine what kind of stupid he was. The rhythmic scratching of pen on paper calmed him. She checked off that Cathy had had her immunizations, was current on tetanus, that there was no history of diabetes in their family. The pen hovered over What brought you in today? She raised an eyebrow at Frank. “Are you going to tell me?”

“I thought it was the flu.” He stared straight ahead, not wanting to see the accusations firing from her eyes. “But then she started hallucinating…”

“The flu.” Susan’s pen scratched on the paper. “In August. You thought it was the flu.”

“SuSu—” Frank turned toward her but quickly looked away when he caught the flare of her nostrils and the flash of her blue eyes. He shouldn’t have used his old name for her, but it had just slipped out. He watched the activity at the front desk for a beat, then said, his voice quiet, “You would have thought so, too.”

“Not in August, Frank. I would never have thought that. Did she have a fever?”

“She didn’t seem to. I felt her forehead because she was sweating so much, but—”

“No thermometer at your apartment? How can that be? All these years of Cathy over there, and you don’t even have the rudiments of—the basics for—any way to take—”

Susan tripped over her words, sputtered in her anger, and Frank stayed still, waited for it to pass. A man a few rows ahead of them tapped on his phone, his three children around him squirming and kicking each other, whining at their father, who didn’t respond.

“…her symptoms?” His ex-wife had taken on a neutral tone, perhaps deciding that the paperwork was more important than fighting Frank.

He listed the symptoms in the order they had occurred, the aches, the sweating, the vomiting. Her pen flew over the paper, her frown deepened as the list went on, ending with the hallucinations.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski?”

Susan flinched, her lips thin, jaw tight.

“Could you come with me, please?” The nurse checked for them over her shoulder, an iPad in her hand, led them down the hall, opened a door. “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski, let’s go in here—”

“We’re divorced.” Susan forced the words through clenched teeth, sounding as if she wouldn’t mind going through the proceedings all over again.

They followed the nurse into a small room crammed with desks. The young woman in her cartoon scrubs and bright clogs didn’t ask them to sit. She shut the door and turned to face them. She held up her iPad as if it were a shield, aimed her question at the device, her tone mild as if merely confirming Cathy’s age, “How long has your daughter been addicted to opioids?”

***

Excerpt from The Brownstone on E. 83rd by Jenny Dandy. Copyright 2025 by Jenny Dandy. Reproduced with permission from Jenny Dandy. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Jenny Dandy

Jenny Dandy is a graduate of Smith College and of Lighthouse Writers Workshop Book Project. Though she has lived and worked from Beijing to Baltimore, from Northampton to Atlanta, New York City was the place that held onto a piece of her heart. She now lives and writes in the Rocky Mountains where there is no way she would scam her dinner guests or launder money for cartels.

Catch Up With Jenny Dandy:

www.JennyDandy.com
Amazon Author Profile
Level Best Books Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub
Instagram – @jennydandyauthor
Threads – @jennydandyauthor
X – @JenniferDandy
Facebook – @jennydandyauthor

 

 

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Giveaway – Murder On The Mississippi by Erik S Meyers @partnersincr1me

MURDER ON THE MISSISSIPPI

by Erik S. Meyers

April 28 – May 16, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

 

THE SALLY WITHERSPOON MYSTERY SERIES

 

Six months after the events in Death in the Ozarks, Sally Witherspoon is trying to put that terrible time behind her. She books a river cruise down the Mississippi to get away and relax.

Unfortunately relaxation is not to be as as she’s called on to get to the bottom of a mysterious death that occurs on board.

A combination of Cheers bartender and Miss Marple, Sally Witherspoon is as determined as ever to solve it.

Praise for Murder On The Mississippi:

“An enjoyable, but deadly cruise down the Mississippi that will keep you in suspense from start to finish! A relaxing trip down the river that turns into a nightmare for main character Sally Witherspoon is a delightful mystery for readers… Lots of twists make for an entertaining read. And like Sally, once it’s over, I’m ready for the next adventure. Looking forward to more in the Sally Witherspoon series!”
~ Ivanka Fear, author of the Blue Water Mysteries and Jake and Mallory Thrillers

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery, Cozy Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Series Links: THE SALLY WITHERSPOON MYSTERY SERIES on Amazon & Level Best Books

Also, Don’t Miss…

DEATH IN THE OZARKS

 

A cross between Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple and a Cheers bartender, Sally Witherspoon, a 50-something accountant turned biker-bar owner, loves solving puzzles. Up to now, she has focused on helping neighbors and friends find lost jewelry, lost pets, and lost loves.

But when she finds her best friend and business partner, Bill Arnold, dead in a dumpster behind her bar on a Saturday night, she needs all her wits and grit to find out who did it.

And she won’t stop until she does.

 

Author Bio:

Erik S. Meyers

Currently in Austria, Erik S. Meyers is an American abroad for years and years who has lived or worked in six countries on three continents, the longest in Germany. He is an award-winning author and communications professional with over twenty-five years of expertise in a variety of corporate roles. Reading and writing are his passions, when he is not hiking one of the amazing trails in Austria or elsewhere.

Catch Up With Erik S. Meyers:
www.ErikMey.com
Medium – @erikmey
Goodreads – @erikmey
Instagram – @erikmeyauthor
Facebook – @ErikSMeyersAuthor

 

 

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This linky list is now closed.

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This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Erik S. Meyers. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

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Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

  • You can see my Giveaways HERE.
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  • If you like what you see, why don’t you follow me?
  • Look on the right sidebar and let’ talk.
  • Leave your link in the comments and I will drop by to see what’s shakin’.
  • I am an Amazon affiliate/product images are linked.
  • Thanks for visiting fundinmental!

$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.

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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.

Catch Up With Teresa Trent:

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Facebook – @teresatrentmysterywriter

 

 

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$20 GC – Cops & Robbers by Justin M Kiska @partnersincr1me

COPS & ROBBERS

by Justin M Kiska

March 10 – April 4, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Cops & Robbers by Justin M Kiska

PARKER CITY MYSTERIES

 

Spring, 1985 . . .

Just north of Parker City in the small town of Wakeville, a string of robberies have the residents of the quiet community on edge. Then, when two homes in one of Parker City’s wealthiest neighborhoods are broken into on the same night, PCPD Detectives Ben Winters and Tommy Mason wonder if the crime wave has spilled into their jurisdiction. There’s one chilling difference, though. This time, the intruders left a dead body behind in their wake.

As Ben and Tommy delve into the investigation, what initially appears to be a robbery gone wrong soon unravels into something far more sinister. Their pursuit of the truth leads them down a path, uncovering ties to a crime spree that shook Baltimore fifty years earlier. As past and present collide, the young detectives must race to find a killer driven by a motive buried deep in the past.

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery – Police Procedural with a dual timeline element
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: February 18, 2025
Series: PARKER CITY MYSTERIES; 5 [Amazon | Goodreads]
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

1985

Tommy Mason sat in his beat-up, but much-loved, Bronco on the side of the road. His hands rested on the steering wheel as his eyes focused on the rearview mirror. Behind him, an unmarked police car with a red bubble light on its roof pulled up and parked. This certainly wasn’t how Tommy was expecting to start the day, being pulled over on his way to work. What he’d been pulled over for, he had no idea. He drove this stretch of road every day. He knew the speed limit. There were no stop signs or red lights to run. The Bronco was just in the shop, so he knew there were no lights out or any sort of violations that a cop would think it necessary to pull him over for. And his license plate tags were up-to-date. He was going to have some questions for whoever this patrol officer was.

Keeping his eyes on the rearview mirror, he watched as the door to the police car swung open and a square, rather unkept looking officer stepped out. Tommy raised an eyebrow as he watched him approach the Bronco. The officer was wearing a pair of dark Aviator sunglasses and a blue windbreaker with a badge pinned to his chest. He looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and could use a comb to run through his hair. As he sauntered up to Tommy’s window, he placed a traditional eight-point police hat on his head to complete the official appearance.

“Huh…” Tommy grunted, watching the cop giving the Bronco a thorough, yet overly exaggerated examination. “This is going to be fun.”

When he reached the driver’s side of the truck, Tommy rolled down the window and gave the officer his trademark thousand-watt smile. The same smile that had gotten him out of so many jams in the past. Incidentally, it had also been the cause of a few problems as well. But he preferred to think of the good his smile had done. And might do for him again.

“Good morning, officer. What seems to be the problem?” He tried to sound as cheery as possible.

Tommy expected some sort of response, but instead found himself staring silently at his own reflection in the officer’s sunglasses while the man chewed on an enormous wad of gum.

When he finally spoke, he said, “I’m Officer Smith with the Parker City Police Department. Do you know why I pulled you over this morning?”

“Officer Smith? I can’t say that I do. I don’t think I was speeding. But I guess I could have been. You see, I’m just traveling through Parker, so I don’t know the area all that well,” Tommy lied.

“Well, you were speeding back there, sir. Sorry to say. It happens sometimes. But unfortunately, I had to pull you over. It’s all about safety. You understand.”

“Dang, Officer! I really didn’t mean to be speedin.’” Tommy had suddenly taken on an accentuated southern drawl. “I guess it’s just such a nice mornin’ I wasn’t paying much attention. Look how beautiful that sky is. So bright blue. I just love the spring. Don’t you?”

“Spring is very nice but–”

“And I was just thinkin’ about all the flowers. It’s been a bang-up season for the flowers this year. Have you noticed how vibrant the flowers have been? I think that’s the best word for them. Vibrant.

“I really haven’t–”

“I mean, I’m not much of a flower guy, to be honest with you. But something about them this year just got to me. My girlfriend’s always bringing home fresh flowers. I guess I’ve started paying attention to them.”

Trying to take control of the conversation, the officer raised his voice slightly. Tommy could hear a hint of irritation, but Smith was trying to keep himself in check. Tommy admired that. “Sir. If I could please see your license and registration card.”

“Officer…Smith? Was it? I really am sorry about this. Was I really goin’ that fast that you need to give me a ticket? I didn’t feel like I was goin’ too fast. Not that this old bucket of bolts can even get its giddy-up on to start with. I mean, maybe you could just give me a warning. And I promise the next time I come through Parker City I’ll drive real slow.”

“I need to see your license and registration, sir.”

Tommy leaned over and opened the glove box, rifled around looking for the Bronco’s registration for a moment, then popped back up and said, “Really, I’m very sorry. I must have been daydreamin.’ You see, I’m plannin’ on askin’ my girlfriend to marry me. I’m on my way home. I was in Baltimore for a job last night. And tonight I’m taking Suzanne out…Suzanne’s my girlfriend…I’m taking Suzanne out to dinner to pop the question. She’s gonna be so surprised. She didn’t think I was ever gonna ask her. But I am. I asked her father’s blessing and everything. It’s gonna be perfect.”

“Uh huh. Well, it sounds like you’re a man in love.” The officer’s stone-cold demeanor began to melt. A smile slowly spread across his lips. “Maybe there is something we could do.”

“That would be so great. I would really appreciate it. Because I really have to be going. But not too fast!” Tommy forced a laugh. He knew he must sound completely ridiculous.

“Let me think here. If I write you up and turn in the speeding ticket as is, it could be a few hundred dollars in fines. Plus, you’ll have to show up in traffic court. Nobody likes that. The judge might even say you have to go back to driving school.”

“You’re kiddin’?” Tommy’s eyes went wide, dutifully playing his part.

“Let’s see. What can I do?” Smith made a show of scratching his head while he looked off at some point in the distance. “What say you just give me fifty dollars to take care of the warning notice fee right here and we’ll be square. I’ll be able to let you get on your way and I’ll fill out all the paperwork later.”

“A warning notice fee,” Tommy repeated. “Well, fifty sounds better then three hundred any day.”

“Hey, not all policemen are hardasses. And you’re right. It’s a nice day. You caught me in a good mood,” Smith said, a smirk curling the side of his lip. “So, fifty dollars and it’s all taken care of.”

“Okay. I just want to make sure I got this. I just have to pay you fifty dollars for the warning notice fee and we’ll be all good? No ticket? No traffic court?”

“That’s right.”

“But you still need my license and registration so you can get my name for the paperwork. Right?” Tommy asked, reaching into his back pocket.

“Um. Yeah. Right. I need your name and address for the warning.”

Tommy handed over a black leather wallet and smiled. He watched intently as Officer Smith opened it. He could only imagine what Smith’s eyes looked like behind the sunglasses.

“Wha…what’s this?” Smith asked.

“You see, that is a real Parker City Police Department badge,” Tommy said leveling his gaze. “And you can see by my ID card that my name is Detective Thomas Mason. I know everyone in the PCPD. Who the hell are you?”

Before Smith could answer, Tommy raised his service revolver from beneath the edge of the window. The color drained from the imposter’s face. Tommy knew exactly what was about to happen, so he was fully prepared. As the fake cop dropped the badge wallet, Tommy flung open the driver’s side door, hitting Smith square in the hip. Losing his balance, Smith stumbled and fell to his knees. Tommy swung the door again, this time hitting him full-on in his side, sending him sprawling across the pavement. Before he could even think about getting up, still dazed from the unexpected blows, Tommy was standing over him with his foot firmly in the middle of his back.

“You, dipshit, are under arrest for impersonating a police office and ruining my good mood.”

***

Excerpt from Cops & Robbers by Justin M Kiska. Copyright 2025 by Justin M Kiska. Reproduced with permission from Justin M Kiska. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Justin M Kiska

When not sitting in his library devising new and clever ways to kill people (for his mysteries), Justin can usually be found at The Way Off Broadway Dinner Theatre, outside of Washington, DC, where he is one of the owners and producers. In addition to writing the Parker City Mysteries Series, which includes Now & Then (Finalist for the 2022 Silver Falchion Award for Best Investigator), Vice & Virtue, Fact & Fiction (Killer Nashville Top Pick and Finalist for the Chanticleer CLUE Award), and Black & White, he is also the mastermind behind Marquee Mysteries, a series of interactive mystery events he has been writing and producing for nearly twenty years. Justin and his wife, Jessica, live along Lake Linganore outside of Frederick, Maryland.

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JustinKiska.com
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BookBub – @JMKiska
Instagram – @JMKiska
Facebook – @JMKiska

 

 

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$10 GC – Bye Bye Blackbird by Elizabeth Crowens @partnersincr1me @ECrowens

Bye Bye Blackbird by Elizabeth Crowens Banner

BYE BYE BLACKBIRD

by Elizabeth Crowens

February 17 – March 14, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Bye Bye Blackbird by Elizabeth Crowens

A BABS NORMAN HOLLYWOOD MYSTERY

 

In the summer of 1941, Hollywood heats up again when Humphrey Bogart arrives right after a female corpse with a dead bird stuffed inside her overcoat topples into the office of B. Norman Investigations. While filming The Maltese Falcon, Bogie found a mysterious ancient Egyptian hawk artifact on his doorstep containing a mummified black bird. Someone with dark intentions threatens the main cast, one by one, leaving dead birds, from crows to falcons, as their calling cards.

While more murders pile up, jeopardizing the film from being finished, Bogie hires private eyes Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, infuriating his volatile third wife, Mayo Methot, or Sluggy, as she’s known in some circles. Unraveling the personal lives of Mary Astor, John Huston, Sydney Greenstreet, Elisha Cook, Jr., Peter Lorre, and Jack L. Warner in their quirky, humorous way, the PIs turn the underbelly of Tinseltown upside down to stop the crazed killer from claiming another victim.

Praise for Bye Bye Blackbird:

“No author can seamlessly blend Hollywood history with and engaging mystery yarn better than Elizabeth Crowens. It’s a jaunty tale that could have been lifted from a Warner Bros. screenplay with all the principals from the studio’s famed stock company: The Maltese Falcon, Bogie, Mary Astor, Greenstreet, John Huston, and Jack L. Warner. Fasten your seatbelts for a wild ride through 1940s Hollywood!”
~ Alan K. Rode, film historian and author, Michael Curtiz: A Life in Film

“Crowens does it again with Bye Bye Blackbird. Babs, Brandt, and Bogart make this rocking novel the stuff dreams are made of.”
~ Reed Farrel Coleman. New York Times bestselling author of Blind to Midnight

“It’s like someone shook a movie projector and out tumbled Humphrey Bogart, Mary Astor, Peter Lorre, and a duo from a struggling PI agency bringing all the lighthearted fun of a 1940’s Hollywood mystery. That someone is Elizabeth Crowens.”
~ Tom Straw, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

“A creative twist on The Maltese Falcon: Dead birds show up on doorsteps. Humphrey Bogart assumes the role of a real-life Sam Spade, and two young PIs rescue every oddball animal as they investigate. Even the mogul of a major movie studio is no match for a wisecracking myna bird who sounds like a Warner Brothers cartoon. If you’re a fan of Turner Classic Movies and the Golden Age of Hollywood, Bye Bye Blackbird will be sure to entertain.”
~ Robert Dugoni, New York Times bestselling author of The Tracy Crosswhite Mystery Series

“An office full of lost pets, a strange dame drops dead in the doorway, and Bogie appears with a knock-off Egyptian hawk … while shooting The Maltese Falcon. Thus begins the wild ride of Elizabeth Crowens’ Bye Bye Blackbird. Babs and Guy, the heroes of Hounds of the Hollywood Baskervilles, continue in this welcome, hilarious and worthy sequel that I can only describe as The Thin Man meets ‘hardboiled’ with both tongues firmly in cheek. Famous names, Hollywood haunts, and a crime I dare you to solve, make this well worth your time. As a lover of Old Hollywood, I loved this book!”
~ Jon Lindstrom, USA Today bestselling author of Hollywood Hustle, 4-time Emmy© nominee, award-winning filmmaker, and veteran actor known for True Detective, Bosch, and General Hospital.

“Elizabeth Crowens’ Bye Bye Blackbird is a welcome addition to the Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery series. Set during the Golden Age of Hollywood and brimming with depictions of its personalities, Crowens succeeds in bringing Old Hollywood to life and offering readers another thoroughly entertaining installment to this series.”
~ Annette Bochenek, Ph.D., author of the Hometowns to Hollywood series

“A delectable mystery set in the Golden Age of Hollywood, Elizabeth Crowens Bye Bye Blackbird is a fantastic addition to her Babs Norman series with a treat of a cast featuring Bogart, Mary Astor, Peter Lorre and other screen legends from the era brought to stunning life.”
~ Lee Matthew Goldberg, award-nominated author of The Great Gimmelmans and The Mentor

Bye Bye Blackbird Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Golden Age of Hollywood Private Investigator novel with satire
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 28, 2025
Number of Pages: 340
Series: Babs Norman Golden Age of Hollywood Mystery, Book 2 | Each is a Stand-Alone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Look at the Birdie!

Hollywood 1941

On Friday, July 4th, only the most essential, dedicated, or insane Los Angelenos punched the clock. Established businesses that usually stayed open closed early that afternoon. For the fledgling ones, like the young private detectives at B. Norman Investigations, there would be no weenie roasts, barbeques, or national holiday celebrations. Death would soon follow. Every electric fan they owned hummed its own tune. Between the fan blades whirring and the cats purring, panting dogs, who could qualify as hotdogs, an injured pelican with its wing in a sling, and their janitor’s wisecracking myna bird, the whole kit and caboodle at Hollywood Boulevard and N. Sycamore resembled a cross between the Humane Society and the Griffith Park Zoo.

Guy Brandt, more detective-partner than secretary, manned the desk upfront. On top of it: a shoebox of magazine clippings, scissors, and a stack of The Times and Herald-Examiner. He undid one more button on his clammy, sweat-stained shirt, flung his tie onto their hat rack, and took a swig of his warm Nehi orange soda, already flat. He hoped to find new clients from newspaper leads but wasn’t getting anywhere. Babs Norman, who always had every pin curl in place, patted off her sticky forehead with a handkerchief. Way beyond a simple touch-up with powder and fresh lipstick, only a masterful makeup wizard, like Perc Westmore, could bring new life to this wilted flower.

“Wouldn’t it be fine and dandy if we could afford to run an ad at least once a week saying that we’re private detectives, specializing in discreet celebrity cases?” she asked.

An adventurous kitten, who strayed from the pack, latched on to Guy’s sock and started to climb his leg. “Maybe we should ask if we can put a note in the downstairs lobby that we’re also a pet adoption service.” He unhooked its claws, returning him to his mama.

“You think that would pay off our debts?”

“Do you always have to sound like a broken record?” An Irish Wolfhound, in need of a bath, sauntered in from the doorway between the two offices. He went up to Guy and plopped his oversized, hairy head into his lap. “Dog days not agreeing with you, Sir Henry?” After rubbing the furry beast’s head, he went to their icebox and plopped chunks of ice in the various water bowls scattered around both rooms. Several prostrated cats laid on their backs, trying to find coolness on the linoleum floor.

From under his pile of clippings, he fished out a copy of Black Mask. Babs, with a wooden clothespin clamping her nostrils shut and carrying an odiferous box of shredded newspapers, walked into his office and stopped short when she caught him reading the pulp. “You think we’re going to find our next client from detective fiction? We need another high-profile case like when we rescued Asta, so MGM could go into production on their next Thin Man film. They paid us an unheard-of amount of money…until you lost it all.”

“Stop being such a sourpuss.” He refused to give her eye contact.

“Do you think I’m enjoying spending time in our stifling office? I’d rather be at the beach with the man of my dreams.” Her inflection had a hint of sarcasm.

“Who’s the lucky fella?”

She went over to their monstrous dog and kissed him on the nose. “Looks like it’s you, Sir Henry of the Baskervilles. Instead of my frog prince, you’re my dog prince. Ah, you’re such a good boy.” She stared at the bulldog in the corner. “But we really need to paper-train Bruno.”

Their adopted bulldog whined. “You hurt his feelings,” Guy said. “Give him a good scratch behind his ears and apologize.”

She scowled. “I’ll give him two more weeks, and it’ll be your job to train him. Otherwise, he can go back to Wiggins, and I don’t care if one of his kids breaks out in hives.” She headed out the door to dump the litter.

* * *

“Our phone rang twice while you were out,” Guy said. “But Wiggins’ stupid bird answered before I could.”

“Hello, sucker!” the myna bird cackled. “Down for the count…1…2…3. Knocked him in the kisser, didn’t ya?”

“By the time I picked up the receiver, whoever it was hung up,” he explained.

“It’s hard to believe a bird can be so smart,” Babs muttered.

“Smart-mouthed is more like it,” he said. “Sounds like Jimmy Cagney, who he’s named after. Maybe we should let him earn his keep. The bird can impersonate him at parties.”

Babs stared at the troublemaker. “The person on the other end probably thought it was a prank.” She looked around the room. “Keep it up and…I got a lot of hungry cats and canines who wouldn’t mind a bowlful of myna bird stew.”

Wiggins, the building janitor, propped their front door open, causing their ginger tomcat to disappear into the hallway faster than gunfire. “My wife said the same. What are the two of ya doing here on Independence Day? With the tenants gone, I heard yer bickering all the way in the basement. Sounded like a married couple in divorce court. How did ya get in?”

“We had an extra set of keys,” Guy said.

Wiggins planted his hands on his hips. “More like makin’ a copy of my set while my back was turned. There’s no foolin’ me. Come on now. Who’ll be the first to confess?”

Both detectives buried their noses in their newspapers.

“All right, if none of ya willin’ to come clean, why aren’t you out having fun?”

“Paying our overdue office rent is my idea of fun,” Babs replied.

Wiggins looked confused. Guy explained, “We’re hurting. Nothing but small potatoes since retrieving our dognapped canine stars.”

“We might be forced to move out, if we don’t land a decent case,” said Babs. “I’m not looking forward to setting up shop at my house.”

Wiggins inhaled but choked. “You make sure you keep this place spic-and-span. If your neighbors start belly achin’…”

From inside his desk, Guy took out a sardine from its wax paper wrapping and tossed it to their pelican.

Sniff…sniff… If you don’t get rid of this stench,” Wiggins continued, “my boss’ll make sure he throws you out on your arse.”

She plucked a bottle of cheap toilet water from her purse and spritzed the room. “Better now?”

Wiggins pointed toward the exit. “Goin’ after that mouser. Left the back door open to the alley downstairs. He’s liable to slip out and get lost forever.”

Babs handed her partner a feather duster. “Do something.” Then she returned to her lair with a stack of discarded tabloids to make fresh litter and to do her own skewed interpretation of housekeeping.

Guy reset their wall clock, which was a few hours behind the last time they had a power outage, and gave the reception area the minimal once-over by removing accumulated grime from the top of file cabinets. He was just about to straighten the frame displaying his private investigator’s license, when out of the side of his eye, he noticed a shadow. A large, irregular object leaned against the pebbled glass window of their front door. At first he paid it no mind and continued his cleanup crusade.

When minutes passed and it hadn’t budged, he called out just above a whisper, “Do you mind coming over? Make it quick, but be quiet.”

A startled canary flew out their open transom as Babs breezed toward the front. Guy pointed to the silhouetted figure. “I tidied up, like you asked, but don’t recall hearing anyone approach. This thing…it appeared out of nowhere and hasn’t moved since.”

Babs called out to see if it was Wiggins, but whomever it was didn’t respond. She inquired again. “The door is open. Come on in. We’re too hot and tired for practical jokes.”

With a nod, she gave Guy the go-ahead to open the door, but when he did, a young woman they’d never seen before, wearing a hat and an oversized coat despite the heatwave, fell face-forward onto the floor.

“The casting office is on the fourth floor,” Babs said, until she realized the lady hadn’t moved or said a word. Horrified, she squealed and froze in place.

Guy, also shaking, reached for the phone and called Wiggins’ downstairs office. His voice broke up. “Come up—pronto!”

As soon as he put down the receiver, she demanded he call the cops. Without thinking, she leapt up on a wooden chair as if she’d seen a mouse. Her legs wobbled, and she continued to holler.

Wiggins returned, heaving as if he had skipped waiting for the elevator and sprinted up the stairs. He had the missing tomcat draped over his shoulders. “Heard screams echoing down the hallway. You better keep better tabs on your tabbies. What the blarney did ya think was so important—Holy moly! Mary, Mother of God!”

Guy poked the stranger with his feather duster. Not having any luck, Wiggins, who was bigger than the two detectives combined, got a firm toehold with his work boots and rolled her onto her back. All three stared at the stiff.

“Oh, she’s dead alright,” Wiggins assured them. “Ever seen her before?”

Both PIs shook their heads. Guy tiptoed around the corpse and closed the front door. Wiggins fended off their curious menagerie.

“Something dark and…fea-ther-y is protruding from her coat. Like she was trying to conceal whatever she was carrying.” Babs wrinkled her nose. “Smells like she or someone else doused her with…men’s cologne. Not flowery enough to be one a lady would wear. Wiggins, how do you think she got in?”

“Through the back-alley door, I suppose, ’cause I locked the front. Could’ve snuck in and been here a while. Maybe passed out in a stairwell while my back was turned and crawled up to your floor before she expired.”

Guy paced the room and checked the clock. “The cops seem to be taking their time.” He pulled a flask from his file cabinet and took a swig. He offered some to Babs, but she declined.

Wiggins wrested the flask out of Guy’s hand and finished it to the last drop. “Sure as hell, this would have to happen on a holiday when the police are short-staffed.” He took a swatter from off the wall and clobbered a pesky fly that landed on the stranger’s ear. Babs trembled.

“She can feel it no more than if you were all doped up at the dentist,” Wiggins said.

Babs commented that the police could examine the body. She wasn’t touching it.

Guy suggested to Wiggins to wait for the cops downstairs. “They’ll need you to unlock the building.”

Keeping his distance, Guy asked, “Babs, how do you think she died?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” She made it clear she wasn’t even interested in slipping on gloves to search for an ID.

He suggested that this could be the lead they’ve been looking for. She didn’t see it that way. “This is no way to spend a holiday. Let the police and the medical examiner do their jobs. They’ve expressed they don’t want us meddling in their homicide cases, anyway. I just want her out of here.”

Soon, they heard footsteps and the sound of crunching paper. She took for granted the cops had arrived. “Come in. It’s unlocked.”

She and her partner didn’t make a move until the front door creaked open.

Instead of the police, Humphrey Bogart stood there holding a parcel haphazardly wrapped in brown paper and twine. “I called twice. Assumed you had an answering service to leave a message. Dialed the right number, but someone with a peculiar voice like a Warner Brothers cartoon picked up. When I tried to explain my predicament, he mocked me and cracked a few jokes. Figured I better stop over.”

“How did you get into our building?” Guy asked.

“Your janitor recognized me. When I asked to see you, he figured I was harmless. He said he was waiting for—” Babs interrupted his train of thought. Still standing on the chair, she covered her eyes with one hand and pointed to the floor without making a sound. Bogie backed up. The blood drained from his face. “Whoa! Guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he was expecting the cops.”

A black cat jumped on top of the victim and started making biscuits. “Oh, no, you don’t.” Guy bent down to throw him off.

“Wh-a-a-t happened?” Bogie’s words came out choppy.

Babs regained her voice, which, at first, came out in squeaks. “Not sure. What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for a private investigator. You came highly recommended as some of the best private dicks in town.”

Babs flushed. She preferred a more ladylike elucidation. With no further introductions needed, she ushered Bogart into her office, and Guy followed, grabbing a notepad off his desk. Even though she hated staring at the corpse, she kept her door open to keep an eye out for the police. She kept reminding herself to take deep breaths and not to panic.

“Do you mind clearing your desk?” Bogie held out his parcel. “I’d like to show you what I found on my doorstep this morning.”

With one fell swoop of her arm, the papers went into a spare box, which Babs said she’d sort through later. Bogart put his parcel down on her desk and fanned out his jacket.

“I guess we can skip formalities when the weather beats us into submission. Mind if I take this off?” His shirt was soaked. “This has been one of those days where I’ve felt like an omelet slapped on the Devil’s griddle.”

Babs identified his mysterious object as a museum replica of an ancient Egyptian canopic jar of Horus, the Hawk, the offspring of Isis and Osiris.

“This is much smaller and lighter than the falcon prop in our movie. Ours is about forty-seven pounds of lead. If you dropped it, you could break someone’s toe.” Bogie lifted its lid and revealed a mummified object. Taking special care, he unwrapped its gauze, stained but far from looking ancient, to reveal a sizable dead crow.

“I have no idea what this is supposed to symbolize, but now it looks like I’ve got competition from what’s in your front room as to which gives me the worst case of the heebie-jeebies,” Bogie remarked.

Guy pulled the privacy shades down on the pebbled glass windows on the walls and door separating the front office from her inner sanctum. “One would presume to find a dead falcon, not a raven, considering you’re in the middle of production for The Maltese Falcon.”

* * *

Excerpt from Bye Bye Blackbird by Elizabeth Crowens. Copyright 2025 by Elizabeth Crowens. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Crowens. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Elizabeth Crowens

Elizabeth Crowens is bi-coastal between Los Angeles and New York. For over thirty years, she has worn many hats in the entertainment industry, contributed stories to Black Belt, Black Gate, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazines, Hell’s Heart, and the Bram Stoker-nominated A New York State of Fright, and has a popular Caption Contest on Facebook.

Awards include: Leo B. Burstein Scholarship from the MWA-NY Chapter, New York Foundation of the Arts grant to publish the anthology New York: Give Me Your Best or Your Worst (no longer in print), Eric Hoffer Award, Glimmer Train Awards Honorable Mention, Killer Nashville Claymore Award Finalist, two Grand prize, six First prize, and multiple Finalist Chanticleer Awards. Crowens writes multi-genre alternate history and historical Hollywood mysteries.

Catch Up With Elizabeth Crowens:
www.ElizabethCrowens.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @ecrowens
Instagram – @crowens_author
LinkedIn
X – @ECrowens
BlueSky – @elizabethcrowens.bsky.social
Facebook – @thereel.elizabeth.crowens

 

 

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$15 GC & Review – Early Termination by Cindy Goyette @partnersincr1me @cindy_ccgoyette

EARLY TERMINATION

by Cindy Goyette

January 20 – February 14, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Cindy Goyette draws on her personal experience in Early Termination. What does she mean by Early Termination? There are two ways to get off probation. Be a model citizen…or die.

Probation Officer Casey Carson has issues. She is caught in a romantic triangle and she is on a gang’s hit list. Bodies are accumulating. She’s determined to figure out what’s going on, which puts a target on her back.

I found Casey to be an interesting character. I don’t know if I have ever read a book where the main character was a probation officer. We get an inside look into what that entails and I am intrigued.

The writing was top notch. The giant chicken was a nice touch. At times, I found myself laughing out loud and other times I sat white knuckled. The pacing kept me flipping pages, trying to figure out who the villain was, before Cindy Goyette revealed them to me. I didn’t see it coming and I love when an author can surprise me. Well done, Cindy.

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of Early Termination by Cindy Goyette.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

Synopsis:

A Probation Case Files Mystery

 

There are two ways to get off probation early. The first is to be a model citizen and complete all requirements imposed by the court. The second is to die. In Early Termination, Phoenix probation officer Casey Carson’s clients aren’t civic-minded, but they are dropping like flies.

She’s on a gang’s hit list, a detective’s suspect list, and is torn while two very hot men vie for her heart. As more clients die and a probationer accuses her of brutality, she becomes the focus of the investigation. Casey risks losing everything in her race to find the real killer, but doing so will put the target squarely on her back. She will need to find the person responsible for lightening her workload before she’s the one terminated.

Praise for Cindy Goyette’s Novels:

“A hard-charging crime novel powered by combustible realism and driven by a fresh, new heroine—probation officer Casey Carson. Buckle up for a wild, white-knuckle ride.”
~ Lee Goldberg, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“A dynamite start to an excellent new series. This is the kind of book that can grow legs and take off just by word of mouth. The character Casey Carson has grit, loyalty and honor. OBEY ALL LAWS is a topnotch thriller and I can’t wait for the next one. Author Cindy Goyette is here to stay.”
~ David Putnam the bestselling author of The Bruno Johnson series

“Cindy Goyette is a master with words. And she knows how to spin a tale! Drawing from rich life experiences in law enforcement, her characters jump from the page. Don’t miss a single sentence this gifted author writes.”
~ Judith L. Pearson, author of From Shadows to Life, The Wolves at the Door and Belly of the Beast

“A rollicking ride through the gritty world of feisty Probation Officer Casey Carson, a fantastic character with a heart as big and vast as the Arizona desert she calls home. When her probationers keep stacking up as homicide victims, Casey realizes that someone is sending her a message, and they’re dead serious about it. Now, she must unravel the sinister plot before she becomes the next victim. A complex, entertaining story that includes a secondary theme of romantic frustration simmering in the background, and a twisty ending that ensures we’ll see more adventures from Casey Carson. A great read! Five thumbs-up!”
~ Kerry Peresta, author of the Olivia Callahan Suspense series and Back Before Dawn

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 7, 2025
Number of Pages: 320
Series: A Probation Case Files Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

One

In probation work, there’s no such thing as a routine day at the office.

This morning, flashing red and blue lights guided me to the crime scene. Coming to a stop behind the coroner’s van, I parked my Jeep Wrangler and took a deep breath.

Coroner meant someone was dead. Not a good start to my day, but even worse for whoever I’d been called here about.

As I climbed out of my Jeep, I adjusted my sunglasses and surveyed the area. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the entrance to the canal. Red tile rooftops peeked over six-foot walls that separated the waterway from the middle-class sea of stucco on either side. The canal, about ten feet wide, snaked smack in the middle of a dirt pathway that residents used to get their steps in.

It was nearing the end of September, and I was grateful for the hint of the cooler weather that would dip below one hundred for the first time in months. Ninety degrees might seem hot to some, but in Arizona, it was sweater weather.

I walked up to a uniformed cop and held out my badge. “I’m with probation. Detective Ramsey asked me to come.”

It wasn’t unusual for the police to contact us, but it wasn’t common practice to be called to a crime scene. My curiosity mixed with dread.

The cop glanced at my identification. “Ms. Carson. Welcome to the shit show. Don’t touch anything.” He held the tape high so I could pass. I ducked underneath and secured my badge to my belt so the other officers could tell I belonged there.

Lots of Tempe Police blue uniforms and forensic staff mulled around the area, but I homed in on the tall, balding man standing close to the water. He had on plain clothes—khakis and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I figured he might be Ramsey, so I walked over to him.

He scribbled something on a small notepad and glanced at me as I approached. “You the PO?”

I nodded and dropped my gaze to the mound covered by a tarp at his feet. I wasn’t fond of seeing dead bodies. One reason I was a PO and not a cop.

“Thinking this might be one of your charges, Ms. Carson,” he said. “I gotta warn you, it’s not pretty. He was in the water for a while and birds, and god knows what else got to him. You got a strong stomach?”

No. At the mere thought of seeing the body, my breakfast threatened to make a reappearance, but I wouldn’t admit that. “I’m fine. Why do you think he was on my caseload?”

Ramsey shrugged. “Someone stuffed your business card in his mouth.”

I gulped air. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You ready?” Ramsey reached down and pulled the sheet back before I could respond.

A bloated, green face, missing chunks of cheek, greeted me. Bulging eyes looked skyward. Bran flakes swirled in my stomach and crested in my throat. Without a word, I ran to the canal and vomited so hard I thought I’d hack up a vital organ or two.

“You okay, ma’am?” Ramsey sounded bored.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and straightened. Memories of the same man, alive and animated, flashed in my mind. Not so long ago, he was proud of accomplishing a solid month of sobriety. Now, I hardly recognized him. “Could you put the sheet back?” I said, keeping my back to the body on the ground.

“Sure.”

I waited a moment to give Ramsey time to cover the corpse and to compose myself. But that would take a while, and the detective didn’t seem like he had a lot of patience. The relationship between police and probation was fickle. We often needed each other, but POs were on the lower end of the food chain.

When I finally turned around, Ramsey was tapping his pen against his notebook. “So, you know the guy, or what?”

“Brian Johnson,” I said. “He was on abscond status. Haven’t seen him for a few weeks, maybe a month. He was doing well, but then he stopped reporting. He probably relapsed. I was gearing up to request a warrant for probation violations. What do you think was the cause of death?”

Ramsey shrugged again. “Too soon to tell, but most people who die of natural causes don’t end up in a canal or send a message like your business card does. They preserved it in a plastic Baggie, so we’d get the point no matter how long it took to find him.

I felt even sicker. Was the message for me? “Couldn’t you ID him through fingerprints? I thought you had all kinds of tech gadgets for that.”

“Sure,” Ramsey said. “But then I wouldn’t have seen your reaction. Plus, some of his fingertips are missing and what’s left probably isn’t usable. Dental records take time.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Call me if you think of anything else I might need to know.”

I turned back to the canal and vomited until I had nothing left to give.

In probation work, there’s no such thing as a routine day at the office.

This morning, flashing red and blue lights guided me to the crime scene. Coming to a stop behind the coroner’s van, I parked my Jeep Wrangler and took a deep breath.

Coroner meant someone was dead. Not a good start to my day but even worse for whoever I’d been called here about.

As I climbed out of my Jeep, I adjusted my sunglasses and surveyed the area. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the entrance to the canal. Red tile rooftops peeked over six-foot walls that separated the waterway from the middle-class sea of stucco on either side. The canal, about ten feet wide, snaked smack in the middle of a dirt pathway that local residents used to get their steps in.

It was nearing the end of September, and I was grateful for the hint of the cooler weather that would dip below one hundred for the first time in months. Ninety degrees might seem hot to some, but in Arizona, it was sweater weather.

I walked up to a uniformed cop and held out my badge. “I’m with probation. Detective Ramsey asked me to come.”

It wasn’t unusual for police to contact us, but it wasn’t common practice to be called to a crime scene. My curiosity mixed with dread.

The cop glanced at my identification. “Ms. Carson. Welcome to the shit show. Don’t touch anything.” He held the tape high so I could pass. I ducked underneath and secured my badge to my belt so the other officers could tell I belonged there.

Lots of Tempe Police blue uniforms and forensic staff mulled around the area, but I homed in on the tall balding man standing close to the water. He was dressed in plain clothes—khakis and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I figured he might be Ramsey, so I walked over to him.

He scribbled something on a small notepad and glanced at me as I approached. “You the PO?”

I nodded and dropped my gaze to the mound covered by a tarp at his feet. I wasn’t fond of seeing dead bodies. One of the reasons, I was a PO and not a cop.

“Thinking this might be one of your charges, Ms. Carson,” he said. “I gotta warn you, it’s not pretty. He was in the water for a while and birds, and god knows what else got to him. You got a strong stomach?”

No. At the mere thought of seeing the body, my breakfast threatened to make a reappearance, but I wouldn’t admit that. “I’m fine. Why do you think he was on my caseload?”

Ramsey shrugged. “Your business card was stuffed in his mouth.”

I gulped air. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You ready?” Ramsey reached down and pulled the sheet back before I could respond.

The face before me was bloated, green, and missing chunks of cheek. Bulging eyes looked skyward. Bran flakes swirled in my stomach and crested in my throat. Without a word, I ran to the canal and vomited so hard, I thought I’d hack up a vital organ or two.

“You okay, ma’am?” Ramsey sounded bored.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and straightened. Memories of the same man, alive and animated flashed in my mind. Not so long ago, he was proud of accomplishing a solid month of sobriety. Now, I hardly recognized him. “Could you put the sheet back?” I said, keeping my back to the body on the ground.

“Sure.”

I waited a moment to give Ramsey time to cover the corpse and to compose myself. But that would take a while, and the detective didn’t seem like he had a lot of patience. The relationship between police and probation was fickle. We often needed each other, but POs were on the lower end of the food chain.

When I finally turned around, Ramsey was tapping his pen against his notebook. “So, you know the guy, or what?”

“Brian Johnson,” I said. “He was on abscond status. Haven’t seen him for a few weeks, maybe a month. He was doing well, but then he stopped reporting. He probably relapsed. I was gearing up to request a warrant for probation violations. What do you think was the cause of death?”

Ramsey shrugged again. “Too soon to tell, but most people who die of natural causes don’t end up in a canal or send a message like your business card does. It was preserved in a plastic Baggie, so we’d get the point no matter how long it took to find him.”

I felt even sicker. Was the message for me? “Couldn’t you ID him through fingerprints? I thought you had all kinds of tech gadgets for that.”

“Sure,” Ramsey said. “But then I wouldn’t have seen your reaction. Plus, some of his fingertips are missing and what’s left probably isn’t usable. Dental records take time.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Call me if you think of anything else I might need to know.”

I turned back to the canal and vomited until I had nothing left to give.

***

Excerpt from Early Termination by Cindy Goyette. Copyright 2025 by Cindy Goyette. Reproduced with permission from Cindy Goyette. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Cindy Goyette

Cindy Goyette is a former probation officer who had a front row seat to the criminal justice system. She kept her sanity by finding humor in most situations. A mix of these things helped her create The Probation Case Files Mystery Series, Book 1, OBEY ALL LAWS won a PSWA Award for best suspense, and was published in January of 2024. Book 2, EARLY TERMINATION, released January of 2025. Her first cozy mystery, DIAMOND IN THE RUFF, will release in May of 2025. After spending over twenty years in Arizona, Cindy lives in Washington state with her husband and two Cocker Spaniels.

Catch Up With Cindy Goyette:
CCGoyette.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
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Instagram – @cindy.goyette
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X – @cindy_ccgoyette
Facebook

 

 

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$50 GC – Rented Grave by Charles Philipp Martin @partnersincr1me

Rented Grave by Charles Philipp Martin Banner

RENTED GRAVE

by Charles Philipp Martin

February 3 – 28, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Rented Grave by Charles Martin

AN INSPECTOR LOK NOVEL

 

Horace Yang, a downtrodden office worker haunted by failure, betrayal, and brutal imprisonment during Mao’s Cultural Revolution, has finally found a way to settle the score. Obsessed with revenge, he presses on to a confrontation that can only end in death.

​In Hong Kong’s teeming Yau Ma Tei district, a body is found in a gangster’s limousine. The murder case takes Inspector Lok and his team deep into the heart of the city’s criminal life. Eventually Lok’s investigation uncovers an evil spawned in the turmoil of 1960s China, where a vicious regime exploited fear and terrorized the masses.

Rented Grave is a crime story about Hong Kong, a modern city entangled in China’s past. Some can’t forget that past, for their wounds still bleed, and their voices still cry out for revenge.

Praise for Rented Grave:

“An atmospheric crime story savvily blending the sleek modernity of Hong Kong with China’s tumultuous past.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

“In noir, nothing goes according to plan. Charles Philip Martin’s RENTED GRAVE we have a crime, done in a different culture, against an alien political backdrop. Everything is different to Western eyes, from corruption to police procedure, women, and justice. Told in a crisp, vivid and relentless style that keeps the story moving forward and the mindset and values of a foreign city and its people at the fingertips, yet out of reach, Martin delivers noir in the darkest of shades.”
~ Gabriel Valjan, Agatha, Anthony, and Shamus-nominated author of the Shane Cleary series​

“…lean and masterfully written…This book pulls you in and won’t let go.”
~ Carl Vonderau, award-winning author of MURDERABILIA and SAVING MYLES​

Rented Grave is a beautifully-crafted, relentlessly-paced crime story studded with edge-of-your-seat thrills. Never for a moment does it stop bubbling with tension and danger.”
~ Ron McMillan, author of YIN YANG TATTOO and BANGKOK COWBOY

“An as-authentic-as-you’re-likely-to-get insider’s view of Hong Kong police work…Martin pulls the reader through a twisty international thriller that ultimately satisfies while leaving us ready for the next installment. Exactly what you want in a thriller.”
~ Bobby Mathews, Anthony-nominated author of MAGIC CITY BLUES, LIVING THE GIMMICK, and NEGATIVE TILT

“The criminal back alleys of Charles Philipp Martin’s Hong Kong simmer with sumptuous corruption.”
~ Gerald Elias, award-winning author of the Daniel Jacobus mysteries

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: August 13, 2024
Number of Pages: 270
ISBN: 9781685126780 (ISBN10: 1685126782)
Series: An Inspector Lok Novel, 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Rented Grave

Yau Ma Tei District, Hong Kong, Friday, 7:31 p.m. It was not supposed to be like this.

Again the words come back to Horace Yang, persistent as the cat he kicks in the alley by his home, that wretched bag of fur that returns nightly to beg for what Horace doesn’t have.

The words come back, like the blotch on his toe, a mustard-colored rot that vanishes with a touch of rice vinegar, only to bloom again when it dries.

He banishes the words from his mind, but they return.

It was not supposed to be like this.

They return when he awakens in his flat, which seems to shrink by the year, and again when he takes the day’s work orders and prepares for the day’s disappointments.

It was not supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be different.

The words remain after other words are forgotten. They remain after he answers a question from his son, a boy without guile and without future. At night they keep him company in bed, while he counts the ways that life has thwarted him. And now they return in full voice as he clutches a knife bought in haste to kill a man.

There should have been time to plan, time to choose the weapon and the place, perhaps even a minute to tell Mo what he thought of him first. That would have felt good, might have eased the stress. That was how it was supposed to be.

But for Horace, things are never as they’re supposed to be.

It should be dark, but darkness, like silence, doesn’t happen in Mongkok. A faint glow washes in from lamps on Temple Street. Filthy and forgotten windows at the back of the restaurant shed their anemic light on crates full of rotting choi sum.

Horace approaches the dormant limousine, adding a few inches to his stride to speed things up.

Given more time, he could have taken control, and not had to sneak around. Why is it that people like him, who have the best minds and the keenest ambition, are the ones who can never get control?

One last look around. Except for Horace, the alley is empty. No one is passing on Temple Street behind him or on Woosung Street at the far end. If it’s to happen, it must happen now.

Horace grabs the handle and throws the door wide open to reveal a small figure in the glint of the dome light.

“Who…?” The man stares up in confusion.

He drives the knife into the man’s chest. They both gasp.

Up to this moment, Horace has thought only of himself: his own need for cover, for speed, for getting the thing done and getting away. And, of course, his resentment at how things have turned out.

Now, the deed done, he pauses to look at the man.

The wrong man. Not Mo Tun.

A stranger lies on the seat, eyes rigid in horror and pain. And then Horace sees what he hasn’t allowed himself to see till now.

Next to the dead man, another pair of eyes.

***

Excerpt from Rented Grave by Charles Martin. Copyright 2025 by Charles Martin. Reproduced with permission from Charles Martin. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Charles Philipp Martin

Charles Philipp Martin grew up in New York City’s Greenwich Village. His father was an opera conductor and both his parents well-known opera translators and librettists who never uttered the word “parenting” but knew enough to steep their family in music and literature. After attending Columbia University and Manhattan School of Music, Martin took off for a six-year paid vacation in the Hong Kong Philharmonic Orchestra.

While in Hong Kong he hung up his bow and turned to writing, spending four years as a Sunday Magazine columnist for the South China Morning Post, and writing for magazines all over Southeast Asia. His weekly jazz radio show 3 O’Clock Jump was heard every Saturday on Hong Kong’s Radio 3 for some two decades.

Neon Panic, a suspense novel which introduced Hong Kong policeman Inspector Herman Lok, was published in 2011. His most recent novel is Rented Grave, the first in a new series featuring Inspector Herman Lok. Martin now lives in Seattle with his wife Catherine.

Catch Up With Charles Philipp Martin:
www.NeonPanic.com
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Goodreads – @cpmartin
Instagram – @writecharliewrite
Bluesky – @neonpanic.bsky.social
Facebook – @HongKongSuspense

 

 

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Giveaway – A Tisket A Tasket Not Another Casket by Heather Weidner @dollycas


A Tisket A Tasket Not Another Casket: A Mermaid Bay Christmas Shoppe Mystery
by Heather Weidner

About A Tisket A Tasket Not Another Casket

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A Tisket A Tasket Not Another Casket: A Mermaid Bay Christmas Shoppe Mystery
Cozy Mystery
3rd in Series
Setting – Virginia
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Level Best Books (January 14, 2025)
Print length ‏ : ‎ 277 pages
ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0DRZ7N3XW

Excitement is in the air as everyone in Mermaid Bay is preparing for the Christmas season. This year promises to be more dazzling than ever when the business council sponsors a competition for the town’s lucrative summer fireworks contract. The quaint little beach town is ready to be wowed with choreographed shows and drone action that light up the night sky.

Instead of goodwill and sparkles, two of the teams take the competition to new lows with corporate espionage, feuds, and sabotage, and Jade and her team at ‘Tis the Season are ground zero for all the explosive action. When one of the competitors turns up murdered near Jade’s shop, she has to solve the mystery before the holidays are ruined.

About Heather Weidner

Through the years, Heather Weidner has been a cop’s kid, technical writer, editor, college professor, software tester, and IT manager. She writes the Jules Keene Glamping Mysteries, the Mermaid Bay Christmas Shoppe Mysteries, the Delanie Fitzgerald Mysteries, and the Pearly Girls Mysteries.

Her short stories appear in the Virginia is for Mysteries series, 50 Shades of Cabernet, Deadly Southern Charm, and Murder by the Glass, and she has non-fiction pieces in Promophobia and The Secret Ingredient: A Mystery Writers’ Cookbook.

She is a member of Sisters in Crime: National, Central Virginia, Chessie, Guppies, and Grand Canyon Writers, International Thriller Writers, and James River Writers, and she blogs regularly with the Writers Who Kill.

Originally from Virginia Beach, Heather has been a mystery fan since Scooby-Doo and Nancy Drew. She lives in Central Virginia with her husband and a pair of Jack Russell terriers.

Author Links

Website and Blog: http://www.heatherweidner.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HeatherWeidnerAuthor

Purchase Link – Amazon 

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$20 GC & Review – Deadly When Disturbed by D M Barr @partnersincr1me

Deadly When Disturbed by DM Barr Banner

DEADLY WHEN DISTURBED

by DM Barr

January 13 – 31, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

I love the fabulous cover for Deadly When Disturbed by D M Barr. It definitely fits the story for this psychological thriller. D M Barr hooked me from the opening pages and never let me go.

Dara Banks needs an assistant and Merry just happens to be there. Merry quickly makes herself indispensable, even insinuating herself into Dara’s personal life. You know that saying, when things appear to good to be true, they usually are. Well…Dara would do well to heed the warning.

Menace and suspense underlay every page. I know something is coming, but I don’t know what and and I don’t know when. I feel a sense of suspense, that, at times, had me racing through the pages. Other times, I took a step back, because I wanted to savor the anticipation.

Sex, brains, and cash – that’s all you needed to get by.

Too bad Merry will find out how wrong she could be.

Like I said earlier, I was hooked from the opening pages. The characters were compelling and I was so easily misled by them, that I never saw the ending coming. I love when an author can get me so involved, convinced I know what’s happening, then springs the unknown on me, making me see how wrong I was.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

Synopsis:

Deadly When Disturbed by DM Barr

Deadly When Disturbed follows the journey of leading Realtor and philanthropist Dara Banks. When Dara searches for an assistant, finding someone as resourceful as Meryl “Merry” Rafter seems too good to be true. So good in fact, she neglects to run a reference check. Bad move. Before she knows it, Merry, a former “actress” trying to be “helpful,” has insinuated herself into Dara’s business, family, and charity, and may be the only person saving her from prison. Dara becomes suspicious and begins snooping into Merry’s past. Feeling cornered, Merry reciprocates by launching an investigation of her own and realizes—too late—that she may have picked the wrong mark to con. These women’s unsettling discoveries, and their desperate efforts to safeguard their skeleton-filled closets and fragile self-images, lead to an explosive confrontation certain to destroy the lives of everyone in their midst.

Praise for Deadly When Disturbed:

“Two women. Friends? Hardly. They’re both after the same thing. And as the stakes get higher, the mind games get uglier, until—well, I’m not going to give away the killer ending. D. M. Barr’s latest domestic thriller is a total rush. It’s like being back with Betty and Veronica all over again—only this ain’t high school, and these women (like the title says) are DEADLY WHEN DISTURBED.”
~ Marshall Karp, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of the NYPD RED series

“Who’s the hunter and who’s the hunted in this taut domestic thriller? Don’t even try to guess. Just relax, enjoy, and hang on as DEADLY WHEN DISTURBED takes you on a wild ride.”
~ Brad Parks, international bestselling author of THE BOUNDARIES WE CROSS.

“Tense, well-written, and surprising—Liane Moriarty meets Gillian Flynn by way of John Lutz in D.M. Barr’s latest domestic thriller, DEADLY WHEN DISTURBED. Gaslighting and suburban intrigue abound in this carefully crafted tale, guaranteed to keep you in suspense all the way to the final chapter. Put this one at the top of your to-be-read pile!”
~ Richard Helms, Thriller, Macavity, and Shamus Awards winning author of 22 RUE MONTPARNASSE.

DEADLY WHEN DISTURBED is a superb dark thriller that offers a brilliantly written bizarro take on the classic All About Eve. Shifts in reality and twists of the plot keep the reader on edge until the stunning and unexpected climax. Fasten your seatbelt and hang on. It’s a great ride.”
~ S. Lee Manning, award-winning author of TROJAN HORSE, NERVE ATTACK, BLOODY SOIL, and DEADLY CHOICE.

DEADLY WHEN DISTURBED by D.M. Barr is a clever psychological thriller reminiscent of The Hand That Rocks The Cradle, updated for today’s culture and with a superior narrative.… With a steady and increasingly intense pace, [it] is a hypnotic read of insanity and wretchedness that will stay with you long after the last page.”
~ Gaius Konstantine for Readers’ Favorite

Deadly When Disturbed Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Suspense, Domestic Thriller
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 2025
Number of Pages: 310
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

She stood at her dining room table and calmly fingered through the cardboard box, double-checking that the paperwork was in chronological order. Even now, no one could accuse Samantha Ellingsworth of being anything but organized and precise. For nearly forty years, it had been both a gift and a curse.

First the letters from Harry, professing his incendiary ardor during their abbreviated law school courtship. The GIA certificate for the diamond, his glittering promise of passion extending through eternity. The deed to their Upper West side condo. A copy of her resignation from Davis & Milliken, where she’d been on the fast track to partner. The birth certificates for her daughter, dated a year later, and the surprise twins, ten years after that.

Next, the children’s coveted acceptance letters from Harrison—Manhattan’s most elite private pre-school and elementary—followed by every one of the glowing report cards she’d worked with them so diligently to earn. Campaign flyers she’d created for Harry’s run for state senate. Her passport opened to the page containing the stamp from that fateful trip to Aruba. The letters she’d written, refuting everything he’d accused her of as lies—all unopened and marked “Return to Sender.” The prescription for Prozac, unfilled, as if any pharmaceutical could rescue her from this pit of depression. Finally, the divorce papers she’d received a few weeks ago, still unsigned.

A lifetime of aspirations, misunderstandings, and betrayals, all encapsulated in a pile of paper less than an inch thick. She affixed the cover to the box and took a long, wistful look at the “perfect” apartment they’d been so ecstatic about buying, beating out several competing bids thanks to the lingering cachet of the Ellingsworth name and its clout in political circles. Confident that the condo was spotless, with everything in its place, Samantha slowly donned her hooded sheepskin coat, grabbed the box, and headed out.

The elevator operator nodded as she entered, but Gloria from the floor above murmured a curt hello and diverted her gaze as they descended from the seventh floor. Samantha had grown used to the frostiness over the past few weeks. Did the other tenants fear it was catching, that they too might be abandoned by their spouse and children, their lives reduced to rubble, if they inched too close? Whatever.

She trudged southbound through the early morning wintery mix; package still cradled to her chest like a newborn. Frigid raindrops grazed her eyelashes before cascading downward and stinging her cheeks as she passed the signs in Zabars’ windows, reminding patrons to purchase their Thanksgiving turkeys. The holiday was only days away. The irony did not escape her.

Shivering as much from the weather as from what lay ahead, she descended the subway staircase at 72nd Street, pushing against the throngs headed toward the sidewalk. She had someplace to go too and nothing—not crowds nor apprehension—was going to delay her.

Today was the day, a chance to have her say. Finally, she’d make him understand.

Samantha ran her MetroCard through the turnstile and headed toward the stairway leading to the uptown train. She positioned herself as close as possible to the opening of the tunnel and stood by the edge of the platform, resummoning her fleeting courage as the crowds swelled behind her. Commuters too involved with their phones to notice the determined woman beside them whose breathing had quickened and whose face had grown hot. She hugged the box even tighter to her fidgeting body and waited. And waited.

A collective sigh arose from the crowd as the loudspeaker announced that the next train was going out of service and wouldn’t be stopping. She saw the light in the distance and heard the clunk-de-clunk and whirl—a deafening gale descending onto the tracks, drowning out the murmur of the passengers. Her ride to the most important meeting of her life. And it was the number 2 train. How appropriate. Just like her, relegated from number one.

Timing was everything, the oncoming gleam only yards away. She tightened her grasp on what was left of her world, recalling the face of the bitch who’d laughed as she’d stolen it all away. Then she took one last breath and jumped onto the tracks.

***

Excerpt from Deadly When Disturbed by DM Barr. Copyright 2025 by DM Barr. Reproduced with permission from DM Barr. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

DM Barr

Dawn M. Barclay is an award-winning author who writes psychological and romantic suspense as D.M. Barr and non-fiction under her own name.

Her eight other published books include Expired Listings, Murder Worth the Weight, and Saving Grace: A Psychological Thriller. Along with Deadly When Disturbed, in February LBB will also publish the first of her multi-volume series, Vacations Can Be Murder: A True Crime Lover’s Travel Guide.

Dawn recently completed her second stint co-editing a Sisters in Crime NY/Tri-state anthology. New York State of Crime, published by Down & Out Books in the fall of 2024, which includes her third published short story, “Orchestral Removals in the Dark.” She is currently editing an anthology of crime fiction for Down & Out Books inspired by the music of Elton John and Bernie Taupin.

Dawn offers developmental and copy editing through SuggestedDevelopment.com, and ghostwrites personal histories and corporate profiles through LegacyQuest.net. A member of ITW, she has served as president of Hudson Valley Scribes, vice president of Sisters in Crime-NY (still a board member), and the newsletter author/board member of the NY chapter of Mystery Writers of America.

Catch Up With DM Barr:
www.DMBarr.com
Goodreads – @DMBarr
BookBub – @DMBarr
Instagram – @AuthorDMBarr
Threads – @AuthorDMBarr
YouTube – @BarrSinister-m7u
Bluesky – @AuthorDMBarr
YouTube – @BarrSinister-m7u
Facebook – @AuthorDMBarr
TikTok – @AuthorDMBarr

 

 

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