tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50409021421505412182024-03-14T04:08:45.005+01:00Bookishly Meconfessions of a book addictKim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.comBlogger221125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-16755470135653015872018-03-29T06:00:00.000+02:002018-03-29T06:00:04.074+02:00Jinxed by Thommy Hutson<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/jinxed-thommy-hutson/"><img alt="Jinxed by Thommy Hutson Tour Banner" class="aligncenter size-large" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/jinxed-thommy-hutson-banner.jpg" height="300" width="600" /></a>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Jinxed</h1>
<h2>
by Thommy Hutson</h2>
<h3>
on Tour March 12 - May 11, 2018</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="Jinxed by Thommy Hutson" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/jinxed-thommy-hutson-20180118_HiRes.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<strong>"Thommy Hutson is the ultimate authority in nostalgia-driven storytelling."</strong><br />
~ Clive Barker, Bestselling Author of <em>Books of Blood</em> and <em>The Thief of Always</em><br />
<br />
<h3>
High School Can Be a Real Killer</h3>
<h4>
Break a mirror<br />
Walk under a ladder<br />
Step on a crack</h4>
Innocent childhood superstitions …<br />
But someone at the secluded Trask Academy of Performing Arts is taking things one deadly step further when the campus is rocked with the deaths of some of its star students.<br />
Layna Curtis, a talented, popular senior, soon realizes that the seemingly random, accidental deaths of her friends aren’t random—or accidents—at all. Someone has taken the childhood games too far, using the idea of superstitions to dispose of their classmates. As Layna tries to convince people of her theory, she uncovers the terrifying notion that each escalating, gruesome murder leads closer to its final victim: her.<br />
<h3>
Will Layna’s opening night also be her final bow?</h3>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> YA HORROR/THRILLER<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Vesuvian Books<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> March 13th 2018<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 244<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 978-1944109127<br />
<strong>Series:</strong> This is the first in a new trilogy, each is a stand alone but with a teaser for the upcoming book you won't want to miss!!<br />
<strong>Get Your Copy from:</strong> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jinxed-Thommy-Hutson/dp/1944109129?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> & <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/jinxed-thommy-hutson/1127279290?ean=2940154919453" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>! Plus add it on <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37593070-jinxed" target="_blank">Goodreads!</a></blockquote>
It has been a really long time since I read a book like Jinxed. I really like reading horror (not movies though I hate horror movies) and I really enjoyed Jinxed.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>If you are a bit squeamish then you will probably not like Jinxed because it is very grafic and has this whole teen slasher movie type of feel. Thommy Hutson really knows how to draw you in and just won't let go. And I never expected that ending.<br />
The story is fast paced which made sure that I could hardly put the book down and the suspense is a real killer in this book.<br />
<br />
I am definately looking forward to the next book.<br />
<br />
My rating: 4/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt from Jinxed by Thommy Hutson:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<br />
<h2>
Prologue</h2>
<br />
The small private island was a mystery.<br />
This, even when so many knew, or thought they knew, what was going on twenty-two miles off the coast of Seattle, on the strip of land named after the very rich and very dead Cadogan Trask. Protected like so much of the Pacific Northwest by Douglas firs, red alders, and bigleaf maples, Trask Island, a blister in the water, seemed mythical. Very little was known about the reclusive man who bought the uninhabited plot in the 19th century, later developing it to suit his tastes. His personal life and his purpose, just like his eponymous island, were ensconced in a thick, white mist. One day there, the next not.<br />
Over the years, worry about Trask the place and Trask the man ebbed and flowed. No one dared argue that business on the island brought money and a small amount of prestige to the area, but there was <i>something</i> about it.<br />
The same people who sang its praises also gawked and wondered and preached about whether its gifts matched its detractions. All of those armchair whatchamacallits peeked out the windows of their glass houses into their neighbors’ glass houses and threw not stones, but boulders.<br />
Always, always, they asked the same question: <i>Why must a high school be so private?</i><br />
The institution was nestled behind a wall of nature so beautiful that an equal number wondered how anything about it could be bad. A school for the gifted and talented. A place where children with an affinity for dance, voice, drama, art, and communications would be nurtured. A place where stars were born to shine.<br />
But bad is a relative word.<br />
And stars fall from the sky.<br />
Still, the answer to the question on so many minds of what was really going on with those who were lucky enough, and rich enough, to find themselves hidden within its sacred <i>I hope I get in please God let me get in</i> walls?<br />
Well, the answer was simple.<br />
Secrets.<br />
And not so simple.<br />
Lies.<br />
***<br />
<i>Spring, 1998</i><br />
Trask Academy of Performing Arts was, indeed, very private.<br />
The campus lay upon acre after acre of rolling green hills. Tall, age-old trees swarmed the landscape. Sturdy, dark red-bricked buildings were scattered about. Cobblestone sidewalks—concrete wouldn’t do, and asphalt was far too unsightly—snaked their way through and around the campus. Surrounding all of this flora, not to mention brick-and-mortar money, was a thick-ledged stone fence complete with wrought iron. The ornamental finials topping each spire had three-edged spear points. The borders weren’t sharp enough to cut, but the tips were fine enough to puncture. And at only one point along the entire perimeter was there a gate.<br />
One way in. One way out.<br />
Down one of those lamp-lit walkways, in its own enclave, was Williams Hall, a beautiful sandstone and cerulean tiled theater fashioned in a Romanesque style. A bell tower, now long out of use, still kept watch over the surroundings. The only modern accoutrement, though some would say eyesore, was the building’s large, white marquee, added during the 1980s when, presumably, a faculty member, or perhaps a wealthy donor, convinced the school’s administration flashing lights were all the rage. Its large black letters read:<br />
<h4>
52nd Annual Trask Academy of Performing Arts Showcase</h4>
Inside, rehearsal ran late.<br />
The long fluorescent-lit hallway was filled with leg-warmered young dancers packing their bags. Actors filed away their scripts. Singers stopped their warbling. All seniors. Almost all rich. Wrapping up a rehearsal in the school’s premier venue for the school’s premier event.<br />
Begun in 1946, the Trask Academy of Performing Arts Annual Showcase saw the best and brightest of the graduating class perform for a lucky invited audience. The theater’s fifteen hundred seats filled with relatives, talent scouts, agents, bookers, managers. Hollywood and Broadway knew that those fortunate enough to study at Trask were groomed to be unsurpassed in their field, and what better way to find the stars of tomorrow than to watch the hopefuls of today. Rich daddies and mommies prayed the exorbitant tuition fees had paid off. Rumors swirled the cost to attend the school was as high as one hundred thousand dollars a year, which would make it one of the most expensive private schools in the world. For those prices, check writers expected nothing but the best.<br />
And Hell hath no fury if they didn’t get it.<br />
Amanda Kincaid was working to be the best. She sat on the stage alone, dressed casually in dark jeans and a top that showed just this side of too much. She was a pretty girl and, at nineteen, a year older than most of the other seniors. Her age made her more serious, and more guarded. Her dark hair, normally wavy, was pulled back tight. She wasn’t a dancer, not really, but she felt the hairstyle made her look the part of a performer. Whatever part that was.<br />
When she heard the last door of the night slam, she knew she was finally alone. She could now work without the worry of being judged by everyone around her. She was a good actress, she knew that. But that wasn’t enough, and she also knew that.<br />
Standing up, she grabbed her script. She promised herself that tonight was the night she would not peek at her lines. She knew them. She had to. It wasn’t going to be like Showcase 1995—<br />
<i>Karen Reasmith stopped in the middle of her piece, mouth agape, spotlight burning down on her as if she were caught trying to escape prison.</i><br />
<i>She had forgotten her lines.</i><br />
<i>The adults in the audience, who could cut deeper than any razor, sat in irritated silence, while the other students lovingly absorbed the crash and burn before their eyes. A train wreck of epic schadenfreude. Karen looked around, helpless, hoping she could be saved from herself. But all that came were tears as she tore off the stage.</i><br />
Amanda thought of the joke around campus for those new kids who didn’t understand how serious Trask pupils took their performing arts studies. They’d ask, “Did you ever hear of Karen Reasmith?” When incoming students answered in the negative, the upperclassman would respond, “Exactly.” Testosterone high-fives and estrogen giggles followed as they walked away from newbies who rolled their eyes.<br />
But Amanda understood what the newcomers didn’t. Couldn’t, at least not so quickly. Karen had blown it. She would never even get a chorus audition in a touring show. Casting agents loved to talk. And what they loved to do more than talk was gossip. By the time Karen had packed her bags and left the compound, her talent was already colder than the iceberg that had sunk the Titanic.<br />
Except that the Titanic had survivors.<br />
Amanda shook off the memory of Karen Reasmith and focused. Her tongue darted around her red-lipped mouth, preparing to utter chilling words as she channeled Euripides’ <i>Medea</i>.<br />
“In vain, my children, have I brought you up, Borne all the cares and pangs of motherhood, And the sharp pains of childbirth undergone. In you, alas, was treasured—”<br />
Suddenly every light went out, leaving Amanda alone in blackness.<br />
Even the ghost light’s exposed incandescent bulb had gone out, which made her anxious. Amanda knew the ghost light was a big deal, if only a superstition. She was aware of the firmly held belief that every theater had a ghost. And not <i>Phantom of the Opera</i> ghosts who taught beautiful, young women to become chanteuses. No, these were simply the spirits, perhaps of performers long dead, who remained in the place they once loved. Perhaps the ghost light allowed them to perform their own works when no one was around. Or maybe they just liked to watch performances.<br />
<i>Nonsense</i>, Amanda thought. <i>The light is there so we don’t fall into the orchestra pit. Or something.</i><br />
Still, she didn’t like it being out. Just in case. Of whatever frightening case might be out there.<br />
And then the noise came. Softly at first, but building in volume. It seemed to emanate from the back right of the auditorium. It sounded like the moan of a dead person who most decidedly did not want to be dead. Like a zombie upon its victim, ready to sink yellow and black teeth into the soft flesh of a neck, tearing out tendons, arteries, a larynx.<br />
Amanda’s breathing grew faster, shallower. She felt as if she were standing in the cold, black reaches of space. Tiny hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Her mouth opened, ready to scream.<br />
Amanda knew she should have been alone. And she knew she was not. But she stopped herself short of screaming. Instead, she cocked her head as the ghastly voice grew louder, transforming into something else, like something off one of those cheap Halloween sound effects tapes. Her split-second shudder of fear gave way to the crack of an embarrassed smile, then annoyance.<br />
“Seriously? Not funny!” Amanda yelled out, her voice coming back at her with the faintest echo. Her words stopped the not-so-sound-effect sound effect. “I’m trying to work here,” she added matter-of-factly. She smirked. She waited. <i>I’m ready when you are, idiots</i>. When nothing happened, she took a step to her left.<br />
“Dare you try to cross without the guidance of the ghost light?” a voice boomed. Amanda let out a small yelp. “Who can know what evils from the past lurk within these hallowed walls?”<br />
<i>Wait a minute</i>, she realized. <i>I know that voice</i>. Despite the darkness, she moved in circles, calling out.<br />
“If anything evil does linger, it’s probably from your pathetic performance, Marcus.”<br />
She carefully shifted closer to the stage’s left wing. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw she was inches away from one of the thick, black curtains that prevented audiences from seeing backstage. The material was moving, ever so slightly. <i>Who is that</i>? <i>What dashed away behind the barrier?</i> She had to know, needed to. She slowly reached for the fabric and started to tug on it—<br />
A reverberating audio feedback filled the auditorium. Amanda reeled, falling on her tailbone. Then, silence.<br />
The bulb inside the cage of the ghost light came to life.<br />
Someone had been right there. Not anymore.<br />
“Oh, come on. Did I bruise your fragile ego?” she asked cynically. She got no response and decided she was over this game. She really did need to practice.<br />
“Fine, whatever. Can you please turn the stage lights—”<br />
They came back on before she could finish.<br />
<i>Jerks</i>, she thought.<br />
She looked back down at her script. Mumbling the words to get back to her place, she heard a rustling deep backstage. Hushed voices talking fast. Getting more strident. Urgent.<br />
<i>Inconsiderate jerks</i>. Looking up, she projected to the back of the auditorium.<br />
“In you, alas, was treasured many a hope of loving sustentation in my age, of tender laying out when I was dead—”<br />
“Do something!” a voice said harshly backstage.<br />
A female voice that Amanda couldn’t make out responded, “Just go, just go!” It sounded like she might have been crying.<br />
Amanda stopped worrying about her performance. She stopped wondering who was scuttling around. She was concerned that something was wrong. These people had laughed at first, but now they sounded worried. And very frightened.<br />
So was Amanda. She stepped toward the left wing once again, this time with purpose. Something slammed backstage. Amanda screamed, threw her hands to her mouth, and let script pages flutter to the ground in a jumbled mess she would normally have cared about, but not now. Something was happening. Her expression turned to sour terror when she saw it.<br />
Smoke.<br />
Thick dark billows wafting up from backstage.<br />
“Oh my God.” She instinctively reached forward for the curtain, calling out. “Are you guys all—”<br />
As she drew the curtain back, Amanda watched ravenous flames grow with a fresh gust of delicious, necessary oxygen. She was thrown as the heat slapped her body.<br />
Crawling backward, she stumbled to her feet, turned to run, and screamed again, this time louder. She barely missed falling into the orchestra pit ten feet below.<br />
“Help me!” she cried, looking around frantically, noticing the pages of her script dancing in a small vortex of flame, smoke, and heat. Flames licked the ceiling and rained dripping bits of burning material down. An ember from a set piece dropped to her arm, searing her flesh. She whimpered, hot tears flowing down her face. Another ember, another burn.<br />
Desperate, Amanda tried to use her hands to wave away the smoke, but it was too thick. Coughing, she pushed toward a set of exit doors off the left wing of the stage. She imagined the fresh evening air outside, but her arms almost snapped when she slammed into the door that would not open.<br />
For a moment Amanda wasn’t sure what was going on, but another ember landed on her hair and began smoldering, bringing her back. She swatted at it, screaming. She got up and tried the door again. It wouldn’t budge. She pounded on it.<br />
“Help me! Somebo—”<br />
Amanda violently coughed. She looked around, water in her eyes from fear and fire. The conflagration had engulfed the auditorium and Amanda, rushing to the stage again, realized she was at the center of it all.<br />
A twisted, groaning came from above and, realizing just in time what it was, she scurried as a lighting rig swung right past her.<br />
She didn’t have much time. More and more fly ropes snapped in the heat. Scene flats crashed to the floor. The glass lamp of the ghost light exploded. Disoriented, Amanda stumbled across the stage as smoke stung her eyes and heat filled her lungs.<br />
Colored lights above burst and shattered, sending glass shards raining upon her. She covered her head, not seeing the snapped cable heading toward her.<br />
It belted her in the leg, drawing a deep, thick gash and sending her sailing over the front of the stage.<br />
Into the orchestra pit.<br />
Her head hit the wooden floor with a crack. Her leg twisted at an odd angle. She was not going anywhere.<br />
<i>It’s so much cooler down here</i>, she thought sadly. The fire drew closer as debris rained down around her. She looked high above and saw fire crawl up the curtains, licking at the Trask Academy of Performing Arts crest. Its enamel sheen bubbled in the heat.<br />
The fire upon her, Amanda felt her skin burn. She used her left hand to rub the fire from her right arm, but everything sloughed off the bone in large, bloody, sinewy chunks. The pain was excruciating. She had been sure, when talking with friends about terrible ways to die, that after a few seconds fire would have extinguished any sense of pain, or that her body would dull it enough to make it more manageable.<br />
She thought how wrong she had been.<br />
She felt every lick of flame as if a galaxy of the hottest stars were slowly stabbing through her. Her head lolled to one side. Her screams withered. She wanted to cry out, but instinct had its hold on her, and the heat she felt every time her lungs sucked in was too great.<br />
The air itself had become a scorching hell.<br />
She saw little blobs of dancing light as she held, held, held her breath. The world was just about black when another jolt of pain brought her back, as if a gleaming, hot needle had been shoved into her iris. While the blinding orange and yellow of one thousand degree flames ravaged her body, she saw nothing.<br />
Her lack of vision was not due to the agonizing pain. Or the shock that racked her body. The heat was so great that her eyes exploded, like eggs bursting in a microwave.<br />
The young girl with so much life ahead of her was as good as dead. A burning husk of a person. The unconscious fear of suffocating grew to be too much, and she sucked in a giant rush of heat that melted the delicate, paper-thin tissue of her lungs. It was a pain so much worse than breathing in water from the lake where she and her friends would go swimming. Long before she had come to this school.<br />
As the little oxygen left in her bloodstream wended its way through her dying shell, strange fleeting thoughts crossed her mind. It wasn’t, as everyone said, a movie-like assemblage of her life playing at breakneck speed. It was, simply, random moments. The first time she saw<i>The Wizard of Oz</i> and wanted to be Dorothy. Riding her pink bicycle in the grassy front yard of her house, yelling for anyone to watch her ring the tiny bell on the handlebars. Hitting her babysitter’s older brother in the face with a snowball, upset and confused that she could make a big boy cry. Screaming on a roller-coaster with her former best friend, Shelly, sure she was going to pee her pants from laughing.<br />
Then it was over. Her human light faded, faded, faded with one last thought.<br />
<i>The baby.</i><br />
<h1>
CHAPTER 1</h1>
<i>Present day</i><br />
Silver moonlight cast a pall over the remains of the burnt, condemned theater that kept watch over the school campus. Even with a new, more open brick façade already complete as part of the school’s very expensive renovation, the scaffolding snaking around and up its walls read like the twisted bones of a skeleton deep inside a closet. But that fabled darkness, coupled with its offer of shadowed cover from faculty, made the theater a prime location for itchy students to scratch their desires, test their mettle, and relish in stories that brought back the dead.<br />
“Some say you can still hear her screams in the still of the night.”<br />
The voice of the storyteller belonged to Max Reynolds. He was standing in front of the building, staring up at it as he spoke. A senior with well-toned arms that stretched his tight, white T-shirt, he looked pleased with himself as he waited for a response. His structured, boyish face wasn’t always smiling, but when it did, it charmed everyone. This was one of those times.<br />
“Lame, lame, lame,” said Layna Curtis. A sarcastic smile grew from her full, naturally red lips. “Let’s be real, not only has that story been told before about a jillion times, it’s been told way, way better.” She sighed and pushed long dark hair away from her pale, pretty face and over her shoulders, feigning boredom. Inside—though she would never admit it—she wasn’t sure she liked being there. <i>That building</i>, she thought, <i>is staring at us. At me.</i><br />
“Oh, really?” Max asked, goading her, snapping her from distracted thoughts.<br />
“Totally,” Layna replied. Clever and confident, she would play the game. She nonchalantly picked at the pills of her cream-colored sweater. Max stared at her, his eyebrows raised. Without looking up, Layna said, “Guys, am I right?”<br />
Layna looked first to Nancy Groves, a fantastic dancer who was stretching her legs as if a loop of Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical” played in her head. Holding her legs at seemingly impossible angles was par for the course for Nancy. She had a lithe body that shimmered when she performed. Layna knew it. Everybody knew it. And Nancy loved that. But Layna knew her friend’s Achilles’ heel was her short, bobbed hair, so naturally straight that even the strongest Ogilvy home perm would be hard-pressed to win the battle. Not that she hadn’t tried, often with a lot of help from Layna and shared fits of laughter. Layna appreciated Nancy knew what she had and how to use it.<br />
When Nancy didn’t respond, Layna’s eyes went to Alice Reitman. Alice smacked her chewing gum. She was cute, but nowhere near Nancy-thin. Layna had always thought that Alice wasn’t fat. At least not fat, fat. And Layna knew that Alice despised in a <i>gag me with a spoon</i> way when people referred to her as “the bubbly one.” That usually meant fat. <br />
Layna felt bad knowing most people openly said Alice was talkative and upbeat, but also worried Alice was thinking, <i>Thanks, now hand over the ho-ho’s and you won’t get hurt</i>. But what did it matter to Layna? Alice wasn’t an actor, singer, or dancer. She studied communications and was going to be “the next, not-quite-as-thin, but incredibly relatable television journalist.” Layna had told Alice that was a fine choice, but she preferred Savannah Guthrie, even though she looked much taller than her guests, and it often appeared she might just lurch over and devour them. They all have their flaws, Layna reminded herself.<br />
At the end of the line was Trask’s “it” girl, Sydney Miller. Pretty, with blonde hair in perfectly placed waves, Sydney was popular and athletic. Layna admired her. At Trask, and in real life, Layna had to assume, guys wanted Sydney and girls wanted to be her. When she walked down the halls, the underclassmen all turned their heads to catch a glimpse of <i>the</i> Sydney Miller. If the singers were belting out a tune, they stopped as she strode by. Layna knew her friend Sydney was going to be famous. She had the talent to be a star, sure. But she also had a sheer force of will. Nothing was going to stop her from achieving her dreams. Nothing. And nobody. Layna admired that especially, even as she pushed down slight feelings of jealousy.<br />
But like the others, Sydney just sat quiet.<br />
Layna looked again at all of her girlfriends, incredulous. “Oh my God, backsies please. This is when my friends say they’re <i>with</i> me?”<br />
But none did. They stood stoic, staring forward, or around, or down. Looking worried. It didn’t sit well with Layna.<br />
“Layn, I mean, it is kind of a creepy story,” Alice offered.<br />
Layna’s shoulders slumped. No backsies, apparently.<br />
“Seriously, a girl died. Right in there,” added Nancy.<br />
Sydney leaned her body in closer. Layna could practically feel the girl’s breath when she spoke. “It’s just not something we should, you know, make light of.”<br />
Layna couldn’t believe it. Her unease was giving way to annoyance. “Because some chick <i>supposedly</i> died in this awful, mysterious, tragic way a million years ago—”<br />
“It’s more like, only twenty years, but go on,” Max said.<br />
Layna glared at him long enough to make a point, and then continued. “I’m just saying, we see this eyesore all the time, but tonight we’re supposed to all of a sudden be frightened because Max used his big boy voice to tell a campfire story we all knew? Sorry, it just isn’t work—”<br />
Layna abruptly stopped. She had heard something. They had <i>all</i> heard something.<br />
It was not the wind, Layna knew. Not the creaking of scaffolding. It was a low, hurting moan. A harsh, frightening whisper.<br />
“Whooo—?” hissed the voice, from inside the building.<br />
Layna’s brown eyes went wide. Max sidled next to her. “Okay, fine, it’s working now,” Layna said. Nancy, Alice, and Sydney huddled close, too.<br />
Sydney, worried, looked directly at Layna. “Dude, what did you do?”<br />
“Me?” Layna whispered, too loudly.<br />
“Shhh!” Nancy harped.<br />
The punitive voice came back. Angrier, more strident. “Who wantsss—?”<br />
They waited, breaths held, to hear what came next, but the only sound was the flapping of a plastic tarp over a pile of bricks. Then someone jumped out from the shadowed entrance of the theater. Layna let out a high-pitched scream. Then the others screamed, too. Layna grabbed Max tightly, trying to shield herself from whatever was coming toward them.<br />
The screams of the others went on and on. And on. Layna gathered that something wasn’t right when she peeked from Max’s chest and saw her friends staring at her, their formerly petrified faces now swathed in knowing smiles.<br />
“Whooooo wantsssss … a drink?” the stranger in the entryway asked.<br />
Layna opened her eyes fully and unscrunched her face. She knew that voice. She’d been had.<br />
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Nancy joked, poking Layna.<br />
Layna pursed her lips and nodded her head. “All right, fine, go ahead. Let’s hear it,” she said.<br />
After a moment of silence, they burst out laughing. Layna put her hands over her face, embarrassed that she had fallen for such a cheap trick. Max pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.<br />
“We totally had you,” he said, then grabbed her chin so he could look her in the eyes. “And I’ll always have you,” he added, leaning in for a kiss. Layna greedily accepted.<br />
“Get a room already!” Nancy playfully snapped. “And, Crosby, get your ass out here.”<br />
Crosby Williams’ broad, white smile, and a glint from his hazel eyes, emerged from the darkness. Layna stared at the writer and part-time less-than-stellar illusionist, also a member of the senior class. She should have known—he could never pass up the element of surprise. He may have been lacking in the prestidigitation department, but he made up for it with a bohemian style and perfectly unkempt hair.<br />
“I’d love to, but the spirits are insistent,” Crosby offered. “You must come inside and face your fears, if you are to partake of the beers.” He pushed his arm forward so it was struck by moonlight, waving a bottle that glistened with condensation. Then just as fast, he pulled it back and his smile, his eyes, and the beer disappeared all within the ruins of the old theater.<br />
“You heard the man,” Max said. “Duty calls.”<br />
Nancy, Alice, and Sydney moved first, with Nancy leading the pack. The girls laughed as they, too, vanished into the shadows, one by one. Max lurched forward, but Layna caught his hand and stopped him.<br />
“Babe, come on,” he said.<br />
Layna looked up at the building, gazing at its two, large Venetian windows that watched over everything. <i>Watching me, I bet.</i><br />
“What’s wrong? Let’s go,” Max said. “Or are you scared? Ooooh!” He waved his fingers in front of her face in a silly manner.<br />
It broke Layna free from her worry. The small lie, one he’d never figure out, came forth. “Of course not,” she said. “Let’s go.”<br />
After one last look deep into the shadows before her, she gave Max a kiss on the lips. Ready or not, she let him lead her into the darkness of the auditorium.<br />
The building was a far cry from the grandeur of its glory days. Gone were most of the plush, red velvet-covered seats that once filled the theater, leaving only an empty, sad expanse of dirty concrete. Those seats that remained, mostly near the stage and scattered up makeshift aisles, were blackened and charred, having melted under the heat of the fire. Layna felt a chill, even though the seating wreckage could barely be seen under the cover of dusty translucent plastic. Construction materials, tools, wood boards, and sandbags were strewn about, giving credence to the rumor the schools’ deep-pocketed donors weren’t jonesing to bring this part of the campus back to life.<br />
It was an open secret on campus that the coffers of Trask Academy of Performing Arts might be drier than anyone in the administration wanted to admit. There was money, of course, because Dean McKenna knew that keeping up appearances was paramount, but there was an equally strong, although silent, opinion that the building was nothing more than a part of the school’s dark past and, just maybe, it should stay there. Layna certainly felt that way right now. Neither she, nor her friends and fellow students, had any idea that in at least one of the more heated board meetings—old-boys club affairs always held privately with little fanfare—more than one donor had agreed: why rebuild a nightmare when you can construct a brand-new dream?<br />
Layna and her friends meandered through the maze of equipment toward the stage.<br />
“All right, Crosby, come out, come out, wherever you are,” Alice said, loud enough to cause an echo, but there was no answer from Crosby.<br />
Layna and Max made their way to the front of the group. As they walked, they stared up through scaffolding and more plastic tarps, the former creaking and the latter flapping in the stiff breeze whisking through the empty structure.<br />
Moonlight shone down on Max, who climbed up onto the stage from a set of rotting steps. “Watch the third one, it’s a doozy,” he said as Layna grabbed his hand for help up. Then Max, always the gentlemen, reached for the other girls, grabbing Nancy’s arm a bit harder when she failed to heed his warning and her foot almost broke through the soft, pulpy wood of the stair.<br />
Layna gasped, but Nancy just uttered an embarrassed “Whoopsie.”<br />
From the stage, the friends paused to take in their surroundings, illuminated not only by the natural evening light, but also by the lone ghost light in the center of the stage.<br />
“Spooky. Maybe this was, you know, <i>the</i> light,” Alice wondered aloud. The thought caused a hint of unease in Layna.<br />
“Yes, most definitely,” Sydney said with a smile. “Now let’s steal the bulb and call GE so we can make a billion dollars on the light that lasts an eternity.” The response put Layna at ease, but Alice rolled her eyes, blew a large, pink bubble, and sucked it back into her mouth with a loud <i>pop!</i><br />
Layna found that the light did not offer her any warmth, or security, so she just stood quietly with her hands in her pockets. Max sidled next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.<br />
“Hey, look,” Layna said, moving a few feet past the light to where a picnic blanket was spread out on the stage.<br />
Nancy went to it and stood with her back toward the darkness of the stage’s left wing. “Fancy,” she said. “Maybe next time we can have a picnic, I don’t know, at the scene of a car accid—”<br />
A hand suddenly reached from the shadows and whisked its way over Nancy’s mouth. Unable to say anything, her eyes filled with fear and worry.<br />
“Nan, how much longer do we wait?” Sydney asked. She turned and let out a scream when she saw Nancy.<br />
Layna and Alice yelped as well. “Max!” Layna screamed, with the unspoken order of <i>Do something! </i>Max practically leapt across the stage. Then he stopped, and he and the others watched as the stranger’s hand wended its way from Nancy’s mouth, down over her shoulder, and to her jacket’s zipper.<br />
It started to pull down.<br />
Nancy’s wide eyes shrank to a disbelieving squint. She yanked hard on the offending arm and pulled a stumbling Crosby from the shadows onto the stage.<br />
“Wow, way to be romantic, Cros,” Nancy said. “I’ve always dreamed of doing it here. Literally, right here.”<br />
“Me too, babe. Me, too,” Crosby joked, raising his eyebrows in quick succession before planting a kiss on her lips.<br />
The others made their way over.<br />
“Crosby, such a lovable jerk,” Sydney offered, giving him a peck on the cheek.<br />
“That’s funny, I thought he was just being a jerk,” Layna added with a little more annoyance than she had meant to.<br />
Max crossed in front of her. “Me-ow.” Now it was Layna who rolled her eyes. It hadn’t been her idea to hang out in a burnt-out building, tell ghost stories, and do God only knows what. She would have been fine if they had never come here.<br />
“Come on,” Crosby said. “I couldn’t let the ambiance go to waste. We’re all entitled to a good scare, right? So, welcome children. And now, watch.”<br />
They all did as Crosby stood in front of them, arms outstretched. He tugged on each sleeve. Nothing there. Suddenly, with a few slick gestures and a turn, he produced beer bottle after beer bottle.<br />
“Well kiss my ass and call me abracadabra,” Max laughed, happily grabbing two bottles and offering one to Layna. She shook her head. Max ambled off, saying something under his breath like, “More for me.”<br />
Alice brushed past Layna, smacked her gum, and grabbed a beer. “The party has so officially started.”<br />
Crosby saved the last drink for Nancy, sheepishly gesturing like it was a peace offering. “Forgive me, but in all honesty, I just had to set the mood.”<br />
“Oh, it’s gonna take more than janky beer,” Nancy retorted with a smile.<br />
Crosby shrugged his shoulders, opened his jacket, and showed her the flask he had been hiding. Nancy’s smile grew. Layna watched, enjoying their playful back-and-forth.<br />
“You know me so well,” Nancy admitted. She put her arms inside Crosby’s jacket, moving her face close to his.<br />
“And you me, my dear,” responded Crosby. Somehow, they seemed to smile even as they kissed deeply.<br />
Layna cleared her throat and sat down on the blanket. “Tongue-wrestlers, your much-needed, very private room is now ready. Please check in, stat.”<br />
Nancy pulled back from Crosby, laughing. “Duly noted.” She and the others joined Layna on the blanket.<br />
Crosby remained standing by himself, still pretending to kiss Nancy. The others laughed, which he took as his cue to stop and take a seat. The teens kicked back, looking up at the star-studded sky through a gaping hole in the roof of the condemned theater.<br />
“See, it’s not so scary in here,” Max said.<br />
Layna thought, but would never dare say, that it was still just as creepy as she had imagined. Maybe more.<br />
***<br />
“Let’s discuss break. Please tell me you’re staying,” Sydney pleaded, breaking the silence. Secretly she had also hoped to head off talk about the building, the legend, or how frightening it was. And is.<br />
“Oh, we’re staying the week,” Layna said, adding emphatically, “All of us, right?”<br />
Nods all around. Sydney let out a <i>Thank God</i> sigh.<br />
“Rumor has it only D’Arcangelo and McKenna are gonna be here,” Alice said. “And there’s gonna be a party tomorrow night to kick things off.”<br />
“A freshman party, ugh.” Nancy groaned and took a swig from the flask.<br />
“I’ll pass, thank you very much,” Sydney said.<br />
Layna looked like she was holding in a secret she couldn’t keep in. “Max wants to go!” she revealed.<br />
The group stared at him as if he were mad.<br />
“What?” Max asked. “It could be fun.”<br />
Layna threw a <i>You’ve gotta be kidding me</i> stare at him. “Oh, totes,” she said, “if the fifteen-year-olds can plot out how to sneak anything stronger than hard lemonade into the dorms.”<br />
Sydney shook her head. “Barfing kids and tragic pop music outside my door, all night long. Sign. Me. Up!”<br />
“Oh, let me call the <i>wah</i>mbulance,” Nancy laughed. “It’s your fault. You could have lived with us big kids in Campbell Hall.”<br />
“Oh, no, no, no,” Sydney replied. “I am not giving up my primo view for snot-nosers.”<br />
And it was true, she thought. Her view <i>was</i> fantastic, overlooking the conservatory filled with exotic plants, from rare orchids to ingeniously sculpted bonsai trees. Aside from the supposed eco-friendly gratification, the school’s motivation for the garden was a mystery to Sydney, her friends, and most other students, too. Most of the kids at school, Sydney among them if she stopped lying to herself, had the mindset that if you’ve seen one flower, you’ve seen them all.<br />
The beauty of the building, Sydney had to admit, could not be overstated: a dome of striking brass-capped cames that held together shimmering glass plates of blue and gold, the colors of the school. Sydney often found herself staring at the top of the structure, mesmerized as it reflected the setting sun. Beyond the dome, the rolling green hills that the school had so meticulously taken care of led to the thick forest just beyond the gates of the campus.<br />
It was that view that kept Sydney in the underclassmen’s dorm. She had lucked out with her room. The school used the stunning views and state-of-the-art facilities to lure new students, but after the main academic coursework was finished in year one, students started their majors and moved to one of two dorms on campus closer to the buildings where they would train. Still, Sydney accepted that the spectacular view, and the slightly longer daily walk to her classes, was worth putting up with the kids who were just finding their way. When she had asked to stay in her room, the housing committee decided she could. Sure, there were moments when she thought it might be more fun to be in a building with all of her friends, seniors who had paid their dues and were ready to graduate and make their mark with the talents that Trask had nurtured within them. But when the committee said yes if she agreed to stay at the school for her entire academic career, she had made her choice.<br />
Sydney was shaken from her thoughts of pretty stained glass and obnoxious newbies when Crosby said, “They’ll be in dreamland before you know it. The last ferry leaves Saturday morning and they’ll wanna be bright-eyed for mommy and daddy at the docks.”<br />
“Speaking of morning, like, what’s with the ratchet, military-style early rehearsal, Syd?” Alice asked. “It’s just us, and you’re the only one in the showcase.”<br />
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Layna said, smiling. “The <i>star</i> here needs someone to shine the spotlight on her the minute day breaks, didn’t you know?” Sydney wondered, for just a second, whether something more wicked lurked behind the comment and smile.<br />
“Oh, the shade!” Nancy said.<br />
“Guys, I was joking. Seriously,” Layna offered. She took Sydney’s hand. “Hey, when have I not been the overachieving understudy to the world’s soon-to-be most famous talent?”<br />
The words didn’t make Sydney feel much better. Sydney knew how badly Layna wanted to perform. “Layn, you’ll get your chance. Trust me, it’ll happen.”<br />
“You’re right,” agreed Layna, “the minute you pull a Peg Entwistle and take a leap off the Hollywood sign.”<br />
“Layna!” Nancy laughed, half-heartedly.<br />
Sydney chuckled slightly, then looked away. She didn’t want to keep up the contest with Layna, didn’t want to see something in her friend’s eyes that might betray their friendship.<br />
Max took a long swig from his beer and gestured at their surroundings with the bottle. “There’s always hope for a mysterious fire during one of Syd’s rehearsals.”<br />
“Okay, seriously, starting to feel uncomfortable here,” Sydney admitted. She looked at Layna, waiting for the break. It finally came. They locked eyes, and Layna’s big grin forced one from Sydney.<br />
“Babe, friends to the end,” Layna said, moving to wrap her arms around Sydney. “The very end,” she added, her tone both playful and menacing.<br />
Everyone relaxed as Sydney lightheartedly pushed Layna away. “Girl, bye!”<br />
The wind picked up, whistling through the theater. The scaffolding creaked and groaned. A light flurry of plaster dust sprinkled down, looking, Sydney thought, perhaps too much like ash from a fire.<br />
“The universe likes the idea, Syd,” Crosby said. “Maybe your number is up.”<br />
“And I like the idea of you shutting up,” Sydney replied sharply. She had reached her limit on the subject of past deaths as well as jokes about her own.<br />
Layna grabbed Sydney’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”<br />
Alice yelped as floorboards creaked in the darkness of the stage wings. “That was so not the wind,” she muttered.<br />
Max stood tall, taut, alert. “Who’s there?” he asked.<br />
No response. Layna grabbed his arm. He motioned for her and everyone else to be quiet as he stepped toward the edge of the light thrown out from the ghost lamp.<br />
“Ooh, tough guy,” Crosby mumbled, snickering. Nancy slapped his arm. Max glared at him and then disappeared into the shadows.<br />
Sydney was worried. And that meant they all must be worried, she thought. Was that an animal? Was it a teacher? Or had something they mentioned too many times that night come back?<br />
As soon as she heard the crash, Sydney stopped wondering and let out a scream.<br />
“Max!” Layna screamed, darting to her feet out of instinct. The others rose up behind her. Nancy pushed Crosby forward. He cocked his head and opened his eyes wide. Sydney imagined him thinking exactly what she was thinking, <i>Just what am I supposed to do?</i><br />
“Do <i>something</i>, idiot,” Nancy ordered.<br />
Crosby inched toward the darkness, stopping at another noise, a scuffling, this time closer.<br />
“Not necessary,” Max’s voice came from the shadows. Sydney was relieved as she watched somebody being forced from the wing and onto the ground. The other girls screamed, as did Crosby. Sydney took note that his scream was more high-pitched and went on a hair longer than the girls’, which she knew he’d regret.<br />
Max appeared again.<br />
“What the hell are you doing here, you stalker douchebag?” Max asked whoever was skulking backstage.<br />
Sydney focused on Layna. She knew what was going to happen next. Her eyes met Max’s judging gaze. She took a sharp breath in and forgot the drama and worry from before. Max was obviously not happy with the person lying on the floor in front of them all.<br />
***<br />
Layna knew she could not hide what Sydney, what Max, what everyone saw as she looked at the heap on the ground.<br />
Dillon Reeves. A loner and, some have said, a rebel.<br />
He was also a senior, though the rumor on campus was that the musical prodigy might have been older than everyone else after being held back in grade school. It wasn’t for lack of intelligence, apparently, on which everyone agreed. Depending on whom you asked, though, the true reason changed. Imaginations ran wild. And the stories got bigger.<br />
<i>I heard Dillon would just sit in the corner of his kindergarten classroom and hum after he got yelled at for eating cookies another kid brought, so they held him back.</i><br />
<i>I heard Dillon took a broken paintbrush and stabbed another student in eighth grade for making fun of his still-life art project, so they held him back.</i><br />
<i>I heard Dillon got blamed for pushing his high school shop teacher into a table saw blade and then ran through the halls screaming the teacher was jumping around like fleas on a hot brick, so they held him back.</i><br />
There was also one about embezzlement, and some even whispered about a true murder. Layna hated that one and knew it was not, could not be, true. Still, on and on it went. The lightning speed of Trask’s gossip train left some wondering if, after putting the pieces together, Dillon wasn’t in fact responsible for the Lindbergh kidnapping. <i>Stranger things have totally happened!</i><br />
Layna believed none of it. Dillon was just special. Quiet, smart, very cute. Dillon’s looks and charm and bad boyishness did not go unnoticed. Almost every girl on campus noticed, and some boys, of course. But it was all of him—the things she knew, the things she learned, and yes, even the things she did not know but hoped to one day—that had attracted Layna during junior year when Dillon had transferred in. This was before Max, of course, a time her friends ridiculously referred to as Proto-Max.<br />
“Are you all right?” Layna asked, looking Dillon over and brushing off his dark leather jacket.<br />
“I’m fine,” he answered, standing up. He was tall. Taller than the others. Layna tried to hide the fact that she did not mind him looking into her dark eyes with his blues.<br />
“I hope I didn’t hurt his man bun,” Max scoffed. Layna eyed him with a <i>not now</i> look. Max rolled his eyes. She knew he was sick of this. Sick of Dillon.<br />
The others looked on with fascination at the love triangle. Layna was keenly aware that her friends knew she used to love Dillon, who was always slightly aloof in his love for her, who eventually fell out of love with him and into love with Max. Thankfully, Max loved her back more fully than Dillon ever did.<br />
Max backed away, saying, “Fine, then the party’s over. At least for me.”<br />
Layna stepped toward Max. “Max, stop.”<br />
He did. But he didn’t turn around. She hated when he talked to her with his back. “If you want El Creepo to make it through senior year, you’re gonna have to make a choice.”<br />
Layna just stared at him. The others stared at her. Alice whispered, “She must be answering him with her mind!”<br />
Crosby laughed. Layna frowned, but she took some comfort when Nancy rolled her eyes and elbowed her boyfriend in the rib. No laughing. Check.<br />
Everyone watched intently, not sure what was going to happen next.<br />
No one expected it when Dillon grabbed Layna’s hand.<br />
“Dude! Not. Cool,” Crosby offered.<br />
Max turned around with enough time to see Dillon’s hand slink away from Layna’s. “What are you doing?” she snapped at Dillon. She ran to Max and put a hand on his shoulder. Slinking around to his front, she faced him.<br />
“Him or me, Layna. I can’t play this game forever,” Max said.<br />
“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you. And it’s working.” Layna knew it was a lie the moment it rolled off her tongue, so she wasn’t surprised when Max called her on it.<br />
“No, Layn, you were helping him get a rise,” Max said.<br />
Layna grimaced, wanting to scold Max for being so gauche in front of her—their—friends, especially Dillon. But she wasn’t fast enough.<br />
Max sighed. “Him or me.” He kissed Layna on the forehead then stepped past her into the shadows, down the stairs, and toward the entrance doors. All she could do was watch him. She turned to the rest of the group. No one said a word.<br />
“I didn’t ask him to do any of this,” Layna said. She looked at Dillon. “And you didn’t have to do that.”<br />
“You didn’t have to let me,” Dillon answered quietly.<br />
“It’s getting late,” Sydney offered, moving past Dillon without a glance. She grabbed Layna’s hand, and the two started toward the doors.<br />
Crosby and Nancy followed. “Oops,” he said sarcastically, bumping into Dillon’s shoulder.<br />
Alice rushed up behind Nancy. “Wait up!”<br />
Alone on the stage, Dillon watched the group make its way toward the entrance. “See you tomorrow,” he yelled out. “And I’m sorry.”<br />
Crosby, Nancy, and Alice exited as Sydney tried to coax Layna to leave. Layna didn’t budge. She wasn’t sure if Sydney understood, even as her friend walked away.<br />
Layna knew Dillon could now see her only as a silhouette awash in moonlight. She watched him watch her. Her hair blew in a gust of wind that came through the open door. Fine dust particles rained down on Dillon. Were they anywhere else, Layna might have thought he looked angelic. Dillon shook his head, put it down, and then rubbed his eyes. Layna knew her time had come, that when he looked back to her, she would be gone.<br />
She needed to be gone.<br />
So she left. As the door closed behind her, she did not turn back. She wandered slowly toward Max, who waited for her. He always waited for her. That’s what he did. She grabbed his hand, and they followed the others back to the dorms.<br />
But Layna knew Dillon was still on stage. She imagined him standing there, all alone, licking his wounds and staring with red, watery eyes at the ghost light.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Jinxed by Thommy Hutson. Copyright © 2018 by Thommy Hutson. Reproduced with permission from Vesuvian Books. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Thommy Hutson" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/Thommy-Hutson_BioPic_color.jpg" height="302" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="300" /><br />
Born and raised in Upstate New York, Thommy graduated from UCLA and launched his career co-writing the story for the Warner Bros. animated hit SCOOBY-DOO IN WHERE’S MY MUMMY? He followed that with co-writing the concept and additional material for CHILL OUT, SCOOBY-DOO!<br />
His career then took a thrilling turn when he wrote and produced several definitive genre film retrospectives for television and home entertainment: SCREAM: THE INSIDE STORY, NEVER SLEEP AGAIN: THE ELM STREET LEGACY, MORE BRAINS! A RETURN TO THE LIVING DEAD and HIS NAME WAS JASON: 30 YEARS OF FRIDAY THE 13th.<br />
He was also a staff writer on Hulu’s daily web series “The Morning After,” a smart, witty, pop culture program aimed at getting viewers up-to-date on the latest entertainment news and celebrity interviews.<br />
Thommy also produced the critically acclaimed feature THE TROUBLE WITH THE TRUTH, an insightful relationship drama starring Lea Thompson and John Shea. He also produced DREAMWORLD, a quirky, romantic dramedy.<br />
He co-wrote and produced ANIMAL for Chiller Films and Drew Barrymore’s Flower Films. The project debuted in iTunes’ top ten horror films (reaching #1) and became the network’s highest-rated original movie.<br />
Continuing his passion for uncovering the stories behind the story, he went on to produce CRYSTAL LAKE MEMORIES: THE COMPLETE HISTORY OF FRIDAY THE 13th, which is the most comprehensive look at the popular film franchise.<br />
As an author Thommy crafted a limited-edition coffee table book detailing the making and legacy of Wes Craven’s 1984 classic A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET. A trade version distributed by Simon & Schuster reached number one in Amazon.com’s Movie History & Criticism category. He also has a deal with Vesuvian Media to write a YA thriller trilogy with the first book due out spring 2017.<br />
He produced and made his feature directorial debut with THE ID, an independent psychological drama/thriller. Filmmaker Magazine stated it was “a deeply unsettling thriller that’s as moving as it is frightening…with skillful, provocative direction that has echoes of early Polanski.”<br />
Most recently, Thommy wrote the screenplay for CineTel Films’ supernatural horror film TRUTH OR DARE. He is also directing, writing and producing a documentary with Clive Barker’s Seraphim Films in addition to developing other film and television properties with the company.<br />
As an author, he is currently writing another book that definitively details the history, making and legacy of another fan-favorite genre film from the 1980s.<br />
A member of the Producers Guild of America, Thommy continues to develop unique, compelling and provocative projects across multiple genres for film, television, publishing, and home entertainment through his company Hutson Ranch Media.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Thommy Hutson On <a href="http://thommyhutson.com/" target="_blank">thommyhutson.com</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/10627999.Thommy_Hutson" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/thommyhutson" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/thommyhutson" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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<h1>
Tour Participants:</h1>
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<h1>
Giveaway:</h1>
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<h2>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-10222481587255453062018-03-29T05:00:00.000+02:002018-03-29T05:00:13.171+02:00Spotlight Act of Revenge by Dale Brown<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Act of Revenge</h1>
<h2>
by Dale Brown</h2>
<h3>
on Tour March 19-31, 2018</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="Act of Revenge by Dale Brown" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/97800624113271-act-of-revenge-dale-brown.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h3>
When terrorists attack Boston, Louis Massina races against time to save the city with a high-tech counteroffensive . . .</h3>
On Easter Sunday morning, the city of Boston is struck by a widespread and coordinated series of terrorist attacks: an explosion in the T, a suicide bomber at Back Bay Police Station, and heavily armed gunmen taking hostages at the Patriot Hotel.<br />
For robotics innovator Louis Massina, aka the Puppet Master, this is far more personal than a savage act of political terrorism. Boston is his city—and one of his employees, Chelsea Goodman, is among the hostages facing certain death. As Chelsea fights from the inside, Massina leads his team of tech geniuses at Smart Metal to deploy every bot, drone, and cyber weapon at their disposal to defeat the fanatics and save his city and friend.<br />
That's step one. Step two: Find the twisted mastermind behind the attacks and make him pay.<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Thriller<br />
<b>Published by:</b> William Morrow<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> January 30th 2018<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 528<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062411322 (ISBN13: 9780062411327)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Puppet Master #2<br />
<h3>
Grab Act of Revenge on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Act-Revenge-Puppet-Thriller-Puppetmaster-ebook/dp/B0713W42GJ?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/act-of-revenge-dale-brown/1126647021" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>, <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/9780062411327/act-of-revenge" target="_blank">HarperCollins</a>, and add it to your <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35069507-act-of-revenge" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> list!</h3>
</blockquote>
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h4>
Flash forward</h4>
Boston, Easter Sunday High noon<br />
Louis Massina paced back and forth in the small high-security area, worried, anxious, and angry. But most of all, impotent. Boston was under attack.<br />
The lives of dozens, maybe hundreds, of his friends were directly threatened. One of his closest employees, a young woman with tremendous promise, was among the hostages. Maybe even dead.<br />
And all he could do, for all his money, for all his inventions—his robots, his drones, his computers, his software—was walk back and forth, trying desperately to suppress what could not be suppressed.<br />
Anger. Rage. The enemy of reason, yet the core of his being, at least at this moment. There were other alternatives. Prayer, for one. Prayer is impotence. Prayer is surrender.<br />
The nuns who taught him would slap his face for thinking that. They held the exact opposite: Prayer was strength, tenfold. But while in many ways Massina was a man of faith, he had never been much given to prayer. In his mind, actions spoke more effectively than words.<br />
Prayers were all well and good, but they worked—if they worked at all—on a realm other than human. And the action needed now was completely human. Not even the Devil himself could have concocted the evil his city faced.<br />
Light flashed in the center of the far-right monitor.<br />
“They’re going in,” said the operator watching the hotel where Massina’s employee had been taken hostage. The light had come from a small explosion at the side of the building. “They’re going in.”<br />
Almost in spite of himself, Massina started to pray.<br />
<h4>
Two hours earlier</h4>
Boston, Massachusetts Easter Sunday morning<br />
There were few better hotels in Boston than the Patriot Hotel if you wanted to soak up the city’s history: city hall was practically next door, Faneuil five minutes away. You could catch a trolley for the Old Town tour a block or two down the street. Bunker Hill was a hike, but then the British had found that out as well. The rooms were expensive—twice what they would go for at similarly appointed hotels nearby—but money had never been a major concern for Victoria Goodman, Chelsea Goodman’s favorite aunt. Victoria had gotten a job as a secretary for Microsoft very soon after it started, and when she cashed out her stock in the early 1990s, invested in real estate in and around San Francisco, most notably Palo Alto and Menlo Park—the future homes of Facebook and Google. Victoria had that kind of luck.<br />
Despite her luck, and her money, Victoria was especially easygoing, self-assured yet casual. She met Chelsea in the hotel lobby wearing a blue-floral draped dress that showed off toned upper arms and legs that remained trim and shapely despite the fact that she had recently passed sixty.<br />
“Just on time,” declared Victoria, folding Chelsea to her chest. “I hope you’re hungry.”<br />
“I wouldn’t mind breakfast,” answered Chelsea.<br />
“How far did you run this morning?”<br />
“It’s not the distance, it’s the attitude,” replied Victoria. “Only five miles. But it felt wonderful. It’s so marvelous running through the city.”<br />
“You’ll have to try for the Marathon.”<br />
“Those days are gone, dear,” said Victoria lightly. “I’d never qualify. But thank you for the thought. You didn’t bring your young friend?”<br />
“We’ll meet her at the Aquarium,” Chelsea said. “She had to go to church with her dad.”<br />
“Well, it is Easter.”<br />
“Actually, they’re Russian Orthodox, so it’s Palm Sunday. He’s a single father, and lately he’s been trying to instill religion in her.”<br />
Chelsea followed Victoria across the paneled lobby to the restaurant entrance, where a maître d’ greeted them with a nod. He had a fresh white rose in his lapel and the manner of someone who’d been looking forward to this encounter the entire morning. He showed the two women to a seat at the far end of the room, then asked if they would care for something to drink while they looked at the menus.<br />
“Mimosas,” said Victoria. “And coffee.”<br />
“Mimosas?” asked Chelsea.<br />
“Why not? You don’t have to work today, and champagne always puts me in the mood for sightseeing.”<br />
Chelsea was just about to ask how exactly that worked when a loud crack shook the room. The metallic snap was followed by two more, each louder than the other. The noise was unfamiliar to most of the people in the restaurant, but Chelsea had lately had a singular experience that not only made the sound familiar, but warned her subconscious that there was great danger nearby.<br />
She leaped up from her seat, and before her aunt could respond, had grabbed her and pushed her to the floor.<br />
“Someone is shooting!” Chelsea told Victoria as the crack of a fresh round of bullets echoed against the deep wood panels of the room. “We have to get out of here!”<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Act of Revenge by Dale Brown. Copyright © 2018 by Dale Brown. Reproduced with permission from William Morrow. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Dale Brown" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/Dale-Brown-Author-Photo-credit-Joy-Strotz.jpg" height="300" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="240" />
<br />
Dale Brown is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous books, from Flight of the Old Dog (1987) in 1987, to, most recently, Iron Wolf (2015). A former U.S. Air Force captain, he can often be found flying his own plane over the skies of Nevada. Jim DeFelice is the co-author of the #1 New York Times bestseller American Sniper. DeFelice is the author of Omar Bradley: General at War, the first in-depth critical biography of America’s last five-star general. He also writes a number of acclaimed military thrillers, including the Rogue Warrior series from Richard Marcinko, founder of SEAL Team 6, and the novels in the Dreamland series with Dale Brown.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Dale Brown On his <a href="http://dalebrown.info/index02.htm" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2989.Dale_Brown" target="_blank">Goodreads Page</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/AuthorDaleBrown" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PilotDaleBrown" target="_blank">Facebook Page</a>!</h3>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-70929375090834995452018-03-22T05:00:00.000+01:002018-03-22T05:00:27.637+01:00Death Theory by John D. Mimms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Death Theory</h1>
<h2>
by John D. Mimms</h2>
<h3>
on Tour February 1 - March 31, 2018</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="Death Theory by John D. Mimms" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/death-theory-john-d-mimms.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
Mankind’s greatest fear is also its greatest obsession. What awaits when we shuffle off the mortal coil of this world? We all have our beliefs based on faith or science, but both struggle to provide a tangible answer. Perhaps it is possible to prove the existence of the soul, to prove it goes on after death. Following the violent death of his parents, Jeff Granger seeks reassurance that they have moved on. After recording what he believes to be his mother’s voice at the site of the accident, Jeff’s obsession throws him into paranormal research. Realizing that most people are doing it just for fun, Jeff forms his own group. He is joined by Debbie Gillerson, a school teacher; Aaron Presley, a mortician; and Michael Pacheco, a grocery store manager. Even though they are all investigating the paranormal for very different reasons, they are all trying to fill an emptiness in their lives. The deeper they probe paranormal theory, the darker their results. The only way to truly test the ‘Death Theory’, as theorized by Aaron, is to monitor a person’s energy at the moment of death. Horrified by the immoral and unethical application, the group dismisses the theory. A darkness seems to follow their investigations and the police become involved. A former colleague of Jeff’s, a self-proclaimed demonologist, believes a demonic force is attached to the group. The police are not so sure. Evil comes in many forms as the small group is about to discover.<br />
<div align="center">
<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" gesture="media" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/e64kHandxVc?rel=0&showinfo=0" width="560"></iframe></div>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery, Thriller, Paranormal<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Draft 2 Digital<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> January 30th 2018<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 320<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 9781537849713<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Death-Theory-John-Mimms-ebook/dp/B077NTYHJJ?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/death-theory-john-d-mimms/1101958451?ean=2940154932018" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=1OUzDwAAQBAJ&dq=death+theory&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiW2cKxndfWAhVo34MKHdfdD98Q6AEINDAC" target="_blank">Google Books</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36239464-death-theory" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
This is a story that I can really enjoy. Mixing Mystery with the Paranormal is one of my favorite genres. This also tends to make that the bar is high when reading these books.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>I must say that it did not disappoint. It is most definately a great story and I really liked the suspense in this story. It starts off a bit slow but the suspense does catch up further in the book. I liked that Mimms took the time to add details on how paranormal investigations are done but did not over due it so it did not overrule the story.<br />
<br />
The story could have been a bit darker for my taste. It is what I like in Paranormal Mysteries, don't get me wrong there is definately suspense present in this story it just wasn't that spooky.<br />
<br />
This was a fast read not to difficult and easy to follow, but still had a good plot. And the ending actually surprised me. I am looking forward to what John D. Mimms has to offer next.<br />
<br />
My rating: 3/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<em>Death is the closest thing to omnipotence we will experience in our brief time on this planet. It is an all-encompassing power, binding everything, and providing a cold certainty to an otherwise uncertain existence. The firm grip of this assurance reaches much further than the extinguishment of life; it greedily claims the hope and happiness of those who remain. It is a definite ending, but is it also a provable beginning?</em><br />
<h4>
Prologue</h4>
Linda Granger did not see death coming.<br />
Sleep shielded her from the unfolding horror. The looming headlights and the panicked screams of her husband were beyond her conscious state. When her head shattered the windshield, the dream about her son ended, sending her into what’s next. Linda was gone before the car rolled seven times and wrapped around a large oak tree. Her husband, Stephen, was not as fortunate. He died two minutes later. Linda had fallen asleep from emotional exhaustion. She died with regrets.<br />
<h4>
Chapter 1</h4>
Jeff’s sheets were drenched in sweat. He strained to hear because he wanted to continue the conversation he had been having. The bass drum of his pulse throbbed in his ears, making hearing impossible. He sat up and glanced about frantically. Where had she gone?<br />
As sleep gave way to the waking world, dread filled him. He remembered the terrible truth. These muddled conversations with his mother had become nightly occurrences since his parents’ accident. The last words he shared with his mother were over the phone, and they were harsh. The next time he picked up the phone, mere hours later, it was the Missouri State Police asking him to come to the hospital. It has been over a year since the terrible night, yet the pain had not gone away. In some ways, it grew worse. <br />
Jeff rolled on his side as tears streamed down his cheeks. In his dream, he told his mother he loved her. He wondered if she could hear him. Somehow, he believed it might be possible. His grieving heart longed for a way to communicate with his late parents. <br />
Jeff rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. It was impossible. He eventually got up and opened the blinds. It rained last night and a steamy mist shielded the street from view. This was the perfect morning to stay in bed and he almost did if not for two things. His sheets were soaked and he was excited about today. Even though he needed extra sleep, since he would be staying up all night, he just couldn’t hold back the excitement of investigating with his fourth paranormal group in as many months. Missouri Spirit Seekers claim to do purely scientific investigations, but the three previous groups he joined did as well. He hoped this time would be different.<br />
They would be investigating Pythian Castle tonight, the most ‘haunted’ location in Springfield, not too far from Jeff’s alma mater, Missouri State. The castle was a very cool historical site, but to Jeff, it was another opportunity to find answers for life’s greatest mystery -death. <br />
Although the investigation was still twelve hours away, nervous anticipation consumed him. He hoped this was not another séance based, sage burning, ghost hunt like most of the others. His previous groups were as far away from science as one could get. <br />
Jeff brewed a pot of coffee and microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal, before sitting down to watch his recording of the show which started him on the path to paranormal investigation. He viewed it often, but it had become a ritual to watch on the day of an investigation. If Jeff were counting, this would be his eighty-third time to watch. <br />
The show starred two men, who were electricians by trade, investigating haunted places using the scientific method. They gathered measurable scientific evidence in their investigations. In this particular episode, they were investigating the catacombs underneath an old church in Baltimore.<br />
What peaked Jeff’s interest were the Electronic Voice Phenomenon the men captured on their digital recorders. He wondered if EVP’s are actually the voices of the dead. The guys on the show didn’t commit one way or the other, they just presented the recordings. <br />
<em>“You up above,”</em> a disembodied voice said.<br />
<em>“The way through,”</em> another one whispered.<br />
The most eerie utterance of them all said, <em>“Come down here among us.”</em><br />
Jeff’s reaction was the same every time he watched; chills intermingled with hope and fear ran up his spine.<br />
Jeff reached into a box under the coffee table and retrieved his digital recorder. He held it in his hands as if it were an object of holy veneration. Jeff recorded his own EVP one night several months earlier at the scene of his parent’s accident. Short, incredible, and heart-breaking; his mother seemed to call his name from beyond. The EVP was still on his recorder, even though he had backed it up to a dozen sources. He would never delete it from any device. Never.<br />
A loud thud rattled the blinds on the front door. Jeff jumped, almost dropping the recorder. His alarm lasted only a moment when he recognized the sound of the newspaper carrier’s rattle-trap station wagon puttering up the street. He peeled back the blinds in time to see the tail lights disappear into the mist. Jeff was still in his underwear with a gaping fly, but he figured his rural setting, coupled with the fog, would spare him any indecent exposure charges. <br />
Jeff scooped up the paper, almost losing his balance on the wet concrete, and then backed through the door. He plopped down on the sofa and began to unfold the massive log of news. He was heading straight for the sports section when an article caught his eye. The title read:<br />
<em>Springfield … the Most Haunted City in Missouri?</em><br />
The Kansas City Royals box scores could wait. Jeff dove right into the article. The ghosts of Phelps Grove Park, Bass Country Inn, Drury University, Landers Theater, Springfield National Cemetery, University Plaza Hotel, and Pythian Castle were all mentioned prominently by the author. Jeff had investigated Phelps Grove Park with one of his previous groups. One of the members claimed he saw the infamous spectral bride near the bridge, but Jeff had no such luck. He never had success when it came to firsthand experiences. Either everyone else is lying or perhaps Jeff is walking ghost repellent. He didn’t think they were lying, at least not everyone who made a paranormal claim. His recording of his mother was enough to keep faith in the paranormal.<br />
He read the claims of Drury University with great interest. There were allegedly several ghosts, in a few buildings, which had taken residence there since the school’s founding in 1873. The saddest one was a little girl who died in a fire. Her phantom laughter could be heard from time to time in one of the women’s dorms.<br />
Jeff enjoyed a good ghost story since he was a kid, but these were more than merely a spectral yarn. Each story offered a small glimmer of hope.<br />
He didn’t read about Pythian Castle; there was no need. He had spent so much time researching it the last couple of weeks, he could recite the history word for word. The shadow spirits who allegedly resided in the basement intrigued him the most. They had been reported so often over the years, there was little doubt that something unusual was occurring in the depths of the castle. <br />
Jeff finally checked the box scores, lamenting another loss by his favorite team. He scanned the comics before tossing the paper on the floor. He trudged to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. Afterward, he put on a fresh pair of boxers and a T-shirt before stretching out on the couch. He fell asleep watching Netflix. If he dreamed of his parents again, he did not remember.<br />
Jeff arrived at Pythian Castle an hour before dusk. The rainy morning had given way to a perfectly clear early evening. The ghostly apparition of the full moon glowed in the eastern sky as the sun began to dip. The large tower on front of the castle cast a long shadow over his truck as he pulled in and parked. He ascended the stone steps onto an expansive porch where a very large woman with a mystical fashion sense met him at the front door.<br />
“Hello … Jack?” she said.<br />
“Jeff,” he corrected. “You must be Swoosie.”<br />
Swoosie half-nodded and half-bowed. She reminded him of a fortune teller he visited one time, just for kicks. <br />
“Would you like a charm for protection tonight?” Swoosie asked, reaching into a velvet bag and retrieving what appeared to be a tiny silk pillow. <br />
“No, thanks … I’m good,” Jeff said. He couldn’t help smirking a little. <br />
Swoosie noticed.<br />
“Suit yourself,” she huffed. “Spirits can pick up on those less experienced in this field. They tend to prey more on them.”<br />
“Good,” Jeff said. “Maybe I will get some good evidence.”<br />
Swoosie narrowed her pudgy eyelids and motioned for a man who was milling about awkwardly, studying old pictures on the wall.
“Preston,” she called with a snap of her fingers.<br />
He was a middle-aged man with a greasy ring of dark hair circling a large bald spot. His clothing was a mish mash of suit pants and a Molly Hatchett T-shirt. The shirt and pin stripe pants were riddled with stains.<br />
“How are you?” Preston asked breathlessly. It seemed his pot belly was a strain for him to carry.<br />
“Fine, Preston,” Jeff said. “Nice to meet you.”<br />
“Oh … I think Mr. Leach is preferable,” Preston said. “I could be your daddy.”<br />
<em>“Not likely,”</em> Jeff thought.<br />
“I’m putting the two of you together tonight since you are both new to this,” Swoosie said. “You know … strength in numbers.”<br />
Both men’s puzzled expressions testified their bewilderment of Swoosie’s logic as if to point out that it would make more sense to put them with an experienced investigator.<br />
“I’m a fairly experienced investigator,” Jeff said. “Tonight, makes my twentieth investigation.”<br />
Swoosie’s condescending smile let him know she still considered him a novice. She turned and then waddled over to a sofa in the foyer where her daughter and a couple of other men waited. Their familiar banter showed them to be a clique.<br />
“Okay, Mr. Leach,” Jeff said. “Where should we start?”<br />
This group didn’t set up night vision cameras or environmental equipment as he hoped. Each member was only armed with a flashlight, digital recorder, and <em>maybe</em> a camera. Jeff was sure most of them carried a silk charm pillow in their pocket.<br />
“I think they want us to go the basement,” Mr. Leach said impatiently. “Didn’t you hear what Swoosie said?”<br />
Swoosie was much larger than Mr. Leach, yet she seemed a bit more agile as he watched his partner shuffle down the corridor.<br />
“Okay,” Jeff mumbled before following him down the stone stairs to the basement.<br />
They picked a far corner in the dark, dingy basement, and then set their digital recorders on a wooden table. The musty smell of old buildings had become synonymous with ghosts in Jeff’s mind. Even though he knew better, he sometimes entertained the idea of it being a ‘ghost odor’.<br />
The sun was beginning to set through one of the basement windows, so they agreed to wait until full dark before beginning their session.<br />
“Hey … you know this used to hold POWs during World War Two?” Jeff said, nodding at the old cells across the room. The iron doors had been removed many years ago on all but one.<br />
“It was an orphanage at one time, built by the Knights of Pythias,” Mr. Leach countered.<br />
“Really?” Jeff said, a little confused at why an orphanage would be more interesting than a POW prison. <br />
“Yeah, can you imagine how many kids died here?” Mr. Leach mused.<br />
Jeff’s stomach twisted. His partner seemed a little too gleeful about dead children. <br />
“Yeah,” Jeff said distantly. He watched the last rays of the sun disappear behind the shrubbery outside. When it was completely dark, he said, “Well, shall we get started?”<br />
Jeff jumped when a flashlight beam flared in his eyes.<br />
“Can I ask you something, Jeff?” Mr. Leach asked, lowering his flashlight.<br />
“Sure.”<br />
“How did you get into paranormal stuff?” Mr. Leach asked.<br />
“Curiosity,” Jeff began and then anger began to simmer. He didn’t know why the question upset him so, it was benign and practical. Perhaps it was his partner’s tone. “It’s really nobody’s business,” Jeff snapped.<br />
“Fair enough,” Mr. Leach said. “What did your fiancée say about it?”<br />
Jeff glared at Mr. Leach in the darkness. How did he know he <em>had</em> a fiancée?<br />
“What makes you think I had a fiancée?” Jeff asked, pointedly.<br />
“I know things,” Mr. Leach replied. His coy response echoing from the darkness sounded like the prelude to a horror movie.<br />
Jeff was angry. Mr. Leach seemed to have no boundaries. Jeff’s fiancée was a sore spot. She had been a former fiancée for almost a year.<br />
“Why don’t you tell me her name?” Jeff said, a little too loud. Shushes hissed from deep in the darkness as his voice echoed off the stone walls. It seemed the whole building heard his question.<br />
There was a very long pause. Jeff almost thought he was alone until the answer startled him.<br />
“I can’t see that,” Mr. Leach answered. “Only events and feelings.”<br />
“What are you … some kinda Jedi Master?” Jeff asked.<br />
“I’m psychic,” Mr. Leach wheezed. His last word echoed about the basement, bringing more shushes from around the building.<br />
“Oh,” Jeff whispered. He had encountered these people before; every paranormal group seemed to have them. Out of the dozen or so self-proclaimed psychics Jeff had known in his life, there was only one he believed legitimate. An old shut-in, who he delivered prescriptions to while in college, told him some interesting things about his life that came to pass a short time later.<br />
“So, where is my fiancée?” Jeff asked. <br />
There was a long silence before Mr. Leach replied flatly. “With another man, I’m afraid.”<br />
Jeff didn’t say anything. He knew she was with another man now. Lurid images filled his head as to what they may be doing right now. Acid boiled in his guts and his heart began to pound. He didn’t expect this answer; he was looking for more of a geographical location. She had been with this schmuck for six months, two weeks, and three days, but he wasn’t counting.<br />
“Does that shock you?” Mr. Leach whispered.<br />
“You’re the psychic … you tell me,” Jeff barked. “Look, I just want to focus on the investigation, can we do that now?” <br />
More shushes ensued followed by a booming female voice asking them to be quiet. Swoosie had some lungs.<br />
They were so engrossed in their argument, neither man noticed the single cell door slowly swing open and a black shadow dart down the passageway. The air grew thick and uncomfortable, but both men thought it was from their awkward conversation.<br />
Mr. Leach didn’t answer. A moment later, Jeff heard the beep of a digital recorder turning on. The small red recording light resembled a one-eyed demon in the complete darkness. Jeff knew he hurt the guy’s feelings, but he didn’t care. Mr. Leach had trodden on areas of Jeff’s life where he wasn’t welcome. In fact, no one was welcome. His fiancée had been the last living member of anything resembling family for Jeff. She had tried to get him to see a shrink to cope with his parent’s death, but he refused. Thus, the wedge between them was forged.<br />
On the surface, Jeff seemed to recover. He tried to move on with his life. His preacher once told him that time is a river, washing away all pains and transgressions. Yet, for those who grieve, time is often an ocean. It ebbs and flows, sometimes exposing the pain lurking beneath the surface of our consciousness with each experience.<br />
“Truth,” Jeff thought. <br />
He finally turned on his digital recorder and began to alternate questions with Mr. Leach.<br />
“<em>Is anyone with us?”</em><br />
<em>“Are you angry?”</em><br />
<em>“What is your name?”</em><br />
<em>“How old are you?”</em><br />
<em>“Why are you here?”</em><br />
<em>“When did you die?”</em><br />
They repeated this process several times in different areas of the building. They never heard anything. Hopefully, there would be some evidence on the recording. <br />
Jeff found it difficult to focus. Of course, he was tired, yet it was much more than fatigue. Mr. Leach had upset him, there was no denying it. The thing bothering him the most was the image running through his head; His fiancée and some faceless man with a Chippendale’s body were in bed together. He tried to push it aside and focus on the reason he was here. When he turned his thoughts to his parents, it did not help. He kept seeing the make-shift white cross memorial at the site of his parents’ crash. The same cross where he had recorded his mother’s voice. It wasn’t only the mental image distracting him. His mother’s one-word response echoed in his head after every EVP question – <em>“Jeff”</em>. A few times he thought he heard her voice coming from the darkness – <em>“Jeff”</em>. <br />
Jeff knew it was fatigue, it had to be. If not, Mr. Leach would have heard something.<br />
Jeff left Sunday morning frustrated. He sat in his truck and watched the last act unfold in what had been an all-night circus. Swoosie, her daughter, Mr. Leach, and a few other men sat in folding chairs arranged in a circle on the front lawn. They had asked Jeff to join them, but he respectfully declined. They burned sage while performing a cleansing ritual. <br />
“We can’t have any spirits following us home,” Swoosie’s daughter proclaimed. “This’ll keep ‘em put.”<br />
The obese Swoosie sat with her back to him. Her butt dangled on either side of the stressed chair as the legs sank into the soft and dewy sod. She swung a burning leaf around her head, making her resemble an elephant trying to douse the flames of a burning tree. <br />
Jeff realized the only way he would get anywhere is starting his own team. He turned the ignition, causing his lights to fall on the group. They turned and glowered as if he farted and belched in church. He smiled and waved as he shifted the truck into gear.<br />
Missouri Spirit Seekers,” Jeff muttered as he left the gate, “seems more like shit seekers.” <br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Death Theory by John D. Mimms. Copyright © 2017 by John D. Mimms. Reproduced with permission from John D. Mimms. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="John D. Mimms" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/john-d-mimms.jpg" height="200" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
John D. Mimms is a business owner, paranormal researcher and author. John served as the Technical Director for a TAPS (The Atlantic Paranormal Society) family paranormal research group in Central Arkansas. During his four-year tenure with the organization, he helped supervise over 100 investigations and wrote more than sixteen technical articles. Paul Bradford, of Ghost Hunters International fame, read one of John's articles titled A Christmas Carol Debunked live on the air of the Parazona Radio program on Christmas Day 2009. John also wrote a definitive technical/training manual, which is a comprehensive guide on equipment usage, investigation protocol and scientific theory for paranormal research.<br />
In 2009 John decided to couple his knowledge of paranormal phenomena with his lifelong love of literary fiction. John's first published work, The Tesla Gate, is the first installment of a three-part, heart-wrenching, sci-fi/paranormal drama.<br />
Book 1 of this unique, ground-breaking story released July 2014 through Open Road Media. In January 2016, Open Road Media released The Tesla Gate Book 2: The Myriad Resistance. Book 3: The Eye of Madness is slated for release September 27, 2016. Though fictional, the trilogy is based on scientific, paranormal theory.<br />
Publishers Weekly declared about The Tesla Gate in the March 3, 2014 issue <em>"…touching sci-fi story that takes the reader on an unlikely road-trip adventure…a fast read with some entertaining ideas and a real emotional core in the relationship between father and son."</em><br />
The Examiner proclaimed in June 2014: <em>"Entertaining as well as poignant, this book is extremely imaginative in its basic premise as well as the many colorful and emotionally compelling events that take place."</em><br />
John resides and writes on a mountaintop in central Arkansas with his wife and two sons.<br />
<h3>
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<h1>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-16843820230608872212018-03-01T21:38:00.001+01:002018-03-01T21:38:20.226+01:00The Fourth Gunman by John Lansing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/fourth-gunman-john-lansing/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The Fourth Gunman by John Lansing Tour Banner" class="aligncenter size-large" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/banner-fourth-gunman-john-lansing.jpg" height="200" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
The Fourth Gunman</h1>
<h2>
by John Lansing</h2>
<h3>
on Tour February 19 - March 24, 2018</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="The Fourth Gunman by John Lansing" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/the-fourth-gunman-by-john-lansing.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h3>
From the best selling author of <a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/the-devils-necktie-by-john-lansing/">The Devil’s Necktie</a>, and <a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/blond-cargo-by-john-lansing/">Blond Cargo</a> comes the latest title in the Jack Bertolino series.</h3>
Retired inspector Jack Bertolino straddles two perilous worlds. Known for his impeccable police work, Jack has also done a priceless favor for an infamous Mafia Don: he saved the gangster’s kidnapped daughter from being sold into the sex trade, and brought her safely home.<br />
In Jack’s line of work, he can’t help but have friends—and enemies—on both sides of the law.<br />
So when FBI agent Luke Hunter goes missing after a deep undercover assignment with that same mob boss, the FBI calls Jack in, looking for a favor. With his connections and skills, Jack’s the only man for the job: find Luke Hunter, dead or alive.<br />
The Mobster operates an illegal gambling yacht in international waters off of Southern California, and when Luke went missing, so did half a million dollars of the mob's money. As Jack dives into the case, he’ll learn the true mystery isn’t the agent’s disappearance, but something far more ominous… <br />
<h4>
<em>The Fourth Gunman</em> is a sizzling action-packed thriller that will keep you turning pages until the explosive finale.</h4>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Crime/Thriller<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Simon & Schuster<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> March 6, 2018<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 375 (estimated)<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 1501189530 (ISBN13: 9781501189531)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Jack Bertolino, 4 | Each is a Stand Alone Novel<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fourth-Gunman-Jack-Bertolino-Book-ebook/dp/B0769YRTMR?tag=partnerscrime-20" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-fourth-gunman-john-lansing/1127201969" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>, & <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36455856-the-fourth-gunman" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
This is such a quick and exciting read. There is so much happening that is really difficult to put the book down. There are some really nice plot twists in there to keep it exciting.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
John Lansing really was able to draw me in right from the start and keep me intrigued. The mystery in this book is great and I really like how Jack Bertolino handled this case. He is one of those characters I liked from the start. I like that he is not to self absorbed to ask for help and he knows how to get to some good people who can help him out.<br />
<br />
I haven't read any of the books before in this series but that is ok. I did not have the feeling I missed something important. I am intrigued with John Lansings writing style so I will be sure to keep my eyes out for his next book.<br />
<br />
My rating: 4/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h2>
One</h2>
Luke Hunter sat hunched over a tight built-in desk in the cabin of a weathered thirty-six-foot catamaran docked in Marina del Rey. His fingers flew over the keyboard of a MacBook Pro. There had been one amber sconce illuminating the cabin before he broke in to the vessel, but now the laptop computer was throwing more light than he was comfortable with. At two a.m., all was quiet on the dock, but Luke was running late and still had another stop to make before he could call it a night.<br />
Luke’s hair was short, brown, and unruly, his Italian eyes smoky, his beard dark and in need of a shave. His angular face was set with determination as he slipped a flash drive into the computer, tapped a few keys, and hit Copy, hoping to make short work of his theft.<br />
The cabin was teak, and brass, and well worn. Rolled navigational charts littered the cramped workspace but didn’t intrude on the comfortable living quarters and the bunk that occupied the bow of the catamaran.<br />
Luke spun in the chair, unraveled specific charts on the bed, snapped photos with his iPhone, and stowed the maps back where he’d found them. He had a theory as to why so many of the charts were focused on the waters in and around the Farallon Islands, off the coast of San Francisco, and hoped the computer files would corroborate his suspicions.<br />
He took pictures of the scuba tanks, masks, flippers, speargun, and weight belts that were stowed aft. The galley was diminutive but efficient. A few potted succulents and fresh herbs on a shelf above the sink lent a feminine touch to the nautical surroundings. Nothing of interest there.<br />
Luke heard the screech of the rusted security gate that led from the parking lot to the yachts and immediately shut down the computer, pocketed the flash drive, and closed the lid, tamping out the light.<br />
He hoped it was just another liveaboard moored at the same dock, returning home after a night on the town. But he spun in place, laced his hands behind his head, and stretched out his legs, facing the teak steps that led from the stern into the cabin, ready to talk his way out of a dicey spot if necessary. It would be uncomfortable but doable. He set his face into a gotcha grin, ready to go on the offensive. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.<br />
The boat rocked slightly, the slippered footfalls nearly silent as a woman made her descent into the body of the vessel. Silk drawstring pants hugged her willowy frame as she stepped off the wooden stairway and seemed to suck all the air out of the cabin.<br />
Roxy Donnelly had straight red hair that kissed her collarbone and parted in the middle, and a light feathering of freckles on her cheeks and chest. Her hazel eyes bore in to Luke’s, assessing the situation. She came to a conclusion and—without speaking—told him everything a man wanted to hear from a woman.<br />
Roxy was backlit, her figure silhouetted in a diaphanous white blouse. Luke could see she was braless, and his heart quickened. Her nipples rippled the fabric, and sparks spread to Luke’s chest and down to his groin. As he became aroused, he found himself at a loss for words. No mafioso cracking wise, only deep breathing trying to hide his visceral reaction to the danger of her unexpected arrival. The cabin seemed to become tighter still, if that was possible, until Roxy broke the silence.<br />
“I knew you were smarter than you looked.” If she was aware that Luke had raided her computer, she gave no indication or surprise at his presence. “You saw the schedule, Trent’s on call.”<br />
She stepped closer and Luke found himself on his feet. “I made the schedule,” he said.<br />
Roxy stepped so close their noses touched. He could feel her breath. The light scent of perfume was intoxicating. She reached down and touched his erection, stoking the fire. “I know what you drink, but I don’t know how you like it.”<br />
“Any way you serve it,” Luke said, his voice deep, throaty, and bedroom. He knew he should hit the road but stood transfixed.<br />
Roxy took his hand, squeezed it, and led him to the queen-size bunk in the rear of the cabin. “Get comfortable.”<br />
She stepped into the galley, poured two glasses of Scotch, neat, kicked off her slipper shoes, and glided barefoot to the bed, handing Luke his drink. They clinked and each took a deep sip, never breaking eye contact.<br />
Roxy set her glass down, slowly unbuttoned her blouse, and shrugged out of it, revealing sheer perfection. A dancer’s body. Compact upright breasts, a narrow sculpted waist, and a sapphire-pierced belly button. She tossed the blouse onto the chair Luke had been sitting in, leaned over him, and unbuckled his belt more roughly than he would have expected.<br />
Luke might have received a reality check, but by the time his cell phone buzzed in his pants pocket, they were hanging over the chair.<br />
“You’re not upset?” he said, a statement of fact.<br />
“You should’ve called first, but it was inevitable. It was perfect the first time. We work too hard for no pleasure. Roll over, I’m good with my hands.”<br />
No argument from Luke, who pulled off his gray crewneck and tossed it on the chair. He eased onto his stomach carefully because he was sporting a blazing hard-on.<br />
Roxy was fully engaged. She lit a candle, then raked his back with her fingernails, the brief contact from her nipples as she leaned over him burning a trail from his neck down to his waist. As she straddled Luke, he felt her heat and let out a husky groan.<br />
Roxy started on his lower back and slowly worked her way up his spine, compressing with thumbs and forefingers every third vertebrae until she reached his neck.<br />
“You are good,” he murmured.<br />
By the time Luke realized cold steel was pressed against the back of his head and not her thumbs, he was dead.<br />
The explosion of the hammer striking the .22 round in her derringer created a blinding electric flash behind Luke’s eyes. The bullet rattled around his skull, tearing up brain matter, until his world turned pitch-black.<br />
Roxy jumped off the bed, grabbed a plastic garbage bag out of the galley, pulled it over Luke’s head, and cinched it around his neck to catch any blood evidence. She picked up her cell and hit Speed Dial.<br />
“Trent. We’ve got a situation,” and Roxy gave him the rapid-fire shorthand version while she rifled through Luke’s pants and billfold, her voice devoid of emotion. Her body vibrated uncontrollably as adrenaline coursed through her nervous system. She dropped Luke’s keys and willed her hands to stop shaking as she placed his cell phone and the flash drive next to her laptop. “I’ll clean things up on the home front, you keep your ears open and get a feel for the play at your end. Stay on shift—Shut the fuck up and let me talk!” And then in a tight whisper, “I killed a man, okay? I’ve had better nights. Okay, okay, but only text if you sense movement in our direction.” Roxy was unraveling. “You won’t hear from me again until, until, shit, Trent, until I call you.”<br />
Roxy snapped out the light and walked over to the door and tried to still her breathing as she sucked in the thick sea air and listened for any movement on the dock. Water lapping against hulls and nylon lines clanking on aluminum masts were the only early-morning sounds. If not for the dead body lying on her bunk, it would almost be peaceful.<br />
Roxy got down on her hands and knees and scrabbled around until she came up with the keys she’d dropped. She sat on the edge of the bed and made a mental list of what she had to accomplish. Sucked in a breath, nodded, and went into action.<br />
Roxy pulled the duvet cover over Luke’s body and changed into jeans and black T-shirt and black running shoes. She grabbed a pair of thin cotton gloves and shrugged into Trent’s oversize black hoodie.<br />
She rifled through the junk drawer and pulled out a roll of blue painter’s tape, took a credit card and the cash out of Luke’s wallet and added it to her own, and ran out of the catamaran, locking the door behind her.<br />
*****<br />
Roxy pulled the hood over her red hair and slipped on the gloves as she ran up the dock and out through the chain-link security gate.<br />
There was a smattering of cars in the lot, and Roxy started hitting the button on the remote-entry key for Luke’s car but got no response. She knew Luke drove a black Camaro but was at a loss. She spun in place and felt like she was going to explode. She turned off the emotion, knowing that if she didn’t fly right, she was as good as dead.<br />
She jogged over to the next lot that was half full and tried the key again. Nothing. Roxy fought to suck down the bile and panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She ran up and down three rows of cars. Still nothing. She pounded toward the apartment complex across the street.<br />
Roxy heard the ding before she found the car.<br />
Luke had parked in the open lot that serviced the channel on the other side of the road. Mercury-vapor security lamps provided ambient light. Roxy checked the license plate and went to work.<br />
She pulled out the tape and ripped off a small strip, turning a 1 into a 7. She tore off two smaller strips and changed a second 1 to a 4. She repeated the task on the front plate and dove, flattening herself on the rocky macadam surface, as a car drove up the street.<br />
A black-and-white rolled onto the lot, its tires crackling over the uneven surface. The cop car did a silent drive past her aisle, slowed, then moved up to the far end of the lot, turned left, and back out onto the street.<br />
Time seemed to stand still, but the pounding of Roxy’s heart reminded her that the clock was ticking and daylight would be her enemy. She grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and wiped it onto the license plate with one eye peeled for the cop car. She did the same with the rear plate, obscuring some of her handiwork. After the cop car made his final pass down the street and disappeared onto the main drag, Roxy jumped behind the wheel of the Camaro, adjusted the seat and mirror, put on a pair of dark glasses, and rumbled out of the parking lot.<br />
*****<br />
It took sixteen minutes to get from the marina to long-term parking at LAX. The black Camaro had black-tinted windows, and when Roxy pulled into the lot, hit the button, grabbed a ticket, and waited for the electronic arm to rise, she had her hood pulled tight, her dark sunglasses in place, and her head tilted down. If there had been a security camera at play, all it would’ve recorded was the top of a dark hoodie.<br />
The lot was huge. Roxy motored to the far end and parked between two large SUVs that all but swallowed Luke’s low-slung muscle car. She checked the glove compartment to see if there was anything worth taking, or revealing as to Luke’s true purpose, snooping in the wrong place at the wrong time. She found the car’s registration and proof of insurance and pocketed the documents in the hope that it might slow the inquiry sure to follow. She hit the button that opened the trunk, readjusted the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and exited the vehicle.<br />
A salmon glow pulsed above the horizon, a warm-up for the main event. The adrenaline had worn off, and Roxy was so tired she could have slept standing up. What she saw when she looked in the trunk got her heart pounding and her head spinning again. A large leather satchel on wheels, filled with cash. More cash than Roxy had ever seen in her twenty-seven years on God’s planet. It was Mafia money. The weekend’s take from the illegal gambling yacht where she bartended. She zippered the bag and slammed the trunk shut. She didn’t need any more heat than she’d already generated.<br />
Roxy took a few steps away, spun back, opened the trunk, grabbed the satchel, and started wheeling it down the long row of cars toward the shuttle that arrived every fifteen minutes. She’d take the short ride to Tom Bradley International Terminal, where she planned on using Luke’s credit card at a McDonald’s to create a paper trail.<br />
Inherent problems were created by taking the Mafia’s money, but leaving it would have been a major fuckup. A man on the run would never leave without the cash.<br />
*****<br />
Two black stretch limos roared into the parking lot at Long Beach Shoreline Marina, adjacent to the Bella Fortuna. Doors flew open, and eight men exited the vehicles, ran across the lot, and pounded up the yacht’s gangplank, disappearing into the body of the luxury craft.<br />
A somber Tony-the-Man stood at the railing on the main deck and looked down as Vincent Cardona stepped out of the lead car and walked slowly up the gangplank. The two men locked eyes for what seemed to Tony like an eternity before Cardona boarded the ship.<br />
Heads would roll, and Tony instinctively rubbed his neck— his was at the top of the list.<br />
*****<br />
The yellow cab let Roxy off at the Admiralty Club in Marina del Rey. She paid the driver with cash and waited until he was gone before walking next door to the Killer Shrimp Diner, where she was a regular and knew the kitchen was open twenty-four/seven. She peeled off her sunglasses, pulled the hood back, and shook out her startling red hair.<br />
Roxy forced herself to eat scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast, generating an alibi with her own credit card receipt. She paid up and rolled the satchel, laden with cash, down the sidewalk and the half-mile trek to her catamaran as the sun breached the Santa Monica Mountains behind her.<br />
<h2>
Two</h2>
Twenty-four hours had passed since the death of Luke Hunter, and the weather had turned nasty. The sea was whitecapped, the crescent moon blanketed by a thick marine layer. A perfect night for what Roxy and Trent had to accomplish.<br />
A perfect night to dump a body.<br />
Trent was piloting the catamaran, heading south toward the San Pedro Channel and powered by the auxiliary engine. He knew the depth of the basin was good for at least 2,250 feet. He’d studied the charts, set the GPS, and they were just a few minutes from their destination.<br />
Trent looked right at home, almost regal, standing behind the wheel of the craft that bucked, rolled, and cut through the waves, never veering off course. He was a Saudi national and a U.S. citizen, raised in the States from the age of eight, so he had no discernible accent. He was twenty-eight years old, with a boyish open face, a buffed physique, a swarthy complexion, buzz-cut brown hair, and gray eyes that could set Roxy’s heart thrumming. A finely inked tiger ran the length of one muscled forearm, the tattooed claws drawing red blood.<br />
Roxy stepped out of the cabin and carefully made her way behind him, wrapped her arms around his six-pack, and leaned her cheek against his back, trying to still the beating of her heart.<br />
Trent gave her hand a firm squeeze before grabbing the wheel with both hands. “You’re a brave woman, Roxy,” he shouted over his shoulder, fighting the howling wind. “A warrior.”<br />
The moment he announced they were approaching their destination, the GPS system gave off a shrill cry. The night was black; there were no other boats in the area, no container ships navigating the channel. It was time to get to work. He shut off the engine, locked the wheel, and lowered himself into the cabin, followed by Roxy.<br />
Luke, head still covered with the plastic garbage bag, was dressed in nothing but his briefs. He’d been rolled onto the cabin floor; his body lay on top of the duvet cover.<br />
Trent grabbed two fifty-pound diving belts from their scuba gear and carried them up to the main deck. Roxy handed a twenty-five-pounder through the hatch. Trent ran back down, wrapped Luke’s body tightly in the blanket, and, with Roxy’s help, dragged his deadweight up the stairs and onto the aft deck behind the wheelhouse.<br />
Trent pulled back the duvet and fastened one belt, cinched it tight around Luke’s waist, and then made short work of the second. He grabbed the twenty-five-pound belt, wrapped it twice around Luke’s neck, and secured it. Postmortem lividity had turned Luke’s back, buttocks, and legs a blackish-purple where the blood had settled.<br />
Trent pulled the duvet taut, rolling Luke’s body over, and ripped a cut from top to bottom on the garbage bag so it would disengage after splashdown and be dragged out to sea. He worried it might fill with air as the corpse decomposed, and drag the body to the surface.<br />
Roxy steeled herself as she looked down at Luke. His face was bone-white, his eyes devoid of color, just a thick opaque film. If there was one life lesson she had learned from her father, it was to meet trouble head-on. Never roll over, never look back, and never run. She swallowed her rising bile and choked, “Do it.”<br />
Trent grabbed both ends of the blanket and muscled Luke’s body with 125 pounds of lead weights off the stern of the catamaran, tossing the duvet into the chop behind him.<br />
Roxy and Trent stood shoulder to shoulder as they watched Luke float for a second and then slip below the water’s surface; they were confident he was permanently buried at sea and they could move forward with their plan.<br />
<h2>
Three</h2>
<strong><em>Day One</em></strong><br />
Retired Inspector Jack Bertolino was sitting in the nosebleed seats at Klein Field at Sunken Diamond, Stanford University’s baseball stadium, in Northern California. The sun was blinding, the sky ultra-blue, the wisp of cirrus clouds as white as cotton. The old-growth pepper trees surrounding the field swayed in the light breeze carrying the scent of eucalyptus and fresh-mowed grass, taking some of the heat off the early-September afternoon.<br />
Jack had his eyes closed behind his Ray-Bans, taking in the sounds of the college baseball game, now in the eighth inning, being played in the stadium below. His hair was dark brown verging on black, with strands of silver feathering the temples, and worn long enough to threaten his collar. His angular face was weathered from years doing undercover narcotics work on the streets of NYC, and his tan only served to accentuate the scars from hard-fought battles. A bump on his otherwise straight Roman nose, a gift from a crack dealer, buffered some of Jack’s innate intensity. At six-two and big-boned, Jack had a tight fit in the stadium seating, but the sound of the hard ball slamming into leather, the crack of the bat, the umpire’s barked calls, and the emotion of the crowd made it a perfect day. Took him back to his youth playing the game on Staten Island, where he had raised his son, Chris.<br />
There was a chance Chris was going to pitch for the first time since the attempt on his life that had shattered his throwing arm nine months earlier. Jack wouldn’t have missed seeing his son in action again for the world. It hadn’t been an easy recovery for the young man, physically or mentally, and Jack tried to keep his own emotions in check. He didn’t want his heavy feelings to pull Chris down.<br />
Jack was jolted out of his reverie as a trim man wearing a light-weight gray suit and dark aviator sunglasses, with zero body fat and white brush-cut hair, banged against his knees as he moved down the aisle, finally dropping into the seat directly to Jack’s right.<br />
An attractive, serious woman wearing an equally professional gray pantsuit, with a jacket cut large enough to accommodate her shoulder rig and 9mm, made her way up his aisle. There was something about a woman and a gun that was a turn-on for Jack. Or maybe it was her shoulder-length auburn hair that shone as bright as her mirrored sunglasses. She head-tossed her hair off her face as she took the seat to Jack’s left, feigning interest in the game.<br />
Jack wasn’t surprised by the untimely visit; he had made the feds on his flight from LAX and been waiting for them to play their hand.<br />
“To what do I deserve the honor?” he said, his eyes lasered on the game as the Ohio State Buckeyes headed for the bench and the Stanford Cardinals ran onto the field. Chris had been in the bullpen warming up for the past twenty minutes but remained sidelined; the game was tied three to three at the top of the ninth, and it seemed unlikely he’d be called to play.<br />
“I couldn’t do it,” the female FBI agent said, her eyes never leaving the field. Jack didn’t respond, so she continued, “Come to the game if it were my kid. Too much pressure.” Her voice carried an easy strength, and she wasn’t going to be deterred by his silence. “Especially with all your boy has been through,” letting Jack know he had no secrets from the FBI.<br />
Ohio pounded a ball toward the left-field fence. The batter shot by first and was held up on second by the third-base coach.<br />
It never surprised Jack how much the government knew about civilians’ lives, but his son was sacrosanct. And he knew if he spoke right away, he might not be able to control his growing anger at the personal violation.<br />
The male agent, picking up on Jack’s energy, took off his glasses and proffered his hand. “Special Agent Ted Flannery.” He looked to be pushing fifty but had the body and vigor of a thirty-year-old. “Sorry for the intrusion, Jack, but we’ve come to ask for your help.” Flannery’s hand hung in midair until it became clear Jack wasn’t going to respond. Undaunted, the agent went on, “You’ve had a good relationship with the FBI throughout your career, Jack, and beyond. It’s been duly noted and appreciated, and because of your recent history, you’re in a unique position to be of service.”<br />
“What do you need?” Jack asked, giving away nothing.<br />
“Vincent Cardona,” the female agent said, answering his question. “You visited his home in Beverly Hills on the seventh of May. You were on Cardona’s payroll, hired to find his daughter, Angelica Marie, who’d been kidnapped. An altercation occurred. You slammed Cardona up against the wall, Peter Maniacci drew down on you, and Cardona’s cousin Frankie, with two other gunmen on his heels, ran out of the kitchen, ready to shoot you dead if ordered.”<br />
“You wired the house?” Jack asked.<br />
“Cardona’s too smart for that. He does a sweep once a week. No . . .” She paused for effect. “The fourth gunman was an FBI agent.”<br />
The level of intensity in her tone wasn’t lost on Jack. She had referred to her agent in the past tense, but there was something more. Something unspoken, Jack thought.<br />
Ohio thundered a ball over the fence for a two-run homer. Jack’s body tensed as the coach walked onto the field, huddled with the pitcher and catcher, and signaled toward the sidelines.<br />
Chris Bertolino, number 11, ran out onto the mound and tossed a few back and forth with the catcher as the field was cleared and the game resumed. At six-two, Chris was as tall as Jack, but lean and rangy with sandy brown hair, a gift from his mother’s side of the family.<br />
Jack raised his hand to his lips, and the feds let him concentrate on the game. They knew Bertolino wasn’t a man who could be pressured, and understood the personal significance of this moment.<br />
Chris sucked in a deep breath, nodded to the catcher, and unloaded. His first pitch flew high on the outside. Ball one.<br />
His second pitch went wide. Ball two.<br />
The third pitch was hit. A sizzling line drive caught by the shortstop. First out.<br />
The catcher walked out to the mound, whispered a few words to Chris, and resumed his position behind home plate.<br />
Chris nodded, his game face on. If nerves were at play, he showed nothing to his opponent. He wound up and fired a fast-ball. Strike one. He denied the first two signals from the catcher and threw a second blistering pitch. Strike two. The crowd in the stands started to get loud. Chris tossed a slider, wide. The batter reached, fanned for the ball, and came up empty. Strike three.<br />
The stadium erupted as the second batter stepped into the dugout and tossed his helmet in disgust.<br />
The crowd started chanting and Jack’s stomach tightened. The lanky Buckeye leadoff batter made a big show of whipping his bat to loosen up before flashing a dead eye toward Chris, hocking a loogie onto the red clay, and stepping up to the plate.<br />
Chris smoked a fastball.<br />
The batter swung and made contact. The ball took a short hop and was plucked up by the second baseman, who threw Ohio out at first.<br />
The crowd leaped to its feet as Chris led the team off the field, having stopped the flow of blood.<br />
Jack let out a long, even breath, trying to slow his beating heart.<br />
Chris never made it to bat. The first three Stanford starters were struck out in succession.<br />
Stanford lost the game five to three, but it was a personal triumph for Chris, and Jack wished he were alone to savor the moment.<br />
“I’ve got to get down to my boy,” he said to the female agent, who seemed to be in charge.<br />
“Our agent disappeared three weeks ago,” she said, clearly un-willing to relinquish the moment. “He was deep undercover, and we believe he was on to something major. He never checked in, never filed a final report.”<br />
“You should call in the cops.”<br />
“We won’t jeopardize the case we’ve built against Vincent Cardona.”<br />
“I’ve been down that rabbit hole,” Jack said, ending their impromptu meeting. “Don’t want anything to do with the man.” He stepped past the woman.<br />
“Jack,” she said. The undercurrent in her voice, a sadness, struck a chord and turned him in place. She reached out with her card and looked up to lock eyes with him. “Liz Hunter. Think about it, Jack, and call me. Any time.” And then, “We could use your help.”
Agent Hunter wore light makeup on her clear tanned skin. She couldn’t have been over thirty, but her wide forehead was etched with fine worry lines. The hazards of the job, Jack decided. Her cheekbones were high and strong, her figure athletic, her slender, elegant neck tilted slightly to make her point. Jack found himself wondering what her eyes looked like.<br />
“Why should I get involved?”<br />
“The missing agent is my brother.”<br />
Jack nodded, took the card, turned, and made his way down the steep concrete steps toward the Cardinals locker room.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from The Fourth Gunman by John Lansing. Copyright © 2017 by John Lansing. Reproduced with permission from John Lansing. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="John Lansing" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/john-sm.jpg" height="290" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
Best-selling author John Lansing started his career as an actor in New York City. He spent a year at the Royale Theatre performing the lead in the Broadway production of “Grease” before putting together a rock ‘n’ roll band and playing the iconic club CBGB.<br />
Lansing closed up his Tribeca loft and headed for the West Coast where he landed a co-starring role in George Lucas’ “More American Graffiti,” and guest-starred on numerous television shows.<br />
During his fifteen-year writing career, Lansing wrote and produced “Walker Texas Ranger,” co-wrote two CBS Movies of the Week, and co-executive produced the ABC series “Scoundrels.”<br />
John’s first book was Good Cop Bad Money, a true crime tome he co-wrote with former NYPD Inspector Glen Morisano.<br />
The Devil’s Necktie, his first Jack Bertolino novel, became a best seller on Barnes & Noble and hit #1 in Amazon’s Kindle store in the Crime Fiction genre.<br />
Jack Bertolino returns in John’s fourth novel, "The Fourth Gunman."<br />
A native of Long Island, John now resides in Los Angeles.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With John On <a href="http://www.johnlansing.net/" target="_blank">www.johnlansing.net</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6590380.John_Lansing" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/jelansing" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/john.lansing.39" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-71801925980551604542018-02-21T07:23:00.000+01:002018-02-21T07:23:28.441+01:00The Shepherd's Calculus by C.S. Farrelly<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
The Shepherd's Calculus</h1>
<h2>
by C.S. Farrelly</h2>
<h3>
on Tour February 1 - March 31, 2018</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="The Shepherd's Calculus by C.S. Farrelly" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/farrelly-shepherds-calculus-55x85-CV-FT.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
When journalist Peter Merrick is asked to write a eulogy for his mentor, Jesuit priest James Ingram, his biggest concern is doing right by the man. But when his routine research reveals disturbing ties to sexual abuse and clues to a shadowy deal trading justice for power, everything he believed about his friend is called into question. With the US presidential election looming, incumbent Arthur Wyncott is quickly losing ground among religious voters. Meanwhile, Owen Feeney, head of the US Conference of Catholic Bishops, is facing nearly a billion dollars in payments to victims of sex abuse. When Feeney hits on a solution to both men’s problems, it seems the stars have aligned. That is until Ally Larkin—Wyncott’s brilliant campaign aide—starts to piece together the shocking details. As the election draws closer and the stakes get higher, each choice becomes a calculation: Your faith, or your church? Your principles, or your candidate? The person you most respect, or the truth that could destroy their legacy? <br />
<h4>
When the line between right and wrong is blurred, how do you act, and whom do you save?</h4>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery/Thriller<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Cavan Bridge Press<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> October 3, 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 272<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0998749303 (ISBN13: 9780998749303)<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Shepherds-Calculus-C-S-Farrelly/dp/0998749303?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-shepherds-calculus-c-s-farrelly/1127047789" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36186901-the-shepherd-s-calculus" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
When I read the synopsys of this book I was really intrigued since this is quite a topic that could be in the news today. And the whole plot was done really good.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>The book starts off a bit slow, but this does get better further down. There are a lot of characters and I really had to pay attention otherwise I would have lost track. But the complexity of these characters also made the story.<br />
<br />
Eventhough it is not a genre I read a lot I do like political thrillers when done right and The Shepherd's Calculus is done right. I may have been a bit sceptical about the political and religious combination in the beginning but that was unnecessary, since it worked perfectly in this book.<br />
<br />
My rating: 3/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
When Peter Merrick’s cell phone rang around ten on a Monday morning, his first instinct was to ignore it. Anyone who knew him well enough to call that number would know he had a deadline for the last of a three-part series he was working on for the <em>Economist</em>. It was his first foray into magazine writing in some time, and he’d made it clear to his wife, his editors, and even the family dog that he wasn’t to be disturbed until after the last piece was done and delivered.<br />
Several months had passed since his return from an extended and harrowing assignment tracking UN peacekeeping operations on the Kashmiri border with Pakistan, where violent protests had erupted following the death of a local Hizbul Mujahideen military commander. The assignment had left him with what his wife, Emma, solemnly declared to be post-traumatic stress disorder. It was, in his opinion, a dubious diagnosis she’d made based on nothing more than an Internet search, and he felt those covering the front lines in Iraq and Afghanistan deserved greater sympathy. He’d been a bystander to tragedy, he told anyone who asked, not a victim.<br />
One morning as he’d stood drinking strong Turkish coffee on the terrace of his apartment in Jammu, he watched as a car bomb detonated in front of the school across the road. No children were killed. It was a Saturday, and teachers had gathered there to meet with members of a French NGO dedicated to training staff at schools in developing nations. The arm landed on his terrace with a loud thud before Peter realized what it was. Pinned to the shoulder of what remained of its shirt was a name tag identifying Sheeraza Akhtar, presumably one of the teachers. At the time, he marveled at his complete lack of reaction to the torn limb, at the way his response was to read the letters on the tag, grab a pen, and start writing down details of the event—a description of jewelry on the woman’s hand, the streak of half-cauterized flesh running from where it tore from the arm socket to the bottom of her palm, the way smoke curled from the remains of the school’s front entrance, and the pitiful two-ambulance response that limped its way to the scene nearly twenty minutes after the explosion.<br />
Even now as he recalled the moment, he wouldn’t describe what he felt as horror or disgust, just a complete separation from everything around him, an encompassing numbness. His wife kept telling him he needed to talk to someone about what he was feeling. But that was just the point, he thought, even if he couldn’t say it to her. He couldn’t quite articulate <em>what</em> he was feeling, beyond paralysis. Making the most rudimentary decisions had been excruciating since his return. It required shaking off the dull fog he’d come to prefer, the one that rescued him from having to connect to anything. The pangs of anxiety constricting his chest as he glanced from the screen of the laptop to his jangling cell phone were the most palpable emotional response he’d had in recent memory. The interruption required a decision of some kind. He wasn’t certain he could comply.<br />
But in keeping with the career he had chosen, curiosity got the better of him. He looked at the incoming number. The area code matched that of his hometown in central Connecticut, less than an hour from where he and Emma now lived in Tarrytown, but his parents had long since retired to South Carolina. He made his decision to answer just as the call went to voice mail, which infuriated him even more than the interruption. For Peter, missing something by mere minutes or seconds was the sign of a journalist who didn’t do his job, who failed to act in time. Worse, he’d allowed a good number of calls to go to voice mail while under his deadline, and the thought of having to sift through them all made him weary. The phone buzzed to announce a new message. He looked again from his screen to the phone, paralyzed by the uncertainty and all-consuming indecision he’d begun exhibiting upon his return from Kashmir. After several minutes of failed progress on his article, the right words refusing to come to him, he committed to the message.<br />
He grabbed the phone and dialed, browsing online news sites as inconsequential voices droned on. His editor. His sister. His roommate from college asking if he’d heard the news and to call him back. Finally, a message from Patricia Roedlin in the Office of Public Affairs at his alma mater, Ignatius University in Greenwich, Connecticut. Father Ingram, the president of the university, had passed away unexpectedly, and the university
would be delighted if one of their most successful graduates would be willing to write a piece celebrating his life for the <em>Hartford Courant</em>.<br />
The news failed to register. Again, a somewhat common experience since his return. He tapped his fingers on the desk and spotted the newspaper on the floor where Emma had slipped it under the door. In the course of their ten-year marriage, Peter had almost never closed his office door. “If I can write an article with mortar shells falling around me, I think I can handle the sound of a food processor,” he had joked. But lately that had changed, and Emma had responded without comment, politely leaving him alone when the door was shut and sliding pieces of the outside world in to him with silent cooperation. He picked up the newspaper, scanned the front page, and moved on to the local news. There it was, in a small blurb on page three. “Pedestrian Killed in Aftermath of Ice Storm.” The aging president of a local university was the victim of an accident after leaving a diner in Bronxville. His body was found near the car he’d parked on a side street. Wounds to the back of his head were consistent with a fall on the ice, and hypothermia was believed to be the cause of death.<br />
To Peter’s eye the name of the victim, James Ingram, stuck out in bold print. An optical illusion, he knew, but it felt real. He reached for the second drawer on the right side of his desk and opened it. A pile of envelopes rested within. He rooted around and grasped one. The stamp was American but the destination was Peter’s address in Jammu. The script was at once shaky and assured, flourishes on the ending consonants with trembling hesitation in the middle. Folded linen paper fell from the opened envelope with little prompting. He scanned the contents of the letter, front and back, until his eyes landed on the closing lines.<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Well, Peter my boy, it’s time for me to close this missive. You may well be on your way to Kabul or Beirut by the time this reaches you, but I have no small belief that the comfort it is meant to bring will find its way to you regardless of borders.<br />
You do God’s work, Peter. Remember, the point of faith isn’t to explain away all the evil in this world. It’s
meant to help you live here in spite of it.<br />
Benedictum Nomen Iesu,<br />
Ingram, SJ</em><br />
<br />
Peter dialed Patricia Roedlin’s number. She was so happy to hear from him it made him uncomfortable. “I’d be honored to write a piece,” he spoke into the phone. “He talked about you to anyone who would listen, you know,” she said. “I think he would be pleased. Really proud.” He heard her breath catch in her throat, the stifled sobs that had likely stricken her since she’d heard the news.<br />
“It’s okay,” he found himself saying to this complete stranger, an effort to head off her tears. “I can’t imagine what I’d be doing now if it weren’t for him.” He hoped it would give her time to recover. “He was an extraordinary man and an outstanding teacher.”<br />
Patricia’s breathing slowed as she regained control. “I hope to do him justice,” Peter finished. It was only when he hung up the phone that he noticed them, the drops of liquid that had accumulated on the desk where he’d been leaning forward as he talked. He lifted a hand to his face and felt the moisture line from his eye to his chin. After several long months at home, the tears had finally come.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from The Shepherd's Calculus by C.S. Farrelly. Copyright © 2017 by C.S. Farrelly. Reproduced with permission from C.S. Farrelly. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="C.S. Farrelly" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/cassie-s-farrelly-.jpg" height="200" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
C.S. Farrelly was raised in Wyoming and Pennsylvania. A graduate of Fordham University (BA, English), her eclectic career has spanned a Manhattan investment bank, the NYC Department of Education and, most recently, the British Government’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office. She was a 2015 Presidential Leadership Scholar and obtained a master’s degree from Trinity College Dublin, where she was a George J. Mitchell scholar.<br />
She has lived in New York City, Washington, D.C., Ireland, and England. An avid hiker, she camped her way through East Africa, from Victoria Falls to Nairobi. She currently lives in Pennsylvania with her family.<br />
The Shepherd’s Calculus is her first novel.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="http://www.csfarrelly.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17144002.C_S_Farrelly" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/swiftretort" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/csfarrellyauthor/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-52335617071614418992018-02-19T17:57:00.000+01:002018-02-19T17:57:13.867+01:00Framed by Leslie Jones<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Framed</h1>
<h2>
by Leslie Jones</h2>
<h3>
on Tour February 1 - March 3, 2018</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="Framed by Leslie Jones" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/framed-leslie-jones.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h3>
The next action-packed thriller from the author of <em>Night Hush</em>, <em>Bait</em>, and <em>Deep Cover</em>…</h3>
When former hacker turned FBI cybersecurity specialist Hadley "Lark" Larkspur is asked to analyze a piece of malware, she never imagines the simple task will put her on the radar of underworld criminals. After armed gunmen try to abduct her outside a nightclub, though, it’s suddenly clear she’s in way over her head.<br />
Delta Force operator Thomas "Mace" Beckett is in Boston awaiting his next assignment when he witnesses an attempted kidnapping. His training forces him to intervene, but then the woman pulls a gun on him. Mace isn’t sure what to make of the spitfire holding him hostage, but he quickly discovers that Lark is an innocent pawn in a dangerous game. Someone has framed her for the theft of millions from the mafia, and they want her to pay… in blood, if necessary.<br />
With only days to find the funds, Lark and Mace scramble to track the real culprit. But their investigation unexpectedly leads straight to the heart of a terrible plot, one that could mean death for thousands. The criminals have stolen something far worse than money… and it’s about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Witness Impulse<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> January 30th 2018<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 384<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062499475 (ISBN13: 9780062499479)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Duty & Honor #4 | Each is a Stand-Alone Mystery<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Framed-Honor-Novel-Leslie-Jones-ebook/dp/B01BSJU7B8?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/framed-leslie-jones/1124086125?ean=9780062499479" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29099298-framed" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
I wasn't sure what to expect from this book when I started reading it and I can honestly say it did not disappoint. It might be the fourth in the series but that is not a problem. The book can be easily read as a stand alone.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Framed is quite an easy, but suspenseful read. There is just enough action to keep it exciting but isn't difficult to follow. This was the first book I read from Leslie Jones but I think I will follow her because I really enjoyed her writing style.<br />
<br />
The details with regards to the cyber security and coding were just right and did not bother me at all since I know nothing of this. I also liked the topic and it is not something that I read a lot so that is something I can always enjoy.<br />
<br />
I did not like Lark so much, she really makes stupid decisions and that got a bit annoying at times, but to be honest I have this issue a lot with female leads lately.<br />
<br />
And to be warned you need to know this is more a romantic suspense then a mystery. Now I do not mind this at all because I like romantic suspense novels, but it would be nice to know this up front.<br />
<br />
But I did like Framed and I do want to read other books in this series so let's see what Leslie Jones comes up with in her next novel.<br />
<br />
My rating: 3/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
Lark came even with an idling taxi, unaware of the danger as the two men stopped on either side of her. She half-turned, surprise and then alarm filling her face as she finally noticed them. A puff of white escaped her open mouth. She wrenched open the door of the taxi to escape, but one of the men yanked her away, pulling a Colt M1911 and pressing it into her stomach.<br />
Mace came in fast and low, catching the second gunman around the waist and riding him down hard. The man’s head smacked against the pavement. Mace tore the semiautomatic from his hand, already rising and turning to the man holding Lark. The taxi driver yelled something Mace couldn’t hear and burned rubber as he raced away from the violence. <em>Fucking coward.</em><br />
He forced himself to ignore the blind panic on her face, instead focusing on the threat.<br />
“What the fuck?” said the gunman. “Who the hell are you?”<br />
Mace felt his expression go cold. “I’m the man who’s goan kill you if you don’ let her go.”<br />
The man’s eyes narrowed and his grip on Lark tightened. The two gunmen—Dumb and Dumber—wore clothing almost identical to his own. Black jackets over T-shirts, military pants and black boots.<br />
Dumb frowned as he looked Mace up and down. “Did Palachka send you? We got this covered, man. Get lost.”<br />
“Let her go. Now.”<br />
Dumb shook his head, anger growing in the depths of his eyes. “I got my orders. Palachka wants to have a chat with her, so I ain’t going to hurt her none.”<br />
Damned straight he wasn’t. These men were muscle, just following orders. Palachka’s orders.<br />
Who the hell was Palachka?<br />
He glanced at the crowd. A small group watched them, grinning and nudging one another. As long as they thought theirs was simply a drunken brawl, no one would bother to call the police.
Lark hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle, but the whites of her eyes showed and he could feel her terror. She, too, looked at the line outside the nightclub.<br />
He took a risk with a bald-faced lie. “Palachka tol’ me to take over. He said to tell you to head back and leave her to me. I’m the one’s goan to chat with her.”<br />
Dumber picked himself up off the pavement and staggered over to his partner. “Lying prick. He’d’ve called us. And I don’t know you.”<br />
“Best you don’ know me. I’m who Palachka calls when fucks like you bungle it.” Mace snorted. “What, you think he don’t have nothing better to do than deal with the likes of you? He’s waiting for you, though. Don’t want him pissed, do you?”<br />
Both blanched. Mace walked casually over and tugged on Lark’s arm. Dumb hesitated, looked into Mace’s icy eyes, and finally loosened his grip. Mace lifted the Colt he’d taken from Dumber, pointing the barrel at the sky.<br />
“This registered anywhere?”<br />
Dumber felt the back of his head for the lump that must be forming. His fingers came away red with blood. “Nah, man. It’s clean. Why’d you wallop me, man?”<br />
“Get out of here. We’re attracting attention.” He stared pointedly at the line of people outside the Promenade. “I’ll check in with Palachka when I’m done with her.”<br />
Mace settled the matter by tightening his grip on Lark and dragging her toward the parking lot. Dumb and Dumber followed, exchanging a look.<br />
“I’d better check in with him,” Dumb called. “Make sure you’re on the level.”<br />
Mace forced an uncaring shrug. “Your funeral.”<br />
They reached the edge of the deserted lot. Mace paused, raising his eyes pointedly. The two men hesitated, then shrugged and started in the opposite direction.<br />
Stupid fucks.<br />
Lark wrenched her arm so abruptly he lost his grip, and she took off like a rabbit back toward the nightclub. How could she even run in those ridiculously high heels? He caught her in three strides. Sure, she’d be safe inside—for now. But what happened when the two gunmen realized Mace had clowned them? They’d be back, and they would be furious.<br />
“Wait,” he said. He pulled her to a stop.<br />
She swung her huge purse like a brick. He pulled back just in time to avoid being clocked in the head. She dug into her bag, scrabbling around inside. Maybe she really did have a brick in there.<br />
“Come on. We have to get away from here. It won’t take those idiots long to figure out I’m not one of them.” He risked a glance behind.<br />
When he turned back a second later, she had dropped her purse and now pointed a Smith & Wesson .38 Special at him, backing off several steps to gain distance. Her hands shook so badly he feared she’d drop it. He looked hard at it, then had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the laughter that threatened.<br />
The cylinders were empty; the revolver wasn’t even loaded.<br />
Clearly, she was no criminal mastermind. So why were those men after her?<br />
He needed to get her somewhere safe. Then he could get the answers he wanted. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he punched in the code to unlock it.<br />
“Put it down!” she nearly shrieked. “Put down the goddamned phone. Drop it right now!”<br />
Of course. He was the idiot. She now thought he worked for the same man who’d sent thugs after her. Interestingly enough, she’d demanded he drop the phone, but not the pistol he still carried. He bent down and set both on the muddy slush of the asphalt, stepping away from them and raising his arms from his sides to show her he meant her no harm.<br />
“Look, that was just—”<br />
“Shut up,” she snapped, narrowing her eyes. He guessed she was trying to cow him, but she seemed as threatening as a baby kitten. “If you don’t do what I say, I’ll…I’ll shoot you.”<br />
********<br />
<h3>
Saturday, February 18. 12:35 a.m. The Promenade. Boston, Massachusetts.</h3>
Lark tightened her grip on the gun, her mind a blank. Her life had been threatened. Why? And what the hell was she supposed to do now?<br />
“I’m calling the police.” She tried to reach her right front pocket with her left hand, but it shook so badly she couldn’t manage it.<br />
“No.”<br />
“What?” She stopped fumbling with her phone out and stared at him.<br />
“No. I can’t allow you to call the police. Either I’ll have to vacate the area or they’ll arrest me. Either way, I can’t protect you.”<br />
He seemed so calm. Did he know she wouldn’t shoot him? The gun Kaley had insisted she buy felt heavy in her hand. In fact, Kaley had all but dragged her to the gun store, explaining to the owner that Lark often worked late at night, when Chelsea was dark, deserted, and dangerous. The box of bullets in the bottom of her purse made it worse than useless, but she’d barely had time to register for a class in how to use the gun, let alone load it. Not that she’d admit such a thing to him.<br />
His words finally penetrated her panicked mind. “You should be arrested. Attacking defenseless women on the street? Kidnapping? You should be in jail.”<br />
“I did none of those things.” Mace nodded toward the nightclub. “This is too public. Someone is going come into the parking lot soon. Someone will have called the police by now. We need to get out of here.”<br />
She snorted. “So you can protect me?”<br />
“Yes.” He remained maddeningly calm.<br />
“Bullshit.” Call the police, her rational mind told her. Let them handle it. It was their job, after all. But some buried instinct agreed with him. In her experience, the police were the enemy. <em>You’re not a hacker any more. You’re legit. You work for the FBI. You have nothing to fear.</em><br />
Except maybe being arrested for carrying a gun in her purse without a permit. She’d worry about that little detail later.<br />
But old habits died hard. If Mace were arrested, the odds that the cops would share information with her were minimal, and she would still be in the dark. And it pissed her off that her big brain couldn’t find a logical solution to her current dilemma. “We’re going to walk to my car. If the police show up, so be it. You become their problem. Get your hands up higher, and walk in front of me.”<br />
Common sense dictated she force him to leave. To get into her car and drive away. To call 911 and hope for the best. But she’d still know nothing. Mace was clearly working with those other men with guns, and she needed him to tell her what was going on. That meant keeping him with her. Not her smartest idea ever, since he’d been sent to kill her. But what choice did she have?<br />
She’d make him spill the beans. Somehow.<br />
Right now, she needed to get out of this neighborhood before any more black-clad thugs came within grabbing distance of her.<br />
“Move,” she said, deepening her voice and snapping off the words. Hopefully he couldn’t see the tremors in her hands. Thankfully he obeyed, strolling down the line of cars as though she didn’t have a gun trained on him. She scooped up her purse and followed.<br />
“Go to the left. Down this row. There…no, stop. The orange Jeep Liberty.”<br />
He paused beside her car. “Good God. You actually drive this thing?”<br />
It had been her first purchase after getting her Master’s degree, even before the FBI hired her. She’d been so relieved to ditch her junker and drive a new-ish car, and she’d gotten a smoking deal on it. Her hackles rose, and for a moment, she forgot to be terrified.<br />
“It’s a sweet ride. What do you know?”<br />
He grinned at her. “Whatever you say.”<br />
For a moment, she wished she’d gone through agent training with the FBI, instead of as a computer scientist. She’d know, for instance, how to shoot her shiny new gun. Computer scientists received training at Quantico, sure. But in reverse engineering of malware, digital forensics, and intrusion detection. Administrative processes. She’d received no training in firearms, tactics, or taking smokin’ hot men prisoner.<br />
Who else could she call for advice? Trevor’s mobile was number five on her phone’s favorites tab. It would be, what? Nine in the morning in London, assuming he wasn’t on assignment. She put a hand to her head. Her gun hand, she realized, as it thumped her temple. “God damn hairy ass wrinkly old man balls!”<br />
Mace laughed. “You don’ mess around, do you? Dat was an impressive bit of cussing.”<br />
“Gee, thanks.”<br />
“Lark, I’m serious. It won’ take those yahoos long to come back. We need to be long gone by then. Please trust me.”<br />
First thing first. Before her innards melted from his honeyed Cajun drawl, she switched the revolver to her left hand, keeping it trained on him as she fished her phone out.<br />
“Please don’t call the cops,” he said again. “Say they show up. You tell them what happen’. I tell them what happen’. Maybe they take me down to the station, maybe they just put me in a squad car while they check me out. Either way, the cops will release me. But while all the fuss is going on, you might decide to just walk away. Bad people are gunning for you. Keep me with you.”<br />
She shot him a warning glare and pressed Trevor’s number. It went straight to voice mail. Now what?<br />
She swung her bag forward so she could scrabble inside for her keys. Damn it! She risked a quick look inside her purse and spotted them. Hooking the ring out with a finger, she tossed the whole thing to him. He caught it one handed.<br />
“Get into the driver’s seat,” she commanded.<br />
He obeyed, squashing his six-foot-three inch frame into the driver’s seat. “Gawd damn. This t’ing built for a child.”<br />
He reached down and pulled the seat lever, sighing in relief as the seat moved back. He stretched his legs, reaching across to unlock the passenger door for her. She dropped her bag at her feet before easing inside, keeping the gun trained on him. He glanced at her and away. She could have sworn he hid a smile.<br />
“Now what?” he asked.<br />
She had no earthly clue. Putting a hand to her aching head, she made a sound of pure frustration. Only he could provide the information she needed.<br />
She couldn’t take him to her home; that would be insane.<br />
Would it?<br />
It would have to be her room at the Hyatt Regency Cambridge. Kaley had insisted the entire wedding party stay at the hotel the night before the wedding.<br />
“A hotel.”<br />
“Good choice. I know one down by—”<br />
“No,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere anyone knows you, or can find you.”<br />
“All right. You’re calling the shots.”<br />
Why did he seem so calm? She’d threatened to shoot him.<br />
“Get on the freeway.”<br />
He put the car into gear and drove on surface streets till he got to the highway, then took the entry ramp and merged with traffic. They headed northwest.<br />
“Take this exit.”<br />
“Why this one?”<br />
“Just do it!” She couldn’t help the way her voice rose. “Turn left.”<br />
Mace made a soothing motion with one hand, then returned it to the wheel. “Look, I know what I said back there. I played along to get them away from you. I’m not trying to hurt you.”<br />
“Yeah, you’re just trying to kill me.” Anger replaced her fear. She lifted the gun and pressed it against his head. “Turn in here, asshole.”<br />
Mace slowed and turned into the parking garage for the Hyatt Regency Cambridge. Lark cringed, already regretting her choice to bring him back here.<br />
“What now?”<br />
In for a penny, in for a pound. That sounded like something Trevor would have said. Remembering his cool competence steadied her. She squared her shoulders. “Park it.”<br />
Mace did so. “Now what?”<br />
Lark felt like tearing her hair out in frustration. How could she get him up to her room without him just walking away? “Now you tell me what’s going on. Now you tell me who the fuck Palachka is, and why he wants me dead.”<br />
Surprise lifted his brows. “You don’t know?”<br />
“Aagh!” She thunked her head against the headrest. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. All right. This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to open your door and come out with your hands where I can see them. Is that clear?”<br />
“Yes, ma’am.”<br />
What would she do if he attacked her here, in the still, dark parking lot? He’d already caught her once because of her high heels. She could threaten all she liked, but, ultimately, she had no control over him.<br />
“Stand by the hood and don’t move.”<br />
When he’d complied, she dug frantically in her purse for the box of bullets. The store owner had shown her how to open the cylinder thingy so she could put the bullets into the holes, but hadn’t allowed her to load it inside his store. Pulling the box into her lap, she fumbled it open, spilling most of the bullets down her leg and onto the floor mat. Swearing and sneaking looks at Mace to ensure he hadn’t moved, she pressed the button to swing the cylinder open, and got it on the third try. Shoving some bullets into the holes, she pushed the cylinder closed again. According to the gun store owner, all she had to do now was pull the trigger. She reached down and scooped as many bullets as she could find back into her purse.<br />
Time to face the music. Or the firing squad.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Framed by Leslie Jones. Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Jones. Reproduced with permission from Leslie Jones. All rights reserved.</div>
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<br />
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
Leslie Jones was an Army Intelligence officer for many years and she brings her first-hand experience to the pages of her work. She resides in Scottsdale, Arizona, and is currently hard at work on her next book.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="https://www.lesliejonesbooks.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1101247.Leslie_Jones" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/lesliejonesbks" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="http://facebook.com/lesliejonesbooks" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-39902483456450824672018-01-04T05:00:00.000+01:002018-01-04T05:00:16.731+01:00The Body in the Casket by Katherine Hall Page<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
The Body in the Casket</h1>
<h2>
by Katherine Hall Page</h2>
<h3>
on Tour December 4, 2017 - January 12, 2018 </h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="The Body in the Casket by Katherine Hall Page" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/97800624395672-body-casket-katherine-hall-page.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h4>
The inimitable Faith Fairchild returns in a chilling New England whodunit, inspired by the best Agatha Christie mysteries and with hints of the timeless board game Clue.</h4>
For most of her adult life, resourceful caterer Faith Fairchild has called the sleepy Massachusetts village of Aleford home. While the native New Yorker has come to know the region well, she isn’t familiar with Havencrest, a privileged enclave, until the owner of Rowan House, a secluded sprawling Arts and Crafts mansion, calls her about catering a weekend house party.<br />
Producer/director of a string of hit musicals, Max Dane—a Broadway legend—is throwing a lavish party to celebrate his seventieth birthday. At the house as they discuss the event, Faith’s client makes a startling confession. "I didn’t hire you for your cooking skills, fine as they may be, but for your sleuthing ability. You see, one of the guests wants to kill me."<br />
Faith’s only clue is an ominous birthday gift the man received the week before—an empty casket sent anonymously containing a twenty-year-old Playbill from Max’s last, and only failed, production—Heaven or Hell. Consequently, Max has drawn his guest list for the party from the cast and crew. As the guests begin to arrive one by one, and an ice storm brews overhead, Faith must keep one eye on the menu and the other on her host to prevent his birthday bash from becoming his final curtain call.<br />
Full of delectable recipes, brooding atmosphere, and Faith’s signature biting wit, The Body in the Casket is a delightful thriller that echoes the beloved mysteries of Agatha Christie and classic films such as Murder by Death and Deathtrap.<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery<br />
<b>Published by:</b> William Morrow<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> December 5th 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 238<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062439561 (ISBN13: 9780062439567)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Faith Fairchild, 24<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Body-Casket-Fairchild-Mystery-Mysteries/dp/0062439561?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-body-in-the-casket-katherine-hall-page/1125687345" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34217546-the-body-in-the-casket" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
I really enjoyed this cozy mystery. I am a cozy mystery lover so I might be biassed. This is a fast read as a cozy mystery should be.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I like Faith Fairchild as a sleuth. She doesn't make the rooky sleuth mistakes, that cab make my eyes roll. This story centers more around the lives of the characters then the actual mystery which was a bit of a shame, because I do like the mystery in the stories, but it did give me a bettter look at the characters.<br />
<br />
I am going to keep my eye out for the next installment in hopes to see some more plot twists. Because that was what I liked about the former installment.<br />
<br />
This is the 24th book in this series but it is not a problem at all if you have not read all the books. This is the second book I read in this series and I both enjoyed them and I can be very picky when it comes to reading series out of order.<br />
<br />
For fun: the author shares recipies at the end of the book.<br />
<br />
My Rating: 3/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h4>
Chapter One</h4>
“Have Faith in Your Kitchen,” Faith Fairchild said, answering the phone at her catering firm. She’d been busy piping choux pastry for éclairs onto a baking sheet.<br />
“Mrs. Fairchild?”<br />
“Yes? This is Faith Fairchild. How may I help you?”<br />
“Please hold for Max Dane.” The voice had a plummy, slightly British tone, reminiscent of Jeeves, or Downton Abbey’s Carson. The only Max Dane Faith had heard of had been a famous Broadway musical producer, but she was pretty sure he’d died years ago. This must be another Max Dane.<br />
She was put through quickly and a new voice said, “Hi. I know this is short notice, but I am very much hoping you are available to handle a house party I’m throwing for about a dozen guests at the end of the month. A Friday to Sunday. Not just dinner, but all the meals.”<br />
Faith had never catered anything like this. A Friday to Sunday sounded like something out of a British pre-World War II country house novel—kippers for breakfast, Fortnum & Mason type hampers for the shoot, tea and scones, drinks and nibbles, then saddle of lamb or some other large haunch of meat for dinner with vintage clarets followed by port and Stilton—for the men only. She was intrigued. <br />
“The first thing I need to know is where you live, Mr. Dane. Also, is this a firm date? We’ve had a mild winter so far, but January may still deliver a wallop like last year.”<br />
A Manhattan native, Faith’s marriage more than 20 years ago to the Reverend Thomas Fairchild meant a radical change of address— from the Big Apple to the orchards of Aleford, a small suburb west of Boston. Faith had never become used to boiled dinners, First Parish’s rock hard pews and most of all, New England weather. By the end of the previous February there had been 75 inches of snow on the ground and you couldn’t see through the historic parsonage’s ground floor windows or open the front door. Teenage son Ben struggled valiantly to keep the back door clear, daily hewing a path to the garage. The resulting tunnel resembled a clip from Nanook of the North.<br />
“I’m afraid the date is firm. The thirtieth is my birthday. A milestone one, my seventieth.” Unlike his butler or whoever had called Faith to the phone, Max Dane’s voice indicated he’d started life in one of the five boroughs. Faith was guessing the Bronx. He sounded a bit sheepish when he said “ my birthday,” as if throwing a party for himself was out of character. “And I live in Havencrest. It’s not far from Aleford, but I’d want you to be available at the house the whole time. Live in.”<br />
Leaving her family for three days was not something Faith did often, especially since Sunday was a workday for Tom and all too occasionally Saturday was as he “polished” his sermon. (His term, which she had noticed over the years, could mean writing the whole thing.)<br />
Ben and Amy, two years younger, seemed old enough to be on their own, but Faith had found that contrary to expectations, kids needed parents around more in adolescence than when they were toddlers. Every day brought the equivalent of scraped knees and they weren’t the kind of hurts that could be soothed by Pat The Bunny and a chocolate chip cookie. She needed more time to think about taking the job. “I’m not sure I can leave my family…” was interrupted. “I quite understand that this would be difficult,” Dane said and then he named a figure so far above anything she had ever been offered that she actually covered her mouth to keep from gasping out loud.<br />
“Look,” he continued. “Why don’t you come by and we’ll talk in person? You can see the place and decide then. I don’t use it myself, but the kitchen is well equipped—the rest of the house too. I’ll email directions and you can shoot me some times that work. This week if possible. I want to send out the invites right away.”<br />
<em>Well, it wouldn’t hurt to talk</em>, Faith thought. And she did like seeing other people’s houses. She agreed, but before she hung up curiosity won out and she asked, “Are you related to the Max Dane who produced all those wonderful Broadway musicals?”<br />
“Very closely. As in one and the same. See you soon.”<br />
Faith put the phone down and turned to Pix Miller, her closest friend and part-time Have Faith employee.<br />
“That was someone wanting Have Faith to cater a weekend long birthday celebration—for an astonishing amount of money.” She named the figure in a breathless whisper. “His name is Max Dane. Have you ever heard of him?”<br />
“Even I know who Max Dane is. Sam took me to New York the December after we were married and we saw one of his shows. It was magical—the whole weekend was. No kids yet. We were kids ourselves. We skated at Rockefeller Center by the tree and…”<br />
Her friend didn’t go in for sentimental journeys and tempted as she was to note Pix and Sam skated on Aleford Pond then and now, Faith didn’t want to stop the flow of memories. “Where did you stay? A suite at the Plaza?” Sam was a very successful lawyer.<br />
Pix came down to earth. “We barely had money for the show and pre-theater dinner at Twenty-One. That was the big splurge. I honestly can’t remember where we stayed and I should, because that’s where—” She stopped abruptly and blushed, also unusual Pix behavior.<br />
“Say no more. Nine months later along came Mark?”<br />
“Something like that,” Pix mumbled and then in her usual more assertive voice, added “You have to do this. Not because of the money, although the man must be loaded! Think of who might be there. And the house must be amazing. We don’t have anything booked for then and I can keep an eye on the kids.”<br />
The Millers lived next door to the parsonage and their three now grown children had been the Fairchilds’ babysitters. Pix played a more essential role: Faith’s tutor in the unforeseen intricacies of childrearing as well as Aleford’s often arcane mores. Faith’s first social faux pas as a new bride—inviting guests for dinner at eight o’clock— had happily been avoided when her first invite, Pix, gently told Faith the town’s inhabitants would be thinking bed soon at that hour, not a main course.<br />
Faith had started her catering business in the city that never slept before she was married and was busy all year long. Here January was always a slow month for business. The holidays were over and things didn’t start to pick up until Valentine’s Day—and even then scheduling events was risky. It all came down to weather. <br />
Pix was at the computer. Years ago she’d agreed to work at Have Faith keeping the books, the calendar, inventory—anything that did not involve any actual food preparation. <br />
“We have a couple of receptions at the Ganley Museum and the MLK breakfast the standing clergy host.” <br />
The first time Faith heard the term, “standing clergy”, which was the town’s men and women of any cloth, she pictured an upright somberly garbed group in rows like ninepins. And she hadn’t been far off.<br />
“That’s pretty much it,” Pix added, “except for a few luncheons and Amelia’s baby shower—I think she baby sat for you a couple of times when she was in high school.”<br />
“I remember she was very reliable,” Faith said. <br />
“Hard to believe she’s the same age as Samantha and having her second!” Pix sounded wistful. She was the type of woman born to wear a “I Spoil My Grandchildren” tee shirt. Faith wouldn’t be surprised if there were a drawer somewhere in the Miller’s house filled with tiny sweaters and booties knit by Pix, “just to be ready.” Mark Miller, the oldest, was married, but he and his wife did not seem to be in a rush to start a family.<br />
Samantha, the middle Miller, had a long-term beau, Caleb. They were living together in trendy Park Slope, Brooklyn and Sam, an old-fashioned pater familias, had to be restrained from asking Caleb his intentions each time the young couple came to Aleford. Pix was leaning that way herself, she’d told Faith recently, noting that young couples these days were so intent on careers they didn’t hear the clock ticking.<br />
Faith had forgotten that Amelia—who apparently had paid attention to time— was Samantha’s age and quickly changed the subject to what was uppermost in her mind—the Dane job. “Where is Havencrest?” she asked. “I thought I knew all the neighboring towns.”<br />
“It’s not really a town so much as an enclave between Weston and Dover. I don’t think it even has a zip code. I’ve never been there, but Mother has. You can ask her about it. The houses all date to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. I believe there’s a gatehouse at the entrance. It’s an early equivalent of the mid century modern planned communities like Moon Hill in Lexington. Havencrest wasn’t a bunch of architects like that one though. Just very rich Boston Brahmin families who wanted privacy and plenty of space. I wonder how Max Dane ended up there? From what Mother has said, the houses don’t change hands, just generations.”<br />
“I think I’ll check my email and see if there’s anything from him yet,” Faith said. “And maybe drop by to see Ursula on my way home.” Stopping to visit with Ursula Lyman Rowe, Pix’s mother, was no chore. The octogenarian was one of Faith’s favorite people. She turned back to the éclairs, which were part of a special order, and added a few more to bring to her friend. <br />
“I know you’ll take the job,” Pix said. “I’m predicting the weekend of a lifetime!”<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from The Body in the Casket by Katherine Hall Page. Copyright © 2017 by William Morrow. Reproduced with permission from William Morrow. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Katherine Hall Page" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/Katherine-Hall-Page-author-photo.jpg" height="200" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
Katherine Hall Page is the author of twenty-three previous Faith Fairchild mysteries, the first of which received the Agatha Award for best first mystery. The Body in the Snowdrift was honored with the Agatha Award for best novel of 2006. Page also won an Agatha for her short story "The Would-Be Widower." The recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award at Malice Domestic, she has been nominated for the Edgar Award, the Mary Higgins Clark Award, and the Macavity Award. She lives in Massachusetts, and Maine, with her husband.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On: <a href="http://katherine-hall-page.org/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21167.Katherine_Hall_Page" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Katherine-Hall-Page/170209983027258" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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Giveaway:</h1>
<h5>
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Katherine Hall Page and Witness Impulse. There will be 3 winners of one (1) physical copy of Katherine Hall Page’s The Body in the Casket. The giveaway begins on December 4, 2017 and runs through January 14, 2018. This giveaway is open to US addressess only. </h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-76368575459829754972017-12-20T05:00:00.000+01:002017-12-20T05:00:11.673+01:00Strong to the Bone by Jon Land<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/strong-bone-jon-land/"><img alt="Strong to the Bone by Jon Land Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/strong-bone-jon-land-banner.jpg" height="320" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Strong to the Bone</h1>
<h2>
by Jon Land</h2>
<h3>
on Tour December 4, 2017 - January 31, 2018</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="STRONG TO THE BONE by Jon Land" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/strong-to-the-bone-by-jon-land.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<em>1944</em>: Texas Ranger Jim Strong investigates a triple murder inside a Nazi POW camp in Texas.<br />
<em>The Present</em>: His daughter, fifth generation Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong, finds herself pursuing the killer her father never caught in the most personal case of her career a conspiracy stretching from that Nazi POW camp to a modern-day neo-Nazi gang.<br />
A sinister movement has emerged from the shadows of history, determined to undermine the American way of life. Its leader, Armand Fisker, has an army at his disposal, a deadly bio-weapon, and a reputation for being unbeatable. But he s never taken on the likes of Caitlin Strong and her outlaw lover, Cort Wesley Masters.<br />
To prevent an unspeakable cataclysm, Caitlin and Cort Wesley must win a war the world thought was over.<br />
<blockquote>
"<em>Strong to the Bone</em> is another fine effort by Jon Land, who manages to mix character development with gripping, page-turning plots. This is his best novel yet." <br />
— <em>StrandMagazine</em></blockquote>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Thriller<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Forge Books<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> December 5, 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 368<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0765384647 (ISBN13: 9780765384645)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Caitlin Strong Novels (Volume 9)<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strong-Bone-Caitlin-Novel-Novels/dp/0765384647?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/strong-to-the-bone-jon-land/1125323383?ean=9780765384645" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33517563-strong-to-the-bone" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>| <a href="https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780765384669" target="_blank">Macmillan</a></blockquote>
After reading Strong Cold Dead last year I was really looking forward to reading Strong to the Bone. And it did not dissapoint at all<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
I really like the two stories that happening parallel from each other. The resemblance between the two stories is very well done and it also really fits the different time frames.<br />
<br />
So much happens that every once in a while I had to flip the pages back to make sure I did not miss anything. And you know I do like a book that makes me keep my attention on the story<br />
<br />
I really enjoyed Strong to the Bone and think this is a very nice continuation to this series.<br />
<br />
My rating 4/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h4>
CHAPTER 1</h4>
<em>Austin, Texas</em><br />
“<em>What the hell?</em>”<br />
Caitlin Strong and Cort Wesley Masters had just emerged from Esther’s Follie’s on East 6th Steet, when they saw the stream of people hurrying down the road, gazes universally cocked back behind them. Sirens blared off in the distance and a steady chorus of honking horns seemed to be coming from an adjoining block just past the street affectionately known as “Dirty Sixth,” Austin’s version of Bourbon Street in New Orleans.<br />
“Couldn’t tell you,” Cort Wesley said, even as he sized up the scene. “But I got a feeling we’re gonna know before much longer.”<br />
* * *<br />
Caitlin was in town to speak at a national law enforcement conference focusing on homegrown terrorism, and both her sessions at the Convention Center had been jam-packed. She felt kind of guilty her presentations had lacked the audio-visual touches many of the others had featured. But the audiences hadn’t seem to mind, filling a sectioned-off ballroom to the gills to hear of her direct experiences, in contrast to theoretical dissertations by experts. Audiences comprised of cops a lot like her, looking to bring something back home they could actually use. She’d focused to a great extent on her most recent battle with ISIS right here in Texas, and an al-Qaeda cell a few years before that, stressing how much things had changed in the interim and how much more they were likely to.<br />
Cort Wesley had driven up from San Antonio to meet her for a rare night out that had begun with dinner at Ancho’s inside the Omni Hotel and then a stop at Antone’s nightclub to see the Rats, a band headed by a Texas Ranger tech expert known as Young Roger. From there, they’d walked to Esther’s Follies to take in the famed Texas-centric improve show there, a first for both of them that was every bit as funny and entertaining as advertised, even with a gun-toting woman both Caitlin and Cort Wesley realized was based on her.<br />
Fortunately, no one else in the audience made that connection and they managed to slip out ahead of the rest of the crowd. Once outside, though, they were greeted by a flood of pedestrians pouring up the street from an area of congestion a few blocks down, just past 8th Street.<br />
“What you figure, Ranger?”<br />
“That maybe we better go have ourselves a look.”<br />
<br />
<h4>
CHAPTER 2</h4>
<em>Austin, Texas</em><br />
Caitlin practically collided with a young man holding a wad of napkins against his bleeding nose at the intersection with East 7th Street.<br />
“What’s going on?” she asked him, pulling back her blazer to show her Texas Ranger badge.<br />
The young man looked from it back to her, swallowing some blood and hacking it up onto the street. “University of Texas graduation party took over all of Stubb’s Barbecue,” he said, pointing in the restaurant’s direction. “Guess you could say it got out of hand. Bunch of fraternities going at it.” He looked at the badge pinned to her chest again. “Are you really a Texas Ranger?”<br />
“You need to get to an emergency room,” Caitlin told him, and pressed on with Cort Wesley by her side.<br />
“Kid was no older than Dylan,” he noted, mentioning his oldest son who was still on a yearlong leave from Brown University.<br />
“How many fraternities does the University of Texas at Austin have anyway, Cort Wesley?”<br />
“A whole bunch.”<br />
“Yeah,” she nodded, continuing on toward the swell of bodies and flashing lights, “it sure looks that way.”<br />
Stubb’s was well known for its barbecue offerings and, just as much, its status as a concert venue. The interior was modest in size, as Caitlin recalled, two floors with the bottom level normally reserved for private parties and the upstairs generally packed with patrons both old and new. The rear of the main building, and several adjoining ones, featured a flattened dirt lot fronted by several performance stages where upwards of two thousand people could enjoy live music in the company of three sprawling outdoor bars.<br />
That meant this graduation party gone bad may have featured at least a comparable number of students and probably even more, many of whom remained in the street, milling about as altercations continued to flare, while first responders struggled futilely to disperse the crowd. Young men and women still swigging bottles of beer, while pushing and shoving each other. The sound of glass breaking rose over the loudening din of the approaching sirens, the whole scene glowing amid the colors splashed from the revolving lights of the Austin police cars already on the scene.<br />
A fire engine leading a rescue wagon screeched to a halt just ahead of Cort Wesley and Caitlin, at the intersection with 7th Street, beyond which had become impassable.<br />
“Dylan could even be here, for all I know,” Cort Wesley said, picking up his earlier train of thought.<br />
“He doesn’t go to UT.”<br />
“But there’s girls and trouble, two things he excels at the most.”<br />
This as fights continued breaking out one after another, splinters of violence on the verge of erupting into an all-out brawl going on under the spill of the LED streetlights rising over Stubb’s.<br />
Caitlin pictured swirling lines of already drunk patrons being refused admittance due to capacity issues. Standing in line full of alcohol on a steamy night, expectations of a celebratory evening dashed, was a recipe for just what she was viewing now. In her mind, she saw fights breaking out between rival UT fraternities mostly in the outdoor performance area, before spilling out into the street, fueled by simmering tempers now on high heat.<br />
“You see any good we can be here?” Cort Wesley asked her.<br />
Caitlin was about to say no, when she spotted an anxious Austin patrol cop doing his best to break up fights that had spread as far as 7th Street. She and Cort Wesley sifted through the crowd and made their way toward him, Caitlin advancing alone when they drew close.<br />
“Anything I can do to help,” she said, reading the Austin policeman’s nametag, “Officer Hilton?”<br />
Hilton leaned up against an ornate light pole that looked like gnarled wrought iron for support. He was breathing hard, his face scraped and bruised. He noted the Texas Ranger badge and seemed to match her face to whatever media reports he’d remembered her from.<br />
“Not unless you got enough Moses in you to part the Red Sea out there, Ranger.”<br />
“What brought you boys out here? Detail work?” Caitlin asked, trying to account for his presence on scene so quickly, ahead of the sirens screaming through the night.<br />
Hilton shook his head. “An anonymous nine-one-one call about a sexual assault taking place inside the club, the downstairs lounge.”<br />
“And you didn’t go inside?”<br />
Hilton turned his gaze on the street, his breathing picking up again. “Through that? My partner tried and ended up getting his skull cracked open by a bottle. I damn near got killed fighting to reach him. Managed to get him in the back of our squad car and called for a rescue,” he said, casting his gaze toward the fire engine and ambulance that were going nowhere. “Think maybe I better carry him to the hospital myself.”<br />
“What about the girl?”<br />
“What girl?”<br />
“Sexual assault victim inside the club.”<br />
Hilton frowned. “Most of them turn out to be false alarms anyway.”<br />
“Do they now?”<br />
Caitlin’s tone left him sneering at her. “Look, Ranger, you want to shoot up the street to get inside that shithole, be my guest. I’m not leaving my partner.”<br />
“Thanks for giving me permission,” she said, and steered back for Cort Wesley.<br />
“That looked like it went well,” he noted, pushing a frat boy who’d ventured too close out of the way, after stripping the empty beer bottle he was holding by the neck from his grasp.<br />
“Sexual assault victim might still be inside, Cort Wesley.”<br />
“Shit.”<br />
“Yeah.”<br />
“Got any ideas, Ranger?”<br />
Caitlin eyed the fire engine stranded where East 7th Street met Red River Avenue. “Just one.”<br />
<br />
<h4>
CHAPTER 3</h4>
<em>Austin, Texas</em><br />
Four firemen were gathered behind the truck in a tight cluster, speaking with the two paramedics from the rescue wagon.<br />
“I’m a Texas Ranger,” Caitlin announced, approaching them with jacket peeled back to reveal her badge, “and I’m commandeering your truck.”<br />
“You’re what?” one of the fireman managed. “No, absolutely not!”<br />
The siren began blaring and lights started flashing, courtesy of Cort Wesley who’d climbed up behind the wheel.<br />
“Sorry,” Caitlin said, raising her voice above the din, “can’t hear you!”<br />
* * *<br />
The crowd that filled the street in front of Stubb’s Barbecue saw and heard the fire truck coming and began pelting it with bottles, as it edged forward through the congested street that smelled of sweat and beer. What looked like steam hung in the stagnant air overhead, either an illusion or the actual product of so many superheated bodies congealed in such tight quarters. The sound of glass braking crackled through Caitlin’s ears, as bottle after bottle smashed against the truck’s frame.<br />
The crowd clustered tighter around the fire engine, cutting off Cort Wesley’s way backward or on toward Stubb’s. The students, their fervor and aggression bred by alcohol, never noticed Caitlin’s presence atop the truck until she finally figured out the workings of the truck’s deck gun and squeezed the nozzle.<br />
The force of the water bursting out of the barrel nearly knocked her backward off the truck. But she managed to right and then repositioned herself, as she doused the tight cluster of students between the truck and the restaurant entrance with the gun’s powerful stream.<br />
A wave of people tried to fight the flow and ended up getting blown off their feet, thrown into other students who then scrambled to avoid the fire engine’s surge forward ahead of its deafening horn. Caitlin continued to clear a path for Cort Wesley, sweeping the deck gun in light motions from side to side, the five hundred gallon tank still plenty full when the club entrance drew within clear view.<br />
She felt the fire engine’s front wheels mount the sidewalk and twist heavily to the right. The front fender grazed the building and took out a plate glass window the rioting had somehow spared. Caitlin saw a gap in the crowd open all the way to the entrance and leaped down from the truck to take advantage of it, before it closed up again.<br />
She purposely didn’t draw her gun and entered Stubb’s to the sight of bloodied bouncers and staff herding the last of the patrons out of the restaurant. Outside, the steady blare of sirens told her the Austin police had arrived in force. Little they could do to disperse a crowd this large and unruly in rapid fashion, though, much less reach the entrance to lend their efforts to Caitlin’s in locating the sexual assault victim.<br />
She threaded her way through the ground floor of Stubb’s to the stairs leading down to the private lounge area. The air felt like it was being blasted out of a steam oven, roiled with coagulated body heat untouched by the restaurant’s air conditioning that left Caitlin with the sense she was descending to hell.<br />
Reaching the windowless sub-level floor, she swept her eyes about and thought she heard a whimpering come from a nest of couches, where a male figure hovered over the frame of a woman, lying half on and half off a sectional couch.<br />
“Sir, put your hands in the air and turn around slowly!” Caitlin ordered, drawing her SIG-Sauer nine-millimeter pistol. “Don’t make me tell you twice!”<br />
He started to turn, without raising his hands, and Caitlin fired when she glimpsed something shiny in his grasp. Impact to the shoulder twisted the man around and spilled him over the sectional couch, Caitlin holding her SIG at the ready as she approached his victim.<br />
She heard the whimpering again, making her think more of the sound a dog makes, and followed it toward a tight cluster of connected couch sections, their cushions all stained wet and smelling thickly of beer. Drawing closer while still keeping a sharp eye on the man she’d shot, Caitlin spotted a big smart phone lying just out of his grasp, recognizing it as the object she’d wrongly taken for a gun. Then Caitlin spied a young woman of college age pinned between a pair of couch sections, covering her exposed breasts with her arms, her torn blouse hanging off her and jeans unbuttoned and unzipped just short of her hips.<br />
Drawing closer, Caitlin saw the young woman’s assailant, the man she’d just shot in all likelihood, must’ve yanked them down so violently that he’d split the zipper and torn off the snap or button.<br />
“Ma’am?” she called softly.<br />
The young woman tightened herself into a ball and retreated deeper into the darkness between the couch sections, not seeming to hear her.<br />
“Ma’am,” Caitlin said louder, hovering over the coed while continuing to check on the man she’d shot, his eyes drifting in and out of consciousness, his shirt wet with blood in the shoulder area from the gunshot wound.<br />
Caitlin only wished it was her own attacker lying there, from all those years before when she’d been a coed herself at the Lone Star College campus in West Houston. Some memories suppressed easily, others were like a toothache that came and went. That one was more like a cavity that had been filled, forgotten until the filling broke off and raw nerve pain flared.<br />
Caitlin pushed the couch sections aside and knelt by the young woman, pistol tucked low by her hip so as not to frighten her further.<br />
“I’m a Texas Ranger, ma’am,” she said, in as soothing a voice as she could manage. “I need to get you out of here, and I need you to help me. I need to know if you can walk.”<br />
The young woman finally looked at her, nodded. Her left cheek was swollen badly and one of her arms hung limply from its socket. Caitlin looked back at the downed form of the man she’d already shot once, half hoping he gave her a reason to shoot him again.<br />
“What’s your name? Mine’s Caitlin.”<br />
“Kelly Ann,” the young woman said, her voice dry and cracking.<br />
Caitlin helped her to her feet. “Well, Kelly Ann, I know things feel real bad right now, but trust me when I tell you this is bad as they’re going to get.”<br />
Kelly Ann’s features perked up slightly, her eyes flashing back to life. She tried to take a deep breath, but stopped halfway though.<br />
Caitlin held her around the shoulders in one arm, SIG clutched in her free hand while her eyes stayed peeled on the downed man’s stirring form. “I’m going to stay with you the whole way until we get you some help,” she promised.<br />
The building suddenly felt like a Fun House Hall of Mirrors. Everything distorted, perspective and sense of place lost. Even the stairs climbing back to the ground floor felt different, only the musty smell of sweat mixed with stale perfume and body spray telling her they were the same.<br />
Caitlin wanted to tell Kelly Ann it would be all right, that it would get better, that it would all go away in time. But that would be a lie, so she said nothing at all. Almost to the door, she gazed toward a loose assemblages of frat boys wearing hoodies displaying their letters as they chugged from liquor bottles stripped from the shelves behind the main bar on the first floor. How different were they from the one who’d hurt her, hurt Kelly Ann?<br />
Caitlin wanted to shoot the bottles out of their hands, but kept leading Kelly Ann on instead, out into the night and the vapor spray from the deck gun now being wielded by Cort Wesley to keep their route clear.<br />
“’Bout time!” he shouted down, scampering across the truck’s top to retake his place behind the wheel.<br />
Caitlin was already inside the cab, Kelly Ann clinging tight to her.<br />
“Where to, Ranger?”<br />
“Seton Medical Center, Cort Wesley.”<br />
Before he got going, Caitlin noticed Officer Hilton and several other Austin cops pushing their way through the crowd toward the entrance to Stubb’s.<br />
“Don’t worry, Officer, I got the victim out safe and sound,” she yelled down to him, only half-sarcastically. “But I left a man with a bullet in his shoulder down there for you to take care of.”<br />
“Come again?”<br />
“I’d hurry, if I were you. He’s losing blood.”<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Strong to the Bone by Jon Land. Copyright © 2017 by Jon Land. Reproduced with permission from Jon Land. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Jon Land" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/Jon-Land.jpeg" height="351" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="233" /><br />
Jon Land is the USA Today bestselling author of 43 books, including eight titles in the critically acclaimed Caitlin Strong series: Strong Enough to Die, Strong Justice, Strong at the Break, Strong Vengeance, <a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/strong-rain-falling-by-jon-land/">Strong Rain Falling</a> (winner of the 2014 International Book Award and 2013 USA Best Book Award for Mystery-Suspense), <a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/strong-darkness-by-jon-land/">Strong Darkness</a> (winner of the 2014 USA Books Best Book Award and the 2015 International Book Award for Thriller, and <a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/strong-light-of-day-by-jon-land-1012-1113/">Strong Light of Day</a> which won the 2016 International Book Award for Best Thriller-Adventure, the 2015 Books and Author Award for Best Mystery Thriller, and the 2016 Beverly Hills Book Award for Best Mystery. Strong Cold Dead became the fourth title in the series in a row to win the International Book Award in 2017 and about which Booklist said, “Thrillers don’t get any better than this,” in a starred review. Land has also teamed with multiple New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham on a new sci-fi series, the first of which, The Rising, was published by Forge in January of 2017. He is a 1979 graduate of Brown University and lives in Providence, Rhode Island.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="http://www.jonlandbooks.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/31260.Jon_Land" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="http://www.twitter.com/jondland" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/JonLandAuthor/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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<h1>
Tour Participants:</h1>
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<h1>
Giveaway:</h1>
<h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-35353485744026355862017-12-16T21:41:00.000+01:002017-12-16T21:41:08.980+01:00One Red Bastard by Ed Lin<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
One Red Bastard</h1>
<h2>
by Ed Lin</h2>
<h3>
on Tour November 20 - December 31, 2017</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="One Red Bastard by Ed Lin" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Eonly-9780062444202-Cover-one-red-bastard-ed-lin.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
It’s the fall of 1976, and New York’s Chinatown is in turmoil over news that Mao’s daughter is seeking asylum in the U.S. Robert Chow is a detective in training, and he is thrilled when his girlfriend Lonnie scores an interview with the Chinese representative of Mao’s daughter. But hours after the interview, the man is found dead. Lonnie, the last person to see him alive, is the main suspect. <br />
As Lonnie is subjected to increasing amounts of intimidation from his fellow policemen, who want to close the case, Robert is tempted to reach into his own bag of dirty tricks. Will he stay on the right side of the law, or will his loyalty to Lonnie get the better of him? Find out in this exciting and fast-paced mystery set in one of New York’s most fascinating neighborhoods.<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Witness Impulse<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> November 21st 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> <br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062444204 (ISBN13: 9780062444202)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Detective Robert Chow #3<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/One-Red-Bastard-Ed-Lin-ebook/dp/B00ZRLYEZY?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-red-bastard-ed-lin/1104154837" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25743845-one-red-bastard" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
I really enjoyed the setting of this mystery. It was really nice to read about Chinatown in the 1970's. I mean it is not something you come across a lot in novels. I like discovering books that bring something new to the table.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
This is the first novel I read in the series and took me a while to get into it. It might have been better in this case to start at the beginning of the series, just to be a bit more familiar. But the mystery was still very enjoyable.<br />
<br />
I really enjoyed the dilemma Robert Chow had to deal with and with that I mean how he handled it. It felt real. Eventhough I had difficulty getting into the book after finishing it I am keeping my eye out for this series and will probably read the first 2 books just to get more acquainted.<br />
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My rating: 3.5/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
The woman was standing in a pool of wet ashes, her hands at her sides. She was about five seven but that was with heels on. Her thick black hair cascaded over her ears and shoulders, and she did something to it to make it shiny. A light brown coat stopped above a skirt that stopped midway down two taut thighs in stockings with a dull glow.<br />
I smirked because I was sure that she had spent some time thinking about how she wanted to look from the rear. To men.<br />
But this was no time for amusement. I came in close to her forehead and growled under my breath, “Barbara, what the hell are you doing here!”<br />
When she turned around I saw my head and torso in her two black, sparkling eyes. Her face was long and not too narrow and came down to a chin that fairy princesses had. Her red lips, usually curved like a little blossom, were pulled taut into a wide smile.<br />
She grabbed my arm and said, “Robert!”<br />
“This is a crime scene! Now let’s get out of this thing!”<br />
“I’m so sorry!”<br />
She continued to hold on to me as we stepped over the tape together, matching leg for leg. I had lost part of my mind in Nam, but she had lost a lot more. Barbara used to be the prettiest girl in Chinatown. Now she was its prettiest widow.<br />
“You know anything about the fire, Barbara?” I looked into her face. There was lightning behind her dark eyes.<br />
“No. I don’t. Can we stop whispering now?”<br />
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter at this point,” I said in full voice.<br />
“Look, I didn’t mean any harm. I just had to see the place up close. Artie Yee published my first story, back when I was in grade school.”<br />
“I didn’t know about that.”<br />
“I brought it into school to show everybody. Don’t you remember?”<br />
“How am I supposed to remember that one thing? You always had something to show off in school. If it wasn’t a story you wrote, it’d be a story about you.”<br />
She snorted.<br />
“Did you stay in touch with Artie over the years?” I asked.<br />
“I’d run into him from time to time.”<br />
“Were the two of you friends?”<br />
“Oh, no, no. I learned to keep my distance from that one. Did you know that he asked me to marry him when I turned eighteen?”<br />
“He wasn’t much better looking back then, was he?”<br />
“He looked like a younger walrus.”<br />
“You’re not enemies with Artie, though, are you?”<br />
“I’m not one of them, but he has many enemies,” she said. “You know that.”<br />
“He did his part in pissing off all areas of Chinatown.”<br />
“Artie doesn’t respect authority. That’s a good thing for a journalist.”<br />
“Then how come you didn’t keep writing for him?”<br />
“Artie doesn’t respect women.” She shivered and then slapped my arm. “I heard Paul got into that program at Columbia.”<br />
“Thanks to you,” I said.<br />
“Thanks in part to me, anyway.” She paused. “Doesn’t that mean you’ll take me to dinner?”<br />
“Maybe Paul should.”<br />
“Get serious. Actually, maybe Paul should come and meet my youngest sister. You know she’s up at Columbia because she got into Barnard early. Maybe she should stick to Chinatown boys, like I should have.”<br />
“Hey, Barbara, let’s talk about this later. I have to get back to work here.”<br />
“You’re going to call me?”<br />
“I’ll get in touch.”<br />
She walked off and I returned to my post.<br />
Years ago, Barbara and her three younger sisters were the four little princesses of Chinatown. She liked to say that her parents never did get that son, but the truth was her parents learned to love all their daughters to death. They all had beauty and smarts, and because of that you knew they’d get out of Chinatown and never come back.<br />
But Barbara did return after her husband was killed in Khe Sanh. The oldest, the prettiest, and the smartest of the sisters, she moved back alone into their old family home to find some comfort, I guess.<br />
There was a brief period when I thought she was the love of my life, but it was a while ago and it ended embarrassingly enough. Thinking about it again put me in a bad mood.<br />
“Hello Sunshine,” said Vandyne.<br />
“It was Barbara,” I said.<br />
“Oh! What the hell was she doing there?”<br />
“She wanted to see the place up close. Artie published one of her stories back when she was a smart, little girl.”<br />
“Seriously, though, could she have had anything at all to do with this?”<br />
“Her? No way, man!”<br />
“Do you know that for sure?”<br />
“Yes,” I said. “I would bet my soul on it.”<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from One Red Bastard by Ed Lin. Copyright © 2017 by Ed Lin. Reproduced with permission from Witness Impulse. All rights reserved.</div>
<img align="left" alt="Ed Lin" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Ed-Lin-Author.jpg" height="200" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
<h2>
Ed Lin:</h2>
Ed Lin, a native New Yorker of Taiwanese and Chinese descent, is the first author to win three Asian American Literary Awards and is an all-around standup kinda guy. His books include Waylaid and This Is a Bust, both published by Kaya Press in 2002 and 2007, respectively. Snakes Can't Run and One Red Bastard, which both continue the story of Robert Chow set in This Is a Bust, were published by Minotaur Books. His latest book, Ghost Month, a Taipei-based mystery, was published by Soho Crime in July 2014. Lin lives in Brooklyn with his wife, actress Cindy Cheung, and son.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="http://www.edlinforpresident.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/112827.Ed_Lin" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/robertchow" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Ed-Lin-80513225734" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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Tour Participants:</h1>
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Giveaway:</h1>
<h5>
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Ed Lin and Witness Impulse. There will be 5 winners of one (1) small incense box with a Chinese opera mask. The giveaway begins on November 20th and runs through December 30, 2017.</h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-10904837495040152742017-12-15T05:00:00.000+01:002017-12-15T05:00:36.577+01:00Countdown by Carey Baldwin<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Countdown</h1>
<h2>
by Carey Baldwin</h2>
<h3>
on Tour November 27 - December 31, 2017</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="Countdown by Carey Baldwin" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Eonly-9780062495631-cover-countdown-carey-baldwin.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h4>
The next pulse-pounding Cassidy and Spenser thriller from USA Today bestselling author Carey Baldwin!</h4>
Don’t believe everything you see.<br />
Special Agent Atticus Spenser and forensic psychiatrist Dr. Caitlin Cassidy are in Tahiti enjoying a much-needed break from the FBI when they spot newlyweds taking fun photos on the beach. But as the groom carries his bride deeper into the waves, Spense is positive he sees a flash of terror cross her face. All his instincts scream that this woman is in danger. Yet moments later, it’s the groom who has nearly drowned… and the bride has vanished, leaving a bloody wedding dress floating in her wake.<br />
The authorities aren’t sure who to believe—the groom, who insists his wife tried to murder him… or her twin, who claims her sister must have acted in self-defense. Intrigued, Spense and Caity agree to help investigate. But when they discover that the missing bride is the daughter of a notorious confidence man, they begin to suspect that all is not what it seems. Now they’ll need to separate victim from villain, fact from fiction, truth from lie, to determine if there’s really a killer on the loose… or if it’s all one big con.<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Witness Impulse<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> November 28th 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 352<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062495631 (ISBN13: 9780062495631)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Cassidy & Spenser #5<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Countdown-Cassidy-Spenser-Thriller-Thrillers-ebook/dp/B01MU29LWO?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/countdown-carey-baldwin/1126245099" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33544889-countdown" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
This is the first book I read by the author and this series. And I can add one other series where I really enjoy the characters and who really make the story.<br />
<br />
The story starts of a bit slow eventhough it has quite the opening, the story takes a while to really get going. But Cassidy and Spencer really make up for that. I really liked them as a couple and their interaction. How they work together to solve the mystery. They are really good together.<br />
<br />
Eventhough it starts of slow it does pick up halfway through the book and from there I also really started to enjoy the mystery. I am considering starting the series from the beginning just to really get to know Cassidy and Spencer.<br />
<br />
My rating: 3/5<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
Chapter 1<br />
Six Months Earlier<br />
Late Morning<br />
Riverbend, Texas<br />
For the second time since Rose Parker entered her target’s backyard, the Ruger LCP nearly slipped from her sweat-slicked shaky grip.<br />
Damn nerves.<br />
Careful to maintain her hold on the pistol, she halted, wiped her palms on her jeans, one at a time, and then resumed forward progress. Papa hadn’t raised her to be a weak-willed helpless woman. If only he were here to give her a steadying slap—because she was going to take care of Tommy Preston or die trying.<br />
Scratch that.<br />
Dying wasn’t an option.<br />
Then there would be no one left to get the job done.<br />
Suddenly, the pulse in her ears seemed loud enough to burst her eardrums.<br />
You don’t have to do this.<br />
She checked out her toes. Dust obscured the newness of the two-sizes-too-big men’s Nikes that had arrived in the mail yesterday.<br />
Yes, you do.<br />
A bitter taste worked its way up the back of her throat. She spat onto the ground and instantly regretted it. Could they get DNA from dirt-spit? Better keep her saliva to herself from here on out, just to be on the safe side. She wasn’t worried about shoe prints though. If documented as evidence, these would only mislead the cops—something that was easy to do, and a skill she’d mastered at a too-young age.<br />
She pulled her shoulders high and tilted her face up. The rays of the white, west Texas sun had blanched the color from the heavens, changing them into a transparent film. Sweat trickling down her forehead stung when it reached her eyes. Longing to shuck out of every stitch of clothing on her body, she unbuttoned the top of her blouse. Weird how claustrophobia could hit you out in the open like this, but the soaring temperatures and the sheer, heat-wrinkled sky made her feel as though she were trapped in a giant earthen bowl covered by Saran Wrap.
Gulping hot air to prove there really was oxygen to be had, she shaded her eyes. Her Ray-Bans would be nice to have right about now, but she had no purse to dump them in, and when it came time to set that bastard in her sights she couldn’t afford to have glasses slipping down her nose. Even on a good day at the shooting range with no pressure on her, she wasn’t a great marksman. So under circumstances like these, any distraction would add an unnecessary layer of risk.<br />
Up ahead, a column of dust lifted off the ground, stretched vertically, and then spun itself into a dust devil.<br />
Willing her heartbeat to slow and her mind to still, she curled her finger a hair’s breadth away from the Ruger’s trigger.<br />
Settle down.<br />
To kill a man she needed her head level and her blood as frosty as that mug of beer she’d been wishing for even though it was not yet noon.<br />
You can take care of your own self, girl. Don’t let anybody tell you different.<br />
She had to give Papa his due about one thing—he’d set no stock in the notion that a woman was less than. Sis claimed that had just been his excuse to be harder on them than he would’ve been on any son. But Rose disagreed—yet one more example of how she and Sis didn’t always see eye-to-eye. The way she looked at it, Papa had done them a favor by teaching them to live by their wits. Sure, they’d paid a high price for the lesson, and yes, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t carry on the Parker family’s vocation once Papa was gone, but at least life with him had prepared her to outsmart any trouble that came her way. So, no, it didn’t matter if she couldn’t match Tommy’s physical strength—she had a gun.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Countdown by Carey Baldwin. Copyright © 2017 by Carey Baldwin. Reproduced with permission from Witness Impulse. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
More About Carey Baldwin:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Carey Baldwin" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/Baldwin_author-photo.jpg" height="200" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
CAREY BALDWIN is a mild-mannered doctor by day and an award-winning author of edgy suspense by night. She holds two doctoral degrees, one in medicine and one in psychology. A USA Today bestselling author, she loves reading and writing stories that keep you off balance and on the edge of your seat. Carey lives in the southwestern United States with her amazing family. In her spare time she enjoys hiking and chasing wildflowers. <br />
<h3>
Carey loves to hear from readers so please visit her website (<a href="http://www.careybaldwin.com/" rel="noopener" target="_blank">www.CareyBaldwin.com</a>), her Facebook page (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/CareyBaldwinAuthor" rel="noopener" target="_blank">facebook.com/CareyBaldwinAuthor</a>), or her Twitter feed (<a href="https://twitter.com/CareyBaldwin" rel="noopener" target="_blank">twitter.com/CareyBaldwin</a>)!</h3>
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<h1>
Tour Participants:</h1>
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<h1>
Giveaway:</h1>
<h5>
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Carey Baldwin and Witness Impulse. There will be 3 winners of one (1) physical copy of Carey Baldwin's 4th Cassidy & Spenser Thriller, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30040333-stolen" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Stolen</a>. The giveaway begins on November 27 and runs through January 1, 2018. It is open to US residents only.</h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-86176534005592585312017-12-05T05:00:00.000+01:002017-12-05T05:00:08.494+01:00Book Blast A Mother's Lie by Jo Crow<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
A Mother's Lie</h1>
<h2>
by Jo Crow</h2>
<h3>
Book Blast on December 5, 2017</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="A Mother's Lie by Jo Crow" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/A-Mothers-Lie-Jo-Crow-_B1_Cover_V03.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h4>
When her child’s life is at stake, a mother will do anything to save him.</h4>
Clara McNair is running out of time to save her son, James. When the two-year-old is diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer, only an experimental treatment can save his life. She desperately needs money to pay for the surgery, but she’ll have to travel back to the site of her darkest memories to get it.<br />
Clara has escaped the demons of her youth—or so she thinks. It’s been ten years since the mysterious disappearance of her parents. Widely suspected of murdering her mother and father, Clara fled west to start a new life. Now, a documentary film crew is offering cold, hard cash—enough to pay for James’s treatment—in exchange for the sordid secrets of her past.<br />
With no other choice but to delve into a long-ago tragedy, Clara must unravel the lies surrounding that terrible night. Facing hostile gossip, Clara is fighting to clear her name and learn the truth about what really happened. But how far will she go into the dark to save her son—and herself?<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Psychological Thriller<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Relay Publishing<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> November 29th 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 310<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 978-1979295420<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36608776-a-mother-s-lie" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div>
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
Chapter One<br />
Dense red clay was pushing between the teeth. Pond mist drifted across the manicured lawns, wisping through the dark eye sockets. Parts of the cranium were shaded a vile yellow-brown where decomposing leaves clung to its surface like bile expressed from a liver. The jawbone was separated from the skull, its curved row of teeth pointing skyward to greet the rising sun.<br />
Two feet away, closer to the oak tree, other bones were piled haphazardly: a pelvis, high iliac crests and subpubic angle. A femur, caked with dirt, jammed into his empty skull. Sunlight decorated the brittle bones in long, lazy strips and darkened hairline fractures till they blended with the shed behind them.<br />
It was peaceful here, mostly. The pond no longer bubbled, its aerator decayed by time; weed-clogged flowerbeds no longer bloomed—hands that once worked the land long ago dismissed. Fog blanketed the area, as if drawn by silence. Once, a startled shriek woke the morning doves and set them all into flight.<br />
It was the first time in ten years the mammoth magnificence of the Blue Ridge Mountains had scrutinized these bones; the first song in a decade the morning doves chorused to them from their high perch.<br />
A clatter split apart the dawn; the skull toppled over as it was struck with another bone.<br />
In a clearing, tucked safely behind the McNair estate, someone was whistling as they worked at the earth. The notes were disjointed and haphazard, like they were an afterthought. They pierced the stillness and, overhead, one of the morning doves spooked and took flight, rustling leaves as it rose through the mist.<br />
A shovel struck the wet ground, digging up clay and mulch, tossing it onto the growing mound to their left. The whistling stopped, mid note, and a contemplative hum took its place.<br />
Light glinted on the silvery band in the exposed clay—the digger pocketed it—the shovel struck the ground again; this time, it clinked as it hit something solid.<br />
Bone.<br />
A hand dusted off decayed vegetative matter and wrested the bone from its tomb. Launching it into the air, it flew in a smooth arc, and crashed into the skull like a bowling pin, scattering the remains across the grass. With a grunt of satisfaction, the digger rose and started to refill the hole from the clay mound.<br />
When it was filled and smoothed, and the sod was replaced over the disrupted ground, the digger lifted the shovel and strolled into the woods, one hand tucked in a pocket as they whistled a cheery tune lost to the morning fog.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from A Mother's Lie by Jo Crow. Copyright © 2017 by Jo Crow. Reproduced with permission from Jo Crow. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
More About Jo Crow:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Jo Crow" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/Jo-Crow_Title.png" height="78" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="282" />
<br />
Jo Crow gave ten years of her life to the corporate world of finance, rising to be one of the youngest VPs around. She carved writing time into her commute to the city, but never shared her stories, assuming they were too dark for any publishing house. But when a nosy publishing exec read the initial pages of her latest story over her shoulder, his albeit unsolicited advice made her think twice.<br />
A month later, she took the leap, quit her job, and sat down for weeks with pen to paper. The words for her first manuscript just flew from her. Now she spends her days reading and writing, dreaming up new ideas for domestic noir fans, and drawing from her own experiences in the cut-throat commercial sector.<br />
Not one to look back, Jo is all in, and can’t wait for her next book to begin.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/authorjocrow/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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<h1>
Tour Participants:</h1>
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<h1>
Giveaway:</h1>
<h5>
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Jo Crow. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com gift Card AND 3 winners of one (1) eBook copy of A Mother's Lie by Jo Crow. The giveaway begins on December 5 and runs through December 11, 2017.</h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-32094223285770719172017-11-23T05:00:00.000+01:002017-11-23T05:00:02.300+01:00Showcase Killer Holiday by Amy Korman<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Killer Holiday </h1>
<h2>
by Amy Korman</h2>
<h3>
on Tour October 23 - November 30, 2017</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="Killer Holiday by Amy Korman" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Eonly_9780062431363_Cover-killer-holiday-amy-korman.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
Kristin Clark and her offbeat crew of Bryn Mawr socialites are ready for a fun and festive winter holiday—one that involves sipping martinis by a crackling yule log, hot guys beneath the mistletoe, and Gucci under the Christmas tree. But this year, Old Saint Nick has something more dangerous in store. A stranger dressed in a Santa suit has Kristin’s friends on his naughty list. First, Sophie’s favorite handbag is blasted by a bullet. Then, Father Christmas shatters her brother Chip’s car window with a golf club and leaves a threatening note demanding fifty grand. Both are convinced it has to be a mistake. But when Chip goes missing, the stakes become deadly. Eula Morris is also back in town for the holidays, more bossy and boastful than ever after winning a mega-jackpot in the lottery. She’s returned from a luxury cruise around the world with a handsome new boyfriend (who looks oddly familiar…) and a Samsonite suitcase filled with gold bars. When the suitcase is snatched, Eula implores Kristin and the team to track it down. Where is Chip? Why is a vengeful Santa targeting the gang? Who stole Eula’s suitcase? And how are these events linked? The WASPs and Kristen’s basset hound Waffles are on the case—before this white Christmas turns even darker…<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Witness Impulse<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> October 24th 2017 by Witness Impulse<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 320<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062431366 (ISBN13: 9780062431363)<br />
<b>Series:</b> A Killer WASPs Mystery, #4<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Killer-Holiday-WASPs-Mystery-ebook/dp/B01C2NIUXG?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon </a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/killer-holiday-amy-korman/1126792798?ean=9780062431363" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble </a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29242450-unti-korman-4" target="_blank">Goodreads </a></blockquote>
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h4>
Chapter One</h4>
Bootsie McElvoy burst through the front door of The Striped Awning, a bag of ice in her right hand and the biggest bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon I’ve ever seen in her left. She dug into her L.L. Bean tote for a bottle of red wine, a shaker of nutmeg, and a bag of fun-size candy canes, all of which she deposited next to a display of 1940s barware near the front of my antiques store.<br />
“Kristin, it’s December fifteenth, which means it’s time for you to start offering shoppers a specialty cocktail the minute they set foot inside your store,” Bootsie told me. “I’m going to mix up a batch of the Delaney family Christmas drink, the Bourbon Blitzen, which never fails to produce a White Christmas vibe. One sip and you’ll feel like you’re singing and dancing with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye at a snowy Vermont inn. This should double your sales totals for the month.”<br />
“Thanks!” I said gratefully, since Bootsie’s family’s boozy drinks are known throughout our village of Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, for their potency and tendency to produce unwise purchases.<br />
“The drinks sound good, but you’re also going to need about four thousand more of these pinecones, triple the greenery, and eight hundred additional strands of lights,” Joe Delafield informed me; he’d arrived twenty minutes earlier to help me decorate my store for the Christmas rush.<br />
To lure in passing foot traffic, I’d brought in armloads of holly and spruce branches from my backyard (cost: free, thankfully), spray-painted pinecones silver (the paint was only $5.28 at the hardware store), and added some cheerful-looking blinking white lights. This would probably bring tons of holiday shoppers through my front door!<br />
Joe paused, eyeing the room with his signature critical stare. “The effect I’m going for is that a bunch of HGTV-crazed elves with subscriptions to Veranda magazine snuck in and decorated for four straight days. Gerda, we’re going to need the blinking lights to stop blinking, pronto. Pull the plug, please.”<br />
Joe’s assistant for the day was the eponymous owner of Gerda’s Bust Your Ass Gym, which is housed inside the beauty salon across the street. Since Gerda stands a lofty six feet tall in flats (or sneakers, which is her usual footwear, since fancy shoes aren’t her style), she’d agreed to hang ornaments, bringing her signature grim attitude to the proceedings.<br />
“Cute idea,” Bootsie observed, casting a dubious stare at my front window, which was filled with antique silver-plated candlesticks, flatware, and wineglasses. “Is that your holiday inventory?”<br />
“Nobody going to want that stuff,” said Gerda, who moved here from her native Austria a few years back. Gerda, who’s incredibly muscular and brings in sell-out crowds at her Pilates classes, isn’t the most tactful person in the world. “People want, like, scarves and Fitbits and iPhones.”<br />
I sighed, knowing Gerda was right. Those were the gifts on most holiday wish lists.<br />
“Luckily, I’ve solved all your problems,” Bootsie told me. “I ran into Eddie from the Pub this morning, and he needs a place to hold some late-night poker tournaments this month, so I brokered a deal for The Striped Awning. You’ll be hosting twice-weekly games from 10 p.m. till 1 a.m., Tuesdays and Thursdays till Valentine’s Day.”<br />
“What!” I erupted, alarmed by this idea. “First of all, that doesn’t sound legal.”<br />
“It’s fine,” she told me, waving away my concerns. “I mean, it’s not like it will be a professional betting operation. Eddie’s limiting each night to ten players and three hours. Some cards, a few drinks, a few small wagers. What could go wrong?”<br />
“A lot!” I said. “They’ll blow cigar smoke and drop Dorito crumbs everywhere. Not to mention get arrested for operating a casino without a license. A lot could go wrong!”<br />
“You worry too much,” Bootsie informed me dismissively. “Plus, he’ll pay you two hundred dollars a night.”<br />
I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. Bootsie knew she had me—there’s no way I can refuse an extra four hundred dollars a week, even if it puts me on the wrong side of the state gaming commission.<br />
Just then, though, the front door was thrown open by one Sophie Shields, a tiny blonde who at the moment was looking slightly wild-eyed.<br />
“Ya won’t believe what just happened!” shrieked Sophie. “The Colketts were helping me put up curtains in my new dining room, since Joe here never finished decorating my place—and the curtains are orange silk, by the way, they’re totally Elle Decor meets a J. Lo red-carpet gown. So Tim and Tom Colkett were talking paint colors when I heard a horn honking, so I opened the front door, thinking it was the delivery boy from the Hoagie House. I figured I’d go out and pay the driver, when boom!<br />
“A guy dressed as Santa leaned out of the driver’s seat of a black SUV that had pulled right up in my driveway and aimed a gun at me and the Colketts!” The Colketts are the town’s leading landscape designers, who’ve lately turned their talents to party planning and interior design.<br />
“Then the guy yelled, ‘Hey, Sophie, this one’s from your ex, Barclay!’ and shot my favorite handbag!” Sophie finished. “I was reaching into it to pay for the hoagies, thank goodness, so it acted as a protective shield. Also, I think maybe this Santa guy doesn’t have great aim.”<br />
We all stared at her for a moment.<br />
“Are you sure, Sophie?” said Bootsie finally. “Because this sounds like BS.”<br />
“Yeah, Sophie, maybe you been hitting the wine bottle today,” seconded Gerda. “I know the Colketts are day drinkers. Maybe you been guzzling alcohol, too.”<br />
“It’s true!” Sophie bleated. “Just look at this Ferragamo satchel! If it hadn’t had gold hardware to block the trajectory of the bullet, me and the Colketts would have been toast!”<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Killer Holiday by Amy Korman. Copyright © 2017 by Amy Korman. Reproduced with permission from Witness Impulse. All rights reserved.</div>
<img align="left" alt="Amy Korman" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Amy-Korman-author-photo.jpg" height="135" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="143" /><br />
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
Amy Korman is a former senior editor and staff writer for Philadelphia Magazine, and author of Frommer’s Guide to Philadelphia. She has written for Town & Country, House Beautiful, Men’s Health, and Cosmopolitan. Killer WASPS is her first novel.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Ms. Korman On: <a href="http://amykorman.com/" target="_blank">amykorman.com </a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7879869.Amy_Korman" target="_blank">Goodreads </a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/KillerMysteries" target="_blank">Twitter </a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/killerWASPsseries/" target="_blank">Facebook </a>!</h3>
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<h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-33732767597634767912017-11-17T05:00:00.000+01:002017-11-17T05:00:00.214+01:00A Pound of Flesh by Alex Gray<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
A Pound of Flesh</h1>
<h2>
by Alex Gray</h2>
<h3>
on Tour November 6 - December 6, 2017</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="A Pound of Flesh by Alex Gray" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/97800626592241-a-pound-of-flesh-by-alex-gray.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h3>
In the depths of a freezing winter, Glasgow finds itself at the mercy of not one, but two serial killers</h3>
This is Detective Inspector Lorimer’s worst nightmare and beyond anything he’s faced in his many years on the force. Can he find a link between the brutal slaying of prostitutes in the back streets of the city and the methodical killing of several unconnected businessmen?<br />
When the latest victim turns out to be a prominent Scottish politician, the media’s spotlight is shone on Lorimer’s investigation. Psychologist and criminal profiler Solly Brightman is called in to help solve the cases, but his help may be futile as they realize that someone on the inside is leaking confidential police information. Meanwhile two killers haunt the snowy streets and Lorimer must act fast, before they strike again…<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery & Detective<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Witness Impulse<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> November 7th 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 368<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062659227 (ISBN13: 9780062659224)<br />
<b>Series:</b> DCI Lorimer #9<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pound-Flesh-Lorimer-Novel-William-ebook/dp/B06WRQRRL8?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-pound-of-flesh-alex-gray/1127062886" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34323015-a-pound-of-flesh" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
Yet another good installment in this series. Again Alex Gray has written a mystery with an amazing plot building which made me keep flipping the pages to keep reading.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
In this case DI Lorimer has two serial killers on his hands and he needs to figure out if these two are correlated. I enjoyed the multiple viewpoints although it got a bit complicated at times to keep track of everything going on. So I really had to pay attention while reading.<br />
<br />
The story is about the solving of the murders, but it mainly revolves around the people involved with solving the murders. You do get to read from the points of views of one of the killers and some victims, but it is mainly about the people involved in solving the crimes. And I do like my thrillers to be more about the solving then the people to be honost.<br />
<br />
But Alex Gray's writing style is what kept me reading. She is capable to really draw me into the story so I just need to know what will happen next.<br />
<br />
My rating: 3/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
It wasn’t always easy to see the moon or the stars. This city’s sodium glow rose like yellow fog from its streets, blotting out any chance of star gazing. But she knew it was there. That cold white face dominated her thoughts tonight and she shivered as though it already saw her flesh naked and exposed to its unblinking watchfulness. Perhaps it was because she was trying to be seen that she felt such awareness. The red jersey pencil skirt folded over to create a too-short mini, those agonisingly high-heeled sandals cutting into her bare toes; spread across the bed back in the hotel they had seemed the garb of an adventuress.<br />
Now, revealed in the glare of the street lamp on this corner she felt a sense of…what? Shame? Perhaps. Self-consciousness, certainly. But such feelings must be overcome if her plan was to work.<br />
She had already overcome the blank indifference of the girls down in Waterloo Street, their body language both defiant and compelling. Her hips shifted, one slender foot thrust forwards, as she remembered how they had stood, languidly chewing gum, waiting for their punters. Their desperation drove them to return night after night, the price of a wrap of drugs equating to an hour with some stranger.<br />
Her own need was just as strong, fuelled by a passion that would not be spent until she had fulfilled her desire. It was warm in this Glasgow summer’s night and her black nylon blouse clung to her back, making her uncomfortably aware of her own flesh. The thin cotton coat she’d worn to conceal these trashy clothes as she’d tapped her way across the marble foyer of the hotel was now folded into the black bag at her feet, along with her more sober court shoes. When it was over she would slip them on and return the way she had come, hair clipped in a businesslike pleat. She smiled thinly. Being a woman had some advantages; the facility for disguise was just one of them. Her carefully made-up face was stripped of colour in the unforgiving lamplight, leaving only an impression of dark eyes, darker hair tossed back to reveal a long, determined mouth. She recalled what Tracey- Anne, one of the girls at the drop-in centre, had told her: I get through it by pretending to be someone else for a few hours, then I can be myself again.<br />
Tracey-Anne was lucky, though. After tonight she could never again be the person that she used to be. Glancing at the elegant façades around the square, the dark-haired woman suddenly saw these city streets through different eyes: the shadows seemed blacker, the corners harbouring ill intent. Her chin tilted upwards, defying those inner demons tempting her to turn back.<br />
After tonight things would change for ever. When the car slowed down at the kerb her heart quickened in a moment of anticipation that astonished her. She had expected the thrill of fear, not this rush of excitement sweeping through her blood.<br />
The man behind the wheel had bent his head and she could see his eyes flicking over her hungrily, appraising his choice. He gave a brief nod as if to say he was pleased with his first instinct to stop. Her lip-glossed mouth drawn up in a smile, she stepped forward, willing him to reach across and open the window, ask her price. For a moment he seemed to hesitate and she could see tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip, glistening in the light. Then the door of the big car swung open noiselessly and she lowered herself inside, swinging her legs neatly together to show as much thigh as she could. But the gestures were still ladylike, almost reserved, as if she knew that would quicken his senses.<br />
‘How much?’ he asked. And she told him, one shoulder moving insouciantly as if to declare that she wasn’t bothered whether he could afford her or not: someone else would pay that price if he wouldn’t. She glanced at him briefly, catching sight of the tip of his tongue flicking at his lips like a nervous lizard, then he made a gruff noise of assent, looking at her again, as though to be sure of his purchase, before accelerating into the night.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from A Pound of Flesh by Alex Gray. Copyright © 2017 by Alex Gray. Reproduced with permission from Witness Impulse. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Alex Gray" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/Gray-Alex-223x300.jpg" height="300" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="223" /><br />
Alex Gray was born and educated in Glasgow. After studying English and Philosophy at the University of Strathclyde, she worked as a visiting officer for the Department of Health, a time she looks upon as postgraduate education since it proved a rich source of character studies. She then trained as a secondary school teacher of English. Alex began writing professionally in 1993 and had immediate success with short stories, articles, and commissions for BBC radio programs. She has been awarded the Scottish Association of Writers’ Constable and Pitlochry trophies for her crime writing. A regular on the Scottish bestseller lists, she is the author of fourteen DCI Lorimer novels. She is the co-founder of the international Scottish crime writing festival, Bloody Scotland, which had its inaugural year in 2012.<br />
<h3>
Connect with Alex Gray on her <a href="http://www.alex-gray.com/" target="_blank">Website</a> & <a href="https://twitter.com/Alexincrimeland" target="_blank">Twitter</a>.</h3>
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Giveaway:</h1>
<h5>
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Alex Gray and Witness Impulse. There will be 3 winner of one (1) eBook copy of Alex Gray's <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33544899-sleep-like-the-dead" rel="noopener" target="_blank">SLEEP LIKE THE DEAD</a>. The giveaway begins on November 6 and runs through December 10, 2017.</h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-71966734613310617172017-11-07T05:00:00.000+01:002017-11-07T05:00:06.051+01:00Book Blast Bad Blood by P.N. Carlson<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/bad-blood-p-m-carlson/"><img alt="Bad Blood by P.M. Carlson" class="aligncenter size-full" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/bad-blood-pm-carlson-banner.jpg" height="300" width="600" /></a>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Bad Blood</h1>
<h2>
by P.M. Carlson</h2>
<h3>
November 7, 2017 Book Blast</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="Bad Blood by P.M. Carlson" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/bad-blood-pm-carlson-cover.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
After an argument with her grandmother at her Maryland home, sixteen-year-old Ginny Marshall – “born rotten,” according to Gram – gets high and runs away. She turns up on the doorstep of Maggie Ryan and Nick O’Connor’s Brooklyn brownstone. Her presence in Brooklyn is unsettling, but, more urgently, Ginny is a suspect in a murder investigation back home. Maggie travels undercover to Maryland, where she searches for a killer as threads from the past threaten to unravel both families.<br />
This Mystery Company edition is the first paperback publication of the eighth and final novel in the Maggie Ryan series.<br />
<h3>
Don’t Miss These Great Reviews:</h3>
"P.M. Carlson's energetic and insightful novels are back in print — hallelujah!" <em>— Sara Paretsky</em>
"BAD BLOOD is a fascinating and illuminating story"<em>–– C. Bartorillo, Murder By the Book</em>
BAD BLOOD "has vivid, interesting characters, great dialogue and psychological insight"<em>–– Amazon Reviewer</em>
<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Traditional Mystery<br />
<b>Published by:</b> The Mystery Company/Crum Creek Press<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 294<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> TBD<br />
<b>Series:</b> Maggie Ryan and Nick O’Connor #8<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="http://www.crumcreekpress.com/shop/bad-blood-by-pm-carlson" rel="noopener" target="_blank">CRUM CREEK PRESS / THE MYSTERY COMPANY</a></blockquote>
<h2>
“Bad Blood” by P.M. Carlson, the Maggie Ryan Mystery #8</h2>
After an argument with her grandmother at her Maryland home, sixteen-year-old Ginny Marshall – “born rotten,” according to Gram – gets high and runs away. She turns up on the doorstep of Maggie Ryan and Nick O’Connor’s Brooklyn brownstone. Her presence in Brooklyn is unsettling, but, more urgently, Ginny is a suspect in a murder investigation back home. Maggie travels undercover to Maryland, where she searches for a killer as threads from the past threaten to unravel both families.<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0oQPe2bEBkE" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
Rina had waited a day and faced her daughter. "Honey, I don't want to make a big thing out of an experiment. But drugs are off-limits in this family."<br />
"For sure, Mom. No problem."<br />
The ironic flash in the blue eyes hurt Rina. She had exclaimed, "Ginny, think of your future! You're bright and talented. You can do anything you want!"<br />
Ginny had smiled tauntingly. "Like you, Mom?"<br />
But at least she hadn't come home high again. Till now.<br />
Rina couldn't trust herself to mention it directly today. She said, "Honey, if you have problems, please tell me about them. Don't run from things. You have to face them."<br />
"Oh? You tell me to face them? You? Funny old Mom!"<br />
"Yes, damn it! I've faced problems!" And a hell of a lot bigger than whatever you think yours are, she almost added. But she swallowed her rage; Ginny was high, so arguing wouldn't help now. She said more calmly, "It's just that you could be hurt. I don't want that."<br />
"Yeah, for sure. I could be hurt." That shining, cruel smile again. "Or I could be an addict. Or I could be a movie star. In America I could be anything!" Ginny pushed herself to her feet, scooping up Kakiy. She carried him steadily enough into her bedroom. Rina followed as far as the door. Ginny had made an insert for her backpack, a sturdy cardboard cat carrier with a round porthole window. She put Kakiy into it, took her waterproof poncho from the closet, clapped the fedora onto her head, then frowned at her cluttered table for a moment. Finally she picked up a box of cat treats.<br />
"Where are you going, honey?" asked Rina.<br />
"Library."<br />
Rina sighed. Better to talk to her later. "Okay. See you at dinner."<br />
"Yeah. Save the whales." She kissed Rina almost contemptuously, then pushed by and swung down the hall. Kakiy, unapologetic, gazed back serenely through his porthole as she marched out the door.<br />
She wasn't back for dinner. Rina fought down her worry. But when her mother finally excused herself and went downstairs to her room, she said to Clint, "Maybe Ginny thought we'd be eating late, because of Mamma's bridge game."<br />
"Maybe." Clint, silvery-haired and blue-eyed, paused with a last forkful of cherry pie halfway to his mouth. "You're worried, though."<br />
"Yes."<br />
He tried to be comforting. "She's probably just throwing her weight around."<br />
"Maybe."<br />
"Rina, I hate to see you worrying like this! It's time to get her back in line. It's no favor to go easy on a kid these days. But it's up to you, Rina. I'll back you up, but I'm not here much of the time, damn it."<br />
"She had reason to be mad today."<br />
"Half her fault," he pointed out. He was too much the lawyer, she thought, always ready to see both sides of a question and argue whichever suited him. Rina busied herself cleaning off the table.<br />
But when the doorbell rang at eight-fifteen Rina ran to it, her anxious heart a staccato counterpoint to her footsteps. Two men stood there: stolid faces, intelligent eyes. The older one held out a shield. Police.<br />
"Ginny?" she blurted before they could say anything. "Has something happened to Ginny?"<br />
"No, ma'am," said the older policeman. His voice was flat-pitched, unexcitable. "We're here to ask about a John Spencer."<br />
"Spencer?"<br />
Behind her, Mamma laid a firm hand on her arm. "John Spencer was here this afternoon. Is there a problem?"<br />
"Yes, ma'am. Are you Mrs. Marshall?"<br />
"I'm Mrs. Rossi. Leonora Rossi," Mamma corrected him. "My daughter here is Mrs. Marshall. But I'm the one who knows John Spencer. Not well–– we just met this afternoon."<br />
"I see. Well, ma'am, I'd like to ask you a few questions."<br />
Clint had come up behind them. "We'd be glad to help," he said. "What's the problem?"<br />
In answer the policeman held up his identification again. "Just a few questions, sir," he repeated. "I'm Sergeant Trainer. Homicide."<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Bad Blood by P.M. Carlson. Copyright © 2017 by P.M. Carlson. Reproduced with permission from P.M. Carlson. All rights reserved.</div>
<img align="left" alt="P.M. Carlson" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/p-m-carlson-e1495662546391.jpg" height="250" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
P.M. Carlson taught psychology and statistics at Cornell University before deciding that mystery writing was more fun. She has published twelve mystery novels and over a dozen short stories. Her novels have been nominated for an Edgar Award, a Macavity Award, and twice for Anthony Awards. Two short stories were finalists for Agatha Awards. She edited the Mystery Writers Annual for Mystery Writers of America for several years, and served as president of Sisters in Crime.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="http://www.pmcarlson.net/" target="_blank">Website </a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/118135.P_M_Carlson" target="_blank">Goodreads </a>, <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/pmcarlson" target="_blank">Smashwords</a>, & <a href="https://twitter.com/PMCarlsonWriter" target="_blank">Twitter </a>!</h3>
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Tour Participants:</h1>
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Giveaway:</h1>
<h5>
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for P.M. Carlson. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on November 7 and runs through November 14, 2017.</h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-36340475825404511652017-10-26T05:00:00.000+02:002017-10-26T05:00:18.075+02:00Act of Betrayal by Matthew Dunn<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Act of Betrayal</h1>
<h2>
by Matthew Dunn</h2>
<h3>
on Tour October 23 - November 30, 2017</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img alt="ACT OF BETRAYAL by Matthew Dunn" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/act-of-betrayal-matthew-dunn.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h4>
In this riveting entry in the celebrated thriller series, former intelligence operative Will Cochrane—a "ruthless yet noble" (<em>Ft. Worth Star-Telegram</em>) man from whom "Bond and Bourne could learn a thing or two" (<em>Madison County Herald</em>)—comes out of hiding to expose a conspiracy involving a past assassination that reaches to the highest echelons of the U.S. government.</h4>
Three years ago, intelligence officer Will Cochrane was brought in by a Delta Force colonel to assassinate a terrorist financier in Berlin. After the job, the commander vanished, and hasn’t been heard from since. The details don’t quite add up, and one of the CIA agents who was involved has been investigating the mission. He reaches out to Will for help, but before they can connect, the CIA man is poisoned.<br />
Will is determined to uncover the truth about Berlin, even if it means putting himself in the crosshairs. Framed for multiple murders, the skilled former spy has gone deep underground to evade his enemies and the feds. But honor and loyalty to his old colleague thrust him into danger once again.<br />
When Marsha Gage at the FBI discovers that Cochrane—one of America’s Most Wanted—has resurfaced, she immediately launches a manhunt, and she won’t stop until she brings the former CIA/MI6 operative in.<br />
With time running out, Cochrane will use all of his training and formidable skills to outmaneuver the FBI and uncover a shocking conspiracy that will rock the foundations of our nation . . . if he can stay alive.<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Thriller<br />
<b>Published by:</b> William Morrow<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> October 24th 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 320<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062427229 (ISBN13: 9780062427229)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Spycatcher #7<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Act-Betrayal-Will-Cochrane-Novel/dp/0062427229?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/act-of-betrayal-matthew-dunn/1125490254" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34017042-act-of-betrayal" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
<br />
I can so really enjoy a good espionage thriller and I love the Spycatcher series by Matthew Dunn.<br />
<br />
I have read several books in this series but not all of them and that is what I like about this series you do not need to read all the books to enjoy one. Eventhough there is a lot of references to earlier happenings you are given enough information to understand it. Itjust also makes you want to read the other books.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
With Will Cochrane Matthew Dunn has created a very intruiging character. It is nog like you can identify yourself with him but it is so easy to feel for him eventhough he definately is not a sentimental person. His persona fits him, he is one of the most feared spy and assassin in the world, but he still wants this life for himself with 2 boys he wanted to adopt. But is he capable of this with his past?<br />
<br />
As usual Matthew Dunn gives lots of subplots throughout the story that weave together in the end. For the most part you know who is involved just not how they are involved and that is what I like, it keeps you guessing so you need to keep on reading to figure it all out.<br />
<br />
If you enjoy espionage thrillers I definately recommend reading the Spycatcher series by Mathew Dunn.<br />
<br />
My rating: 4.5/5<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
IT WAS PAST midnight as wind and rain pounded the exterior of the tiny bookstore in Chicago. The store was closed and its owner was sitting at his desk checking the week’s receipts. The task wouldn’t take long—his store specialized in rare works that he sourced from around the world. He had some loyal customers, but they were few. This week seven people had made purchases.<br />
The only light in the room came from his green desk lamp, old-fashioned in design to match the ambience of the shop. Aside from some electronic devices on his desk and recessed lights that cast a discreet yellow glow when turned on, the place looked like it could have been a purveyor of fine works established and un- changed since the eighteenth century. He’d constructed it that way: dark maple bookshelves; many of the books leather bound, all of them hardcover; two armchairs for customers to sit in when perusing potential acquisitions; an urn for his more discerning patrons who valued his loose-leaf tea collection; and a cage for his two lovebirds.<br />
He was an old-fashioned guy at heart.<br />
And though he could have done with more cash coming in, he’d deliberately established a business and identity that drew little attention. He playacted a shy man, his trimmed beard intended to put up barriers between him and others, his shoulders artificially stooped during the day as if he were ashamed of his six-foot-four physique, his cropped blond-and-gray hair functional because he had no woman in his life to impress, and his unneeded glasses covering one green eye, one blue. He was always in a smart three-piece suit because the attire was good at hiding his athletic frame and scars. Customers thought he was Edward Pope, a gentleman scholar from the South. They’d probably estimate his age was late forties. They’d be wrong about that and most other things. He’d led a hard life and was forty-five.<br />
His name wasn’t Edward Pope. <br />
It was Will Cochrane.<br />
The assassin. The one Sapper and Kane were terrified of.<br />
He wasn’t from the Deep South. He was raised in Virginia and earned a double first-class degree at England’s Cambridge University. And he’d been a bookseller for only under a year.<br />
But he had to be Pope. In the eyes of the world, Will was a murderer. He’d killed people as a special forces French Foreign Legionnaire and assassinated targets in French intelligence black operations. He had been the West’s prime joint operative with the CIA and Britain’s MI6 for fourteen years, until he went crazy and killed a lot of cops and civilians in the States before throwing himself off the Brooklyn Bridge and dying.<br />
His death was essential. He was America’s Most Wanted. He wasn’t what some thought of him—a psychopath. But he was a former special operative and killer. Had been all his adult life. It started when he was seventeen and walked in on four criminals suffocating his mother and about to kill his sister. His mother died; sister didn’t, because he grabbed his mother’s carving knife and ended the criminals’ lives before fleeing to the Legion. He wished he didn’t know how many people he’d killed since. It would be a lie. He knew every victim. Their souls lingered around him, taunting him, reminding him of who he was.<br />
All 263 souls.<br />
But the souls of the people they say he killed in the States didn’t hassle him.<br />
Because he didn’t kill them. He never killed innocents, only those who needed to be killed.<br />
But in the eyes of the law, that’s not the case and that’s why he had to fake his death and reinvent himself. A year ago, his situation was desperate, despite all of his training and covert operations experience in hostile countries. He’d received only one bit of help, but it was significant. Russia’s most formidable intelligence officer, code name Antaeus—now, thanks to Will, a defector living in the States—had cleverly managed to get $300,000 into Will’s pocket. Will didn’t know exactly why he’d done it. After all, Will had accidentally killed his family with a car bomb when in fact he’d intended only to kill the spy. But he suspected he knew why the Russian had become his benefactor: Antaeus wanted his generosity to plunge the knife that was Will’s guilt deeper.<br />
Regardless of Antaeus’s motives, the cash helped set up Will’s new life.<br />
Will’s family and close acquaintances were all dead. He’d be given the needle if cops found out who he was. The West he’d served with unflinching duty had hung him out to dry. He thought of himself as a scavenging dog, kicked out of its owner’s backyard and left to fend for itself. He was resigned to that, every day expecting the Feds to rush into his store and put a bullet in his skull. That’s what they’d do. No attempt to arrest. No negotiations. Execution only. Will wouldn’t blame them. They knew he’d cause carnage if given the slightest of chances.<br />
He finished his accounts, took a swig of Assam tea, and frowned as he heard the female lovebird make an unusual sound. Like her male companion, she resembled a small parrot, her plumage green and yellow, face and beak red, large eyes pure white with black pupils. He’d taken the birds off the hands of an old lady who frequented his store. Her son, a merchant marine officer, had brought them back from exotic climes, though she couldn’t remember where because she was suffering from dementia. And she could no longer look after them, particularly now that the male had broken his wing. Will hated seeing animals in cages. But the female wouldn’t leave the male’s side. And for the time being, the male had to be kept in the cage until he was fully recuperated. Then Will would release them to a large aviary or the wild.<br />
Their previous owner couldn’t remember their names, so Will called the male Ebb and the female Flo. Flo was now agitated, hopping about as opposed to what she usually did, which was nestling her face against that of her lover. Will opened the cage, knowing Flo wouldn’t go anywhere while Ebb was there. The former special operative bowed his head. Ebb was all wrong, flopping on the base of the cage, his good wing twitching, his broken one immobile. Will knew he was dying and there was nothing he could do about it. What goes through a bird’s brain? He didn’t know. And he didn’t know whether lovebirds were in fact lifelong lovers or if that was a myth. But Will knew how he felt. He had to give Flo closure, let her be free, not allow her to think there was hope that Ebb would return to her. Gently he lifted Ebb. His body was warm but now limp. He carried him to the store’s backyard. Flo followed him. Will had hoped she would.<br />
Will looked at Flo, who was perched close by on the branch of a tree. She was watching. It seemed she and Will didn’t know what to do.<br />
“I have to let you know this is the end,” Will said to her. Actually, he was saying it to himself.<br />
He snapped Ebb’s neck and buried him.<br />
Flo looked at him before flying into the darkness. As tears ran down his face, he wondered if she hated him. Or maybe she understood. Of course, he’d never know.<br />
He returned to his desk and stared at the birdcage. After brushing soil off his fingers, he looked at his laptop and saw he had a new e-mail. Nobody sent him mail apart from spammers.<br />
But this one was different. And shocking. It was from CIA officer Unwin Fox, the man who, alongside Will, had been one of those involved in the Berlin operation. Aside from Colonel Haden, Will didn’t know who the other people on the small team were.<br />
His heart was beating fast as he read the mail. Its tone was desperate. There was no way Fox could know that Will was alive. Something was terribly wrong. Fox wanted to meet. Tomorrow. In Washington, D.C.<br />
In all probability it was a trap. Lure Will out, then bam! Swooped on by cops. But then again, Will knew what happened in Berlin. The law didn’t. This would have been far too implausible a tactic to entrap him.<br />
What to do?<br />
He looked at the lovebirds’ empty cage. The door was open. He glanced at the entrance to his store.<br />
What to fucking do?<br />
He opened the drawer in his desk, pulled out his handgun, grabbed his bag containing all he needed if he ever had to run, and left.<br />
He knew he’d never return.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Act of Betrayal by Matthew Dunn. Copyright © 2017 by Matthew Dunn. Reproduced with permission from William Morrow. All rights reserved.</div>
<img align="left" alt="Matthew Dunn" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/Matthew-Dunn-authorphoto.jpg" height="268" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
As an MI6 field officer, Matthew Dunn recruited and ran agents, coordinated and participated in special operations, and acted in deep-cover roles throughout the world. He operated in environments where, if captured, he would have been executed. Dunn was trained in all aspects of intelligence collection, deep-cover deployments, small-arms, explosives, military unarmed combat, surveillance, and infiltration. Medals are never awarded to modern MI6 officers, but Dunn was the recipient of a rare personal commendation from the secretary of state for work he did on one mission, which was deemed so significant that it directly influenced the success of a major international incident. During his time in MI6, Matthew conducted approximately seventy missions. All of them were successful. He currently lives in England, where he is at work on his next novel.<br />
<h3>
Learn More About Matthew Dunn On <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/cr-106417/matthew-dunn" target="_blank">harpercollins.com</a>!</h3>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-25841130389982772942017-10-06T05:00:00.000+02:002017-10-06T05:00:19.575+02:0037 Hours by J.F. Kirwan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/37-hours-j-f-kirwan/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="37 Hours by J.F. Kirwan" class="alignnone size-full" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/37-hours-j-f-kirwan-banner.jpg" height="200" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
37 Hours</h1>
<h2>
by J.F. Kirwan </h2>
<h3>
on Tour October 1-14, 2017</h3>
</div>
<img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/37-hours-j-f-kirwan.jpg" height="300" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<br />
<h3>
The only way to hunt down a killer is to become one…</h3>
Imprisoned by MI6 for two long years in solitary, Nadia suddenly finds herself free again. But there is a price to pay for her release. Another dangerous and near impossible mission – retrieve the Russian nuclear warhead stolen by her old nemesis, the deadliest of terrorists.<br />
But he is always one step ahead, and soon Nadia finds herself at the front line of preventing London from disappearing into a cloud of ash. Only this time, she is ready to pull the trigger at any cost.<br />
And with the clock counting down from 37 hours, time is running out…<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Thriller<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Harper Collins<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> March 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 315<br />
<b>ID:</b> B01N3KP711 (ASIN) 9780008226978 (BN)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Nadia Laksheva Spy Thriller Series, Book 2 | 37 Hours is a Stand Alone Novel<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hours-Nadia-Laksheva-Thriller-Book-ebook/dp/B01N3KP711/tag=partnerscreim-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/37-hours-jf-kirwan/1125773478?ean=9780008226978" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/37-hours-nadia-laksheva-spy-thriller-series-book-2/id1219366036?l=fr&mt=11" target="_blank">iTunes</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34515149-37-hours" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
<br />
I really enjoyed <a href="http://bookishlyme.blogspot.nl/2017/07/66-meters-by-jf-kirwan.html" target="_blank">66 Meters by J.F. Kirwan</a>, the first in this series so I was really looking forward to reading 37 Hours. Nadia has become one of my favorite characters so I really wanted to know what she would encounter next. The story starts of in a way that will suck you right in and JF Kirwan has managed again to keep me enthralled till the last page.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>With 37 Hours he has again written a story that was very difficult to put down. There is so much happening but it is written in a style that it's easy to follow. The characters are well developed especially Nadia, but also the side characters. I love the interaction and bond between Nadia and Katya.<br />
<br />
JF Kirwan has a writing style that draws me in and manages to keep me there. And that does not happen a lot. Nadia stays quite cool when under pressure, but she still has a side where she shows her feelings when in the right company and that is what I like about her. She is not a damsal in destress she is more then able to safe herself.<br />
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I can honostly say that I love this series and am very happy to see that the third book 88 North is coming later this year, because I really want to read it.<br />
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My rating: 4.5/5<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
Vladimir was cuffed and hooded, but his guards had made a fatal mistake. His hands were behind him, but not attached to the inner structure of the military van, a standard Russian UAZ 452 – he’d know those rickety creaks and the pungent blend of oil and diesel anywhere. The vehicle trundled towards some unknown destination where he would be interrogated, beaten some more, then shot in the back of the head.<br />
Three of the four men chattered as they picked up speed down a straighter road. Their second mistake. Clearly they weren’t Special Forces – Spetsnaz – like he’d been until recently. They were regular army. He’d only seen the two heavies who’d snatched him from breakfast with his daughter. Now he knew there were four – one other had engaged in the banter, another had remained silent but was referred to as the butt of several bawdy jokes. The hierarchy of the men was also clear. The leader was in the front passenger seat, the silent one the driver, leaving the two musclemen in the back with him.<br />
He waited. They’d been driving for an hour or so, initially dirt tracks, now a highway, which meant they were on the E119 to Vostok. If they turned right, he had a chance, as they would have to cross the Volga River. Then he would make his move.<br />
If they turned left, he was a dead man.<br />
Vladimir wasn’t one for options, or for hedging his bets. Not a question of making the right choice, but of making the choice right. In all his missions he’d never cared much for a Plan B. Leave too many options open, and events control you. You invite failure.<br />
The van would turn right.<br />
Vladimir mapped the van inside his head. The van layout was standard: two seats in the front facing forward, two benches in the back facing each other. Two front doors on the driver and passenger side, a double door at the rear. He was on the left-side bench, a heavy beside him, one opposite. The leader was in the left-hand front seat, the driver on the right. He needed to know if there was anything between him and the driver, in front on the opposite side, such as a vertical strut, or a metal grill. Because if there was either of those things, his plan wouldn’t work.<br />
Nobody had talked to him since his arrest. Why talk to a hooded, dead man? But they were military, or at least they had been at one stage or another, so it should work. He waited for a pause in their talk fuelled by bravado – they were probably wondering which one of them would get to pop him in the skull. He reckoned they’d make the driver do it. A rite of passage. Probably a rookie, not yet blooded.<br />
The pause came.<br />
‘Cigarette?’ he asked, nodding through his hood to the one opposite. ‘My last, we all know that.’<br />
Silence, except for the van’s creaking suspension and the drone of its throaty engine. He imagined questioning looks from the musclemen to the leader, the driver fixing his eyes on the road, maybe a glance in the rear-view mirror.<br />
The dead man had spoken.<br />
A sigh, the rustle of clothing, a pocket unzipped, the sound of a cigarette tapped from the pack. He could smell the nicotine despite the strong diesel fumes. A hand heavy on his shoulder – the muscleman by his side – while the hood was pulled up, just above his mouth, by the one opposite. Vladimir felt cool air on his lips, and smelt the stale coffee breath of the man about to give him a cigarette.<br />
The smack in the mouth wasn’t entirely unexpected. Stunned him all the same. He slid off the bench onto the floor, and while three of the men burst out laughing, he stretched out his left leg towards the rear of the driver’s seat – nothing in the way, no vertical strut. But there could still be a wire mesh separating the rear compartment from the front. He rocked back onto his knees, and addressed the one who’d hit him. He lowered his head, bychit-style, a bull about to charge, and spat out the words amidst spittle and blood from a split lip.<br />
‘Mudak, suka, blyad!’<br />
This time the punch was fully expected. He railed back and up, travelling with the force of the uppercut, his head in the gap between the driver and the leader. That cost him a whack from the latter on the top of his head. Didn’t matter. No wire mesh. Rough hands slotted him back on the bench where he’d started. Profanities poured forth. Nothing he hadn’t heard before, or said himself. His face stung. He ignored it. Things settled down. The banter resumed.<br />
He began drawing long breaths, oxygenating his body. He was chilled, because he had no coat. The other men were wrapped in thick commando jackets. It was early spring, still cold. The Volga would be near freezing. Not a problem, he bathed in it every morning. For them, though, it was going to be a different story.<br />
The van slowed. The tick, tick, tick of the indicator. They slowed down further. Stopped. A truck passed fast ahead of them, rocking the high suspension van in its wake. The leader bellowed a command, though he wasn’t stupid enough to name the destination. ‘This way, this way.’ Another lorry – no, a tractor, given the smell of manure – the leader cursing the young driver for not pulling out sooner. The engine revved, the gears engaged, the van pulled forward.<br />
And turned right.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from 37 Hours by J.F. Kirwan. Copyright © 2017 by J.F. Kirwan. Reproduced with permission from J.F. Kirwan. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="J.F. Kirwan" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/j-f-kirwan-author-e1495378812116.jpg" height="267" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
After school J.F. Kirwan studied psychology, then worked in heavy industries, including offshore oil rigs in the North Sea, and nuclear power plants in the UK, US and Japan. Lately he’s been working with airplane safety, which enables him to travel to some far-flung places.<br />
His job is about trying to prevent large-scale accidents. Having studied them for years gives him a sense of how catastrophic events start off slow, simmer awhile, then gather speed and accelerate towards the final event. He uses this experience when writing, and calls it tourniquet plotting. He also spent years as a martial artist, training in Hong Kong, and knows a thing or two about writing fight scenes. But his main passion is diving. He used to be an instructor, and has dived all over the world, and so all three books have an underwater element. Readers – whether divers or not – often say that the books are most vivid in the underwater scenes.<br />
After a scuba-diving injury, and surgery on his back, he couldn’t dive for eighteen months. He missed it so much he started a novel about a young woman, Nadia, who was coerced into working for the Mafia. A fan of Lee Child’s Jack Reacher, as well as other thriller writers such as David Baldacci, Stieg Larsson and Andy McNab, he wanted to create a female protagonist who could mete out justice when required. What started out as a bit of fun gathered momentum as a couple of agents got interested, and then HarperCollins snapped it up with a three-book deal.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="http://jfkirwan.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15643489.J_F_Kirwan" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/kirwanjf" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kirwanjf/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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Giveaway:</h1>
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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for J.F. Kirwan. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on October 1 and runs through October 20, 2017.</h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-31613325654314168992017-08-23T05:00:00.000+02:002017-08-23T05:00:26.759+02:00Dark Sun Dawn saga by Stephen Zimmer<div class="separator tr_bq" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wYTgVvF-QG4/WZM3Nuu1caI/AAAAAAAACeo/6AsMGf7HJgUXecBJaao3l0fP6XBHNyYNACPcBGAYYCw/s1600/RaydenValkyrieTourGraphic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wYTgVvF-QG4/WZM3Nuu1caI/AAAAAAAACeo/6AsMGf7HJgUXecBJaao3l0fP6XBHNyYNACPcBGAYYCw/s320/RaydenValkyrieTourGraphic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
*This is a combined review for Heart of a Lion and Thunder Horizon*<br />
<br />
While reading Heart of a Lion and Thunder Horizon I kept asking myself "Why did I stop reading fantasy?" I never really missed it untill I stared reading the Dark Sun Dawn saga. But then again I have to be honost Stephen Zimmer has a way of writing where it is extremely difficult to stop reading.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>The characters are very indepth developed and well thought out. I really enjoyed the interaction between Rayden and Ammanus. Stephen Zimmer's writing made Rayden come to life and it is not hard to identify with her not so much with everything she is going trough but with the decisions she makes and the morals and standards the holds high.<br />
<br />
The stories are fast paced and written so vividly that you feel like you are part of the story. Which in return makes it very difficult to put the books down. Now I was lucky enough to read both books back to back but now I have to wait for the next installment. Thunder Horizon is a great second installment, just a bit more darker, more battles where she has to fight harder, just a bit more fast paced. Definately what I expect in a second installment.<br />
<br />
I have read books by Stephen Zimmer before (sadly enough not all of them yet) and can be honost that I love this series best so far.<br />
<br />
If you haven't yet read my interview with Stephen Zimmer you can find it <a href="http://bookishlyme.blogspot.nl/2017/08/interview-with-stephen-zimmer.html">HERE</a> you can also find the trailer of the Rayden Valkyrie Saga of a Lionheart TV Pilot right after the interview.<br />
<br />
My rating: 4/5<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Rayden Valkyrie. She walks alone, serving no king, emperor, or master. Forged in the fires of tragedy, she has no place she truly calls home.<br />A deadly warrior wielding both blade and axe, Rayden is the bane of the wicked and corrupt. To many others, she is the most loyal and dedicated of friends, an ally who is unyielding in the most dangerous of circumstances.<br />The people of the far southern lands she has just aided claim that she has the heart of a lion. For Rayden, a long journey to the lands of the far northern tribes who adopted her as a child beckons, with an ocean lying in between.<br />Her path will lead her once more into the center of a maelstrom, one involving a rising empire that is said to be making use of the darkest kinds of sorcery to grow its power. Making new friends and discoveries amid tremendous peril, Rayden makes her way to the north.<br />Monstrous beasts, supernatural powers, and the bloody specter of war have been a part of her world for a long time and this journey will be no different. Rayden chooses the battles that she will fight, whether she takes up the cause of one individual or an entire people.<br />Both friends and enemies alike will swiftly learn that the people of the far southern lands spoke truly. Rayden Valkyrie has the heart of a lion.<br />Heart of a Lion is Book One of the Dark Sun Dawn Trilogy.</blockquote>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Lion-Stephen-Zimmer/dp/1941706215/">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Lion-Dark-Dawn-Book-ebook/dp/B00T44R6LE/">Kindle</a><br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A deadly menace stalks the shadows of the lands to the north, stirring the winds of war. Farther south, the power of the Teveren Empire spreads with every passing day, empowered by dark sorcery. Formidable legions bent on conquest are on the march, slavery and subjugation following in their wake.<br />Within the rising maelstrom, Rayden Valkyrie has returned to the Gessa, to stand with the tribe that once took her into their care as a child. No amount of jewels or coin can sway her, nor can the great power of her adversaries intimidate her.<br />With a sword blade in her right hand and axe in her left, Rayden confronts foes both supernatural and of flesh and blood. Horrific revelations and tremendous risks loom; some that will see Rayden's survival in the gravest of peril.<br />Even if Rayden and the Gessa survive the trials plaguing their lands, the thunder of an even darker storm booms across the far horizon.<br />Thunder Horizon is the second book in the Dark Sun Dawn Trilogy.</blockquote>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Thunder-Horizon-Dark-Dawn-Trilogy/dp/1941706576/">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Thunder-Horizon-Dark-Dawn-Book-ebook/dp/B06ZZ7JT56/">Kindle </a><br />
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Stephen Zimmer is an award-winning author and filmmaker based out of Lexington Kentucky. His works include the Rayden Valkyrie novels (Sword and Sorcery), the Rising Dawn Saga (Cross Genre), the Fires in Eden Series (Epic Fantasy), the Hellscapes short story collections (Horror), the Chronicles of Ave short story collections (Fantasy), and the Harvey and Solomon Tales (Steampunk). <br /><br />Stephen’s visual work includes the feature film Shadows Light, shorts films such as The Sirens and Swordbearer, and the forthcoming Rayden Valkyrie: Saga of a Lionheart TV Pilot. <br /><br />Stephen is a proud Kentucky Colonel who also enjoys the realms of music, martial arts, good bourbons, and spending time with family.</div>
Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-81835083739468116012017-08-18T05:00:00.000+02:002017-08-18T05:52:55.911+02:00The Good Daughter by Karin Slaughter<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
The Good Daughter</h1>
<h2>
by Karin Slaughter</h2>
<h3>
on Tour August 7 - September 8, 2017</h3>
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<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="The Good Daughter by Karin Slaughter" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/the-good-daughter-by-karin-slaughter.jpg" height="317" style="margin-right: 20px;" width="200" />
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<h4>
The stunning new novel from the international #1 bestselling author — a searing, spellbinding blend of cold-case thriller and psychological suspense.</h4>
Two girls are forced into the woods at gunpoint. One runs for her life. One is left behind…<br />
Twenty-eight years ago, Charlotte and Samantha Quinn's happy small-town family life was torn apart by a terrifying attack on their family home. It left their mother dead. It left their father — Pikeville's notorious defense attorney — devastated. And it left the family fractured beyond repair, consumed by secrets from that terrible night.<br />
Twenty-eight years later, and Charlie has followed in her father's footsteps to become a lawyer herself — the ideal good daughter. But when violence comes to Pikeville again — and a shocking tragedy leaves the whole town traumatized — Charlie is plunged into a nightmare. Not only is she the first witness on the scene, but it's a case that unleashes the terrible memories she's spent so long trying to suppress. Because the shocking truth about the crime that destroyed her family nearly thirty years ago won't stay buried forever…<br />
<h4>
Packed with twists and turns, brimming with emotion and heart, The Good Daughter is fiction at its most thrilling.</h4>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Thriller, Suspense<br />
<b>Published by:</b> William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> August 8, 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 528<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062430262 (ISBN13: 9780062430267)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Good Daughter 1<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Good-Daughter-Novel-Karin-Slaughter/dp/0062430246?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-good-daughter-karin-slaughter/1125317818?ean=9780062430267" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33230889-the-good-daughter" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
After reading <a href="http://bookishlyme.blogspot.nl/2017/07/last-breath-by-karen-slaughter.html">Last Breath </a>I was really looking forward to reading The Good Daughter and luckily I was able to read it right after I finished <a href="http://bookishlyme.blogspot.nl/2017/07/last-breath-by-karen-slaughter.html">Last Breath</a>. And The Good Daughter did not dissapoint but I expected nothing less from Karin Slaughter.<br />
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The story starts off quite intense and it sucks you right into the story. And as only she can do she keeps the suspense going troughout the story. It was so difficult to put the book down (I mean 528 pages is impossible to finish in one sitting unless you have a holiday which I did not have sadly) But I did pick the book up everytime I had a second to spare to read. I just had to know what would happen.<br />
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I have read many books by Karin Slaughter and I have to say het writing style is great, she writes suspense novels like no-one can. She developes the characters with so much dept that you either love them or hate them. She makes the story about the characters while the crime/mystery is just as amazingly developed that you'll just keep on reading to see what happens in the end, who is the actual "bad guy" and she has been capable to surprise me multiple times.<br />
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This is a stand alone book and really liked Last Breath as a prequel to The Good Daughter.<br />
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My rating: 4.5/5<br />
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<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
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Charlie Quinn walked through the darkened halls of Pikeville middle school with a gnawing sense of trepidation. This wasn’t an early morning walk of shame. This was a walk of deeply held regret. Fitting, since the first time she’d had sex with a boy she shouldn’t have had sex with was inside this very building. The gymnasium, to be exact, which just went to show that her father had been right about the perils of a late curfew.<br />
She gripped the cell phone in her hand as she turned a corner. The wrong boy. The wrong man. The wrong phone. The wrong way because she didn’t know where the hell she was going. Charlie turned around and retraced her steps. Everything in this stupid building looked familiar, but nothing was where she remembered it was supposed to be.<br />
She took a left and found herself standing outside the front office. Empty chairs were waiting for the bad students who would be sent to the principal. The plastic seats looked similar to the ones in which Charlie had whiled away her early years. Talking back. Mouthing off. Arguing with teachers, fellow students, inanimate objects. Her adult self would’ve slapped her teenage self for being such a pain in the ass.<br />
She cupped her hand to the window and peered inside the dark office. Finally, something that looked how it was supposed to look. The high counter where Mrs. Jenkins, the school secretary, had held court. Pennants drooping from the water-stained ceiling. Student artwork taped to the walls. A lone light was on in the back. Charlie wasn’t about to ask Principal Pinkman for directions to her booty call. Not that this was a booty call. It was more of a <em>“Hey, girl, you picked up the wrong iPhone after I nailed you in my truck at Shady Ray’s last night”</em> call.<br />
There was no point in Charlie asking herself what she had been thinking, because you didn’t go to a bar named Shady Ray’s to think.<br />
The phone in her hand rang. Charlie saw the unfamiliar screen saver of a German shepherd with a Kong toy in its mouth. The caller ID read SCHOOL.<br />
She answered, “Yes?”<br />
“Where are you?” He sounded tense, and she thought of all the hidden dangers that came from screwing a stranger she’d met in a bar: incurable venereal diseases, a jealous wife, a murderous baby mama, an obnoxious Alabama affiliation.<br />
She said, “I’m in front of Pink’s office.”<br />
“Turn around and take your second right.” <br />
“Yep.” Charlie ended the call. She felt herself wanting to puzzle out his tone of voice, but then she told herself that it didn’t matter because she was never going to see him again.<br />
She walked back the way she’d come, her sneakers squeaking on the waxed floor as she made her way down the dark hallway. She heard a snap behind her. The lights had come on in the front office. A hunched old woman who looked suspiciously like the ghost of Mrs. Jenkins shuffled her way behind the counter. Somewhere in the distance, heavy metal doors opened and closed. The beep-whir of the metal detectors swirled into her ears. Someone jangled a set of keys.<br />
The air seemed to contract with each new sound, as if the school was bracing itself for the morning onslaught. Charlie looked at the large clock on the wall. If the schedule was still the same, the first homeroom bell would ring soon, and the kids who had been dropped off early and warehoused in the cafeteria would flood the building.<br />
Charlie had been one of those kids. For a long time, whenever she thought of her father, her mind conjured up the scene of his arm leaning out of the Chevette’s window, freshly lit cigarette between his fingers, as he pulled out of the school parking lot.<br />
She stopped walking.<br />
The room numbers finally caught her attention, and she knew immediately where she was. Charlie touched her fingers to a closed wooden door. Room three, her safe haven. Ms. Beavers had retired eons ago, but the old woman’s voice echoed in Charlie’s ears: “They’ll only get your goat if you show them where you keep your hay.”<br />
Charlie still didn’t know what that meant, exactly. You could extrapolate that it had something to do with the extended Culpepper clan, who had bullied Charlie relentlessly when she’d finally returned to school.<br />
Or, you could take it that, as a girls’ basketball coach named Etta Beavers, the teacher knew what it felt like to be taunted. There was no one who could give Charlie advice on how to handle the present situation. For the first time since college, she’d had a one-night stand. Or a one-night sit, if it boiled down to the exact position. Charlie wasn’t the type of person who did that sort of thing. She didn’t go to bars. She didn’t drink to excess. She didn’t really make hugely regrettable mistakes. At least not until recently.<br />
Her life had started to unspool back in August of last year. Charlie had spent almost every waking hour since then raveling out mistake after mistake. Apparently, the new month of May was not going to see any improvement. The blunders were now starting before she even got out of bed. This morning, she’d been wide awake on her back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince herself that what had happened last night had not happened at all when an unfamiliar ringtone had come from her purse.<br />
She had answered because wrapping the phone in aluminum foil, throwing it into the dumpster behind her office and buying a new phone that would restore from her old phone backup did not occur to her until after she had said hello.<br />
The short conversation that followed was of the kind you would expect between two total strangers: <em>Hello, person whose name I must have asked for but now can’t recall. I believe I have your phone.</em><br />
Charlie had offered to meet the man at his work because she didn’t want him to know where she lived. Or worked. Or what kind of car she drove. Between his pickup truck and his admittedly exquisite body, she’d thought he’d tell her he was a mechanic or a farmer. Then he’d said that he was a teacher and she’d instantly flashed up a <em>Dead Poets Society</em> kind of thing. Then he’d said he taught middle school and she’d jumped to the unfounded conclusion that he was a pedophile.<br />
“Here.” He stood outside an open door at the far end of the hall.<br />
As if on cue, the overhead fluorescents popped on, bathing Charlie in the most unflattering light possible. She instantly regretted her choice of ratty jeans and a faded, long-sleeved Duke Blue Devils basketball T-shirt.<br />
“Good Lord God,” Charlie muttered. No such problems at the end of the hall.<br />
Mr. I-Can’t-Remember-Your-Name was even more attractive than she remembered. The standard button-down-with-khakis uniform of a middle-school teacher couldn’t hide the fact that he had muscles in places that men in their forties had generally replaced with beer and fried meat. His scraggly beard was more of a five o’clock shadow. The gray at his temples gave him a wizened air of mystery. He had one of those dimples in his chin that you could use to open a bottle.<br />
This was not the type of man Charlie dated. This was the exact type of man that she studiously avoided. He felt too coiled, too strong, too unknowable. It was like playing with a loaded gun.<br />
“This is me.” He pointed to the bulletin board outside his room. Small handprints were traced onto white butcher paper. Purple cut-out letters read MR. HUCKLEBERRY.<br />
“Huckleberry?” Charlie asked.<br />
“It’s Huckabee, actually.” He held out his hand. “Huck.”<br />
Charlie shook his hand, too late realizing that he was asking for his iPhone. “Sorry.” She handed him the phone.<br />
He gave her a crooked smile that had probably sent many a young girl into puberty. “Yours is in here.”<br />
Charlie followed him into the classroom. The walls were adorned with maps, which made sense because he was apparently a history teacher. At least if you believed the sign that said MR. HUCKLEBERRY LOVES WORLD HISTORY.<br />
She said, “I may be a little sketchy on last night, but I thought you said you were a Marine?”<br />
“Not anymore, but it sounds sexier than middle-school teacher.”He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Joined up when I was seventeen, took my retirement six years ago.” He leaned against his desk. “I was looking for a way to keep serving, so I got my master’s on a GI bill and here we are.”<br />
“I bet you get a lot of tear-stained cards on Valentine’s Day.” Charlie would’ve failed history every single day of her life if her teacher had looked like Mr. Huckleberry.<br />
He asked, “Do you have kids?”<br />
“Not that I know of.” Charlie didn’t return the question. She assumed that someone with kids wouldn’t use a photo of his dog as his screen saver. “You married?”<br />
He shook his head. “Didn’t suit me.”<br />
“It suited me.” She explained, “We’ve been officially separated for nine months.”<br />
“Did you cheat on him?”<br />
“You’d think so, but no.” Charlie ran her finger along the books on the shelf by his desk. Homer. Euripides. Voltaire. Bronte. “You don’t strike me as the <em>Wuthering Heights</em> type.”<br />
He grinned. “Not much talking in the truck.”<br />
Charlie started to return the grin, but regret pulled down the corners of her mouth. In some ways, this easy, flirty banter felt like more of a transgression than the physical act of sex. She bantered with her husband. She asked inane questions of her husband.<br />
And last night, for the first time in her married life, she had cheated on her husband.<br />
Huck seemed to sense her mood shift. “It’s obviously none of my business, but he’s nuts for letting you go.”<br />
“I’m a lot of work.” Charlie studied one of the maps. There were blue pins in most of Europe and some of the Middle East. “You go to all of these places?”<br />
He nodded, but didn’t elaborate.<br />
“Marines,” she said. “Were you a Navy SEAL?”<br />
“Marines can be SEALs but not all SEALs are Marines.”<br />
Charlie was about to tell him that he hadn’t answered the question, but Huck spoke first.<br />
“Your phone started ringing at o’dark thirty.”<br />
Her heart flipped in her chest. “You didn’t answer?”<br />
“Nah, it’s much more fun trying to figure you out from your caller ID.” He pushed himself up on the desk. “B2 called around five this morning. I’m assuming that’s your hook-up at the vitamin shop.”<br />
Charlie’s heart flipped again. “That’s Riboflavin, my spin-class instructor.”<br />
He narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t push her. “The next call came at approximately five fifteen, someone who showed up as Daddy, who I deduce by the lack of the word <em>sugar</em> in front of the name is your father.”<br />
She nodded, even as her mother’s voice silently stressed that it was <em>whom</em>. “Any other clues?” He pretended to stroke a long beard. “Beginning around five thirty, you got a series of calls from the county jail. At least six, spaced out about five minutes apart.”<br />
“You got me, Nancy Drew.” Charlie held up her hands in surrender. “I’m a drug trafficker. Some of my mules got picked up over the weekend.”<br />
He laughed. “I’m halfway believing you.”<br />
“I’m a defense lawyer,” she admitted. “Usually people are more receptive to drug trafficker.”<br />
Huck stopped laughing. His eyes narrowed again, but the playfulness had evaporated. “What’s your name?”<br />
“Charlie Quinn.”<br />
She could’ve sworn he flinched.<br />
She asked, “Is there a problem?”<br />
His jaw was clenched so hard the bone jutted out. “That’s not the name on your credit card.”<br />
Charlie paused, because there was a lot wrong with that statement. “That’s my married name. Why were you looking at my credit card?”<br />
“I wasn’t looking. I glanced at it when you put it down on the bar.” He stood up from the desk. “I should get ready for school.”<br />
“Was it something I said?” She was trying to make a joke out of it, because of course it was something she’d said. “Look everybody hates lawyers until they need one.”<br />
“I grew up in Pikeville.”<br />
“You’re saying that like it’s an explanation.”<br />
He opened and closed the desk drawers. “Homeroom’s about to start. I need to do my first-period prep.”<br />
Charlie crossed her arms. This wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation with longtime Pikeville residents. “There’s two reasons for you to be acting like you’re acting.”<br />
He ignored her, opening and closing another drawer.<br />
She counted out the possibilities on her fingers. “Either you hate my father, which is okay, because a lot of people hate him, or—” She held up her finger for the more likely excuse, the one that had put a target on Charlie’s back twenty-eight years ago when she’d returned to school, the one that still got her nasty looks in town from the people who supported the extended, inbred Culpepper clan. “You think I’m a spoiled little bitch who helped frame Zachariah Culpepper and his innocent baby brother so my dad could get his hands on some pissant life insurance policy and their shitty little trailer. Which he never did, by the way. He could’ve sued them for the twenty grand they owed in legal bills, but he didn’t. Not to mention I could pick those fuckers out of a lineup with my eyes closed.”<br />
He was shaking his head before she even finished. “None of those things.”<br />
“Really?” She had pegged him for a Culpepper truther when he’d told her that he’d grown up in Pikeville.<br />
On the other hand, Charlie could see a career-Marine hating Rusty’s kind of lawyering right up until that Marine got caught with a little too much Oxy or a lot too much hooker. As her father always said, a Democrat is a Republican who’s been through the criminal justice system.<br />
She told Huck, “Look, I love my dad, but I don’t practice the same kind of law that he does. Half my caseload is in juvenile court, the other half is in drug court. I work with stupid people who do stupid things, who need a lawyer to keep the prosecutor from overcharging them.” She held out her hands in a shrug. “I just level the playing field.”<br />
Huck glared at her. His initial anger had escalated to furious in the blink of an eye. “I want you to leave my room. Right now.” His hard tone made Charlie take a step back. For the first time, it occurred to her that no one knew she was at the school and that Mr. Huckleberry could probably break her neck with one hand.<br />
“Fine.” She snatched her phone off his desk and started toward the door. Even as Charlie was telling herself she should shut up and go, she swung back around. “What did my father ever do to you?”<br />
Huck didn’t answer. He was sitting at his desk, head bent over a stack of papers, red ink pen in hand.<br />
Charlie waited.<br />
He tapped the pen on his desk, a drumbeat of a dismissal.<br />
She was about to tell him where to stick the pen when she heard a loud crack echo down the hallway.<br />
Three more cracks followed in quick succession.<br />
Not a car backfiring.<br />
Not fireworks.<br />
A person who has been up close when a gun is fired into another human being never mistakes the sound of a gunshot for something else.<br />
Charlie was yanked down to the floor. Huck threw her behind a filing cabinet, shielding her body with his own.<br />
He said something—she saw his mouth move—but the only sound she could hear was the gunshots echoing inside her head. Four shots, each a distinctive, terrifying echo to the past. Just like before, her mouth went dry. Just like before, her heart stopped beating. Her throat closed. Her vision tunneled. Everything looked small, narrowed to a single, tiny point.<br />
Excerpt from The Good Daughter by Karin Slaughter. Copyright © 2017 by Karin Slaughter. Reproduced with permission from HarperCollins. All rights reserved.</div>
<img align="left" alt="Karin Slaughter" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Karin-Slaughter-Credit-Alison-Rosa-e1497398338725.jpg" height="264" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
Karin Slaughter is one of the world’s most popular and acclaimed storytellers. Published in 36 languages, with more than 35 million copies sold across the globe, her sixteen novels include the Grant County and Will Trent books, as well as the Edgar-nominated Cop Town and the instant New York Times bestselling novel Pretty Girls. A native of Georgia, Karin currently lives in Atlanta. Her Will Trent series, Grant County series, and standalone novel Cop Town are all in development for film and television.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="http://www.karinslaughter.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/12504.Karin_Slaughter" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/SlaughterKarin" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKarinSlaughter/" target="_blank">Facebook </a>!</h3>
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<h1>
Tour Participants:</h1>
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<h1>
Enter To Win!</h1>
<h5>
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Karin Slaughter and William Morrow. There will be five (5) winners of one (1) print edition of The Good Daughter by Karin Slaughter! This giveaway is open to US residents only. The giveaway begins on August 1 and runs through September 3, 2017.</h5>
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<h2>
<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/">Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours</a></h2>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-25863079124474505822017-08-16T05:00:00.000+02:002017-08-16T05:00:36.585+02:00Interview with Stephen Zimmer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wYTgVvF-QG4/WZM3Nuu1caI/AAAAAAAACec/cMziHmCXPFcJ_9fCu8DVzKGXFRszj8XAgCLcBGAs/s1600/RaydenValkyrieTourGraphic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wYTgVvF-QG4/WZM3Nuu1caI/AAAAAAAACec/cMziHmCXPFcJ_9fCu8DVzKGXFRszj8XAgCLcBGAs/s400/RaydenValkyrieTourGraphic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I've had the privilage to interview Stephen Zimmer for his Rayden Valkyrie Blog Tour, where he tell us about the Dark Sun Dawn Saga and he shares the trailer for his <span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Rayden Valkyrie Saga of a Lionheart TV Pilot.</span></div>
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<b>*Please tell us a bit about yourself.</b><br /><br />I am a storyteller who loves to write and also loves visual storytelling such as movies and television series. I currently have 12 books in print and am working on a new TV Pilot that is centered around my Rayden Valkyrie character I am the founder of the Imaginarium Convention, which is an event all about creative writing. I enjoy lots of activities and things, including martial arts, music, movies, bourbon, traveling, guitar, and spending time with our family cat, Dubious!<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
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<b>*Could you tell us in short what the Dark Sun Dawn saga is about?</b><br /><br />The Dark Sun Dawn books contain one of Rayden Valkyrie's most challenging adventures. It all begins with Rayden seeking to return to her adopted homelands after completing a very grueling task in lands far to the south of the Kartajen Empire. The journey takes some sharp twists and turns along the way, but soon she finds herself confronting a fast-rising power, the Teveren Empire, whose shadow is growing across many lands and kingdoms. The story reveals more and more about what is behind the growing threat, including supernatural elements and sorcery. Readers follow along with Rayden as she discovers the nature of these adversaries and seeks ways to overcome them. The story is told over the course of three books, comprising the Dark Sun Dawn Trilogy! <br /><a name='more'></a><br /><b>*Where did the inspiration for the Dark Sun Dawn saga come from? Where do you generally draw your inspiration from?</b><br /><br />I draw inspiration from a number of areas, from very vivid dreams, to history, to the current world and individuals within it. It is a real mix for me, but the Rayden Valkyrie tales really grow from the character herself. These are tales that follow just her story, and once I begin writing them, they unfold and grow through the eyes of Rayden. I may get creature ideas, other character ideas, and visions of lands through dreams and experiences in my own life, but Rayden definitely guides the main narrative. <br /><br /><b>*What research did you do for this series?</b><br /><br />I do a lot of historical research when working on fantasy or sword and sorcery tales. For this trilogy, I focused on things such as ancient Egypt, ancient Rome, ancient Carthage, and other cultures from that general time period.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I did additional research on several kinds of animals, from lions, to wolves, to hyenas, and what I gleaned from that factors into these books in some very interesting ways. Weapons and fighting styles are also a deep interest of mine, and I regularly study these areas and work to have my battle scenes and fights have a solid, organic feel to them. <div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
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<b>*You are also working on the Rayden Valkyrie: Saga of a Lionheart Production. Could you tell us a little more about this?</b><br /><br />This production is an independent TV Pilot that we are using to demonstrate a full series concept. It is not an adaptation of any previous book, but instead an original storyline. <br /><br />We began developing the project well more than a year ago, leading to production in June of this year. It is a wilderness adventure, very action-driven, and stars Sol Geirsdottir as Rayden Valkyrie and Brock O'Hurn as the warrior Ragnar Stormbringer. It was shot on location in Kentucky, in the United States. <br /><br />We are looking to find a great network to help us grow it into a full series! Those interested can follow this project on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/raydenvalkyrie">www.facebook.com/raydenvalkyrie</a> or at our show site at <a href="http://www.raydenvalkyrie.com/">www.raydenvalkyrie.com</a><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
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<b>*Do you have any writing quirks?</b><br /><br />I write on a computer that is not connected to the internet, and it is in a room other than my office. I also listen to music when writing. Both help me keep my full focus on my writing session without distractions from anything else.<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
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<b>*What do you do when you’re not writing?</b><br /><br />I like to workout, especially with Kettlebells and martial arts training these days. I love to travel when possible, and I always enjoy a good glass of bourbon! I love music and wish I had more time to play guitar. I also love watching a good movie in the evening. <br /><br /><b>*Are you a reader? If so what are you reading at the moment? </b><br /><br />I am a reader and at the moment I'm reading Gods and Generals, by Jeff Shaara, a very fascinating historical novel about the Civil War in the United States that tells its story through multiple viewpoints.<br /><br /><b>*Could you tell us in one sentence why we should read the Dark Sun Dawn saga?</b><br /><br />It is a celebration of courage, self-determination, and the willpower to make a difference, no matter the odds. <br /><b><br />*Is there anything you would like to add?</b><br /><br />Thank you very much for interviewing me! I definitely love to hear from my readers and invite new ones to join me for some great adventures along my writing path! <div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">About the author: </span></b><br />Stephen Zimmer is an award-winning author and filmmaker based out of Lexington Kentucky. His works include the Rayden Valkyrie novels (Sword and Sorcery), the Rising Dawn Saga (Cross Genre), the Fires in Eden Series (Epic Fantasy), the Hellscapes short story collections (Horror), the Chronicles of Ave short story collections (Fantasy), and the Harvey and Solomon Tales (Steampunk).<br /><br />Stephen’s visual work includes the feature film Shadows Light, shorts films such as The Sirens and Swordbearer, and the forthcoming Rayden Valkyrie: Saga of a Lionheart TV Pilot.<br /><br />Stephen is a proud Kentucky Colonel who also enjoys the realms of music, martial arts, good bourbons, and spending time with family.</div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Er1uKm3lU88/WZM6E0BuB6I/AAAAAAAACe0/v5oaIObJbMo3p1On-nlW7aSRxlQ9z83bQCLcBGAs/s1600/ThunderHorizonCover_1200X800.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Er1uKm3lU88/WZM6E0BuB6I/AAAAAAAACe0/v5oaIObJbMo3p1On-nlW7aSRxlQ9z83bQCLcBGAs/s200/ThunderHorizonCover_1200X800.jpg" /></a><b style="background-color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Book Synopsis for Thunder Horizon: </span></b> A deadly menace stalks the shadows of the lands to the north, stirring the winds of war. Farther south, the power of the Teveren Empire spreads with every passing day, empowered by dark sorcery. Formidable legions bent on conquest are on the march, slavery and subjugation following in their wake.<br /><br />Within the rising maelstrom, Rayden Valkyrie has returned to the Gessa, to stand with the tribe that once took her into their care as a child. No amount of jewels or coin can sway her, nor can the great power of her adversaries intimidate her. <br /><br />With a sword blade in her right hand and axe in her left, Rayden confronts foes both supernatural and of flesh and blood. Horrific revelations and tremendous risks loom; some that will see Rayden's survival in the gravest of peril. <br />Even if Rayden and the Gessa survive the trials plaguing their lands, the thunder of an even darker storm booms across the far horizon. <br /><br />Thunder Horizon is the second book in the Dark Sun Dawn Trilogy.</div>
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<b style="background-color: transparent;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Book Synopsis for Heart of a Lion: </span></b>Rayden Valkyrie. She walks alone, serving no king, emperor, or master. Forged in the fires of tragedy, she has no place she truly calls home.</div>
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A deadly warrior wielding both blade and axe, Rayden is the bane of the wicked and corrupt. To many others, she is the most loyal and dedicated of friends, an ally who is unyielding in the most dangerous of circumstances.</div>
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The people of the far southern lands she has just aided claim that she has the<br />heart of a lion. For Rayden, a long journey to the lands of the far northern tribes who adopted her as a child beckons, with an ocean lying in between.</div>
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Her path will lead her once more into the center of a maelstrom, one involving a rising empire that is said to be making use of the darkest kinds of sorcery to grow its power. Making new friends and discoveries amid tremendous peril, Rayden makes her way to the north.</div>
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Monstrous beasts, supernatural powers, and the bloody specter of war have been a part of her world for a long time and this journey will be no different. Rayden chooses the battles that she will fight, whether she takes up the cause of one individual or an entire people.</div>
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Both friends and enemies alike will swiftly learn that the people of the far southern lands spoke truly. Rayden Valkyrie has the heart of a lion.</div>
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Heart of a Lion is Book One of the Dark Sun Dawn Trilogy.</div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Teaser Trailer Link for Rayden Valkyrie: Saga of a Lionheart TV
Pilot: </span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7w_UI_RCg4&t=34s"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7w_UI_RCg4&t=34s</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Embed Code for Teaser Trailer of Rayden Valkyrie Saga of a
Lionheart TV Pilot</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/v7w_UI_RCg4" width="560"></iframe></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Author
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Twitter: </span><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.twitter.com/sgzimmer"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">@SGZimmer</span></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-76863339755197906762017-08-12T05:00:00.000+02:002017-08-12T05:00:25.386+02:00All Signs Point to Murder by Conni di Marco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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All Signs Point to Murder</h1>
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by Connie di Marco</h2>
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on Tour July 23 - August 23, 2017</h3>
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<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="All Signs Point to Murder by Connie di Marco" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/32284028.jpg" height="300" style="margin-right: 20px;" width="200" />
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Rob Ramer was the perfect husband until he committed the ultimate family faux pas — he shot his sister-in-law to death. Believing himself under attack by an intruder in his home, he fired back. But when evidence is discovered that Rob’s wife, Brooke, was plotting his murder, Brooke is charged with conspiracy in her sister’s death. Geneva, a third sister, is desperate for answers and seeks the help of her friend, San Francisco astrologer Julia Bonatti. Geneva’s lost one sister and now it seems she’ll lose the other. Was this a murder plot or just a terrible accident? Julia vows to find the answer in the stars.<br />
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Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery, Paranormal<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Midnight Ink<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> August 2017<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b>336<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0738751073 (ISBN13: 9780738751078)<br />
<b>Series:</b> A Zodiac Mystery, 2 | Each is a Stand Alone Mystery<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Signs-Point-Murder-Zodiac-Mystery/dp/0738751073?tag-partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/all-signs-point-to-murder-connie-di-marco/1124657425?ean=9780738751078" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780738751078" target="_blank">IndieBound</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/32284028-all-signs-point-to-murder" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
After reading the Madness of Mercury I knew I wanted to read the next book with Julia Bonetti. And it did not dissapoint at all. I really enjoyed All Signs Point to Murder.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>I really like Julia, she is one of my favorite sleuths. All her little quirks and she is tough, she just won't give up no matter what. All Signs Point to Murder is a fun, easy and quick read with a great mystery. Connie di Marco does know how to keep the suspense by giving so many suspects that isn't easy to guess who done it.<br />
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This is a great example why I enjoy cozy mysteries so much and I can fully recommend reading this series if you are into cozy mysteries because this series truly is entertaining and fun to read.<br />
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My rating: 4/5<br />
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Read an excerpt:</h3>
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The building on Guerrero was a once proud Victorian with bow front windows. It had since been broken up into six small units and fallen into disrepair. I drove around the block several times before I managed to find a parking spot a few doors down. The shops on the main street were long closed and the streets deserted. I shivered and let the car heater run another minute to warm up before I left the comfort of my little metal box. There was something about this chore that made my stomach go into knots. Rummaging through a dead woman’s possessions was bad enough, but what if I found something that implicated Moira in a crime? Should I remove it and risk the police finding out?<br />
I climbed out of the car, careful to lock it and approached the long stairway leading to the front door. The wind had died down and now fog danced around the streetlights. It was eerily quiet. No lights shone from any of the windows. I hoped all the residents were safely tucked up in their beds by now. I climbed the cracked granite stairs to the entrance. The weathered door stood ajar, listing slightly on its hinges. I grasped the handle and twisted it, but the lock mechanism was out of commission. Inside, a bare overhead light bulb hung from a chain. It cast a meager glow down the long corridor, cannibalized from a once grand entryway. The hallway smelled of dirty cat litter, moldy vegetables and cigarette smoke. I followed the corridor to the end, and stopped at the last door on the right.<br />
I slipped the key into the lock. It offered no resistance. The door opened immediately. Had it not been locked? I caught a slight scuffling sound and cringed. I hoped no furry long-tailed creatures were waiting inside for me. I reached around the doorway and felt along the wall. My fingers hit the switch. A rusting chandelier with two bulbs missing illuminated the one large room that was both Moira’s living room and bedroom. I tested the key with the door open, locking and then unlocking it. Now I felt the resistance. The door had definitely been unlocked. I stepped inside and shut it behind me, making sure the lock was secure. Was it possible someone had been here before me and left without locking the door? Or had Moira simply been careless?<br />
I had to make sure I was alone in the apartment. There were no hiding places in this sparsely furnished room. I checked under the bed just to be sure and opened the closet, terrified that someone or something might jump out at me. The closet was narrow, filled with a jumble of clothing, half on the floor. I walked into the kitchenette and spotted a doorway that led to the back stairs and the yard. I tested the handle on the door. Locked. I checked the space between the refrigerator and the wall, and then the shower stall in the bathroom. I was alone. I had been holding my breath and finally let it out in a great sigh.<br />
I started with the drawers in the kitchen and checked the counter, looking for any notes with names or phone numbers. There was nothing. The kitchen was surprisingly clean, as if Moira had never used the room. Inside the refrigerator were a few condiments, a half-eaten unwrapped apple and a loaf of whole wheat bread. I quickly rummaged through the drawers and the freezer to make sure there were no bundles of cash disguised as frozen meat.<br />
The main room housed a collection of hand-me-downs and broken furniture, ripped curtains and piles of clothing in various spots around the floor. Had she really lived like this? I heaved up the mattress, first on one side and then the other, making sure nothing was hidden between it and the box spring. Under the bed, I spotted only dust bunnies. I pulled open each of the bureau drawers, checked their contents and pulled them all the way out to make sure nothing was behind them. I opened a small drawer in the bedside stand. Amid a loose pile of clutter was a dark blue velvet box embossed with the letter “R” in cursive gold script. Could this be from Rochecault? I was fairly certain it was. Rochecault is an infamously expensive jeweler on Maiden Lane downtown. How could Moira have shopped there? Was this what Geneva had meant when she said her sister seemed to have a lot of money to spend?<br />
I opened the box and gasped. An amazing bracelet heavy with blue stones in varying colors rested inside. The setting had the slightly matte industrial sheen of platinum. Moira couldn’t possibly have afforded this. Shoving the box into a side pocket of my purse, I decided I was definitely not leaving this for the police to find, and slid the drawer shut.<br />
I scanned the room. Moira hadn’t been much of a housekeeper and it didn’t appear as if there were many hiding spots. I headed for the desk, a rickety affair with two drawers and a monitor on top. I clicked on the hard drive and waited a moment. The monitor came to life and asked for a password. It would take someone much more talented than I to unearth its secrets. Under a jumble of papers and unopened bills, my eye caught a small black notebook. This looked promising. Perhaps it was an address book that would give us all of Moira’s contacts. I dropped my purse on the floor and reached for the book. A searing pain shot through my skull. Blinded, I fell to the floor.<br />
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Excerpt from All Signs Point to Murder by Connie di Marco. Copyright © 2017 by Connie di Marco. Reproduced with permission from Connie di Marco. All rights reserved.</div>
<img align="left" alt="Connie di Marco" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/Connie-di-Marco.jpg" height="375" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="250" />
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Author Bio:</h2>
Connie di Marco is the author of the Zodiac Mysteries from Midnight Ink, featuring San Francisco astrologer, Julia Bonatti. The first in the series, The Madness of Mercury, was released in June 2016 and the second, All Signs Point to Murder, available for pre-order now, will be released on August 8, 2017.<br />
Writing as Connie Archer, she is also the national bestselling author of the Soup Lover’s Mystery series from Berkley Prime Crime. Some of her favorite recipes can be found in The Cozy Cookbook and The Mystery Writers of America Cookbook. Connie is a member of International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.<br />
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Catch Up With Connie di Marco On:
<a href="http://www.conniedimarco.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14751339.Connie_Di_Marco" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/askzodia" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/zodiacmysteries" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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Tour Participants:</h1>
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<h1>
Giveaway:</h1>
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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Connie di Marco. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card AND 2 winners of one (1) eBook copy of All Signs Point to Murder. The giveaway begins on July 21 and runs through August 24, 2017.</h5>
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<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/">Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours</a></h2>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-18229241271103205752017-07-31T05:00:00.000+02:002017-07-31T05:00:28.112+02:0066 Meters by J.F. Kirwan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/66-metres-by-j-f-kirwan/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="66 Metres by J F Kirwan tour Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/66-Metres-JF-Kirwan-banner.jpg" height="200" width="400" /></a></div>
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66 Metres</h1>
<h2>
by J F Kirwan</h2>
<h3>
on Tour July 17-31, 2017</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="66 Metres by J F Kirwan" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/Sixty-Six-Metres-66.jpg" height="300" style="margin-right: 20px;" width="188" /><br />
A chilling and utterly compelling thriller that you won’t be able to put down!<br />
<h3>
The only thing worth killing for is family.</h3>
Everyone said she had her father’s eyes. A killer’s eyes. Nadia knew that on the bitterly cold streets of Moscow, she could never escape her past – but in just a few days, she would finally be free.<br />
Bound to work for Kadinsky for five years, she has just one last mission to complete. Yet when she is instructed to capture The Rose, a military weapon shrouded in secrecy, Nadia finds herself trapped in a deadly game of global espionage.<br />
And the only man she can trust is the one sent to spy on her…<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Thriller<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Carina<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> August 25th 2016<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 232<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 9780008207748<br />
<b>Series:</b> Nadia Laksheva Spy Thriller #1<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/66-Metres-chilling-thriller-Laksheva-ebook/dp/B01HLY0Z0W?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/66-metres-jf-kirwan/1124177075?ean=9780008207748" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble </a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31675868-66-metres" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
Can I just say what a rollercoaster ride this book was. I am very much impressed by the writing style and world building of J.F. Kirwan.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>I absolutely loved this storyline and it was very easy to identify with Nadia, not so much with what she's going trough but definately how she reacts to situations. It has been a long time that I did not want to smash in a character head due to some bad decisions.<br />
<br />
With everything that is happening, J.F. Kirwan knows how to make sure you can keep up with the story and this makes it hard to put the book down. There is so much happening and I just had to know what would happen next and how this would end.<br />
<br />
I am looking forward to reading more by J.F. Kirwan.<br />
<br />
My rating: 4.5/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
‘Let’s see if you can really shoot. Give her your pistol,’ Kadinsky said to one of the henchmen, the one with a pockmarked face – Pox, Nadia named him – who immediately lost his sense of humour.<br />
She took the weapon from his outstretched hand, weighed it in her palm. An old-style Smith & Wesson. God knows why the guy had it. Most blatnye preferred semi-autos, Makarovs or the older but higher-velocity Tokarevs. She checked that it was loaded, all six bullets nestling in their chambers. She glanced at Kadinsky, thought about killing him. But the other henchman, the fat one with slicked black hair – hence, Slick – had his Glock trained on her, his lopsided leer daring her.<br />
Kadinsky waved a hand towards Katya, five metres away. He tilted his head left and right, then settled back against the soft leather, took a gulp of whiskey, and smacked his lips. ‘The red rose in the bowl of flowers behind her left ear. Shoot it. From where you stand.’<br />
Slick’s eyes flicked toward Katya, gauging the angles. His leer faded.<br />
Nadia stared at her sister and the rose. Most of it was behind her head. Only one leaf of the scarlet blossom was exposed. She swallowed, then lifted the revolver, and took up a shooting stance like her father had taught her. Right arm firm, elbow not fully locked, left hand under the fist, prepared for the recoil. She had to do it before anger built and disrupted her concentration. She cocked the hammer, lined up the shot, then spoke to Katya’s serene, trusting face: ‘Love you,’ she said. Then she breathed out slowly, as if through a straw, and squeezed the trigger.<br />
Masonry exploded behind Katya. The crack was so loud that three other men burst into the room, weapons drawn. Kadinsky waved them back as Pox peeled the revolver from Nadia’s stiff fingers. Petals fluttered to the floor amidst a plume of white powder from the impact crater in the wall. Katya sat immobile, pale, the hair on the left side of her head ruffled as if by a gust of wind. A trickle of blood oozed from her left temple, and ran down her cheek.<br />
Katya, lips trembling, beamed at Nadia. ‘Still alive,’ she said, her voice hoarse. She touched the graze with an unsteady forefinger.<br />
Nadia began to shake. She folded her arms, refusing to give Kadinsky the satisfaction.<br />
<br />
Excerpt from 66 Metres by J F Kirwan. Copyright © 2017 by J F Kirwan. Reproduced with permission from J F Kirwan. All rights reserved.</div>
<img align="left" alt="J F Kirwan" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/j-f-kirwan-author.jpg" height="267" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
Barry (JF) works by day in aviation safety, and writes at night. He is also a diving instructor and has dived all over the world. He got hooked on writing when people started arguing about his characters as if they were real people. He is married and lives in Paris, because the coffee is better there, and he needs coffee to write.<br />
<h3>
Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="http://jfkirwan.com/" target="_blank">Website </a>
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15643489.J_F_Kirwan" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>
<a href="https://twitter.com/kirwanjf" target="_blank">Twitter</a>
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<h1>
Tour Participants:</h1>
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<h5>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-80097165041273342992017-07-28T05:00:00.000+02:002017-07-28T05:00:16.397+02:00Last Breath by Karen Slaughter<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Last Breath</h1>
<h2>
by Karin Slaughter</h2>
<h3>
on Tour July 24 - August 4, 2017</h3>
</div>
<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Last Breath by Karin Slaughter" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/9780062742155-last-breath-by-karin-slaughter.jpg" height="317" style="margin-right: 20px;" width="200" />
<br />
<h4>
Protecting someone always comes at a cost.</h4>
At the age of thirteen, Charlie Quinn's childhood came to an abrupt and devastating end. Two men, with a grudge against her lawyer father, broke into her home—and after that shocking night, Charlie's world was never the same.<br />
Now a lawyer herself, Charlie has made it her mission to defend those with no one else to turn to. So when Flora Faulkner, a motherless teen, begs for help, Charlie is reminded of her own past, and is powerless to say no.<br />
But honor-student Flora is in far deeper trouble than Charlie could ever have anticipated. Soon she must ask herself: How far should she go to protect her client? And can she truly believe everything she is being told?<br />
Razor-sharp and lightning-fast, this electrifying story from the #1 international bestselling author will leave you breathless. And be sure to read Karin Slaughter's extraordinary new novel The Good Daughter—available August 8, 2017.<br />
<blockquote class="details">
<h3>
Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Thriller, Suspense<br />
<b>Published by:</b> William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> July 11th 2017<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 0062742159 (ISBN13: 9780062742155)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Good Daughter 0.5<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Last-Breath-Karin-Slaughter-ebook/dp/B06XNJDDKL?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/last-breath-karin-slaughter/1125960292?ean=9780062792365" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble </a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34605650-last-breath" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
<br />
Ok this prequel got me all ready to read the Good Daughter. So this is a short story not a full length novel. I have read books from the Grant County series by Karin Slaughter, which I loved, so I had quite some expectations when I started reading. And Last Breath definately did not disappoint.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>I really liked the characters Charlie and Flora. Especially their interaction this in combination with some serious plot twists made this short story a really good read. The entire story works up to a very nice ending that I did not see coming and I do like a story that can set me on the wrong track.<br />
<br />
I am always very impressed to see what Karin Slaughter brings to the table every time a read a book by her. I love the stories she tells and definately the way she tells them. It is nearly impossible to stop reading once started.<br />
<br />
Now I am lucky enough that I can start Good Daughter right away (which I already have) so let's see what she has in store for me this time.<br />
<br />
My rating: 5/5<br />
<br />
<h3>
Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
Chapter One<br />
“Come on now, Miss Charlie.” Dexter Black’s voice was scratchy over the jailhouse payphone. He was fifteen years her senior, but the “miss” was meant to convey respect for their respective positions. “I told you I’m’a take care of your bill soon as you get me outta this mess.”<br />
Charlie Quinn rolled her eyes up so far in her head that she felt dizzy. She was standing outside a packed room of Girl Scouts at the YWCA. She should not have taken the call, but there were few worse things than being surrounded by a gaggle of teenage girls. “Dexter, you said the exact same thing the last time I got you out of trouble, and the minute you walked out of rehab, you spent all of your money on lottery tickets.”<br />
“I could’a won, and then I would’a paid you out half. Not just what I owe you, Miss Charlie. Half.”<br />
“That’s very generous, but half of nothing is nothing.” She waited for him to come up with another excuse, but all she heard was the distinct murmur of the North Georgia Men’s Detention Center. Bars being rattled. Expletives being shouted. Grown men crying. Guards telling them all to shut the hell up.<br />
She said, “I’m not wasting my anytime cell-phone minutes on your silence.”<br />
“I got something,” Dexter said. “Something gonna get me paid.”<br />
“I hope it’s not anything you wouldn’t want the police to find out about on a recorded phone conversation from jail.” Charlie wiped sweat from her forehead. The hallway was like an oven. “Dexter, you owe me almost two thousand dollars. I can’t be your lawyer for free. I’ve got a mortgage and school loans and I’d like to be able to eat at a nice restaurant occasionally without worrying my credit card will be declined.”<br />
“Miss Charlie,” Dexter repeated. “I see what you were doing there, reminding me about the phone being recorded, but what I’m saying is that I got something might be worth some money to the police.”<br />
“You should get a good lawyer to represent you in the negotiations, because it’s not going to be me.”<br />
“Wait, wait, don’t hang up,” Dexter pleaded. “I’m just remembering what you told me all them years ago when we first started. You remember that?”<br />
Charlie’s eye roll was not as pronounced this time. Dexter had been her first client when she’d set up shop straight out of law school.<br />
He said, “You told me that you passed up them big jobs in the city ’cause you wanted to help people.” He paused for effect. “Don’t you still wanna help people, Miss Charlie?”<br />
She mumbled a few curses that the phone monitors at the jail would appreciate. “Carter Grail,” she said, offering him the name of another lawyer.<br />
“That old drunk?” Dexter sounded picky for a man wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. “Miss Charlie, please can you—”<br />
“Don’t sign anything that you don’t understand.” Charlie flipped her phone closed and dropped it into her purse. A group of women in bike shorts walked past. The YWCA mid-morning crowd consisted of retirees and young mothers. She could hear a distant thump-thump-thump of heavy bass from an exercise class. The air smelled of chlorine from the indoor pool. Thunks from the tennis courts penetrated the double-paned windows.<br />
Charlie leaned back against the wall. She replayed Dexter’s call in her head. He was in jail again. For meth again. He was probably thinking he could snitch on a fellow meth head, or a dealer, and make the charges go away. If he didn’t have a lawyer looking over the deal from the district attorney’s office, he would be better off holding his nuts and buying more lottery tickets.<br />
She felt bad about his situation, but not as bad as she felt about the prospect of being late on her car payment.<br />
The door to the rec room opened. Belinda Foster looked panicked. She was twenty-eight, the same age as Charlie, but with a toddler at home, a baby on the way and a husband she talked about as if he was another burdensome child. Taking over Girl Scout career day had not been Belinda’s stupidest mistake this summer, but it was in the top three.<br />
“Charlie!” Belinda tugged at the trefoil scarf around her neck. “If you don’t get back in here, I’m gonna throw myself off the roof.”<br />
“You’d only break your neck.”<br />
Belinda pulled open the door and waited.<br />
Charlie nudged around her friend’s very pregnant belly. Nothing had changed in the rec room since her ringing cell phone had given her respite from the crowd. All of the oxygen was being sucked up by twenty fresh-faced, giggling Girl Scouts ranging from the ages of fifteen to eighteen. Charlie tried not to shudder at the sight of them. She had a tiny smidge over a decade on most of the girls, but there was something familiar about each and every one of them.<br />
The math nerds. The future English majors. The cheerleaders. The Plastics. The goths. The dorks. The freaks. The geeks. They all flashed the same smiles at each other, the kind that edged up at the corners of their mouths because, at any time, one of them could pull a proverbial knife: a haircut might look stupid, the wrong color nail polish could be on fingernails, the wrong shoes, the wrong tights, the wrong word and suddenly you were on the outside looking in.<br />
Charlie could still recall what it felt like to be stuck in the purgatory of the outside. There was nothing more torturous, more lonely, than being iced out by a gaggle of teenage girls.<br />
“Cake?” Belinda offered her a paper-thin slice of sheet cake.<br />
“Hm,” was all Charlie could say. Her stomach felt queasy. She couldn’t stop her gaze from traveling around the sparsely furnished rec room. The girls were all young, thin and beautiful in a way that Charlie did not appreciate when she was among them. Short miniskirts. Tight T-shirts and blouses opened one button too many. They seemed so frighteningly confident. They flicked back their long, fake blonde hair as they laughed. They narrowed expertly made-up eyes as they listened to stories. Sashes were askew. Vests were unbuttoned. Some of these girls were in serious violation of the Girl Scout dress code.<br />
Charlie said, “I can’t remember what we talked about when we were that age.”<br />
“That the Culpepper girls were a bunch of bitches.”<br />
Charlie winced at the name of her torturers. She took the plate from Belinda, but only to keep her hands occupied. “Why aren’t any of them asking me questions?”<br />
“We never asked questions,” Belinda said, and Charlie felt instant regret that she had spurned all the career women who had spoken at her Girl Scout meetings. The speakers had all seemed so old. Charlie was not old. She still had her badge-filled sash in a closet somewhere at home. She was a kick-ass lawyer. She was married to an adorable guy. She was in the best shape of her life. These girls should think she was awesome. They should be inundating her with questions about how she got to be so cool instead of snickering in their little cliques, likely discussing how much pig’s blood to put in a bucket over Charlie’s head.<br />
“I can’t believe their make-up,” Belinda said. “My mother almost scrubbed the eyes off my face when I tried to sneak out with mascara on.”<br />
Charlie’s mother had been killed when she was thirteen, but she could recall many a lecture from Lenore, her father’s secretary, about the dangerous message sent by too-tight Jordache jeans.<br />
Not that Lenore had been able to stop her.<br />
Belinda said, “I’m not going to raise Layla like that.” She meant her three-year-old daughter, who had somehow turned out to be a thoughtful, angelic child despite her mother’s lifelong love of beer pong, tequila shooters, and unemployed guys who rode motorcycles. “These girls, they’re sweet, but they have no sense of shame. They think everything they do is okay. And don’t even get me started on the sex. The things they say in meetings.” She snorted, leaving out the best part. “We were never like that.”<br />
Charlie had seen quite the opposite, especially when a Harley was involved. “I guess the point of feminism is that they have choices, not that they do exactly what we think they should do.”<br />
“Well, maybe, but we’re still right and they’re still wrong.”<br />
“Now you sound like a mother.” Charlie used her fork to cut off a section of chocolate frosting from the cake. It landed like paste on her tongue. She handed the plate back to Belinda. “I was terrified of disappointing my mom.”<br />
Belinda finished the cake. “I was terrified of your mom, period.”<br />
Charlie smiled, then she put her hand to her stomach as the frosting roiled around like driftwood in a tsunami.<br />
“You okay?” Belinda asked.<br />
Charlie held up her hand. The sickness came over her so suddenly that she couldn’t even ask where the bathroom was.<br />
Belinda knew the look. “It’s down the hall on the—”<br />
Charlie bolted out of the room. She kept her hand tight to her mouth as she tried doors. A closet. Another closet.<br />
A fresh-faced Girl Scout was coming out of the last door she tried.<br />
“Oh,” the teenager said, flinging up her hands, backing away.<br />
Charlie ran into the closest stall and sloughed the contents of her stomach into the toilet. The force was so much that tears squeezed out of her eyes. She gripped the side of the bowl with both hands. She made grunting noises that she would be ashamed for any human being to hear.<br />
But someone did hear.<br />
“Ma’am?” the teenager asked, which somehow made everything worse, because Charlie was not old enough to be called ma’am. “Ma’am, are you okay?”<br />
“Yes, thank you.”<br />
“Are you sure?”<br />
“Yes, thank you. You can go away.” Charlie bit her lip so that she wouldn’t curse the helpful little creature like a dog. She searched for her purse. It was outside the stall. Her wallet had fallen out, her keys, a pack of gum, loose change. The strap dragged across the greasy-looking tile floor like a tail. She started to reach out for it, but gave up when her stomach clenched. All she could do was sit on the filthy bathroom floor, gather her hair up off her neck, and pray that her troubles would be confined to one end of her body.<br />
“Ma’am?” the girl repeated.<br />
Charlie desperately wanted to tell her to get the hell out, but couldn’t risk opening her mouth. She waited, eyes closed, listening to the silence, begging her ears to pick out the sound of the door closing as the girl left.<br />
Instead, the faucet was turned on. Water ran into the sink. Paper towels were pulled from the dispenser.<br />
Charlie opened her eyes. She flushed the toilet. Why on earth was she so ill?<br />
It couldn’t be the cake. Charlie was lactose intolerant, but Belinda would never make anything from scratch. Canned frosting was 99 percent chemicals, usually not enough to send her over the edge. Was it the happy chicken from General Ho’s she’d had for supper last night? The egg roll she’d sneaked out of the fridge before going to bed? The luncheon meat she’d scarfed down before her morning run? The breakfast burrito fiesta she’d gotten at Taco Bell on the way to the Y?<br />
Jesus, she ate like a sixteen-year-old boy.<br />
The faucet turned off.<br />
Charlie should have at least opened the stall door, but a quick survey of the damage changed her mind. Her navy skirt was hiked up. Pantyhose ripped. There were splatters on her white silk blouse that would likely never come out. Worst of all, she had scuffed the toe of her new shoe, a navy high-heel Lenore had helped her pick out for court.<br />
“Ma’am?” the teen said. She was holding a wet paper towel under the stall door.<br />
“Thank you,” Charlie managed. She pressed the cool towel to the back of her neck and closed her eyes again. Was this a stomach bug?<br />
“Ma’am, I can get you something to drink,” the girl offered.<br />
Charlie almost threw up again at the thought of Belinda’s cough-mediciney punch. If the girl was not going to leave, she might as well be put to use. “There’s some change in my wallet. Do you mind getting a ginger ale from the machine?”<br />
The girl knelt down on the floor. Charlie saw the familiar khaki-colored sash with badges sewn all over it. Customer Loyalty. Business Planning. Marketing. Financial Literacy. Top Seller. Apparently, she knew how to move some cookies.<br />
Charlie said, “The bills are in the side.”<br />
The girl opened her wallet. Charlie’s driver’s license was in the clear plastic part. “I thought your last name was Quinn?”<br />
“It is. At work. That’s my married name.”<br />
“How long have you been married?”<br />
“Four and a half years.”<br />
“My gran says it takes five years before you hate them.”<br />
Charlie could not imagine ever hating her husband. She also couldn’t imagine keeping up her end of this under-stall conversation. The urge to puke again was tickling at the back of her throat.<br />
“Your dad is Rusty Quinn,” the girl said, which meant that she has been in town for more than ten minutes. Charlie’s father had a reputation in Pikeville because of the clients he defended—convenience store robbers, drug dealers, murderers and assorted felons. How people in town viewed Rusty generally depended on whether or not they or a family member ever needed his services.<br />
The girl said, “I heard he helps people.”<br />
“He does.” Charlie did not like how the words echoed back to Dexter’s reminder that she had turned down hundreds of thousands of dollars a year in the city so that she could work for people who really needed her. If there was one guiding ethos in Charlie’s life, it was that she was not going to be like her father.<br />
“I bet he’s expensive.” The girl asked, “Are you expensive? I mean, when you help people?”<br />
Charlie put her hand to her mouth again. How could she ask this teenager to please get her some ginger ale without screaming at her?<br />
“I enjoyed your speech,” the girl said. “My mom was killed in a car accident when I was little.”<br />
Charlie waited for context, but there was none. The girl slid a dollar bill out of Charlie’s wallet and finally, thankfully, left.<br />
There was nothing to do in the ensuing silence but see if she could stand. Charlie had fortuitously ended up in the handicapped stall. She gripped the metal rails and shakily pulled herself up to standing. She spat into the toilet a few times before flushing it again. When she opened the stall door, the mirror greeted her with a pale, sickly-looking woman in a $120 puke-spotted silk blouse. Her dark hair looked wild. Her lips had a bluish tint.<br />
Charlie lifted her hair, holding it in a ponytail. She turned on the sink and slurped water into her mouth. She caught her reflection again as she leaned down to spit.<br />
Her mother’s eyes looked back at her. Her mother’s arched eyebrow.<br />
What’s going on in that mind of yours, Charlie?<br />
Charlie had heard this question at least three or four times a week back when her mother was alive. She would be sitting in the kitchen doing her homework, or on the floor of her room trying to do some kind of craft project, and her mother would sit opposite her and ask the same question that she always asked.<br />
What is going on in your mind?<br />
It was not contrived to be a conversation starter. Her mother was a scientist and a scholar. She had never been one for idle chitchat. She was genuinely curious about what thoughts filled her thirteen-year-old daughter’s head.<br />
Until Charlie had met her husband, no one else had ever expressed such genuine interest.<br />
The door opened. The girl was back with a ginger ale. She was pretty, though not conventionally so. She did not seem to fit in with her perfectly coifed peers. Her dark hair was long and straight, pinned back with a silver clip on one side. She was young-looking, probably fifteen, but her face was absent of make-up. Her crisp green Girl Scout T-shirt was tucked into her faded jeans, which Charlie felt was unfair because in her day they had been forced to wear scratchy white button-up shirts and khaki skirts with knee socks.<br />
Charlie did not know which felt worse, that she had thrown up or that she had just employed the phrase, “in her day.”<br />
“I’ll put the change in your wallet,” the girl offered.<br />
“Thank you.” Charlie drank some of the ginger ale while the girl neatly repacked the contents of her purse.<br />
The girl said, “Those stains on your blouse will come out with a mixture of a tablespoon of ammonia, a quart of warm water and a half a teaspoon of detergent. You soak it in a bowl.”<br />
“Thank you again.” Charlie wasn’t sure she wanted to soak anything she owned in ammonia, but judging by the badges on the sash, the girl knew what she was talking about. “How long have you been in Girl Scouts?”<br />
“I got my start as a Brownie. My mom signed me up. I thought it was lame, but you learn lots of things, like business skills.”<br />
“My mom signed me up, too.” Charlie had never thought it was lame. She had loved all the projects and the camping trips and especially eating the cookies she had made her parents buy. “What’s your name?”<br />
“Flora Faulkner,” she said. “My mom named me Florabama, because I was born on the state line, but I go by Flora.”<br />
Charlie smiled, but only because she knew that she was going to laugh about this later with her husband. “There are worse things that you could be called.”<br />
Flora looked down at her hands. “A lot of the girls are pretty good at thinking of mean things.”<br />
Clearly, this was some kind of opening, but Charlie was at a loss for words. She combed back through her knowledge of after-school specials. All she could remember was that movie of the week where Ted Danson is married to Glenn Close and she finds out that he’s molesting their teenage daughter but she’s been cold in bed so it’s probably her fault so they all go to therapy and learn to live with it.<br />
“Miss Quinn?” Flora put Charlie’s purse on the counter. “Do you want me to get you some crackers?”<br />
“No, I’m
<br />
Excerpt from Last Breath by Karin Slaughter. Copyright © 2017 by Karin Slaughter. Reproduced with permission from HarperCollins. All rights reserved.<br />
</div>
<img align="left" alt="Karin Slaughter" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Karin-Slaughter-Credit-Alison-Rosa-e1497398338725.jpg" height="264" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" /><br />
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
Karin Slaughter is one of the world’s most popular and acclaimed storytellers. Published in 36 languages, with more than 35 million copies sold across the globe, her sixteen novels include the Grant County and Will Trent books, as well as the Edgar-nominated Cop Town and the instant New York Times bestselling novel Pretty Girls. A native of Georgia, Karin currently lives in Atlanta. Her Will Trent series, Grant County series, and standalone novel Cop Town are all in development for film and television.<br />
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Catch Up With Our Author On:
<a href="http://www.karinslaughter.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/12504.Karin_Slaughter" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/SlaughterKarin" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKarinSlaughter/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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<h1>
Tour Participants:</h1>
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<h1>
Giveaway:</h1>
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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Karin Slaughter and William Morrow. There will be 3 winners of one (1) ebook copy of Last Breath by Karin Slaughter! The giveaway begins on July 24 and runs through August 8, 2017.</h5>
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<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/">Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours</a></h2>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-77862949250158249672017-07-22T05:00:00.000+02:002017-07-22T05:00:13.724+02:00Gray Widow's Walk & Gray Widow's Web by Dan Jolley<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.tomorrowcomesmedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/DanJolleyGrayWidowsWeb_BlogTourGraphic.jpg"><img alt="DanJolleyGrayWidowsWeb_BlogTourGraphic" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-1115" src="http://www.tomorrowcomesmedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/DanJolleyGrayWidowsWeb_BlogTourGraphic.jpg" height="300" width="450" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.tomorrowcomesmedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Grey-Widows-Web_Final_1200X800.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Grey Widow's Web_Final_1200X800" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-1081" src="http://www.tomorrowcomesmedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Grey-Widows-Web_Final_1200X800-231x300.jpg" height="200" width="154" /></a>I am a huge superhero movie fan, but don't really read any superhero books, so I was really looking forward to reading Gray Widow's Walk and Gray Widow's Web by Dan Jolly. I was not really sure what to expect because books and movies are not the same, but I am definately not disapointed. </div>
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Gray Widow's Walk is a very good start of the series. We get to know Janey and her ability. I liked her she is well developed and believable. Also the side cast is well developed and really add to the story. I also very much liked the added love interest. It didnot felt forced. </div>
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Besides being action packed the story is well thought out. And that is also what got me hooked. Dan has an amazing writing style that makes the story come alive and made me keep reading just to see what would happen next.</div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eIx7zIx5o0Y/WXJlnha44KI/AAAAAAAACd4/ru6UN9GgRo4cOkrbeE2Rpcv51d0pppRYgCLcBGAs/s1600/Gray%2BWidow_s%2BWalkCover1200X900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eIx7zIx5o0Y/WXJlnha44KI/AAAAAAAACd4/ru6UN9GgRo4cOkrbeE2Rpcv51d0pppRYgCLcBGAs/s200/Gray%2BWidow_s%2BWalkCover1200X900.jpg" width="150" /></a>Gray Widow's Web is a sequel that does justice to the the first book. Written in the same manner, but Dan "upped the ante" with this one. I do not want to tell anymore about the story because the </div>
synopsis says is all. So I will stick with Dan's writing style because he really does know how to pull me into the story. His well placed and thought out plots really work also since there is no waisted space. Everything happens for a reason, there is always something going on without it being too much.<br />
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I enjoyed seeing Janey develop further and see how she deals with everything comingher ay, Her interaction with Tim is great, but I also like the other characters that have entered.They all play their part that is crucial to the story.<br />
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Luckily I was able to read the first 2 books in the series back to back, sad part is that I now have to wait until Gray Widow's War will be published. If you enjoy superhero stories you should put these books high on your to-read list </div>
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My rating: 4/5</div>
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<b>Book Synopsis for Gray Widow's Web:</b> JANEY SINCLAIR never knew how or why she gained her ability to teleport. She never wanted it, and for years tried her best to ignore it. But when horrible violence shattered her world, she vowed to use her mysterious talent to protect the citizens of Atlanta, in an effort to prevent anyone else from suffering the kind of agony she had. Wearing a suit of stolen military body armor, Janey became known to the public as the GRAY WIDOW.<br />
But now the extraterrestrial source of her “Augmentation” is about to reveal itself, in an event that will profoundly impact Janey’s life and the lives of those closest to her—<br />
TIM KAPOOR, who barely survived the assault of twisted, bloodthirsty shapeshifter Simon Grove and still struggles to pull himself together, both physically and mentally.<br />
NATHAN PITTMAN, the teenager who got shot trying to imitate Janey’s vigilante tactics, and has since become obsessed with the Gray Widow.<br />
SHA’DAE WILKERSON, Janey’s neighbor and newfound best friend, whose instant chemistry with Janey may have roots that neither of them fully understand. And Janey’s going to need all the help she can get, because one of the other Augments has her sights set on the Gray Widow. The terrifying abomination known as APHRODITE LUPO is more powerful and lethal than anyone or anything Janey has ever faced. And Aphrodite is determined to recruit Janey to her twisted cause…or take her off the field for good.<br />
Unrelenting ghosts of the past clash with the vicious threats of the future. Janey’s destiny bursts from the shadows into the light in GRAY WIDOW’S WEB, leaving the course of humanity itself forever changed. <br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KpyaYVCDMjQ/WXJHamyc4lI/AAAAAAAACdo/n8GOnPdGC58r-v94bM7OyYRlHuFrGd24wCLcBGAs/s1600/DanJolleyPhoto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="392" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KpyaYVCDMjQ/WXJHamyc4lI/AAAAAAAACdo/n8GOnPdGC58r-v94bM7OyYRlHuFrGd24wCLcBGAs/s200/DanJolleyPhoto.jpg" width="175" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>About the author: </b></span></span>Dan Jolley started writing professionally at age nineteen. Beginning in comic books, he soon branched out into original novels, licensed-property novels, children’s books, and video games. His twenty-six-year career includes the YA sci-fi/espionage trilogy Alex Unlimited; the award-winning comic book mini-series Obergeist; the Eisner Award-nominated comic book mini-series JSA: The Liberty Files; and the Transformers video games War for Cybertron and Fall of Cybertron. Dan was co-writer of the world-wide-bestselling zombie/parkour game Dying Light, and is the author of the Middle Grade Urban Fantasy novel series Five Elements. Dan lives somewhere in the northwest Georgia foothills with his wife Tracy and a handful of largely inert cats. Learn more about Dan by visiting his website, www.danjolley.com, and follow him on Twitter @_DanJolley.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Author Links:</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Twitter: </span></span><a href="http://www.twitter.com/_DanJolley"><span style="color: #404040;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">@_DanJolley</span></span></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Website: </span></span><a href="http://www.danjolley.com/"><span style="color: #404040;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">www.danjolley.com</span></span></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Tour Schedule and Activities</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/19/17 </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://jordanrhirsch.wordpress.com/">Jordan Hirsch</a> Review</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/19/17 <a href="http://www.ismellsheep.com/">I Smell Sheep</a> Top Ten's List</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/20/17 <a href="http://smsand.wordpress.com/">SpecMusicMuse</a> Author's Interview</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/21/17 <a href="https://saphsbooks.blogspot.com/">Sapphyria's Book Reviews</a> Top Ten's List</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/22/17 <a href="http://bookishlyme.blogspot.com/">Bookishly me</a></span></span> Review<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/22/17 <a href="http://www.theseventhstarblog.com/">The Seventh Star Blog</a> Author's Interview</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/22/17 <a href="http://www.storeybookreviews.com/">StoreyBook Reviews</a> Guest Post</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/23/17 <a href="http://sheiladeeth.blogspot.com/">Sheila's Guests and Reviews</a> Guest Post</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/24/17 <a href="http://www.infamous-scribbler.com/">Infamous Scribbler</a> Author's Interview</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/25/17 <a href="http://beauty-in-ruins.blogspot.com/">Beauty in Ruins</a> Guest Post</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/26/17 <a href="http://paranormalfantasyandmore.blogspot.com/">Paranormal, Urban Fantasy, Mystery and More!</a> </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Author Interview</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">7/26/17 <a href="http://jenisbookshelf.blogspot.com/">Jeni's Bookshelf, Reviews, Swag, and More!</a> Review</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Links for Gray Widow's Web:</b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gray-Widows-Widow-Trilogy-Book-ebook/dp/B06XKXYCHQ" target="_blank">Amazon Kindle</a></b></span></span></span>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gray-Widows-Web-Widow-Trilogy/dp/1941706584" style="color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">Amazon Print</a> | </span></span></span><b style="color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gray-widows-web-dan-jolley/1126374474?ean=9781941706589" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></b><br />
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I received ecopies from Seventh Star Press for an honost review without receiving any compensation.Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-30542563512570191482017-07-10T05:00:00.000+02:002017-07-10T05:00:04.225+02:00Executive Actions by Gary Grossman<div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>
Executive Actions</h1>
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by Gary Grossman</h2>
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on Tour June 1 - July 31, 2017</h3>
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<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Executive Actions" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/18125020.jpg" height="300" style="margin-right: 20px;" width="200" /><br />
In the midst of a heated presidential campaign, Secret Service Agent Scott Roarke gets an assignment that turns his world upside down. His investigation uncovers a plot so monstrous it can change the course of America's future and world politics. Roarke discovers that presidency is about to fall into the hands of a hostile foreign power. The power play is so well-conceived that even the U.S. Constitution itself is a tool designed to guarantee the plot's success. With the election clock ticking, Roarke and Boston attorney Katie Kessler race at breakneck speed to prevent the unthinkable. But they also know that it will take a miracle to stop the takeover from happening.<br />
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Praise for the Executive Series:</h3>
“Executive Actions is the best political thriller I have read in a long, long time. Right up there with the very best of David Baldacci. [A] masterpiece of suspense; powerfully written and filled with wildly imaginative twists. Get ready to lose yourself in a hell of a story.”<br />
Michael Palmer, New York Times bestselling author<br />
“Break out the flashlight, and prepare to stay up all night … Once you start reading Executive Actions you won’t be able to put it down.”<br />
Bruce Feirstein, James Bond screenwriter, and Vanity Fair Contributing Editor<br />
“Executive Command mixes terrorists, politics, drug gangs and technology in nonstop action! Gary Grossman creates a … horribly plausible plot to attack the United States. So real it’s scary!”<br />
Larry Bond, New York Times bestselling author of Exit Plan, Cold Choices, Red Dragon Rising<br />
“Moving at break-neck speed, Executive Command is nothing short of sensational … Executive Command is not just a great book, it’s a riveting experience.”<br />
W.G. Griffiths, award-winning, bestselling author of Methuselah’s Pillar, Malchus<br />
“Executive Command ramps up the excitement … A truly bravura performance from a master of the political thriller!”<br />
Dwight Jon Zimmerman, New York Times bestselling co-author of Lincoln’s Last Days, Uncommon Valor<br />
“Intricate, taut, and completely mesmerizing. Grossman expertly blends together globe-spanning locations, well-researched technology, finely crafted narrative, and intriguing characters to create a virtuoso tale. Highly recommended.”<br />
Dale Brown, New York Times bestselling author<br />
“Executive Treason is more chilling than science fiction … You’ll never listen to talk radio again without a shiver going down your spine.”<br />
Gary Goldman, Executive Producer, Minority Report; Screenwriter, Navy SEALs & Total Recall<br />
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Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Political Thriller, Mystery<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Diversion Books<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> 13 January 2012<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 556<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 1626811059 (ISBN13: 9781626811058)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Executive #1<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Executive-Actions-Gary-Grossman-ebook/dp/B006WOEPCC?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/executive-actions-gary-grossman/1007065124" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18125020-executive-actions" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
<br />
Ok so if you checked my<a href="http://bookishlyme.blogspot.nl/2017/07/interview-gary-grossman-executive.html" target="_blank"> interview </a>with Gary Grossman last week you already noticed that I really liked Executive Actions.<br />
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Gary Grossman really knows how to draw you into the story. I mean this is a political thriller and they can get a bit boring at times, but Gary Grossman has filled Executive Actions with complex, well developed characters and a lot of plot twists that will make sure you are nailed to your seat while reading.<br />
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Executive actions is one of those books where you will have to pay attention or you will miss something, luckily Grossman's writing makes sure that that is not an issue.<br />
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If you enjoy a good political thriller you should go and pick up Executive Actions.<br />
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Now the good part is the second book Executive Treason and the third book Executive Command are also already available so I know what I will be reading this summer.<br />
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My rating: 4/5<br />
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Read an excerpt:</h3>
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EXECUTIVE ACTIONS<br />by Gary Grossman</h5>
CHAPTER 1<br />Washington, D.C. Sunday 22 June<br />
“Topic one. Theodore Wilson Lodge. Presidential material?” bellowed the host at the top of his Sunday morning television show. He directed his question to the political pundit to his left. “Victor Monihan, syndicated columnist for The Philadelphia Inquirer, is Teddy ready, yes or no?”<br />
“Yes,” Monihan shot back. You had to speak up quickly on the lively program. There was no air between questions and answers. “If the cameras could vote, he’d be a shoo-in.”<br />
“But they don’t. So again, will it be Mr. Lodge goes to Washington?” quizzed the host of the revamped McLaughlin Group. The reference to the Frank Capra movie was lost on most of the audience. Even AMC and Turner Classics weren’t running very many black and white movies anymore.<br />
“Absolutely.” Monihan didn’t take a breath between thoughts. The host hated dead air. Pause and you’re dead. Someone else will jump in. “He’s totally informed, he’s had great committee assignments and he can do the job. Congressman Lodge comes off as a highly capable leader. Trustworthy. The all-American boy grown up. And he positively looks like a president should look … presidential.”<br />
“So a tan and a good build gets you to the White House?” the host argued.<br />
“It means I don’t have to worry about him taking my job.” The overweight columnist laughed, which made his belly spread his shirt to a point just shy of popping the buttons. The joke was good, but he lost his platform with it.<br />
“Roger Deutsch, freelance writer for Vanity Fair, right now Lodge is trailing Governor Lamden. Can Teddy make it up?”<br />
“No. With only two days before the New York primary, there’s no way Lodge can do it. He doesn’t have the votes. And there’s not enough time to get them. Henry Lamden will be addressing the Democratic Party at the August convention in Denver. But even when he gets the nomination, he’ll have a hard time against Taylor.”<br />
The discussion expanded to include the other members of the panel. They talked about Montana Governor Henry Lamden’s qualities. About President Morgan Taylor’s rigid persona. About the voters’ appetite. And back again to the possibilities. “Is there any way Lodge can do what fellow Vermont favorite son Calvin Coolidge did: go all the way to the White House?” the venerable host rhetorically asked. The panel knew this was not the time to reply. Turning to the camera the host said, “Not according to my watch.”<br />
This was the throw to the video package from the campaign trail.<br />
Teddy Lodge smiled as he sat on the edge of his hotel bed to get closer to the TV set. He was half-packed. The rest would wait until the videotape report concluded. Lodge pressed the volume louder on his remote.<br />
“It’s on,” he called to his wife, Jenny.<br />
“Be right out,” she answered from the bathroom. Lodge tightened the knot on the hand-painted tie he’d been given the day before. The gift, from a home crafter in Albany, would go into his collection and eventually into his Presidential Library. But first he’d wear it for the cameras. She’d see it and tell everyone she knew. More votes.<br />
Mrs. Lodge leaned over her husband and hugged him as he watched himself on TV. “You look great, sweetheart.” He agreed. The footage was perfect: Lodge in the thick of an adoring Manhattan crowd, the wind playing with his wavy brown hair, his Armani suit jacket draped over his arm. He came off relaxed and in charge; less like a politician than an everyday guy. An everyday guy who saw himself as President of the United States. And at 6’2” he stood above most of the crowd.<br />
Lodge knew the unusual statistical edge his height provided. Historically, the taller of the two major presidential candidates almost always wins the election. And he was considerably taller than President Morgan Taylor.<br />
The host obviously wasn’t a supporter. But the coverage counted. He hit the bullet points of Lodge’s career.<br />
“Teddy’s been fast-tracking since college. He graduated Yale Law School and has a graduate degree in Physics at Stanford. The man speaks three languages. He worked on various government contracts until he decided to return to his country home in Burlington, Vermont, and run for State Assembly. Two years later, so long Burlington, hello Washington. Mr. Lodge went to Capitol Hill as a young, energetic first-term congressman. He distinguished himself in international politics and now serves as Chairman of the House Subcommittee on Terrorism and Homeland Security. He’s as close to a rocket scientist as they come in Washington. He heads the House Committee on Energy and understands the complexities of the issues. But is he going to the White House?” the moderator asked in his feature videotape. “New Yorkers will decide Tuesday.”<br />
And with that set up came the obligatory sound bite. It couldn’t have been better if Teddy Lodge had picked it himself. It was declarative and persuasive. The producer of the video package must have been in his camp.<br />
“Tomorrow the world will be different. More dangerous. More hateful. Different times need different leaders. Make no mistake, there are no more safe harbors or promised lands. Unless … unless we make better choices today than yesterday. Better friends tomorrow than today.”<br />
As he watched, Lodge remembered the clincher was yet to come. Things like that just didn’t get cut. He was right.<br />
“So come with me and discover a new America. Come with me and discover a new world.”<br />
Thunderous applause followed; applause from the audience at a Madison Square Garden rally.<br />
Eighteen seconds total screen time. Unbelievable on McLaughlin. But Lodge was not an easy edit. He’d learned to break the sound bite barrier by constantly modulating his voice for impact, issuing phrases in related couplets and triplets, and punching them with an almost religious zeal.<br />
Like everything else in his life, he worked hard at communicating effectively. He punctuated every word with a moderately-affected New England accent. Whether or not they agreed with his politics, columnists called him the best orator in years. Increasing numbers of them bestowed almost Kennedy like reverence. And through the camera lens, baby boomers saw an old friend while younger voters found a new voice.<br />
The video story ended and the host brought the debate back to his panel. “Peter Weisel, Washington Bureau Chief of The Chicago Tribune, What sayest thou? Can Teddy un-lodge Lamden?”<br />
“Unlikely.” Weisel, a young, black reporter, was the outspoken liberal of the panel and a realist. “But he’ll help the ticket. He’s a strong Number Two. A junior pairing with Governor Lamden can work. The flip side of Kennedy-Johnson. Let the Democrats make him VP. Besides, his good looks won’t go away in four or eight years. TV will still like him.”<br />
Theodore Wilson Lodge, 46 years old and strikingly handsome, definitely could pull in the camera lens. He had the same effect on women and they held far more votes in America than men. The fact was not lost on the show’s only female contributor of the week. “Debra Redding of The Boston Globe, is Lodge your man?”<br />
Without missing a beat she volunteered, “There are only two problems that I see. One, I’m married. The other – so is he.”<br />
What a wonderful way to start the morning, the congressman said to himself.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Executive Actions by Gary Grossman. Copyright © 2017 by Gary Grossman. Reproduced with permission from Gary Grossman. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Gary Grossman" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/Gary-Grossman.jpg" height="300" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" />
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Gary Grossman is a multiple Emmy Award-winning network television producer, a print and television journalist, and novelist. He has produced more than 10,000 television shows for 40 broadcast and cable networks including primetime specials, reality and competition series, and live event telecasts.<br />
Grossman has worked for NBC, written for the Boston Globe, Boston Herald American, and the New York Times. He is the author of four bestselling international award-winning thrillers available in print, eBooks, and Audible editions: EXECUTIVE ACTIONS, EXECUTIVE TREASON, EXECUTIVE COMMAND and OLD EARTH. (Diversion Books, NYC) and two acclaimed non-fiction books covering pop culture and television history – SUPERMAN: SERIAL TO CEREAL and SATURDAY MORNING TV.<br />
Grossman taught journalism, film and television at Emerson College, Boston University, and USC and has guest lectured at colleges and universities around the United States. He currently serves as an Adjunct Professor of Film and Television at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. He is a member of the Board of Trustees at Emerson College in Boston and he serves on the Boston University Metropolitan College Advisory Board. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers Association and The Military Writers Society of America.<br />
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Tour Participants:</h1>
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Kim - Bookishly Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12824758106942418932noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040902142150541218.post-88662196034551575882017-07-07T05:00:00.000+02:002017-07-07T05:00:05.963+02:00Interview Gary Grossman - Executive Actions<div style="text-align: center;">
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Executive Actions</h1>
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by Gary Grossman</h2>
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on Tour June 1 - July 31, 2017</h3>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">I had the pleasure of interviewing Gary Grossman for his re-release of Executive Actions. I had a blast with the interview just as much as I had with reading Executive Actions, of which I will share my review next monday. But I can share with you already that if you enjoy political thrillers you are going to want to read Executive Actions.</span></div>
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<b>Please tell us a bit about yourself.</b></div>
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I’m holding up a mirror and I see a man wearing multiple hats. A lot of them!</div>
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I started as a rock DJ on my local Hudson, NY radio station while I was in high school student. In and after college, I moved into television and documentary production in Boston. Then teaching college, writing non-fiction books on TV history, then becoming a freelance film writer for The Boston Globe, and then onto a TV and media critic at The Boston Herald American. In the 1980s I moved to Los Angeles to produce and write TV shows, teach more college, and now… (Here’s the tada moment) I’ve added novel thriller writing.</div>
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All the hats fit. Some of them are actually interchangeable. The documentaries I’ve written and produced have figured into my novels. My media research always works its way into my teaching. And my radio years still give me the ability to be comfortable on the air promoting my work.</div>
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All the experience comes together in EXECUTIVE ACTIONS, a thriller with a good deal of me and a great deal of the world.</div>
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<b>Could you tell us in short what Executive Actions is about?</b></div>
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EXECUTIVE ACTIONS is a timely and ever-green International political thriller that takes a Cold War-era Soviet Union plot decades forward, all the way to the White House. It begins with an assassin who changes the course of a presidential election. The plot deviously weaves through, and well-past, a long-incubating Russian sleeper spy cell into a greater global conspiracy.</div>
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Secret Service agent Scott Roarke is the protagonist, trying to figure out (along with readers) who’s good and who’s bad, while tracking the assassin city-by- city. He enlists the aid of a strong woman character (very strong and very good), Boston attorney Katie Kessler, and a coterie of associates in Army intelligence, the FBI, the CIA, and the president himself.</div>
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It’s a whirlwind race against time, laced with history. I also believe that EXECUTIVE ACTIONS reads like it’s written from above the fold, front page breaking news stories.</div>
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I hope you’ll get hooked, and as James Bond screenwriter Bruce Feirstein wrote about my thriller,</div>
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“Prepare to stay up all night. Once you start reading EXECUTIVE ACTIONS, you won’t be able to put it down.”</div>
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At least I hope that’ll happen to you, too!</div>
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<b>Which character was the easiest to write and which one was the hardest to write. Also </b><b>which character do you identify with the most, and are your characters based on </b><b>people you know?</b></div>
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Great, great questions.</div>
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Since my dad worked as a law enforcement investigator and my mom ran political campaigns and had New York State Senate and Assembly jobs, I probably had the easiest time with Scott Roarke and President Morgan Taylor.</div>
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Writing Katie Kessler was also fun. She’s a great character and so much like the strong, wonderful women who have influenced me – my mother, my teachers, my wife, my friends, and even my daughter.</div>
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I honestly didn’t really have a hard character to write. But I did have a great deal of research to do on the Russian side of the story and then Middle East figure who emerges. The character who absolutely astounds me, however, is the assassin. I knew nothing about him as I began to shape his personality. He revealed himself to me only as necessary. Considering he has so many personas in EXECUTIVE ACTIONS, he also surprised me with the way he looked and what he did.</div>
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Oh, the things he did! Creatively, imaginatively, and with deadly intent.</div>
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Who is he? It’ll take more than EXECUTIVE ACTIONS to figure that out. There’s EXECUTIVE TREASON and EXECUTIVE COMMAND that follow.</div>
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Truth be told, I don’t really write my characters. Once they start developing, they take over and literally write themselves. Scott and Katie took me places I never expected to explore as they dove headlong into the EXECUTIVE ACTIONS exploits. President Morgan Taylor became the president I believe we all wish we had, no matter your politics.</div>
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The characters ultimately take form on their own, telling me who they are, instructing me to write their story. It’s totally weird and totally true. And I think that’s ultimately what makes EXECUTIVE ACTIONS so compelling.</div>
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<b><b>Where did the inspiration for Executive Actions come from? </b></b></div>
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I was in New York City on September 11, 2001. The plot to bring down the World Trade Center Towers took years to develop. I began thinking about a plot that would actually require decades to come to fruition. But the goal? The moral or physical prize?</div>
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I realized it had to be the ultimate political prize, something work waiting for, something that required preparation, incubation, immense patience, and political maneuvering. It was the American presidency itself.</div>
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My own interest in politics helped. My experience as a journalist and documentarian gave me a strong foundation. My love of political thrillers in print and on screen led me to try to write. Once I began thinking what I thought was the unthinkable, I came up with what is plausible. It’s all in the pages of EXECUTIVE ACTIONS.</div>
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<b><b>What research did you do for this book?</b></b></div>
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Research is key. I relied on people in the know: A Navy commander for background on President Morgan Taylor, a former Navy F-18 flier. FBI forensic experts for knowledge about Facial Recognition Technology. A former Army intelligence officer for all of the military hardware, strategy, and mission planning. Washington legal eagles for advice and counsel on the 25th Amendment and presidential succession.</div>
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About the only expert advice I didn’t seek out was from an assassin. I figured that was a call I didn’t want to make!</div>
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<b>Are there any other projects you are working on at the moment?</b></div>
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True story. Years ago, I taught myself how to juggle. I mean, really juggle.</div>
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Why? Because I needed to understand spatially, what I did in life.</div>
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I juggled jobs. I juggled time and deadlines. I juggled developing and planning with execution and delivery. I juggled family and work.</div>
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It’s all about keeping the balls in the air!</div>
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Oh, to that point, I don’t do knifes, saws, or fire. It’s hard enough with something soft. But it’s a tool I’d recommend for anyone who does a lot of things.</div>
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<b>Do you have any writing quirks?</b></div>
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I like to listen to music that will inspire me (and the characters) through a scene. Action movie scores for something exciting. Some Dave Koz cool jazz for a romantic dinner scene. Tension tones as I’m building drama. I can’t write with music that has lyrics. Too distracting. And I usually can’t write in my home office on the desktop computer. Email is too much of a distraction. So I write on my laptop in the living room, or anywhere I want including between teaching classes, on a plane, and even some restaurants.</div>
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To that point, I just learned yesterday while writing at El Coyote, a classic neighborhood Los Angeles Mexican restaurant, that Rod Serling also used to write there during lunch breaks from CBS. It was long before computers, and I’m sure he didn’t bring a typewriter into the bar or restaurant. But I can imagine the notebooks he must have filled with “Twilight Zone” episodes or maybe even a draft of “Planet of the Apes!”</div>
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<b>What do you do when you’re not writing? </b></div>
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When I’m not writing, I pitch, write, and produce TV shows. My wife is a restaurant reviewer for a local newspaper, so we’re often eating out (though we pay the tab!). I teach graduate college courses in film and television and binge watch favorite shows. I loved “The Night Manager.” I’m back into “Bosch.” “Burn Notice” was a favorite that I’ve just run through again, and I catch up with my favorite writers.</div>
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<b>Are you a reader? What are you reading at </b><b>the moment?</b></div>
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As a member of ITW, The International Thriller Writers Association, and a panel master at the annual ThrillerFest conference, I have books stacked up that I’m getting through one-by- one. Always there are the latest Dale Brown, Brad Meltzer, Steve Berry, and Lee Child thrillers. Also in line right now, new exciting books from KJ Howe and DG Wood. Check them out!</div>
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<b>Could you tell us in one sentence why we should read Executive Actions?</b></div>
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One sentence? This feels like the answer to the ultimate question in Douglas Adams’ “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” I’ll give it a try, but it may take more than one sentence. More than ever, I believe we need to think the unthinkable to be prepared for the unspeakable in a world full of clear and present dangers. (Second necessary sentence) EXECUTIVE ACTIONS is an exciting contemporary thriller with an open window into that world; a window we vigilantly need to keep looking through. (Third sentence if you’re in a giving mood.) I sure hope you’ll give it a read!</div>
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<h2>
Synopsis:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Executive Actions" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/18125020.jpg" height="300" style="margin-right: 20px;" width="200" /><br />
In the midst of a heated presidential campaign, Secret Service Agent Scott Roarke gets an assignment that turns his world upside down. His investigation uncovers a plot so monstrous it can change the course of America's future and world politics. Roarke discovers that presidency is about to fall into the hands of a hostile foreign power. The power play is so well-conceived that even the U.S. Constitution itself is a tool designed to guarantee the plot's success. With the election clock ticking, Roarke and Boston attorney Katie Kessler race at breakneck speed to prevent the unthinkable. But they also know that it will take a miracle to stop the takeover from happening.<br />
<h3>
Praise for the Executive Series:</h3>
“Executive Actions is the best political thriller I have read in a long, long time. Right up there with the very best of David Baldacci. [A] masterpiece of suspense; powerfully written and filled with wildly imaginative twists. Get ready to lose yourself in a hell of a story.”<br />
Michael Palmer, New York Times bestselling author<br />
“Break out the flashlight, and prepare to stay up all night … Once you start reading Executive Actions you won’t be able to put it down.”<br />
Bruce Feirstein, James Bond screenwriter, and Vanity Fair Contributing Editor<br />
“Executive Command mixes terrorists, politics, drug gangs and technology in nonstop action! Gary Grossman creates a … horribly plausible plot to attack the United States. So real it’s scary!”<br />
Larry Bond, New York Times bestselling author of Exit Plan, Cold Choices, Red Dragon Rising<br />
“Moving at break-neck speed, Executive Command is nothing short of sensational … Executive Command is not just a great book, it’s a riveting experience.”<br />
W.G. Griffiths, award-winning, bestselling author of Methuselah’s Pillar, Malchus<br />
“Executive Command ramps up the excitement … A truly bravura performance from a master of the political thriller!”<br />
Dwight Jon Zimmerman, New York Times bestselling co-author of Lincoln’s Last Days, Uncommon Valor<br />
“Intricate, taut, and completely mesmerizing. Grossman expertly blends together globe-spanning locations, well-researched technology, finely crafted narrative, and intriguing characters to create a virtuoso tale. Highly recommended.”<br />
Dale Brown, New York Times bestselling author<br />
“Executive Treason is more chilling than science fiction … You’ll never listen to talk radio again without a shiver going down your spine.”<br />
Gary Goldman, Executive Producer, Minority Report; Screenwriter, Navy SEALs & Total Recall<br />
<blockquote class="details">
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Book Details:</h3>
<b>Genre:</b> Political Thriller, Mystery<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Diversion Books<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> 13 January 2012<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 556<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 1626811059 (ISBN13: 9781626811058)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Executive #1<br />
<b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Executive-Actions-Gary-Grossman-ebook/dp/B006WOEPCC?tag=partnerscrime-20" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/executive-actions-gary-grossman/1007065124" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18125020-executive-actions" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></blockquote>
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Read an excerpt:</h3>
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EXECUTIVE ACTIONS<br />by Gary Grossman</h5>
CHAPTER 1<br />Washington, D.C. Sunday 22 June<br />
“Topic one. Theodore Wilson Lodge. Presidential material?” bellowed the host at the top of his Sunday morning television show. He directed his question to the political pundit to his left. “Victor Monihan, syndicated columnist for The Philadelphia Inquirer, is Teddy ready, yes or no?”<br />
“Yes,” Monihan shot back. You had to speak up quickly on the lively program. There was no air between questions and answers. “If the cameras could vote, he’d be a shoo-in.”<br />
“But they don’t. So again, will it be Mr. Lodge goes to Washington?” quizzed the host of the revamped McLaughlin Group. The reference to the Frank Capra movie was lost on most of the audience. Even AMC and Turner Classics weren’t running very many black and white movies anymore.<br />
“Absolutely.” Monihan didn’t take a breath between thoughts. The host hated dead air. Pause and you’re dead. Someone else will jump in. “He’s totally informed, he’s had great committee assignments and he can do the job. Congressman Lodge comes off as a highly capable leader. Trustworthy. The all-American boy grown up. And he positively looks like a president should look … presidential.”<br />
“So a tan and a good build gets you to the White House?” the host argued.<br />
“It means I don’t have to worry about him taking my job.” The overweight columnist laughed, which made his belly spread his shirt to a point just shy of popping the buttons. The joke was good, but he lost his platform with it.<br />
“Roger Deutsch, freelance writer for Vanity Fair, right now Lodge is trailing Governor Lamden. Can Teddy make it up?”<br />
“No. With only two days before the New York primary, there’s no way Lodge can do it. He doesn’t have the votes. And there’s not enough time to get them. Henry Lamden will be addressing the Democratic Party at the August convention in Denver. But even when he gets the nomination, he’ll have a hard time against Taylor.”<br />
The discussion expanded to include the other members of the panel. They talked about Montana Governor Henry Lamden’s qualities. About President Morgan Taylor’s rigid persona. About the voters’ appetite. And back again to the possibilities. “Is there any way Lodge can do what fellow Vermont favorite son Calvin Coolidge did: go all the way to the White House?” the venerable host rhetorically asked. The panel knew this was not the time to reply. Turning to the camera the host said, “Not according to my watch.”<br />
This was the throw to the video package from the campaign trail.<br />
Teddy Lodge smiled as he sat on the edge of his hotel bed to get closer to the TV set. He was half-packed. The rest would wait until the videotape report concluded. Lodge pressed the volume louder on his remote.<br />
“It’s on,” he called to his wife, Jenny.<br />
“Be right out,” she answered from the bathroom. Lodge tightened the knot on the hand-painted tie he’d been given the day before. The gift, from a home crafter in Albany, would go into his collection and eventually into his Presidential Library. But first he’d wear it for the cameras. She’d see it and tell everyone she knew. More votes.<br />
Mrs. Lodge leaned over her husband and hugged him as he watched himself on TV. “You look great, sweetheart.” He agreed. The footage was perfect: Lodge in the thick of an adoring Manhattan crowd, the wind playing with his wavy brown hair, his Armani suit jacket draped over his arm. He came off relaxed and in charge; less like a politician than an everyday guy. An everyday guy who saw himself as President of the United States. And at 6’2” he stood above most of the crowd.<br />
Lodge knew the unusual statistical edge his height provided. Historically, the taller of the two major presidential candidates almost always wins the election. And he was considerably taller than President Morgan Taylor.<br />
The host obviously wasn’t a supporter. But the coverage counted. He hit the bullet points of Lodge’s career.<br />
“Teddy’s been fast-tracking since college. He graduated Yale Law School and has a graduate degree in Physics at Stanford. The man speaks three languages. He worked on various government contracts until he decided to return to his country home in Burlington, Vermont, and run for State Assembly. Two years later, so long Burlington, hello Washington. Mr. Lodge went to Capitol Hill as a young, energetic first-term congressman. He distinguished himself in international politics and now serves as Chairman of the House Subcommittee on Terrorism and Homeland Security. He’s as close to a rocket scientist as they come in Washington. He heads the House Committee on Energy and understands the complexities of the issues. But is he going to the White House?” the moderator asked in his feature videotape. “New Yorkers will decide Tuesday.”<br />
And with that set up came the obligatory sound bite. It couldn’t have been better if Teddy Lodge had picked it himself. It was declarative and persuasive. The producer of the video package must have been in his camp.<br />
“Tomorrow the world will be different. More dangerous. More hateful. Different times need different leaders. Make no mistake, there are no more safe harbors or promised lands. Unless … unless we make better choices today than yesterday. Better friends tomorrow than today.”<br />
As he watched, Lodge remembered the clincher was yet to come. Things like that just didn’t get cut. He was right.<br />
“So come with me and discover a new America. Come with me and discover a new world.”<br />
Thunderous applause followed; applause from the audience at a Madison Square Garden rally.<br />
Eighteen seconds total screen time. Unbelievable on McLaughlin. But Lodge was not an easy edit. He’d learned to break the sound bite barrier by constantly modulating his voice for impact, issuing phrases in related couplets and triplets, and punching them with an almost religious zeal.<br />
Like everything else in his life, he worked hard at communicating effectively. He punctuated every word with a moderately-affected New England accent. Whether or not they agreed with his politics, columnists called him the best orator in years. Increasing numbers of them bestowed almost Kennedy like reverence. And through the camera lens, baby boomers saw an old friend while younger voters found a new voice.<br />
The video story ended and the host brought the debate back to his panel. “Peter Weisel, Washington Bureau Chief of The Chicago Tribune, What sayest thou? Can Teddy un-lodge Lamden?”<br />
“Unlikely.” Weisel, a young, black reporter, was the outspoken liberal of the panel and a realist. “But he’ll help the ticket. He’s a strong Number Two. A junior pairing with Governor Lamden can work. The flip side of Kennedy-Johnson. Let the Democrats make him VP. Besides, his good looks won’t go away in four or eight years. TV will still like him.”<br />
Theodore Wilson Lodge, 46 years old and strikingly handsome, definitely could pull in the camera lens. He had the same effect on women and they held far more votes in America than men. The fact was not lost on the show’s only female contributor of the week. “Debra Redding of The Boston Globe, is Lodge your man?”<br />
Without missing a beat she volunteered, “There are only two problems that I see. One, I’m married. The other – so is he.”<br />
What a wonderful way to start the morning, the congressman said to himself.<br />
***<br />
Excerpt from Executive Actions by Gary Grossman. Copyright © 2017 by Gary Grossman. Reproduced with permission from Gary Grossman. All rights reserved.</div>
<h2>
Author Bio:</h2>
<img align="left" alt="Gary Grossman" border="0" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/Gary-Grossman.jpg" height="300" style="margin-right: 5px;" width="200" />
<br />
Gary Grossman is a multiple Emmy Award-winning network television producer, a print and television journalist, and novelist. He has produced more than 10,000 television shows for 40 broadcast and cable networks including primetime specials, reality and competition series, and live event telecasts.<br />
Grossman has worked for NBC, written for the Boston Globe, Boston Herald American, and the New York Times. He is the author of four bestselling international award-winning thrillers available in print, eBooks, and Audible editions: EXECUTIVE ACTIONS, EXECUTIVE TREASON, EXECUTIVE COMMAND and OLD EARTH. (Diversion Books, NYC) and two acclaimed non-fiction books covering pop culture and television history – SUPERMAN: SERIAL TO CEREAL and SATURDAY MORNING TV.<br />
Grossman taught journalism, film and television at Emerson College, Boston University, and USC and has guest lectured at colleges and universities around the United States. He currently serves as an Adjunct Professor of Film and Television at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. He is a member of the Board of Trustees at Emerson College in Boston and he serves on the Boston University Metropolitan College Advisory Board. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers Association and The Military Writers Society of America.<br />
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Catch Up With Gary Grossman On:
<a href="http://www.garygrossman.com/" target="_blank">Website</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/178357.Gary_Grossman" target="_blank">Goodreads</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/garygrossman1" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, & <a href="https://www.facebook.com/gary.grossman.794" target="_blank">Facebook</a>!</h3>
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Tour Participants:</h1>
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Giveaway:</h1>
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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Gary Grossman. There will be 1 winner of one (1) $15 Amazon.com Gift Card AND the opportunity to Suggest a Character Name for the Next Book in the Executive Series! The giveaway begins on June 1 and runs through August 3, 2017.</h5>
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<a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/">Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours</a></h2>
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