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Killer Tracks By Mary Keliikoa ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: December 4, 2025 in crime fiction, Excerpt, giveaways, Mystery, reviews
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Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa Banner

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KILLER TRACKS
by Mary Keliikoa
October 27 – December 12, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A Misty Pines Mystery
A peaceful retreat. A maze of smoke and murder. Is their remote getaway about to become a death trap?

Sheriff Jax Turner is worried about going off-grid and leaving his young team of deputies behind. But while his getaway with his ex is meant to help them reconnect, Jax is distracted by signs of a break-in at their rented lookout. After a string of unsettling events and an approaching wildfire turn their isolated retreat into a danger zone, he’s stunned to find a dead body with marks tying it to a killer he put away a decade ago. Terrified that his attempt at reconciliation has led them both into a fatal setup, Jax rushes back to his estranged wife before she joins the list of victims. But his dedication to serving and protecting could become an Achilles heel as other players join them among the darkening trees. Can he fight his way out of the woods before the flames of revenge consume everything?

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MY REVIEW

This is the third book in the series and while some things seem to not be changed, they actually did. For instance, the reconciliation between Jax and Abby. This time around I sensed a seriousness on both sides. And once again things get in the way. The seclusion they seek becomes more like a trap. No phones, strange characters, and a fire racing towards them. Meanwhile, things are crazy back at the station and Sheriff Jax can’t be reached.

I thought the two different story lines might take away from my enjoyment. You know what I mean? You get into one story and then it flips to the other. Not so for this reader. I was sensing the stories would converge and I needed both sides. 

There’s lots of new characters and mysteries of all kinds. I was caught off guard many times. Such fun.  

4 STARS

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Praise for Killer Tracks:

“Keliikoa is the Queen of immersive small-town mystery. Killer Tracks is cleverly plotted with deftly drawn relatable characters who face off with a deadly threat from the past.” ~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series “Mary Keliikoa’s Killer Tracks is a wonderful addition to the Misty Pines mystery series. Great pacing, strong plotting, and compelling characters. Highly recommended!” ~ Bruce Robert Coffin, international bestselling coauthor of The Turner and Mosley Files

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Killer Tracks Trailer:

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Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural; Detective and Mystery; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: September 30, 2025 Number of Pages: 319 ISBN: 979-8-89820-033-6 (pb) Series: A Misty Pines Mystery, #3 || Amazon | Goodreads | Level Best Books

Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads | BookBub

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The Misty Pines Mystery Series
Step into the thrilling world of Misty Pines today with the first ebook, HIDDEN PIECES, now just $0.99!

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Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub   Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub        
 
Enjoy this peek inside:

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PROLOGUE
Click. Slide. Clang. If he never heard that sound again, it’d be far too soon. That, and the sleepless nights under a thread-bare wool blanket that chafed his exposed skin, the looming threat of death… in the yard, the shower, the halls to and from the cafeteria or his cell. Death and desperation seeped from the pores of this godforsaken place. So thick he could almost taste it. No amount of soap, no amount of ritual, would rid him of the stench that clung to him—though he’d be willing to try. It was over now. Dying among these second-class men would not be his fate. A man of his intellect, a man far superior to the minions around him, deserved better than what he’d endured these past years. He’d eagerly reeducate those who believed otherwise. They’d all see it by the time he was through with them, just like those that came before. Click. Slide. Clang. A voice echoed off the concrete walls. “Inmate 22-A-4242. Gather your crap. Time to go.” He stood, hands to his sides. “Ready to face the world?” He remained silent. None would get the satisfaction of his acknowledgement. The voice continued. “They gave you a goddamn Hail Mary. Bleeding heart liberals anyway. Don’t screw it up.” He bowed his head to obscure his smirk. “Right. I know your type. You’re innocent.” The guard continued rambling. “That’s what all you convicts say. ‘I didn’t do it.’ ‘I was framed.’ ‘It’s unconstitutional.’” The guard’s voice dropped to a growl, prickling his skin. “Tell that to the victims and their families. I’d reckon less than one percent of you bastards got a legit claim.” The guard had forgotten betrayed, of which he surely had been. But he shrugged, not to agree, but to stave off the urge to wrap his hands around the guard’s throat. So close to freedom… Whether he was innocent or not had no bearing; it had not been among the criteria for the help he’d received. Being wrongfully convicted qualified. According to the junior team that had embraced his cause when he’d written the letter, they agreed that’s what had happened in his case. Even if it took them ten years, he loved a system that allowed more loopholes than the cable-knit sweater Mother had dressed him in for school. “Sell it to someone else, you psycho,” the guard snapped. “Bet you money. We’ll see you again real soon.” A jagged smile crossed his face. The guard had part of it correct—but he’d never be back here. Next time, he’d be less gullible. And he intended to snuff out anything that could hurt him, like the light of every other woman who hadn’t seen his worth. CHAPTER ONE Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed. Sheriff Jax Turner had experienced more than his fair share of those mornings in the past six years. First, when his daughter Lulu died from leukemia. Then, when his marriage dissolved—more like shattered into a million pieces. Followed by a couple of cases that had tested his limits of trust. They’d destroyed some, too. Today was different. Abby Kanekoa, his ex-wife with whom he’d shared the gutting grief of those past years, had offered hope for reconciliation—the chance to glue a few of those pieces back together. It would never be the same without their little girl… but perhaps they could create something new. Leaving for the mountains just after Labor Day was less than ideal. Though with the tourist season coming to an end in Misty Pines, and Abby due a vacation at the Bureau, it was the best time. Deputy Rachel Killian, his new hire and right hand, was turning out to be as capable as he’d hoped. Applicants for filling the gaps at their station had been sparse. Few, it seemed, wanted to work these days—or work at the often cool and foggy Oregon coast. He’d at least been able to get most of his young crew on full-time payroll, so Rachel had help. Bottom line, getting away was Abby’s idea. He would not tell her no. Now to get through the pep talk with the team. The two major events of the past year had allowed them to punch a few notches into their experience belt, but wisdom and reliance on gut instinct were born with time. Leaving them to run Misty Pines without his guidance had his muscles taut. He entered the sheriff’s office with his duffle flung over his shoulder. “Oh hon, don’t tell me that’s all you’re taking for the week?” Trudy said. Jax’s long-time secretary, and overall, Team Mother to him and his ragtag group of deputies, lifted the headset off her ears. He suppressed a smile. “Glad to see your accident hasn’t made you any less opinionated.” Eight months had passed since the event that had nearly stolen her from him and the team. A warm and fuzzy Trudy would be hard to get used to—he was grateful he didn’t have to learn. Trudy rested the headset around her neck. “Looks like Abby hasn’t given you any clue about where you’re going.” “Other than the mountains, not much. I’ve tossed a few essentials in my truck.” “Like?” “A good book and a board game.” He smiled. “A couple of bottles of wine.” She arched her brow. “What? I’m assuming she’s arranged for us to be at some luxury resort.” “You think so?” “Abby likes her massages, saunas, breakfast in bed.” Not to mention time basking on the deck with a steaming cup of coffee. For being a tough no-nonsense woman, and a hell of an FBI agent, she liked the finer things—and she’d earned every damn one of them. “And what do you like?” Trudy asked. He chuckled. Not much of what he’d just mentioned. “Roughing it.” “Hmmm…and she arranged this for the two of you to reconnect?” His smile faded; he dropped the bag at his feet. “Are we camping?” Trudy laughed and shook her head. “When it comes to women, you do take a minute to catch up. Might I suggest a few more items?” “Like a tent?” He’d have to dig it out of his garage, which wouldn’t take long. “No. But a communication device might come in handy.” “Abby said something about our phones being off for the week.” He shifted on his feet. “Are you saying we’re headed somewhere with no service?” She returned to her desk in response. Of course they were. Several interruptions to his and Abby’s conversations had come from the station over the past months. Too often, when they’d just settled into talk or were on the edge of a sensitive topic. Tourist season was like that every year with the random fender bender, a too-loud party on the beach, a drunken brawl at the pub. Some infraction demanding his attention. Added to that, Brody had slid his motorcycle on wet pavement and nearly dislocated his shoulder in the spring. Garrett had a few interviews in Portland, one in Seattle. Matt was called in to stock shelves by his boss at the IGA grocery store when they were short staffed, which had become more consistent. Time with Abby had been the price, although the last time they’d carved out a night together still brought a smile to his face. Maybe this trip signaled her intention of wanting more quality togetherness. That thought alone made having limited phone access worth it regardless of where they went, even as the uneasiness of being out of contact with his crew niggled at him. He flung the bag back over his shoulder and headed to his office. The click of claws on the linoleum sounded behind him. “Boss.” Rachel and Koa, her black lab, came out of the kitchen. “You all set?” “Almost. Picking Abby up soon for what appears might be a wilderness retreat.” Rachel laughed. “Don’t look so concerned.” “I’m not.” “Uh-huh. That’s why you have a crease between your eyebrows.” He rubbed the spot. “Guess I’m not fond of surprises.” “Never have been myself, but I have a feeling you’ll have fun.” “According to Trudy, I will. Hope Abby does.” It was sweet she’d chosen a place that appealed to him—more imperative if she enjoyed herself. She’d never been one to sleep on the ground. “Believe me, she did good.” “Take it you know where we’re headed?” “Not precisely.” “How about a hint of what you do know, so I’m better prepared?” Having spent far too much time in the dark, he preferred to be ahead of things these days. She did a zipping motion in front of her mouth. “I get that it’ll be difficult for you, but try not to worry. The men and I have everything covered.” He nodded. Letting go of the wheel would never be easy, and in law enforcement things could change quickly. But Rachel was solid, and he trusted her… despite his former partner Jameson not agreeing with him hiring his only daughter. Jax had made the right call; he stood by it. There should be no hesitation about him and Abby taking a week for themselves. “You’ll get a hold of me if there’s a problem?” he said. “You won’t have any way…” “I’m taking the satellite phone.” Rachel folded her arms over her chest. “Suppose that’s smart after the last trek in the wilderness…” “Exactly my thought.” Rachel pursed her lips, likely recalling that day when radio silence had left her and the team wrought with worry as they waited for word on whether Jax and Abby were alive. But Abby should understand his decision, if it came up. Probably better it didn’t. “Let’s do a briefing before I head out,” he said. Rachel winked. “The men are waiting for you in the strategy room.” He chuckled. That’s why there’d been no sign of them when he’d arrived. In his office, he set his duffle bag on a chair, and retrieved the satellite phone, burying it near the bottom in a T-shirt. Once he checked his email for the tenth time and cleared his desk, he started toward the meeting room, until he heard voices in the reception area. Trudy was holding open the station’s door. The men were grabbing their gear about to file out, Rachel and Koa behind them. “What’d I miss?” Jax said. Koa turned at the sound of his voice, trotting to his side. Jax squatted next to her, draping his arm gently over her back. “Nothing to worry about, boss,” Rachel said. “Just a routine traffic revision, chief,” Brody said. “We’ve got it.” He’d gelled down his wispy brown hair today, making him look young. Too young. “I’ve got forty minutes before…” “Oh no you don’t, Jax Turner,” Trudy said. “It’s a half-hour drive to Abby, and you will not be late.” “I—” “We’ve got it, Sheriff,” Rachel said, calling Koa to her. Koa didn’t budge. “Koa’s siding with me on this,” he said. Rachel lifted a brow at her black lab, who promptly returned to her side. Fine. Jax stood. He’d wanted a team he could rely on, and he had one. So why did he feel left out? “Who’s in need of traffic revision anyway?” “Fire department,” Trudy said. “There’s an apartment complex on fire at the edge of town,” Rachel said. Battalion Chief Mike O’Brien rarely requested assistance. With the remaining tourists eking out the last of their holiday weekend there could be a traffic log, he supposed. “I’ll go with you,” Jax said. Rachel held up her hands in a stop gesture. “Please. Get out of here and have a good time.” Before he could protest, Rachel was out the door and Trudy shut it behind them. Through the glass, Jax watched his team slide into two of the patrol cars. “You heard your deputy, hon. Get your stuff and head to Abby’s. And don’t come back until you and that saint of a woman have worked everything out.” Trudy was right. He needed to check his ego. Misty Pines could handle a week without him. A call came through Trudy’s headset which she tapped to answer. She settled behind her desk as he grabbed his bag, her voice fading as he walked outside. “Yes, Mrs. Harper. Just a small fire. Nothing to worry about.” *** Excerpt from Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2025 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.

 

 

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About Author Mary Keliikoa:

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Mary Keliikoa

Eighteen years in the legal field, and an over-active imagination, led Mary Keliikoa to plot murder—novels that is. She is the author of the domestic thriller DON’T ASK, DON’T FOLLOW, the newly released KILLER TRACKS, the third book in the Misty Pines mystery series which is an IPPY Silver and Bronze Award winner, Silver Falchion finalist, and a Foreword Indies award finalist, and the Shamus and CLUE Finalist, and Lefty, Agatha and Anthony nominated “PI Kelly Pruett” mystery series. Her short stories have appeared in Woman’s World and the anthology Peace, Love and Crime.

Catch Up With Mary Keliikoa:

MaryKeliikoa.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @Mary_Keliikoa Instagram – @mary.keliikoa.author Threads – @mary.keliikoa.author X – @mary_keliikoa Facebook – @Mary.Keliikoa.Author

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Tour Participants:

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KILLER TRACKS by Mary Keliikoa

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You Can’t Hide By Katherine Ramsland ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: October 9, 2025 in Excerpt, giveaways, Mystery, reviews
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You Can't Hide by Katherine Ramsland Banner

YOU CAN’T HIDE
by Katherine Ramsland
September 22 – October 17, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
THE NUT CRACKER INVESTIGATIONS

  Some things are sealed for a reason. Forensic psychologist Annie Hunter hosts a holiday bash at her Outer Banks home. A dangerous man with a lot to lose is watching. When Annie looks for a letter once hidden in the house, she turns up links between missing couples and a serial killer’s confession. She fears her father has covered up a crime. The killer’s daughter seeks Annie’s help, but an FBI agent warns her away. Undeterred, she visits the prison to meet the man. He hints at a “headmaster’s” plan that fingers her father. Determined to prove this wrong, Annie walks into a trap. Only a precisely calculated plan by her team can help her escape.

Plus, YOU CAN’T HIDE includes 5 Other Tales from the Nut Cracker Investigations!
Praise for Katherine Ramsland’s Nut Cracker Investigations Series:

I Scream Man

“I was intrigued by the first sentence. All true crime fans will be fascinated, then hooked immediately as they immerse in the culmination of the lead character working crimes that haunt her. Annie Hunter is the perfect mix of brilliance and successful field application, much like Ramsland herself. No one conveys the kind of intellect and mystery in a book like Katherine Ramsland.” ~ Laura Pettler, Forensic criminologist, author of Crime Scenes Staging Dynamics in Homicide Cases, and owner of Laura Pettler and Associates

In the Damage Path

“No one understands the criminal mind like Katherine Ramsland, and In the Damage Path, starring her determined and brilliant Annie Hunter, is another winner. Sinister, captivating, and propulsive—I could not turn the pages fast enough! Not for the faint of heart, but Ramsland, a talented storyteller, does not flinch at reality—and the authenticity of this gripping novel will haunt you long after its final pages. Ramsland is a force of nature—passionate, brave, and relentless. True crime fans will be riveted, and no reader will ever look at the psychology of crime and the science of investigation in the same way. Do not miss this!” ~ Hank Phillippi Ryan USA Today Bestselling Author

Dead-Handed

“A creepy old mansion, a wealthy dying man, a mysterious enclave, and a tenacious investigator all add up to form an intriguing mystery. Katherine Ramsland’s Dead-handed is a well-plotted, devilishly twisted tale of murder and mayhem.” ~ Bruce Robert Coffin, international bestselling coauthor of The Turner and Mosley Files

 

Book Details:

Genre: Series Crime Fiction, Female Sleuth

Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: August 26, 2025 Number of Pages: 276 Series: The Nut Cracker Investigations, Book 4

Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books

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MY REVIEW

The synopsis for this book had me so excited. I’m a bit of a crime ghoul. I’m always on the lookout for the next movie, the next documentary and the next true crime show. All crime fascinates me. But serial killers. That’s my favorite. So unimaginable what one human can do to another. So chilling.

Author Katherine Ramsland spins just such an unimaginable and chilling story. A serial killer at large. A cover up?  Who’s next  in the killer’s scope? Annie Hunter, a forensic psychologist, is especially determined to sort out this mystery as there are hints of a familial connection in a possible cover up. The characters, good and bad, could be someone you know. Ever wonder what your neighbor is doing? Certainly not this, right?

There were many false trails and I enjoyed being surprised, and that trail of bread crumbs kept me hungry for more.  Right up to the finale. A good read for me.

4 STARS

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Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
It seemed like a simple request. Find a packet in the attic. It wasn’t simple. And it wasn’t safe. I gathered a crew and scheduled the search for Thanksgiving week so I could wrap it up with a grand feast. Now that this oceanfront house on North Carolina’s Outer Banks finally felt like home, I wanted to celebrate it with friends. Kip Hawkins had the longest drive—six hundred fifty miles—but he’d insisted on helping. His father and mine had been joint caretakers of a dodgy property called Dacretown near Concord, Massachusetts. Kip’s dad, Gregory, had been murdered for his trouble. Mine, Lang Hunter, had contracted a neurological debility. Just before these blows, they’d discussed that place in this house. Then Dad had vanished, leaving his house to me. I’d pieced this all together when I’d finally located him. However, our reunion was brief. Before Dad left to work on a cure for his Dacretown blight, he’d asked me to look for a 6×9-inch white envelope. He thought it was in the attic. “It has a wax seal,” he’d said. “It’s private. Please don’t open it. Just tell me when you find it.” I’d concurred…but I hadn’t promised. I knew Dad might be dying. He’d grown ill from experiments he’d tried to stop. His “vanishment,” as he calls people gone missing, had robbed me of five years with him. Growing up, he’d been my anchor in a home full of shifting winds. He’d left my mother when I was a teen, but his advice from a distance had kept me on track. I could grant him this small favor. At least, I thought I could. To be fair, he hadn’t adequately warned me. I’d already seen the multiple boxes, notebooks, and stacks of papers from Dad’s years of vanishment research. Locating a single envelope, I knew, would be like finding a one-eyed ghost crab on our beach. Doable but not quick. Recently, Kip had pushed to complete this task, so I’d scheduled the quest. In Concord, he and I had started on the wrong foot, but a common mission involving my dad had pulled us together. It made sense to include him. Two days before Thanksgiving, I stood at my picture window watching the wind push white caps toward the beach. Layers of cobalt and azure clouds hinted that rain was on the way. I hoped Kip would beat it. I expected him within the hour. Natra Gawoni, my case manager, strode in. She tugged on the long brown ponytail that draped over her shoulder and gestured for her Doberdor, Mika, to come. The dog padded over to me for an ear rub. “Coffee’s fresh,” Natra said. “The unit’s ready.” “He’ll like it. Gives him privacy but also access to us when he wants it.” We’d prepared the largest of my two rental studios on the ground floor. Off season, they weren’t used. My personal living space was on the second floor, adjacent to my great room conference area in the center of the house. Natra’s apartment was on the other side. My two-car garage sat below us, between the rentals. A chime sound. A car had entered the driveway. I gestured toward Natra’s unit. “Can you put Mika in her room? Let’s let Kip get settled.” Natra took the dog out. Kip knew this house. He’d been here with his dad two months before Gregory had died. I thought it might be rough for him to return. Just sixteen then, Kip hadn’t said what he’d witnessed, but he believed he knew what we were looking for. I opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. A cold gust blew past me to ruffle papers inside. Kip stood below, next to the white Range Rover my father had gifted him, a long wool coat protecting his slender frame. A breeze jumped the backyard dune to ruffle his dark wavy hair. He looked up and waved. That afternoon, under a darkening November sky, I couldn’t have guessed at the perilous burden this young man bore…and brought to my door.  

Chapter Two

Kip gestured toward the back of his SUV. “Got a full car. More files from Kate.” He meant from Kate Gardiner, the lawyer handling my late grandfather’s complicated estate. I pointed to my right. “Pull in over there. We’ll get that stuff later. You’ve had a long drive.” At twenty-one, Kip was the oldest of three brothers. His legal name was John Kinney Hawkins, named for an outlaw killed by Billy the Kid. He’d adopted ‘Kip’ on his own. It fit him. Tall and lanky with brown eyes and a headful of dark curls, his demeanor suggested a burdened soul. He’d protected his brothers while solving his father’s murder. He now worked for his cousin in a home restoration business, carving marble and restoring woodwork. He was quite the craftsman. I’d hired him to work on Dad’s Concord properties. In a convoluted way, Kip was family. When he came level with me on the balcony, I hugged him. At just over six feet, he was taller than me by at least six inches. I ushered him into my living/dining/conference area, which has the best views in the house. From the large window facing the ocean, we watch sunrises and storms, dolphins and pelicans. “Coffee?” I asked. He accepted. I gestured toward a wraparound leather couch. “Please, have a seat.” He snorted. “I remember that couch. Fell asleep on it a few times.” “Dad had good taste. I kept the furniture.” “All of it?” I nodded. “Pretty much. I made this room a conference area and installed more tech, but till last month I always thought he’d come back. Most of Dad’s things are still how he left them.” Kip’s face showed a flash of relief. That seemed odd. “You stayed in Philadelphia last night?” “South of there. Saw a friend. Helped break up the trip.” Natra came in. “Hi, Kip. Nice to see you in person.” They’d talked thus far only by video. He shook her hand. “Thought you had a dog.” “I do. You like dogs?” He nodded. “I’ll get her later. She made a big fuss over not greeting you.” “Let ‘er loose.” I brought over the coffee pot. Kip accepted a mug and sat down. “Is your daughter here?” “My ex has her this weekend. Kamryn’s in South Carolina.” I sat opposite Kip while Natra took a seat on the other side of the couch. She’s the observer. I count on her for a second opinion. Kip looked around. “Seems like you’ve settled in.” I picked up my mug. “It wasn’t easy, despite the impressive location. I didn’t move in right away. Each time I came, I just felt empty and sad.” He nodded. “I get that.” “It took almost a year, but I finally saw an advantage in the extra space. That’s when I started our PI consulting.” I gestured toward Natra. “I brought in Natra after we worked a case together. She named us the Nut Cracker Investigations.” “Annie likes complicated cases,” Natra explained. “Nuts that are hard to crack.” Kip raised an eyebrow. “I noticed.” Natra flipped her hand. “The name’s unique, so people remember it. In just three years, we’ve gained a solid reputation. Not many investigators are also psychologists.” I smiled. “Ayden was next.” Kip had met him in Concord. “He tricked me into hiring him as my PI. He used a case I couldn’t resist and proved his talent. Plus, he’s an artist and, as you know, he does carpentry on houses around here. Then there’s our part-time digital examiner, Joe Lochren. He’s been increasingly valuable, although he has a demanding career in cyber security. He helped me set up my podcast, Psi Apps, and I’ve developed a network of forensic consultants. Jackson Raines—you’ll meet him on Thursday—has become our go-to legal counsel. My executor’s fee from my grandfather’s passing last month helps with the bills.” Natra pointed at me. “We need that, cuz she’s drawn to cases that don’t pay.” “Spoken like a business manager.” I leaned toward Kip. “Have you made plans for joining Lang in Scotland?” Kip shrugged. “He’s been ill. Bedridden. Hasn’t communicated in a week.” I felt a stab of jealousy. I wished I didn’t, but there it was. My dad had taken to Kip like a son he’d never had. During the five years Dad was “missing,” he’d secretly worked with Kip and his brothers in Concord. They’d been privy to his darkest secrets, partners in his work, the recipients of his attention. Kip had been his main point of contact. For me, that left an aching gap. I’d had only a few days with Dad in October before he left again. He’d urged me to give Kip some maternal guidance. I wasn’t old enough to be his mother, but I could offer a sensitive ear. “I’m so glad you came,” I said. “When I first got this house, I couldn’t go through Dad’s things. I made a start but always stalled. Dad wasn’t organized and there’s a lot to go through.” Kip nodded like he knew Lang’s habits. He’d probably spent more time in the attic than I had. More to the point, he’d been a witness to multiple important transactions that bound our families. “We’ve got you set up in the studio suite downstairs,” Natra told him. “Same one you had before but nicely updated.” Kip smiled. “Good thing. I remember the shower not working.” As he talked, his left hand, scarred from stonework, rubbed the side of the mug, perhaps the way he caressed a piece of marble to evaluate its challenges for carving. A heavy insignia ring adorned a finger on his right hand. Kip turned to me. “I’ll help with whatever you need, but I have a reason for coming. I’m looking for something myself. Dad brought several things here I’d like to retrieve. Lang didn’t want them. They argued when they thought I was outside. It was pretty intense.” I leaned toward him. “What things?” “First, that envelope Lang asked you to find.” I shook my head. “No, that’s something Dad—” “I know which envelope he means. It’s white. Stamped with a wax seal. I told Lang my dad left it here. That made him angry. He meant to come back to get it.” Natra cocked her head. “What’s in it?” “A communication Dad got from someone they both knew. I think it’s a threat. Dad wanted Lang’s help. I remember Lang saying, ‘You can’t do this. It’s too risky.’ But Dad left it here, anyway. I saw him take it up to the attic and come down without it. Besides that, there’s a package, a couple inches thick. That’s in the attic, too. I think it holds a binder that has some records. On the way home, I asked Dad about it, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said he had to protect us, me and my brothers.” I squinted. “You saw this binder?” “Yes. It’s a leatherbound three-ring binder with lined note pages, like an accounting ledger. It has transparent sleeves for maps and pictures. I saw it at home when I was ten or eleven. I tried to look through it, but Dad grabbed it. He told me to never touch it. After he died, I looked for it but couldn’t find it. I think it might be in that packet.” “Sounds like we’re on a scavenger hunt.” “Sort of. The binder’s distinct. Shouldn’t be hard to spot.” I cleared my throat. “So, you’re not here to help me get this envelope for Lang.” Kip shook his head. “Does he know?” “No.” I narrowed my eyes. “Is this a secret you want me to keep?” Kip clutched the handle of his mug. “I hope you won’t have to. I didn’t tell him I was coming this week. Only my brothers and Kate and Mark Gardiner know I’m here. She’s your Concord attorney and Mark’s my boss. Lang wants to burn this stuff, but it belonged to my dad. I have the right to decide its fate.” He lifted his chin. I drew in a breath. “What if he asks if you’re here? What do you expect me to say?” “He’s ill, Annie. He hasn’t communicated since last week. He won’t like what I’m doing, but…” He glanced over his shoulder toward the window. “Whatever disturbed our dads, it’s still out there.” *** Excerpt from You Can’t Hide by Katherine Ramsland. Copyright 2025 by Katherine Ramsland. Reproduced with permission from Katherine Ramsland. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Dr. Katherine Ramsland:

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Katherine Ramsland

With her Nut Cracker Investigations series, Dr. Katherine Ramsland injects her expertise in forensic psychology into her fiction. She consults for coroners, trains homicide investigators, and has appeared as an expert on more than 250 crime documentaries. She was an executive producer on Murder House Flip, A&E’s Confession of a Serial Killer: BTK, and ID’s The Serial Killer’s Apprentice. The author of more than 2,000 articles, 15 short stories, and 74 books, including I Scream Man and How to Catch a Killer, she also has a Substack and pens a blog for Psychology Today.

Catch Up With Katherine Ramsland:

KatherineRamsland.net Katherine’s Substack Newsletter Goodreads – @katramsland BookBub – @KatherineRamsland Instagram – @katherineramsland Facebook – @katherine.ramsland

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The Weird Girl By Carla Damron ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: September 17, 2025 in Excerpt, giveaways, suspense
Tags:
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One shattered birthday party.

Two teenage victims.

A city drowning in fentanyl.

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The Weird Girl

A Georgia Thayer Novel #2

by Carla Damron

Genre: Women’s Suspenseful Crime Fiction

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One shattered
birthday party. Two teenage victims. A city drowning in fentanyl.

Social worker Georgia Thayer (The Orchid Tattoo) has spent her career fighting
for the vulnerable, but nothing could prepare her for being a foster mom to
Tessa—a teenager haunted by her traumatic past. Determined to give her a normal
life, Georgia’s efforts to give her a normal life crumble when a neighborhood
party spirals into disaster, leaving one girl fighting for her life while
another disappears from the front yard of her family’s home.

As Georgia undertakes a frantic search for the missing girl, she uncovers a
dangerous fentanyl trade that snakes from hospital emergency rooms to high
school hallways to the darkest corners of her city. She is up against a
charismatic candidate for attorney general and a ruthless drug kingpin, two
powerful men willing to use lethal means to bury their secrets.

With her chosen family threatened, her faith in herself shaken, and an
unexpected ally emerging from the shadows, Georgia’s efforts to save one girl
puts her own in danger.

The clock is ticking. The truth is deadly. And every second lost could mean
another life destroyed.

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Lily Grace Duffy slipped out the front door of her family’s modest bungalow, holding the doorknob to control the click. Her parents normally slept soundly—her mother’s CPAP drowning out most other sounds—but she needed to be careful. Going out at this hour (or any time after dark) was forbidden, but tonight was definitely worth the risk.

Lily Grace wore black jeans and her favorite loose blue top. She’d taken in the waist of the jeans so they fit better. Her mom insisted she wear baggy clothes, but needle and thread (and wearing oversized sweaters around her mom) took care of that. At sixteen, she wanted her curves to show.

When the text arrived, inviting her to the party, she’d hopped out of bed. She rarely got invited to things—no, make that she never got invited to anything, but Ariel, the most popular girl in tenth grade, had sent out a group text that included Lily Grace. Perhaps it was an accident. Maybe Ariel didn’t mean for Lily Grace to receive the invite, but it had come, and she wouldn’t miss the party, even if it meant defying her parents and sneaking out so late.

She pulled the tube of lip gloss from her pocket and swiped it across her lips. She’d hurried to dab on mascara and blush before her hasty exit, and she wore her hair in a ponytail because she’d had no time to tame her unruly curls. She hoped she looked okay.

She used the flashlight on her cell phone to navigate the sidewalks. The party was at Cooper Hawthorne’s house, about half a mile away, on the outskirts of Columbia. When cars passed, she ducked behind trees, not wanting to be seen. Besides, a young girl walking alone at night might be bait for predators. Her mom always warned her about predators.

Her phone’s GPS guided her down Bryson Road. She knew from Instagram that Cooper’s dad had built a giant home on a few acres out there and that Cooper had a swimming pool and owned a big black Labradoodle named Bear. He’d been dating Ariel, and they made the perfect couple. Both Instagram-beautiful, with slim bodies and white teeth, they walked the halls of Dreher High School hand in hand, kissing before parting to go to class.

Maybe one day, Lily Grace would have a boyfriend like Cooper, too.

No cars came down Bryson Road, and no streetlights lit her way. Party noises thumped in the distance: pounding bass, the rumble of voices. Overhead, a pearl of a moon gleamed among a spattering of stars, and she smiled, glad to be far enough from ambient light to see constellations winking in the night sky.

Two more moons appeared, lower, dead ahead. A car weaving up the road. Its headlights shone on another figure—a girl walking toward Lily Grace. Someone from the party? Behind the girl, the car continued to approach, faster now, swerving like the driver had no control. Rap music blared from its sound system, and a voice sang off-key from its open windows.

The girl started to run. As she came closer, Lily Grace recognized her: Sara Clark, Ariel’s best friend, president of the drama club. The car continued its approach, weaving, the music rumbling in the night.

And then, the horrible thump of impact, a piercing scream as the car hit Sara and sent her flying. The car skidded against gravel, slid off the road, and nearly hit Lily Grace. She hurled herself into some bushes as the car smashed into a tree.

Then all was quiet.

She lay in the shrub, dazed, assessing her own body. Her limbs moved. Her head throbbed from hitting something. There were scratches on her arms from branches. But she was alive. She wasn’t sure if that could be said about Sara.

Oh God, Sara.

Lily Grace stood on wobbly legs, scanning the ground around her. She’d lost her phone when she flung herself out of the car’s path. Dammit. She needed to dial 911.

Her chest throbbed from landing on a rock or something. Her hands bled from landing on twigs. She had to find Sara. She’d never forget the awful sound of the car hitting her, not in a million years. It echoed inside her and soured her stomach. After a few unsteady steps, she managed to get to the road. There was no movement from the car a few dozen yards away. Sara should be nearby.

There, by the cluster of pines. Lily Grace rushed to her, falling to her knees, using the faint moonlight to scan Sara’s body. It was so very broken. An arm twisted in the wrong direction. Her leg askew. Her head tilted back and her eyes closed. Blood pooling beside her. The gash on her face—God. With a trembling hand, Lily Grace felt for a heartbeat. There. Faint, but there.

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The Orchid Tattoo

A Georgia Thayer Novel #1

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Crime fiction that
makes a difference: in The Orchid Tattoo, award-winning author
Carla Damron delves into the disturbing world of human trafficking. 

Social worker Georgia Thayer can balance her own mental
illness with the demands of an impossible job. Mostly. But when her sister
vanishes in the dead of night, her desperate quest to find Peyton takes her
into the tentacles of a human trafficking network-where she encounters a young
victim called “Kitten.”

Kitten is determined to escape. She won’t be trapped like
the others. She won’t sell her soul like Lillian, victim-turned-madam, feeding
the dark appetites of international business moguls and government leaders. But
the Estate won’t let her out of its lethal grip, and her attempts at freedom
threaten her very life.

Aided by Kitten and, at times, by the voices in her head,
Georgia maneuvers to bring down the kingpin of Estate and expose its dark
secrets, but her efforts place her-and the few people she allows to get
close-in grave danger.

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Chapter One

At three a.m., I should be home in bed like any normal person, but “normal” fits me about as well as “perky” or “has her shit together.” Instead, I was in the windowless catastrophe that was my office, trying to ignore the page from the Emergency Department flashing on my phone: “Georgia Thayer to Bay Four.” The seventh time that day. I might as well move my desk down there, maybe claim a stall in the staff bathroom. With a frustrated grumble, I rose, locked the office, and made my way down to the ED.

I entered the curtained off bay to find a frizzy-haired woman sitting on a gurney, half-dressed, hand-cuffed, sunken in posture as though trying to disappear.

Mark Westfall, a staff psychiatrist with the girth of a manatee, bifocals askew on his bald head, motioned me left as he went right.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“New patient. Not talking. Looking like a level three.”

We used codes to delineate behavioral problems. Level three was bad. It meant needing restraints to keep the patient from harming themselves or others, but this small woman sat quietly, eyeing us as though we were enemy assailants.

I shot Mark a puzzled look because nothing about her screamed “management problem.”

“Just wait,” Mark said.

I took a tentative step closer. “Hey there. I’m Georgia Thayer, the hospital social worker. Can you tell me your name?”

She didn’t answer.

“Maybe you can tell me why you’re here?”

Silence.

“She’s not talking. They found her on a park bench. When the officer asked her to move on, she bit him.”

She gave a skittery glance in my direction.

I put her age at around thirty, skinny, and unkempt. She swung her legs like she was on a swing, her lips moving but little sound coming out. I inched closer.

“Careful,” Mark said.

What was he worried about? She seemed—

The banshee shriek she emitted nearly knocked me over. She leaped from the gurney and scrambled to the curtain encircling the bay; two nursing assistants pushed through to keep her from bolting. She screamed again as she jumped atop the gurney where she squatted like a bullfrog. Impressive move for someone in handcuffs.

“Told you,” Mark said to me.

“Hey, hey!” I said. “It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you.” This woman was in torment. I spent the next five minutes trying to coax her to climb down, her looking wild-eyed with paranoia, then suddenly, she quieted. Again, she sat on the gurney—mostly silent, though her lips moved as though whispering to a ghost. A few minutes later, she flipped again, yelling, combative if we got close, Mark getting frustrated and ready to order a butt injection of some tranquilizer. Then she quieted again. Weird.

As the cycle repeated, I focused on what triggered the crazed outburst. Had one of us moved? Said the wrong thing? Then I saw it. Whenever the air conditioning kicked on, the banshee reappeared. When it shut down, so did she.

I told the med-tech to adjust the thermostat. “Are you nuts? It’s a thousand degrees out,” she replied.

“Just for a few minutes.” As the system shut down, the woman exhaled, her face softening as the tension evaporated. “You don’t like the air blowing,” I said.

She shook her head with vehemence, the first meaningful communication we’d had with her.

“Too cold?”

Another headshake.

“The noise?”

A slow nod. Weird, because given all the cacophony of noise that filled the ED, the air switching on was hardly noticeable. “That whoosh it makes?”

“No.” She inched closer, her sour breath on my face. “The laughing.”

Mark’s brows shot up.

“The laughing,” I repeated. “When the air turns on…”

“The demon laughs. He’s in there. He’s coming after me.” She spoke this last sentence with a somber acquiescence as though resigned to this horrible fate.

I knew, much better than most, how she felt. “That sounds terrifying. It may be hard to believe, but we will keep you safe here.” I turned to Mark. “Think we should admit her to the fifth floor?”

He nodded. “Wish she had some kind of ID. I’ll have one of the residents work her up.”

“And maybe make sure they turn the vent off in her room. That’ll make life much easier for her,” I said.

“And everyone else,” Mark whispered back.

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Carla Damron
believes fiction can make a difference. A social worker, advocate, and author
of suspense, women’s fiction, and mysteries, Damron uses her writing to put a
human face on issues like drug abuse, mental illness, and human trafficking.
She’s won multiple literary awards, including the Women’s Fiction Writers
Association Star Award for Best Novel and the NIEA award for best suspense.

Damron holds an
MSW and an MFA in Creative Writing and teaches with Writers.com. Currently the
VP for the Southeast Chapter of Mystery Writers of America, she lives in South
Carolina with her husband and their family of entitled rescue animals.

You can read
more about her at https://carladamron.com/

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Silent Killer By Tracy Burnett & Ross Weiland ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: August 27, 2025 in crime fiction, Excerpt, giveaways
Tags: ,
0

 

Silent Killer by Tracy Burnett & Ross Weiland Banner

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SILENT KILLER
by Tracy Burnett & Ross Weiland
August 18 – September 26, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:

Gordon Stone is an investigator assigned to the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force. He’s given an insignificant case—a charity scam out of Africa—and ordered to close it. For Gordon, it’s not that simple. Gordon has high-functioning autism. He’s socially awkward, but blessed with a superpower—extraordinary focus and attention to detail. That superpower allows Gordon to piece together a disparate puzzle: a Hunter-Killer drone; an illicit drug shipment; a Special Forces operation gone wrong; and illegal immigration linked to 9/11. When these pieces align, national security is at risk and hundreds of lives hang in the balance.

Praise for Silent Killer:

“A brilliant, awkward, relentless, and unconventional hero who will not take ‘no’ for an answer, saves the day. Get me Special Agent Gordon Stone for every difficult case and watch this man work.” ~ Chuck Rosenberg, Former U.S. Attorney, Eastern District of Virginia

“This is a fascinating story about real people, complex issues, and a world of many complicated challenges. It’s an interesting read that keeps you focused and anticipating the next page. I liked it and recommend it.” ~ Chuck Hagel, Former Secretary of Defense and U.S. Senator

“A truly innovative thriller with a refreshingly unique protagonist who will quickly have you rooting for him. A fast-paced tale told with imagination, fused with a realism that only insiders from the investigative world can bring. It will keep you guessing from page to page. Highly recommended.” ~ Kimberly Prost, Former Ombudsperson for the U.N. Security Council Al Qaeda Sanctions Committee

Book Details:

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Genre: Crime Fiction

Published by: Down and Out Books Publication Date: August 11, 2025 Number of Pages: 355 ISBN: 978-1-64396-413-3 PBK

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Down & Out Books

Enjoy this peek inside:

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CHAPTER 1

What would be a landmark day for any other federal agent was an exercise in misery for Special Agent Gordon Stone. He sat, restless and uncomfortable, in the crowded auditorium inside the Albert V. Bryan US Courthouse in Alexandria, Virginia. Wesley Jay, the US Attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia (EDVA), was on stage addressing the capacity crowd. Jay extolled the virtues of his office and its extraordinary success in managing the Eastern District’s “rocket docket.” The court’s namesake had coined the term in the seventies, District Court Judge Bryan himself. What it meant for Jay and his stable of Assistant US Attorneys (AUSAs) was that they were forced to be one of the most efficient offices in the country when it came to prosecuting cases. They gathered annually to recognize the most successful investigations and prosecutions of the preceding year. Lawyers, law enforcement, and family members filled the auditorium. For an office that had prosecuted some of the most notorious spy and terrorist cases in the country—not to mention the occasional political scandal—the yearly awards ceremony always attracted a full house.

“Copied by many, mirrored by none,” said Jay. “We bring justice to the American people more quickly and effectively than anywhere else in the country. I take great pride in that fact and hope you do as well.” Gordon tried to listen, but his discomfort just being there compelled him to tune out Jay’s speech. It wasn’t that he did not want to be there. On the contrary, his greatest desire was to be able to sit in the audience, listen to Jay, and enjoy a career highlight. Gordon was being recognized for his work as lead agent on an application fraud case with the Food and Drug Administration Office of Criminal Investigations (FDA-OCI). But Gordon did not fit in. He liked people, but he had trouble relating to them and was painfully aware of his social awkwardness. Way back in elementary school, he had been diagnosed with high-functioning autism, at the time referred to as Asperger Syndrome, or colloquially as Asperger’s. Gordon appeared just like everyone else, but when it came to basic human interaction, it took a great deal of effort for him to engage with most people. It was always hard and frequently exhausting. Small talk, humor, and sarcasm often flew past him. Therapy had brought him a long way, but still, those who did not know him thought he was aloof. Some actually found his behavior offensive. “Damn Asperger’s,” he said to himself. The true irony, he knew, was however damning Asperger’s was to his social status, it was also his superpower, allowing him to focus on a particular topic—or investigation—to the point where he could see things no one else could see. He could anticipate what others viewed as unexpected. That focus bred unparalleled intuition, which was what made him a great investigator. That was why he was here in this crowded hall, surrounded by people he did not know. He was a great investigator. But he was most definitely not a great socializer, and he was uncomfortable. As much as he wished he could enjoy the ceremony and embrace the praise of his peers, his Asperger’s would not allow it. In fact, a big group setting surrounded by strangers? That was pretty much the nightmare scenario. Gordon’s brain was wired differently. At least that’s how Katherine, his longtime therapist, described it. He thought differently, acted differently, saw the world differently than most. She emphasized repeatedly to him he was not broken, just different, and Gordon knew it was okay to be different. Most of the time, that was enough. But even now, as a successful thirty-two-year-old federal agent, he could still feel broken. He hoped today would not be one of those days. “The work we do—check that—the work you do for this country is, simply put, extraordinary,” Jay continued. “We put more cases before a judge than anyone else, and that means when it comes time to recognize our best work in a given year, the competition is tight. I salute those of you sitting in this room. Your work, your intellect, your dogged pursuit of justice places you at the top of what we do here. You are the best of the best. Thank you for all you do for our organization, our district, and our country.” Jay smiled to his audience. “Now then, let’s hand out some hardware.” *** Excerpt from Silent Killer by Ross Weiland & Tracy Burnett. Copyright 2025 by Ross Weiland & Tracy Burnett. Reproduced with permission from Ross Weiland & Tracy Burnett. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bios:

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Tracy Burnett

Tracy Burnett:

Tracy Burnett began his law enforcement career as a Deputy Sheriff at the Palm Beach County, Florida Sheriff’s Department. His next stop was with the Drug Enforcement Administration where he became a special agent and went through training at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia as well as DEA US Army Ranger Training. That began a 25-year federal law enforcement career leading investigations on behalf of the US Departments of Justice, State, and Defense, among others, working both domestically and around the globe. Tracy now works as an Adjunct Professor for the School of Public Affairs in the Key Executive Leadership Program at American University in Washington, DC.

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Ross Weiland

Ross Weiland:

Ross Weiland was a journalist in New York City before attending law school and joining the US Navy’s Judge Advocate General’s Corps in 1998. He served as a prosecutor, criminal appeals attorney, and civil litigator in the Navy before transitioning to federal civil service where he spent 21 years in the Office of Inspector General community as counsel, investigator, and senior executive at the National Archives, Department of Defense, and NASA. Ross now works as an administrative executive supporting oversight and law enforcement in the private sector in Washington, DC.

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Follow Gordon Stone:

gordonstonerules.com Instagram – @gordonstonerules Facebook – @Silent Killer

 

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SILENT KILLER by Tracy Burnett & Ross Weiland

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Throwing Shadows By Claire Booth ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: August 21, 2025 in Excerpt, giveaways, Mystery
Tags: ,
1

 

Throwing Shadows by Claire Booth Banner

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THROWING SHADOWS
by Claire Booth
August 4 – 29, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A Sheriff Hank Worth Mystery

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When a hiker stumbles from the woods raving about a dead man, Sheriff Hank Worth launches a search. Near the infamous landmark of Murder Rocks – a Civil War era hideout for ambushers who robbed and killed passing travelers – they unearth two bodies and a skeleton. Local legend says there’s caches of stolen gold buried in the area. And – thanks to some recent nationwide publicity – the Ozark backwoods are now swarming with out-of-town treasure hunters, who have little concern for Hank’s murder investigation. With the clock ticking, Hank must identify the victims . . . and the killer. But could the new pursuit of long-lost plunder really have led to multiple deaths?

Praise for Throwing Shadows:

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“Here more than in any other book in the series, it’s the mystery that draws us in but Hank’s personal story that packs the emotional wallop. Booth is a wonderful storyteller (see also her crime nonfiction book, The False Prophet, 2008), and in Throwing Shadows, she’s at the top of her game.” ~ Booklist

“A well-done police procedural whose historical background provides extra interest.” ~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction, Police Procedural

Published by: Severn House Publishers Publication Date: August 5, 2025 Number of Pages: 240 ISBN: 9781448313914 (ISBN10: 1448313910) eBook Series: A Sheriff Hank Worth Mystery, Book 7

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | booksamillion | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Severn House Publishers

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MY REVIEW

They thought there was treasure in the Ozarks. Is there? Maybe. But, for sure there’s something else. Sheriff Hank Worth takes a hiker’s statement claiming they discovered treasure. That’s not why the Sheriff initiates a search. What does is the hiker’s claim that there’s a dead body. The search reveals more than one.

Almost from the beginning something about this book felt familiar. Like maybe I’d read earlier books in the series. But, I hadn’t. So what was it. Then, it hit me. It reminded me of the show, Longmire. I really liked that show. And I really liked this book. So much was happening. The character’s were genuine. There were plenty of questions I wanted answered. And the author put me in the action. Very good visual writing. That all kept me flying through my reading. And the best thing. I didn’t have to wait for the next episode. I just kept on reading until I got my answers. And a very satisfying conclusion.

4 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:

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CHAPTER ONE

The man ran, rabbit-fast and rabbit-scared, through the trees. His pack pulled on his shoulders as he scrambled over rotting logs and gouged the moldy sponge of fallen leaves with his boots. He couldn’t hear what was behind him over his own frantic sprinting, the racket of an inexperienced fool. His foot hit a hole and he went tumbling down an incline, landing hard in the Ozark dirt. He got to his knees and tried to catch his breath. If he could only make it to the road. Maybe he could find help. Safety. He started to move, but his knees wouldn’t stay steady enough for him to stand. He tried to crawl and got nothing but a few yards’ progress and a stab in the thigh from a dead branch. He bit his lip to keep from yelling out as blood started to seep through his pants. He slumped down on his elbows and swore.

It was time to face facts. He sat back on his haunches and shrugged the pack off his back. The wind hit his sweat-soaked shirt and sent a chill along his spine. He twisted around, searching for a hiding spot. Nothing. He forced himself upright and stumbled forward. He made it over the next rise, dragging the pack behind him, and saw what he needed. He concealed it as completely as he could. Maybe it would work. Nothing else during this whole calamity had. He backed away and took in the lay of the land. He still didn’t know where he was, but there were no longer sounds of pursuit. He chose to continue downhill. If he didn’t hit the road, chances were good he’d at least hit a creek. That might lead to a lake, which might lead to people. He limped along as quickly as he could. The puncture wound started to burn and he could feel the blood running down his leg and into his sock. The darkness was almost complete, and all the obstacles he’d been able to see and avoid were disappearing in the gloom. He tripped again, going down hard and cutting his cheek. He lay there inhaling the scent of fungus spores and animal piss and his own fear. He curled his hand over dry leaves, taking their last bit of sunbaked warmth and turning them to dust. A nearby tree worked as support for him to regain his feet. He wiped blood and tears on his sleeve and pushed off. Then a glimmer of moonlight showed a sliver of flat surface, flat like a God-sent, man-made road. It was off to his left and he veered in that direction, heading past a stretch of blank blackness on the right. His step started to lighten and his lungs loosened with each breath. He quickened his pace. He never saw them coming. Hank Worth spread the paperwork out over his desk. There was a comfortingly large amount of it. It would take him a long time to sort through everything, which meant he’d need to stay here longer. And not go home. He didn’t need to, not really. The kids were fine, on a back-to-school shopping trip with Maggie. They’d probably come home late with new lunchboxes and sneakers, and ice cream on their faces from the bribe their mother had to pay in order to get them into that last store for glue sticks and Ticonderoga pencils. He’d be home in time to put them to bed. And then he could go work in the garage. And think about what to do about these catalytic converter thefts. He pulled the latest theft report out of the pile. A used-car dealership out on Highway 76 had had seven of the car parts stolen sometime in the past week. Hank looked around the dreary office he’d been stuck with since becoming the Branson County sheriff almost two years ago, then out the window at the beautiful fall day. Maybe the owner was at work today. He grabbed his keys and quickly left the building. Twenty minutes later he was walking through the not-so-gently-used collection of cars at Combs Car Emporium. A man built like a snowman emerged from the office and watched him approach. “Yeah, I’m the owner. Wendall Combs.” He was wearing a polo shirt and slacks and had skin and hair so white he would’ve been impossible to spot in a blizzard. He shook Hank’s hand and ushered him inside. “Brian told me you all asked about my security when he filed the report.” He shut the door firmly behind them. “The employees don’t know what I got. Keeps them honest.” “So what do you have, sir?” Hank asked. He hadn’t been able to pick out any surveillance cameras as he walked across the lot. “I got a camera in the light pole by the entrance.” Hank waited. ‘Is that everything?’ he finally said. “Well, yeah.’ Combs shifted self-consciously. “How much of the lot does that camera cover?” “All of it.’ Frosty was indignant. “Excellent. May I see the video? You can orient me and then I can take a copy of the recording of the past week?” The footage turned out to be even worse than Hank expected. A high-wattage security light washed out the view of most of the lot. The remainder was pockmarked with impenetrable shadows. “It’s real high up, now, so it’s hard to see down in between the cars, like,” Frosty said defensively. “I’m watching for thieves moving big-ass cars. Not small-ass parts. How the hell should I be expected to know they’d come for that kind of stuff?” Hank gave what he hoped was a soothing nod, and made a few recommendations about camera placement and studies that showed visible cameras actually did act as a deterrent and perhaps Mr. Combs could consider it? The owner grumbled a while before saying he would think on it. “Do you have any idea when the converters were taken?” “No, son, I don’t know when. We just noticed it. The last time someone drove one of the cars was last Tuesday. So had to have been after that. But just ’cause I can’t sell a 2003 sedan doesn’t mean I want to offer it up for parts, free of charge.” He had a point. They went outside and Frosty showed him which cars had been targeted. All were parked on the edges of the lot, where access was the easiest and the video’s pockmarks were the blackest. “So your employees don’t know about the camera?” “Nope.” “And they’ve never seen video from it?” “Nope.” “Keep it that way. But add some more cameras, like we talked about, Okay?” He got grudging agreement and an icy handshake before Combs disappeared into his office. Hank thought for a minute and headed down to the next used-car lot, Briscoe’s 76 Cars, where he ruined that manager’s day in sixty seconds flat. “What? Converters stolen at Wendall’s place?” The manager hadn’t heard and immediately sent his two hapless twenty-something salespeople crawling under every vehicle on their patch of asphalt. They found four missing. They also had no usable surveillance video. While they had three times the number of cameras as Combs did, it turned out they became ineffective when colonized by birds and covered in what birds tended to output at high rates. The manager was furious and spent ten minutes stomping around before Hank could get another word in. Multiple swear words and a stale cup of coffee later, Hank had repeated his security improvement recommendations and gotten the list of Briscoe cars now missing catalytic converters. He left the manager dialing his boss with a look of dread, and walked back to his squad car, carefully skirting the cameras’ drop zones on the way. Chief Deputy Sheila Turley limped into the Pickin’ Porch Grill, fingers curled lightly around the handle of her cane. She tried swinging it with a jaunty air, but her fifty-two-year-old body wasn’t quite ready for that. She planted it back on the floor and made her way to the table. Her gait was slow but no longer torturous. Compared with her appalling wheelchair-bound immobility for the past several months, this stroll was equivalent to tap dancing into the restaurant and finishing off with a cartwheel. A tall, trim white man in a suit and tie rose to his feet as she approached. He waited until she settled herself before resuming his seat. Wisely, he did not offer her any assistance. Their many phone conversations seemed to have schooled him on enough of Sheila’s personality to know that would be unwelcome. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” Malcolm Oberholz said. “You, too.’ She propped her cane against the wall and eyed the prosecutor. “You really are older than you sound on the phone.” He laughed. ‘I told you so.” “I do wish you’d let me meet you halfway. There was no need for you to drive all the way down here from St. Louis.” “Oh, I don’t mind at all. It gives me an opportunity to see the area. Which is important.” He looked around. “If I’m going to try to convince twelve Branson County residents that Eddie Fizzel, Junior, is guilty, I need to not seem like an outsider.” Then the man needed a cheaper suit. She’d save that advice for later, though. Instead, she asked how they could possibly get an unbiased jury in this county. “That’s a very good question. I’m going to assert that we can’t, and ask the judge to change the trial venue entirely. Move it to my county, ask the good people of a nice big metro area to decide.” “Will a judge go for that?” He shrugged. “It depends on who we get. It will be a while before we know who it’ll be, since it has to be someone who also has no connection to this county.” Sheila nodded. It would be just semi-complicated if it were only her, Branson County’s African American chief deputy sheriff, involved. But the man who assaulted her – in addition to being an unemployed, entitled little shit – was the son of a county commissioner. Edrick Fizzel, Senior, had been in office since God was young and the devil just fallen. He knew everyone. Half of the electorate loved him, and the other half he had dirt on. Combine that with people’s strong opinions of law enforcement – both pro and con – and this citified white boy had his work cut out for him. “So that’s going to be one of my first moves,” Oberholz said. “But it’s a motion that’s going to need to be argued in your courthouse, even if it is in front of an out-of-town judge. So I’d like to get my feet under me, so to speak.” “A good place to start is with a fried chicken sandwich with extra chipotle aioli,” she said. Oberholz ordered two at the counter and had the waitress come back with their drinks. Sheila took hers, shifting slightly to ease the ache in her torso. Thankfully, Oberholz didn’t notice. “No matter where it’s tried, though, we’re going to have a problem with the ER doctor’s report of your injuries.” Or maybe he had. She sighed. “That ER doctor is a friend of yours. They’re going to allege that she’s biased in your favor.” Sheila snorted with laughter. “The only thing Maggie McCleary is biased toward is an accurate diagnosis.” Oberholz’s lips turned into a thin line. Sheila looked straight back at him and calmly put her napkin in her lap. “I’m not making light of how hard this is going to be. In Maggie’s case, there are multiple surgeons and specialists who back up her initial opinion about all of my abdominal injuries. And the broken ribs. And the concussion. And my lacerated hands and knees. I know you like those.” The second time they’d talked, he’d asked specifically for the photos her husband Tyrone had taken the night of the attack that showed her raw and bloody palms and kneecaps. Now he shook a straw at her before plunking it into his iced tea. “Those two things tell a story. The story of a woman who had to crawl four hundred yards through the woods at night in order to save herself. Jurors will see your X-rays and it won’t matter. To laypeople, that’s just a bunch of shadows on a screen. But everybody can relate to scraped and bloody hands. And they only got that way because you knew you were going to die if you stayed there lying in the dirt. So you dragged yourself to the road in order for paramedics to find you. You saved your own life. Your palms might’ve been beat all to hell, but Edrick Fizzel, Junior, is the one with blood on his hands.” Sheila sat back like she’d been smacked. Oberholz took a sip of tea. “The facts matter. I’m not one of those lawyers who pretends they don’t. But a trial usually comes down to who’s the better storyteller. And ma’am,” his voice suddenly slowed and rounded into a drawl, “ain’t no one can tell a story like me.” *** Excerpt from Throwing Shadows by Claire Booth. Copyright 2025 by Claire Booth. Reproduced with permission from Claire Booth. All rights reserved.

 

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About Author Claire Booth:

.

Claire Booth

Claire Booth is a former newspaper reporter whose writing career has taken her from Missouri to Washington, D.C., South Florida, the Seattle area, and the Bay Area. She’s reported on many high-profile cases, including the Laci Peterson murder and the San Francisco dog mauling case. The case of a deadly cult leader became the subject of her nonfiction book, The False Prophet: Conspiracy, Extortion and Murder in the Name of God. After spending so much time covering crimes so strange and convoluted they seemed more like fiction than reality, she had enough of the real world and decided to write novels instead. Her acclaimed Sheriff Hank Worth mystery series takes place in Branson, Missouri, where the small-town Ozarks meet big-city country music tourism.

Visit Claire Booth:

www.ClaireBooth.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub Instagram – @claire.booth10 X – @claire.booth10 Facebook – @claireboothauthor Severn House

 

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THROWING SHADOWS by Claire Booth (Gift Card)

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The Penthouse On Park Avenue By Jenny Dandy ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: June 6, 2025 in Excerpt, giveaways, Mystery, reviews
Tags: , ,
2

 

Houses of Crime Mystery Series by Jenny Dandy Banner

Houses of Crime Mystery Series
by Jenny Dandy
May 5 – June 13, 2025 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:

,

THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD

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

THE PENTHOUSE ON PARK AVENUE

  FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and former street thief Ronnie Charles team up once again in New York City, this time to take down John Anthony, suspected money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel who is known for their own brand of evil. Embedded as his live-in butler at the penthouse, Ronnie must reconcile her hatred of drugs with her need to work for Frank. Mateo Rosas de Flores, head of the cartel, comes to town and tests Ronnie’s loyalty. When she passes, her reward is a deeper involvement in his organization. But Mateo’s interest in her might not be enough to protect her as the danger mounts. Frank’s search for his drug addicted daughter continues in the seamier side of the city, taking him places he never thought he would go. He becomes unexpectedly entangled with the very criminals he’s pursuing, threatening not only his career but his family as well. What they require of him is a betrayal of everything he believes in. Frank must find a way to protect his daughter and finish the case. And walk away with his morals intact.

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MY REVIEW OF THE PENTHOUSE ON PARK AVENUE

I had such fun meeting these characters in the first book. And I’m thrilled to read how much they have evolved, grown. And so has the idea of this series. The crime is different. The bad guys are different. But the twisty, bendy plot is just as strong. The characters are even more genuine. And the pacing is just right.

I wanted to know where FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski was in his search for his missing daughter. I wanted to know how Ronnie, who used to be a street thief, was navigating her life and her search for where she belongs in it. And I was curious how hard it was going to be for these two take down a very nasty crime syndicate.

This second book in the series was as much a character driven one as the first was. That’s a big plus for me. I like learning the who and why of their actions and reactions. I’m so vested in these characters now. I have my fingers crossed they’ll return in another book.

4 STARS

 

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Praise for the Houses of Crime Mystery Series:

“The Brownstone on E. 83rd grabbed my attention from the first page. Jenny Dandy’s debut has all the hallmarks of a veteran writer: blistering pacing, rapid-fire dialogue, and characters that not only keep you guessing, but caring about what happens to them. Dandy is an author to watch.” ~ Carter Wilson, USA Today bestselling author of The Father She Went to Find “Jenny Dandy’s The Brownstone on E. 83rd hits the ground running and doesn’t let up. Sharply drawn characters, evocative language, knockout pacing, and a strong sense of place make this one of the year’s best crime novel debuts. It’s ambitious, polished, and beautifully crafted. I can’t recommend it enough.” ~ William Boyle, author of Shoot the Moonlight Out and Gravesend “The Brownstone on E. 83rd is an amazing debut with sharp, hard-edged dialogue, lyrical and strong prose, and a fantastic setting in New York City. The story of FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and small-time thief Ronnie Charles will keep you guessing as well as rooting for these vivid and compelling characters. I hope to read more from Jenny Dandy!” ~ David Heska Wanbli Weiden, award-winning author of Winter Counts “The Penthouse on Park Avenue grips you from the start, never letting go through the twists and turns as Ronnie and Frank pursue a money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel. Jenny Dandy’s characters stay with you long after you finish the book.” ~ Abbott Kahler, New York Times best-selling author of Eden Undone, Where You End, and The Ghosts of Eden Park “Jenny Dandy’s new novel delivers everything you crave in a mystery—hardboiled-yet-scrappy protagonists, high stakes, suspense, dry humor, and true villainy. Written with compassion and an appetite for justice, The Penthouse on Park Avenue lures us even more deeply into Dandy’s Houses of Crime series. I can’t wait for the next one!” ~ Erika Krouse, author of Save Me, Stranger “The Penthouse on Park Avenue sneaks up on you, comes alive, and won’t let you go. Whether Dandy takes us to high end restaurants or low end diners, penthouses or homeless encampments, we’re along for the ride. You’ll care deeply about what might happen to Ronnie and Frank, eager for the next in the series.” ~ Diane Capri, New York Times Bestselling author of the Hunt for Jack Reacher series

 

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction

Published by: Level Best Books

Series: Houses of Crime Mystery Series (on Amazon)

Read an excerpt from THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD:
Prologue
Ronnie Charles slotted the dirty champagne flutes into the plastic racks as fast as she could, two at a time, her arms flashing between trays and crates. Her skin tightened, an overall prickling that never failed her. It meant danger, meant she had to be out of there quick. The bracelet lay heavy in the secret pocket of her trousers, bumping her thigh as she moved. Someone shifted behind her, too close, and she worked faster. She didn’t have time to fight off one of those ass-grabbers who always seemed to work these big charity dos, creeping on anyone. Even when Ronnie dressed as a man like tonight, they would reach out and squeeze a handful. Ronnie swung her bangs out of her eyes, peeked over her shoulder. “You’ll give me back my bracelet, or I’ll rip your balls off.” The silky voice caressed her ear, the woman crowding her into the boxes before she could turn around. The Feline. Ronnie didn’t usually name her marks, but those two words had sprung into her head as she watched the way the calculating woman slinked through the room, eyed the crowd, pounced on her targets. Ronnie took a deep breath, got a whiff of expensive perfume, and then did the only thing she could in a situation like this. She made her voice higher than normal and said, “Ma’am, I don’t have any balls.” The tall blonde stepped back. Ronnie whipped around and saw the guys lugging chairs and tables into the truck, the caterer with her clipboard, and the cleaning crew hard at work. She so needed to keep this job. The Feline tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, examined her through mascaraed lashes. “Well, well.” She scanned Ronnie up and down, checked over the details of her slim hips in the black pants, her flat white shirt and bow tie, her short hair in a boy’s cut. She studied the one thing Ronnie couldn’t fake: her lack of an Adam’s apple. “It’s not often I’m fooled.” The Feline’s voice was low, dark clouds in the distance. “We both know you have my bracelet. I let you take it because I wanted to see how good you are.” Ronnie sucked in a breath and watched the certainty come over her, her brown eyes shining. The Feline wasn’t trying to hide her age with makeup the way a lot of women did. She proudly wore the fine lines around her eyes, the smile lines on her cheeks. She was as beautiful up close as she had been in the crowds. Ronnie had watched her, watched as the men and women gathered around her as if just being near her would save their lives. “And you’re good,” The Feline continued, “but I’m better. I could’ve taken it back from you.” Her eyes flickered to Ronnie’s hand, which had moved all by itself to cover the secret pocket in her trousers. The Feline smiled, lines etching her skin. “I could have, but I was curious about someone almost as brazen as I am, working a crowd of this caliber.” Tiny beads of sweat gathered at Ronnie’s hairline, and she crossed her arms to keep herself still. The first time she got caught by a mark and it was this willowy goddess. She didn’t know why she’d taken it in the first place. Not like she needed it. “Look, lady.” The caterer approached them. “You have to go. Here, I’m giving it back.” She reached into her pocket and fumbled around, for some reason, not finding the opening. “I’ll give it to you, and you can leave. I really need to keep this job.” The Feline ran her eyes over her once more then grabbed her upper arm and started walking Ronnie away from the crates. She smiled and nodded at Ronnie’s boss. Under her breath, she said, “No, you don’t.” Ronnie tried to pull away, but the woman tightened her grip and kept walking. “I’ve decided you’re going to come work for me.” Her heels punctuated her words as they strode toward the exit. “You have skills I can use.” Ronnie caught a glance from another waitperson as they passed. Pure envy. Amazing the feelings this woman could pull out of people. “I have a garden apartment you can live in while you work off the bracelet.” Isabelle cut her eyes to Ronnie, a lioness eyeing her prey. “Your androgyny will throw my marks off balance. I can teach you so many, many things.” Her voice was hard, yet somehow soft at the same time. “I’m giving you an offer of a lifetime.” Ronnie stopped walking, planted her feet, and the woman’s voluminous gown swirled around her legs as if to trap her. The Feline stopped, too, but didn’t let go of her arm. “Or I can call the cops.” No way. Ronnie could not go to jail again. She’d used up whatever goodwill the system had for her, and it would be prison for sure this time. She knew she could run, spin out of her grip, jump off the loading dock, and into the night. Down alleys and through back doors, up fire escapes and over rooftops, disappear into the grit and the cold and the peculiar community of the homeless of New York City. She sucked in her breath. Did she say “garden apartment?” The woman’s earrings glittered at her. No more sleeping on the streets. No more dumpster diving. Okay, one night, that’s it. She’d scope the place out, learn the alarm system and The Feline’s habits. Tuck the information away for when she was desperate, and tonight, she could sleep in a soft bed. An offer of a lifetime. “I have to get my backpack.” Before Ronnie turned toward the setup tables where she’d stashed it, she caught the grin spreading over the woman’s face, her eyes dancing.

Chapter One

Frank Jankowski burst through the emergency room doors, his sixteen-year-old daughter in his arms. He rushed to the front desk, pushed past people in line, yelled at the staff, tried to get someone to pay attention. Cathy moaned, her sweaty head lolling as if she had no neck. A rushing in his ears drowned out all other sounds, and his eyes darted from one person in scrubs to the next. When he opened his mouth to yell again, Cathy vomited on the floor. As if a director had yelled Action, everyone moved at once. A woman with a wheelchair waved aside the guy with the clipboard and yelled, He can do that later! They asked Frank for symptoms, for his daughter’s name, then told the nurse at the desk to page the doctor. The curtain screeched as they yanked it back and deftly placed Cathy on the bed. She looked like a rag doll. More nurses, stethoscopes, pulse-ox on her finger, someone in scrubs pulled him aside to quietly go over the symptoms with him, poking the iPad she cradled with each thing he said. The nurse turned him away as they inserted an IV in his daughter’s arm and led him back to the waiting room to fill out the paperwork. He got as far as “Catherine A. Jankowski” when his gut roiled, and he clutched the clipboard tighter, knuckles whitening, scalp tingling as he waited for it to pass. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, counting breaths as images of his daughter surrounded by medical staff, machines, an IV hookup swam behind his eyes. Not again. Damn. Susan. He called her, told her they were in the emergency room. “Everything’s under control. Don’t worry. I’ll explain when you get here.” He didn’t want her to think it was as bad as it had been a year and a half ago. “Really, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Her worry would make her anxious, and her anxiety would make her yell at him. He pressed the button to end the call. Whatever this was, and it certainly warranted the ER, it couldn’t compare to the hit and run that took more than a year from Cathy’s life. The long hospital stay, the painful rehab. But she was past all that, seeing friends, catching up on her schoolwork. So this was just—dehydration from whatever cold or flu had laid her low. He gazed down at the clipboard as if it had just leapt into his hand. He wrote the address of Susan’s apartment on the form. His old apartment. The apartment they had found when he was first transferred to the New York Field Office, the one he thought they would stay in forever, stretching for a two-bedroom because they planned on children. He had been glad she’d kept the walls white, hung cheerful photographs, so when he came home, put his keys in the dish on the table, trying to shed the thoughts of all the evil things people did to other people, the nastiness he worked hard to fight every day, he would pause and try to put himself in the photograph, try to hear the people in them laughing, feel the gentle breeze— Someone sat down next to him and he shifted in the plastic chair, irritated that a stranger would invade his space like that. “Frank.” Susan, his wife—ex-wife—pulled the clipboard away from him and began filling in the form, glancing up at him as if trying to determine what kind of stupid he was. The rhythmic scratching of pen on paper calmed him. She checked off that Cathy had had her immunizations, was current on tetanus, that there was no history of diabetes in their family. The pen hovered over What brought you in today? She raised an eyebrow at Frank. “Are you going to tell me?” “I thought it was the flu.” He stared straight ahead, not wanting to see the accusations firing from her eyes. “But then she started hallucinating…” “The flu.” Susan’s pen scratched on the paper. “In August. You thought it was the flu.” “SuSu—” Frank turned toward her but quickly looked away when he caught the flare of her nostrils and the flash of her blue eyes. He shouldn’t have used his old name for her, but it had just slipped out. He watched the activity at the front desk for a beat, then said, his voice quiet, “You would have thought so, too.” “Not in August, Frank. I would never have thought that. Did she have a fever?” “She didn’t seem to. I felt her forehead because she was sweating so much, but—” “No thermometer at your apartment? How can that be? All these years of Cathy over there, and you don’t even have the rudiments of—the basics for—any way to take—” Susan tripped over her words, sputtered in her anger, and Frank stayed still, waited for it to pass. A man a few rows ahead of them tapped on his phone, his three children around him squirming and kicking each other, whining at their father, who didn’t respond. “…her symptoms?” His ex-wife had taken on a neutral tone, perhaps deciding that the paperwork was more important than fighting Frank. He listed the symptoms in the order they had occurred, the aches, the sweating, the vomiting. Her pen flew over the paper, her frown deepened as the list went on, ending with the hallucinations. “Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski?” Susan flinched, her lips thin, jaw tight. “Could you come with me, please?” The nurse checked for them over her shoulder, an iPad in her hand, led them down the hall, opened a door. “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski, let’s go in here—” “We’re divorced.” Susan forced the words through clenched teeth, sounding as if she wouldn’t mind going through the proceedings all over again. They followed the nurse into a small room crammed with desks. The young woman in her cartoon scrubs and bright clogs didn’t ask them to sit. She shut the door and turned to face them. She held up her iPad as if it were a shield, aimed her question at the device, her tone mild as if merely confirming Cathy’s age, “How long has your daughter been addicted to opioids?” *** Excerpt from The Brownstone on E. 83rd by Jenny Dandy. Copyright 2025 by Jenny Dandy. Reproduced with permission from Jenny Dandy. All rights reserved.

 

About Author Jenny Dandy:

.

Jenny Dandy

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

Catch Up With Jenny Dandy:

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

 

 

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

The Brownstone On E. 83RD By Jenny Dandy ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: June 5, 2025 in Excerpt, giveaways, Mystery, reviews
Tags: , ,
5

 

Houses of Crime Mystery Series by Jenny Dandy Banner

Houses of Crime Mystery Series
by Jenny Dandy
May 5 – June 13, 2025 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:

.

THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD

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

THE PENTHOUSE ON PARK AVENUE

  FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and former street thief Ronnie Charles team up once again in New York City, this time to take down John Anthony, suspected money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel who is known for their own brand of evil. Embedded as his live-in butler at the penthouse, Ronnie must reconcile her hatred of drugs with her need to work for Frank. Mateo Rosas de Flores, head of the cartel, comes to town and tests Ronnie’s loyalty. When she passes, her reward is a deeper involvement in his organization. But Mateo’s interest in her might not be enough to protect her as the danger mounts. Frank’s search for his drug addicted daughter continues in the seamier side of the city, taking him places he never thought he would go. He becomes unexpectedly entangled with the very criminals he’s pursuing, threatening not only his career but his family as well. What they require of him is a betrayal of everything he believes in. Frank must find a way to protect his daughter and finish the case. And walk away with his morals intact.

,

~~~~~

MY REVIEW OF THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD

I’m always excited to discover a new author who writes in a genre I love. Crime stories are a fav of mine. The more twisty, bendy the plot the better. And I sure got that here.

I also love character driven stories and there are three very charismatic, mysterious ones I got to know. What drives them makes them genuine and likable. Even if those designs aren’t all good. All of them wear masks. They have skeletons in their closets. And they are skilled masterminds.

I sunk my teeth into this one right from the get go. A lot of times I caught myself envisioning scenes like I was watching a movie. The characters faces developed from a blank slate to flesh and blood, and if I concentrated hard enough, they all gained voices.

I sure enjoyed this caper and am already reading the next book. Can’t wait to see what the author drops her characters into next.

4 STARS

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Praise for the Houses of Crime Mystery Series:

“The Brownstone on E. 83rd grabbed my attention from the first page. Jenny Dandy’s debut has all the hallmarks of a veteran writer: blistering pacing, rapid-fire dialogue, and characters that not only keep you guessing, but caring about what happens to them. Dandy is an author to watch.” ~ Carter Wilson, USA Today bestselling author of The Father She Went to Find “Jenny Dandy’s The Brownstone on E. 83rd hits the ground running and doesn’t let up. Sharply drawn characters, evocative language, knockout pacing, and a strong sense of place make this one of the year’s best crime novel debuts. It’s ambitious, polished, and beautifully crafted. I can’t recommend it enough.” ~ William Boyle, author of Shoot the Moonlight Out and Gravesend “The Brownstone on E. 83rd is an amazing debut with sharp, hard-edged dialogue, lyrical and strong prose, and a fantastic setting in New York City. The story of FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and small-time thief Ronnie Charles will keep you guessing as well as rooting for these vivid and compelling characters. I hope to read more from Jenny Dandy!” ~ David Heska Wanbli Weiden, award-winning author of Winter Counts “The Penthouse on Park Avenue grips you from the start, never letting go through the twists and turns as Ronnie and Frank pursue a money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel. Jenny Dandy’s characters stay with you long after you finish the book.” ~ Abbott Kahler, New York Times best-selling author of Eden Undone, Where You End, and The Ghosts of Eden Park “Jenny Dandy’s new novel delivers everything you crave in a mystery—hardboiled-yet-scrappy protagonists, high stakes, suspense, dry humor, and true villainy. Written with compassion and an appetite for justice, The Penthouse on Park Avenue lures us even more deeply into Dandy’s Houses of Crime series. I can’t wait for the next one!” ~ Erika Krouse, author of Save Me, Stranger “The Penthouse on Park Avenue sneaks up on you, comes alive, and won’t let you go. Whether Dandy takes us to high end restaurants or low end diners, penthouses or homeless encampments, we’re along for the ride. You’ll care deeply about what might happen to Ronnie and Frank, eager for the next in the series.” ~ Diane Capri, New York Times Bestselling author of the Hunt for Jack Reacher series

 

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction

Published by: Level Best Books

Series: Houses of Crime Mystery Series (on Amazon)

Read an excerpt from THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD:
Prologue
Ronnie Charles slotted the dirty champagne flutes into the plastic racks as fast as she could, two at a time, her arms flashing between trays and crates. Her skin tightened, an overall prickling that never failed her. It meant danger, meant she had to be out of there quick. The bracelet lay heavy in the secret pocket of her trousers, bumping her thigh as she moved. Someone shifted behind her, too close, and she worked faster. She didn’t have time to fight off one of those ass-grabbers who always seemed to work these big charity dos, creeping on anyone. Even when Ronnie dressed as a man like tonight, they would reach out and squeeze a handful. Ronnie swung her bangs out of her eyes, peeked over her shoulder. “You’ll give me back my bracelet, or I’ll rip your balls off.” The silky voice caressed her ear, the woman crowding her into the boxes before she could turn around. The Feline. Ronnie didn’t usually name her marks, but those two words had sprung into her head as she watched the way the calculating woman slinked through the room, eyed the crowd, pounced on her targets. Ronnie took a deep breath, got a whiff of expensive perfume, and then did the only thing she could in a situation like this. She made her voice higher than normal and said, “Ma’am, I don’t have any balls.” The tall blonde stepped back. Ronnie whipped around and saw the guys lugging chairs and tables into the truck, the caterer with her clipboard, and the cleaning crew hard at work. She so needed to keep this job. The Feline tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, examined her through mascaraed lashes. “Well, well.” She scanned Ronnie up and down, checked over the details of her slim hips in the black pants, her flat white shirt and bow tie, her short hair in a boy’s cut. She studied the one thing Ronnie couldn’t fake: her lack of an Adam’s apple. “It’s not often I’m fooled.” The Feline’s voice was low, dark clouds in the distance. “We both know you have my bracelet. I let you take it because I wanted to see how good you are.” Ronnie sucked in a breath and watched the certainty come over her, her brown eyes shining. The Feline wasn’t trying to hide her age with makeup the way a lot of women did. She proudly wore the fine lines around her eyes, the smile lines on her cheeks. She was as beautiful up close as she had been in the crowds. Ronnie had watched her, watched as the men and women gathered around her as if just being near her would save their lives. “And you’re good,” The Feline continued, “but I’m better. I could’ve taken it back from you.” Her eyes flickered to Ronnie’s hand, which had moved all by itself to cover the secret pocket in her trousers. The Feline smiled, lines etching her skin. “I could have, but I was curious about someone almost as brazen as I am, working a crowd of this caliber.” Tiny beads of sweat gathered at Ronnie’s hairline, and she crossed her arms to keep herself still. The first time she got caught by a mark and it was this willowy goddess. She didn’t know why she’d taken it in the first place. Not like she needed it. “Look, lady.” The caterer approached them. “You have to go. Here, I’m giving it back.” She reached into her pocket and fumbled around, for some reason, not finding the opening. “I’ll give it to you, and you can leave. I really need to keep this job.” The Feline ran her eyes over her once more then grabbed her upper arm and started walking Ronnie away from the crates. She smiled and nodded at Ronnie’s boss. Under her breath, she said, “No, you don’t.” Ronnie tried to pull away, but the woman tightened her grip and kept walking. “I’ve decided you’re going to come work for me.” Her heels punctuated her words as they strode toward the exit. “You have skills I can use.” Ronnie caught a glance from another waitperson as they passed. Pure envy. Amazing the feelings this woman could pull out of people. “I have a garden apartment you can live in while you work off the bracelet.” Isabelle cut her eyes to Ronnie, a lioness eyeing her prey. “Your androgyny will throw my marks off balance. I can teach you so many, many things.” Her voice was hard, yet somehow soft at the same time. “I’m giving you an offer of a lifetime.” Ronnie stopped walking, planted her feet, and the woman’s voluminous gown swirled around her legs as if to trap her. The Feline stopped, too, but didn’t let go of her arm. “Or I can call the cops.” No way. Ronnie could not go to jail again. She’d used up whatever goodwill the system had for her, and it would be prison for sure this time. She knew she could run, spin out of her grip, jump off the loading dock, and into the night. Down alleys and through back doors, up fire escapes and over rooftops, disappear into the grit and the cold and the peculiar community of the homeless of New York City. She sucked in her breath. Did she say “garden apartment?” The woman’s earrings glittered at her. No more sleeping on the streets. No more dumpster diving. Okay, one night, that’s it. She’d scope the place out, learn the alarm system and The Feline’s habits. Tuck the information away for when she was desperate, and tonight, she could sleep in a soft bed. An offer of a lifetime. “I have to get my backpack.” Before Ronnie turned toward the setup tables where she’d stashed it, she caught the grin spreading over the woman’s face, her eyes dancing.

Chapter One

Frank Jankowski burst through the emergency room doors, his sixteen-year-old daughter in his arms. He rushed to the front desk, pushed past people in line, yelled at the staff, tried to get someone to pay attention. Cathy moaned, her sweaty head lolling as if she had no neck. A rushing in his ears drowned out all other sounds, and his eyes darted from one person in scrubs to the next. When he opened his mouth to yell again, Cathy vomited on the floor. As if a director had yelled Action, everyone moved at once. A woman with a wheelchair waved aside the guy with the clipboard and yelled, He can do that later! They asked Frank for symptoms, for his daughter’s name, then told the nurse at the desk to page the doctor. The curtain screeched as they yanked it back and deftly placed Cathy on the bed. She looked like a rag doll. More nurses, stethoscopes, pulse-ox on her finger, someone in scrubs pulled him aside to quietly go over the symptoms with him, poking the iPad she cradled with each thing he said. The nurse turned him away as they inserted an IV in his daughter’s arm and led him back to the waiting room to fill out the paperwork. He got as far as “Catherine A. Jankowski” when his gut roiled, and he clutched the clipboard tighter, knuckles whitening, scalp tingling as he waited for it to pass. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, counting breaths as images of his daughter surrounded by medical staff, machines, an IV hookup swam behind his eyes. Not again. Damn. Susan. He called her, told her they were in the emergency room. “Everything’s under control. Don’t worry. I’ll explain when you get here.” He didn’t want her to think it was as bad as it had been a year and a half ago. “Really, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Her worry would make her anxious, and her anxiety would make her yell at him. He pressed the button to end the call. Whatever this was, and it certainly warranted the ER, it couldn’t compare to the hit and run that took more than a year from Cathy’s life. The long hospital stay, the painful rehab. But she was past all that, seeing friends, catching up on her schoolwork. So this was just—dehydration from whatever cold or flu had laid her low. He gazed down at the clipboard as if it had just leapt into his hand. He wrote the address of Susan’s apartment on the form. His old apartment. The apartment they had found when he was first transferred to the New York Field Office, the one he thought they would stay in forever, stretching for a two-bedroom because they planned on children. He had been glad she’d kept the walls white, hung cheerful photographs, so when he came home, put his keys in the dish on the table, trying to shed the thoughts of all the evil things people did to other people, the nastiness he worked hard to fight every day, he would pause and try to put himself in the photograph, try to hear the people in them laughing, feel the gentle breeze— Someone sat down next to him and he shifted in the plastic chair, irritated that a stranger would invade his space like that. “Frank.” Susan, his wife—ex-wife—pulled the clipboard away from him and began filling in the form, glancing up at him as if trying to determine what kind of stupid he was. The rhythmic scratching of pen on paper calmed him. She checked off that Cathy had had her immunizations, was current on tetanus, that there was no history of diabetes in their family. The pen hovered over What brought you in today? She raised an eyebrow at Frank. “Are you going to tell me?” “I thought it was the flu.” He stared straight ahead, not wanting to see the accusations firing from her eyes. “But then she started hallucinating…” “The flu.” Susan’s pen scratched on the paper. “In August. You thought it was the flu.” “SuSu—” Frank turned toward her but quickly looked away when he caught the flare of her nostrils and the flash of her blue eyes. He shouldn’t have used his old name for her, but it had just slipped out. He watched the activity at the front desk for a beat, then said, his voice quiet, “You would have thought so, too.” “Not in August, Frank. I would never have thought that. Did she have a fever?” “She didn’t seem to. I felt her forehead because she was sweating so much, but—” “No thermometer at your apartment? How can that be? All these years of Cathy over there, and you don’t even have the rudiments of—the basics for—any way to take—” Susan tripped over her words, sputtered in her anger, and Frank stayed still, waited for it to pass. A man a few rows ahead of them tapped on his phone, his three children around him squirming and kicking each other, whining at their father, who didn’t respond. “…her symptoms?” His ex-wife had taken on a neutral tone, perhaps deciding that the paperwork was more important than fighting Frank. He listed the symptoms in the order they had occurred, the aches, the sweating, the vomiting. Her pen flew over the paper, her frown deepened as the list went on, ending with the hallucinations. “Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski?” Susan flinched, her lips thin, jaw tight. “Could you come with me, please?” The nurse checked for them over her shoulder, an iPad in her hand, led them down the hall, opened a door. “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski, let’s go in here—” “We’re divorced.” Susan forced the words through clenched teeth, sounding as if she wouldn’t mind going through the proceedings all over again. They followed the nurse into a small room crammed with desks. The young woman in her cartoon scrubs and bright clogs didn’t ask them to sit. She shut the door and turned to face them. She held up her iPad as if it were a shield, aimed her question at the device, her tone mild as if merely confirming Cathy’s age, “How long has your daughter been addicted to opioids?” *** Excerpt from The Brownstone on E. 83rd by Jenny Dandy. Copyright 2025 by Jenny Dandy. Reproduced with permission from Jenny Dandy. All rights reserved.

 

About Author Jenny Dandy:

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Jenny Dandy

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

Catch Up With Jenny Dandy:

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

 

 

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Don’t Miss Your Chance to Win! Enter Today!

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

 

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You Will Know Me By My Deeds By Mike Cobb ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 11, 2025 in Excerpt, giveaways, Historical
Tags: , ,
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YOU WILL KNOW ME BY MY DEEDS
by Mike Cobb
February 24 – March 21, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:

Billy Tarwater thought he had left the troubled past behind, until a series of ominous incidents threaten to destroy everything he and his wife hold dear. Someone is out to get them, and he is determined to uncover the truth before it’s too late. But as he delves deeper into the mystery, he realizes that the dark forces at play may be connected to the events of seventeen years ago. And to the Atlanta Child Murders. Join him on a heart-pounding journey of suspense and intrigue as he navigates the dangerous waters of his past and fights to protect the ones he loves. In a race against an unknown enemy, Billy must confront his darkest fears. Will he be able to uncover the truth before it’s too late, or will he and his wife become victims of the sinister forces at play?

Praise for You Will Know Me by My Deeds:

“Mike Cobb’s You Will Know Me by My Deeds is a taut, propulsive tale set against the harrowing backdrop of the 1980’s Atlanta Child Murders. Entertainingly addictive and menacing.” ~ Robert Gwaltney, award-winning author of The Cicada Tree and Georgia Author of the Year “Mike Cobb’s Atlanta-based historical fiction easily holds its place on the bookshelf next to Caleb Carr’s Alienist novels.” ~ Joey Madia, author of Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of M and the Stanton Chronicles historical fiction series “Mike Cobb’s enthralling and meticulously-researched mystery, You Will Know Me by My Deeds, sets a lofty standard for contemporary thrillers. Set in the heart of the ‘new’ south, Cobb’s vividly-wrought tale propels his readers through the tumult of an era and illuminates race relations at a difficult moment in Atlanta’s modern history. Grab this book for a satisfying and uplifting read.” ~ Steve Klein, Civil Rights Activist “I couldn’t put this book down and had to finish it in one sitting! Once again Mike Cobb has crafted a plausible story with strong characters, a sense of place, and rich historical detail regarding a tragic chapter of my beloved Atlanta’s history – the missing and murdered children from 1979 to 1981.” ~ Lisa Land Cooper, Author and Historian “Mike Cobb’s prose is powerful, and his plot is dark, complex and full of surprises. You will find a rich, earthy view of old Atlanta complete with all its beauty, weaknesses and the diverse attitudes of the Old South.” ~ Jeff Shaw, author of Who I Am; The Man Behind the Badge and Lieutenant Trufant “A bracing historical thriller that further enriches this top-notch series.” ~ Kirkus Reviews “This is an excellent book with an engaging mystery and an intriguing conclusion. It’s clear that research is paramount to Mike Cobb’s writing. I could really identify with how he wove true crimes into this fictional one. I look forward to reading more from him.” ~ Ed Begley Jr., Award-winning actor, producer, environmental activist, and author of To the Temple of Tranquility…and Step On It!: A Memoir

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You Will Know Me by My Deeds Trailer:

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Book Details:

Genre: Historical Crime Fiction 

Published by: Waterside Production Publication Date: January 2025 Number of Pages: 444 ISBN: 978-1962984720 Series: Sequel to The Devil You Knew 

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

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Enjoy this peek inside:
Chapter One
Cynthia Tarwater
Monday, December 14th, 1981 Two blurred headlights, ragged halos in the rearview, broke the Stygian pitch. Cynthia gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles blanched. The rain cascaded down the windshield in gelid sheets. The wiper blades thwacked the edge of the Suburban’s cowl like a metronome. For the past twenty-four hours, Atlanta had been beset by a heavy downfall and scant visibility. She struggled to make out the road ahead. For the first five minutes of the drive, Billy Jr. and Addie had jabbered away in the back seat like sugar-high Energizer Bunnies. Then they sank into oblivion. Just like that, she thought. Nothing like a weekend sleepover at Grandma Alice’s to wear the kids out. She stopped at the intersection of Flat Shoals and Glenwood. The barbershop to her left was long gone, a victim of white flight, its plate glass windows boarded up with fly-posted plywood. She could almost hear the snip snip of Mr. Batson’s clippers beckoning from yore. The snap of Sam Jepperson’s shoeshine cloth beseeching a generous tip. The redolence of Bay Rum and Kiwi polish. Not that she ever got her hair cut—or her shoes shined—there. But her father Cecil dragged her along on more than one occasion with the promise that they’d go next door for a vanilla shake if only she’d sit like a “good girl” and watch him get trimmed. She had often wondered whether he did things like that just to piss her off. His way of controlling. Or did he really want her company? The car that had been following her since she pulled out of Billy’s mother’s driveway lingered half a block behind. When the light changed, she turned left onto Glenwood. She looked in the mirror. The car turned left and kept its distance. Probably nothing. At the Gresham Avenue intersection, she glanced over at what had been Harry’s Army Surplus. Now, like the barbershop, just another padlocked casualty. A long-suppressed memory welled up. Saturday, September 28th, 1963. She was thirteen. So capricious and carefree, like most girls her age. She left the East Atlanta Pharmacy by the front door and headed west toward Moreland Avenue. Just past Harry’s, she looked back and saw a car following her. When she stopped, it stopped. When she went, it went. That had been her last recollection from before the erasure—what she later came to know by its medical name. Localized psychogenic amnesia. For seventeen years, the next thing she had remembered was waking up at Grady Hospital with an officer standing guard outside her door. The nurse had said You’re not Cynthia now. You’re Patti. With an i. Or something to that effect. She would later learn that the police had contrived the alias to protect her from her abductor. It wasn’t until October a year ago that everything began coming back to Cynthia in a torrent. What had been an eradication of five weeks of her past, leaving in its wake a deep, dark abyss, had begun to come back in a matter of days. This wouldn’t have happened without Billy’s help. And his dogged determination. Did she welcome the recovered memory? There were times when she wondered whether knowing was better than incognizance. Closure would feel right. But knowledge alone doesn’t bring closure. And could closure ever come for the families of the girls who didn’t survive? Why had she made it out alive, and the others hadn’t? She inched her way down Glenwood past Moreland Avenue. At the Boulevard intersection, she glanced across the street at Fire Station No. 10. A half dozen firemen were huddled under the overhang in front of the station. For a moment, she thought she saw Billy’s brother Chester standing there smoking a cigarette and chatting up the others. But Chester hadn’t lasted a year as a fireman before bugging out for the merchant marines, thinking he could avoid the draft. He ended up on the SS Mayaguez ferrying supplies through combat zones in Vietnam. Came home intact but with a chip on his shoulder. She turned right. She drove up Boulevard past Memorial Drive, hugging the eastern edge of Oakland Cemetery before assuming a northwesterly course past the shuttered Fulton Cotton Mill and through the railroad underpass. She looked back. The car continued to follow her. That’s when she realized that it wasn’t nothing. Perhaps she should have taken the expressway. But she had chosen not to. Visibility was bad enough on the surface roads. As she neared the intersection with Ponce de Leon, the light turned yellow. She accelerated and took a hard left, hoping the car would stop on red. It didn’t. When she turned right on Peachtree, then left on Fifth, the driver continued to dog her. Cynthia eased into The Belmont courtyard. The other car stopped briefly at the turn-in then crept down Fifth. She craned her neck, trying to get a good look at it. At the driver. But she could see little through the relentless downpour and the fogged windshield. She parked the Suburban at The Belmont entrance. She waited for the rain to abate enough for her to get the kids inside without a drenching. Then she hurried them into the lobby under her flimsy throwaway umbrella made for one. She closed the umbrella and hooked it on her wrist. She held Billy Jr. and Addie’s hands tight, lest they slip on the marble floor. They crossed the threshold into the elevator cab, leaving a trail of dripping water behind. She punched 4. When the doors opened, Billy was standing in the fourth-floor vestibule. He was in his light beige mackintosh and floppy yellow rain hat. “Clairvoyant, are we?” Cynthia said. “I saw you out the window and was on my way down to help. But you beat me to it.” He placed his hand on her upper arm. “Cynthia, you’re trembling.” “It’s just the biting cold. I’m fine. I need to get these rug rats out of their wet clothes and into their PJs. And then sit for a while. You can park the car if you don’t mind.” “Of course I don’t mind. That’s the least I can do.” She held out the umbrella. “Want this?” “No thanks.” He knelt in front of Billy Jr. and Addie. “How’s Grandma?” “Feisty as ever,” Cynthia answered. “She sure knows how to cut a look. But the kids adore her, and that’s what matters most. And compared to my mother…let’s just say you’re the lucky one and leave it at that.” When Billy returned, Cynthia was already curled up in her favorite overstuffed chair with a glass of Merlot. Her socks and Clarks slip-ons lay pell-mell on the floor about her. The open umbrella stood atilt in the corner of the room. “That was quick,” he said. She took a sip. Notes of black cherry, of vanilla and sandalwood, teased her throat. “I’m sure the kids are deep into sugar-plum dreams by now. Grab a pour and join me. There’s something you need to know.” Billy, glass in hand, plopped into the chair beside her. “What is it?” “I need to tell you about a flashback I had. And about a car.” He listened as Cynthia told him about the car that had followed her from his mother’s house. “Could you tell what kind it was?” he asked. “I couldn’t tell a thing, Billy.” She ran her finger along the chair’s piping, tracing in her mind the path she had taken. “All I know is it looked big. Maybe a sedan.” “I don’t think you should be out late at night by yourself, Cynthia. It seems like every day more shit happens. Carjackings. Murders.” “At least Wayne Williams is locked up.” She searched her thoughts. “Those poor children. And their grieving families.” Billy’s hesitation baffled her. He just sat there for a minute without saying a word. He finally spoke. “Tell me about the flashback.” “The whole thing with the kidnapping came rushing back tonight. It hit me hard, just as I passed the old army surplus. I guess it was my being right there where my thirteen-year-old self had been lured away.” She held her glass in the air. “More, please.” He refilled it and topped his off. He set the bottle on the side table, leaned over, and took her hand. “I’m so sorry, Cynthia.” “It wasn’t what I expected. I thought I had finally put it all behind me, with Kilgallon…excuse me, the Reverend Kilgallon…dead and Sam Jepperson exonerated and freed. But now I’m not so certain. Maybe it’ll haunt me forever.” “I hope not. I just wish there was something I could do to make things better.” “I’ll be okay.” “Are you sure?” “I’m sure. Life goes on, doesn’t it? And I don’t believe I have a choice in the matter.” *** Excerpt from You Will Know Me by My Deeds by Mike Cobb. Copyright 2025 by Mike Cobb. Reproduced with permission from Mike Cobb. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Mike Cobb:

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Mike Cobb

Mike’s body of literary work includes both fiction and nonfiction, short-form and long-form, as well as articles and blogs. He is the author of three published novels, Dead Beckoning, The Devil You Knew, and its sequel You Will Know Me by My Deeds. His fourth novel, Muzzle the Black Dog, a novella, is scheduled for release in May 2025. He is also working on Kathleen, a fictionalized account of a cold case murder from 1970. While he is comfortable playing across a broad range of topics, much of his focus is on true crime, crime fiction, and historical fiction. Rigorous research is foundational to his writing. He gets that honestly, having spent much of his professional career as a scientist. A native of Atlanta, Mike splits his time between Midtown Atlanta and Blue Ridge, Georgia.

Catch Up With Mike Cobb: www.MikeCobbWriter.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @cobbmg1 Instagram – @cobbmg YouTube – @mikecobbwriter X – @mgcobb Facebook – @MGCobbWriter LinkedIn – @mgcobb

 

 

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Malice, Matrimony & Murder ~ Limited Addition Of 25 Wedding Cozy Mystery And Crime Stories

Posted: December 10, 2023 in Cozy Mystery, giveaways
Tags: , , ,
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Malice, Matrimony, and Murder:

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A Limited-Edition Collection of 25 Wedding Cozy Mystery and Crime Fiction Stories
by Joslyn Chase, Charlotte Morganti, P.M. Raymond, Paige Sleuth, Teresa Inge, Sally Milliken, Rebecca Olmstead, Nikki Knight, Shari Held, Barbara Howard, Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier, KD Sherrinford, Stephen D. Rogers, Elaine Togneri, Lynn Hesse, Margaret S. Hamilton, Stella Oni, Robert Petyo, Pamela Kyel, Karen McCullough, Wil A. Emerson, Jack Bates, J. Aquino, Sharyn Kolberg, Becky Clark

 


Malice, Matrimony, and Murder: A Limited-Edition Collection of 25 Wedding Cozy Mystery and Crime Fiction Stories
Cozy Mystery
Marla Bradeen (November 13, 2023)
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 478 pages
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 979-8223154907
Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0CGT6T9BL

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The bride wore an orange jumpsuit…

Everyone loves a good wedding–and a good mystery. Combine the two and what do you get? Malice, Matrimony, and Murder!

Over two dozen authors have teamed up to offer you this wedding-themed collection of brand-new cozy mystery and cozy crime fiction stories that will keep you wondering whodunit and what’s next from the first page to the last. Between bad bridesmaids, conniving caterers, greedy guests, ill-mannered in-laws, savvy sleuths, and vengeful villains, this anthology has it all! All of the stories are clean and fun, with a general feel-good tone. If you read to be entertained, surprised, and uplifted, then this collection is for you!

Plus, the anthology as a whole contains an overarching wedding whodunit woven throughout. As you’re reading, collect the clues, identify whodunit, and access a special ebook filled with bonuses and extras. Inside you’ll find recipes, character interviews, bonus stories, and more!

If you’re drawn to shorter mysteries that are light on gore and language, and high on humor, entertainment, and happy endings, then you don’t want to miss out on Malice, Matrimony, and Murder. But this collection is only available for a limited-time, so grab it now before it’s gone forever!

Our stories:

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– “The Groom’s Club” by Joslyn Chase.
– “A Wedding Planner’s Nightmare: A Persimmon Worthing Mystery” by Charlotte Morganti.
– “Cinderella at Midnight” by P.M. Raymond.
– “Ring Robbery: A Cozy Cat Caper Mystery Short” by Paige Sleuth.
– “What’s a Little Murder Between Friends” by Teresa Inge.
– “Icing on the Cake” by Sally Milliken.
– “Love and Death in Madison, Georgia” by Rebecca Olmstead.
– “Second Chances Are…Murder: A Vermont Radio Mystery” by Nikki Knight.
– “Wedding Vows & Vipers” by Shari Held.
– “The Bride Wore Death” by Barbara Howard.
– “Chill: A Naomi Sinclair Short Story” by Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier.
– “A Bit of a Do” by KD Sherrinford.
– “Goes Around” by Stephen D. Rogers.
– “Jilted” by Elaine Togneri.
– “Sabotage and a Murder Mystery” by Lynn Hesse.
– “Til Death Do Us Part” by Margaret S. Hamilton.
– “A Wedding Most Bitter: A Lara’s Detective Agency Series” by Stella Oni.
– “Better Late Than Murdered” by Robert Petyo.
– “Charm City Wedding” by Pamela Kyel.
– “The Other Wedding Crasher” by Karen McCullough.
– “Marriage, Neighbors and Best Friends: A Wally and Ollie Series” by Wil A. Emerson.
– “The Wedding Dress in the Middle of the Road” by Jack Bates.
– “Death, the Unwanted Wedding Guest” by J. Aquino.
– “We Haven’t Had Cake” by Sharyn Kolberg.
– “To Have and To Scold” by Becky Clark.

Author Websites

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Joslyn Chase
Charlotte Morganti
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Paige Sleuth
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Rebecca Olmstead
Nikki Knight
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Barbara Howard
Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier
KD Sherrinford
Stephen D. Rogers
Elaine Togneri
Lynn Hesse
Margaret S. Hamilton
Stella Oni
Pamela Kyel
Karen McCullough
Wil A. Emerson
Becky Clark

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Publisher Website
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Amazon     Barnes & Noble     Apple Books     Kobo    Smashwords    Books2Read Universal Link   GoodReads Link 

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TOUR PARTICIPANTS

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Dirty Old Town by Gabriel Valjan ~ Spotlight and Giveaway

Posted: March 13, 2020 in crime fiction, giveaways, Historical, Mystery
Tags: , , ,
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Dirty Old Town

A Shane Cleary Mystery

by Gabriel Valjan

On Tour March 1st thru April 30th.

49704577

Genre: Crime Fiction, Mystery, Procedural, Historical Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 14th 2020
Number of Pages: 162
ISBN: 1087857325 (ISBN13: 9781087857329)
Series: A Shane Cleary Mystery
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Synopsis

“Robert B. Parker would stand and cheer, and George V. Higgins would join the ovation. This is a terrific book–tough, smart, spare, and authentic. Gabriel Valjan is a true talent–impressive and skilled–providing knock-out prose, a fine-tuned sense of place and sleekly wry style.”– Hank Phillippi Ryan, nationally bestselling author of The Murder List

Shane Cleary, a PI in a city where the cops want him dead, is tough, honest and broke. When he’s asked to look into a case of blackmail, the money is too good for him to refuse, even though the client is a snake and his wife is the woman who stomped on Shane’s heart years before. When a fellow vet and Boston cop with a secret asks Shane to find a missing person, the paying gig and the favor for a friend lead Shane to an arsonist, mobsters, a shady sports agent, and Boston’s deadliest hitman, the Barbarian. With both criminals and cops out to get him, the pressure is on for Shane to put all the pieces together before time runs out.

About

Gabriel is the author of two series, Roma and Company Files, with Winter Goose Publishing. Dirty Old Town is the first in the Shane Cleary series for Level Best Books. His short stories have appeared online, in journals, and in several anthologies. He has been a finalist for the Fish Prize, shortlisted for the Bridport Prize, and received an Honorable Mention for the Nero Wolfe Black Orchid Novella Contest in 2018. You can find him on Twitter (@GValjan) and Instagram (gabrielvaljan). He lurks the hallways at crime fiction conferences, such as Bouchercon, Malice Domestic, and New England Crime Bake. Gabriel is a lifetime member of Sisters in Crime.

Author Links: Website / Goodreads / Bookbub / Instagram / Twitter / Facebook

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