Posts Tagged ‘crime thriller’

 

The Missing Corpse by Yasin Kakande Banner

THE MISSING CORPSE
by Yasin Kakande
January 12 – February 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
THE GENERAL’S PROJECT

 

The president is dead. His son’s pretending he’s not. And the corpse? Well, that’s missing.

When the CIA sniffs out whispers that an African general—who also happens to be the president’s darling son—may have murdered dear old dad and stashed the body like last week’s leftovers, they send in their best bloodhound: Agent Shawn Wayles. He’s good at two things—digging up dirt and getting shot at in places the U.S. swears it’s not involved. This time, Shawn’s not alone. He’s paired with an LGBTQ couple who have more secrets than the Vatican and fewer moral brakes. Their mission? Retrieve the dead president’s body from the general’s paranoid, trigger-happy security team. Because in this twisted power struggle, it’s not the living who rule—it’s the guy in the coffin. And whoever has the corpse… controls the country.

Praise for The Missing Corpse:

“A work of fiction told with the force of truth.” ~ The Niche “Right off the bat, I could tell this was going to be a dark read. There is a real sense of menace and threat from the get go… Thoroughly enjoyed this and will definitely be up for reading any future books.” ~ Donna Morfett, Goodreads Review “I thought the plot was a fantastic idea and brilliantly written.” ~ Claire Ball, Goodreads Review

 

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller

Published by: Black Writers Ink LLC Publication Date: September 11, 2025 Number of Pages: 379 ISBN: 979-8990984448 Series: The General’s Project, Book 2

Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Audible

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Enjoy this peek inside:

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The General knew—like a rotting tooth you can’t stop tonguing—just how hard his old man had worked to hammer him into something resembling a real man, using boot camps, backdoor deals, and enough disappointment to fill a graveyard. Before the president found Twitter—sorry, X—for him, he mostly just found disappointment. And not the subtle, quiet kind. No, this was loud, public, teeth-grinding failure. The kind that makes a father grip his whiskey glass hard enough to shatter it. The boy was dull. A wet match in a thunderstorm. The people ignored him like a pothole they’d grown used to swerving around. The president, who fancied himself a blend of warlord and wise grandfather, had done all the right things—by dictator standards. He’d oiled the machinery, laid the bricks. He’d shipped the lad off to Sandhurst, the British womb for future coup-makers and ceremonial dictators. But the academy spat him out like a bad oyster after just one year. Reason? “Intellectual capacity insufficient for command responsibilities.” That’s British for “the boy was dumb as soup.” Panic set in. The president, no stranger to coups or cover-ups, scrambled for another boot camp that would accept his undercooked progeny. And God bless Africa—it never disappoints. Egypt, under old mummy Hosni Mubarak, opened its arms. The president’s warning was clear as day and sharp as a bayonet: “If you fail here, don’t ever mention my name again.” The boy emerged months later with a piece of paper that said he could command a battalion. No one bothered to ask if it was his own handwriting. Still not satisfied, Daddy rang his buddies in Langley. Mr. Taylor—CIA spook with a neck like a tree stump—hooked him up with a slot at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. That’s where the U.S. trained its foreign military friends—the ones that smiled for cameras by day and broke skulls by night. The General graduated. Barely. His grades so low they had to be excavated. Back home, the president, desperate to turn the boy into something—anything—decided to mold him into a public figure. He hired speech coaches, media whisperers, ex-BBC anchors, even a former Miss Uganda who once read the weather on WBS Television. Still, every time the General opened his mouth in public, it was a horror show. His hands trembled like a leaf in a blender. He couldn’t pronounce words. Once, he called “sovereignty” soup-ver-nanny and the room went so silent you could hear careers dying. But then came the miracle: Twitter. Well, X. Rebranded like a shady funeral home. The president’s advisors—witchdoctors in suits—pitched a bold idea: give the boy a Twitter account. Hire a comedian ghostwriter. Make him sound dangerous. Sexy. Unhinged. Like Idi Amin with a smartphone. Enter the ghostwriter—a washed-up tabloid journalist who once faked an alien sighting in Karamoja and got sued by a Catholic bishop. The guy was perfect. He knew how to stir the pot with one tweet and have the country boiling by lunch. The General gave him ideas—half-mumbled thoughts between sips of imported whiskey—and the ghostwriter turned them into gold. Tweets like: Kenya has two weeks left. Consider this your final warning. #WeMarchAtDawn The country gasped. The president “fired” the General. He even sent an apology to Kenya. A public scandal. Oh no, Daddy can’t control his baby boy! The media gobbled it up like pigs at a buffet. But behind the curtain, the ghostwriter kept churning out wild, headline-drenched tweets. The General was now lusting after Beyoncé and Ayra Starr like a horny war god in fatigues. He made bizarre threats about airstrikes on Tanzanian Bongo Flava concerts. People were horrified. People were entertained. *** Excerpt from chapter 24 of The Missing Corpse by Yasin Kakande. Copyright 2025 by Yasin Kakande. Reproduced with permission from Yasin Kakande. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Yasin Kakande:

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Yasin Kakande

Yasin Kakande is an international journalist, TED Global Fellow, and author of several critically praised non-fiction books, including “Why We Are Coming” and “Slave States,” which offer fresh perspectives on immigration and geopolitics. His journalism career includes contributions to outlets such as The New York Times, Thomson Reuters, Al Jazeera, The National, and The Boston Globe. Yasin holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College and resides outside Boston.

Catch Up With Yasin Kakande:

Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @yasikak Instagram – @yasikak Threads – @yasikak X – @yasikak Facebook – @yasikak

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway! Click here to view the Tour Schedule  

 

 

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The Iris Code: A Tracker Novel
by Anita Dickason


The Iris Code: A Tracker Novel
Crime Thriller
Series: A Stand-Alone Story – Part of the FBI Tracker novels
Setting – Fredericksburg, Texas
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Mystic Circle Books (June 20, 2024)
Hardcover‎ : 318 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1958464066
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1958464069
Paperback: ‎ 318 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1958464058
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1958464052
Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0CW13NLFS

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Local reporter and photographer Riley Phillips stumbles upon the unthinkable during a routine Human Remains Detection canine training session at an abandoned farm near Fredericksburg, Texas. When her cadaver dog, Milo, unexpectedly alerts, she makes a chilling discovery—a corpse with a bullet hole in the skull.

Riley’s nose for news is already twitching, but when the unidentified body is stolen, her journalistic instincts ignite. Who is determined to keep the victim’s identity a secret—and why?

Could her crime scene photos hold the key? What her camera captured propels the elite FBI Tracker Unit into action and places her squarely in the crosshairs of a killer. Learning the identity of the mystery man takes on an ominous urgency.

Can Riley and FBI Tracker Cody Lightfoot uncover the truth before a deadly plot unfolds—or will they become the next targets?

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About Anita Dickason 

Award-winning author Anita Dickason writes about what she knows, cops and crime. After twenty-two years with the Dallas Police Department, Anita has an unending source of inspiration for her plots. Many incidents and characters are based on her experiences. During her tenure, she served as a patrol officer, undercover narcotics officer, advanced accident investigator, tactical officer and the first female sniper on the Dallas SWAT team.

Links: Website / Facebook / LinkedIn / YouTube / YouTube

Purchase Link – Amazon 

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TOUR PARTICIPANTS

June 16 – Books, Ramblings, and Tea – SPOTLIGHT

June 16 – Jody’s Bookish Haven – SPOTLIGHT

June 17 – Ascroft, eh? – AUTHOR INTERVIEW

June 18 – Maureen’s Musings – SPOTLIGHT 

June 19 – Novels Alive – REVIEW

June 20 – Frugal Freelancer – AUTHOR GUEST POST

June 21 – Sapphyria’s Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

June 22 – FUONLYKNEW – SPOTLIGHT

June 23 – Christy’s Cozy Corners – AUTHOR GUEST POST

June 24 – Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book – REVIEW

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

 

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New Age Crime Thriller That Will Leave You Breathless From
Shock And Excitement!

‘Sci-fi and mystery readers shouldn’t miss this one!’

– Readers Favorite

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Persephone’s Pool

by Marie Montine

Genre: SciFi Crime Thriller

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“The settings
and the unusual killings make for compelling, often unexpected material…A
detailed, futuristic detective story that is anything but typical.” –
 Kirkus
Reviews

“A scrumptious mix of suspense,
mystery, and intrigue makes Persephone’s Pool a delightful treat that sci-fi
and crime lovers will relish.” – 
Pikasho Deka for Readers’
Favorite


Seven meets Lucy in this New Age Crime Thriller that takes
investigators to different crime scenes on multiple planets on a dangerous,
mythological game of cat and mouse!

A hundred years from now people can visit any planet in the solar system and
take a vacation.
Despite all of the technological advancements, a new craving emerges:
spirituality.
With the Age of Aquarius on the threshold, intergalactic murders involving
mythology begin.
And it’s up to two investigators to find out why.
But the further they get into their investigation, the more dangerous the game
becomes.


‘Author Marie
Montine repeatedly pulls the rug out from under your feet with a plot featuring
multiple twists and turns you never see coming. The reveals are unexpected and
shocking. What impressed me is how Montine provides each character with enough
urgency and distinct personality traits so that the reader is completely
invested in their story arcs. The setting feels believably futuristic, which
makes the story very immersive. You don’t know if your favorite characters will
make it out alive, and it keeps you on the edge of your seat. Sci-fi and
mystery readers shouldn’t miss this one!’ – Readers Favorite

Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

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Chapter One

Nyx’s Tricks

Eloise’s stomach turned as she tried to gather her bearings in the darkness. She felt lost and disoriented. She reached out with her hands, but they felt light as air and failed to make contact with any walls.

In the distance, four lights broke through the blackness.

Did she drink so much alcohol that she was wasted, staggering through someone else’s hallway after a night of partying?

The lights turned into doorways, and loud laughter radiated from one of them. She moved closer to the door, which pulsed with happiness. The door opened. A five-year-old girl was chasing a bunny with long, messy hair.

It was Eloise’s pet, Muffin!

Without logic or reason, Eloise hurried through the door.

 

Eloise flew out of the chamber and nearly fell over onto a grated metal floor.

A group of technicians ran over to help steady her before moving her to a chair.

“Do you know who you are and where you are?” asked a scientist in a white spacesuit.

Eloise looked around the room. She was in a space station. Her astral projection had successfully latched onto a host in the form of a robotic body. But the rate of recovery and integrated hand-eye coordination was astounding; she raised her arm with no issue.

She shook her head, recalling what the technicians back on Earth at Asteria Applications—the company responsible for creating humanoid hosts—had said: For consciousness to find its destination in the void, the person needed to recall a vivid memory for the OBE traveler to clutch onto. When she had entered the door, she entered the host’s body.

And one of Eloise’s triggering memories was chasing her pet bunny, Muffin.

“I’m Eloise Mayer. I’m assisting PAAS—Pluto Alliance Armed Services—on a murder investigation.”

Eloise found it so strange to be somewhere else, hearing herself talk in a different voice, and being in a body that she could sense but not really feel. She didn’t have an itch, and she didn’t feel hot or cold. She didn’t feel hungry or full, heavy or light. She felt like she was in a VR game, her mind the controller.

After Eloise completed a cognitive assessment, a tall man walked into the room. He wore a black spacesuit with a purple insignia on his shoulder revealing he was with Pluto Forces, a team of soldiers who handled everything on Pluto from security to military.

He held out his hand. “Ahmed Ryker.”

Eloise willed her hand to extend to his in greeting. It was just like being in her own body except for the loss of touch.

“You’ve got a firm grip, Miss Mayer,” Ahmed said with a smile, his teeth white and pristine against his brown face.

“I’m just not used to this body yet,” she said, looking around the room for a technician. “Could I have a mirror, please?”

A scientist handed her one, and Eloise thanked her. She held up the purple-rimmed glass and saw someone else looking back at her. The automaton she inhabited—a green-blood, as they were commonly known—had dark hair and blue eyes, unlike her own red hair and green eyes. The skin’s texture was realistic; she wished she could touch it with her own hands to see how it really felt.

Another scientist walked into the small room with a man who looked like a blond Ken doll and who walked just as stiffly.

“Greetings from Mars,” the Ken doll said. “My name is Aiden Geth from the United Nations Interplanetary Council, Investigations—UNIC Investigations, for short.” He marched to Eloise as if his knees were locked. “You must be Eloise Mayer from Earth, uh, Sky …”

When his voice trailed away, Eloise finished for him. “From Sky Script Services, on Earth. I have a doctorate in astrological studies, including astrochemistry and astrophysics.”

Aiden’s robot didn’t respond or even make a move. Either his bot had malfunctioned, or he was processing what she had said. Normally it was the latter whenever she told someone her title; her country was the only one in the Western world that gave an astrologer that title, provided the student also studied astrophysics. It was not long ago that the two were one and the same.

“If you’re ready and oriented with your host, Mr. Geth, I would like to get to it,” Eloise said, letting one of the scientists help her into a lightweight black spacesuit which would allow her to blend in with the public and not arouse curiosity.

 

Eloise looked out of the window of the transport shuttle sliding down the cable as the shuttle plunged toward Pluto’s surface. She didn’t know how high up they were, but it was enough to make her feel nauseated. She worried she may lose connection to her host and awake in her own body, botching her first investigation.

Be in the here and now, her mind whispered, returning her full attention to her surroundings.

The planet’s surface was charcoal gray in some areas, red in others. Massive snow-topped mountains clawed ten thousand feet into the sky. The distant sunlight reminded her of an eclipse; long shadows stretched across the frozen, rocky terrain as if a bright moon cast its light transversely. What struck her as the most awe-inspiring was Charon, the massive moon in the sky. It was so large, she fretted it could fall any time and crush them all like a boulder on an anthill.

She looked at Aiden next to her, who grinned inside his black space mask.

Ahmed’s brows were furrowed as he looked down at his holotab.

“What’s so funny?” Eloise asked the Ken-bot.

“Just that a country girl from Canada is in a place like this. She is way out of her league.” Aiden gazed at her smugly. He took off his helmet and ran his hand through his synthetic hair.

“Oh, let me guess. You don’t appreciate your organization dumbing down to my level of expertise,” Eloise said with a sigh. “You know, with the global revolt against AI, that spirituality is on the rise again? You better get with the program.”

Aiden didn’t respond right away. “Just don’t get your panties in a bunch, Ellie, with what you’re going to see out there.”

“I don’t wear panties.” Eloise regretted saying it the moment it spilled out; she was more of a lady than that. She was glad her mechanical stand-in couldn’t blush. “And you can call me Dr. Mayer; only my friends call me Ellie.”

Her statement quieted Aiden. When she stole a glance at him, she was sure that his grin this time came from genuine amusement and respect.

Ahmed looked up at them both. “You two aren’t going to have a problem working together, right?”

“No, no, we’re fine,” Eloise said, turning her attention back to the window. She was a little angry and annoyed that this new partner of hers was taking away from her experience of such a remarkable planet. She had been informed that Pluto was for the rich and elite—thanks to the hefty price tag of one million U.S. credits — who really wanted to get away from it all. She looked down at the docking station as they approached, and at the massive domed city in the distance. Against the dark backdrop of the planet, the lights glowed within like an amusement park.

“How long does it actually take someone to travel here?” Eloise breathed, captivated by the planet.

“It takes five years, so for most, it’s their final destination,” Ahmed said. “For me, I’ll stay here until I retire. Ninety-nine percent of the population are red-bloods; the green-bloods are reserved for the ones who want to take a vacation here without actually coming here, or for top-secret missions like yours. But honestly, not many people know how to successfully connect their consciousness to an android host, so it’s not a popular way to travel. We have a host at our precinct, but I have never been able to use it successfully. Hell, I can’t even meditate.”

“Must have been a pretty penny to send us both up here,” Aiden said.

Ahmed nodded. “It was.”

“So, let’s not disappoint,” Eloise said.

The transport came to a smooth stop, and they put their helmets back on. The door slid open, and a security woman greeted them asking to check their IDs. Once they were verified, they followed Ahmed into a windowed tunnel that led to the first domed city.

“Welcome to Nix, where you can get your kicks, as the saying goes—but don’t quote me on that,” Ahmed said. “Go to the murder scene and don’t deviate from your destination, or we will immediately disengage you from your host.”

Eloise pictured her body in a capsule-like bed chamber where nothing could touch her or else her consciousness would automatically reconnect with her physical self.

“So we can’t get our kicks here,” Aiden said, feigning disappointment. “Not much of a tour guide, but I heard you’re one helluva star soldier.”

Ahmed gave the blond automaton a look Eloise couldn’t read.

They walked the gravel streets toward two-story buildings, the area reminding her of a modern, colorful Western world. They passed one museum shop showcasing black, eel-like creatures slithering in water tanks. Ahmed said that deep within Pluto, there were warm oceans full of life, and the eels were one of the natural species.

While Pluto’s fragile ground prevented the construction of tall buildings, the places—and even the people—appeared futuristic: Shops lured people in with colorful holographic posters and signs, and spacesuits glowed with LED lights. Visitors had to wear spacesuits while they ventured in the domes; while the domes provided some barrier from the planet’s radiation, it wasn’t 100%. The suits displayed the health status of the person wearing it—as well as the suit itself—with electroluminescent backlighting. She could only imagine what the radiation would do to a person should the dome or suits fail. But apparently, some people thrived on living on the edge, another reason for a well-off person who already had it all wanting to move here.

Aiden was watching her. “The surface can cave in at any time and crumble like an eggshell if this planet gets close enough to the sun.”

“That will be in about 245 years,” Eloise said, glancing at him. “Maybe we’ll come up with something by then. I’d be more worried about the radiation risk this planet poses.”

Aiden studied her but remained silent.

They walked up the stairs of a two-story building, the corridor blocked by digital police tape. Ahmed used his holotab to disengage the digital holography signage. He swiped the electronic door lock with his wristband, and they entered the apartment.

“You two are lucky you can’t smell this place,” the soldier said, putting a clear mask over his nose. “Follow me this way.”

They walked to the last room. When they entered, it became clear why she was asked to be included on this investigation.

On the floor rested Trevor Ikeda, blood pooled around him. The slender, dark-haired Japanese man in his forties had deep cuts on both his stomach and forehead, the latter more of a puncture.

Eloise cried out and jumped back, right into Aiden’s arms. He smiled self-indulgently as he looked down at her, one hand around her waist, his other hand on her hips. She straightened herself and studied the room, moving as far away from him as the room allowed.

“I gather this is your first time seeing a deceased person,” Ahmed said.

Eloise nodded, stealing a glance at Aiden, whose gaze lingered on her.

“Then I apologize on behalf of PAAS, for our misinformation,” the Indian soldier said. “We should’ve had the body removed before your arrival and given you images to work with instead.”

“Thank you,” Eloise said. “I appreciate your concern. I’m fine now.”

She wasn’t fine. She needed a minute to collect herself, so she moved about the room, wondering if she should run out or even disengage from her synthetic host. All she had to do was press a button on the humanoid’s forearm, which would activate physical stimulation on her real body and bring her back instantaneously; the soul had an easier time returning to its physical body than it did leaving it.

Be a professional, she chastised herself. She breathed deeply, pretending to look over various objects. She reached into her pocket for her meds and stopped herself, remembering she was in a synth body.

When her panic attack subsided, she focused on what was in front of her.

On a desk was a staff, a warrior’s helm, and a small handmade chariot. On the wall hung a pitchfork, as well as paintings of three dogs. All on its own on another wall, was a portrait of a beautiful woman with long brown hair and purple eyes, with green just around the pupils. Directly across from this painting, on the opposite wall, was a startling image of a woman with snakes for hair.

What did the star Algol have to do with the rest of the room? She wondered, turning away from the image that was nothing short of disturbing.

“This place is rife with mythology,” she said, glancing at her partner. “And you’re bothered by my background?”

“How so?” Aiden asked.

“The victim,” Eloise began, “turned this room into one of devotion. He worshipped the god of the underworld. The objects on the table represent the things he used, and the objects on the wall represent the things he adored. The mat on the floor was where he meditated. He was so obsessed with the god of the underworld that he even came here, to the god’s planet, Pluto.”

Ahmed finished tapping on his holotab before he asked, “Does this room reveal why he did this to the victim?”

Eloise kneeled and looked at the wounds; she exhaled a shaky breath. The victim was wearing a black onyx necklace.

It suddenly became clear.

“He wasn’t meditating to the planet,” Eloise breathed. “He was siphoning from it, absorbing it, and someone interrupted him.”

“What do you mean by absorbing the planet?” Aiden asked.

“Everything in our universe comprises matter and energy. Each planet has its own unique signature. This man was inhaling the essence of this planet and feeding it into his own energy.” She pointed to his abdomen. “See the wound on the lower belly? That’s the sacral chakra, an area of energy ruled by two planets, one of them being Pluto.”

The men looked at each other in silence.

Ahmed’s holotab lit up, and he skimmed over the message. “The UNIC’s investigations department wants to have you instated as a full-time associate, meaning as an assisting civilian.”

Eloise’s mouth dropped open. “Full time? Is this not an isolated incident?”

Ahmed moved closer to Eloise, holding the small, flat electronic device level. A hologram of an aging woman in a gray suit with a slicked-back ponytail emerged from the holotab.

“No, Ms. Mayer, we don’t believe it is,” Chancellor Winnifred North of the Intergalactic Colonies Committee said. “Your partner’s murder proves this is only the beginning.”

Eloise looked at Aiden. “What? But …”

Aiden’s automaton stood with his head lowered, as if he had fallen asleep standing.

“Somebody just killed him? Now?” Eloise’s voice rose. They weren’t particularly getting along, but she didn’t wish him dead, either.

Was she next?

Ahmed put the holotab on the table and reached for his gun. He then stepped in front of Eloise, pointing the gun at the door.

Eloise sensed a presence nearby, but there was no one else in the room.

“No, Ms. Mayer, that wasn’t him,” the chancellor said from the holotab. “Someone killed your partner five hours ago. The person using Aiden’s synth may have been the killer himself.”

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Describe your writing style.

My writing style is fast-paced, placing extraordinary people in extraordinary situations.

 

What makes a good story?

I believe if a story can move you mentally or emotionally – and sticks with you – then that’s a good story. If a story can do both, then that’s fantastic.

 

What is your writing process? For instance do you do an outline first? Do you do the chapters first?

I think I have the strangest writing process. I never have an outline, and I never write in order. I write what comes out first. Persephone’s Pool was the first book where I wrote the first chapter first. After that, I wrote out of order, then put it back together and fine-tuned it from beginning to end.

 

What are common traps for aspiring writers?

Giving up on writing, falling for expensive vanity presses, and writing for market (write with your own style and voice!)

 

What is your writing Kryptonite?

Being hungover, lol. I enjoy a good glass of wine, but when I over-do it on occasion, I cannot write the next day.

 

Do you try more to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?

I honestly just write what comes to me, and I love the fact that many readers have said my writing and my ideas are groundbreaking and unique!

 

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

That I should’ve pursued an agent when I was younger, or when eBook publishing first boomed as an indie author.

 

What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?

This is a great question because I’ve always wondered if I’m writing my male characters accurately, like do men think this way, etc. But I truly believe I’m channeling something when I write male characters because I really don’t know where they are coming from lol.

 

How long on average does it take you to write a book?

Writing books is a long process for me. Just to write a book between 50 – 80k words takes about a year.

 

Do you believe in writer’s block?

This is an interesting question because all of my life, I’ve never experienced this. It wasn’t up until a couple of years ago when I did. I believe it was due to extreme stress. My creativity was completely dried up and I said to my husband, wow I think I’m done writing. Then, a few months later, I sat down one night and wrote the first chapter of Persephone’s Pool in one shot. The tap had opened, and it just poured out of me like a dam breaking and releasing a flood. I wrote the whole the story over the course of the next several weeks like I was possessed.

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Marie Montine’s
work includes paranormal horror, supernatural sci-fi, and dark fantasy. But
there’s always one major theme in her stories: the power of love.

Many readers and
reviewers have claimed Marie Montine is an author to watch for.

Red River won an
award for best romantic suspense with ChickLit Cafe.

She recently
finished writing Persephone’s Pool, an intergalactic crime thriller released on
April 8, 2025.

The author is also
a level one student with CAAE and you can find her love of astrology woven into
stories like Midnight on Mars and Persephone’s Pool.

Marie lives and
works in northern Canada with her husband and poet, Alvin J Beck, and their
dogs, Luna and Mya. When she is not working or writing, she enjoys gaming and
getting cozied up with her husband and dogs watching movies or tv series.

Website * Facebook * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a $30 giveaway!

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

In the Pale Light by Westley Smith Banner

IN THE PALE LIGHT
by Westley Smith
August 12 – September 6, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:

When Clay Graham and his family are found slain in the parking lot of his struggling business, the police suspect Clay’s troublemaker brother, Terry. Terry claims he was drunk the night of the murders and passed out at home. With little evidence against Terry to make an arrest, the case soon goes cold. Shunned from the community, harassed by the locals who believe he’s a murderer, and suffering from an undiagnosed illness, Terry lives alone on his farm, punishing himself for his past indiscretions. Then Pennsylvania State Police Trooper Henry Miller, who has ties to the town and the Graham murders, shows up with newly discovered evidence that kick-starts the case all over again. Now, before his illness kills him, Terry sets out, battling against small-town secrets and old grudges, racing against time to stay one step ahead of both the State Police and his own impending death, to finally find out what really happened to his family and hopefully prove himself and innocent man –if he is one.

 

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller

Published by: Watertower Hill Publishing Publication Date: August 13, 2024

Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads | Watertower Hill Publishing

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MY REVIEW

Terry Graham is running out of time. He’s dying. And he needs answers. Answers to who killed his family and why. He’s consumed with thoughts of vengeance. The town and law enforcement long suspected him of the murders. When State Trooper Henry Miller comes back in town with new evidence on the cold case, Terry struggles to stay a step ahead and exact that vengeance.

Terry wasn’t a likable character. He drank too much. Fought too much. Had a hair-trigger temper. I tried to feel sorry for him. Reminded myself of his circumstances. It was hard, since his character hadn’t changed much since before the tragedy. I think that’s what really made the story work for me. I kept reminding myself of the victims and got behind Terry.

Terry also did a credible job of sniffing out witnesses and information on the murders. He didn’t always approach them in an agreeable manner but he was getting answers. Sifting through the self interest and lies and zeroing in. This kept the suspense ramped up. As Terry got closer to those answers, so did I. And I couldn’t wait to find out how it wrapped up.

A man out for vengeance. Not at all a sympathetic character. Yet, I was on his side. How cool is that!

5 STARS

 

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Enjoy this peek inside:
December 25th, 2015
The emergency lights from the Hickory Falls Sheriff’s Department Ford Interceptor flashed across the snow when it pulled into the Graham Video store parking lot. The sheet of white should have been untouched by tires at 6:45 a.m., and the snow-covered green Jetta, sitting in the far left-hand corner of the parking lot should not have been there. Two different sets of tire tracks cut through the pristine snow. One set belonged to the Jetta. The other set made a large circle in the snow before making its way back toward Main Street. The officer brought the SUV to a stop about five feet from the Jetta; its headlights bathed the car in the frigid darkness. Unable to see past the Jetta’s frosted snow-covered windows, a building sense of unease began to crawl over him, tightening the flesh to his bones. The officer’s shift had been easy that night. He had not responded to any emergency calls, nor had he had to pull anyone over. A Christmas miracle itself. But all that had changed fifteen minutes ago while he was patrolling Broke Run Road, when Sheriff Will Daniel’s voice came over the radio. “Call just came in. We got a report of shots fired at the Graham Video store. Caller says they saw a man running across the parking lot, carrying what appeared to be a shotgun. The suspect reportedly got into the passenger side of a blue sedan before it took off with two others inside. Need you to check it out,” Daniel had said. Why the hell is the sheriff in at this hour? the officer had wondered. Shouldn’t Susan be on the call desk? And what’s going on at the Graham Video store? Now on scene, with the first cracks of gray sky beginning to materialize through the night horizon, he radioed back into the station. “I’m at the Graham Video store. I’ve located a V-dub Jetta. It’s an early 2000s model. No sign of anyone else, including the reported blue sedan. Though there are two sets of tire tracks in the snow, indicating another vehicle was present.” He glanced at the video store’s entrance. There were no broken windows and no ajar door to indicate a robbery had occurred. The place appeared buttoned up tight. “No signs of a break-in, Sheriff. Getting out to inspect the vehicle.” “Ten-four,” Sheriff Daniel’s voice came back over the line. “Proceed with caution.” Again, the officer thought it was strange that the sheriff was in at that hour, and on Christmas morning. Where was Susan Green? She usually worked the overnight shift; she should still have been at the station, working the dispatch desk. Still, the officer knew, she could have gone home for any number of reasons—the holiday, the storm, or maybe a family member had fallen –ill—and the sheriff had filled in for her. Pushing the thought from his mind, the officer returned to the pressing matter at hand. Stay focused. Stay sharp. Stepping from the SUV, the blowing snow and driving wind bit at the officer’s exposed skin, penetrated his clothes. Zipping his jacket up to his chin, he started toward the car, trudging through the shin-deep snow. As he neared the Jetta, pelted with snow and ice so hard it stung, he noticed a set of footprints leading away from the passenger-side door toward the second set of tire tracks before vanishing. The tracks were nearly filled in with fresh powder, but it was unmistakable what they were. He assumed this was where the person had gotten into the second car—an old blue sedan. Looking back to the Jetta, he saw something smeared along the top of the passenger-side door. Whatever it was had frozen to a hard, ruby-colored substance. He eased in for a closer look. lood! Frozen blood. A strange tightness gripped the base of the officer’s neck as if Death had wrapped a cold, boney hand around him and begun to squeeze. His heart rate quickened. He placed his right hand on his sidearm and identified himself. “This is the Hickory Falls Sheriff’s Department. If there’s anyone inside the vehicle, would you please step out?” There was no reply. The car was dead still. The only sound across the parking lot was the howling wind and the ice pebbles hitting the closest metal lamp post. Not wanting to disturb what he believed to be blood on the passenger-side door, the officer lumbered through the deepening snow, around the front of the Jetta, to the driver’s side. Reaching down, he took hold of the handle and pulled. The driver’s side door was locked. He took a deep breath of cold air, sending what felt like ice daggers into his lungs as he tried to steel himself for what he might find inside. His teeth began to chatter, and an internal shudder tremored in his core and quickly expanded to the rest of his body. “I’m asking anyone inside to identify themselves and step out.” He waited, but when no one replied, he said, “If you do not comply, I will be forced to inspect the vehicle. Last warning.” Silence. No movement came from within. The car’s stillness bothered him—like it was dead. But that was impossible. Cars could not be deceased like humans or animals. So why was he getting the dreaded feeling that death emanated from it? Placing his gloved hand on the window, he brushed the light dusting of snow away and bent down to look inside. The officer recoiled at what he saw or who he saw staring back at him. His feet slipped out from under him, and he went down onto his backside, hard. Snow kicked up when he hit the ground, and for a moment he was cocooned in falling white powder, protected from what he had seen. But when the snow settled, the officer was again gazing at the driver’s-side door of the Jetta. There, he saw a man’s pale face pressed against the glass, the muscles twisted and tightened in agony. His eyes were open and locked directly on the officer with a vacant, lifeless stare, pleading with him, even in death, to save him. Too late. I’m too late to save you. The officer shot to his feet; snow fell off his uniform in large patchy clumps. And though the temperature was in the teens, he felt sweat break out across his back and forehead. Moving gingerly toward the Jetta again, the officer realized he knew the dead man looking back at him. Clay Graham—the owner of the Graham Video store. He removed his Maglite from his belt and turned it on. Bending, he shone the beam through the ice-crusted driver’s-side window and began to scan the car’s interior. That’s when he saw them. He pressed a gloved hand over his lips, suppressing the scream that wanted to leap from his throat at the horrific sight of carnage and death inside the Jetta. It wasn’t just Clay Graham dead inside the car but also his wife, Claire, and their teenage daughter, Sidney. *** Excerpt from In the Pale Light by Westley Smith. Copyright 2024 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Westley Smith:

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Westley Smith

Westley Smith had his first short story, Off to War, published when he was just sixteen. He is, more recently, the author of two horror novels, Along Came the Tricksters and All Hallows Eve, as well as the thriller Some Kind of Truth. His short fiction has been published in various magazines and websites. Wes lives with his wife and two dogs in the beautiful woodlands of southern Pennsylvania–the perfect place to hide a body.

Catch Up With Westley Smith: WestleySmithBooks.com Goodreads BookBub – @wssmith100 Instagram – @wsmithbooks Facebook – @westleysmith100

 

 

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Welcome to my stop on the virtual book tour for Death Secrets organized by Goddess Fish Promotions.

Author January Bain will award a $25 Amazon or B&N Gift Card to a randomly drawn winner. Don’t forget to enter!

And you can click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Death Secrets

by January Bain

 

 

Genre: Crime Thriller

Synopsis

A gripping thriller that explores the lengths one will go to for family, and the resilience needed to stand against the darkness.

In the shadow of Alaska’s towering peaks, Anna Hale is haunted by a past painted in flames and betrayal. Marked by the tragic death of her mother and the scars of a childhood marred by violence, Anna has fought tirelessly to build a semblance of normalcy, only to have it shattered again and again. The latest blow comes when her sister, Tia Pace, vanishes without a trace, reigniting old wounds and casting Anna into a nightmare where she’s the prime suspect.

As she grapples with her stepfather’s execution and the weight of suspicion, another crisis looms: Zoe Pace, her other sister, has disappeared in an eerily similar manner. The only clue a sinister black rose and a chilling letter. When her brother Josh, now a dedicated cop in the Anchor Police Department, begs for her assistance, Anna is pulled back into the fray. Despite the agony of reopening old wounds, she embarks on a desperate quest to unravel the mystery of her sisters’ disappearances.

Faced with the unforgiving Alaskan frontier, Anna must confront a tangled web of corruption and deceit, with a copycat killer moving in the shadows. With every tick of the clock, Anna’s hope for a normal life slips further away, but her resolve to find her sisters and bring them home burns fiercer than ever. Will Anna’s journey through the cold, dark paths of Alaska lead her to her sisters, or will she find herself lost in the depths of a conspiracy that threatens to consume everything she holds dear?

Dive into this chilling tale of loss, courage, and the relentless pursuit of justice against the backdrop of Alaska’s unforgiving wilderness. Order your copy now.

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Enjoy this peek inside:

Anna Hale cranked up the volume on her headphones, desperate to study for her high school English exam scheduled for the morning, but the hypnotic beat couldn’t mask the loathed voice of her stepfather growing louder by the second.

“You whore! Sneaking around and giving me those pious looks. You don’t think I don’t know better. I should throw you out right now, you and your bitch of a daughter!”

The soft sounds of her mother trying to pacify him were indistinct, impossible for her to hear.

Pass out already, old man.

She tried forcing her mind on the textbook, but the lines of printing blurred, making it hard to concentrate. If the subject at hand was a math or science quiz, she’d ace both without much effort. And that one computer module they’d had this semester had fascinated her. She yearned for a career in data processing, discovering all the secrets. That was if she got a choice. Her stepfather was threatening to make her leave school early to help bring more money into the household. She rolled her eyes in disgust. The guy just couldn’t hold down a job. Never his fault, like his shitty attitude wasn’t a factor. Or that his breath so often stank of booze, and his body of stale sweat.

The conversation from earlier between her and her mom bothered her like a harbinger of things to come, making it harder to focus. “I’ve made arrangements. If anything happens to me—go next door. Alex and Cindy Pace will look after you. And you get along so well with Josh and the twins.”

Her mom had talked over Anna’s every denial of anything ever happening to her. Anna was going to keep her mom safe. Learn karate or something badass at the gym to give her the upper hand. But her mom had made her promise and she had gone along with it. Anna didn’t want her mom worrying more than she already did, not that she wouldn’t stay and help her if worst came to worst. She’d never desert her mom. They had to stick together, no matter what.

Another loud series of barks drew her attention away from her favorite daydream of getting a high-paying job, of taking her mother far, far away. She’d also warned her to stay out of it, that her stepfather couldn’t help himself having to work at a job he hated, but Anna’s stomach churned with the effort. She wiped her damp palms on her patched jeans, straining to hear, the test long forgotten.

A loud crashing sound of something falling erupted downstairs. She dumped the headset and jumped off the bed, then raced down the narrow staircase in her sock feet, her pulse hammering in her ears, her head about to explode. She rounded the sharp corner that composed the L-shaped kitchen and living room, the clean but faded linoleum with most of the square-shaped pattern worn down to gray splotches, slippery beneath her feet. Her disgusting bear of a stepfather stood over her mom, his meaty fists raised like a boxer, his pugnacious face darkened by raw hatred.

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About Author January Bain:

January Bain is an award-winning author who firmly believes that stories unite us, that good stories help us to discover the commonality of the human experience by supporting values, empathy and understanding. She writes with her heart, mind, and soul, hoping that her novels will touch your life, giving you moments of freedom as you fly with her to other worlds.

Bain has had the pleasure of select novels being turned into games, and her work is also available in different languages.

January and her husband live in rural Canada on peaceful acreage where a variety of wildlife comes to visit regularly and expect to be fed and paid attention to.

Author Links: Blog / Twitter / Facebook / Facebook / Goodreads / Instagram / TikTok

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KNIFE RIVER by Baron R Birtcher Banner

KNIFE RIVER
by Baron R Birtcher
April 15 – May 10, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A sheriff fighting to keep the peace in 1970s Oregon faces a shocking secret from his town’s past, in this crime thriller from the author of Reckoning.

There are rules in the West no matter what era you were born in, and it’s up to lawman Ty Dawson to make sure they’re followed in the valley he calls home. The people living on this unforgiving land keep to themselves and are wary of the modern world’s encroachment into their quiet lives. So it’s not without some suspicion that Dawson confronts a newcomer to the region: a record producer who has built a music studio in an isolated compound. His latest project is a collaboration with a famous young rock star named Ian Swann, recording and filming his sessions for a movie. An amphitheater for a live show is being built on the land, giving Dawson flashbacks to the violent Altamont concert. Not on his watch. But even beefed up security can’t stop a disaster that’s been over a decade in the making. All it takes is one horrific case bleeding its way into the present to prove that the good ol’ days spawned a brand of evil no one wants to revisit . . .

 

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller

Published by: Open Road Media Publication Date: April 23, 2024 Number of Pages: 338 ISBN: 9781504086523 (ISBN10: 150408652X) Series: The Sheriff Ty Dawson Crime Thriller Series

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Open Road Media

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MY REVIEW

Praise for Knife River mentions the television series, Longmire. I loved that show and Sheriff Ty Dawson is every bit as pragmatic and tough as Sheriff Longmire.

The story begins with a prelude hinting at something that happened in 1964 in Meriwether County, Oregon. Twelve years later, in 1976, the ghosts of the past come back to haunt those that survived it.

I love western settings. My father and I would stay up late watching them on the television and my brother shared his Zane Grey books with me. I had my fingers and toes crossed that this book would have a hard to solve mystery, but also some rough and tumble cowboys. Those tall drinks of water with their sweat stained cowboy hats and dusty boots. Boy did I get all of that, and more. A particular quote from the book spoke volumes.

“I believe you told me you were born seeing the world between a horse’s ears.” I said. “Wouldn’t be right for me to keep a man from his birthplace.”

I’m kind of a character driven story kind of gal also. I need to be able to put a face to them. To connect with them. Whether in a good or bad way. Author Baron Birtcher really did use his storytelling skills to breathe life into his characters. It was so easy to put faces to names. I imagined how they moved. Their stride. Whether they stood still or waved their arms for emphasis when they talked.

The author also painted pretty pictures with his descriptions of Meriwether and the Diamond D ranch.  One quote in particular put me there.

“Smells like horse sweat and juniper out here,” she said. “Smells like home.”

I knew from the moment I read the first page that this would be one of those books that couldn’t be put aside for later. I started it before I went to work. Came home for lunch and read until I was late returning. And came home and stayed up to finish it. There are not that many books that grab me like this one did. Knife River now sits in a place of honor on my book shelf. The shelf where I keep those books that I loved so much I wanted them where I could easily find them. Some books are meant to be read more than once. This is one of them.

5 STARS

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Read an excerpt:
Prelude:
FACING WEST
SOME SAY THAT to be born into a thing is to be blind to half of it. Oftentimes, the things we seek and discover for ourselves are those we hold most dear. Any cattleman will tell you that a ranch is a living thing. Not only the livestock that graze the meadowland, but the blood that nourishes the hungry soil, the trees that inhale the wind, and the rain that carves runnels into the hardpan that, in time, grow into rivers. The Diamond D is no different in that respect, some would even say it was the beating heart of Meriwether County, Oregon. As both a stockman and the sheriff of this county, I believe this to be true. But the events that unfolded in the autumn of 1964 cast a cloud across that land. Not just across my ranch, but the entire valley, though they didn’t bear their terrible fruit until nearly a dozen years later, in the spring of 1976. The incidents still haunt me, though others paid a steeper price than I; some with their lives, or the lives of their loved ones, while some forfeit their sanity, and still others with their souls. That is where this story begins.  

CHAPTER ONE

LAMBS AND LIONS hold no sway over the springtime here in Meriwether County. Some years it will snow through mid-May, other times the golden sun rides high and bright, and the river flows fast, clear and deep with high-country melt on the first day of March. Most years, it’s both, with Mother Nature keeping her whims to herself until she alone decides to turn them loose upon us. But this particular Saturday morning was unusually quiet, not even a breath of breeze stirring the leaves of the cottonwoods that grew thick and untamed along the creekbank. I was standing outside on the gallery, sipping my coffee as I leaned on the porch rail, watching my wife, Jesse, hammer the last nail into a birdbox she had made. She must have felt my eyes on her, as she looked up from her work and smiled. A few moments later, she stepped up the stairs to where I stood and kissed me on the cheek, smelling of sawdust and lemongrass tea. “The bluebirds are back,” she said. “I just saw them.” “You haven’t lost your knack for building those things.” “Plenty of practice. You got home late last night.” I had spent the previous day transporting a man all the way from Lewiston up to the Portland lockup to await his trial. He stood accused of murdering his own wife and young child. It had been a long, depressing day, and by the time I completed the intake paperwork, locked up the substation in Meridian, and finally drove home to the ranch, Jesse was already asleep. But this morning, everything in her expression seemed overflowing with hope and expectation. Springtime was her season and always had been. “Want a hand putting that thing up?” I asked. She replied by handing it to me, together with the hammer. She watched me hang the birdbox on a post beside the vegetable garden, outside the kitchen window where I knew she’d spend her quiet mornings secretly observing the bluebirds as they built their nest and reared their brood. “You plan on helping Caleb pick the new cowboys today?” She asked me when I came back inside. It was the time of year when we hired a few temporary hands for Spring Works, when we’d round-up the cattle and calves from every corner of the ranch; we’d vet, brand and sort the livestock, and mend a perpetual string of breaks in the wire along miles of fenceline before we turned the herd out to the pastures for summer grazing. The Diamond D employed three permanent cowboys in addition to me and old Caleb Wheeler—our foreman for more than three decades—but with 63,000 deeded acres and another 14,000 under a Land Management lease, Spring Works was more work than the five of us could handle in the short span of time required to get it done. Every year a couple dozen hopeful itinerant riders, ropers, rodeo bums and saddle-tramps would answer the call for a temporary employment opportunity, and every year Caleb Wheeler got more riled up about what he viewed as the eroding quality of the contemporary American cowboy. He’d cuss and grump and holler about it, but he’d end up settling on three or four hands he reckoned could help us get the job done with a minimum of aggravation. “I’m staying out of it this year,” I said, and Jesse grinned. “Figured I’d lay in a cord or two for the woodshed instead, before the weather gets too hot.” “I saw some deadfall down by Corcoran’s,” she said. “That’s where I was headed.” “Make you some lunch to take with you?” “I don’t intend to be out that long.” “Good to hear,” she said, and winked at me before she turned, and stepped inside the house.   * * *   HALF AN HOUR later I was straddling a fallen spruce, angling the chainsaw to buck the trunk into three-foot rounds that I’d later split into quarters with the long-handled axe. The solitary labor, the sweat staining my shirt, and the burn down deep inside my muscles were a welcome balm after the week I’d had, and the air was rife with the smell of pine tar, sap and chain oil. I looked up and caught some movement in the distance, where the BLM forest gave onto an open range already knee deep with wildflowers and whipgrass. I recognized Tom Jenkins’ roping horse moving hellbent-for-leather across the flats, with young Tom leaning across her withers, one hand on the reins and the other holding his hat in place on top of his head. His mount was an admirable animal, a grullo Quarter Horse that stood nearly seventeen hands, fast and thick through the chest. Tom Jenkins handled her well, and he was beelining in my direction like he had something on his mind. I killed the power on the chainsaw and set it in the bed of the military surplus jeep I use when I do ranch work, stepped over to the fence and took a splash of water from the canteen I’d hung in the shade of a young cedar. I didn’t have to wait long before Tom pulled up in a skidding stop inside a cloud of dust, throwing a cascade of torn earth and pebbles through the barbed strands of the wire. “Mr. Dawson,” he said and touched a finger to his hat brim, sounding nearly as breathless as his horse. “I was hoping that was you.” “What are you doing out here all by yourself?” I asked, but suspected I already knew the answer. When I’d first met Tom Jenkins, he was nothing but a kid with a limp handshake, no eye-contact, and the familiar slope-shouldered gait and posture of the typical aimless teenaged slacker. At that time, he’d been well on his way to serious trouble, the variety and scope of which would have landed him in a six-by-eight jail cell where the other inmates would have eaten him alive. He is the nephew of my neighbor to the south of me, Snoose Corcoran, whose sister had sent the kid up here from California’s central valley to his uncle’s ranch in southeastern Oregon in hopes of putting some distance between young Tom and his unquestionably poor choices of acquaintances. Ill-equipped to deal with the boy himself, Snoose begged me to take the kid on as a maverick, and I’d reluctantly agreed. After six months working side by side with trail hardened cowboys on the Diamond D young Tom Jenkins’ attitude had been readjusted, straightening both his spine and fortitude. Now, at barely 18 years of age, Tom had assumed the reins of the floundering Corcoran cattle operation from his uncle Snoose, who had been gradually disappearing into a bottle. “Cow and a calf went missing from my place,” Tom answered. “Fence busted by the westward line, and I figured them two mighta headed for the water.” My ranch hands ended up nicknaming the kid “Silver,” after he’d astonished us all by stepping up and winning a silver buckle for the Diamond D in the team roping event at the annual rodeo. I knew Tom secretly treasured the handle they’d bestowed, wore it like a medal, but I never spoke it; that was between my men and him. “Where’s your uncle?” I asked. His shrug spoke sorrowful volumes. “So, what set you hightailing over here to see me, son?” I asked. “What’s the trouble? Besides the missing beeves.” “I was up there on the other side of the tree line,” he said. He twisted sideways in his saddle, took off his hat and gestured with it toward a distant stretch of blue sky. “There was an eagle making low passes over the meadow, so I stopped to watch it for a minute. It was so still and quiet out there, I could hear the eagle calling out while it was gliding on the thermals.” “You don’t see something like that every day,” I said. “Not even out here in the boondocks.” “No sir, that’s a fact,” Tom said. “But, while I sat there watching that creature flying, all of a sudden and out of nowhere, a helicopter come buzzing across the ridge, you know the one…” “Big stone bluff, looks like somebody cut it down the middle with a KA-BAR knife.” “That’s the one,” he said. “Well, that chopper came in fast, and went straight toward that bird…” The young man’s voice trailed off, his face contorted like he’d encountered a foul odor. “They circled it as it flew, like they were teasing it. Two men inside the—whattaya call it?” “Cockpit.” “Yeah, the cockpit. Then they started closing in on him, chasing it. The guy in the passenger seat had a rifle in his hands. I could see the barrel sticking out.” What Tom was describing to me was not only a despicable and loathsome act, it was a serious crime. The mere harassment of a protected species is a federal offense; hunting and killing one merely for the sick thrill of it was another matter entirely. “What happened, Tom?” He swallowed drily, shook his head and looked down at the ground between us. “He shot that bird right out of the sky, sir,” he said. “That eagle wasn’t even doing nothing, just gliding circles on the wind, and those assholes—sorry, sir—they shot him cold dead.” I could imagine the creature’s confused and lonely cry as it spiraled down, bleeding, terrified and helpless, to the earth. “You pretty sure about the location, Tom?” “About four, five miles thataway, near the bluff, where the river makes that sharp bend to the south.” “Did you get a look at either of the men?” “Naw, they were too far away and moving pretty fast. But I got a good look at the whirlybird.” I asked him for a description of the helicopter, and I knew right away he was referring to a Bell H-13, known to soldiers as a “Sioux.” They’d been in common use as scouting and medical evacuation aircraft by the military. I’d seen them every day when I was stationed in Korea. “Like the choppers on that TV show?” I asked. “Yes, sir. Exactly like on M*A*S*H.” “Big glass bubble on the front? No doors? Looks kinda like a dragonfly?” “Yes, sir.” “Did you see any numbers written on it? On the tail? Or maybe on the underside?” Tom Jenkins pressed his hat back on his head and gazed up at the empty sky beyond the forest, like he could return that beautiful animal to where it rightfully belonged through sheer force of his will. The high peaks beyond the meadow were streaked with deep blue shadows in the sunlight, their cloughs and gorges washed in purple and topped with snow so white it hurt your eyes. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I don’t remember seeing numbers or anything like that.” His face took on the aspect of defeat, as though some personal failure had cost the animal its life. “You did good, Tom. You did the right thing coming to me straight away. There was nothing else you could have done.” He nodded once, his lips pressed tight, and he leaned down to adjust a stirrup that needed no adjustment. “You want some help finding your cows?” I asked, thinking he might appreciate the company. “I can do it, sir, but thank you. I can haze ’em back home on my own.” “You gotta get eyeballs on the critters first. I can help you, son.” “Thank you just the same, Mr. Dawson… Sheriff… Hell, I don’t even know what to call you.” His expression softened for the first time since he’d showed up, a brief and fleeting smile, then his focus drifted far away again. “Something else, Tom?” “Just wondering.” “Wondering what?” “Do you think you can catch those guys who shot that bird?” “I’m going to try my damndest.” His eyes remained fixed on the horizon. “What’ll happen to ’em if you do?” I drew a bandana from the back pocket of my jeans, removed my hat, and dried the sweat that had been leaking from beneath the band. “It’s been against the law to kill an eagle since the 1940s. If you’re not an Indian, you can’t even possess a single feather. If you get caught, you pay a steep fine and then they send you off to jail. If you’re a rancher, you could lose the leases on your land.” Tom turned his gaze back on me, and I noted for the hundredth time that this young man no longer bore any resemblance to the person he had been on the day he first arrived here from California. “That punishment don’t seem tough enough,” Tom said. “Not for what I seen ’em do.” “No, it doesn’t.” He clucked softly to his horse, and reined her back in the direction from which they’d come. “I’d better get a move on,” he said. “Be careful out there, son,” I said to his retreating back, but my words were lost in the distance. *** Excerpt from KNIFE RIVER by Baron R Birtcher. Copyright 2024 by Baron R Birtcher. Reproduced with permission from Baron R Birtcher. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Baron Birtcher:

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Baron R Birtcher

Baron Birtcher is the LA TIMES and IMBA BESTSELLING author of the hardboiled Mike Travis series (Roadhouse Blues, Ruby Tuesday, Angels Fall, and Hard Latitudes), the award-winning Ty Dawson series (South California Purples, Fistful Of Rain, Reckoning, and Knife River), as well as the critically-lauded stand-alone, RAIN DOGS. Baron is a winner of the SILVER FALCHION AWARD, and the WINNER of 2018’s Killer Nashville READERS CHOICE AWARD, as well as 2019’s BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR for Fistful Of Rain. He has also had the honor of having been named a finalist for the NERO AWARD, the LEFTY AWARD, the FOREWORD INDIE AWARD, the 2016 BEST BOOK AWARD, the Pacific Northwest’s regional SPOTTED OWL AWARD, and the CLAYMORE AWARD. Baron’s writing has been hailed as “The real deal” by Publishers Weekly; “Fast Paced and Engaging” by Booklist; and “Solid, Fluent and Thrilling” by Kirkus. “YOU WANT TO READ BIRTCHER’S BOOKS, THEN YOU WANT TO LIVE IN THEM” ~ Don Winslow, NYT Bestselling author “BIRTCHER IS PART POET, PART PHILOSOPHER, AND A CONSUMMATE WRITER” ~ Reed Farrel Coleman, NYT Bestselling author “REMINISCENT OF THE LATE, GREAT ELMORE LEONARD” ~ Shots Magazine (UK)

Catch Up With Baron R Birtcher: Facebook – @BaronRBirtcher Goodreads BookBub Instagram – @baronbirtcher_author Twitter/X – @BaronBirtcher22

 

 

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THE NOWHERE GIRLS
by Dana Perry
April 1 – May 10, 2024 Virtual Book Tour
THE NOWHERE GIRLS
Book 1 in the Detective Nikki Cassidy series

My kid sister was murdered fifteen years ago. Now the killer has struck again. And this time, I’m going to take my revenge… On the anniversary of her sister’s death, FBI agent Nikki Cassidy takes a call that has her heart pounding in her chest, the image of her beautiful sister Caitlin etched in her mind. Another girl has been taken. Days later, the lifeless body of twelve-year-old Natalie Jarvis is found in a remote patch of woodland, a crown of roses delicately placed on her head. Just like Caitlin. The killer is back. Nikki rushes to her small hometown of Groveton, Ohio. She will do anything to stop another young girl dying, but she soon realises that nothing is what it seems—everyone in her hometown is keeping a secret. And when a note is discovered near Natalie’s body addressed to Nikki, it’s clear what the murderer really wants: her… She’s caught killers before, but this time it’s personal. And Nikki will risk everything—even her own life—to get justice for every victim. It’s time to stop this twisted killer, once and for all…

If you love reading Lisa Regan, Robert Dugoni and Kendra Elliot, you won’t be able to put down this gripping new series. Full of heart-racing twists and turns, you’ll be hooked!
LAST ONE TO DIE
Book 2 in the Detective Nikki Cassidy series

Ten days ago, straight-A student Jessica Staley ran away from home. Now her lifeless body lies pale and still in an empty parking lot, her unblinking brown eyes staring up to the night sky… FBI agent Nikki Cassidy’s heart pounds as she takes in the short, dark hair and delicate features of fourteen-year-old schoolgirl Jessica Stanley. It’s another unsolved murder in Groveton, Ohio, just like her sister, Caitlin, fifteen years before. Her family beg her to keep her distance, but Nikki knows she can’t walk away. What if her sister’s killer is back? Talking to Jessica’s heartbroken family, Nikki learns that she wasn’t happy at home. Just days ago, she packed a few belongings into her school backpack and left, never to be seen alive again. Determined to give Jessica’s family the answers she never found for herself, Nikki works around the clock, trawling hours of CCTV footage from the scene. And just when she thinks she’s close to uncovering the truth, a chilling email arrives that confirms her deepest fear. There are more victims, Nikki. Can you ever stop me? This killer is playing a dangerous game, and he has Nikki in his sights now—one wrong move and she could be his next victim. She’s determined to unmask the monster who has tortured her hometown for decades. But what if the killer is someone close to her? What if it’s someone she loves?

Fans of Lisa Regan, Robert Dugoni and Kendra Elliot will absolutely love this gripping new series from Dana Perry. Prepare to stay up all night!
THE LOST ONES
Book 3 in the Detective Nikki Cassidy series

As dawn breaks over a small gas station on the outskirts of Groveton, Ohio, the body of a teenage girl lies totally still. Long blonde hair covers her face, and a length of frayed rope hangs loosely around her neck. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds her, just like her killer intended… When FBI agent Nikki Cassidy receives a call from Groveton’s Chief of Police, her heart pounds. A young girl just knocked on the door of Nikki’s old family home, claiming to be Nikki’s kid sister, Caitlin. But Caitlin was murdered fifteen years ago. Who is the girl and what does she want? Nikki thinks the impersonator could finally lead her to her sister’s twisted killer. But her hope is shattered when the girl’s lifeless body is found strangled at a local service stop. If the girl knew about Caitlin, could she have known the identity of the killer? Was she murdered before she could unmask them?

Going against her boss’s orders to stay away, Nikki traces the girl’s last known steps to her best friend, Shirley. Nikki learns that the girl was last seen meeting with a stranger at the mall. Could it have been her killer?

Closer than ever to uncovering the truth, Nikki can’t give up now. But when Shirley’s body is found at another service station, a length of rope wound around her neck, her heart shatters. Another young life has been lost. Nikki vows that this will be the last.

When an intruder breaks into her old home, Nikki knows it’s the killer sending her a sign. As she walks into the familiar old house in the dead of night, will she finally get justice and catch her sister’s killer, or did she just walk into a deadly trap?

Praise for Dana Perry:

THE NOWHERE GIRLS: “A twisty-breath-taking page-turner that will keep you on the edge of your seat until it’s stunning conclusion. Fast-paced and riveting, it keeps you guessing till the very end.” Lisa Regan, author

“A thrilling new series.” Killer Nashville

“A fantastic book… Dana Perry has created one heck of female lead!” NetGalley reviewer

“Wow!!!!! What did I just read!!! Mind blown!!!! Absolutely shattered after being up all night reading but boy was it worth it! Absolutely unputdownable!!” Bookworm86

“This was an edge-of-your-seat page-turner!” @annette_reads_daily

 

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller

Published by: Bookouture Publication Date: April 2, 2024 Number of Pages: 341 ISBN: 9781803147932 (ISBN10: 1803147938) Series: Detective Nikki Cassidy

 

Enjoy this peek inside:

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About Author Dana Perry:

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Dana Perry

I am a New York City author who writes mystery thrillers under the pen name of Dana Perry – and also as R.G. Belsky.

Catch Up With Dana Perry: www.RGBelsky.com/dana-perry-books Goodreads BookBub Twitter/X – @DanaPerryAuthor Facebook – @DanaPerryAuthor Instagram – @dickbelsky

 

 

.
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Wet, Warm and Noisy by David A. Willson Banner

Wet, Warm and Noisy

by David A. Willson

March 4-29, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:

A supernatural crime thriller set in Alaska, the Last Frontier…

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Surrounded by the unforgiving climate of the frozen north, Jake Ward, a tenacious Alaska State Trooper Investigator and cancer survivor, is on a relentless quest to regain his health and return to full-duty status. But Ward’s world takes a bone-chilling turn during a routine polygraph examination when a woman escapes custody, leaving an officer critically injured. What started as an ordinary investigation transforms into a complex web of intrigue, where medical experimentation and consciousness collide. In “Wet, Warm, and Noisy,” Willson masterfully blurs the boundaries between law enforcement and the supernatural, leading readers on a heart-pounding journey through a realm where the tangible and the mysterious intersect. With time slipping away, can Ward decipher the enigmas that defy reason, or will forces that transcend human experience overwhelm him? Author David A. Willson, with over two decades of experience as an Alaska State Trooper, brings a rare authenticity to crime fiction that will both enlighten and captivate you. Prepare yourself for an electrifying thriller that challenges the very foundations of our reality.

 

Book Details:

Genre: Speculative Crime Thriller

Published by: Seeker Press Publication Date: March 2024 Number of Pages: 236 ASIN: B0CR4BV1XP Series: A Jake Ward Novel, 1

Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

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MY REVIEW

I don’t know what it is about frozen tundras that draws me to stories that occur in those environments. Perhaps it’s the cold, harsh environment. And how the characters have to survive it along with whatever means them harm. Perhaps it’s the characters themselves. They have to be double tough to survive and thrive. Or perhaps it’s the group dynamics that must happen on a place so cutoff, so isolated. It’s work together or survival of the fittest.

There were several things I especially loved about this book. One was the characters. They were genuine, with many flaws and vulnerabilities. Each had more than one challenge to overcome. Another was the inside look at investigating from a lawman’s perspective. Even the small steps were intriguing. And  then there was the supernatural element. Something totally foreign to me that felt so real, like it could happen. Last but not least was this story unfolded from several perspectives which made the characters that much more real to me. Explained why they reacted or did what they did.

Wet, Warm And Noisy. There’s a particular quote that explains the mysterious title. It’s remained in my head. Along with everything the author incorporated into this supernatural tale of quantum brain activity. I’m happy to say this book delivered in every way and I’m going to be watching this author now. I have my fingers and toes crossed that he will be writing a sequel, or several.

5 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:

Palmer, Alaska – Today
Cool springtime winds kicked up across the shooting range just outside the Palmer city limits. Behind the long mound of dirty ice and gravel that served as a backstop, the majestic Chugach mountains, half-covered in snow, stood proudly in the distance as two men faced a target stand. The target was cardboard, the outline of a human torso stapled to two upright posts. The men were real, however. One was an Alaska State Trooper firearms instructor serving as range master. The other was Trooper Investigator Jacob Ward. The shot timer sounded and Ward’s right hand went to his hip. In a fluid motion, his thumb defeated the retention mechanism and his fingers clasped the handgrip to free the .40 caliber Glock pistol from his belt, then pointed it toward the target. At least he hadn’t gotten hung up on the holster this time. Grip. Clear. Rock-and-lock. Almost a second had already passed when his left hand moved from its place on his solar plexus to the pistol, completing his grip on the gun. The smack step. He pushed it forward to the target, closing one eye as he focused on the front sight. The look step. He imagined his index finger pulling the slack off the trigger as he prepared to deliver two shots, center mass, but couldn’t be sure, because he couldn’t feel it. Not even a bit. Pop. Pop. Two shots. One had gone early, and hit wide of the target because his presentation was terrible. It’d been too long since he’d been to the range and the results were showing. Then, of course, there was the other issue. He aimed the gun higher, focusing on the head of the paper target. Focus. His finger started to pull back again when the shot timer beeped again. Pop. Too late. “Overtime,” the range master said, as if Jake didn’t know. It was his third penalty in as many rounds. “First shot went off early, which wouldn’t be a problem if you had a better presentation, but it’s wide. And slow.” “Yeah.” “Fingers still numb?” “Nah,” Ward lied, then turned back and forth, doing his safety scans before inserting a full magazine and replacing the pistol into the holster at his hip. Frustrated and nervous, he needlessly adjusted his hearing protection. A breeze swept across the range, startling him as it brought a chill to his shaved head. Maybe he should have worn something warmer than his State Trooper ball cap, but the blue BDUs and cap were as close to a uniform as he could get until he got approval for full duty. He wanted to feel like a Trooper today. In a bad way. “Are you pushing this too soon? The Captain is happy to keep you on light duty for a while yet.” “If I don’t get out here and just do it, I’ll never qualify. Neuropathy or not.” “True. But with three overtimes already, I’m not sure you’re gonna make any progress with a qual course today.” The burly range master took a step closer, a concerned look on his face. Ward had rarely seen the man show any feeling – he was all business. “Everyone knows you shoot well, but you’ve had a rough go lately. You’ll get there, but not all at once. Let’s ditch the course and do some slow presentations. Dry practice, maybe. Fundamentals.” But Ward didn’t move, instead squaring up to the target. It wasn’t just the neuropathy and numb fingers. He had weak toes and shaky hands. And shaky confidence. But he wouldn’t get his mojo back by sitting at a desk. And pity didn’t help one bit. “Suit yourself,” the range master said, then let out a huff and took a step back. He paused a moment, then raised his voice back to range levels. “Again, fail to stop drill at seven yards. Five seconds from the holster.” Ward focused, his eyes drilling a hole in the target where he wanted the shots to hit. “Shooter ready!” The timer sounded. * * * The drive to work along the Glenn Highway was uneventful, other than a speeder that insisted on doing eighty-five, tailgating everyone who dared occupy their lane. If he’d been driving his assigned vehicle, Ward would have activated his emergency lights and pulled the punk over for a friendly conversation. But light duty status means no Trooper rig unless you have special permission, not even an unmarked one. And no gun, at least until he could qualify. The occasional wind gust caused Ward’s blue Chevy pickup to sway within the lanes, distracting him from the sound of the political commentary streaming through the truck’s speakers. The talk radio host paused for a news report announcing a shooting at a gas station in Anchorage last night, municipal budget cuts, and something about a missing college kid. There would always be crime, and therefore, plenty of job security. The traffic got thicker as Ward traveled through Eagle River, Anchorage’s closest suburb, then even worse as he exited off the highway onto Muldoon Road. Muldoon became Tudor Road, and he turned into the parking lot of the Alaska Bureau of Investigation. He parked the truck and came through the side entrance, stopping at the break room to see if the coffee was rolling yet, hoping that a fellow caffeine addict had beaten him to work today. The empty pot announced no such luck. A few minutes later, he welcomed a steady stream of black goodness into the pot and he was on his way down the hall to the office. The Alaska Bureau of Investigation’s Technical Crimes Unit was a modest space in a boring, rectangular building in east Anchorage. What happened between those walls, however, was anything but boring. One sergeant, two civilian techs and three investigators were involved in some of the biggest criminal investigations in Alaska. Even when they didn’t have primary case responsibility, they provided critical support to other officers. It was the variety that had attracted Ward to this kind of work. Sure, he had a talent for technology, which helped get the job, but that wasn’t why he was here. What attracted him was the fact that no two days were ever the same. He could write a search warrant for a child exploitation case in the morning, then do a forensic computer exam for a homicide case before lunch. He might kick a door on a building search, only to be called away to sit shotgun in a helicopter, acting as a spotter for a search and rescue. The variety of work duties assigned to an Alaska State Trooper Investigator was unparalleled. Unless you were on light duty. “Ward!” It was Sergeant Ballack down the hall, shouting from his office. Ward got to his feet, snagging his notebook and a pen on the way out of his cubicle. That shout always came with some ‘other duty as assigned,’ or so the trooper saying goes. As always, the sergeant’s office smelled old, musty maybe. He didn’t know if it was Ballack’s bad cologne or his shampoo, but then his sense of smell kinda sucked. Chemotherapy will do that to ya. The Sergeant turned to face Ward as he entered, grabbing a few papers off his desk as he did so. The man had quite the glorious head of hair and it probably took some pretty fancy conditioner to keep its form, adding a good three inches to his already impressive height. “Whatcha got for me, boss?” “Have a seat,” Ballack said. He was impeccably dressed, as always, with a sharp red tie and blue tailored suit. “How ya feeling?” “I’m fine.” “Ward, you’re not fine. Cut the crap. Nobody who’s battling pancreatic cancer is fine. Serious. How are you?” “Surgery went well enough. Chemo is over and my oncologist thinks I’ve got a shot. Neuropathy is getting better every day. I’m ready for full duty, sir.” “My wife has a friend that works at a cancer clinic. She said you’re not out of the woods till you hit five years. Is that right?” Heck, I’d love to make it five years. A few months ago, I thought I was toast. “With pancreatic, it comes back fast, or it doesn’t come back at all. If I make it two years, I’m probably ok.” He didn’t tell him about the other problems, though. Digestive issues causing low energy, the numb fingers and toes, memory lapses, concentration, yada yada. Ya can’t kill cancer cells without killing a lot of other stuff, apparently. “Don’t rush it, ok?” Ballack put down the papers. “I can keep you busy on light duty for a long time.” Not the words he wanted to hear, and standing in the Sarge’s office discussing death and light duty, which was almost as bad, tested Ward’s patience. “What do you have there, Sarge?” “Polygraph. You game?” “Absolutely. What’s the case?” “Palmer patrol picked up some crazy chick on grave shift. Ahem. I mean, ‘a person in crisis.’ She tried to break into a warehouse a couple of nights ago. Then she babbled about being kidnapped, something about a kid, all kinds of nutty stuff.” Ballack rolled his eyes. “I’m thinking poly her, see if she’s cracked. If her claims are legit, we’ll follow up. What do you think?” “I’ve been looking for some actual police work to do.” He reached for the paper. “Find out about the kidnapping. If it happened at all. If you get admissions about why she was trying to get into the warehouse, well, that’s really the target.” “We rarely run polygraphs on victims.” “She’s full of crap. She’s a doper who tried to rob a building and we want to know why. Poly is a pretext for interrogation on the burg.” “That’s fine. I haven’t run a poly in months and I’m going blind on all those public information requests you keep handing me. It’ll give me something real to do.” Ward moved to walk out of the office. “Ward.” He turned back. “Take it easy, son.” “It’s a polygraph, boss.” Ward furrowed his brow. “I’ll survive.” “Sergeant Vance told me about the range.” Crap. “Don’t push it, Ward. I’m not talking about the polygraph, or the range. Just in general. Bodies take time to heal and you’ve been through hell.” He has no idea. “Got it, boss.” “I mean it. We’ll wait for you to be strong.” Ward bit his lip, trying to hold back, but the pity was too much for his pride. “I got it, ok? Got it. You care. Everyone cares. Don’t rush it. Loud and clear. I’m good.” Then he walked out of the room. *** Excerpt from Wet, Warm and Noisy by David A. Willson. Copyright 2024 by David A. Willson. Reproduced with permission from David A. Willson. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author David A. Willson:
David A. Willson

David A. Willson, a retired Alaska State Trooper with more than two decades of service, brings unmatched authenticity to his crime fiction. During his career, he served as a certified police instructor, polygraph program coordinator, court-certified computer forensics expert and supervisor of both Major Crimes and Technical Crimes units. With over a decade in an investigative capacity, he supervised thousands of felony cases, chasing Alaska’s most dangerous criminals.

Catch Up With Our Author: www.DavidAWillson.com Goodreads BookBub – @DavidAWillson Facebook – @DWillsonAuthor

 

 

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Can two Sleuths put these two puzzles together before college starts in September?

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Recruiting Murder

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A Brown & McNeil Murder Mystery Book 3

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by Frank Lazarus

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Genre: Murder Mystery, Crime Thriller

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The third installment in the Brown and McNeil Mystery Series
Lenny Goldstein and his company, Future Stars, evaluate high school and collegiate basketball talent and sell their rankings to colleges and NBA teams.
From its humble beginnings in 1975, Future Stars had grown into a behemoth; with fifteen NBA teams and seventy-eight colleges paying subscriptions for his rankings.
Lenny is semi-retired these days, with his son and son-in-law running the business until he gets a call from an old buddy in Newport News, who wants him to come look at a high school kid, Lincoln Anderson, in Emporia, Virginia. He believes this Anderson kid has been overlooked by everyone, including Future Stars.
Concurrently, Lenny gets a call from an old buddy, the iconic coach of Duke University, to see what he knows about the college decision of Tyler Longenecker, Future Star’s #5 ranked high school senior from a premier prep school in the tony Boston suburbs.
All seems to be going on script until graduation, when both Lincoln and Tyler are involved in a death and a roofie rape. Suddenly, Lenny’s getting calls about both kids.
Lincoln’s family is related to James McNeil in Philly, and they call him for help. James and his buddy, Detective Vernon Brown of the Philly PD, jump into the car and head South on I-95.
Can the two Sleuths from The Murder Gambit and The Phenom put these two puzzles together before college starts in September?
Once again, Author Frank Lazarus has produced a gripping, suspenseful story that will keep you off Netflix for a day or two.
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Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * Bookbub * Goodreads

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The Graduation Party of the Beaver Country Day School was being held at The Country Club in Brookline,
Massachussetts.
The dance had ended and Tyler Longenecker and Katie Reynolds walked off the floor together. Tyler was a
highly recruited basketball player who had recently committed to Duke University in the Fall.
Tyler asked, “How about going outside for some fresh air and a beer? I’ve got two tickets left.”
“Sure!”
They stopped by the bar and picked up two Samuel Adams, and Tyler led her outside. It was still mild
outside, and on a clear night, the stars and half-moon were shining brightly. “Wow, what a gorgeous night,”
he said; girls love that shit!
The headed to the pool area, and Tyler knew the cabanas were unlocked. They could have some privacy
there, at least for a bit. They entered and sat close to each other on a chaise lounge. Tyler raised his beer
bottle and toasted, “To our futures, Katie.”
Katie returned the toast, “To the Class of 2022!”
Tyler reached in and gave her a peck on the cheek. But he pulled back only an inch or two, waiting for her to
glimpse into his eyes. When she did, he looked into hers and slowly inched closer to her lips. Her mouth
opened invitingly, and he accepted the invitation. Their tongues found each other and explored. Tyler’s
arousal was now in full throttle, and it seemed that Katie was keeping pace. Her hand found its way down to
his zipper, but without opening it, she gently massaged it as it continued its growth. “Oh, Katie, that feels so
good; please don’t stop.”
She couldn’t and wouldn’t! She started unbuckling his belt as he reached around and began unzipping her
dress. By the time he had worked it down to her waist,Katie had slumped, and her body fell out of Tyler’s
arms, collapsing onto the chaise lounge.
Tyler froze for a minute, and then Nathan, Billy, and Sheldon entered the cabana.
“She’s out cold,” Tyler said. “Those roofies are quick-acting. Guys, I’m still hard; I’m going first.”
Lincoln Anderson had just dropped off two work friends and was heading home on West End Boulevard in
Emporia, Virginia. Lincoln had recently gone from an unknown basketball player to a full scholarship recruit
to Richmond Commonwealth University, thanks to the discovery by Future Stars, LLC.
BetweenTaylor and Greene Streets, he saw a bike lying on the road. A strange place for an abandoned bike,
he thought. It was a narrow, one-way street, so Lincoln had to pull off onto the grass. He parked and got out.
He walked towards the bike, and as he got within ten feet, he noticed a young girl lying in the drainage ditch.
He ran over to her, knelt down, and gently pushed her to see if she was awake. There was no movement.
He ran back to his car and dialed 9-1-1 on his cell phone.
“This is 9-1-1; what is your emergency?”
“Yes, I am on West End, and a girl has fallen off her bike, and she’s not moving. I think she needs an
ambulance really bad.”
“Where on West End?”
“Right at Taylor and Greene.”
“And your name, sir?”
“Lincoln Anderson.”
“OK, Mr.Anderson, please wait for the ambulance and police, and do not touch the girl.They should be there
within five minutes.”
She hung up. Lincoln thought he should call home; hopefully, his dad could come over. He dialed his dad’s
cell.
“What’s up, Lincoln?”
“Hi,dad, can you get over to West End? I was driving home and saw a bike lying on the ground. When I went
over to it, there was a girl lying in the ditch next to it. I called 9-1-1, and they are on their way, but I hope you
can get here.”
“I’ll be right there, Lincoln. You did the right thing, but do not answer any questions until I get there. Do you
hear me? Is there anyone else there? Other drivers pulled over?”
“Not yet!”
“I’m on my way.”
Ten minutes later, a police car arrived, and Lincoln could hear the ambulance approaching behind them.
Lincoln got out of the car and walked towards the girl. Two uniformed police officers jumped out of their car;
one pulled his gun and said, “Halt right there, young man; put your hands up in the air?”
The other officer walked to the girl’s body and placed his hand on her throat. Heturned and said, “She’s
gone.”
They both walked towards Lincoln and said, “Keep your hands in the air. We just need to search you; do you
have a weapon?”
“No, I don’t have any weapon; what am I a suspect? I just saw the girl’s bike and stopped to see if I could
help.”
The officer frisked Lincoln and then looked into his pockets. Out of his side pocket, he pulled out a small
pouch that contained a white powdery substance.“What’s this?”
“What do you mean? That’s not mine, whatever it is.”
“Turn around, smart Alec. We are taking you into the station for questioning; turn around; cuff him, Buddy.”
“Wait,what the hell is this? I ain’t done nothing.”
The officer grabbed Lincoln and forcibly turned him around. Lincoln stumbled,falling to the ground. One
officer kicked him in the butt, while the other pulled out a club and hit him several times on the shoulder.
“Now, are you going to get in the car peacefully, or do we need more discipline?”
Just then, Lincoln’s father pulled up and jumped out of his car, “What’s going on here? Why is my son on the
ground?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Lincoln’s father, Dwight Anderson; who are you?”
“I am Officer Jerome Abbott, and this is Officer Buddy Wilkins with the Emporia Police Department. Your
son stumbled when we were putting the handcuffs on him.We are taking your son in for questioning about
this young woman’s death and this substance we found on him,” showing the white pouch to Anderson.
“Dad, whatever that is, it ain’t mine. This guy just reached into my pocket and pulled it out like it was a
magic trick. And they have been kicking and clubbing me.”
“Is this the way you treat all your suspects or only the Black kids? Lincoln let’s just go down the station and
get this sorted out. Don’t say a word. Officers, I’ll follow you, but do not ask my son any questions until I
arrive.”

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The Phenom

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A Brown & McNeil Murder Mystery Book 2

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Even before he has played his first game in high school, it would seem nothing can stop Bo Campbell’s meteoric rise to stardom in the basketball world. In Philadelphia, people are already comparing him to his Overbrook High School predecessor, Wilt Chamberlain.


But his dreams are suddenly shattered when he is arrested for the murder of his best friend, Sherman Claxton.

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Detective Vernon Brown, and James McNeil, his friend and Bo’s grandfather, search for the truth, but James goes rogue, and soon finds himself in the dangerous underbelly of the Philadelphia drug sub-culture, where the stakes are high and it’s hard to tell who’s friend and who’s foe.

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The Murder Gambit

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A Brown & McNeil Murder Mystery Book 1

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An unexplained death in a nursing home. A man falls from a balcony. A hit and run in the middle of a city street. An execution in a home. A woman collapses dead after a date.

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Five murders. Five methods. Five police jurisdictions.

What’s the connection?

Philadelphia-area detectives are under pressure to solve the murders, while dealing with their own issues.

Speeding like the lead car at Talladega towards a shocking conclusion, is The Murder Gambit a Shakespearean tragedy or a sinister reality?

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Can you, for those who don’t know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author?

I spent fifty-three years in the Financial Services and Life Insurance industry, never thinking much about writing a book or becoming a published author.

With possibly a couple of exceptions: thirty or forty years ago, I read that “everyone has a novel in them.” I once started one, and every five years or so, I add a sentence to it. Secondly, twenty years ago, I started writing a blog. It was private and only shared with friends and family. I considered it an outlet for my Seinfeldish sense of humor and titled it A BLOG ABOUT NOTHING.

I am working on a book that will be THE BEST OF THE BLOG; we’ll see if or when that comes to fruition.

I retired at the end of 2021 and kept busy with golf and COVID hibernating. Towards the end of 2021, a friend shared with me a novel that he had written but was unpublished. I decided to try it, and THE MURDER GAMBIT was born.

 

What is your favorite part of this book and why?

 

In THE PHENOM, there is a Lesbian seduction scene that I wasn’t certain I could write with any authority or conviction. It was so out of character for me, and I received a lot of questions about it from those who know me.

It may not be the highlight of the book, but it was the one I think of proudly.

 

 

What kind of research do you do before you begin writing a book?

I actually do more research WHILE writing than BEFORE.

For example, in my third novel, I have a potential murder in Emporia, Virginia, part of Greensville County. I needed to research how their court system worked.

And I am constantly on Google Maps, looking at streets, parks, churches, restaurants, etc.

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Frank Lazarus was born and raised in West Philadelphia and attended Overbrook High School, as you may have guessed from his writings.

After graduating high school, Frank spent two years in the U.S. Army during the VietNam War. After his service, he completed his

Bachelor’s Degree in Business Administration at St. Joseph’s University, in Philadelphia.

He was in the Financial Services and Life Insurance industry for fifty-three years before he retired at the end of 2021.

Frank has three adult children and five grandchildren.

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RECKONING by Baron Birtcher Banner

RECKONING
by Baron Birtcher
September 4 – 29, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

 

RECKONING by Baron Birtcher

 

Synopsis:
Ty Dawson is a small-town sheriff with big-city problems, in this riveting crime thriller from the award-winning author of Fistful of Rain.

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As lawman, rancher, and Korean War veteran, Ty Dawson has his share of problems in the southern Oregon county he calls home. Despite how rural it is, Meriwether can’t keep modernity at bay. The 1970s have changed the United States—and Meriwether won’t be spared. A standoff looms when the US Fish & Wildlife Service seeks to separate longtime cattleman KC Sheridan from his water supply—ensuring the death of his livestock. If that’s not enough trouble, a Portland detective is found dead in a fly-fishing resort cabin. Though the Portland police, including the victim’s own partner, are eager to write off the tragedy as a suicide, Ty has his own thoughts on the matter—as well as evidence that points to murder. His suspicions soon mire him in a swamp of corruption that threatens nearly everyone around him. Turns out that greed and evil are contagious—and they take down men both great and small . . .

Praise:

“Combines the mystery and honesty of Craig Johnson’s Longmire with the first-person narration of a fiercely independent Oregon character.” ~ Sheila Deeth, author of John’s Joy “A masterful work of a time gone by . . . Ty Dawson is a cowboy, lawman, father and philosopher like none other.” ~ Neal Griffin, Los Angeles Times–bestselling author of The Burden of Proof “Outstanding… Readers will crave more from Dawson.” ~ Publishers Weekly

 

Book Details:

Genre: Neo-western crime thriller

Published by: Open Road Integrated Media Publication Date: June 2023 Number of Pages: 300 ISBN: 978-1-5040-8280-8 Series: Sheriff Ty Dawson Series, #3

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Open Road Media

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MY REVIEW

Corruption, murder and a standoff. Reckoning is just what the title says. And local rancher and sheriff Ty Dawson plans to deliver.

Ty did what I call ‘stand tall” against the powers that be that want to take, take, take. His conviction and honesty stood out among the wicked and he was going to make sure the innocent were protected and the guilty would face their comeuppance.  Every time he “spoke” in the book I perked up and paid attention. His voice was strong and he stood by what he said.

When a book gets me all riled up and I myself want to see justice done, that’s when I can’t recommend it enough.

5 STARS

 

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Enjoy this peek inside:
Prelude:
A TRANSITIVE NIGHTFALL
NO CHILD IS brought into this world with any knowledge of true evil. This they learn over the passage of time. In my experience as a Sheriff, and as a rancher, I have found this precept to be true. Time passes nevertheless, even if it passes slowly. Here in rural southern Oregon, sometimes it seemed as if it hadn’t moved at all, advancing without touching Meriwether County, except with glancing blows. That is, until the day it caught up with us all, and came down like a goddamn hammer.

CHAPTER ONE

ORDINARILY, AUTUMN IN Meriwether County would come in hard and sudden, like a stone hurled through a window. But this year it snuck in slow and mild, lingered there deceitfully while we waited for the axe to come down. The sky that morning was turquoise, empty of clouds, the altitude strung with elongated V’s of migrating geese and a single contrail that resembled a surgical scar, the narrows between the high valley walls opening onto a broad vista of rangeland some distance below. I had expected ice patches to have formed on the pavement overnight, but the weather had remained stubbornly dry, even as temperatures closed in on the low thirties. I tipped open the wind-wing and let the chill air blow through the cab of my pickup as I stretched, and drank off the last dregs of coffee I had brought for the long southward drive from the town of Meridian. I had received a phone call at home the night before from an unusually distressed KC Sheridan. I had known KC for as long as I can remember, a pragmatic and taciturn cattleman whose family history in the area dated back to the late 1800s, much like that of my own. Three generations of Sheridans had stretched fence wire, planted feed-grass and run rough stock across deeded ranchland that measured its acreage in the tens of thousands, and whose boundaries straddled two separate counties, one of which was my jurisdiction. But the decade of the ’70s thus far had not been any kinder or gentler to cowboys than to anyone else, and KC and his wife, Irene, had found themselves increasingly subject to the fulminations and intimidation of both local and federal government. While the Sheridan ranch had once numbered itself among a dozen privately held agricultural properties in the region, KC now found himself surrounded on three sides by a federally designated wildlife refuge that had swollen to encompass well over three hundred square miles; a bird sanctuary originally conceived under the auspices of President Theodore Roosevelt’s white house. All of which would have been perfectly fine and acceptable to the Sheridan family, given the understanding that the scarce water supply that ultimately fed into the bird sanctuary belonged to the Sheridans by legal covenant, as it had for nearly a century. I turned off the paved two-lane and onto a gravel service road, headed in the direction of the ridgeline where KC sat silhouetted against the bright backdrop of clear sky, mounted astride his chestnut roping horse. KC climbed out of the saddle as I parked a short distance away, switched off the ignition and stepped down from my truck. KC trailed the horse behind him as he moved in my direction, took off his hat and ran a forearm across his brow, then pressed it back onto his head. His hair and his eyes shared a similar shade of gunmetal grey, and the hardscrabble nature of his existence as a rancher had been recorded in the deep lines of his face. “What the hell am I supposed to do about these goings-on, Sheriff?” KC asked, and cocked his brim in the general direction of a reservoir that was the size of a small mountain lake. Two men wearing construction hardhats were surveying a line on the near shore where a third man studied a roll of blueprints he had unfurled across the hood of his work truck. “Is that who I think it is?” I asked. “They aim to fence off my water. My cows won’t last a week in this weather.” “Have you talked to them, KC?” He nodded. “’Bout as useful as standing in a bucket and trying to lift yourself up by the handle. It’s the reason I finally called you, Ty. I didn’t know what else to do.” The vein on KC’s temple palpitated as he cut his eyes toward the foothills and spat. “I’ll have a word with them,” I said. “You wait here.” A wintry wind had begun to blow down from the pass, pushing channels through the dry grass and the sweet scents of juniper and scrub pine. A harrier swept down out of a cluster of black oaks and made a series of low passes across the flats. I averted my eyes as the sun glinted off the US Department of Fish & Wildlife shield affixed to the driver side door of a government-issue Chevy Suburban. The man studying the blueprints didn’t bother to lift his head or look at me as I stepped up beside him. “Care to tell me why you and your men are trespassing on private ranch land?” I asked. The man sighed, scrutinizing me over the frames of a pair of steel-rimmed reading glasses. He had a face that put me in mind of an apple carving, and a physique that resembled a burlap sack filled with claw hammers. “Who the hell are you now?” he asked. “Ty Dawson, Sheriff of Meriwether County. That’s the name of the county you’re standing in.” He took off his reading glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket, hitched a work boot onto the Suburban’s bumper and offered me an approximation of a smile. “Well, Sheriff, I’m with Fish and Wildlife—that’s an agency of the federal government, as I’m sure you’re aware—and I have a work order that says I’m supposed to put up a fence. And that’s exactly what me and my crew are doing here.” I gestured upslope, where KC Sheridan stood watching us, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “You’re on that man’s private property,” I said. The government man made no move to acknowledge KC. “I don’t split hairs over those types of details, Sheriff. The work order I’ve got lays out the metes and bounds of the line, and me and my crew just install the fence where it says to. It ain’t brain surgery.” “Scoot over and let me have a look at that site map.” “I oughtta radio this in.” “You do whatever you think you need to,” I said. “But do it while I’m looking at your map.” He lifted his chin and looked as though he was conducting a dialogue with himself, then finally stepped to one side. I studied the blueprint for a few moments, looked out across the rock-studded range and got my bearings. “Looks to me like the boundary line for the bird refuge is at least a hundred yards to the other side of this reservoir,” I said. “Your map is mismarked.” “The agency doesn’t mismark maps, Sheriff.” “They sure as hell mismarked this one. You need to stop your work until this gets sorted out.” “That’s not going to happen.” “Care to repeat that? There’s clearly been a mistake.” “No mistake. You need to step away, Sheriff.” “Let me explain something to you,” I said, removing my sunglasses. “It’s the law in the State of Oregon that the water that comes up on Mr. Sheridan’s property belongs to Mr. Sheridan. Period. If you fence off his reservoir—especially this late in the season—you’re not only stealing his water, you’re murdering his herd.” The agency man lifted his foot off the bumper, set his feet wide and faced off with me. He slid both hands into the back pockets of his canvas overalls and rocked back on his heels. “Now it’s my turn to try to explain something to you, Sheriff: I been given a job to do, and I intend to do it. If you don’t walk away right this minute and leave me to it, I will be forced to radio this in. Long and the short of it is, the guys who will come out here after me will have badges, too. And their badges are bigger than yours.” “I won’t allow you to trespass onto private property, steal this man’s water and kill his livestock.” He glanced at his two crewmen staking the line then turned his attention back to me. “You going to arrest us?” he asked. “What is it with you agency people? Why is it that your first inclination is to slam the pedal all the way to the floor?” “When me and the boys come back out here, it won’t just be the three of us no more.” “I’m finished talking about this,” I said. “Pack up your gear and go.” I could feel his eyes boring holes into the back of my head as I picked my way back up the incline where Sheridan stood waiting for me. “I can tell by your stride that you had the same kind of dialogue experience I had with that fella,” KC said. “Bureaucrats with hardhats.” “I ain’t no cupcake, Dawson. But, you know that those sonsabitches have been tweaking my nose for years.” “Those men are part of a federal agency, KC, make no mistake. If you’re not careful, they’ll try to roll right over the top of you.” “What do you call what they’re doing right now? I don’t intend to lay down for it.” “I’m not saying you should.” “What, then?” “Get on the phone and call Judge Yates up in Salem,” I said. “Ask him if he can slap an injunction on these clowns until we get it sorted out.” Sheridan’s horse pinned back his ears and began to shuffle his forelegs, responding to the tone our conversation had taken. KC calmed the animal with a caress of its neck, dipped into the pocket of his wool coat, snapped off a few pieces of carrot and fed it to the gelding from the flat of his palm. “I’ll do it, Ty, but I swear to god—” “KC, you call me before you do anything else, you understand?” *** Excerpt from RECKONING by Baron Birtcher. Copyright 2023 by Baron Birtcher. Reproduced with permission from Baron Birtcher. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Baron R. Birtcher:
Baron Birtcher

Baron R Birtcher is the LA TIMES and IMBA BESTSELLING author of the hardboiled Mike Travis series (Roadhouse Blues, Ruby Tuesday, Angels Fall, and Hard Latitudes), the award-winning Ty Dawson series (South California Purples, Fistful Of Rain, and Reckoning), as well as the critically-lauded stand-alone, RAIN DOGS. Baron is a five-time winner of the SILVER FALCHION AWARD, and the WINNER of 2018’s Killer Nashville READERS CHOICE AWARD, as well as 2019’s BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR for Fistful Of Rain. He has also had the honor of having been named a finalist for the NERO AWARD, the LEFTY AWARD, the FOREWORD INDIE AWARD, the 2016 BEST BOOK AWARD, the Pacific Northwest’s regional SPOTTED OWL AWARD, and the CLAYMORE AWARD. Baron’s writing has been hailed as “The real deal” by Publishers Weekly; “Fast Paced and Engaging” by Booklist; and “Solid, Fluent and Thrilling” by Kirkus. “YOU WANT TO READ BIRTCHER’S BOOKS, THEN YOU WANT TO LIVE IN THEM” — Don Winslow, NYT Bestselling author “BIRTCHER IS PART POET, PART PHILOSOPHER, AND A CONSUMMATE WRITER” — Reed Farrel Coleman, NYT Bestselling author “REMINISCENT OF THE LATE, GREAT ELMORE LEONARD” — Shots Magazine (UK)

Catch Up With Baron Birtcher: Instagram – @baronrbirtcherauthor Facebook

 

 

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