By DB Dakota
Mystery/Crime, 339 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Blurb:
Author of the tell-all about polls
has a thing about their MO. Shanghaied, hidden from a blackmailer, all he has
to do is write another blockbuster to undo the first book that trashed
pollsters. He’s also safe from the blackmailer, trying to nail him for a
murder. The top cop claims a renegade cop did it. But the street cop suspects
the top badge himself whitewashed it.
The PI plays on the writer’s psyche,
moving him to rat on the blackmailer, a relative, swearing, the top gun is the
killer—who won’t confess. Media and props from the murder scene roll in to
torment him. He can’t stand it and befriends a terrorist bomb. The end.
Excerpt:
“Something else is going on and
you’re not telling me about it,” Nadra mumbled, stiffening her arms.
Thornburgh straightened up, clipped
the mike back on, smoothed down her shirt front, crossed her legs like a man to
finger a piece of gravel out of a sneaker.
She cleared her throat and asked, “What is it worth to you to find Blackjack?”
“What! Blackjack? You mean…?” Nadra
bolted up out of her seat. “You know about Mom’s
death!” Furious, she bowed her neck. “You say you’re a coordinator—Who are you?
Who is he!” She pointed to Jorge and
sat down.
“Yes, I know about the Brett murder case,” said Thornburgh, the orchestrator
of the fake carjack. “It was a hideous crime. In all the papers. And in a few
other places as well. In one place in particular, and Jorge
was there. He was at the crime scene, investigating.”
“Sort of,” he snorted, hunching his
shoulders, glancing in the rear view mirror.
Thornburgh sighed and shook her
head. “Jorge used to be a Wenden cop.
He wants to get back on the force and needs you to help him. That’s why you’re
sitting there. Nadra, you’ve got to help us.”
Nadra cocked her head sideways. “Are
you an investigator?”
“Me, a detective? Damn right.”
“How come you drive a Mercedes?”
“It belongs to a client.” Thornburgh
rubbed the back of her head. “I borrowed it to make an impression on Cletus.
What I’m doing now is a special assignment to help Jorge
collar Blackjack.”
“You do sound confident.” Nadra
puffed, looked aside and stroked her face with an icy hand.
“That we’ll take him down? Listen,
we’re not doing it like—oh, shut my pie hole. Jorge
was on your mother’s case. He found her town car at Gold Diggers restaurant
where her attacker had abandoned it. Jorge
got disgusted with police bungling, as you called it, exactly as you called it,
and quit. He works for a surveillance and security outfit now.”
Nadra covered her burning face with
both hands for a moment and stated, “We could never get anything out of those
cops. Mom wasn’t anybody important, just a real estate saleswoman, and the
family, well, we didn’t have any pull.”
“That was over two years ago.”
“June
ninety-three. Long time ago, Mack, but
it hurts so bad it seems like last night. She had taken over this apartment
house on Lafasing at Eleventh near Chero
Park and was converting
the place into condos. Doing a lot of the work herself.”
“All by herself that evening.”
Thornburgh shook her head slowly.
“So uninformed, I guess you’d say.”
Nadra nodded and stared at the floor. “She was sure that was a safe
neighborhood. Yes, she was all alone. With nobody to help her, not a soul.”
“And this brute, this ogre sneaked
up and beat her…” Thornburgh choked up, hacked and didn’t finish the sentence.
“She wasn’t robbed or raped or
anything.”
“He bludgeoned her. Beat her to
death.”
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