Showing posts with label Detective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Detective. Show all posts

Friday, November 14, 2025

Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa ~ A Misty Pines Mystery ~ @mary_keliikoa @partnersincr1me ~ Police Procedural, Detective, Mystery, Crime Fiction, Suspense

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KILLER TRACKS

by Mary Keliikoa

October 27 - December 12, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

About the Book:

Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa

A Misty Pines Mystery

 

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

Sheriff Jax Turner is worried about going off-grid and leaving his young team of deputies behind. But while his getaway with his ex is meant to help them reconnect, Jax is distracted by signs of a break-in at their rented lookout.

After a string of unsettling events and an approaching wildfire turn their isolated retreat into a danger zone, he’s stunned to find a dead body with marks tying it to a killer he put away a decade ago.

Terrified that his attempt at reconciliation has led them both into a fatal setup, Jax rushes back to his estranged wife before she joins the list of victims. But his dedication to serving and protecting could become an Achilles heel as other players join them among the darkening trees.

Can he fight his way out of the woods before the flames of revenge consume everything?

Praise for Killer Tracks:

"Keliikoa is the Queen of immersive small-town mystery. Killer Tracks is cleverly plotted with deftly drawn relatable characters who face off with a deadly threat from the past."
~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series

"Mary Keliikoa’s Killer Tracks is a wonderful addition to the Misty Pines mystery series. Great pacing, strong plotting, and compelling characters. Highly recommended!"
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, international bestselling coauthor of The Turner and Mosley Files

Watch the Killer Tracks Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural, Detective and Mystery, Crime Fiction, Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 30, 2025
Number of Pages: 319
ISBN: 979-8-89820-033-6 (pb)
Series: A Misty Pines Mystery, #3 || Amazon | Goodreads | Level Best Books
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads | BookBub

The Misty Pines Mystery Series:

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


Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub


Read an Excerpt:

PROLOGUE

Click. Slide. Clang.

If he never heard that sound again, it’d be far too soon. That, and the sleepless nights under a thread-bare wool blanket that chafed his exposed skin, the looming threat of death... in the yard, the shower, the halls to and from the cafeteria or his cell.

Death and desperation seeped from the pores of this godforsaken place. So thick he could almost taste it. No amount of soap, no amount of ritual, would rid him of the stench that clung to him—though he’d be willing to try.

It was over now. Dying among these second-class men would not be his fate. A man of his intellect, a man far superior to the minions around him, deserved better than what he’d endured these past years.

He’d eagerly reeducate those who believed otherwise. They’d all see it by the time he was through with them, just like those that came before.

Click. Slide. Clang.

A voice echoed off the concrete walls.

“Inmate 22-A-4242. Gather your crap. Time to go.”

He stood, hands to his sides.

“Ready to face the world?”

He remained silent. None would get the satisfaction of his acknowledgement.

The voice continued. “They gave you a goddamn Hail Mary. Bleeding heart liberals anyway. Don’t screw it up.”

He bowed his head to obscure his smirk.

“Right. I know your type. You’re innocent.” The guard continued rambling. “That’s what all you convicts say. ‘I didn’t do it.’ ‘I was framed.’ ‘It’s unconstitutional.’” The guard’s voice dropped to a growl, prickling his skin. “Tell that to the victims and their families. I’d reckon less than one percent of you bastards got a legit claim.”

The guard had forgotten betrayed, of which he surely had been. But he shrugged, not to agree, but to stave off the urge to wrap his hands around the guard’s throat. So close to freedom...

Whether he was innocent or not had no bearing; it had not been among the criteria for the help he’d received. Being wrongfully convicted qualified. According to the junior team that had embraced his cause when he’d written the letter, they agreed that’s what had happened in his case. Even if it took them ten years, he loved a system that allowed more loopholes than the cable-knit sweater Mother had dressed him in for school.

“Sell it to someone else, you psycho,” the guard snapped. “Bet you money. We’ll see you again real soon.”

A jagged smile crossed his face. The guard had part of it correct—but he’d never be back here. Next time, he’d be less gullible.

And he intended to snuff out anything that could hurt him, like the light of every other woman who hadn’t seen his worth.

CHAPTER ONE

Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed.

Sheriff Jax Turner had experienced more than his fair share of those mornings in the past six years. First, when his daughter Lulu died from leukemia. Then, when his marriage dissolved—more like shattered into a million pieces. Followed by a couple of cases that had tested his limits of trust. They’d destroyed some, too.

Today was different.

Abby Kanekoa, his ex-wife with whom he’d shared the gutting grief of those past years, had offered hope for reconciliation—the chance to glue a few of those pieces back together. It would never be the same without their little girl... but perhaps they could create something new.

Leaving for the mountains just after Labor Day was less than ideal. Though with the tourist season coming to an end in Misty Pines, and Abby due a vacation at the Bureau, it was the best time. Deputy Rachel Killian, his new hire and right hand, was turning out to be as capable as he’d hoped. Applicants for filling the gaps at their station had been sparse. Few, it seemed, wanted to work these days—or work at the often cool and foggy Oregon coast. He’d at least been able to get most of his young crew on full-time payroll, so Rachel had help.

Bottom line, getting away was Abby’s idea. He would not tell her no.

Now to get through the pep talk with the team. The two major events of the past year had allowed them to punch a few notches into their experience belt, but wisdom and reliance on gut instinct were born with time. Leaving them to run Misty Pines without his guidance had his muscles taut.

He entered the sheriff’s office with his duffle flung over his shoulder.

“Oh hon, don’t tell me that’s all you’re taking for the week?” Trudy said. Jax’s long-time secretary, and overall, Team Mother to him and his ragtag group of deputies, lifted the headset off her ears.

He suppressed a smile. “Glad to see your accident hasn’t made you any less opinionated.”

Eight months had passed since the event that had nearly stolen her from him and the team. A warm and fuzzy Trudy would be hard to get used to—he was grateful he didn’t have to learn.

Trudy rested the headset around her neck. “Looks like Abby hasn’t given you any clue about where you’re going.”

“Other than the mountains, not much. I’ve tossed a few essentials in my truck.”

“Like?”

“A good book and a board game.” He smiled. “A couple of bottles of wine.”

She arched her brow.

“What? I’m assuming she’s arranged for us to be at some luxury resort.”

“You think so?”

“Abby likes her massages, saunas, breakfast in bed.” Not to mention time basking on the deck with a steaming cup of coffee. For being a tough no-nonsense woman, and a hell of an FBI agent, she liked the finer things—and she’d earned every damn one of them.

“And what do you like?” Trudy asked.

He chuckled. Not much of what he’d just mentioned. “Roughing it.”

“Hmmm…and she arranged this for the two of you to reconnect?”

His smile faded; he dropped the bag at his feet. “Are we camping?”

Trudy laughed and shook her head. “When it comes to women, you do take a minute to catch up. Might I suggest a few more items?”

“Like a tent?” He’d have to dig it out of his garage, which wouldn’t take long.

“No. But a communication device might come in handy.”

“Abby said something about our phones being off for the week.” He shifted on his feet. “Are you saying we’re headed somewhere with no service?”

She returned to her desk in response.

Of course they were. Several interruptions to his and Abby’s conversations had come from the station over the past months. Too often, when they’d just settled into talk or were on the edge of a sensitive topic. Tourist season was like that every year with the random fender bender, a too-loud party on the beach, a drunken brawl at the pub. Some infraction demanding his attention.

Added to that, Brody had slid his motorcycle on wet pavement and nearly dislocated his shoulder in the spring. Garrett had a few interviews in Portland, one in Seattle. Matt was called in to stock shelves by his boss at the IGA grocery store when they were short staffed, which had become more consistent.

Time with Abby had been the price, although the last time they’d carved out a night together still brought a smile to his face. Maybe this trip signaled her intention of wanting more quality togetherness. That thought alone made having limited phone access worth it regardless of where they went, even as the uneasiness of being out of contact with his crew niggled at him.

He flung the bag back over his shoulder and headed to his office.

The click of claws on the linoleum sounded behind him.

“Boss.” Rachel and Koa, her black lab, came out of the kitchen. “You all set?”

“Almost. Picking Abby up soon for what appears might be a wilderness retreat.”

Rachel laughed. “Don’t look so concerned.”

“I’m not.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why you have a crease between your eyebrows.”

He rubbed the spot. “Guess I’m not fond of surprises.”

“Never have been myself, but I have a feeling you’ll have fun.”

“According to Trudy, I will. Hope Abby does.” It was sweet she’d chosen a place that appealed to him—more imperative if she enjoyed herself. She’d never been one to sleep on the ground.

“Believe me, she did good.”

“Take it you know where we’re headed?”

“Not precisely.”

“How about a hint of what you do know, so I’m better prepared?” Having spent far too much time in the dark, he preferred to be ahead of things these days.

She did a zipping motion in front of her mouth. “I get that it’ll be difficult for you, but try not to worry. The men and I have everything covered.”

He nodded. Letting go of the wheel would never be easy, and in law enforcement things could change quickly. But Rachel was solid, and he trusted her… despite his former partner Jameson not agreeing with him hiring his only daughter. Jax had made the right call; he stood by it. There should be no hesitation about him and Abby taking a week for themselves.

“You’ll get a hold of me if there’s a problem?” he said.

“You won’t have any way…”

“I’m taking the satellite phone.”

Rachel folded her arms over her chest. “Suppose that’s smart after the last trek in the wilderness...”

“Exactly my thought.”

Rachel pursed her lips, likely recalling that day when radio silence had left her and the team wrought with worry as they waited for word on whether Jax and Abby were alive. But Abby should understand his decision, if it came up. Probably better it didn’t.

“Let’s do a briefing before I head out,” he said.

Rachel winked. “The men are waiting for you in the strategy room.”

He chuckled. That’s why there’d been no sign of them when he’d arrived.

In his office, he set his duffle bag on a chair, and retrieved the satellite phone, burying it near the bottom in a T-shirt. Once he checked his email for the tenth time and cleared his desk, he started toward the meeting room, until he heard voices in the reception area.

Trudy was holding open the station’s door. The men were grabbing their gear about to file out, Rachel and Koa behind them.

“What’d I miss?” Jax said.

Koa turned at the sound of his voice, trotting to his side. Jax squatted next to her, draping his arm gently over her back.

“Nothing to worry about, boss,” Rachel said.

“Just a routine traffic revision, chief,” Brody said. “We’ve got it.” He’d gelled down his wispy brown hair today, making him look young. Too young.

“I’ve got forty minutes before…”

“Oh no you don’t, Jax Turner,” Trudy said. “It’s a half-hour drive to Abby, and you will not be late.”

“I—”

“We’ve got it, Sheriff,” Rachel said, calling Koa to her. Koa didn’t budge.

“Koa’s siding with me on this,” he said.

Rachel lifted a brow at her black lab, who promptly returned to her side.

Fine. Jax stood. He’d wanted a team he could rely on, and he had one. So why did he feel left out? “Who’s in need of traffic revision anyway?”

“Fire department,” Trudy said.

“There’s an apartment complex on fire at the edge of town,” Rachel said.

Battalion Chief Mike O’Brien rarely requested assistance. With the remaining tourists eking out the last of their holiday weekend there could be a traffic log, he supposed.

“I’ll go with you,” Jax said.

Rachel held up her hands in a stop gesture. “Please. Get out of here and have a good time.”

Before he could protest, Rachel was out the door and Trudy shut it behind them. Through the glass, Jax watched his team slide into two of the patrol cars.

“You heard your deputy, hon. Get your stuff and head to Abby’s. And don’t come back until you and that saint of a woman have worked everything out.”

Trudy was right. He needed to check his ego. Misty Pines could handle a week without him.

A call came through Trudy’s headset which she tapped to answer. She settled behind her desk as he grabbed his bag, her voice fading as he walked outside.

“Yes, Mrs. Harper. Just a small fire. Nothing to worry about.”

***

Excerpt from Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2025 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.

 

 

Meet the Author:

Mary Keliikoa

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

Catch Up With Mary Keliikoa:

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

 

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Sunday, November 24, 2024

Plausible Deception by Dwain Lee ~ Mystery/Detective/LGBT/Quozy

 

Plausible Deception by Dwain Lee

About Plausible Deception:

 

Plausible Deception

Mystery/Detective/LGBT/Quozy

Setting: Primarily Los Angeles/Anaheim CA; Louisville KY; New York NY

Publisher: Butler Books (October 15, 2024)

Paperback: 332 pages

ISBN 978-1-964530-02-4

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There’s only one Jackson Stradivarius.

Welcome to the arcane world of handcrafted, professional violins. Master luthier Greg Zhu and his husband, Presbyterian minister Dan Randolph, travel to Los Angeles, where Greg’s newest design is competing for recognition from the Violin Society of America. Only a handful of participants know that the Jackson is at the conference, but the owner offers Greg the rare opportunity to examine it—and Greg is the last person in the room before the violin disappears. Greg and Dan team up with the authorities to clear Greg’s name, catch the thief, and recover the priceless violin before it is lost to the arts and antiquities black market.

About Dwain Lee:

 

Dwain Lee grew up in Masontown, Pennsylvania, where his first job was working as a coal miner during the summers of his high school years. He graduated from Penn State University, majoring in architecture, and he owned and operated his own architectural firm in Columbus, Ohio for twenty years. During the thirty years that he lived in Columbus, he raised a family and also served as President and Chairman of the Board of Montana de Luz, an orphanage in Honduras for children living with HIV/AIDS. Transitioning out of the architectural profession, he obtained a Master of Divinity from Trinity Lutheran Seminary and for many years has served as an ordained Presbyterian minister and pastor. In addition to more typical pastoral duties, a large part of his time in ministry has focused on social justice issues, including LGBTQ+ equality, refugee and immigrant issues, and racial justice. Dwain has two amazing, wonderful adult daughters, Erica and Andrea. He and his husband, George Yu, an internationally recognized violin maker, currently live in an old double-shotgun house in the eclectic Germantown/Schnitzelburg neighborhood of Louisville, Kentucky. In addition to writing, he enjoys spending time with George traveling, gardening, doing never-ending home renovation projects, camping, and yoga. 

Author Links: 



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Monday, October 7, 2024

Running on Empty: A Wine Country Cold Case by Karin Fitz Sanford ~ Mystery, Adventure, Detective ~ @partnersincr1me ~ ThereIsAGive@way

Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford Banner

RUNNING ON EMPTY

by Karin Fitz Sanford

September 16 - October 11, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

About the Book:

Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford

A WINE COUNTRY COLD CASE

An ex-FBI agent. A murder. And a Ponzi scheme that rocks the wine country.

Anne McCormack, a former FBI agent-turned-estate liquidator, must find out who murdered a beautiful socialite and dumped her body on a remote wine country road 16 years earlier. Could that killing be connected to a current-day Ponzi scheme that has bilked Santa Rosa residents? McCormack thinks so and sets out to solve the case—but she'll have to keep her wits about her if she plans on outracing thieves and solving the murder without become a victim herself, for dark forces are working against her and she’s running out of people to trust.


Praise for Running on Empty:

"Full of fun clues, quirky characters and a great sense of place, Running on Empty is the perfect visit to California’s wine country."
~ Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of the Royal Spyness and Molly Murphy mysteries

"The title of this latest Wine County Cold Case may be 'Running on Empty,' but the story’s certainly not. A full-bodied mystery with depth and bite, and a plot that’s meaty and lush. Savory, smoky, and smooth, from the first sip to the last."
~ J.R. Sanders, Shamus Award-winning author of the Nate Ross mysteries

"With a freight train of a plot worthy of any seasoned crime writer—think Elmore Leonard, Karin Slaughter, and Raymond Chandler—Sanford delivers a timeless thriller and heroine in feisty, brilliant, and flawed ex-FBI agent Anne McCormack, who finds herself entangled (again) in a web of mystery and deception in Northern California's wine country. The setting is but one of this book’s plentiful charms. There is a cold case—the decades-old murder of a socialite—and a devastating Ponzi scheme that will have readers turning pages well into the night.
Full of zigzagging cliffhangers, Running on Empty hooks readers from the first sentence and never lets up—not even when it looks like our heroes have run out of gas. I loved this book."
~ David Samuel Levinson, author of Tell Me How This Ends Well

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Adventure/Detective
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 7, 2024
Number of Pages: 294
ISBN: 9781685126155 (ISBN10: 1685126154)
Series: A Wine Country Cold Case, 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Add to Goodreads | Level Best Books

Read an Excerpt:

Chapter One

Santa Rosa, California

Anne McCormack surveyed the living room, casting her eyes from one gilt-framed oil painting to another, taking in the antique red tasseled lampshades, red flocked wallpaper, red floral overstuffed sofa, and the oriental rug woven with every imaginable shade of red. All that exuberant red reminded her of a magazine layout she’d seen featuring the late Vogue editor Diana Vreeland’s famous New York apartment. Tastefully garish.

The house was one of many Victorian homes lining McDonald Avenue, Santa Rosa’s historic “Victorian row.” The tree-lined boulevard was the filming location of several Hollywood classics, including the 1943 Shadow of a Doubt by Alfred Hitchcock, Disney’s 1960 Pollyanna, and the nineties camp horror film Scream. The Victorian in which Anne was standing was owned by her newest clients, the family of the recently deceased, very wealthy Lily Danielson, who had left behind more treasures and personal effects than her heirs could handle.

Those belongings were why Anne, owner of McCormack Estate Services, was here after eight o’clock on a Sunday night with her teenage assistant, Chloe Grindel. Anne’s job was to dispose of everything in the house, one way or another: to assess, catalog, toss out, put up for auction, sell, save for the family, or donate to charities. The executor, the family’s lawyer, wanted it all handled ASAP before any more troublesome family fights could break out. Fine, Anne thought, the sooner the job was done, the sooner she’d deposit a commission check on the proceeds of any sales.

They were still at the sorting and boxing up stage.

Seven banker’s boxes were stacked precariously in the middle of the room, the top ones on the verge of toppling over onto Chloe, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Next to her on the rug was an old diary she’d found in the bookcase. Chloe was packing up books—except for the first editions, which would be offered to dealers—and sighing theatrically.

“How are you doing over there?” Anne asked.

“Slow, very slow. I’m not fast like you are,” Chloe said, standing up to stretch, raising her arms to the heavens. “But then, you’ve been doing this for decades…”

“A slight exaggeration,” Anne said. In fact, she was fairly new to family estate services. She’d spent most of her twenties as an FBI agent in Sacramento’s Violent Crimes division. After six years, she left the Bureau voluntarily, under no cloud (You did not get fired, her Uncle Jack, a retired cop would insist). Under no cloud, that is, except the one she conjured up and obsessed over (But it did get ugly after they discovered I was using their high-security database software to track my ex-husband, she’d counter).

On the same day she was confronted by her supervisor, she dropped her resignation letter on his desk and walked out the door, vowing that her next career would be a complete 180 from law enforcement. She would follow her passions—researching art and its provenance—and someday be her own boss, health benefits or not. Turns out, those passions were the exact skills required for family estate sales services. And since it was a far cry from crime-fighting, she figured why not do it professionally? For two years she worked as an assistant to estate services guru Marty Holmes, who became her mentor in the business. His mantra: “Estate sales are not garage sales!” The estate sales business, he’d insist, is about helping families dispose of the treasures left behind after a loved one’s death, and then getting a big fat commission from the sales of said treasures. Period.

After learning the trade, Anne struck out on her own three years ago. If she’d ever imagined that being a business owner meant naming her own hours and taking long vacations, she was quickly proven wrong. The reality was that when business was good—and it finally was—she ended up working relentlessly long hours. Like tonight.

“After finishing that box, let’s call it a night,” she said. Chloe had school in the morning.

“Not yet,” Chloe pleaded. The girl was always angling for longer hours, arguing, “You won’t find cheaper or better child labor than me.” And Anne almost always relented. She knew that nearly every dollar Chloe earned was being squirreled away into her college fund. Besides, she liked Chloe’s company. Chloe was the favorite grandchild of one of Anne’s first clients, Claire Murray, whose death two years before had hit the teenager hard. Anne had grown fond of Claire and missed her too, and while she and Chloe worked, they would often swap Claire stories.

But recently, all Chloe wanted to talk about—when not complaining about her mother’s strict hours or the unfair soccer coach—was the “Battalion Chief” competition at her high school. Not much had changed about the yearly contest since Anne had participated: The student who searched private homes and collected the most “fire hazard” violation tickets was the winner. Back then, the winning prize was simply being named “Honorary Battalion Chief.” But this year, the stakes were high—a $25,000 college scholarship to the winner in each class, donated by a group of wealthy vintners who wanted to encourage fire safety in the wildfire-ravaged Sonoma County.

“I can put it toward any college I want. When I add that to what I’m making working for you, and what my parents can chip in, I might get to go to UC Berkeley, Harvard, or California College of the Arts, who knows!”

One of their phones pinged.

“Sky’s the limit,” Anne agreed, looking down at her phone. Nothing. She hadn’t heard from Scott, her boyfriend of three months, since their fight two days before. Nodding toward Chloe’s phone on the coffee table, she said, “Bet your mom wants you to come home.”

Chloe sauntered over to pick up her phone. Leaning against a wall, she stared intently at the screen—reading the text message, answering it, and reading the response.

“Oh, no,” Chloe blurted out. She slowly slid down the wall, crumbling to the hardwood floor. “There goes everything,” she said in a low, ominous tone. “Everything I’ve ever worked for.” She set her phone down beside her and hugged her knees to her chest.

Anne bit her lip to keep from smiling. How much work could Chloe have done in her short life? How much did she have to lose? Chloe was a month shy of being sixteen years old, not some frail senior citizen whose life savings were ruthlessly embezzled or whose house was destroyed in a fire without any insurance to cover rebuilding it. But as Anne watched tears well in Chloe’s eyes, she knew there was nothing even slightly amusing about whatever was going on. Chloe was heartbroken.

Anne crouched down in front of her. “What do you mean by ‘lost everything?’ What happened?” she asked in a gentle voice.

Chloe uncovered her eyes, let out a sigh, and pointed to her phone. “That girl. Pam O’Brien. Tomorrow is the last day to hand in our tickets to see who wins the scholarship. She asked me how many I had….”

“And?” Anne prompted.

“I told her I had forty-five, which is way more than anyone else in the class. The nearest kid to me is Justin Frey, and he only has thirty-two. Then Pam texted back, ‘Too bad, cause I have fifty.’ That’s five more than me,” Chloe’s voice broke. “I never even knew she was close!”

Fire hazard violations were hard to come by, as Anne well knew. She remembered having to screw up the courage to knock on the door of a neighbor or acquaintance, then taking a deep breath and asking permission to go poking through their house looking for fire hazards like loose wiring, stacks of newspapers, overloaded electrical outlets, aging space heaters. Most people were good-humored about it, accepted their copies of the tickets, and promised to do better. But others tried to talk her out of the tickets, thinking the violations would be reported to city officials and they’d be fined. That never happened, of course; the fallout would have ended the contest years ago.

“And she tells you this at 8:30 at night…”

“Too late…”

Anne stood up abruptly. “Where’s your book of tickets? In your backpack?”

“Yeah. For all the good it does me,” Chloe said, giving the bag a shove as if it were to blame for her crushed dreams, the late hour, Pam O’Brien’s taunts. Everything.

Anne reached out her hands to the sobbing girl and pulled her to her feet. She grabbed their jackets off the couch and tossed Chloe’s to her.

“Get in the car,” Anne said.

***

Excerpt from Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford. Copyright 2024 by Karin Fitz Sanford. Reproduced with permission from Karin Fitz Sanford. All rights reserved.

 

 

Meet the Author:

Karin Fitz Sanford

Karin Fitz Sanford, a former advertising copywriter, was born in New York but grew up in Northern California's wine country, the setting for her Wine Country Cold Case series. Having run her own award-winning ad agency for over twenty-five years, she is a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in Northern California with her husband.

Catch Up With Karin Fitz Sanford:
www.FitzSanford.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @karin140
Instagram - @karinfitz8
Facebook - @karin.f.sanford

 

 

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

 

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Monday, September 2, 2024

The Summer of Love and Death by Marcy McCreary ~ #Detective #Mystery ~ @mcmarcy @partnersincr1me ThereIsAGive@way

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THE SUMMER OF LOVE AND DEATH

by Marcy McCreary

August 19 - September 13, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

About the Book:

The Summer of Love and Death by Marcy McCreary

A Ford Family Mystery

 

The summer of ’69: memorable for some, murder for others.

Detective Susan Ford and her new partner, Detective Jack Tomelli, are called to a crime scene at the local summer stock theater where they find the director of Murder on the Orient Express gruesomely murdered—naked, face caked in makeup, pillow at his feet, wrists and ankles bound by rope. When Susan describes the murder to her dad, retired detective Will Ford, he recognizes the MO of a 1969 serial killer . . . a case he worked fifty years ago.

Will remembers a lot of things about that summer—the Woodstock Festival, the Apollo 11 moon landing, the Miracle Mets—yet he is fuzzy on the details of the decades-old case. But when Susan and Jack discover the old case files, his memories start trickling back. And with each old and new clue, Susan, Jack, and Will must narrow down the pool of suspects before the killer strikes again.

Praise for The Summer of Love and Death:

"An old case has repercussions on a new copycat killing in this excellent police procedural. With juicy twists, an engaging cast, and an intriguing case that’s impossible to predict, The Summer of Love and Death is everything I want in a mystery. An addictive and entertaining ride!"
~ Christina McDonald, USA Today bestselling author

"McCreary unspools a lot of threads in The Summer of Love and Death, then masterfully weaves them all together atop the Ford family's compelling dynamic for an ending you won't see coming. It's a fun ride that kept me guessing the whole time!"
~ Tony Wirt, bestselling author of Just Stay Away

"A compelling mystery that unfolds in two skillfully woven parallel narratives. McCreary pairs a haunting meditation on intergenerational trauma with an evocative rendering of that famous Summer of Love to deliver a suspenseful and deeply satisfying read."
~ Lori Robbins, author of Murder in Fourth Position

"In the summer of 1969, there was peace and love—but also a serial killer committing bizarre murders. When a copycat killing occurs at the local summer stock theatre, detective Susan Ford must call on her father’s memory of his 1969 investigation to help her solve the present-day murder. The Summer of Love and Death offers page-turning suspense of how the legacy of murder can continue, leaving more than death in its wake."
~ Nina Wachsman, author of The Courtesan’s Secret

"A fiendishly smart modern who-dunnit with clever characters and a mystery that keeps you guessing . . ."
~ Elise Hart Kipness, author of Lights Out

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery (Detective)
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: August 13, 2024
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 9780744310597 (ISBN10: 0744310598)
Series: A Ford Family Mystery, #3 | A Stand-Alone Series
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | CamCat Books 

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Read an Excerpt:

You know that jittery, gut-roiling feeling you get when heading out on a blind date? That brew of nerves, anxiety, anticipation—plus a hint of dread. That pretty much summed up my morning. Today was the day, and standing at the front door, it finally hit me. I was no longer flying solo. A new partner was waiting for me down at the station.

My fingers twitchy, I fumbled with the zipper of my yellow slicker as I stood in front of the framed poster—an illustration of a white dove perched on a blue guitar neck, gripped by ivory fingers against a bright red background—touting three days of peace and music. Usually, I paid it no mind. But today it captured my attention. A signal, perhaps, that everything would turn out just fine, like it did exactly fifty years ago when four hundred thousand idealistic hippies descended upon this town. A projected disaster that ended up being a glorious experience. The legendary summer of love.

The Woodstock Music and Art Fair didn’t take place in Woodstock, New York. The residents of Woodstock were not keen on having the initially projected fifty thousand hippies traipsing through their town. The concert promoters eventually secured Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in Bethel, New York—fifty-eight miles from Woodstock and six miles from where I live now. I was four at the time. I have no memory of it. Mom said I was sicker than sick that weekend. Ear infection. Fever escalating to 104 degrees. She tried to take me to a doctor, but the roads were clogged with festival revelers, so she had to postpone my appointment until Tuesday. But by then, the worst of it was over.

Fifty years. Those teenagers were in their sixties and seventies now. The older ones in their eighties. How many of them were still idealistic? How many were still into peace, love, and understanding? How many “dropped out” and berated “the man,” only later to find themselves the beneficiaries of capitalism? Becoming “the man.”

I leaned over slightly as I reached for the doorknob. The door swung open unexpectedly, smacking me in the forehead. “Whoa.” I ran my fingertips along my hairline. No bump. For now.

“Sorry, babe.” Ray’s voice drew Moxie’s attention. Our thirteenyear-old lab mix moseyed into the foyer, tail in full swing. Moseying was really all Moxie could muster these days. “Didn’t realize you were standing there.”

Ray had left the house an hour earlier. I peered over his shoulder at the running Jeep. “Forget something?”

“Yeah. My wallet.” Ray stepped inside, dripping. Moxie stared up at him, waiting. He squatted and rubbed her ears. “Raining cats and dogs out there. No offense, Moxie.” He glanced up at the poster. “Just like fifty years ago.” He sighed.

Ray’s parents were married at the festival by a traveling minister. One-year-old Ray in tow (earning him bragging rights as one of the youngest people to attend Woodstock). Tomorrow would have been their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Their death, at the hand of a drunk driver twelve years ago, spawned a program called Better Mad Than Sad—a class baked into the local drivers-ed curriculum that Ray (and the drunk driver’s girlfriend, Marisa) created ten years ago. Parents would join their kids for a fifty-minute session in which they pledged to pick up their kids or their kid’s friends, no questions asked, no judgment passed.

Last month, Ray reached out to a few of his and his parents’ friends asking if they would be up for a “celebration of life” vigil at the Woodstock Festival site this evening. Nothing formal. Just twenty or so folks standing around, reminiscing and shooting the shit about his parents.

Ray shook the rain off his jacket. “Met your new partner this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s very good-looking.” He smirked, then added, “Movie-star good looking.”

I leaned back and gave Ray the once-over. “I’m more into the rough-around-the-edges type.”

“So I got nothing to worry about?”

“Not as long as you treat me right.” I smiled coyly. I had been without an official partner for a little over a year, since July 2018. My ex-partner bought a small farm in Vermont. He told me not to take it personally, but he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I still wondered if I contributed to his anxiety in some small way. Then I got shot in the thigh that August. So hiring a new partner was put on hold. Upon my return to active duty in October of 2018, I was assigned an under-the-radar cold case with my dad brought on as consulting partner. By the time the Trudy Solomon case was resolved, in December 2018, Chief Eldridge still hadn’t found a suitable replacement. Small-town policing isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. So for the better part of 2019, it was just me and my shadow. Dad and Ray assisted on the Madison Garcia case, but the chief made it clear that protocol called for two detectives working a case, and my partnerless days were numbered. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I didn’t want a partner. I did. I just wished I had a say in who it was.

***

Excerpt from The Summer of Love and Death by Marcy McCreary. Copyright 2024 by Marcy McCreary. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.

 

 

Meet the Author:

Marcy McCreary

Marcy McCreary is the author of the Ford Family Mystery series. She graduated from George Washington University with a B.A. in American literature and political science and pursued a career in marketing and communications. She lives in Hull, MA with her husband, Lew.

Catch Up With Marcy McCreary:
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Instagram - @marcymccrearyauthor
Threads - @marcymccrearyauthor
Twitter/X - @mcmarcy
Facebook - @marcymccrearywrites

 

 

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Thursday, April 28, 2022

Release Blitz & #Giveaway ~ Breaking News by Frank Morelli @frankmoewriter ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #BreakingNews #FrankMorelli #MiddleGrade

 

Middle Grade Mystery / Spy / Detective

Date Published: 04-28-2022

Publisher: Fitzroy Books / Regal House


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About the Book:

Things don’t usually come to a screeching halt at the RAT, also known as Ridgewood Arts & Technical School, Ridgewood City’s most prestigious progressive institution. But that’s what happens when Headmistress Hardaway interrupts class and announces, “A scandal has rocked the fundraising committee!” Everyone is a suspect and Hunter Jackson, student council special investigator, vows to root out the student who’s heartless enough to steal donation money. He’s not alone. Ridgewood Roar news editor, Anthony Ravello, and the rogue, indie-press pioneer, Liberty Lennon, plan to do some journalistic digging of their own in a race against each other to scoop the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to their faithful readers…or at least their versions of it. With the truth getting murkier by the day, students at the RAT gobble up news bytes and wash them down with locker-side gossip as they try to unmask the classmate responsible for the missing funds. 

About the Author:

Frank Morelli is the author of the young adult novels On the Way to Birdland (2021) and No Sad Songs (2018), a YALSA Quick Picks for Reluctant Readers nominee and winner of an American Fiction Award for best coming of age story. His fiction and essays have been featured in various publications including The Saturday Evening Post, Cobalt Review, Philadelphia Stories, and Highlights Magazine. A Philadelphia native, Morelli now resides in High Point, NC with a brilliant illustrator and his fur babies.

Contact Links:

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Purchase Links:

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Thursday, March 25, 2021

Book Tour & #Giveaway ~ The Devil Whispered by Shawn Starkweather @Stark_Books @RABTBookTours ~ #SciFi #Mystery #Detective

 

Science-Fiction/Mystery/Detective

Date Published: 3/1/2021

About the Book:

Retired special-forces commander Jacobi Slate is drawn into a downward-spiraling vortex of fear and doubt while investigating a brutal murder committed by an old friend. As evidence mounts that someone else might be pulling strings from the shadows, Jacobi struggles to understand a developing connection to his own past, which is quickly catching up to him.

Near-future cyberpunk collides with gritty detective noir in this fast-paced thriller that shines a light on both the vast shortcomings and the noble heroism of the human condition. To unravel the mystery, Jacobi will pull on every thread while chasing leads from the squalor of the most dangerous streets to the high-tech towers of the wealthy elite on his quest to understand a truth he might not be ready to face.


About the Author:

Shawn lives in Massachusetts with his wife and the handful of childhood stuffed animals that they’ve been unable to part ways with, even despite the awkward situation it occasionally puts their house guests in. He wields a coveted Associates of Liberal Arts degree from Greenfield Community college in an overly enthusiastic, flailing manner, and puts it to work writing both fantasy and science fiction stories. Using subliminal codes and hidden messaging carefully placed throughout his books, he plans to captivate the minds of his readers and insidiously manipulate them into purchasing subsequent releases.

As a novelist, musician, graphic designer, and a purveyor of fine games, Shawn is often confused about exactly who he is when he wakes up in the morning. It’s been said (by him) that perhaps he embodies all of these things so equally that a singular definition could not comprehensively impart a satisfactory description. With your support, and a sufficient demand for more novels, he secretly hopes that he’ll have no choice but to formally acknowledge the prevailing label of ‘author’ and spend the rest of his days providing a sense of wonder and adventure to everyone who helped him solidify his nebulous identity.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Blog

LinkedIn

Amazon Author Page

Purchase Link:

Amazon https://amzn.to/3c6OCgR


 

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Monday, March 1, 2021

Release Blitz & #Giveaway ~ The Devil Whispered by Shawn Starkweather ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #ScienceFiction #Mystery #Detective #TheDevilWhispered #ShawnStarkweather

 


Science-Fiction/Mystery/Detective

Date Published: 3/1/2021

About the Book:

Retired special-forces commander Jacobi Slate is drawn into a downward-spiraling vortex of fear and doubt while investigating a brutal murder committed by an old friend. As evidence mounts that someone else might be pulling strings from the shadows, Jacobi struggles to understand a developing connection to his own past, which is quickly catching up to him.

Near-future cyberpunk collides with gritty detective noir in this fast-paced thriller that shines a light on both the vast shortcomings and the noble heroism of the human condition. To unravel the mystery, Jacobi will pull on every thread while chasing leads from the squalor of the most dangerous streets to the high-tech towers of the wealthy elite on his quest to understand a truth he might not be ready to face.


Read an Excerpt:

My consciousness snapped online with abrupt decisiveness. I had the acute feeling of being alone in a world that was wrongly serene, like the silence of the dead. I’d been dreaming of something horrifying, but the details were dancing just outside the boundary of my ability to recall. The panic I’d woken with was caught in my chest. It held me frozen to the sheets as my mind reconfigured to the safety and familiarity of my apartment. Though the context of the dream was faded and surreal, the fear was vivid and raw. It was a visceral terror, compounded by a deeply rooted aversion to vulnerability.

As I lay there, waiting for the sensation of cold dread to die away, the room was unceremoniously lit up by the glow of the wide monitor that comprised the wall opposite my bed. Shielding my eyes from the sting of the sudden light, I heard Ava, my virtual concierge, ask if I would like to receive a call.

Who’s calling?” I asked with what little energy I’d mustered.

A Pavel Volkov is awaiting your response.” Her voice was always the same, mildly empathetic with a touch of encouragement.

I wrapped the sheet around me and grudgingly pulled myself up to sit on the side of the bed. Looking out from the tall windows that constituted the eastern-facing wall of my bedroom, I saw that it was still deep in the night. The only radiance beyond the panes was generated by the city itself; from the broken lines of luminous code emanating from the trickling streams of traffic far below, and the windows of the high-rises that towered above them - light and dark, the ones and zeroes of a binary skyline.

Yeah, okay.”

Then, Pavel’s finely kempt visage was smiling keenly at me from my wall. He was standing on a rocky beach, and waves were lapping at the shore behind him. He wore a white silk suit and a bemused expression that seemed inappropriately unapologetic.

It’s late, Pavel.”

Good morning, Jacobi. My apologies for contacting you at this hour, but I thought you’d want to know that I’ve located the target.”

Where are you?”

I’ll send coordinates to your CUBE.”

Pavel Volkov was a liar and a thief. He’d conned so many wealthy aristocrats that he’d become one himself, but he stayed in the game for the sake of his own twisted entertainment. He was an artist, who specialized in painting perfect illusions. Deception was his medium, but I’d worked with him for long enough that I trusted him when it came to getting the job done. Traces of malaise from my restless sleep were lingering, so the notion of lucid wakefulness was a welcome one.

I’m on my way,” I said. “End call.”

Pavel’s smirking face faded as the monitor went dark, and I was left with only my thoughts and the reiterating cycles of light from the softly glowing city outside. In the silence, I heard the faint percussion of fiery horse hooves falling away as the nightmare visiting me surrendered the assault and retreated to the depths of wherever dark dreams were designed.


About the Author:

Shawn lives in Massachusetts with his wife and the handful of childhood stuffed animals that they’ve been unable to part ways with, even despite the awkward situation it occasionally puts their house guests in. He wields a coveted Associates of Liberal Arts degree from Greenfield Community college in an overly enthusiastic, flailing manner, and puts it to work writing both fantasy and science fiction stories. Using subliminal codes and hidden messaging carefully placed throughout his books, he plans to captivate the minds of his readers and insidiously manipulate them into purchasing subsequent releases.

As a novelist, musician, graphic designer, and a purveyor of fine games, Shawn is often confused about exactly who he is when he wakes up in the morning. It’s been said (by him) that perhaps he embodies all of these things so equally that a singular definition could not comprehensively impart a satisfactory description. With your support, and a sufficient demand for more novels, he secretly hopes that he’ll have no choice but to formally acknowledge the prevailing label of ‘author’ and spend the rest of his days providing a sense of wonder and adventure to everyone who helped him solidify his nebulous identity.


Contact Links:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Blog

LinkedIn

Amazon Author Page


Purchase Link:

Amazon https://amzn.to/3bNXPuj



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Tuesday, February 9, 2021

Teaser Tuesday ~ The Devil Whispered by Shawn Starkweather @Stark_Books @RABTBookTours ~ #SciFi #Mystery #Detective

Science-Fiction/Mystery/Detective

Date Published: 3/1/2021

About the Book:

Retired special-forces commander Jacobi Slate is drawn into a downward-spiraling vortex of fear and doubt while investigating a brutal murder committed by an old friend. As evidence mounts that someone else might be pulling strings from the shadows, Jacobi struggles to understand a developing connection to his own past, which is quickly catching up to him.

Near-future cyberpunk collides with gritty detective noir in this fast-paced thriller that shines a light on both the vast shortcomings and the noble heroism of the human condition. To unravel the mystery, Jacobi will pull on every thread while chasing leads from the squalor of the most dangerous streets to the high-tech towers of the wealthy elite on his quest to understand a truth he might not be ready to face.

Read an Excerpt:

Through the doorway, a shape was moving toward us, intermittently visible as the pulsing rings passed rapidly along the ceiling. It was low to the ground, and parts of it were glowing red. The lights were moving too quickly for me to fully assess exactly who or what was approaching us, until it had nearly reached the door. It was an elderly Asian man, seated in a wheeled chair, the metal of which was aglow. The colors of fire swirled within it and gave the metal the molten appearance of having just been drawn from the flames. The man looked to be in his seventh or eighth decade. His white hair was short, straight, and neatly combed. The sharp, piercing gaze from beneath his glasses belied any assumption that his advanced age might have dulled his mind. For a few moments, he quietly studied us, and I had the sense that we were being silently compared with a preexisting expectation of some kind.

I bowed then, timing it as I deemed appropriate to reflect the proper amount of deference, since I was a guest on this ship and had come seeking his assistance. Risa followed my example.

Kangei Shimasu,” he said in Japanese, bowing his head respectfully. “Be welcome, Jacobi-san.”

You know my name,” I said, unsurprised.

He paused for a moment, as if to consider how to answer, and then nodded. “I do. I know a great many things about both of you, but before you ask, I am unwilling to fully explain the methods that we use to gather our intelligence. We should use the limited time we have to share with one another this evening to focus on less complex matters.”

You are The Blacksmith?” asked Risa.

Yes. Welcome to the Forge, Ms. Corbin. You, of all people, might appreciate the room in which we stand now. Do you understand what you see, I wonder?”

I think…” she said, looking slowly around the room, “if I had to guess, considering the amount of power you have being routed to that sphere, it’s probably the central processing unit for some sort of massive neural network. AI, perhaps?”

Not just any artificial intelligence. Certainly nothing along the lines of those ridiculous programmed concierges you see installed in every home now. The Anvil,” he said, nodding in the direction of the sphere, “is the foundation of all of the work we do here at the Forge. I began developing it more than five decades ago, and it has since evolved into what you see before you now, a fully functioning example of the potential of machine learning.”

What does it do?” she asked, walking closer and running her hand along the surface of the sphere.

It manages complex medical procedures and data-mines the Evernet with astounding speed and accuracy to provide me with information. In many ways, it functions as an assistant of sorts for me, without which the work I do would take an extraordinarily increased length of time to complete.”

And what is that exactly?” she asked. “The work you do, I mean.”

You contacted me. That seems a great deal of trouble to go through without knowing what you seek.”

It certainly does,” Risa said, giving me a poignant glare.

Well,” he continued, “we do a great many things here in the Forge, mostly in the field of biological cybernetics. Our moral inclinations tend to be much looser than the places where this work is performed legally. And with the assistance of the Anvil, we can perform it in a fraction of the time it would take otherwise.”

Why out here? Why on the ocean? A ship hardly seems the ideal place for a man in a wheelchair,” I said.

Well, ship stability technology has made some leaps forward in the twenty years since you were in the navy, Mr. Slate. Advances in the field of magnetic internal stabilizers, as well as wave pattern recognition and prediction, have given way to a new era of onboard motion control. As you can surely see, there is a powerful storm raging outside yet barely the slightest hint of movement here within the hull.”

I hadn’t been paying too much attention, distracted as I’d been by the strange environment and the neural network, but he was correct. I bowed my head in concession to his point.

To answer your question, it provides some amount of security, and the mobility we need to maintain our privacy. The ocean also provides a consistent, natural source of coolant that we utilize in maintaining our operation. Additionally, we have systems onboard that harness both thermal energy from the sun’s heat and mechanical energy from the tides and waves. Water, Mr. Slate, is a powerful tool when properly manipulated.”

My curiosity was sated, and I was impressed. The Blacksmith’s chair rolled forward past us, seemingly of its own violation as his hands were neatly folded in his lap. It repositioned to face us when it reached the Anvil.

So, let us not waste any more time. Tell me, what service do you hope I can provide?”

I looked at Risa, who was watching me expectantly, and drew a deep breath.

I need a kill switch for my head.”

About the Author:

Shawn lives in Massachusetts with his wife and the handful of childhood stuffed animals that they’ve been unable to part ways with, even despite the awkward situation it occasionally puts their house guests in. He wields a coveted Associates of Liberal Arts degree from Greenfield Community college in an overly enthusiastic, flailing manner, and puts it to work writing both fantasy and science fiction stories. Using subliminal codes and hidden messaging carefully placed throughout his books, he plans to captivate the minds of his readers and insidiously manipulate them into purchasing subsequent releases.

As a novelist, musician, graphic designer, and a purveyor of fine games, Shawn is often confused about exactly who he is when he wakes up in the morning. It’s been said (by him) that perhaps he embodies all of these things so equally that a singular definition could not comprehensively impart a satisfactory description. With your support, and a sufficient demand for more novels, he secretly hopes that he’ll have no choice but to formally acknowledge the prevailing label of ‘author’ and spend the rest of his days providing a sense of wonder and adventure to everyone who helped him solidify his nebulous identity.

Contact Links:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Blog

LinkedIn

Amazon Author Page


 

RABT Book Tours & PR