I'm starting a four-day green juice cleanse/detox this morning, and I always feel horrible at first during this process, so I'm going to be rather scarce for a few days. I'm still trying to catch up to where I was before I left for Scotland, but my focus is just not there--one of the things I hope juicing will help with--and I find myself postless this morning.
So I'll leave you with a Sneak Peek of next year's first book (something I forgot to mention last week when I was touching on upcoming projects).
This is from
The Mermaid Murders, scheduled for a February 1st 2016 release. I'm going to do something a bit different with preorders this time, so at the moment
TMM can only be purchased through Smashwords (that will obviously change!)
Smashwords.
BLURB:
Special Agent Jason West is seconded from the FBI Art Crime
Team to temporarily partner with disgraced, legendary “manhunter” Sam Kennedy
when it appears that Kennedy’s most famous case, the capture and conviction of
a serial killer known as The Huntsman, may actually have been a disastrous failure.
The Huntsman is still out there…and the killing has begun
again.
EXCERPT:
Summer heat shimmered off the
blacktop.
In that shivery,
humid light, the big, blond man casually leaning against the silver
government-issue sedan—and checking his watch—looked a little like a mirage.
But no such luck. Special Agent Sam Kennedy was not a trick of the light.
Kennedy looked up,
spotted Jason, and grimaced. Maybe it was supposed to be a smile. Probably not,
given Kennedy’s reputation.
“Special Agent
West,” Kennedy said. His voice was deep, and he spoke with a suggestion of a
drawl. “I thought maybe you stopped off to see if you could solve the Gardner Museum heist on your way over here.”
Funny guy,
Kennedy. Special Agent in Charge Carl Manning had already warned Jason that
Kennedy was not thrilled to be partnered again, let alone partnered with an
agent seconded from the Art Crime Team. But that’s what happened when you
screwed up your last high-profile investigation to such an extent the governor
of Wisconsin
denounced you on the nightly news. An agent with less seniority would have been
“on the beach” for the foreseeable future, but Kennedy was a legend in the
Bureau. One of the great “manhunters.” His career would survive, but he was
under a cloud, no question. His kind of success earned enemies—and not just
from the usual suspects. A successful career wasn’t just about closing
cases—and Kennedy didn’t strike Jason as the tactful type.
“Nice to meet you
too,” Jason said, reaching the car. Kennedy did not offer his hand, so Jason
shoved his own in his pocket. “Just to be clear, I’m supposed to be on
vacation. In fact, I busted my ass to get here. I was at Boston Airport
about to catch a flight home to L.A.”
“Duly noted.”
Kennedy turned away, going around to the driver’s side of the gleaming sedan.
“You can throw your bag in the trunk.” He reached in and popped the trunk hood.
Jason opened the
trunk and slung his brown leather carryall next to Kennedy’s black Tumi. That
was some serious luggage. The luggage of someone who lived out of his suitcase.
Primetime TV notwithstanding, it was rare for agents in the Behavioral Analysis
Units to leave Quantico
and travel around the country, but Kennedy was the exception that proved the
rule.
“We need to hit
the road. That girl’s been missing over eight hours already.” Kennedy threw
that comment over his shoulder, before sliding in behind the wheel.
Jason started to
answer, but restrained himself. SAC Manning had clued him in to a few facts
about his new—temporary—partner. And, ostensibly, this urgency to get to the
crime scene out in rural Kingsfield was all part of what made Kennedy so good
at his job—not to mention the reason they were meeting in a diner parking lot
instead of the division office at One
Center Plaza.
He slammed shut
the trunk, walked around to the passenger side and climbed in. The car was
still cool with air-conditioning, so Kennedy hadn’t been waiting long.
Kennedy turned the
key in the ignition. More cold air blasted out along with news radio. “So you
know the area? Your family used to have a vacation home in Kingsfield?”
“That’s right.”
“How nice.”
Kennedy’s tone was more like Oh brother.
He wore too much aftershave. The fragrance as aggressive as everything else
about him. Top note sandalwood, bottom note obnoxious.
“I guess so.”
Kennedy threw him
a sardonic look as they exited the parking lot. Or at least the twist of his
mouth was sardonic. The dark Oakleys he wore concealed his eyes. He was not
handsome, but he had the kind of face you didn’t forget easily. Although Jason
was going to try his best the minute this case was over.
Jason said,
“Clarify something for me. The Kingsfield Police Chief asked specifically for
you because he thinks he might have a copycat killer on his hands?”
“It’s too soon to
say, but yeah. That’s the concern, of course. No girl is going to go missing in
Worcester County ever again that people aren’t
going to fear it’s some kind of copycat crime.” Kennedy began to bring Jason up
to date on the case.
It was a swift and
concise summation, but then the facts were few. Rebecca Madigan, the teenage
daughter of wealthy local residents, had disappeared Saturday night while hosting
a party for friends. Rebecca’s parents were out of town, so her boyfriend had
reported the girl missing. A search had been organized, but so far there was no
sign of Rebecca.
“There could be a
lot of reasons a teenage girl disappears,” Jason pointed out.
“Yep. But like I
said, the folks of Worcester
County have long
memories.”
Jason stared out
the window at the slideshow of skyscrapers and historic buildings. Parks,
playgrounds…ponds. The dazzle of bright
sunlight on green water. He removed his sunglasses, passed a hand across
his eyes, and replaced the shades.
Worcester was an old city with a modern
attitude. It was only about twenty-four miles from Kingsfield, not much more
than a forty-five-minute drive, but it could have been a different planet.
He said, “I
remember the original case. You were behind the capture and conviction of
Martin Pink.”
“I played a role.”
Kennedy was displaying unexpected—and undue—modesty. There was no question the
Kingsfield Killings had stopped due to Kennedy’s efforts, which was no doubt
why the police chief had been so quick to call him in this time. It was a
little surprising the Bureau hadn’t waited to see how things developed in the
Madigan case, but maybe this was as much about putting Kennedy on ice as
finding a missing girl. That was certainly the way it had sounded to Jason when
SAC Manning had asked him to cancel his vacation.
“What kind of a
party was it?” Jason asked.
“What do you
mean?”
“It’s June. Was it
a graduation party? Birthday party? Sweet sixteen? Secret baby shower?”
Kennedy’s laugh
was without humor. “It was the kind of party you throw when your parents are
out of town for the weekend.”
“Was everybody
invited or was it private?”
“We don’t have the
details yet. You know everything I know.”
Yeah, probably
not. Kennedy was one of these lone-wolf types who no doubt “preferred to play
his own hand” or whatever bullshit macho phrase he’d use to excuse not being a
team player. It made for good TV, but in real-life law enforcement, not being a
team player was how people got hurt.
Sometimes you got
hurt even when everyone was playing for the same team. Jason’s shoulder twinged,
and he rubbed it absently.
There was a large
heart-shaped sign by the side of the road on the outskirts of town. The sign
read IN OUR HEARTS FOREVER Honey Corrigan June 15th 1998.
The sign had not
been there the last time Jason had driven this road. But it was probably
familiar to Kennedy. He’d probably passed it a hundred times that long ago
summer.
Neither of them
spoke, and a couple of minutes later they were out of the green woodland and into
the shady streets of the picturesque and rustic village of Kingsfield.
It was classic New England. Pretty and quaint.
Clapboard houses surrounded by wide lawns or gardens of old roses, renovated nineteenth
century commercial buildings of red and yellow brick, war memorials—that would
be the Revolutionary War—white churches with tall steeples, all artfully
positioned around the large and lush village green. Nothing like California, that was for
sure. But then that had been the point of spending summers here.
“Just like you
remember?” Kennedy’s voice jarred Jason out of his thoughts.
“Doesn’t seem to
have changed much.”
And that was the
truth. They passed Beaky’s Tavern. Bow windows and a hanging, hand-painted sign
featuring a bewigged gentleman with a nose like a hood ornament.
“When was the last
time you were back?”
“Years.” His
parents had sold their vacation home right after Honey had disappeared, and
Jason had not been back since. He was not going to share that information with
Kennedy, even if Kennedy had been listening.
Which he wasn’t.
His attention was on the information his GPS
was providing in crisp, mechanical tones. His big hands moved with easy
assurance on the steering wheel, his gaze raked the pretty little shops and
cafes.
The police station
was located in the center of the village, housed in the former Town Hall
building. It was a two-story structure of faded brick complete with a clock
tower—including a rooster weather vane—and gray columns supporting the front
portico. The arched windows had a nice view of the Quaboag River,
a blue shadow in the distance.
Jason and Kennedy
parked in the rear beneath a row of maple trees.
“I’d expect to see
a lot more cars here,” Jason said, studying the nearly empty lot.
“They’re out
searching,” Kennedy replied.
His tone was
neutral, but yes. Of course. The problem was it had been a long time since
Jason had worked a violent crime. Or at least since he’d worked a crime where
there was an expectation of violence. People were always unpredictable.
Especially when they felt cornered.
He walked beside
Kennedy around the building. The air was hot and humid, scented of warm stone
and daylilies. Kennedy didn’t say a word from the parking lot to the front portico.
Not a chatty guy.
They went in
through the old wood-frame glass doors. A matronly-looking officer was busy
answering the phones. She barely glanced at their IDs, indicating with a nod of
her head that they should proceed down the dark-paneled hallway—all the while
calmly answering the caller on the other end of the line.
An incident room
had been set up on the main floor. It was abandoned but for one lone deputy who
was erasing something on the large whiteboard. Jason’s heart sank as he
recognized Boyd Boxner. It had been a long time, but Boyd hadn’t changed all
that much. Square shoulders, square jaw, square head. Well, his head wasn’t
square, but his towheaded crew cut gave that impression.
“Special Agent
Kennedy,” Kennedy offered his ID again. “This is Special Agent West.”
“We’ve been
waiting for you,” Boxner said. He glanced at Jason without recognition—suits
and shades provided excellent camouflage—and that was fine with Jason. “Chief
Gervase is directing the search for Rebecca. He asked me to escort you to the
search site.”
“Fine. Let’s get
moving,” Kennedy said.
Jason said, “You
don’t think we should maybe head over to the girl’s house? Take a look around.
See if there’s a reason she might have walked away voluntarily?”
Kennedy stared at
him as though he’d forgotten Jason was present. He’d removed his sunglasses.
His eyes were blue. Arctic blue. A hard and unforgiving color. He turned back
to Boxner. “We’ll start with the search site.”
Okay. That could
have been handled with a little professional courtesy. But fair enough. Kennedy
was the senior on this investigation. Jason was just riding shotgun. This was
not his field of expertise. By the same token, he wasn’t there just to fill a
second suit.
He said, matching
Kennedy’s blank face and tone, “Do they need us to join the search? They’ll
have plenty of volunteers. Maybe we could be of more use taking a look at the
case from a different angle.”
Kennedy stared at
him for a long, silent moment. It was not a friendly look. Nor the look of
someone considering another viewpoint.
“You want me to
leave you two to work it out?” Boxner was looking at Jason more closely now.
“If you don’t
mind, I’d like to have a word with my colleague,” Kennedy said with ominous
calm.
“I’ll bring the
car around.” Boxner was clearly in no doubt as to who would win this round. The
old floorboards squeaked as he departed.
Kennedy didn’t say
a word until Boxner had vanished down the hall. He turned to Jason.
“Okay, pretty boy.
Let’s get something straight.” His tone was cold and clipped. “We both know
your role here is to run interference between me and everybody else. All you
need to do is stay out of my way and smooth the feathers when needed. And in
return you’ll be the guy who gets to pose in front of the cameras with Chief
Gervase. Fair enough?”
“The hell,” Jason
said. “I’ve been asked to try and make sure you don’t step in it again, sure,
but I’m not here to hold your cape and deerstalker, Sherlock. I’m your partner
on this case whether either of us likes it or not. And, for the record, I don’t like it—any more than you do.”
“Then make it easy
on both of us,” Kennedy said. “You stay out of my murder investigation, and
I’ll let you know if I hear about any paintings getting stolen.”
He didn’t wait for
Jason’s answer. He turned and followed Boxner down the hallway.
“You
okay?” It wasn’t what he meant to ask. But he didn’t know what to ask Sam, and
the fact was, he did wonder if Sam was okay. He worried about Sam, although
that was probably ridiculous--Sam would probably think it was ridiculous.
