Saturday, 26 October 2019

It's Been A While...

And it will take take a bit longer to bring this site entirely up to date. There are lots of reasons for the huge gap between posts - a combination of health issues, and simple procrastination [of which I am a past mistress and Olympic Gold Medal material]. Since the health issues aren't going away, nor will they lessen, I'm going to do my damnedest to keep this blog up to date from now on.

I'll start with a shout-out for my last release, The Fall Guy, a short story set in 1920s New York, and London.


In 1920s New York, Pinkerton Agent John Brady is assigned to a brutal robbery/kidnapping, an open and shut case with an obvious culprit - but nothing and no one are what they seem.

Small-time crook Cesare Donati has the perfect getaway: a transatlantic cruise ship. When Brady turns up at his cabin door, Cesare knows he is out of options until they reach England.
Will London be a safe haven or a place of reckoning?

Excerpt:

“Brady!” The bellow echoed around the half-empty bullpen and the four of us still scribbling reports winced.

Even the chatter and clatter from the typing pool paused for a moment, and the new girl about to hand Parrish his copy, jumped and squeaked like a startled mouse. She wasn’t the only one taken by surprise. My involuntary jerk left a spreading blot of ink on my half-finished statement. Hank Hampton’s usual short temper had an extra side of rage this morning. I dropped my pen, spattering more ink, shot out of my chair and strode into his office. It didn’t pay to be slow in responding to that kind of shout.

“Yes, Boss?”

His heavy features were redder than I’d seen for a while, and angrier. He scooped a file off his desk and thrust it at me. “Our beloved Congressman Monroe had a break-in yesterday evening. His wife was beaten up, her jewels stolen and her maid kidnapped. The cops aren’t moving fast enough for him, so he’s roped us in as well.” ‘Us’ being the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Lucky us. “Do what you gotta do,” Hampton snapped. “Go where you need to go. Monroe’s breathing down my neck on this and we can’t afford to mess this up.” His warning glare came close to incinerating me. “Make it fast. He thinks this is more than a straightforward robbery-kidnapping, and he’s made it clear that he wants a personal chat with the bastard.”

“Yes, Boss,” I said and legged it back to my desk.

Congressman Gerald ‘Bull’ Monroe pulled a lot of political weight in New York since Prohibition had been imposed a few years ago: not all of it the kind that would make his momma proud. Rumor had it he was a bad man to cross. But I still didn’t understand why Monroe had called us in. Hampton didn’t, either, I guessed, which explained his more than usual lousy mood.

Okay, it isn't exactly a secret that the New York Police Department hustled along at the speed of cold molasses: even so, involving the Pinkertons at this early stage in the investigation seemed odd to me. I had a sudden gut-feeling that no matter who brought the suspect in, the guy would very quickly have a serious and almost certainly fatal accident.




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