tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43846579782758139482024-03-12T19:53:31.344-07:00Sam HarperMarta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-76945724971690489662009-09-25T16:32:00.000-07:002009-09-25T17:02:41.294-07:00Shannon Wallace Is At It Again<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/Sr1WJba2PzI/AAAAAAAABco/sassL-d_cw8/s1600-h/AvengingAngel-200x300.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385555449384156978" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/Sr1WJba2PzI/AAAAAAAABco/sassL-d_cw8/s320/AvengingAngel-200x300.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I was looking through some old files at the station tonight when I came across the Shannon Wallace case. She's the friend of a friend who was accused of killing her ex a few months ago. The problem was, he was her boss and her lover before he dumped and fired her all in one day.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Can't blame her for getting drunk, but when he was found dead, she became the prime suspect. </div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/02/troubles-knocking-again.html">She called me </a>when she started feeling the heat. But what I supposed to do? We're five states apart--I couldn't help her if I wanted to. I suggest she turn herself in. </div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div>Haven't heard from her in a while so I figured she'd taken my advice. Then I found this--looks like she's still on the run.</div><div><a href="http://yougottareadvideos.blogspot.com/2009/09/september-2009-entry-7-avenging-angel.html">http://yougottareadvideos.blogspot.com/2009/09/september-2009-entry-7-avenging-angel.html</a></div><br /><div></div><div>Check it out then go here and give her a vote. <a href="http://yougottareadvideos.blogspot.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://yougottareadvideos.blogspot.com/</a>. Only two days left before the case goes to the jury. What do you say? Maybe with enough support from her friends, she'll get off on good behavior. </div><br /><div></div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-17897634428962790872009-07-22T15:38:00.000-07:002009-07-22T15:56:44.737-07:00I Turn My Back For A Minute ...<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SmeYpg3125I/AAAAAAAABVw/kR2dlAp553I/s1600-h/Humphrey20Bogart_03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361421720374074258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 243px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SmeYpg3125I/AAAAAAAABVw/kR2dlAp553I/s320/Humphrey20Bogart_03.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>Just heard the <a href="http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com/2009/07/marta-stephens-2009-all-rights-reserved.html">news</a>. Damn place won't be the same without you.</div><br /><div>Sam</div></div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-13043466067231628102009-05-24T15:10:00.000-07:002009-05-24T15:27:38.224-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/ShnGQGCywBI/AAAAAAAABRg/fVUfZW1VOyo/s1600-h/TDCW+FINAL+OFFICIAL+COPY.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339516813026967570" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 196px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/ShnGQGCywBI/AAAAAAAABRg/fVUfZW1VOyo/s320/TDCW+FINAL+OFFICIAL+COPY.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/ShnGDIn9idI/AAAAAAAABRY/KGeaRP4ySU8/s1600-h/ipbrnzmedal.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339516590381435346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 87px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 117px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/ShnGDIn9idI/AAAAAAAABRY/KGeaRP4ySU8/s400/ipbrnzmedal.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />"<a href="http://www.martastephens-author.com/">The Devil Can Wait</a>" selected 2009 Independent Publisher Book Awards <a href="http://www.independentpublisher.com/article.php?page=1294&urltitle=Announcing">(IPPY)</a> bronze medal finalist in the mystery/suspense/thriller category.</div><div></div><div>Available from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1905202865?tag=marstetheoffs-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=1905202865&adid=1DJP3JNEZQ7B7KYH3TPG&">Amazon</a>, <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Devil-Can-Wait/Marta-Stephens/e/9781905202867/?itm=1">B&N</a>, <a href="http://www.booksamillion.com/product/9781905202867?id=4432034882897">BAM</a>, and numeroud other online bookstores. </div><div></div><div>ISBN: 978-1-905202-86-7</div><div>316 Pages</div><div>$15.99</div><div></div><div>Autographed copies available through <a href="http://www.martastephens-author.com/The_shop.htm">Stephens's website</a>.<br /></div><div></div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-16453016720236753292009-05-06T09:57:00.000-07:002009-05-06T09:58:50.219-07:00"The Devil Can Wait" IPPY Award Semifinalist<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SgHBsoS87iI/AAAAAAAABQA/LcQqL8NFIJU/s1600-h/devil_can_wait_full_official-final.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332756406258691618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 136px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 190px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SgHBsoS87iI/AAAAAAAABQA/LcQqL8NFIJU/s320/devil_can_wait_full_official-final.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The Devil Can Wait, has been shortlisted in the highly competitive mystery/suspense/thriller genre for the 2009 IPPY awards. <a href="http://www.independentpublisher.com/article.php?page=1294">http://www.independentpublisher.com/article.php?page=1294</a></div><br /><div><br />The winners will be announce on May 29th on the first evening of the BookExpo America convention in NYC. Fingers crossed! </div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-2999155817072340752009-04-22T13:52:00.000-07:002009-04-22T17:08:32.892-07:00Joe Bright: The Black Garden<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/Se-a3QCOVNI/AAAAAAAABPY/c49_KgRmYdg/s1600-h/Joe-Bright%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327647158190363858" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 141px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 211px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/Se-a3QCOVNI/AAAAAAAABPY/c49_KgRmYdg/s320/Joe-Bright%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong>The suspect: </strong><a href="http://www.joebrightbooks.com/"><strong>Joe Bright</strong></a><br /><br /><strong>Case of <a href="http://www.joebrightbooks.com/">THE BLACK GARDEN</a></strong><br /><strong>ISNB: 978-1905202980<br /><br /></strong><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">The call came in five days ago about the incident at THE BLACK GARDEN</span></strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;"><strong>. Word on the street was that a guy by the name of Joe Bright, had all the answers. I finally caught up with the suspect after spotting him entering The Smoke House on Lakeside drive. Too bad he couldn’t finish that prime rib, but getting the straight facts about this case was more pressing.<br /><br />I shoved open the door to interrogation room three. Bright feigned a smile, but the eyes couldn’t mask the million questions that were running through his head—like he didn’t know I’d come after him. His feet were flat on the floor, palms down in front of him on top of the small metal table in the center of the otherwise barren room.</strong><br /><br /><strong>I took a seat across from Bright and studied him a second or two before asking:</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“So, what gives, Joe? What’s your story?”<br /></span></strong><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/Se-czY9d4bI/AAAAAAAABPg/05HZ7GuabvU/s1600-h/black-garden-cover%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327649290890109362" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 158px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 250px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/Se-czY9d4bI/AAAAAAAABPg/05HZ7GuabvU/s320/black-garden-cover%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />“My life has always revolved around the arts. When I was young, I used to draw constantly. I went to college on a fine arts scholarship and spent a few years on a dance team touring Canada and Europe. I also won a music showdown, playing the guitar and singing songs I’d written. Yet my biggest passion has always been writing. I wrote short stories while in high school and college, but never embarked on the daunting task of writing a novel until I’d graduated and moved to Hawaii.<br /><br />I’ve been writing for fifteen years now and have written five novels. THE BLACK GARDEN is the first one to get picked up by a traditional publisher. Three of the others were published on audio cassette, but have since been discontinued. I also self-published two of them on my own, but have now discontinued those as well, since I’m rewriting them and plan to submit them to publishers once they’re finished.<br /><br />Most of my stories fall within the gothic suspense category. THE BLACK GARDEN, however, is more of a drama/mystery. With its rural setting and dark theme, it still fits in the American Gothic genre, but without the supernatural elements that are often associated with the genre.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“I see what you mean about the supernatural," I said, thinking about my own brush with <a href="http://www.martastephens-author.com/">the Devil</a>. "But why this book? What drove you to do it?” </span></strong><br /><br />“One of the inspirations for THE BLACK GARDEN was a murder that took place in my hometown in Wyoming, when I was nineteen. I learned the details of the murder from my older brother’s best friend. He said the girl had been raped and strangled. She was eight-years-old.<br /><br />A murder makes a large impact on a small town, mainly because it rarely happens there and because it tends to affect almost everyone. We know the victim. We know the killer. We know their families. When you come from a family of eight children, as I do, it increases the chances of there being a connection. In this case, the killer turned out to be my older brother’s best friend, the same one who had told us about the murder.<br /><br />With the first suspect, I was willing to see the man hanged, even without seeing any of the evidence. When it turned out to be a friend of the family, I felt sick. I felt sorry for his family and for my brother. If he hadn’t confessed, I would have sworn they had the wrong guy. Why? Because I knew him and we often choose sides based on association rather than on the facts of the situation.<br /><br />This murder is a very small part of THE BLACK GARDEN; however, the theme of judgment runs throughout the story. Who’s right, the Hatfields or McCoys? Depends if you’re a Hatfield or a McCoy.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">I knew exactly where he was coming from—that sick feeling when you find out those you care about most are not who you think they are. “That’s tough, but you can’t play it both ways. I mean, what did you think the people of this town would get out of your work?”<br /></span></strong><br />"I hope the novel gives readers a different perspective on events, and entertains them at the same time.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">I skimmed through my note, ran a finger down the page until I found what I needed. “What do you know about Mitchell Sanders?”</span></strong><br /><br />“Mitchell is the outsider. He moves to the small town of Winter Haven for a summer job. He doesn’t care about his employers or the community. He’s a coward who has run away from his problems in Boston and then finds himself entrenched in even bigger problems. He’s not comfortable speaking his mind while in the company of people he knows will disagree with him. Yet as the conflict mounts, he’s forced to take a stand and to grow as a person.”<br /><br /><strong><br /><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“What aren’t you telling me? I have all your notes, something’s missing,” I said, leaning forward and waving a set of loose pages in his face. “Found them on your website</span>, </strong><a href="http://www.joebrightbooks.com/pages/excerpt_black_garden.html"><strong>http://www.joebrightbooks.com/pages/excerpt_black_garden.html</strong></a><strong>, <span style="color:#ffcc66;">certainly caught my attention. How about you give it to me straight? The whole story; the plot, the characters, the setting, everything!”</span></strong><br /><br />“Mitchell Sanders takes a summer job in Winter Haven, helping the O’Briens fix up their house. He moves into the studio at the back of the black garden, a bizarre assortment of items now overrun with weeds. Soon, Mitchell realizes there is something very peculiar about his employers and discovers that not all of their skeletons are in the closet where they belong.<br /><br />The story revolves around three characters: Mitchell, George, and Candice. Mitchell Sanders, the main protagonist, starts out naïve and detached but gradually grows more and more intrigued by his quirky employers, mainly George. All of us know someone like George O’Brien, a crotchety old man who has nothing good to say about anything. Yet, within his orneriness, you can’t help but be entertained by him and ultimately care about him. George’s granddaughter, Candice has led a sheltered life. Mitchell’s arrival provides her first real glimpse into the outer world. I chose Vermont for the setting mainly because when I visited there I was taken by its beauty and felt it would make a great backdrop for the story. The town of Winter Haven is fictitious; however, I drew a lot on my hometown of Evanston, Wyoming, when describing the layout.”<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“Where’d you dig up your facts?”</span></strong><br /><br />“Since THE BLACK GARDEN takes place in 1958, I had to do a lot of research about the era to make the setting authentic. I wanted to make sure the dialog didn’t contain slang or technical terms that didn’t exist at the time. I also needed to know how the police investigated a crime prior to the advent of DNA testing. Fortunately, one of my older brothers works in law enforcement, and I was able to pick his brain on procedures and protocol.”<br /><br /><strong><br /><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“A cop, huh?” I was thinking maybe Bright wasn’t so bad after all. Still, I needed to satisfy that nagging voice that wouldn't stop tapping inside my head. “This case you stumbled onto. Any road blocks along the way?”</span> </strong><br /><br />“The hardest part about writing is the blank page. I often say that writing is a lot like creating a sculpture out of clay. In the first draft, you are creating the clay. That’s the hard part. Molding it is the fun part. To help me through this process, I first write an outline, plotting out the story. Through this, I come up with my characters, establishing their backgrounds, their likes and dislikes, as well as their strengths and weaknesses. Once I know my characters, it’s much easier to know how they will react in a given situation. Often I’ll just write anything that comes to mind, just to get the writing going and to fill up that daunting blank page. I also tend to keep other novels around so I can pick one up and read a little to get me in the right frame of mind.”<br /><br /><strong><br /><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“So how does a guy who works full time find time write?"</span></strong><br /><br />“I’m a graphic designer during the day and a writer in the evenings. Thus, I’m at the computer all day long. The tragic part of that is that I have very little social life. I can be quite obsessive and have to force myself to take a break and go do something fun. In other words, I’m still trying to find that balance.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“Who are you trying to kid?” <em>Everyone does the juggling act.</em> I thought to myself. I leaned back and waited to see if he flinched—he didn’t—damn it. “All right, Bright, what I want to know is how did burning the midnight oil affect you? Everyone has their breaking point. What’s yours? How did working on THE BLACK GARDEN impact you?"</span></strong><br /><br />“It’s such a great feeling of accomplishment to finish a novel. I also write songs, and I remember how proud I was when I wrote my first song, which took a few days. A novel, on the other hand, takes months or years. Thus, the feeling of pride is that much greater. The most rewarding part of it is having other people read and enjoy it. It’s a nice boost of confidence and encourages me to continue fine tuning my writing skills and to work on the next novel.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“Something tells me you weren't working alone. Who talked you into it?”</span></strong><br /><br />“My parents and brothers and sisters have always encouraged me. It’s nice to have someone believe in you, even when you’re having trouble getting agents and publishers to read your work. I’m very fortunate to have such a supporting family.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“This is premeditation plain and simple. So how’d you do it? Did you have a plan? Did you outline the chapters? Did you plan out the plot? What steps did you take before you wrote the first sentence?”</span></strong><br /><br />“The first novel I ever wrote, I took the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants approach. That is, I just delved in without really knowing where the story would take me. Many writers work that way and do a splendid job with it. Not me. I ended up doing a lot of editing that I could have avoided if I’d have thought things out better. Now I always outline. First, I write a brief synopsis of the story. Second, I figure out who my characters are. This often takes a month or more, because I really need to know who these people are so I can work with them. Third, I write an outline. My outlines include most of the dialogue and brief sketches of the action. Thus, they tend to be around a hundred pages long. Fourth, I start writing the novel. The novel never follows the outline completely, since I discover new things while writing and often encounter flaws that I’d overlooked before.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t break this guy’s spirit. Worse, I couldn’t hold him another minute without cause. But my gut was sending me signals. This wasn’t the last I’d see of Joe Bright and you can bet I’m going to keep an eye on him. He wiped the sweat from his brow and asked if he was free to go. I said sure—for now, but couldn’t leave it alone. I just had to ask him that burning question: “What’s next?"</span></strong><br /><br />“I’m doing a rewrite of my first novel, The Reflection. It’s a gothic suspense about a man who inherits an estate in England from someone he doesn’t know, and then discovers that he looks like the man who killed his benefactor. This is one of the novels that I self-published earlier. I’ve learned a lot since then and feel this new version is vastly superior to the last. I still have a few more months’ worth of work to go on it.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">I wasn’t entirely sorry I asked. Silenced followed us as I walked him down the main hall. When he started out the front doors of city hall it hit me again and I yelled: “Hey Joe, any words of wisdom for the fledgling writer?”</span></strong><br /><br />He turned and shot me a Hollywood smiled. “Never stop learning. There’s always more to learn about the art of writing that can help you perfect your novel. Besides reading novels and analyzing the authors’ techniques, it’s good to read books about writing, even if just to refresh your memory. I highly recommend Techniques of the Selling Writer by Dwight V. Swain, and The Art of Dramatic Writing by Lajos Egri. If I’d read these books years ago, I probably would have gotten published sooner.”<br /><br /><strong>About the author:</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://www.joebrightbooks.com/"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Joe Bright </span></em></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">was raised in Wyoming and received his BA in English from Utah State University. Bright began his career as a technical writer for Thiokol, the manufacturer of space shuttle rocket boosters. He later taught English in Honolulu, Hawaii and Berkeley, California. He currently lives in Studio City , California , and works as a graphic designer. Bright is published by <a href="http://www.bewrite.net/">BeWrite Books </a>(UK).</span></em>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-22315519966928470852009-03-22T06:14:00.000-07:002009-03-22T06:20:46.220-07:00Silenced Cry<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/ScY6c-GoYLI/AAAAAAAABN4/IqmNkPi_Dgg/s1600-h/silenced+cry+cover.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316000679539007666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 152px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 234px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/ScY6c-GoYLI/AAAAAAAABN4/IqmNkPi_Dgg/s320/silenced+cry+cover.jpg" border="0" /></a>Review by <a title="Posts by Mayra Calvani" href="http://www.bloggernews.net/1author/mayra-calvani/">Mayra Calvani</a> in <a title="View all posts in Book Reviews" href="http://www.bloggernews.net/1category/reviews/book-reviews">Book Reviews</a>, <a title="View all posts in Reviews" href="http://www.bloggernews.net/1category/reviews">Reviews</a><br /><br /><div>If you like mystery novels with rich plots that dig into the past, then you’ll enjoy Silenced Cry by Marta Stephens.</div><br /><div>During a routine pick-up for questioning, Detective Sam Harper loses his partner and friend, Gillies. Harper is confused and distraught by the event, which happens under suspicious circumstances. Soon afterwards he’s called to solve a murder case like none he’s been involved before: the homicide of an infant. In a rundown building that’s about to be demolished, trapped behind a wall, they find the skeletal remains of an newborn baby. To make matters worse, the murder seems to have taken place not recently but over a decade ago, making the investigation a lot harder.</div><br /><div>As Detective Harper begins to investigate, a line of suspects slowly emerges. The detective must moved back in time in order to uncover the terrible events which let to the infant’s demise. Soon he’s pulled into a vortex of drugs, corruption, rape and murder as other members of the police force become suspects. At the same time, someone wants the case close and the building demolished as soon as possible, someone who doesn’t want Harper opening the door to the past.<br /></div><div><br />Who murdered the infant? Is the murder only a small part of a much larger set of crimes which have been kept secret all these years? Is Harper ready to face the truth and come to terms with the results of his own investigation?</div><br /><div>Silenced Cry is deftly crafted and an impressive first novel. The pace moves steadily without being too quick nor too slow, allowing the reader to savor each stage of the investigation. The dialogue is sharp and natural and the prose focuses on the action without letting unnecessary details and description get in the way. The police procedurals read realistically, giving the impression that the author either knows well about the subject or did a fair amount of research. For me, this was not a thriller that read at a fast pace, but a ‘gourmet’ mystery that I enjoyed at every stage of the story. Sam Harper is a likable character, but I would say that this is a plot-driven novel more than a character-driven one. Our detective protagonist is sympathetic, but there were times when, for me, he got lost in the midst of the plot. I feel he would have stood out more given stronger, more sharply defined characteristics or quirks. This is an observation more than a criticism, as it didn’t lessen by desire to keep on reading. The secondary characters are quite realistic as well, especially some of the suspects–though I don’t dare say more for fear of giving away spoilers.</div><br /><div>Marta Stephens is a mystery author to watch out for. I will be soon reviewing the second book in the series, The Devil Can Wait, and I have to say I’m very much looking forward to it. If you enjoy an intelligently crafted detective story, I recommend you give this one a try. </div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-765544429234526362009-03-16T04:00:00.000-07:002009-03-16T05:06:35.659-07:00An Unlikely Alliance - Part II<span style="font-size:85%;">© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved<br /></span><a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/03/unlikely-alliance.html">Read Part I</a><br /><br /><strong>Part II</strong><br /><br />The instructions on Oliver Kurtz’s note underscored his demand for punctuality. I was to arrive at ten a.m. on the dot at his home in the twelve hundred block of east South Street. How could a man who knew every sordid detail of my life not be aware that I’d never bow down to an edict? I arrived promptly at twelve after the hour noting how disgustingly out of place my scratched ten-year-old Chevy looked parked in front of the house at 1215 South.<br /><br />The marker displayed at the intersection four blocks back indicated I had entered a history neighborhood. Both sides of the road were flanked with large stately homes and well-manicured lawns. I expected to see a lavish home and an expensive car in Kurtz’s driveway to match the others along this street. Instead, his one-story ranch stood out like a brick in field of diamonds.<br /><br />A second after ringing the bell, a man in his thirties sporting a golden tan and even features answered the door. I envisioned him waiting for me—one hand on the knob, an eye peering through the peephole. The image was as clear as seeing him rummage through my house. With a grunt and wave of the hand he motioned for me to enter. His black polo shirt did little to hide the bulge of muscles on his arms and upper chest, yet the emptiness in his gaze gave me a chill. I’d seen his type before, an animal who’d mindlessly comply with orders.<br /><br />I followed him down the main hallway and into the den. There he instructed me to take a seat in one of two leather chairs in front of a less than impressive desk. I couldn’t help but notice the display of plaques and certificates adorning the wall to my immediate right. The room was more telling of the man I was about to meet than a twelve-page report. This man was neat and precise. He’d already displayed a keen wit, with knowledge comes power and the place oozed with it. He would expect perfection. I sensed as much. So the burning question on the tip of my tongue was, why me?<br /><br />There wasn’t time to think of an answer before the tanned guy opened the door again. I assumed the man behind him was Oliver Kurtz. His appearance deceived the image I had conjured up in my mind. No, he wouldn’t have made me glance twice in a crowed room. Yet it was clear he had been there—in those crowded rooms, studying my style, memorizing my schedule, making me wonder now how long he’d been at it.<br /><br />“Ms. Stone, you’re late,” he said, extending his hand. “Oliver Kurtz.”<br /><br />“That much I figured.”<br /><br />“Care for something to drink? Coffee, water?”<br /><br />“No thanks.” I couldn’t help wonder why the muscleman had taken a seat in the overstuffed chair near the door. Clearly he was more than a pretty-faced butler. That assumption made me curious to know why Kurtz needed protecting. More to the point, from what or who?<br /><br />Kurtz had thinning dark hair and seemed to be in relatively good shape for a man who looked to be nudging his mid-sixties. He had yet to smile or express any pleasure to meet me, but his eyes drew me in all the same; dark and intense, searching, questioning, yet non-threatening. At least that was my first assessment.<br /><br />“You’re a former FBI,” I said, nodding at the plaque hanging on the wall behind his desk.<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Long?”<br /><br />“Does it matter?”<br /><br />“Not really.” I glanced back at the other man in the room unable to shake the image of him walking through my house. The thought of him slithering his meaty fingers through my panty drawer made me ill. And he had the insolence to place Kurtz’s package on my bed, the creep. I grinned in spite of the anger churning inside me. “The rose was a nice touch.”<br /><br />The man’s granite-like expression made it clear he was unaffected by the intentional jab so I let it drop.<br /><br />“I assume you’ve read through the case file?” Kurtz said.<br /><br />“Yes, but it’s full of holes.”<br /><br />“How so?”<br /><br />“What’s your interest in Laura Wells?”<br /><br />“Justice.”<br /><br />“For her?” I asked.<br /><br />“Not hardly.” Kurtz lowered and raised his glance. “People have the misconception the FBI never misses their targets. Some cases will never be solved, others we simply couldn’t touch.”<br /><br />“Why not?”<br /><br />“Various reasons, sometimes politics, at other times ... well, let’s just say that exposing the guilty would cause more damage than the crime itself.”<br /><br />“Which is it with Wells, politics or damage control?”<br /><br />“The obstacle keeping us from investigating Laura Wells is no longer an issue.”<br /><br />“An issue?”<br /><br />“It’s not important.”<br /><br />“It is if you expect me to take this case. I don’t play games, Mr. Kurtz—not with my work—not with my life. So what exactly do I need to know about her?”<br /><br />Kurtz leaned back in his chair and drew in a breath. He paused for a moment then said:<br />“Her uncle, Paul H. Jutte, was a high-power criminal defense attorney in a community just north of Boston from the 1950s through the ’90s. On December 26, 1959, he was a brash 34 year-old full of spit and vinegar when he defended a small time hoodlum by the name of Robert O’Malley who had been charged with robbing $800 from a local bank. O’Malley served five of his ten-year sentence and was granted early parole for good behavior. Six months after his release, an armored car was hijacked. The driver was killed, but not before plugging one of the thieves with bullets from his service revolver.”<br /><br />“O’Malley?”<br /><br />“No. Another man, Bill Fife. What’s important is that Fife and O’Malley met in prison, were released around the same time, and ...”<br /><br />“Let me guess, both were represented by Jutte.”<br /><br />“Smart girl,” he said. “We knew Fife impersonated a security guard by the phony company ID we found on his body. The driver was legit, but we have no idea if he was in on the heist or not.”<br /><br />“Except for the fact he killed Fife.”<br /><br />“Yes, but for all we know, it was a stray bullet. No way to know if he intended to kill Fife or not,” he said. “At any rate, the dispatch logs indicated the truck pulled out of the garage at nine in the morning and arrived at the First National Bank at ten-twenty-three. We have witness statements that confirm Fife and the driver went into the bank vault and removed bags containing $4 million in cash and more than $1 million in checks before leaving. When the truck didn’t return to the garage, the company reported it and the guards missing. The local police found the bodies of the two men and the empty truck on a side road three miles off highway 128.”<br /><br />“What about the bullet taken from the driver’s body? Did it match Fife’s gun?”<br /><br />“No,” he said.<br /><br />“So there was a third person involved in the heist.”<br /><br />“At least. Unfortunately, ballistics never found a match to the bullet and we never found the gun.”<br /><br />“Then why finger Jutte and O’Malley?”<br /><br />“Gut instinct,” he said. “Fife didn’t have the smarts to pull off something that big on his own. He was a loner, no family to speak of and the only two calls he ever made to the outside were to Jutte and O’Malley. Every ounce of evidence against the two was purely circumstantial. We lost the case, of course, but my instincts still tell me those two were neck-high involved in it.”<br /><br />“And the five million?”<br /><br />“Never recovered. The case is still on the books, but without witnesses or evidence, the case might as well be closed. No one at the agency has worked it for years.”<br /><br />“So where’s Jutte now?”<br /><br />“Dead--two years ago of natural causes.”<br /><br />“Fascinating.” My thoughts of reward money, a front page spread, and a spot on Oprah were fading fast. “From the picture you placed in the file, Wells can’t be over 30.”<br /><br />“Thirty-six. What’s your point?” he asked.<br /><br />“She wasn’t alive when that robbery took place. So she’s related to Jutte, what’s she have to do with any of this?”<br /><br />“After her uncle’s death, she took over his law firm in Chandler and with it she inherited his clientele.”<br /><br />“Including Robert O’Malley.”<br /><br />“Right again, Ms. Stone.”<br /><br />“And you think she’ll talk? Wells is bound by client/attorney privileges.” I couldn’t believe he needed reminding.<br /><br />“I doubt Wells is terribly concerned with ethics. She has a somewhat sorted past of her own. My interest at the moment, however, is to find out what she knows about robbery. Even though Jutte defended O’Malley at the trial, Jutte wouldn’t have placed any pertinent information about the robbery in O’Malley’s file. But trust me, his ego wouldn’t have allowed him to not keep some type of memento of his victory.”<br /><br />“A souvenir.”<br /><br />Kurtz didn’t respond. Instead, he frisked me with a piercing glance.<br /><br />“I get it. Get close and see what she knows. Is that it?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Wouldn’t it be more direct to shake down O’Malley?”<br /><br />“No. He thinks he’s been out of the spotlight for years. If he knows we’re on to him, we might lose him for good. Besides, he’s old and my sources tell me he’s not in the best of health.” Kurtz reached for a notepad and pen and scribbled on it. “Here’s someone you may want to contact.”<br /><br />“Sam Harper? Who’s he?”<br /><br />“City homicide.”<br /><br />“I work alone.”<br /><br />“I know,” he said.<br /><br />“Then what makes you think I need a cop?”<br /><br />“Wells is defending one of his arrests right now. I understand there’s no love lost between them. Could work in our favor.”<br /><br />“Maybe.” Never met a cop who like working with a PI. The feeling was entirely mutual so I couldn’t see getting close to this one. Kurtz had a point though. “Think he knows about Laura Wells’s past?”<br /><br />“It’s hard to say. Get close enough and he might just confide in you. Surely you can be persuasive without tackling the man to the ground.”<br /><br />“Very funny.”<br /><br />“Go home. Pack a few bags. I expect you in Chandler by the end of the week.”<br /><br />It was all I could do to keep the smirk off my lips. I opened the door then stopped and glanced over my shoulder. He looked too smug for words and I couldn’t resist getting the final word. “I travel light. Should be there by seven this evening. And just so you know, I don’t need any calls from you or visits from Mr. Goon over there to keep me focused.”<br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>The End</strong></span></div><em>Kind of ... look for more of this character and this scene in the next Sam Harper Crime Mystery novel. </em>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-53204968798914993672009-03-14T17:54:00.000-07:002009-03-15T16:50:44.276-07:00An Unlikely Alliance - Part I<span style="font-size:85%;">© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><strong>Part I</strong><br /><br /><div align="left">I scoured through the morning paper for what? A client? Right. I was starting to mumble under my breath a lot these days. For the past several weeks I knocked on the doors of countless law firms from Wall Street to Harlem and everyplace in between. The insurance companies who had paid for my skills in the past weren’t hiring either, and the banks? The criminals were on the inside now. The Feds had those greedy bastards and corporate leaders on a short leash to hell.<br /><br />It’d been too long since my last case and even longer since I’d seen a check for services rendered. All the same, I wasn’t desperate enough to go after the mafia type criminal who blackmailed poor shopkeepers on the lower east end. Not this girl. I’d rather hold out for the white-collar crimes. The cases that allowed me to blend in without getting fingered as a private investigator.<br /><br />My last job dried up mid-stream when the only witness to a land scam skipped town and my client vanished without writing a check. I’d leave my home every morning with a promise on my lips to not come home without finding a client. I’m tired—dead tired. I woke up this morning feeling as worn as an old pair of socks. I gave the paper a toss and wondered how I ever managed before the invention of automatic timers on coffee pots. Now the aroma from the Italian blend dripping into the pot was the only reason to get out of bed before ten. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for a mug from the dish rack. I was in the midst of pouring that much needed first cup when I heard the familiar sound of metal rumbling outside on the porch. The mailman arrived like clockwork with the usual assortment of unwanted bills and junk mail.<br /><br />I waited for him to leave before snatching the envelopes from the box and slamming the front door shut with a deliberate swing of a hip. The envelopes got a quick thumb through and just as I was ready to pitch the pile in the trash, a small square envelope caught my attention. My name, Jacquie Stone, was scrawled across the front in heavy black strokes of ink. The New York postmark was dated two days before but that wasn’t a problem. It was the absence of a return address that brought on a frown. Like an idiot, I studied it for a second or two the way some people look at and shake a gift-wrapped box before trying to guess what’s in it. This little delivery was just what I needed to fire up the old inquisitive juices. I ripped it open with a few jagged strokes of the thumb and read: </div><div align="left"></div><div align="center"><em><strong><br />Must talk, noon, Augusts 19, at the Chester House. ~ O. Kurtz<br /></strong></em></div><em><div align="left"><br /></em></div>Eleven words if you count the initial. That’s all. Aside from the signature, I had no clue to the sender’s identity or his reason for wanting to meet. One thing for sure was the reputation of the membership at the Chester House. In recent years, the club had caved in to the demands for admitting women executives. Gender aside, this little note had the smell of testosterone and deep-pocket money. The kitchen clock told me I had two hours to shower, dress and get my rear down to the swanky club in the center of Wall Street. Must have changed clothes three times before deciding on a pair of khakis and a lime-colored blouse. Frilly’s not me and anything more than casual would have screamed desperation. <div align="left"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;">* * *</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I walked into the Chester House with six minutes to spare. The stench from years of cigars and pipe tobacco wafted over me. Dark wood paneling lined the walls of the lobby and scattered about, in groups of twos and threes, were burgundy leather wingback chairs. The polished ends on the arms marked their years of use.<br /><br />“May I help you?” The slender man behind the desk could easily have walked out of a 1950s flick with his yellow cardigan sweater, polo shirt and slicked back hair--pure white. His ruddy complexion and the burst of capillaries that crisscrossed his face revealed an old habit.<br /><br />“Jacquie Stone,” I said. “I’m supposed to meet a Mr. Kurtz.”<br /><br />“Right.” He pointed to one of the leather chairs. “Have a seat. I’ll tell ’em you’re here.”<br /><br />The gawky little man disappeared down a narrow hallway and didn’t return. A few minutes later and still no sign of him or Kurtz. Money or not, my patience was starting to wane.<br /><br />By twenty after, I was royally pissed. Regardless of my penniless state, being the butt end of an old geezer’s joke wasn’t on my agenda. Only one thing to do, but when I started to leave the familiar tone of my cell made me stop and reach into my pocket.<br /><br />“Hello?”<br /><br />“Sit down, Ms. Stone.”<br /><br />I instinctively shot a glance around the lobby. There were only a handful of men here today. Some were reading the paper. The two off to one side were in the middle of a heated discussion, and the man across the way was sound asleep. None of them was using a phone.<br /><br />“Would you like a drink, Ms. Stone?” the caller said as if we were a couple of long lost friends.<br /><br />“I don’t think so.” I should have kept walking. Instead, my curiosity got the better of me so I took a seat. Still, I couldn’t stop scanning the room. Silence screamed at me from the other end of the line. It was deafening and I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. “I suppose you’re feeling smug with yourself. You know my name and apparently what I look like. Why the sham?”<br /><br />“Let’s just say I’m cautious.”<br /><br />“I suppose Kurtz isn’t your real name either.” I waited for a response--it never came. “Right, have it your way. So, what’s on your mind?”<br /><br />“I need to know you can be trusted.”<br /><br />“You came looking for me, remember?” In fatter days, I would’ve left by now. Instead, I glanced at my watch and pretended to be out of time. I had nowhere to go, but at least that was one thing the creep on the other end of the line couldn’t possibly know.<br /><br />“Am I keeping you from something?” he asked.<br /><br />The hint of laughter in his voice nudged me to the next level of unease. “A paying client.”<br /><br />“Really, Ms. Stone. You haven’t worked a case in six weeks, you’re past due on your mortgage, the bill collectors are beating a path to your door, and you have no prospect for work. Go on, have a drink on me.”<br /><br />“Any fool can get his hands on that information if he knows where to look.”<br /><br />“You grew up in Pennsylvania, your father worked in the mines, your mother was a teacher. You are the youngest of four, caught pneumonia at the age of seven—nearly died, flunked out your first year at Penn State and decided police work was a better fit. Shall I go on?”<br /><br />“Who the hell are you?”<br /><br />“That shack you call home and your personal life are a mess by most people’s standards. You smoke and drink entirely too much to be called a lady and in spite of your failed attempts at what most would consider normal jobs, your success rate as a detective--”<br /><br />“Private investigator.”<br /><br />“—is noteworthy. You can be cold and ruthless when the situation calls for it and equally clever when no one’s looking—just the qualities needed for the task I have in mind.”<br /><br />“You forgot suspicious. And buddy, you’re at the top of my list.”<br /><br />“I’d expect nothing less from you,” he said. “Being guarded isn’t a bad thing which is why I’ve decided to overlook your shortcomings and hire you.”<br /><br />A barrage of thoughts buzzed through my head like gnats on a bruised banana. All right, so I was desperate for money. The kicker was this joker knew it and was using that little roadblock against me.<br /><br />“And if I refuse?”<br /><br />“That, my dear, will be your choice—certainly your loss.”<br /><br />Hadn’t realized how tightly I was holding the phone to my ear until I felt a tingly numb feeling rip through my fingers.<br /><br />“Don’t think too long on it,” he said. “My offer is on the table until the end of this meeting.”<br /><br />“What offer?”<br /><br />“You have a good record when you actually work. I imagine by now you’d be willing to do anything.”<br /><br />“Not quite. Even I have my limits.” Not the most accurate statement I’d ever made, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to give any man an ounce of power over my life. Still, that hard spot pressing against my back was starting to sting and I had to wonder if Kurtz was responsible for my failed attempts to find clients. Our conversation was leaving a pungent taste in my mouth and a slug’s trail of chills up my spine. I felt sickened by my vulnerable, desperate state. It seemed I had no choice but to take whatever morsels of work Kurtz had to offer.<br /><br />“Ms. Stone, all you have to say is, ‘yes’ and the job is yours.”<br /><br />Thinking, thinking. The law, my standards and principles were all things I could talk myself into bending in spite of the logic against it. Having spent the last thirty-five dollars on gas to drive across town to the club was incentive enough for me to consider my options.<br /><br />“Who are you?” I asked again. “How do you know—”<br /><br />“I assure you that isn’t as important as my proposition.”<br /><br />“Which is?” I questioned my sanity the second the words shot out of my mouth.<br /><br />“I need information.”<br /><br />“You and half of New York City.”<br /><br />“I want you to follow someone.”<br /><br />“Let me guess, your wife or your mistress? Maybe both?” I reached for the note pad and pen at the bottom of my purse.<br /><br />“Neither. And there’s no need for that, Ms. Stone. All the information on the case is waiting for you in your home as we speak.”<br /><br />“Great. I suppose one of your thugs broke in?”<br /><br />“Not exactly.”<br /><br />“Whatever that means.” I had visions of a busted lock or a window I’d have no way to fix. Yes, I desperately needed the money this jerk was willing to part with. The question was, what did he expect in return? Was he with the mafia or worse, a government agency? I finally managed to state the obvious.<br /><br />“You’re forgetting one thing.”<br /><br />“I doubt it.”<br /><br />“I haven’t agreed to anything.”<br /><br />“Ms. Stone, you and I both know you can’t afford to be hard-nosed about this. The fact that you’ve stayed on the line tells a great deal more than you’re willing to reveal. Take the case. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”<br /><br />“But—”<br /><br />“I’ll be in touch.”<br /><br />“Not until we meet face-to-face.”<br /><br />“In time. Not here, not now.”<br /><br />“Yes, now!” From the corner of my eye I noticed the men in the lobby turn their heads when I raised my voice.<br /><br />“That will do nothing but complicate matters.”<br /><br />I could feel him watching each move I made. Nothing good every came from a deal made in hell. Then again, for the right price, I could easily overlook the old man’s eccentricities. Two could play at this cat and mouse game and unless I missed my guess, he was just as desperate. “My fee is five hundred a day plus expenses. Take it or leave it.”<br /><br />“Go home, Ms. Stone. Read over the material and then get some sleep. You’ll need it.” </div><div align="left"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong>* * *</strong></span></div><div align="left"><br />I didn’t remember the half hour drive home. His voice was trapped in my head. His words ricocheted from lobe to lobe and angered me more with each passing. It was nearly three when I nosed my car in front of my house. From the street, the place looked just as I left it. No busted lock or broken glass on my living room floor. Instead, I found the large, sealed manila envelope Kurtz’s goon left on my bed. A perfectly shaped rose rested on top of it. It wasn’t enough that he entered my place uninvited, he had to get personal. He had to go to my room.<br /><br />I raised the bud to my lips, felt its velvety peddles and drew in its scent. “Angel Face.” My grandmother’s prize rose garden in Ohio was full of them. The light purple color and strong, citrus fragrance instantly took me back to my youth, the summers spent on her farm, and the number of ribbons her roses consistently won at the state fair. I drew in a second whiff of aroma and looked at the rose again. </div><br />“How the hell did you know?"<br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>The End ~ Part I</strong></span></div><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Read conclusion on 3/16/09</span></em></strong>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-54080034537897782532009-03-11T10:43:00.000-07:002009-03-11T10:47:17.295-07:00Twelve Witnesses<div align="center">Memo to the file</div>S. Harper, Homicide<br /><br />RE: Case of “The Devil Can Wait.”<br /><br />Twelve witnesses came forward last night. Each had a different account of what happened – none of them knew the victims, but they had personal reasons to point a finger at our suspect. Interesting …Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-12664688365532467112009-02-25T04:56:00.000-08:002009-02-25T09:57:00.437-08:00The Devil Can Wait up for a vote<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SaVENAC3r2I/AAAAAAAABIQ/wmVqeNh3tF4/s1600-h/devil_can_wait_full_official-final.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306722726067023714" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 196px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SaVENAC3r2I/AAAAAAAABIQ/wmVqeNh3tF4/s320/devil_can_wait_full_official-final.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>My last big case, THE DEVIL CAN WAIT, is going to be reviewed again and Stephens asked me to put out a BOLO for votes. We're grateful to the kind-hearted citizens out there who gave our efforts a thumbs up last fall. It won November 2008 cover of the month. Word came this week that it's now waiting for the big vote for 2008 Book Cover of the Year! </div><br /><div>I'd appreciate it if you'd take a minute to voice your opinion/vote. I promise your name will be entered in a drawing for the winning title. </div><div></div><br /><div>The process is easy. You'll find the instructions here: <a href="http://www.erinaislinn.com/BookCoveroftheYear2008.htm" target="_blank" mce_href="http://www.erinaislinn.com/BookCoveroftheYear2008.htm">http://www.erinaislinn.com/BookCoveroftheYear2008.htm</a> Just scroll down until you see the cover and vote, okay? </div><div></div><br /><div>So ... can I count on your help? Thanks ... I knew could. You have until April 15. </div><div></div><div>Catch you later, </div><div>Sam</div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-4682234026342259582009-02-22T17:19:00.000-08:002009-02-23T05:33:08.329-08:00Confessions of a Police Officer<span style="font-size:85%;">© Jill Wragg 2001 all rights reserved</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br />Dear Citizens, Neighbors, Friends and Family,<br /><br />My name is Jill and I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse my self with my job almost as often as you do. The label "police officer" creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds. My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.<br /><br />My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic. It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops. CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.<br /><br />But I do have some confessions to make:<br /><br />Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Bocelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.<br /><br />Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenalin that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.<br /><br />Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.<br /><br />Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom. I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm. If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.<br /><br />On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.<br /><br />I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.<br /><br />I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.<br /><br />I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.<br /><br />I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.<br /><br />And I learned not to give up, ever! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.<br /><br />One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate her work. Smile and say "Hi" when he's getting coffee. Bite your tongue when you start to tell a "bad cop" story. Better yet, find the time to tell a "good cop" story. The family at the next table may be a cop's family.<br /><br />Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">About the author:</span></strong><br /><a href="http://uneflic.blogspot.com/2007/05/confessions-of-beat-cop.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">Jill Wragg </span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">is a retired Police Officer from Massachusetts. She can be reached at </span><a href="mailto:JKWragg@yahoo.com"><span style="font-size:85%;">JKWragg@yahoo.com</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> This piece is copyrighted and was printed here with permission from the author. Please contact Wragg for permission to reprint.</span>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-91691669336224160272009-02-18T07:17:00.000-08:002009-02-18T07:20:19.225-08:00Unusual Activity Going On at Murder By 4Check out what's happening at the <a href="http://www.murderby4.blogspot.com/">MURDER BY 4</a> precinct today. Bunch of writers got hauled in. I'm heading that way right now.Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-56236102612860964332009-02-13T04:00:00.000-08:002009-02-14T06:02:48.249-08:00An Inconvenient Truth<span style="font-size:78%;">Copyright Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved </span><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRAtB6cmWI/AAAAAAAABC0/ByKKR0LfU_c/s1600-h/Pig-%26-Whistle.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301933803673786722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 342px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 62px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRAtB6cmWI/AAAAAAAABC0/ByKKR0LfU_c/s400/Pig-%26-Whistle.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Thanks to the Scotch Joe planted in front of him, the evening at the Pig and Whistle held no prospects except to forget. This was the only break in Sam Harper’s ten-hour day. Soon, he’d get up and do it again. He’d continue to scour the streets for leads on the Raymond Anthony murder. If he was lucky, they’d produce some viable evidence.<br /><br />As it was, ballistics hadn’t matched the bullet taken from the victim’s brain to any known registered weapons and Anthony’s prints and bodily fluids were the only ones found at the scene. A week into the case, still no leads. It seemed the odds on a swift arrest weren’t stacked in Harper’s favor. The exceptionally clean shot through the temple sparked unrest among the other detectives. The guys tossed several possible scenarios around, but the one that kept ripping through Harper’s mind was the chance they were dealing with a professional hit man. If that were the case, the usual breadcrumbs marking a path to the killer’s identity would be non-existing.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRE6OzLLXI/AAAAAAAABC8/K3pnNHkQbSQ/s1600-h/42-15962980.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301938428517756274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 115px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 176px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRE6OzLLXI/AAAAAAAABC8/K3pnNHkQbSQ/s320/42-15962980.jpg" border="0" /></a>Harper motioned to Joe with his glass for a refill. After a minute, the bartender returned with two.<br /><br />“There you go. I’ll put ’em on your tab.”<br /><br />Joe read his mind. Harper knocked the next one back then stared into his half empty glass, swished the Scotch through the ice and waited for the red-labeled concoction to work its magic.<br /><br />At happy hour, the Pig and Whistle was dotted with regulars, now at nine p.m. he and a handful of patrons had the place to themselves. All eyes were on the flat screen TV at the end of the bar watching the Celtics lose to the Knicks by a measly five points. Harper didn’t care who won. It was a temporary distraction meant to work with the booze and help him relax. <em>A few more of these</em>, he thought, <em>and I’ll be there</em>. That’s what he was thinking when he heard Jennie’s voice.<br /><br />“I thought I’d find you here.”<br /><br />He drew in a breath and slowly glanced over his shoulder. Jennifer Blake had etched herself into his heart two months before, then vanished as abruptly as she entered his life.<br /><br />“Mind if I sit down?” she asked.<br /><br />Harper lowered and raised his glance. He sensed what was coming. It wasn’t where he wanted to be; not here, not now. Jennie was all he’d thought of for weeks. Every provocative inch of her body was seared into his thoughts. Part of him wanted to pull her close, kiss her as if it were their first and pretend she had never left. That was at the heart of his being, but his logic demanded answers and now. “I called you. Several times.”<br /><br />“I want to explain,” she said. “Can we talk?”<br /><br />“Skip the apologies, Jen. They don’t suite you.”<br /><br />“You wouldn’t say that if you knew the truth.”<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRIYrHApjI/AAAAAAAABDE/ojTHDm81sgU/s1600-h/200287704-001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301942250048103986" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 155px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 132px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRIYrHApjI/AAAAAAAABDE/ojTHDm81sgU/s320/200287704-001.jpg" border="0" /></a>“I’m listening.” For once he’d like nothing more than an honest statement but something in her voice put him on edge. Harper ordered a glass of Chablis for her, grabbed his drink, and led her to one of the small tables near the back. He watched every move she made; the way she slipped off her coat, how she brushed her bangs from her eyes. Everything about her was all too familiar, especially her eyes—he’d never forget their spark or the intimacies that had led them here to this minute. “Well?”<br /><br />“I was on a special assignment for the Chandler Times.”<br /><br />“Come on, Jen. It’s me. You can do better than that.”<br /><br />She stared at him for a second before breaking her silenced. “I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”<br /><br />“Since when?” Where was that playfulness in her tone or that staunch determination that had captivated him the minute they met? Jennifer Blake didn’t have a submissive cell in her body. Did she really expect him to buy the line that her editor, Brian Taylor, forced her to go against her will? The Jennie he knew wouldn’t let him. On the other hand, Jennie wasn’t beyond working an angle. “So which is it? Are you after another exclusive or did you step in a pile of trouble?”<br /><br />“Neither.”<br /><br />“Good. I’m fresh out of favors.”<br /><br />“It’s the truth,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “Foolish me for thinking you’d appreciate the challenges of my job.”<br /><br />“I can live with the demands of your career, but you left without a word, no warning, nothing. Three weeks ago, I came home after work—you didn’t. I was crazy with worry; checked the hospital, the morgue, missing persons. You weren’t listed anywhere, just gone—vanished. What the hell was I suppose to think? You could have called.”<br /><br />“There was no time.”<br /><br />“Bull.”<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZROHI5WxnI/AAAAAAAABDM/cnP8B7bcXVA/s1600-h/Business-Montage-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301948545876018802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 137px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 165px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZROHI5WxnI/AAAAAAAABDM/cnP8B7bcXVA/s320/Business-Montage-1.jpg" border="0" /></a>“I didn’t want…” She choked on the words. “I didn’t know about the assignment until Brian handed me the plane tickets that morning.”<br /><br />“Two seconds. That’s all it would have taken. I’m on your speed dial, at least I was.”<br /><br />“I couldn’t. I was under strict orders to keep my location confidential. Brian was worried that if the calls were traced, it would have blown my cover and jeopardized our chance for an inside story.”<br /><br /><div align="left">Harper narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “What hell did he send you to?”<br /><br />“Please … don’t ask.”<br /><br />“Why not?”<br /><br />“It’s still sensitive information,” she said.<br /><br />An uneasy silence seemed to suck the air out of the room.<br /><br />“Then why'd you bother to come here?” he asked.<br /><br />“Because I wanted to tell you what happened.”<br /><br />“Cut the charades, Blake. You haven’t told me a damn thing more than what I already know. You left—end of story.”<br /><br />Jennie took a sip of her wine and looked away. Harper didn’t need to see her face to know she was checking her options.<br /><br />“I was investigating a drug ring in Florida.”<br /><br />“Christ, I know the scum that’s out on the streets. You could have been killed.”<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRq5LOHEBI/AAAAAAAABD0/Xcewoso_BpI/s1600-h/laptop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301980191818977298" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 153px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 162px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRq5LOHEBI/AAAAAAAABD0/Xcewoso_BpI/s320/laptop.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“I wasn’t. Besides, it was a huge exclusive for us.”<br /><br />“Right, the story. Now you’re back and what? You want to pretend none of this happened? Goddamn it, you could have been wasted and no one would have known to ask. And what’s so damn important about Florida? We have plenty of drug related stories right here in Chandler.”<br /><br />“It’s linked to a high-level state official,” she said. “That’s all I can tell you. The story will break in a couple of days.”<br /><br />“What the hell were you thinking? I’ve heard you say no before. That would’ve been a great time to voice it.”<br /><br />“And lose my job?” She shook her head. “It’s okay for you to risk your life, but when I—”<br /><br />“Don’t even go there. I’m trained to take risks.”<br /><br />“Some things never change, do they?” She pushed back her chair and grabbed her coat.<br /><br />“Where’re you going?” Harper shot around in his chair in time to see her rush out of the pub. <em>Stupid, stupid, stupid!</em> He jerked his coat off the back of his chair, yanked the door open, and stood on the snow-cover sidewalk. A glance in one direction made him turn and run in the other. She was only a few yards away. “Jennie, stop! Where’re you going?”<br /><br />“You forgot to yell, Freeze, Detective.”<br /><br />He raced to reach for her arm and made her stop. “This's your answer to everything, isn’t it? You disappear, come back, dangle a carrot in front of my nose, and take off? Think again.”<br /><br />“Sam, what do you want?" she asked, blinking away the tears that welled in her eyes. "I tried, but there’s no talking with you.”<br /><br />She was wrong. His thoughts and emotions were playing war, twisting the words he wanted to say and leaving them in a tangled mess somewhere between the pit of his gut and a brain that wasn’t connecting with his speech. “I’m not the one who left. I deserve some answers.”<br /><br />“Then you should have the courtesy to hear me out! I told you what I could. Believe me, don’t believe. It won’t change the facts.” Jennie wiggled from his grasp and slipped away.<br /><br />He cursed under his breath, rubbed a hand over his mouth then yelled again, “Jennie, wait. I didn’t mean it.”<br /><br />“That’s the problem, Sam, you never do.” She took a few more steps then stopped. “Yeah, you’re a cop and you, of all people, should know it isn’t a perfect world. Things won’t always go your way, you’re not going to get calls when you expect them, but damn it, the least you could do is trust that maybe, just maybe someone else’s life is a tad more complicated than yours!”<br /><br />“Trust? Hell, I didn’t know what happened. I called Brian—”<br /><br />“And he told you he didn’t know where I was, right?”<br /><br />“Yeah. Talked with your neighbors too. No one’s seen or heard from you. What was I supposed to think? For all I knew you skipped town with another guy.”<br /><br />“Another …? You don’t get it, do you?”<br /><br />“Evidently not.”<br /><br />“I’m in love with you. There, it’s out.” She paced back and forth then stomped a foot and held her ground. “Do you think I wanted to leave the way I did? Do you have any idea how many times I reached for the phone fully aware that I shouldn’t? How much it hurt not to be with you—wondering what you were thinking—knowing the next time we’d meet you’d react exactly like this?”<br /><br />It wasn’t the <em>what</em> of the situation, but the <em>how</em> and her inability to give him details that sent him into a rage. But even the brilliant Jennifer Blake didn’t have what it took to make this one up and bluff her way through it. She was, however, one of the few people who could make him feel like an ass and get away with it. “I’m sorry. Jennie, I’m…”<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRVqJ_J22I/AAAAAAAABDU/PhJVK2BfDRE/s1600-h/kiss.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301956844045589346" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 72px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 199px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRVqJ_J22I/AAAAAAAABDU/PhJVK2BfDRE/s320/kiss.jpg" border="0" /></a>Had they stood in the frigid air looking into each other eyes for a minute or was it five? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t the cold he felt or the reason for his embrace. All he wanted to do was soak in her being and prayed she wouldn’t resist.<br /><br />“It’s been like a bad dream,” he whispered. “The one where someone dies and you go through all the emotions of loss. Then you wake up in a sweat and realize how damn lucky you are because nothing has changed and you never, ever want to go back there again.” He kissed her cheek. “I woke up, Jen. Back there. You scared the hell out of me.”<br /><br />“Ever?” she asked.<br /><br />He cupped his hands around her face and leaned in for kissed. “Only if I can I hold you to it.”<br /><br />“Hold me to what?”<br /><br />Harper glanced away for only a second. “You know … what you said a minute ago.”<br /><br />“Spit it out, Harper. It’s not like you to be at a loss for words.”<br /><br />“That you care.”<br /><br />“I’ll always love you.” She pressed her lips to his. “Take it as a threat or a promise.”<br /><br />Jennie was the only person who could send him on an emotional rollercoaster ride and make him feel grateful for it. She was back in full form. They were as different as the jobs they had married. He’d concede he was a skeptic—a left over tick from his work, but Jennie was exasperating at times. Still he needed her by his side to keep him in check, to remind him there was more to life than the scumbags he chased for a living.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRnueU-HHI/AAAAAAAABDk/dfVCmtvamjA/s1600-h/u11650616.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301976709434580082" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 155px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRnueU-HHI/AAAAAAAABDk/dfVCmtvamjA/s320/u11650616.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“What do you say we get out of the cold?” he asked.<br /><br />“My car is right here.” Jennie reached into her pocket for the keys. “I’ll meet you at your place.”<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SZRnWAufvdI/AAAAAAAABDc/WFm85VgW5aw/s1600-h/u11650616.jpg"></a>“Not tonight.” He took her by the hand and walked her toward his jeep. “It’s late and I’m not letting you out of my sight.” </div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="center">The End</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong>Happy Valentine</strong></span></em></div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-16618171346210986622009-02-10T04:00:00.000-08:002009-02-10T12:16:29.683-08:00Trouble's Knocking At My Door<div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Memo to File</strong><br /></span><br /></div><p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#ffcc33;"><strong>From:</strong> Sam Harper, Homicide </span><br /><br /></span><span style="color:#ffcc33;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Subject:</strong> Call From Shannon Wallace</span><br /></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBrM1ENbhI/AAAAAAAAA9E/k8Wli_EjWWY/s1600-h/j0430932.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296351029935042066" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 230px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 164px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBrM1ENbhI/AAAAAAAAA9E/k8Wli_EjWWY/s320/j0430932.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />My current case was about to crack. I was looking forward to putting this one to rest; thought a few extra hours would just about wrap it up when I got the call. I recognized the phone number on the display and glanced at my watch—7:00 PM. It was Shannon Wallace, a friend of a friend of a friend. Damn it, she was in trouble again. How did I know? Call it instinct or maybe dumb luck—mine. Either way, that torque in the pit of my gut went for a spin. I was willing to bet Shannon was neck deep in trouble and sinking fast. Why else would she waste a perfectly good chunk of change on an out-of-state call?<br /><br />Our conversation went something like this:<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> All right, Shannon, just settle down. Let’s start from the beginning. You had the incredible bad judgment to fall for your boss, he fired you and hours later he’s dead. You have to admit, it doesn’t look good. How did you ever get involved with a guy like Rick Fine?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Oh you know the type, Sam.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> Come on, it’s late. Enlighten me.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> I was young, impressionable, and naïve. Who ever thinks that they can get out of a relationship with their boss, for crying out loud? Not without losing your job, right? So… that’s me in a nutshell. I needed a job, it came with strings.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> Right, some strings. So what kind of dealings was Rick involved with anyway? I mean, were there any suspicious characters hanging around before he was murdered? And don’t give me any snappy answers. I want details.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBl0KZHsxI/AAAAAAAAA80/vR2L4i0s3ME/s1600-h/j0409028.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296345108605022994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 195px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 163px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBl0KZHsxI/AAAAAAAAA80/vR2L4i0s3ME/s320/j0409028.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> I’ve been thinking about this and I remember a situation that happened not long ago. Someone was calling Rick's house and hanging up. I always put it off as his mean brother. His brother is a real character, Sam. His own dad fired him from the family business for his bad deals and even worse attitude. He could have done it.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> You’re going to need more than a ‘could have done it’ excuse to convince the authorities. What do you have on the guy?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Hey, I heard that going on your gut instinct is good enough for cops, why not me? I definitely have a gut about Charles Fine. He’s just the type to do it. I mean he blamed Rick for getting fired. That’s a motive in my opinion.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> What about detective Ramirez? You said you knew him—I know you’re on shaky ground with him, but can he be trusted?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Shaky ground? You could say that. I don’t know about the trust thing, we, uh, had a friendship at one time. He can be trusted to do the right thing for himself, maybe, but I’m not so sure about doing the right thing for me.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> If he’s clean, he won’t let his personal feelings interfere with the job. You know, you really should be talking to Ramirez, not me. Just tell him the truth.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBmLAk2LOI/AAAAAAAAA88/lrO3QJwpseM/s1600-h/j0401806.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296345501106842850" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 185px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 130px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBmLAk2LOI/AAAAAAAAA88/lrO3QJwpseM/s320/j0401806.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> But, geez, Sam. The DVDs are the thing. I can't let him find out about those damn disks. He’s always held a grudge. I just don’t believe he won’t use them against me if he gets the chance.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> DVDs? I’m afraid to ask … what <em>exactly</em> is on the DVDs?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Oh, um, can I take the fifth? Oh okay, look, we took a video camera and we turned it on at various times including… you know. THOSE times. Lots of them. And don’t tell me about Paris Hilton or anyone else making sex tapes. Dwayne said that too, and I just don’t want to hear it. That’s why I broke into Rick’s apartment. I don’t want anyone to see me wiggle my jiggle on television! Oh Lord.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> Damn it, I can’t believe ... anyone ever mention that breaking and entering, especially into a crime scene, is against the law? All right, I’m sorry, stop crying. Look I’m sure forensics combed through the place. If you didn’t kill the guy ... you didn’t did you?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> I didn’t do it, Sam! I swear I didn’t. I can only hope that I didn’t leave anything behind for forensics to connect me to Rick’s murder, including my disks.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> If you're innocent, you'll be in the clear. None of the evidence will point to you. But the DVDs are another matter. They're incriminating. They give you motive and you certainly had opportunity. Who else knew about them?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Unless Rick had some kinky friends, well, you know what I mean. I can’t believe he would just leave them laying around for Mr. Anybody to find. What the heck? I mean, he promised me. He PROMISED me, no one would ever know. That’s what I get for believing a man.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> Don’t beat yourself up. Everyone’s made a mistake or two in their lifetime. You mentioned Rick’s personal phone book was missing. How do you know he didn’t leave it someplace--that it’s not missing?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Well, this is the kicker. I know the freak took the phone book because it was missing. Ask me why, I can’t tell you.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> All right so you have a feeling about it. I go with my gut too, but you know Ramirez is going to want answers.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Answers? He’ll want my blood. He’s got reasons to get me back. I stole his personal journal in college and I published it in the freaking newspaper. There, do you understand now? He’s out for revenge. I’m surprised he hasn’t been the one calling to threaten me.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> If Ramirez was into revenge, why wait until now? It doesn’t add up. You really think the killer’s the one who’s been calling you?<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBulvu1QZI/AAAAAAAAA9c/LeCrXNprpyc/s1600-h/j0174859.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296354756534813074" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 199px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 147px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBulvu1QZI/AAAAAAAAA9c/LeCrXNprpyc/s320/j0174859.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Whoever killed Rick took that phone book. I know it has to be him.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> Why single you out of all the names in Rick’s phone log?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Why? Well, that’s the million dollar question.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> So tell me about them--the phone calls you’ve been getting.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> He calls me at all these weird times. I think he watches me and knows that I am going to be asleep or in the shower. Then, he blows up my cell, breathing heavily into the phone, threatening to come after me.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> Did you recognize the voice?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> No. He masks his voice. I swear it could be Charlie. What if he stole that phone book and now he’s calling up all of Rick’s girlfriends? He’s a big enough creep to do it.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> What’s Ramirez doing about it? Is he checking your phone records?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> I don’t know. I told him about the calls, but he sort of took the attitude that I am imagining an old boyfriend has turned into the killer. I mean, what the eff? I’m scared all right! I have a plan to draw this freak out but Dwayne thinks I’m nuts.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> Sounds to me like you should listen to Dwayne. After all he’s your closest friend. Right?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Sam, I’m damn scared.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> I know.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> If I don’t do something to get this guy to show himself, Rick’s killer will go free and with my DVDs. And believe me free is bad in this case. </p><p><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> That's Ramirez's job, not yours.<br /><br /><em>For a moment, neither of us spoke. What was she thinking? I knew calling me was probably Shannon’s last ditch effort for justice, but what the hell was I supposed to do from over 900 miles away? Still, the plea in her voice rang as true as the bells from St. Paul’s.</em><br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> Look, I’ll probably regret saying this ... actually I know I will, but let me make a few calls. See what I can find out. In the meantime, keep your nose clean and stay under the radar. Understand?<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc33;">WALLACE:</span> Yes sir, way under the radar. I’m already hiding over at Dwayne’s from everyone including my aunts. No one will think to look for me at his place. You’ve got my number. Please see what you can do to help me. I owe you one, man.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBryhBu31I/AAAAAAAAA9M/_XFGgmK4oFM/s1600-h/816827_eyes.jpg"><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296351677390970706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 93px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 58px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBryhBu31I/AAAAAAAAA9M/_XFGgmK4oFM/s320/816827_eyes.jpg" border="0" /></em></a><em>I had her number all right and that ugly place between a rock and a hard spot just pinched a nerve and shot a pain straight up to my neck. I didn’t like the sound of this—any of it. I sure as hell didn’t need or want to get involved. Shannon is as wild and unpredictable as a porcupine in heat, but … she's a friend of a friend of a friend and then there’s that promise I made to serve and protect. I drew in a deeper than usual gulp of air and broke the silence.</em></p><p><span style="color:#ffcc33;">HARPER:</span> I’ll be in touch.<br /></p><div align="center">* * *</div><p><span style="color:#cc33cc;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBtTJya31I/AAAAAAAAA9U/gpsxbO9q1q0/s1600-h/AvengingAngel-200x300.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296353337600040786" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYBtTJya31I/AAAAAAAAA9U/gpsxbO9q1q0/s320/AvengingAngel-200x300.jpg" border="0" /></a></span><br /><br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Shannon Wallace</span> is the protagonist in author <a href="http://www.mkimsmith.com/">Kim Smith's </a>debute book, Avenging Angel, A Shannon Wallace Mystery is available now at <a href="https://www.redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/">Red Rose Publishing.</a></p><p><strong>About the author:<br /></strong><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Kim Smith was born in Memphis Tennessee, the youngest of four children. After a short stint in a Northwest Mississippi junior college, during the era of John Grisham’s rise as a lawyer, she gave up educational pursuits to marry and begin family life.She has worked in many fields in her life, from fast food waitress to telephone sales. “I always got the seniors on the phone who were lonely and wanted someone to talk to. My boss couldn’t understand why in the world I spent so much time talking to them and not enough time selling. That was when I realized I love people and care deeply about their lives.”Writing was a dream, hidden but not forgotten, and soon Kim began to talk again of trying her hand at it. She played with words, and wrote several poems, one of which was picked up for an anthologyOne day in the early nineties her husband came home with a desktop computer and sat her in front of it. “Now you have no more excuses,” he said, and she realized the truth in his words. Procrastination, now no longer an option, she took off on the pursuit of penning her first book. Though that book, a young adult fantasy, was lost due to unforeseen circumstances, she kept going, writing a historical romance, and another YA.When she decided to try out her hand at mystery writing, she discovered her true love and niche in the writing journey. She has since had four short stories, and her first mystery novel accepted for publication.Kim is a member of Sisters in Crime, and is a Coffeetime Romance and More author member. She still lives in the Mid South region of the United States and is currently working on her second book in the Shannon Wallace mysteryseries.</em></span></p><p></p>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-66196082767757351502009-02-04T06:48:00.000-08:002009-02-04T08:01:32.284-08:00Midwest Book Review of The Devil Can Wait<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYm7U5kNbbI/AAAAAAAABCI/OsgL8yD7bQ8/s1600-h/samp0eaeb5c37991ddf2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298972404302572978" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYm7U5kNbbI/AAAAAAAABCI/OsgL8yD7bQ8/s320/samp0eaeb5c37991ddf2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYm6f0EgTEI/AAAAAAAABCA/HD_y2hNwoMI/s1600-h/samp0eaeb5c37991ddf2.jpg"></a><em>Special thanks to news reporter,</em></div><div><a href="http://www.ernierjohnson.net/"><em>Ernie Johnson</em></a><em>, for getting us a front page spread. </em></div><div><em>~ S. Harper.</em></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /> </div><div><br /> </div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYmrFpgVv9I/AAAAAAAABB4/0h74CE8yV7s/s1600-h/devil_can_wait_full_official-final.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298954550107291602" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 122px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYmrFpgVv9I/AAAAAAAABB4/0h74CE8yV7s/s200/devil_can_wait_full_official-final.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /><br /> </div><div><a href="http://www.martastephens-author.com/">The Devil Can Wait </a>(Sam Harper Mysteries)<br />Marta Stephens<br />BeWrite Books<br />ISBN 9781905202867<br />$15.99<br /><br />Reviewed by <a href="http://thomasfortenberry.net/">Thomas Fortenberry </a>for <a href="http://www.midwestbookreview.com/rbw/feb_09.htm#rc">Midwest Book Review </a><br /><br />The latest Sam Harper mystery may leave the devil waiting, but not the readers. This gritty mystery series lies at the crossroads of crime and thrillers, both 87th Precinct and Davinci Code. Bodies of teenagers are washing ashore in an apocalypse of murder and intrigue spanning the dark dangerous world, from Vatican to Colombia to Harper’s hometown of Chandler, Mass. Drugs to ancient religious secrets to serial killers, this book has it all.<br /><br />But the book’s unrelenting drama isn’t what captures me. It is the character Sam Harper and author Stephens. She writes with a forensic authority that makes these pages bleed with real world angst. Detective Harper is a well-realized, no-nonsense cop, a streetwise guy who refuses to give up despite the odds. When the going gets rough, everyone else has given up, an easy option looms, and the race becomes overwhelming, Harper is just getting started. He is the original it ain’t over guy. He literally pushes himself beyond physical collapse to solve crimes. He refuses to let any criminal escape on his watch.<br /><br />The Devil Can Wait is a good mystery. Sam Harper is a better cop. I can’t wait to follow his next career move. </div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-69826649254362506522009-02-01T13:00:00.000-08:002009-02-01T19:22:35.408-08:00Sunday ... and I'm already thinking about Monday morning. Outside, there's a layer of ice beneath the foot of snow that fell over the weekend. I close my eyes. Except for the sound of the crackling fire in the hearth, the house is quiet. It's always quiet. Maybe I'm getting set in my ways--some say I'm making excuses. They can think what they want. My personal life is my business.<br /><br />Reminds me of a newspaper reporter who tracked me down a few months ago. Claimed she had questions about the Hancock murder. I gave her what facts I could but a few minutes later she made it clear it wasn't enough. She had to get personal.<br /><br />"What's your passion," she asked. "I mean, what gets you out of bed, Harper?"<br /><br />"The alarm clock," I told her. She didn't care much for my humor. That's fine. I didn't like the question.<br /><br />Funny how little things stick with a guy. Later, much later and for reasons unknown, the issue of passion continued to buzz around in my head.<br /><br />It's the innocent who keep me going; the muted victims who can’t fight against a criminal justice system that punishes them by protecting the rights of the criminals. It's the dead whose cases have grown cold and who wait on the sideline for justice.<br /><br />Defense attorneys can manipulate evidence and their clients can lie all they want. I’ll turn into that festering thorn in their side, before it's over. Eventually I'll be the one who slaps down the winning hand.<br /><br />Passion? Yeah, I guess you can say I have one.Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-67451763118651567312009-01-30T04:00:00.000-08:002009-02-04T18:27:40.140-08:00Dirty Little Secrets ~ Part IV Conclusion<div align="left"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXkzOiM_IoI/AAAAAAAAA60/pLeage_4e3g/s1600-h/hallway.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294319161743188610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 244px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 210px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXkzOiM_IoI/AAAAAAAAA60/pLeage_4e3g/s320/hallway.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:78%;">© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:78%;"><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:100%;">Read: </span><a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets.html"><span style="font-size:100%;">Part I</span></a><span style="font-size:100%;">, </span><a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-ii.html"><span style="font-size:100%;">Part II</span></a><span style="font-size:100%;">, <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-iii.html">Part III </a><br /></span></div><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong></strong></span></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>Let the Dead Point the Way</strong></span> </span></div><div align="left"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">The far end of the dimly lit hallway was barely visible from the elevator. Harper knew the sign above the last door to the right pointed the way into the city morgue. He also knew what to expect on the other side. The chill in the air would be as cold as the look of the stainless steel surfaces that dominated the autopsy room. It would permeate his clothing keeping them cool to the touch moments after leaving the place. White tiled walls shimmered under the bright florescent lights. The spotless floor, a large suspended scale, and three polished stainless steel tables, situated in the center of the room, were as expected as the smell of disinfectant that masked the stench of death.<br /><br />“I came over as soon as I got your page,” Harper said. “What’s up?”<br /><br />“Nice work letting the McGuires in on their mother’s final wishes. Come on, over here.” Jack Fowler crossed the room and pulled out one of the middle drawers in a morgue refrigerator. “The authorization for the autopsy came through a couple of hours ago. I was just getting ready to start on her. Want to watch?”<br /><br />Harper cocked his head to one side and glanced down at the late Catherine McGuire. Her flesh looked pasty white under the florescent light; her lips were drained of color. “I’ll trust you on this one. Have a couple of other things to check on this morning.”<br /><br />“So what was Allison Pike’s story?” Jack positioned the body onto a gurney and pushed it into the autopsy room.<br /><br />“Same as the others. She’s a victim of circumstances. You know the old, I-was-just-trying-to-help story. Do me a favor.”<br /><br />“If I can.”<br /><br />“Check for poison in her system.”<br /><br />“Anything in particular?”<br /><br />“Just a hunch right now.”<br /><br />“And if I don’t find anything?”<br /><br />“We can say we tried and move on.”<br /><br /><br /></span></div><div align="center">* * *</div><div align="left">Harper left the medical examiner to his pre-autopsy tasks of measuring and weighing the body then taking the usual photographs. The engine of his Jeep Commander fired up on the first try, but the plummeting temperatures gave him reason to give the motor a moment to warm again. He watched the wipers shove the snow from side to side and thought of the stinging accusations he’d heard getting tossed around days before. Not one allegation had led to evidence that would substantiate a charge of murder. Still, Pike’s list of references nagged at him. He checked them out and Jacob Stanley was right, there was nothing unusual about them, but that wasn’t the issue burning a hole in Harper’s mind. Allison Pike went to a lot of trouble to paint her relationship with Mrs. McGuire in pretty pastels, so why the need for references? Harper knew it was inevitable that he’d see Pike again. He’d insist she explain the possible glitch in her story. She, on the other hand, would make it a point to serve more wine.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXqEoBZXIdI/AAAAAAAAA7k/VZPuTP_CDGY/s1600-h/Image_44267.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294690135031882194" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 171px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 199px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXqEoBZXIdI/AAAAAAAAA7k/VZPuTP_CDGY/s320/Image_44267.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />At ten in the morning, Harper was in the forensics lab down in the basement of police headquarters listening to Carter Graves review his initial findings.<br /><br />“Go ahead. Take a look,” Carter said, tossing Catherine McGuire’s high blood pressure medicine bottle at him. “There are no discrepancies in the dose she was given. Based on the date it was prescribed and recommended dose, there should be ten pills left in the bottle and ... there are.”<br /><br />“What else was she taking?” Harper asked.<br /><br />“Aside from the high blood pressure, she didn’t have any major illnesses. She was taking a daily dose of vitamins, minerals, calcium and a pain killer.”<br /><br />“What kind of pain meds?”<br /><br />“Over the counter Ibuprofen for arthritis. Hope I’m in her shape when I’m eighty-three. Anyway, no discrepancies there either.” Carter glanced at several sealed evidence containers on a nearby table. “Luminol showed no sign of blood anywhere at the scene—not on the bed, nightstand, walls, floor, bathroom—none. I took dust samples from her room and vacuumed the bedroom floor. I’ll let you know if I find anything worth looking into.”<br /><br />Harper was beginning to think this was a murder that didn’t happen. A body and accusations.<br /><br />“If she was murdered,” Carter said, “the killer didn’t mess with her pills.”<br /><br />“What about the phone records?”<br /><br />“One of my techs just got them back. He checked the calls made from the son’s and daughter’s homes. They each phoned Mrs. McGuire a couple of times a week since October. No way to know if they actually spoke with their mother, but at least they weren’t lying about making the calls.”<br /><br />“October, huh?”<br /><br />“Yeah, why? Does it mean something?”<br /><br />“Allison Pike claimed that Clinton and Evelyn only called when they needed money. Do you suppose mom turned her kids down one too many times and pissed them off?” Harper frowned at the thought. “I take it back. Plotting to kill would be too much trouble for them. If you ask me, they’re all nuts, the old lady died in her sleep, and we just wasted taxpayers’ money.”<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296827061996840994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 134px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 132px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYIcJir_aCI/AAAAAAAAA_g/i_9lTa7SDxI/s320/CB018469.jpg" border="0" /></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">Four weeks since Catherine McGuire passed away and the only abnormality Jack Fowler noted in his autopsy report was slightly raised elevations of blood pressure medication in her system and minor abrasions in her intestines. He found nothing else to prove that her death was due to anything other than natural causes. With the case closed, Harper moved on to the next homicide on the roster. Clinton and his wife moved into Catherine’s home and that was the last he heard of the McGuires until an hour ago. A million thoughts ran through Harper’s mind as he listened to the voice mail message left by the family’s housekeeper, Nelly Blount.<br /><br />The mansion was a quarter mile away when the sun decided to show after five days of sub-zero temperatures. But relentless winds continued to blow and shaped the soft drifts of snow into waves across the open fields on either side of the road.<br /><br />The housekeeper answered the door on the second ring and except for a quick glance over a shoulder she fixed her eyes on his.<br /><br />“This way, Detective.”<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXqHc72aOHI/AAAAAAAAA7s/9OKaWSQ1m4I/s1600-h/coffee_and_newspaper.jpg"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYJW7_FmqfI/AAAAAAAAA_4/6PKODVD7s-0/s1600-h/kcd00068043.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296891700288334322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 112px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 168px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYJW7_FmqfI/AAAAAAAAA_4/6PKODVD7s-0/s320/kcd00068043.jpg" border="0" /></a>Harper followed her down the main hall to the back of the house and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances were tucked in among spotless blue granite countertops that stretched into an L-shaped formation. On the back wall of the room was a span of large windows and patio doors that led to the terrace now under a foot of snow. Harper sat at one end of the kitchen table and watched as Nelly served him a steaming cup of coffee.<br /><br />“Twenty-seven years. That’s a long time to work for one family; not the easiest bunch to care for either, you know.” Nelly nodded as if to emphasize her amazing ability to survive the McGuire ordeal. “Clinton and Eve were unruly as children now they’re out of control adults. Without their mother at the helm, who knows what they’ll do next.”<br /><br />“About what?”<br /><br />“This house, me, everything. Oh, I know, Clinton moved in, but there are no guarantees. Obviously, Mrs. McGuire didn’t make any provisions for me in her will so--”<br /><br />“I’m sorry.” Harper trusted Nelly hadn’t dragged him here to discuss the McGuire’s bleak prospect of a future and her financial misfortune. “I read in the paper the court denied the McGuire’s request to contest it.”<br /><br />“Such a scandal, but they brought it upon themselves. They’ll have to sell this house, you know. I should look for other arrangements I suppose, but at my age ...” Nelly mindlessly stirred her coffee several times before resting the spoon on her napkin and taking a sip. “At least Allison came out on top. Goodness knows she deserves compensation for all she had to put up from the ungrateful brutes. In fact, I heard she’s moving to St. Tropez.”<br /><br />“France?” The image of her that evening in her home, sitting across from him with the fire casting a glow on her face invaded his thoughts with uncanny clarity. He had suspected Allison Pike just as he had the others. That was his job, but as evidence diminished and leads went cold, it became clear that Allison had been caught in the middle of an ugly family feud and was innocent of any wrong doing. He’d talked with her several times since, and although he had kept a professional distance, Allison had slowly haunted his thoughts. “When is she leaving?”<br /><br />“Today. Her flight leaves at five.”<br /><br />He glanced at his watch. It was ten after two. He quickly dismissed any thoughts of regret. “Mrs. Blount, when you called, you said you had something to show me.”<br /><br />“Yes, I’m so ashamed. I haven’t been able to stop going over every minute of that day in my mind. The thing is, Mrs. McGuire was perfectly fine in the morning. She had been up and around, I should have—”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“That week Allison informed me that Mrs. McGuire requested to take all her meals in her room. I never questioned Mrs. McGuire’s request and did as I was instructed to do.”<br /><br />“Did you question Allison?”<br /><br />“Why should I have?” she asked as she twisted her napkin. “She and I always got along. After all, we were both in Mrs. McGuire’s employ. Yes, the request seemed strange to me but it wasn't the first odd thing Mrs. McGuired had asked for in my years here. If you want to know the truth, I was glad to have someone help out a bit for a change. No more running up and down the stairs every time Mrs. McGuire yelled for something. Hours before she died, Allison stepped out of the house for a bit."</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">"Where did she go?"</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">"I don't know, but when she returned, she went straight upstairs to her private own room. Not long after that, she was busy fetching the meal I had prepared for Mrs. McGuire. No, Detective, Allison took over much of Mrs. McGuire’s care which was just fine with me.”<br /><br />Harper lowered his glance to the napkin Mrs. Blount had managed to shred into thirds. “What’s bothering you?”<br /><br />Nelly paused for a moment. “Two days before she died, Mrs. McGuire got it into her head that she wanted a large bouquet of tulips in her room. I couldn't be sure, but is sounded as if she and Allison were disputing something. Their voices carried down here to the main floor. A minute later, Alli ran out the front door. I assumed it was to buy the tulips. <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYIgZmBTIFI/AAAAAAAAA_o/ah3vUg2_XbY/s1600-h/250px-Envnote9_989.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296831735815938130" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 182px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 149px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYIgZmBTIFI/AAAAAAAAA_o/ah3vUg2_XbY/s320/250px-Envnote9_989.jpg" border="0" /></a>I then went upstairs to tidy Mrs. McGuire’s suite and noticed she was standing at the bedroom window that overlooks the driveway. After a moment, Mrs. McGuire handed me this.” Nelly smoothed the creased corners of the sealed envelope she took from her pocket. “I feel horrible about it. I was supposed to mail it for her. Instead, I slipped the envelope into the pocket of this cardigan while I finished with her room. After that, I got busy with other things and completely forgot about it until today when I put the sweater on again. I thought it would raise suspicion to mail it after her death. That's why I called you.”<br /><br />Harper rubbed a thumb over the surface and felt three small, round, hard objects inside the envelope addressed in Catherine McGuire’s handwriting to her attorney Jacob Stanley. He ripped it open, took out the note leaving the three items inside. He read it, returned the page to the envelope then slipped it into his breast pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Blount.”<br /><br />“Well, what did she write in the note? Is it important?”<br /><br />“You did the right thing in calling me. I’ll take care of it.” Harper drained the last of his coffee and glanced out toward the terrace as he slipped on his coat. “Did you say, tulips?”<br /><br />“Yes, why?”<br /><br />“They’re out of season. No shop would have them in stock this time of year.”<br /><br />“I know.” Nelly rolled her eyes. “All I can say is, Mrs. McGuire was a bit eccentric at times and when she got into one of her moods, you didn’t ask why.” Nelly raised a hand to her lips and frowned. “If you ask me though, she didn’t want flowers at all.”<br /><br />“Why do you say that?”<br /><br />“Allison bought her two dozen beautiful red roses instead, but Mrs. McGuire didn’t react to them one way or another. I suppose the reason the whole incident stayed with me is because Mrs. McGuire was never one to have fresh cut flowers around. Sometimes she was a horrible person to please.” </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">***</div><div align="left">Harper was back in his car, siren on, racing toward town and waiting for the medical examiner to answer his phone.<br /><br />“Jack, it’s me,” Harper said. “I have new evidence in the Catherine McGuire case. I need some answers and fast.”<br /><br />“Shoot.”<br /><br />“Why would Mrs. McGuire write to her attorney about grapefruit seeds?”<br /><br />Harper recognized the silence on the other end of the line and knew he hit on something that had rendered the medical examiner speechless. “Jack, are you with me?”<br /><br />“Jesus, Harp. Damn, it makes perfect sense now.”<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center">* * *</div><div align="left"><br />Three o’clock and the only things on Harper’s mind were Allison Pike and her five o’clock flight to France. He nosed his Jeep into the driveway behind her BMW then ran to knock on her door. “Allison. It’s Sam Harper.” He waited a second or two then knocked again. This time, he hammered the door with his fist. “Come on, Allison, open up!”<br /><br />Allison cracked open the door. The surprise in her eyes faded into contempt as she motioned for him to come in.<br /><br />"Harper, this isn’t a good time.”<br /><br />“Is it ever? We need to talk.” He stepped into the living room and glanced at the five pieces of luggage on floor. “Going somewhere?”<br /><br />“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m really in a hurry. My flight—”<br /><br />“This won’t take long. Why don't you sit down?"<br /><br />"I'd rather not."<br /><br />"All right. There's a small detail about the case that's been nagging at me from the very beginning.”<br /><br />“I thought we were done with it?”<br /><br />“You told me you met Catherine McGuire at an art gallery and it was only after you two became friends that she hired you as her assistant.”<br /><br />“That’s right, what of it?”<br /><br />“Throughout the investigation I heard comments about Mrs. McGuire’s strong character. She was a woman who knew her mind—followed her own instincts, never took anyone’s word for anything.”<br /><br />“That pretty much sums her up.”<br /><br />“Then why did you give her a list of references?”<br /><br />“Excuse me?” Allison feigned a smile but couldn’t disguise the uneasiness that had flashed across her face. “What difference does it make now?”<br /><br />“If she trusted you as a friend why did she need references? Wouldn’t she have known if you were right for the job?”<br /><br />“She asked for them.” Allison took a step back.<br /><br />“I don’t think so. No more than it was her idea to cut the family out of her will. What kind of game were you playing, Alli?”<br /><br />“You’re out of your mind.”<br /><br />“Rarely.”<br /><br />“Check the records, Detective. The case was closed two weeks ago. You’ve had your fun, now leave.”<br /><br />“No one’s going anywhere except for your art gallery pal. He’s at police headquarters right now having a chat with my partner. I heard he’s cooperating and talking about the scam you two had going.”<br /><br />“You’re bluffing.”<br /><br />“Sure about that?” he asked. “Your friend was the one with connections, wasn’t he? He knew the widows who frequently visited the gallery and introduced you to them one by one. Am I close?”<br /><br />“Hardly.”<br /><br />“You gained their trust, stole them blind, and split the sum with your pal. By the way, does he know you’re leaving town with the McGuire fortune?”<br /><br />“Talk all you want, Harper. I’m not listening to this nonsense.” A nervous laugh deceived her attempt to blow him off.<br /><br />“The problem is, you found out too late that Catherine McGuire was as shrewd as you are. It wasn’t enough that she was paying you well, you got greedy. That's when you convinced her the family didn’t care and talked her into cutting them out of the will.”<br /><br />“No. It wasn’t like that. I had no idea that—”<br /><br />“How exactly was it then? Jacob Stanley knew her a hell of a lot longer than you and your story doesn't match his. According to Stanley, Mrs. McGuire knew what her children were like but loved them unconditionally."<br /><br />She took another step back without taking him out of her sight.<br /><br />"I’m thinking that somewhere along the way she must have realized you couldn’t be trusted," he said. "What’d you do, let it slip that it was you who wouldn’t let the McGuires get near to her?”<br /><br />“They <em>didn’t</em> care about her.”<br /><br />“I imagine Catherine threatened to report you. Is that what turned things around? The fact that her resistance didn’t quite fit into your plans so you decided it was time to end things.”<br /><br />“No. It’s not true.” Allison’s eyes widen as she turned her head to the sound of siren approaching her home. “I couldn’t. I never—”<br /><br />“Mrs. McGuire wasn’t bedridden, so why did you tell the housekeeper that Catherine wanted her meals taken to her room?”<br /><br />“She ordered it.”<br /><br />“I'm willing to bet Catherine McGuire was held prisoner in her own home to buy you some time knowing that Nelly would never question your authority.”<br /><br />“I’m calling my attorney.”<br /><br />“In your own words, your interests are varied. Diverse enough to know that traces of poisons can be found in an autopsy. Was that an added insurance clause in the will in case you had to resort to it?” Harper reached for the handcuffs. “But you didn’t need it because you knew grapefruit consumed in any form would conflict with Catherine’s high blood pressure <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYIi0AttiyI/AAAAAAAAA_w/-g3BKLofSQ0/s1600-h/2687489471_63a395fc8f_o.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296834388681394978" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 156px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 134px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYIi0AttiyI/AAAAAAAAA_w/-g3BKLofSQ0/s320/2687489471_63a395fc8f_o.jpg" border="0" /></a>medication. It elevated the amount of medication in her system and consequently lowered her blood pressure to dangerous levels without a trace of what caused it. The question is, how did you do it? Mixed it in with her other juices to disguise the taste? Hell you could have bought extract and gotten away with it. But in your rush, you got sloppy. All you wanted to do was make certain Mrs. McGuire got it down before she realized that she had taken it.”<br /><br />As Harper slipped the handcuffs over her wrists and read Allison her rights, the scent of her perfume sickened him as much as the thought of how easily he could have fallen for her.<br /><br />“You can’t prove any of this.” Hate mixed with tears welled in her eyes.<br /><br />“Want to know what Catherine McGuire did the day she sent you off on a wild goose chase after tulips?”<br /><br />“I couldn’t care less.”<br /><br />“You should,” he said. “She was desperate to get you out of the house. She left two phone messages for her attorney. When he didn’t answer right away, she wrote him a letter.” Harper reached into his coat pocket and shook the envelope Nelly Blount had given to him the hour before. “This one. Accusing you of her murder. Catherine McGuire had you pegged, Allison, and it’s all right here dated, signed and sealed in her handwriting.”<br /><br />“For God’s sakes, if she felt threatened, why didn’t she call the police? See, she didn’t know what she was doing. Why do you think she needed a guardian? Her own children wanted nothing to do with her. She needed me--me!”<br /><br />Harper tipped the content of the envelope onto the palm of his hand and let Allison see the three grapefruit seeds Catherine had saved with the intent of sending them to Jacob Stanley. “You must have been in a hell of a hurry to not strain the seeds."<br /><br />She didn't respond.<br /><br />"Wealth doesn’t diminish the insecurity brought on by age. She was scared to death of you—you—the only person she accuses in her note. Last thing she wrote is, ‘If anything happens to me, give the seeds to my doctor, he’ll know.’”<br /><br />"Listen to you," she said. "You're making this up as you go. That doesn't prove a thing. I’ll fight this, you know.”<br /><br />He took her by the arm and handed her to the uniformed officers.<br /><br />"Harper? Do you hear me?"<br /><br />“Your greed blurred that fine line between right and wrong, Alli. How many more of these cases am I going to find in your past?”<br /><br />Again, she didn’t respond. Why would she? Harper could see the calculated cold indifference in her eyes. There was nothing more to say.<br /><br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294311466791261042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 255px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 159px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXksOoRe03I/AAAAAAAAA6s/t3gxB02yO9g/s320/2417467373_bef3eb48c6.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><div align="center">The End</div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-27014318638459679272009-01-28T16:38:00.000-08:002009-01-29T08:39:06.486-08:00Excerpt From SILENCED CRY<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYEgSyRMlEI/AAAAAAAAA-c/v58N5kiApZM/s1600-h/2084089437_7b7d4e3883.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296550143868048450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 285px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 217px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYEgSyRMlEI/AAAAAAAAA-c/v58N5kiApZM/s320/2084089437_7b7d4e3883.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:78%;">© Marta Stephens 2007 all rights reserved</span> </div><br /><div align="left"><em><blockquote><em>Count them; two years. Frank Gillies had no reason to die on that miserable March night, but my late partner had gotten it into his head to park in front of the Roving Dog Saloon and wait for an informants. I knew about Gillie’s connections. Not who they were or how he managed them, but that they existed.<br /></em><br /><em>Time doesn’t heal, it only distort. It plays with your head and won't let you shake poignant details like smells and sounds; that it was raining like hell that night, and Gillies wasn’t taking no for an answer.</em><br /></blockquote></em><br /><div align="center"><em><span style="color:#cc9933;"><strong>Silenced Cry Excerpt ~ Chapter 2</strong></span></em> </div><br /><div align="left">The Roving Dog was a typical joint. Dark walls and sparse lighting managed to hide the stains, but couldn’t mask the stench of what might have slipped through the cracks in the floor. A couple of old men at the bar were too engrossed watching the small, suspended television to notice Harper as he walked through the door.<br /><br />Harper scanned the room from his perch on a stool at the far end of the bar while he searched for the face of a killer. Across the room, <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYET5pAZjCI/AAAAAAAAA90/ZfAyHxQpk94/s1600-h/old+bar.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296536517745413154" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 184px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 270px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYET5pAZjCI/AAAAAAAAA90/ZfAyHxQpk94/s320/old+bar.jpg" border="0" /></a>two others were shooting pool. The crisp, crackling sound of billiard balls hitting against one another; the plunk when they sank, a slight pause followed by another clink, were familiar sounds to him. A handful of patrons sat in the booths along the back wall. Each was at a different stage of inebriation. No sign of Mellow.<br /><br />Harper grabbed a napkin from a nearby stack on the bar and wiped his face.<br /><br />“Hell of a night, huh?” The old bartender feigned a smile without looking up from the glass he had polished. “What’s your pick?” he asked, carefully placing it on top of the set of clean glasses on the counter.<br /><br />“Coffee. Blond and sweet.”<br /><br />The bartender returned with a mug brimming to the edge. Hesitation washed over his face at the sight of Harper’s badge visible beneath his coat. He slowly pushed the mug and the packets of cream and sugar toward Harper, leaned on the counter, and whispered: “You here on business?”<br /><br />“Depends, did you call?” Harper blew into the mug then took a sip.<br /><br />“Where’s Gillies?”<br /><br />“Outside. What about Mellow?”<br /><br />The man nodded toward the back of the room. “Got here about an hour before I called. Say, Gillies said he’d handle this himself.”<br /><br />“An hour?” Harper flashed a look into the old man’s eyes. The words tumbled in his head in search for some logic. He raised his mug again and looked over the rim. Mellow came into focus. He was tucked away in the shadows of a corner booth, sidetracked by the woman sitting next to him and the freedoms she allowed him to take. “You sure he’s been here an hour?”<br /><br />“Yeah, positive. See that?” The bartender thumbed over his shoulder at the Miller Beer clock above the phone. “I’m sure.”<br /><br />“Doesn’t seem to be causing any trouble. What made you call?” Gillies’ haste and the old man’s delay to call didn’t add up. So far, nothing had.<br /><br />“I wouldn’t have, except I heard him tell her a thing or two when I served them their last round.”<br /><br />“Like what?”<br /><br />The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t tell you exactly.” He explained he only got the gist of the conversation. “Sounded like someone ripped him off. I heard him tell her, ‘… won’t be bothered by that mother again.’”<br /><br />“You called us on that? How do you know he didn’t buy the guy a ticket out of town or something?”<br /><br />“Anyone else, I wouldn’t have thought twice. But him? Not about to take any chances. You know what these bums are like. Just out of jail; temper’s as hot as his record is long. I’ve known him since he was this high,” said the man, raising his hand to his waist. “He was a punk then, now he’s nothing but a worthless piece of shit. Never hurts to think the worst.” He paused for a moment then whispered again: “So what’d he do? Kill somebody? Heard about the shooting near the overpass. Was it him?”<br /><br />Harper took a drink. The bartender with the raspy voice knew more than his customer’s taste in booze and arrest record. “What do you know about the shooting?”<br /><br />“Me? Nothing.”<br /><br />Harper heard the denial but caught the man’s sideward glance.<br /><br />“Someone heard the shots. A couple of the guys were talking about it. That’s all.”<br /><br />“Which guys?”<br /><br />“Ah, I don’t know. They weren’t regulars – left already.”<br /><br />“What happened after you served Mellow that round?”<br /><br />“Nothing. I acted like I wasn’t paying attention. Came back here. Made the call. Look, news in this neighborhood travels fast. I don’t want any problems. Don’t want him to know I’m the one<br />who called either, understand?”<br /><br />Harper nodded. “Who’s the woman?”<br /><br />“Couldn’t tell you her name. She’s in here with a different john every other night. As long as she pays the tab, what she does is her business. The rest of them,” he nodded toward his clientele, “just want to sit around, have a few drinks, and forget their problems. All I’m asking you to do is get him the hell out of here. So go on. Get Gillies in here and do your jobs already.”<br /><br />“We’ll be waiting outside.” Harper reached into his pocket, pulled out a dollar, and tossed it next to his empty mug. “You’ve got Gillies’ number. Call the minute he starts to leave.”<br /><br />“What? You’re leaving?” The man thumbed over his shoulder again. “What about him? Aren’t you going to arrest him?”<br /><br />Harper pulled up his collar. “On what?” He waited for him to say the wrong thing. He wanted to catch him at a lie, to know what he knew. Anything to satisfy his suspicions that he and Gillies<br />were in cahoots. When he didn’t reply, Harper said: “You just make sure he walks out the front door. Got it?” He was near the door when he heard the bartender call out to him.<br /><br />“Hey! Hold up. Here.” He held out a capped Styrofoam cup for Harper to take. “This’ll take the chill off the old man for now.”<br /><br />“Hey Skip.” One of the gents at the bar waved his empty beer bottle. “Need another.” </div><br /><div align="center">* * *</div><br /><div align="left">“Well? Is he in there?” Gillies held out a towel in exchange for the steaming cup of coffee.<br /><br />“Yeah. You could have told me you knew the bartender.”<br /><br />Harper jerked the towel from Gillies’ hands.<br /><br />“What the hell are ya pissed at? I’ve known Chuck a while.”<br /><br />“I’m your partner, not your damned stooge. The guy knows more about what went down tonight than I do.”<br /><br />“Don’t take it personal. We got the call. That’s all that matters. What’s Mellow doing?”<br /><br />“Getting drunk with a whore,” Harper said squeezing the water from his hair.<br /><br />“Shit, don’t need him drunk tonight.”<br /><br />“Your friend claims he overheard Mellow telling her he got robbed.”<br /><br />“That a fact?”<br /><br />“Yeah. Here’s another news flash. He claimed Mellow was i<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYGybxDAWPI/AAAAAAAAA-s/N6k4sUbGVmo/s1600-h/rain.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296710826856569074" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 268px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 190px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYGybxDAWPI/AAAAAAAAA-s/N6k4sUbGVmo/s320/rain.jpg" border="0" /></a>n the bar an hour before he called you. How do you figure that? How the hell does a guy kill someone two miles away while he’s sitting in a goddamned bar?”<br /><br />Gillies took a drink of his coffee and pressed his lips. He stared straight ahead in silence. Harper could see it, even in the dark. How Gillies froze while the wheels in his head turned and the gears screeched into reverse trying to find another way out. Harper had seen that same look on the faces of criminals when the walls of incarceration closed in on them.<br /><br />“Must be mistaken,” said Gillies.<br /><br />“Did you tell him about the shooting?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“He knows. How the hell does he know about a shooting clear across town minutes after it happened?”<br /><br />“Mellow must have told him,” said Gillies.<br /><br />“Shit. Mellow shouldn’t even be in there.”<br /><br />“Don’t start assuming nothing. He’s mistaken, that’s all.”<br /><br />“I’m not assuming a damned thing.” Harper shook his head. “Gotta hand it to you, that’s one hell of a coincidence.”<br /><br />“It happens.”<br /><br />“It’s bullshit and you know it.” He slapped the towel on the seat. “Start talking.”<br /><br />“There’s nothing to tell. I told Chuck to keep his eyes open for Mellow and Owens. He said Mellow knew where Owens was keeping himself and I’d have to talk with Mellow for the details. Called to let me know about the shooting; said he’d keep Mellow at the bar until we got here. End of story.”<br /><br />“I thought you said dispatch called you about the shooting? What the hell’s going on, Frank?”<br /><br />“Nothing. What?”<br /><br />“You’re lying. What kind of mess are you in this time?”<br /><br />“What the hell are ya talking about? I just got confused is all.”<br /><br />“Since when? Next to my dad, you’re the sharpest cop I know. Why did Chuck wait an hour to call?”<br /><br />“How should I know? Tell ya what, I’ll ask him next time we talk, all right?”<br /><br />“You do that. And while you’re at it, make damned sure you leave me the hell out of whatever is going down here tonight.”<br /><br />“Would ya settle down? Nothing’s going on that ya don’t know about. We just need to see what he knows about Owens. That’s it!” </div><br /><div align="left">Gillies rubbed his hands together. “Damn this rain.” He raised his wrist and rolled his eyes at the hour. “Man, the old lady’s going to be pissed again tonight.”<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYGzhnpJdeI/AAAAAAAAA-0/4HwbPSo9q-U/s1600-h/rainy-denver.jpg"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYG0F5YCV2I/AAAAAAAAA-8/UjGG2W1YQp0/s1600-h/rainy-denver.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296712650158397282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 259px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 231px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYG0F5YCV2I/AAAAAAAAA-8/UjGG2W1YQp0/s320/rainy-denver.jpg" border="0" /></a>Harper stared at the tavern door. His partner was good at changing the subject whenever it suited him. He listened, but didn’t intend to engage in the irrelevant conversation.<br /><br />“Late nights,” Gillies continued, “she hates them. I’m sure she’d be happier if I had turned out to be a goddamned bean counter or bank teller. Ya know, the old home by five, bored to tears. Can’t remember the last time we didn’t have a fight the minute I set foot in the door. It’s bad enough when I’m not there for supper. On nights like this, she goes through the roof. I can tell ya right now, we won’t be sleeping together tonight. Bet ya a twenty she has my pillow waiting on the damned sofa.”<br /><br />“Right, let’s hear another one.”<br /><br />“Ya hear me laughing? It’s getting worse every day. She must be going through the change or something.”<br /><br />Gillies’ comment made him think of his fiancée, Deanna. How often had they argued over his late hours at work too? “My mother used to worry about Dad all the time. Wouldn’t go to bed until she heard him walk through the door.”<br /><br />“Not Ruthie. Hell, she’s locked me out more than once.” Silent minutes dragged. Gillies looked at his watch again. “Damn. Almost one. How the hell long is he going to be in there?”<br /><br />“You never said what your plan is,” said Harper. “You do have a plan, don’t you?”<br /><br />“We grab him when he comes out. We question him, simple as that.” Gillies gave him another playful punch in the arm. “You just keep your eyes wide open, hear? If he pulls out a weapon, be careful. I hate breaking in new partners.”<br /><br />“He was soused two hours ago. I say we go in and get it over with,” said Harper.<br /><br />“Nah, have to assume he’s carrying a piece. He’s a loose cannon. Now he’s drunk and about as predictable as a skunk in heat. You’re asking for a shitload of trouble. Last thing we want to do is rouse him up in a room full of people. We’ll just wait him out. He won’t give us any problems.”<br /><br />“And if he does?”<br /><br />“What do ya think?” Gillies rubbed his eyes. “We shoot first ask questions later. Ah, come on. What are ya worried about? We’ve been up against bigger problems than this guy, right?”<br /><br />“I’m not worried. I’m tired.”<br /><br />Water rose to within an inch from the top of the curbs, pooling in front of the bar at a clogged drain. Harper swept a glance at the dashboard clock. “One eighteen. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. Should be home in my warm, dry bed.”<br /><br />Gillies yawned and stretched then bolted straight up in his seat. “There he is!” he blurted. He reached for his Glock and the extra cartridge he shoved into his coat pocket.<br /><br />“Damn. I told Chuck to call the minute he saw him leave,” said Harper. “Why the hell didn’t he warn us?”<br /><br />The men watched as Mellow and the woman staggered out of the bar. He stopped and teetered as he turned up the collar of his jean jacket. He reached an arm around her shoulders and tried to stay on his feet.<br /><br />“Shit.” Harper braced himself for another drenching and turned to say something when he caught sight of Gillies’ shirt beneath his coat. “Where’s your vest?”<br /><br />“It’s in back. Look at him. He’s stumbling over his own feet. Won’t give us any problems now.”<br /><br />“Damn it. Get it on!”<br /><br />“A lot of good it’ll do if I get shot in the head. In the meantime, he’s getting away.”<br /><br />“Don’t be an ass. It’s regulations. Put the damned thing on.”<br /><br />“Ya know, I’d love to have this conversation with ya, college boy. Maybe later – at tea, real proper like,” he sneered. “Come on will ya, I don’t wanna be in this crap all night.” Gillies slammed the door and scuttled across the street.<br /><br />“Son of a bitch.” Harper clenched his teeth and ran.<br /><em><em><em><em></em></em></em></em></div><div align="left"><em><em><em><em><br /><blockquote><em><em><em><em>We drew our weapons and ran. So much for the element of surprise. Mellow didn’t see us at first. Gillies yelled for him to stop. That’s when Mellow took off like a jack rabbit.</em></em></em></em></blockquote></em></em></em></em></div><div align="left">“Freeze! Police!”<br /><br />Startled, Mellow turned and pushed the woman away from him. She shrieked and fell to her knees. Pools of water had gathered along the ruts in the sidewalk and splashed up around her. She scrambled to get out of the way of the men and their drawn weapons. She cowered against a building and covered her face.<br /><br />Mellow stumbled and fell; struggled to his feet and ran.<br /><br />“I said freeze!” Gillies yelled again.<br /><br />Harper hustled to narrow the gap between them. He charged past Gillies and yelled the order: “Freeze!” </div><div align="left"><br />Mellow made a half turn, drew his weapon, and took a blind shot.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296550968797450290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 281px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 149px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYEhCzXsUDI/AAAAAAAAA-k/F2yxSJl6-Zc/s320/GSRgunFiring.jpg" border="0" />Harper returned fire. With both hands on his .357 Magnum, he aimed for<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SYEfEAR732I/AAAAAAAAA-U/4ZfgPOXk_zI/s1600-h/GSRgunFiring.jpg"></a> the heart. Squeezed the trigger. Reverberating blasts from the shot rang out above the sound of rain thumping against the metal awnings. Mellow buckled then stumbled backwards into a cluster of trash cans. Their rank contents flew out and scattered along the sidewalk. A lid rolled down the street, the driving rain muted the clatter of metal against the concrete. Seconds later, Mellow lay motionless on the heap of waste.<br /><br />Lights flickered on in the windows of the apartment buildings along the street. Harper felt nameless, curious eyes descend upon him, watching from behind the safety of curtains.<br /><br />He froze; arms stretched out, legs spread apart, his weapon still aimed at Mellow. His chest ached with each gasp, his lungs tightened with every draw of cold, damp air he sucked in. All he could do was blink to keep the rain out of his eyes. Slowly, without letting go of his gun, he lowered his outstretched arms and ran to the suspect’s side. Harper bent over the body and felt his jugular. It was motionless beneath his touch.<br /><br />“He’s dead, Frank.” He dropped his head. “Damn it Mellow, you stupid drunk,” he whispered between heaves of air. “What the hell were you thinking?”<br /><br />He waited a moment. “Hey, Frank. Did you hear me? We lost him. Frank?” In the heat of the chase, he hadn’t noticed his partner was not at his side. He glanced over his shoulder and rose to his feet. A cold taut current ran through him at the sight of a motionless Frank Gillies laying face up on the sidewalk a few feet away.<br /><br />The gunshots drew curious patrons out of the bar. Gillies’ shirt and cream-colored overcoat looked dark from the distance – dark red. Harper’s immediate thought flashed to the pub’s neon lights. The gawking faces – the sidewalk – Gillies – everything was red.<br /><br />“Frank!” he screamed and raced to his side. “Get out of the way!” Harper pushed the others away then dropped to his knees.<br /><br />“Frank, damn it.” Blood seeped from the center of his partner’s chest. “Hold on, Frank. Hold on.” Harper firmly pressed a hand on the puncture wound while he speed dialed for dispatch and shrieked out a 10-55. “Officer down! I repeat. Officer down! Corner of Howard and Third.” Blood gushed between Harper’s fingers and sputtered from Gillies’ lips with each cough.<br /><br />“I called for an ambulance soon as I heard the shot,” yelled the bartender. “I told you Mellow was no good.”<br /><br />Harper hadn’t noticed Gillies’ opened eyes weren’t flinching away the raindrops, that his breathing had stopped, and that his hands rested lifelessly at his side.<br /><br />“Looks dead to me,” said a voice in the crowd. The others agreed.<br /><br />Surreal sounds drifted around him not meant for his ears.<br /><br />“Where the hell’s the ambulance?” yelled Harper.<br /><br />“It’s no good, buddy. You did your best.” The bartender placed his hand on Harper’s shoulder and tried to console him. “He’s gone.”<br /><br />Harper jerked the man’s hands off and shoved him away. He caught sight of his own hands, his coat, and trousers. It wasn’t the neon lights after all. Lights don’t run between your fingers, creep under your nails, and smear onto everything you touch. And lights don’t wash off. That’s when he knew. That’s when the knot rose to his throat and wedged against his windpipe.<br /><br />A split second. That’s all it took.<br /><br />He closed his eyes and lowered his head. The drumming rain concealed his tears and flooded a nearby drain with Gillies’ blood.<br /><br />Distant sirens were too late.<br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>End of Excerpt</strong></div><br /><div align="left"><a href="http://www,martastephens-author.com/">Silenced Cry</a>, the book that kicked off the Sam Harper Crime Mystery series in 2007, went on to receive honorable mention at the 2008 New York Book Festival, and was among the top ten in the 2007 Preditors & Editors reader poll. It is available on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Silenced-Cry-Harper-Crime-Mystery/dp/1905202725/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1233197672&sr=8-1">Amazon</a>, <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Silenced-Cry/Marta-Stephens/e/9781905202720/?itm=1">Barnes & Noble</a>, <a href="http://www.booksamillion.com/product/9781905202720?id=4331979316148">Books-A-Million </a>and other online and traditional bookstores.</div><br /><div align="left">ISBN: 978-1-905202-72-0</div>Published by BeWrite Books (UK) </div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-81091147014241862082009-01-25T07:12:00.000-08:002009-01-28T16:27:20.597-08:00New Review for "The Devil Can Wait"<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXyFJnPaDNI/AAAAAAAAA70/NrvaWE5XWNI/s1600-h/j0309656.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295253662079782098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 131px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 146px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXyFJnPaDNI/AAAAAAAAA70/NrvaWE5XWNI/s320/j0309656.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff6600;">Memo to:</span> Lou Holloway, Captain, Chandler Police Department</div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff6600;">From:</span> Sam Harper, Homicide</div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff6600;">Subject:</span> <strong>Latest report on our case, "The Devil Can Wait."</strong></div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Lou, just received the following report written by officer A. F. Stewart from Internal Affairs. Looks like we're in the clear. Thought you'd want to see it ASAP. </div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#cc0000;">* * *</span> </div><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="left">I was impressed by Marta Stephens’ first novel Silenced Cry, and was looking forward to her next book. I was not disappointed, finding The Devil Can Wait even more enjoyable. Again, as with her first book, I was drawn in by the realistic character interplay, especially the portrayal of the often frustrating work of a homicide detective.</div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">The book begins in the middle of a messy crime spree, with the discovery of the latest teenage body in a string of possibly related murders. Short-handed and overworked, Sam Harper and his partner have no leads and a workload of aggravation. Throw in several more strange murders, a homicidal Colombian, a cursed ring that could bring the apocalypse, an attractive, vibrant reporter slated to become a damsel in distress, and Sam Harper is up against the clock to save lives by solving the case.</div><br /><div align="left"><br /><em><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“He didn’t need one of Jack’s lectures on viable evidence. Not now. What he wanted was a neon sign pointing straight to the killer. As it was, there were as many possibilities for how that tiny bruise got on the boy’s finger as there were reasons to keep digging for answers.”</span></em></div><br /><div align="left"><br />Marta Stephens does an admirable job of blending a solid crime mystery with an exotic supernatural touch and the undertone of religious beliefs. She never veers into the outrageous or unbelievable, but still manages to keep that small air of “what if”, integrating it all into a fabulous whole.</div><br /><div align="left"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc66;">“The urgency that prodded him two minutes ago was suddenly gone. It’s nothing but hogwash, he told himself. A wives’ tale told to scare the shit out of weak men and innocent children.”</span></div><br /><div align="left"><br />I am fast becoming a rabid fan of Ms. Stephens, appreciating her reliable plot work and her memorable characters. Her superb protagonist, Sam Harper, is a genuine, somewhat imperfect, thoroughly human personality. From his dedication to the job to his rather messy personal life, it is this character that breathes vivid life into the pages of her books.A definite recommend for all fans of crime/mystery fiction.</div><br /><div align="right"><br /><br />Reviewed by <a href="http://afstewartblog.blogspot.com/2009/01/book-review-devil-can-wait.html">A. F. Stewart </a><br /><a href="http://afallon.bravehost.com/">http://afallon.bravehost.com/</a> </div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-35558330065623757992009-01-23T04:00:00.000-08:002009-02-04T17:24:07.096-08:00Dirty Little Secrets - Part III<span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:78%;">© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXjep1SvSXI/AAAAAAAAA6E/Lt4768UDEjs/s1600-h/CMCAOOI638CAOUIEEQCAHZ3WCJCALN2DPOCA8WGCE2CAWMOBZYCAX9C89XCATQ5PGMCAW0FNLUCA9GMEC4CAWIN67UCAMN24U9CAS9348PCA3IFLE5CANZKQIUCAUZE52UCAWLW137CA3275UMCA5ZBFYW.jpg"><span style="font-size:78%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294226172235696498" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 140px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 135px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXjep1SvSXI/AAAAAAAAA6E/Lt4768UDEjs/s320/CMCAOOI638CAOUIEEQCAHZ3WCJCALN2DPOCA8WGCE2CAWMOBZYCAX9C89XCATQ5PGMCAW0FNLUCA9GMEC4CAWIN67UCAMN24U9CAS9348PCA3IFLE5CANZKQIUCAUZE52UCAWLW137CA3275UMCA5ZBFYW.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><br /><br />Read Parts <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets.html">I,</a> <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-ii.html">II,</a> & <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-iv-conclusion.html">IV<br /></a><br /><div><div><div><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;">On The Outside Looking In</span></strong></div><div><br /></div><div align="left"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXjeQypBK9I/AAAAAAAAA58/8B3Jszo8_D8/s1600-h/CMCAOOI638CAOUIEEQCAHZ3WCJCALN2DPOCA8WGCE2CAWMOBZYCAX9C89XCATQ5PGMCAW0FNLUCA9GMEC4CAWIN67UCAMN24U9CAS9348PCA3IFLE5CANZKQIUCAUZE52UCAWLW137CA3275UMCA5ZBFYW.jpg"></a><br />The brass nameplate permanently attached to the brick façade of the Stanley building read, “Jacob D. Stanley, Attorney At Law.” Harper pulled open the door, unbuttoned his overcoat, and instantly felt his steps sink into the thick pile of burgundy carpeting. Except for the middle-aged guy waiting in the pinstriped suit with his nose in the New York Times, the lobby was empty of clients. Overstuffed chairs and lush tropical plants that didn’t belong in Massachusetts in January or any other time of the year, lined the path that led directly to the knockout redhead sitting behind the desk.<br /><br />She glanced up from her filing and offered a practiced smile, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the badge secured to Harper’s belt. The blunt cut of her hair fell just at the shoulders, the blue of her eyes matched her blouse, and looking down from his vantage point of six feet up and standing well over her head, the bit of visible cleavage was a distraction he didn’t need at the moment. Harper was trained to hone in on the details, but he wondered what the hell he was thinking. Now she was looking him straight in the eyes.<br /><br />“Mr. Stanley is expecting me—Sam Harper, homicide.”<br /><br />“Have a seat, Detective. I’ll let him know you’re here.” A take-me-home smile eased across her lips as she disappeared down the hall. </div><div><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="center">* * *</div><div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXkjotyCA1I/AAAAAAAAA6c/7pvrN5uBZdQ/s1600-h/last-will-testament+copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294302019341910866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 223px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 167px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXkjotyCA1I/AAAAAAAAA6c/7pvrN5uBZdQ/s320/last-will-testament+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a>“Yes, I appreciate your predicament.” Jacob Stanley polished his reading glasses then placed them back on the bridge of his nose. “But the attorney/client privilege doesn’t end when the client passes. You know that.”<br /><br />“Yes, I do, but—”<br /><br />“It continues on in perpetuity. I can tell you this, Mrs. McGuire was of sound mind when she changed her will.”<br /><br />“Her family doesn’t agree. Any idea why she didn’t let them in on it?” Harper asked.<br /><br />“I assume you’ve had the pleasure of meeting them, right?” Stanley paused for a moment. “Yes, of course you have. Regardless of what you’ve heard about Catherine McGuire, she had a soft spot for her children, the irony is, they never appreciated it.”<br /><br />“So what was her motive?”<br /><br />“You need to understand that my job was never to persuade Catherine to do anything she hadn’t already set her mind to. I was here to advise her on the legality of her actions and the ramifications thereof, not meddle in her private life. Her personal affairs were off limits.”<br /><br />“You have to admit, the whole thing seems strange,” Harper said.<br /><br />“Maybe to the average person it does, but there was nothing routine about Catherine McGuire. Perhaps she faced her own mortality and didn’t like what she saw. I do think she felt alone much of the time.”<br /><br />“Is that when she hired Allison Pike?”<br /><br />Stanley thumbed through a few pages in Mrs. McGuire’s file then stopped and flipped back and forth between two pieces of paper. “Ms. Pike was employed last year on December 27. Catherine changed her will eight months later—hardly a hasty decision.”<br /><br />“What about Pike’s background? Anything suspicious?”<br /><br />“Not that I’m aware of.” Stanley signaled Harper to wait while he picked up his phone. “Beka, could you come in a minute?”<br /><br />Within seconds, the redheaded beauty walked in, took three sheets of paper from Stanley’s hand and left the room. She returned minutes later with a set of copies.<br /><br />“Here,” Stanley said. “Maybe that will help clear up some of your questions.”<br /><br />Harper studied the list of references Allison Pike had submitted to her former employer then whistled at the salary noted at the bottom of the page. “Can’t say I blame the McGuires for being upset. A hundred grand a year is a chunk of change for driving an old woman around and keeping her calendar. Pike had a sweet deal going, why would the family suspect her of wanting to stop the gravy train?”<br /><br />“I’m sure it’s a ploy to contest the will. Like I said, Detective, no one forced Catherine McGuire’s hand. She came to see me of her own free will with a clear mind and conscience. I’m sure Ms. Pike will be glad to fill you in on anything else you need to know. Her phone and address are at the bottom of the second page.”<br /><br />“Thanks.” Harper folded the pages lengthwise then handed the attorney his business card. “If you think of anything else.”<br /><br />“I will.” Jacob Stanley paused for a moment then frowned. “Have you ever missed a chance to do something and later regretted it?”<br /><br />“Yeah, once or twice. Why?” </div><div><br />Stanley removed his reading glasses again and placed them on top of his desk. “I was out of town on business this week when my secretary called to say that Catherine had phoned twice on Monday to speak with me—wouldn’t leave a message—Catherine never would. Anyway, I was having a heck of a time with cell phone connections and assumed whatever Catherine wanted could wait a couple of days until I got back. It didn’t quite work out the way I had planned. Haunting, wouldn’t you say?”<br /><br /></div><div align="center">* * *</div><div><br /></div><div align="left">The information Harper received from attorney Jacob Stanley two days before led him to the front door of a 1930s bungalow on west 43rd. When he knocked, he expected to meet a middle-aged spinster with orthopedic shoes on her feet and a hard look in her eyes. Instead, Allison Pike stood in the threshold dressed in white close-fitting slacks, a red cardigan sweater, and waves of flowing dark hair swept over one shoulder.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXkdxvxOw9I/AAAAAAAAA6M/Z8KB-NmMH48/s1600-h/113744898548.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294295577424479186" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 257px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 183px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXkdxvxOw9I/AAAAAAAAA6M/Z8KB-NmMH48/s320/113744898548.jpg" border="0" /></a>She smiled and ushered him into the sitting room where the mellow sound of Etta James drifted through the air. He hadn’t intended to agree to coffee, but the temperature outside was ten below and he couldn’t say no to the warmth emitted from crackling log in the fireplace.<br /><br />Allison brought in a tray with a carafe, two mugs and the usual condiments. She did the pouring and left him to fix his own. She grabbed one of several throws and curled up in the overstuffed loveseat across from his. Harper noticed the zest in her style; every move triggered a spark. There was no hesitation in her voice, no concern in her eyes—not even when Harper informed her of the McGuires’ accusations.<br /><br />“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” she said. “They were against Catherine’s decision to hire me from the beginning.”<br /><br />“Tell me about it. Start with how you two met.”<br /><br />“A painter friend of mine had his oils featured in a gallery downtown during the spring arts festival. Catherine and I were drawn to the same painting. That one,” she said, pointing to a large landscape rendition hanging on the opposite wall. “I’m a nut about impressionist style, aren’t you?”<br /><br />Harper took a drink of his coffee while he mulled around the abrupt redirection and chose to ignore it. “Then what?”<br /><br />“We developed a friendship. Catherine often invited me out to her home. What began as the occasional visit quickly became weekly chats. Sometimes after dinner, we’d talk for hours. Next thing I knew, she had the housekeeper prepare a room for me so I could stay overnight.” Alli brushed back a strand of hair from her eyes and studied Harper’s face as if waiting for his immediate reaction.<br /><br />“Did the family object at that point?” he asked.<br /><br />“I’m not sure if they were even aware of our friendship. That’s the point, Detective. They never called on her except to ask for money so they didn't know what was going on in her life. Trust me, none of this was planned. In spite of having a family and wealth she didn’t have what she needed most, love—a sense of belonging.” She paused for a moment. “She called me her guardian angle. The true is, I’m the one who was saved.”<br /><br />“Why’s that?”<br /><br />“It’s personal and I’d rather not go down that road, but suffice to say that she was lonely and I needed a sense of belonging too.”<br /><br />Allison’s words echoed the same sentiment Jacob Stanley expressed in their meeting on Wednesday, but just like two wrongs don’t make a right, neither did the word of a lawyer and the sole beneficiary of the McGuire fortune equal the truth. “I understand you were hired last year on December 27, is that correct?”<br /><br />“Yes, I think that’s right.”<br /><br />“You two met in the spring and what, eight, nine months later she hired you as her personal assistance? What happened that December?”<br /><br />“They left her alone.” Allison raised a slender hand to her lips then turned toward the fire that had now engulfed the massive log in the hearth. “Those vile, ungrateful … if it hadn’t been for me, she would have been alone over the holidays.” She wiped a tear from her eye and slipped into an uneasy silence.<br /><br />“Ms. Pike?”<br /><br />She looked up, tears glistened in her eyes. “That set the stage for what happened next.”<br /><br />“Go on.”<br /><br />“A few months later she called to say that she needed to see her lawyer and wanted me to drive her to his office. That’s when I found out she had been discussing a change in her will. The meeting was simply for the purpose to sign papers. The last thing I expected was that she made me her guardian.”<br /><br />“You could have backed out.”<br /><br />“Not likely. No one ever backed out of a Catherine McGuire order.”<br /><br />“Is that what it was? An order?”<br /><br />“It felt like it.”<br /><br />The flair of confidence Harper saw in her a moment before vanished. She threw back her head and closed her eyes as if the question had awakened an unpleasant memory.<br /><br />“So your duties were more that of a caretaker; you dispensed her medication, took charge of her meals—”<br /><br />“She insisted.”<br /><br />“Managed her appointments too?”<br /><br />“That’s right.”<br /><br />“Jacob Stanley said he missed a couple of calls from Mrs. McGuire the day before she died. What was that all about?”<br /><br />“I wouldn’t know.”<br /><br />“You just said it was your job to keep track of her appointments.”<br /><br />“Not all of them. She was a tyrant in that respect. You wouldn’t understand.”<br /><br />“Try me. She paid you a hundred grand. Why didn’t you know?”<br /><br />“I didn’t need the money,” she said, placing her half-empty mug on the tray, “but I could use a drink. Care for one?”<br /><br />The sudden change in her tone didn’t escape him. Harper told her he’d pass on the drink then rose to his feet. While she tinkered around in the kitchen, he examined the collection of books on the nearby shelf. Allison Pike’s tastes varied from the literary classics of Mary Shelley and Earnest Hemmingway to modern fan fiction, history, and travel. Then one book among several caught his attention. He was thumbing through 200 pages that listed a detailed assortment of poisons, their sources, and their affects on the human body when Allison walked back into the room with a glass of wine.<br /><br />“Interesting,” he said.<br /><br />“I also have books on psychology, military strategies, religions of the world, emergency first aid, and the history of rock and roll.” She took a sip then a few more steps until she was inches away. “My interests are varied. What’s your passion?”<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXkmDy-3SKI/AAAAAAAAA6k/Nr8tu14AjtI/s1600-h/spilt_glass_of_wine.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294304683617634466" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 234px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 166px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2sbDWr6LZ5U/SXkmDy-3SKI/AAAAAAAAA6k/Nr8tu14AjtI/s320/spilt_glass_of_wine.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />He waited to give her an answer, not because he needed to think twice, but because one good tease deserved another.<br /><br />“Justice, Ms. Pike, and the terms of Catherine McGuire’s will. Have a seat.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ffffff;">To be continued.</span></strong> </div><div><span style="color:#ccccff;"><em>Part IV~ The Conclusion, Friday, January 30, 2009</em></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-31280344696540876112009-01-20T20:09:00.000-08:002009-01-21T13:01:45.360-08:00The Devil Can Wait Book TrailerHere's an insider's look at one of my recent cases, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1S5Y_dHGlM">"The Devil Can Wait." </a><br /><br />Many thanks to <a href="http://www.swvaughn.com/index.html">S. W. Vaughn</a>, author of BROKEN ANGEL (4/28/09) and HUNTED (6/1/09) for creating "The Devil Can Wait" book trailer and to <a href="http://incompetech.com/m/c/royalty-free/">Kevin MacLeod </a>for allowing us to use his music.<br /><br /><strong>The trailer is also permanently available on this blog by scrolling to the bottom of the page.</strong>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-16987708190741567622009-01-16T04:00:00.000-08:002009-02-04T17:22:32.708-08:00Dirty Little Secrets ~ Part II<span style="font-size:85%;">© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved</span><br /><br />Read Parts <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets.html">I</a>, <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-iii.html">III,</a> & <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-iv-conclusion.html">IV<br /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#990000;"><strong>Meet the McGuires</strong></span></div><p><em>Jack’s right.</em> Harper thought, as he reached for the knobs on the double doors to the great room. Death had a way of bringing out the cut-throats in families. There was always at least one person convinced he’d been screwed, ignored as a child and who drummed up a host of old baggage to get his just reward—revenge on the unsuspecting.<br /><br />His thoughts flashed to his mother’s untimely death six years before and the hit and run driver who was never apprehended. His younger brother, Paul, never forgave the two homicide detectives in the family, he and their father Walt, for failing to find the guilty. Harper shoved the unwelcomed memories back, deep into the distant crevice from which they came, but that old familiar sting was as relentless as ever. He cursed under his breath at his inability to let go of his anger or to wipe his father’s pain from his memory. “Damn it,” he said under his breath and heaved open the doors.<br /><br />The discussion he heard moments before immediately ceased—heads jerked up as he stepped into the room. He recognized the McGuire siblings from years of newspaper photographs. Both had their mother’s eyes and their father’s distinctive Roman-shaped nose. But the brother and sister had developed their own wicked tongues putting the heat that spewed out from the roaring flames in the hearth to shame.<br /><br />Four sets of probing, dry eyes scrutinized Harper’s moves as the uniformed officer handed him a slip of paper. It contained the names of those present and a sentence or two each had offered up as the utmost truth.<br /><br />“Well, it’s about damn time.” The man who rose to his feet and took a step too close to Harper was Clinton McGuire, a man in fifties sporting an expensive tan and touch of gray along the temples. “Can we just move on?”<br /><br />“Have a seat, Mr. McGuire,” Harper said as he finished reading the note.<br /><br />“We demand answers.” Clinton shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned forward as if to make a point. “Now!”<br /><br />Harper ignored the man’s outburst and continued to read through the officer’s scribbles. He glanced up at the patrolman and gave him a nod. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”<br /><br />“We’ve been sequestered in this damned room for over two hours. I want—”<br /><br />“I understand Mr. McGuire. You have my deepest condolences. Now, would you please take a seat?”<br /><br />“Yes, Clint. Shut the hell up and sit down.” Evelyn Gunter raised a crystal tumbler to her lips and took a sip of what Harper knew to be fine distilled liquor. He watched her squirm a bit in the wingback chair near the fire and take a deep breath. Mrs. Gunter was impeccably groomed from her over-sprayed hair down to her Gucci slippers. A well-manicured hand held on to the glass while the other gripped the arm of the chair a little too tight.<br /><br />“Evelyn Gunter?”<br /><br />“Yes. Of course, who else would I be? For what it’s worth, that’s Mr. Gunter,” she said, pointing to the man on the couch. “Jesus, Vic, sit up and act as if you have some sense for a change.”<br /><br />Vic’s elbows were resting on his knees; his posture made it clear that seconds before his head had been buried in the cup of his hands. Harper took note of the bloodshot eyes and the rumpled shirt and hair and tucked those facts in the back of his mind.<br /><br />The slender woman on the other end of the couch who was coiling her finger around the silk printed scarf hanging from her neck seemed neither drunk nor vile at the moment.<br /><br />“I’m Sylvia,” she said. “Just thought I’d mention it in case you’re interested. I’m with him.” She nodded toward Clinton and rolled her eyes. “But trust me, I’m nobody around here.”<br /><br />“Wonderful, Sylvia dear. Now that we know who the <em>hell </em>we are, can we <em>please</em> get to the bottom of things?” Clinton paused for a moment. “Detective?”<br /><br />That was the first thing Harper had heard thus far that made any sense. “Let’s start with you Mrs. Gunter. I understand you found your mother.”<br /><br />“Yes, that’s right. I—”<br /><br />“She’s embellishing the truth again, Detective. Eve didn’t go in to mother’s room until after Nelly cut loose with a blood-curdling scream,” Clinton said, curling his lip.<br /><br />“Who’s Nelly?”<br /><br />“Why the ... I’ve checked on mother every morning since we arrived long before you ever woke from your booze-induced slumber.” The look in Evelyn’s eyes could have burned a hole through Clinton’s heart like a red-hot poker.<br /><br />“Hell, she was still alive in the morning.”<br /><br />“Who is Nelly?” Harper asked again.<br /><br />Evelyn and Clinton continued to argue. Vic took a few unsteady steps to the bar at the other side of the room and poured himself a straight shot of bourbon. Sylvia pursed her lips and persistently played with her scarf, rolling it up and down then letting it slip through her fingers.<br /><br />“Enough!” Harper yelled. “Everyone sit down and keep your mouths shut until I give you permission to speak.” Harper looked them square in the eyes. “Bicker all you want, but not on my time. Do I make myself clear?” With their incessant backbiting momentarily quashed, he broke the silence, “You, Mr. McGuire. Who is Nelly?”<br /><br />“The housekeeper, Nelly Blount. She’s been with the family for years. She’s the one who found mother.”<br /><br />“And when was that?”<br /><br />“Just after lunch.”<br /><br />Amazingly, the others nodded in agreement about the time. Harper glanced at his watch. It was ten of two which figured right since he had been the last to arrive at the scene. Harper was almost afraid to push his luck, but the next logical question needed to be asked. “And what makes you think your mother was murdered?”<br /><br />“Allison Pike. A cold, self-serving extortionist.” Evelyn narrowed her eyes as words and spittle shot from her lips.<br /><br />A crease rippled across Clinton’s brow and for the first time, he seemed to be in a pensive state of mind. “Mother hired Alli about a year ago as an assistant to help keep track of her appointments, take her places, run errands, that sort of thing.”<br /><br />“She had us for chrissakes, mother didn’t need her.” Evelyn mumbled the words between gulps of booze. “Oh yes, Alli seemed sweet enough at first, but that didn’t last.”<br /><br />“How so?”<br /><br />“She was subtle, I’ll give her that,” Evelyn said. “Alli gushed at every word mother said and lavished her with attention. Mother certainly loved getting attention.”<br /><br />“Yes.” Clinton leaned back in his seat and crossed his left foot over his knee. “She seemed so efficient, we never questioned her motives at first. It was almost a relief that someone was taking care of things. I mean … mother was sharp and had never been shy about dismissing an unworthy employee so …”<br /><br />Evelyn nodded in complete agreement with her brother then added: “But then it got so that Mother quit returning our calls. We made countless trips into Chandler over the past several months to see her. Recently, there was always an excuse as to why we couldn’t—everything from mother taking a nap to her being in the tub.”<br /><br />“Befriending an elderly person isn’t a crime though,” Harper said.<br /><br />“Alli didn’t just befriend our mother,” Clinton said, “she formed a wedge between us.”<br /><br />“You want to know what the real stinky beef is all about?” Vic slurred his words. “The old lady changed her damned will. Cut these two vultures, and us,” he flung a finger at Sylvia then poked himself in the chest, “right out.”<br /><br />“He’s right,” Sylvia said. “With one bitchy stroke of a pen she disinherited us and made Alli her guardian. The woman even insisted on dispensing mother’s medication and overseeing the food preparation. Can you believe it? After kissing up to the old bag all these years she cozies up to a complete stranger. What a hideous slap on the face.”<br /><br />Evelyn raised a slender finger to her eye and dabbed the first tear Harper had seen since entering the McGuire mansion. The conduct he witnessed in the past twenty minutes validated Jack’s comment about money, death and greed. What else had Jack said about the McGuires? <em>Oh yeah, royalty—my ass</em>, he thought. Harper had a good picture of how things were, but even if these four’s suspicions were right, all the hatred in the world didn’t make it so or answer the why or how.<br /><br />“Money is no object, Detective,” Clinton said. “Do what you must to convict her.”<br /><br />“That could be construed as a bribe, Mr. McGuire. So I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear it. But I wouldn’t be too concerned if I were you. If your mother was murdered, I’ll know and whoever did it won’t be able to shake me off.” Harper let them hang on to his words as he started for the door then turned. “One last question. Had your mother always been opposed to autopsies?”<br /><br />Each of the four searched the other three’s faces.<br /><br />“What an incredibly strange thing to ask,” Evelyn said, raising the glass to her lips and draining its content. “Mother never mentioned it, why?”</p><p><strong>To be continued ...<br /><em><span style="color:#ccccff;">Part III, Friday, January 23, 2009</span></em></strong></p><p align="center"><strong>* * *</strong></p><p>About the author:<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Marta Stephens is the author of the Sam Harper Crime Mystery series published by BeWrite Books (UK)</em></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>THE DEVIL CAN WAIT – (2008)<br />SILENCED CRY (2007), Honorable Mention, 2008 New York Book Festival, Top Ten, 2007 Preditors and Editors Reader Poll (mystery)</em></span></p><p><a href="http://www.martastephens-author.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>www.martastephens-author.com</em></span></a><br /><a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com</em></span></a><br /><a href="http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com</em></span></a><br /><a href="http://murderby4.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://murderby4.blogspot.com</em></span></a> </p>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-51860870440663366672009-01-09T04:00:00.000-08:002009-02-04T17:20:48.891-08:00Dirty Little Secrets ~ Part I<span style="font-size:85%;">© Marta Stephens 2009 all rights reserved </span><br /><p align="left"><strong><span style="color:#333333;">Read Parts <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-ii.html">II</a>, <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-iii.html">III</a>, & <a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/2009/01/dirty-little-secrets-part-iv-conclusion.html">IV</a></span></strong></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#990000;"><strong></strong></span> </p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#990000;"><strong>Did Som</strong></span><span style="font-size:180%;color:#990000;"><strong>eone Say, Murder?</strong></span></p><p align="left">Sam Harper turned left off Willow Boulevard into a winding private road he had driven past all his life but never entered. In the distance, the McGuire mansion, a sprawling two-story home, stood like a limestone monument to the family’s ego. Its stately structure and steep-angled roof was nestled against a backdrop of tall, lanky pines. Harper imagined a flawlessly, well-groomed lawn would grace the property at the first sign of spring. For now though, the tree branches were heavy from last night’s snowfall. Up ahead, the usual gathering of city cars were parked on the circle drive in front of the home’s entrance. Among them was the van driven by the head of forensics, Carter Graves. The medical examiner’s vehicle assigned to Jack Fowler was situated immediately behind the van. Inside the home, uniformed officer Jason Culp was the first to greet Harper as he walked through the door.<br /><br />“This way, Detective.”<br /><br />Harper swept a glance around the foyer. Polished hardwood floors and thick Persian rugs ran the length of the vast open space. A massive staircase curved upward along the right side of the room near a wall flanked with multi-paned windows from the base of the staircase to the vaulted ceiling.<br /><br />Voices seeped into the hallway from behind a set of closed double doors situated to Harper’s immediate left.<br /><br />Three feet away, the dutiful officer Culp was directing him to go in the opposite direction. "Detective? The body’s upstairs.”<br /><br />Three generations of McGuires had forged the city of Chandler, Massachusetts into an industrial Mecca at the turn of the century. On their way to success, they drove every viable competitor and a Fortune 500 company or two out of town. They secured their wealth and brainwashed every man, woman, and child into thinking Chandler would fall to ruins without them. Of course, they were wrong. After the family moved the business out West, Chandler not only survived, it flourished. But in everyone’s eyes, the McGuires continued to reign supreme. Harper wasn’t as surprised to receive today’s phone call as he was that a murder had taken this long to touch the lives of the McGuires. He unbuttoned his overcoat and asked: “What do we have?”<br /><br />“Upstairs, first door to the right,” Culp said, gesturing with a nod in that direction. “It’s Catherine McGuire.”<br /><br />“Old lady McGuire? She’s what? In her eighties?”<br /><br />“Eighty-three. The daughter--”<br /><br />“Evelyn Gunter?”<br /><br />“That’s the one,” Culp said, “claims she called the station as soon as she found her. Forensics and the doc are up in her room right now.”<br /><br />“Who else is here from downtown?”<br /><br />“My partner’s questioning the family in there.” He pointed to the doorway that had intrigued Harper a second before. “Lorenzo and Wade are standing by and waiting for orders.”<br /><br />Harper pulled on a pair of latex gloves and made a move toward the stairs, but the look of consternation on Culp’s face made him stop. “What?”<br /><br />The officer’s glance made a wide upward sweep. “Nothing like any homicide I’ve ever seen.”<br /><br />“What do you mean?”<br /><br />“The old lady died in her sleep. I’m no genius, but the sheets aren’t even wrinkled.”<br /><br />“And you know this how?”<br /><br />“I saw her with my own two eyes, Detective. My partner and I were the first to arrive. Not a mark on her—nothing out of place. Doesn’t feel right.”<br /><br />“You think someone tampered with the scene?” Harper asked.<br /><br />“Not according to them.” Again Culp gestured toward the door, “and no one was in the house who shouldn’t have been here—I checked.”<br /><br />“For instance?”<br /><br />“Seems Mrs. McGuire’s health was failing so the son and daughter arrived on Tuesday.”<br /><br />“Three days ago.”<br /><br />“Yeah, something like that.<br /><br />“Is that it?”<br /><br />“No, the housekeeper has a room on the first floor off the kitchen,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder, “and then there’s Mrs. McGuire’s assistant. Her room is upstairs too.”<br /><br />Harper leaned an ear toward the doors leading into the great room and listened to the loud, muffled voices. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong></strong></span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong>* * *</strong></span></p><div align="left"><br />Carter was taking particular interest in the glass of water and the sizeable collection of medication bottles he found on Mrs. McGuire’s nightstand. Jack was standing over the body. He pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head, wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips. He didn’t bother to look up when Harper entered the room. </div><div align="left"><br />“False alarm?” Harper asked. </div><div align="left"><br />“Not if the family has anything to say about it,” Jack said. </div><div align="left"><br />“You don’t sound convinced.” </div><div align="left"><br />Jack Fowler shrugged a shoulder without hiding the look of disgust that washed over his face. </div><div align="left"><br />“Your word is the only one that counts. Remember?” </div><div align="left"><br />“Yeah ... so I hear.” </div><div align="left"><br />The hesitation in Jack’s tone spelled nothing but trouble in Harper’s mind. He’d been down this same road with the ME more than once. It meant long hours of work with no guarantees they’d find the killer. Catherine McGuire was laying face up on the bed. Beneath the full-length pink nightgown was a frail body. In life she’d been a five foot tall, vivacious woman and the power behind the McGuire fortune. Now her pale boney arms and hands were limp at her sides. The gold and red quilted spread beneath her barely registered the slightness of her weight. Officer Culp’s observation knocked a little louder in Harper’s head. As he studied the tranquil expression on her face and the neatness of her room he had to admit that neither jibed with the usual murder scene. </div><div align="left"><br />“Do we have a case or not?” </div><div align="left"><br />“No way to tell without an autopsy,” Jack said. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />"And you'll push this one to the top of your list, right?"</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />"Not going to do one."</div><div align="left"><br />“What are you saying?” In all the years Harper had worked with Jack, he’d never once seen the ME sweat in the middle of January. "Answer me. What's the problem?"</div><div align="left"><br />“My hands are tied, that's what. We’re dealing with the McGuires, Harp.” Jack walked around the bed to Harper’s side and lowered his voice. “They’re the closest thing this city has to goddamn royalty.” </div><div align="left"><br />“Easy, Doc. The walls might hear.” </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />“Hell, you don’t tell the McGuires what to do, least of all when the corpse is one of their own.” </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />“You’re dancing around the May Pole,” Harper said. “Spit it out.” </div><div align="left"><br />“According to Mrs. McGuire’s appointed guardian—her assistant, she left explicit instructions in her will—no autopsy. From the collection of meds we found on the nightstand, she wasn’t opposed to medical attention, but she didn’t like doctors poking around or getting stuck with needles. Certainly didn’t want anything to do with getting cut up—as if she’d know the difference now.” </div><div align="left"><br />“She obviously hadn't planned on anyone pulling the plug ahead of time. Don't see why you're worried. Wills can be contested, especially if there's reason to suspect she’s been murdered. Give me something to take to a judge and we’ll—” </div><div align="left"><br />“Impossible.” A frown rippled across Jack’s brow. “If she was murdered, the evidence is inside. I’d have to examine the organs and that’s not going to happen if I can’t take the body.” </div><div align="left"><br />“Let me get this straight,” Harper said. “The family reported her death as a murder right?” </div><div align="left"><br />“Yeah.” </div><div align="left"><br />“Doesn't seem to be any evidence of foul play.” </div><div align="left"><br />“Right, and based on the apparent lack of it, I can’t rule her death a homicide,” Jack said. </div><div align="left"><br />“Then what do they know that you and I don't? Are you really going to let a little thing like a will stand in your way? Personally, I’d be more worried about what the living will do to you than the dead.”</div><div align="left"><br />“It’s not that simple.” </div><div align="left"><br />“Come on, Jack. This city’s leading family is yelling murder downstairs. You’re not really thinking of disappointing them, are you?” </div><div align="left"><br />Jack Fowler didn’t respond. </div><div align="left"><br />“Rational people don’t call the cops without a reason. Last will and testament or not, they’re going to expect me to investigate her death and I can’t do it without you giving the word.” </div><div align="left"><br />“Odd choice of words, Harp—rational. We’ve worked together what, six, seven years? How many times have we seen this type of thing before? You know being rational and levelheaded never enters the equation when there’s money involved. If there was an ounce of civility in her heirs, her death just wiped it clean away and replaced it with greed and suspicion. Hell, if they’re not accusing one another right now, it’s because they’re trying to get their stories straight and cover their tracks.” </div><div align="left"><br />“All the more reason to talk to a judge. But let’s say you’re right, then why report it as murder? All they needed to do was force their mother’s doctor to issue the death certificate stating she died of natural causes.” Harper slipped off his coat and glanced at the corpse again. “They could have split the dough after the wake before anyone questioned them. I mean, look at her. Who would have known?” Harper hooked a finger beneath the collar of his coat, flung it over a shoulder, and turned to leave. </div><div align="left"><br />“Where’re you going?” Jack asked. </div><div align="left"><br />“Where do you think? Into the lion’s den to find the killer.”<br /><br /><strong>To be continued ... </strong></div><div align="left"><em><span style="color:#ccccff;">Part II on Friday, January 16, 2009</span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="color:#990000;"></span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong><br />* * *</strong></span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="color:#990000;"></span></em></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>About the author:</strong><em> Marta Stephens is the author of the Sam Harper Crime Mystery series published by BeWrite Books (UK)</em></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>THE DEVIL CAN WAIT – (2008) </em></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>SILENCED CRY (2007), Honorable Mention, 2008 New York Book Festival, Top Ten, 2007 Preditors and Editors Reader Poll (mystery)</em></span></div><div align="left"><a href="http://www.martastephens-author.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>www.martastephens-author.com</em></span></a></div><div align="left"><a href="http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://samharpercrimescene.blogspot.com</em></span></a></div><div align="left"><a href="http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com</em></span></a></div><div align="left"><a href="http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em> </em></span></div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-86928428727598873412009-01-08T16:20:00.000-08:002009-01-08T16:44:51.068-08:00A Newspaper Clipping from Harper's File<span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>By Laura Wills</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">Chandler Times</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br />CHANDLER--This reporter had the enviable task of interviewing the city's toughest homicide detective, Sam Harper. To read more about his recent case click <a href="http://www.martastephens-author.com/devil_can_wait_EXCERPT.htm">here</a>.<br /><br />LW: You look tired, Sam. What’s been keeping you up these days?<br /><br />SH: Not much, the usual; nine murders, a power-hungry drug dealer bent on getting his hands on an ancient relic, a few miserable scraps of evidence, and a religious fanatic.<br /><br />LW: Wow, what a mix, but I don’t understand. If you have evidence, what’s the problem?<br /><br />SH: It’s circumstantial at best. What little trace evidence we found on the bodies led to a dead end. We have nothing.<br /><br />LW: What about your partner, Dave Mann? What’s he think about those murdered teen boys?<br /><br />SH: He’s convinced the murders are gang related.<br /><br />LW: You don’t sound convinced.<br /><br />SH: I’m not. The killer has a pattern—you know, a signature that tells us it’s him. Gang killings aren’t precise. To quote Jack, our medical examiner, kids act on impulse. They leave their victims where they drop and don’t scheme an elaborate cat and mouse game with the cops. Everything they do is for show. They don’t strip their victims of their identity and dump the bodies in the bay.<br /><br />LW: Is that what you think this is? You think the killer is playing with you?<br /><br />SH: Not intentionally, no. My gut’s telling me something went wrong. He had to change gears. Either way, we’ll find him.<br /><br />LW: I trust you will. Heard you had a little clash with a reporter from the Chandler Times. Think she’s involved?<br /><br />SH: Jennifer Blake knows a hell of a lot more than what she’s saying. Every move the woman makes is more telling than a four-page report. She balked when I questioned her about two of the victims.<br /><br />LW: Big surprise.<br /><br />SH: That’s what I thought. Nothing in common between the two men other than the fact that Blake was in contact with them hours before they were killed. Of course she claims to be innocent.<br /><br />LW: Of course. So how do the cursed ring and the Christmas Eve prophesy fit into the case?<br /><br />SH: How do you know about the ring? We didn’t release any information to the...<br /><br />LW: Don’t change the subject, detective. I’m a journalist remember? It’s my job to know. So how about it?<br /><br />SH: Off the record?<br /><br />LW: We’re friends aren’t we? Sure, it’s off the record.<br /><br />SH: Right. According to my source, it’s the stuff rumors and legends are made of. Historically, it’s destroyed everyone who has ever possessed it. The question is, why the hell is our suspect killing anyone who gets in the way of him finding it?<br /><br />LW: Seems you have your work cut out for you with this case. Wish I could help. The last time we talked, you said once you made the decision to enter the police force, it’s all you wanted to do. Any regrets?<br /><br />SH: None. It’s who I am, what I do. What else is there?<br /><br />LW: So what’s a day in the life of a detective like?<br /><br />SH: A good day in Homicide is the day we make an arrest; when all the pieces come together and they point straight to the killer.<br /><br />LW: And a bad day?<br /><br />SH: Every minute until we make the arrest.<br /><br />LW: What about you?<br /><br />SH: What about me?<br /><br />LW: You’re on call 24/7. How do you handle the stress?<br /><br />SH: I play the piano and ...<br /><br />LW: Rhythm and blues with a splash of jazz and a Scotch and soda on the side.<br /><br />SH: Nice to know you remember.<br /><br />LW: How could I forget?<br /><br />SH: I surround myself with people I care about too. Mostly I’ve learned to live with it. I mean ... Dave and I never know what we’ll be up against. We go into homes most people don’t want to drive by in broad daylight. We knock on doors without knowing who’s hiding behind them. It could be a felon pointing a weapon or a weeping child. It’s all about timing. A minute lost pushes the case an inch further into the cold case stack. So we watch the clock. The sooner we can get to the scene of the crime, talk with witnesses, and check for evidence, the better our chances are of solving the case.<br /><br />LW: And that’s when you catch the killer?<br /><br />SH: No. That’s what I do to find a potential suspect.<br /><br /><br />He left without another word. I’m not sure what the glint in his eyes meant in the brief moment before he walked away. All I know is that it left me with a slight yearning in my heart and more questions than answers. He didn’t even give me a chance to thank him. Maybe next time I’ll buy him a drink. I do so want to know more about the doggedly determined persona behind the badge.Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4384657978275813948.post-79362642700683624192009-01-07T01:00:00.000-08:002009-01-07T01:00:00.990-08:00Coming Soon, A Sam Harper Short Story<div align="center">January 9 ~ Part one of a short story, <span style="color:#990000;"><strong>DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS</strong></span>.</div>Marta Stephenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14126647102399666578noreply@blogger.com0