Cal Burton backed his red Porsche Carrera 911 cabriolette near a pine tree in front of the Armstrongs’ to prevent a bump or scratch from a drunk or careless partier. He strolled through the front door without a knock, looking for John. Cal was always impeccably dressed, and today he was dapper in his polo shirt and pressed pants. He arrived just in time to catch the end of Rick’s diatribe.

“Then who would attend these wonderful parties?” Cal said. He smiled as he reached up and placed his hand on his host John Armstrong’s shoulder. John noticed that Cal’s short brown hair now had grey streaks in it. Had that many years passed?

“Rick, meet Cal Burton. Trial lawyer and medical malpractice expert. No one is better.”

Rick gave Cal an embarrassed smile. “I sort of got carried away there. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

Cal smiled back as only a practiced litigation attorney can. Rick could have cursed Cal’s mother and he would have just grinned. The party was a prime source for his referrals and leads, and he was not going to let a half-drunk redneck radiologist screw it up. “No offense taken. I understand your anger. There’s plenty of resentment between malpractice attorneys and doctors. One thing you have to understand is that we are the only watch-dog there is. Doctors have never policed themselves well enough to prevent bad doctors from practicing. Only bad doctors and people with bad judgment ever have legal problems. Wouldn’t you agree, John?”

John smiled. “Don’t look at me to make your case, counselor.” John moved away and made himself another drink. “Can I get you one, Cal? Or are you working?”

Cal waved Armstrong off with his hand. “Anyway, look at our former President; taken down not by a psychotic younger lover, but by his own bad judgment. Taken another way, by his own air of invincibility. When men start to believe they are above the law, they will inevitably make a mistake and are doomed to failure.”

“Clinton was trying to be like Kennedy, but Monica was no Monroe,” Rick said. “As for malpractice, I only half agree with you. I agree we don’t police ourselves well, but part of that is the government’s fault. They allow bad doctors from every third world country to train here, then stay. If we could keep out these bad foreign doctors, we would be okay.

“You think? Most of the work I get is from regular doctors like yourself. Not foreigners.”

John stepped in smoothly. “Cal is working on an interesting case now where I’m an expert witness. Maybe it’s something you could do in the future.”

Cal’s smile eased the tension. “Yeah. John loves it and thinks it’s very interesting because he gets three hundred dollars an hour!”

John glanced at Cal, anger still in his eyes.

“Oops, I guess I was not supposed to tell you that. Pretend you didn’t hear that from me.”

John managed a smile. “Cal, you’re a real classy guy.”

“I don’t think I could do it,” Rick said. “I would feel like a traitor.”

“Rick, you could work for the defense, helping the doctor defend him or herself. You don’t have to be an expert witness for the plaintiff.” Cal said.

There was a long, awkward pause. “Well, enough shop talk. Let’s get some food.” John led them out into the yard.

Excerpted from LOCKED IN by Mike Esposito. Copyright © 2007 by Mike Esposito. All rights reserved. Excerpted by permission of the publisher. www.mikeespositomd.com

Author

Growing up in NYC, Mike Esposito never imagined that he would end up in Florida. After graduating high school on Staten Island, he attended the University of Florida and then went on to medical school at University of South Florida in Tampa.

After his radiology residency in Tampa he finished up his training in fellowship at Duke University. Soon after he took up a job as a radiologist in a Tampa area practice.

“My career in radiology has been rewarding but I needed a new challenge. Writing provided me an outlet but soon became an obsession and a second job. The end was LOCKED IN, my first completed full-length novel. I hope you enjoy it.” - Mike Esposito

For more information, please visit www.mikeespositomd.com

The following is an excerpt from the book A Nail Through the Heart
by Timothy Hallinan
Published by William Morrow; July 2007;$24.95US/$31.50CAN; 978-0-06-125580-9
Copyright © 2007 Timothy Hallinan

The Story: Poke Rafferty is an American expatriate living in Bangkok and the author of a number of “rough travel” books aimed at young, hip travelers who want to go off — way off — the usual tourist paths. He came to Bangkok to write the third book in the series, Looking for Trouble in Thailand, and falls in love with the city and the Thai people, two of them in particular: a former Patpong go-go dancer named Rose, with whom he now lives off and on, and whom he wants to marry; and a wary eight-year-old former street child named Miaow, whom he is trying formally to adopt.

The adoption process for Miaow is complicated and expensive, and to offset the expenses not too long ago, Poke wrote a piece for a magazine in which he demonstrated that virtually all the “missing” Western men in Thailand had gone missing voluntarily and were living very happily somewhere in the Kingdom. The article brought him a young Australian woman whose uncle has disappeared. This quest in turn leads him to a rundown mansion on the banks of the Chao Phraya River and a mysterious older woman — much feared, if others’ reactions to her are to be trusted — named Madame Wing. Poke is now in the house and about to meet Madame Wing for the first time.

***

The silence is pierced by a thin, insistent squealing from somewhere in the house. Rafferty backs away from the fragment of temple wall and seats himself in the armchair. The sound grows louder, and a woman comes around the corner and into view. She is tiny and angular, her sharp joints folded batlike into a wheelchair that is too big for her. The chair stops in the doorway, without entering the room, and the squealing stops with it.

She regards him without expression. For a moment he actually wonders if she is blind, simply directing her eyes where she knows the armchair will be.

“Madame Wing,” he says, just to break the silence.

Her chin comes up a quarter of an inch, and all the planes of her face shift. Her eyes actually register him for the first time. She is thin to the point of being gaunt, the bones of her face as sharp as a Cubist painting, the skull slowly surfacing beneath the flesh. The hands grasping the rubber wheels are all knuckles. The skin stretched over them has turned a peculiar bruised-looking purple.

“You came,” she says with a hint of satisfaction. The voice, low and rough, scrapes Rafferty’s ears. Despite the grandeur of her home, there is nothing refined about the way she sounds. She rolls herself a foot or so into the room. The wheelchair squeals again.

“You should get Jeeves to oil that thing.”

She stops the chair’s motion and regards him coldly. He has been regarded coldly before — he thinks of himself as an expert at being regarded coldly — but this is something entirely new. She looks at him as he might look at a snake coiled on his pillow. “His name is Pak, and you do not tell me what to do.”

“Just a suggestion.”

“Not ever,” she says. Now that he can see her eyes more clearly, he wishes he could not. They are extraordinarily luminous eyes, but the light in them seems all to be reflected. They have the shine of an animal that can see in the dark. He can see the white all the way around the circles of her irises. “You have questions to ask me before I come to my business. Ask them.”

Her business? Rafferty does want any part of this woman’s business, whatever it is. “You had a maid here,” he says. “She may know something about a man I’m trying to find.”

She draws herself up in the chair. It makes her seem both larger and heavier, despite her apparent frailty. “What man?”

“An Australian named–”

“No,” she says, closing the subject. She sits back. “I know nothing of Australians.”

“Actually,” he says, “it’s the maid you can probably help me with.” He holds up the note from Bangkok Domestics. “You wrote a letter about her.”

She extends a skeletal hand, a knot of knuckles and rings. It is absolutely still. Whatever health problems she may have, none of them causes her hands to tremble.

Rafferty begins to unfold the letter, but she gives the hand a peremptory shake and he finds himself getting up to give it to her. “Sit,” she says, the moment she has it. She does not look up to see if he does as he is told.

As she unfolds the letter, he gets a chance to look at her without having to face those unsettling eyes. Her hair, still mostly black, is pulled back into a bun so tight it looks like it hurts. The emaciated face is dark but not heavily lined, and Rafferty revises his estimate of her age. At first sight he thought seventy. Now he thinks she could be anywhere from fifty to sixty.

“This girl,” she says at last, precisely refolding the letter. “She is of no account.”

“She may have information I need.”

She drops the letter into her lap. “Why should I care?”

“Not a reason in the world. You said you’d see me, so I thought–”

“I do not care what you thought. The girl was dismissed because she could not accept discipline. I have no idea where she went.”

“How long did she work here before you fired her?”

The gaze she gives him says the question is an impertinence. “Seven weeks, eight weeks.”

“If you fired her, why did you write her a letter of reference?”

“Why does that matter?”

“It’s a natural question. The letter got her hired by someone else, and now that person is missing, and so is she.”

Something very unpleasant happens to her mouth. “Are you suggesting that this might involve me?”

“It involves you to the extent that it brought me here.”

“I brought you here,” she says imperiously. “Not this stupid girl.”

“And if I came, so will others. Who knows who’ll they’ll be?”

The hands drop to the chair’s wheels as though she intends to leave the room. Instead, she moves it forward several inches, squealing her way closer to Rafferty. When she is close enough to make him wish he could move the chair backward, the squealing stops and the silence of the house once again presses against his ears, like water.

“And who do you think they might be?” she asks.

The intensity of the question unnerves him. “Could be anyone. The police, the Australian embassy.”

She nods a tenth of an inch. Her lids drop slightly, hooding the eyes for a merciful moment, and then she turns to the carved stone on the wall. Her gaze travels left to right, like those of someone reading a newspaper. When she has finished, she says, without looking at him, “That’s hardly anyone.” Then she lifts her hands and claps once. The sound is still ringing in Rafferty’s ears when Jeeves steps into the doorway.
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The following is an excerpt from the book Dead Connection
by Alafair Burke
Published by Henry Holt and Company, LLC; July 2007;$19.95US/$24.95CAN; 978-0-8050-7785-8
Copyright © 2007 Alafair Burke

1

The man’s first look at the newspaper item was a casual one, followed immediately by a more deliberate perusal. But it was the photograph accompanying the story that had him transfixed.

Caroline Hunter had preoccupied his thoughts in recent weeks, but this was his first opportunity to reflect on her appearance. To his surprise, she reminded him of a girl he had worked hard not to think about for a very long time. So proud. So uppity. Caroline Hunter had the look of a woman convinced of her own intelligence, a woman who assumed she could do whatever she wanted — get whatever she wanted — without any repercussions.

The man wondered if Caroline Hunter had any regrets as those two bullets tore through her body. Maybe for some women it took dying in the street like a dog to reflect upon one’s decisions and the effects they have on others. He felt his muscles tense, crumpling the pages of newsprint in his hands.

Then he placed the paper neatly onto the breakfast table, took another sip of tea, and looked down at the muted traffic in the street below the window. He smiled. Fate was presenting him an even more promising opportunity than he had understood when he first spotted the article. Details remained to be worked out, but he was certain of one thing: Caroline Hunter was only the beginning. There would be more stories, just like this one, about women just like her.

Three hundred and sixty-four days later, Amy Davis finished a second glass of red wine, pondering which excuse she should exploit to call it a night. She should have known better than to agree to a first date that started at eleven o’clock. Even by New York City standards, such a late invitation was an unequivocal sign that the guy wanted to avoid the cost of dinner but leave open the possibility of a spontaneous one-nighter.

But then the guy — he claimed his name was Brad — had suggested meeting at Angel’s Share, not one of the usual meat markets. Amy still thought of the cozy lounge as her secret oasis, tucked so discreetly inside a second-floor dive Japanese restaurant on Stuyvesant Street. She decided to take Brad’s awareness of the place as a sign. Then she looked out her apartment window and saw the snow, the first of the season. To Amy, the first flakes of winter were magical, almost spiritual. Watching them fall to the quiet square of grass beneath the oversized bay windows at Angel’s Share would be fantastic, much more satisfying than observing them from the fire escape of her fifth-floor Avenue C walk-up.

And so Amy had taken a risk. None of the previous risks had panned out, but that didn’t mean that Brad wouldn’t. Besides, all she had to lose was another night at home with Chowhound the persian cat, falling asleep to the muted glow of her television. Three weeks earlier, she had committed herself to this process, and nights like this were the price she would have to pay if she were ever going to find The One.

She knew the date was a mistake precisely one second after she heard the voice behind her at the bar’s entrance. “Are you Amy?” It was a nice voice. Deep, but not brusque. Friendly, but calm. For exactly one second, she was optimistic. For that one second, she believed that Brad with the good voice, who was familiar with Angel’s Share, whose first date with her fell with the first snow, might just make a good companion for the evening, if not more.

Then the second passed, and she turned to meet the man who went with the voice. The truth was, Amy did not care about looks. People said that all the time, but Amy actually meant it. Her ex-boyfriend — perhaps he had never become a boyfriend, but the man she’d most recently dated — had been handsome as hell, but by the time they were through, she found him repulsive. This time, she was putting looks aside to focus on the qualities that counted.

Brad’s face was not unattractive, but neither was it familiar — a surprise to Amy since they had exchanged multiple pictures over the last week. Internet daters posted photographs, so, even though Amy did not particularly care, she looked. It was nice, after all, to have a visual image to go with the instant messages and e-mails. This face in front of her, however, did not match the image she’d carried.

As Brad squeezed through a small group of people to ask the host for a table, she mentally shuffled through the pictures he’d sent and realized that in most, his face had been obscured — sunglasses on both the fishing boat and the ski slopes, a hat on the golf course, a darkened dinner table at some black tie event. One head shot had been pretty clear, but even a toad could eke out one good picture. In retrospect, she realized she had used that one good picture to fill in the blanks on the rest.

Once they were seated, Amy tried to put her finger on precisely what was different. The face was puffier. Older, too. In fact, Brad looked much older than the thirty-eight years he claimed in his profile. Sure, she might have shaved off a couple of years herself, but she was talking much older in his case. She realized there was no point in getting bogged down in the differences. He looked completely different than she had envisioned, and that was that.

By the end of the first glass of wine, she knew it wasn’t just Brad’s face that didn’t match up to his online counterpart. According to Brad’s profile, he was a gourmand and a red wine junkie. She allowed him to order first, afraid she might embarrass herself with a passé selection. After he requested a cheap Merlot mass-produced in California, she proceeded to ask for a Barbera d’Asti. If Brad was going to lie, then she was going to rack up Piedmont prices on his tab.
(more…)

Chapter One

“What do you know about art, Volk?”

Maxim Abdullaev hurls the question through the airwaves as if it were an ax, cleaving pretense.

I cram my Nokia cell phone against my ear. Clattering dishes, jostling diners, and raised voices give me an excuse to delay answering his question. “Hold on,” I say, then step downstairs to my table in the basement of Vadim’s Café near Staraya Street, where I make my office.

Maxim could be anywhere. His headquarters are in the Solsnetskaya neighborhood just a few blocks away, but he changes his personal place of business weekly, sometimes daily, so it is impossible to develop a mental picture of where he is or what he is doing.

Once I’ve moved away from the din, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. “Art? I have a master’s in art history from Moscow University.”

I’m sure that Maxim knows enough about my life to catch the sarcasm. Dead mother, disappeared father, late-era Soviet poverty, and five years of killing and worse in Chechnya unsurprisingly failed to harmonize into a world-class education. The things I have learned are not taught in universities. He barks a deep-throated chuckle that offers no comfort. A polar bear probably makes the same sound just before it eats.

“Listen,” he says. “You do something for me. Talk to Gromov. Yes?”

“Yes,” I say, as if I have a choice, and Maxim disconnects.

Two hours later, nearing midnight, Gromov clumps like a plow horse into my basement office. The flesh on his bald head and puffy face droops like a shar-pei’s skin and slits his eyes, which are shifty-nervous, with good cause. Valya lurks hidden among the shelves of café sundries behind him.

“You talked to Maxim?” he says.

I grunt acknowledgment.

He collapses into a padded roller chair that disappears, creaking, beneath his bulk. Even its silvery round feet are covered by the hanging folds of his overcoat, where one hand stays buried in a deep pocket. He likes to show off a chromed Colt .45 Peacemaker, an outdated cannon that rends great holes in bodies, a good weapon for a man whose business is intimidation.

“I got a business opportunity,” he begins. “Maxim says you’re the guy to help me assess it.”

“I don’t do partners.”

He knows this. My rule is one source of the friction between us. “Yeah, yeah.” Scarred leather biker boots twirl the chair as he takes in the surroundings.

There’s not much to see here in the basement level. Black slate floor, rows of shelves, exposed raw-wood beams, plaster walls randomly damaged to show the red brick beneath, and dusty ’60s-era slot machines. Gromov is looking for Valya, I know, but she won’t be seen unless she wants to be. He finishes his survey and grins through crooked yellow teeth ridged black with omnipresent chewing tobacco.
(more…)

Lieutenant John Driscoll has just buried his wife who was in a deep coma for several years, after a drunk driving accident took the life of his daughter. He isn’t given any time to grieve before the mayor assigns him a new case. Tourists are turning up dead in New York City tourist attractions, prominently displayed for everyone to see. It’s up to Driscoll and his team to find out who is killing these people and why.

It doesn’t take them or the reader long to learn the identities of these killers and their motive. These are the only unique factors in an otherwise predictable story. I’ve read too many serial killer novels and have become jaded with their plots. Nevertheless, I found myself engrossed and feeling almost sympathetic for the killers. I liked the way O’Callaghan humanized the cops, especially Margaret Aligante, who was the most affected by this case because of her background. Recommended.

The following is an excerpt from the book The Screaming Room, by Thomas O’Callaghan
Published by Pinnacle; May 2007;$6.99US/$9.99CAN; 978-0-7860-1812-3 Copyright © 2007 Thomas O’Callaghan

Prologue

The rain had stopped. The afternoon sun had resumed its assault on rotting corn shocks, casting distorted shadows across the abandoned farm. A pair of cicadas sounded, silencing the chirping of the nearby sparrows, sending them into flight. In the middle of the field, a sturdy youth stood silently, eyes fixed on a mound of fresh clay. A rush of cool air stirred wisps of his ripened wheat-colored hair. Bending down, he used a finger to inscribe the name Gus in the collected soil. A second youth, a female, approached. “Can we go now?” she asked, wearily.
“This is our tenth field and there’’s nothing left of him to bury.”
“In a minute.”
The girl looked around. “Someone could be watching, you know.
“Just need a minute.”
“Well, you”d better make it a quick one.”
The youth’’s eyes lingered on the newly formed grave. With a nod of satisfaction, he uprighted himself. As a smile lit his face, he used the heel of his boot to eradicate their victim’’s name. “Lovee,” he said, “may the bastard rest in peace.”
“You mean in pieces. Let’’s go.”

Chapter 1

Cassie turned her head on the pillow as a sudden flash of light woke her.
“What the hell are ya doing?” she hollered. “It’s two o”clock in the morning!”
Her brother, Angus, who was sitting up in bed next to her, grinned, his attention riveted to the gleam coming off the three-quarter-inch ball bearing he was holding between his thumb and index finger. The narrow beam of a pencil-thin flashlight had reflected off the ball’’s chromelike finish and shone directly onto her eyelid.
“I liked you better when you got off pulling wings off flies,” she said, hiding her head under the pillow.
Angus, flashlight still directed at the ball bearing, brought his face to within inches of the tiny sphere, watching the reflection of his pupil get bigger and bigger, the closer he got. Hopelessly bored, and somewhat blind, he turned off the flashlight, slid his hand under the covers, and fondled his sister’’s rump.
“Not tonight, we ain’t,” she said through clenched teeth. “We got lots to do tomorrow. Get some sleep!”
Angus slid out of bed, slipped into a pair of boxers, and ambled toward the door, opening it. A blast of warm air caressed his body. The sensation aroused him. He glanced over his shoulder. His sister was snoring. He pushed open the screen door, sat on the top step, and glanced upward. It was a cloudless night. The moon, just shy of full, cast shadows on the weeds and tall grass that surrounded home sweet home; a fitting salute, perhaps to what would begin at dawn. The thought of finally executing what they had planned brought on a surge of adrenaline. He wouldn”t sleep. Unlike his sister, he”d stay up and wait out the darkness.\r\n\r\nA slug, slithering toward him on the surface of the step, caught his attention.
“I can kill ya, little fella. But I won’t.”
He had the urge to pet the small mollusk but decided instead to dabble his finger in the slime that trailed behind it. He brought it to his lips, applying it as a woman would lipstick. Women. They fascinated Angus. Every curve. Every smell. Every everything. In his next life, he planned on returning as one. He could feel what they feel. Think as they think. God! Even screw as they screw! He heard a rustling. It was not the willow tree, which was as limp as he was. No, something was pushing through the grass. A deer perhaps. He hoped so. He liked the sound they made just before dying, after he stalked them and twisted their neck, snapping their cervical vertebrae. There it was again! The rustling. Following the example of the snail, he slithered down the rickety steps and began his pursuit, certain his sister wouldn”t start their big day without him. From THE SCREAMING ROOM by Thomas O’Callaghan, Copyright © 2007 Thomas O’Callaghan. Published by arrangement with Pinnacle Books, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. www.kensingtonbooks.com.

Author Thomas O’Callaghan is a native of New York City and a graduate of CUNY. He lives with his wife, Eileen, a stone’s throw from the Atlantic Ocean in beautiful Belle Harbor, New York. The author of the acclaimed thriller Bone Thief, he is working on his next book featuring NYPD homicide lieutenant John Driscoll. Please visit his website, www.thomasocallaghan.com.

The story begins in 1958, when Calliope “Calley” Dakin’s father is brutally murdered in New Orleans. Everybody in the small town of Tallasee, Alabama suspects her mother, Roberta Ann Caroll Dakin of killing him for his money, including her mother. It seems that everybody was after her father’s fortune and out to control Calley, who can talk to the dead. I enjoyed reading about the characters in Candles Burning. By the time I reached the 400th page, I was anxious to find out what happened to her father and why Calley’’s great aunts were going to such elaborate lengths to her and her brother, Ford, on a tight leash. I eventually did and enjoyed the black humor at the end. Candles Burning started out as Michael McDowell’s book in the beginning. But when he passed away, Tabitha King decided to complete it. She states in the very beginning that he would have ended it differently. I’m not familiar with either author, but I am familiar with the Kings’ political beliefs. Tabby’s liberal slant rang loud and clear as she wrote about Calley’’s revenge. But for the time period that ended the book (Vietnam), it fit. Recommended.