Thursday, March 10, 2022

Murder is Not a Girl's Best Friend by Rob Bates

Murder is Not a Girl's Best Friend

by Rob Bates

February 28 - March 11, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Murder is Not a Girl's Best Friend by Rob Bates

Journalist-turned-amateur-sleuth Mimi Rosen is back with her father Max for another action-packed tale of murder and intrigue in New York City's Diamond District.

A Reverend from Africa has found a sparkling $20 million diamond that he hopes will free his continent from the scourge of blood diamonds. But this attempt to do good soon turns very bad. After the diamond is stolen and leads to a series of murders, Mimi discovers both the diamond and the Reverend have a less-than-sparkling history.

Soon, Mimi is investigating a web of secrets involving a shady billionaire, a corrupt politician, Africa's diamond fields, offshore companies, as well as an activist, filmmaker, computer genius, and police detective who may or may not be as noble as they appear. Is the prized gem actually a blood diamond?

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Camel Press
Publication Date: February 8th 2022
Number of Pages: 218
ISBN: 1942078188 (ISBN13: 9781942078180)
Series: Diamond District, #2 || Each is a Stand-Alone Mystery
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Mimi Rosen felt terrible. She felt like crap. She was overcome by guilt—the kind that gets lodged in your throat and stays there. Her day at the “Social Responsibility and the Diamond Industry” conference had been draining and dispiriting, as one speaker after another grimly recited the industry’s ills. They acknowledged that conflict diamonds—which fueled civil wars in countries like the African Democratic Republic, or the ADR—were far less of a problem, and many diamond mines benefited local economies.

Then came the “but.” As Mimi’s father said, “in life, there’s always a but.”

“Beautiful gems shouldn’t have ugly histories,” thundered Brandon Walters, a human rights activist known for his scorching exposés of the ADR’s diamond industry. “This—” he aimed his finger at the screen behind him, “is how ten percent of the world’s diamonds are found.”

Up popped a photo of an African boy, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He was standing in a river the color of rust, wearing nothing but cut-off jeans, bending over with a strainer. Mimi could see his vertebrae under his skin, feel the sun beating down on him, sense the stress and strain on his back.

“That kid is paid two dollars a day for his labor,” Walters declared. “If you sell diamonds, this may not be your fault.” He paused for emphasis. “But it is your responsibility.”

Walters had sandy-blonde hair, high cheekbones, a perfectly trimmed goatee, a ponytail that flopped as he talked, and a South African accent was so plummy it sounded affected. He looked to be in his mid-twenties but had the bearing and confidence of someone ten years older. Unlike the other activists, who delivered their speeches in whispery monotones with their eyes glued to the podium, Walters planted his feet firmly at the center of the stage and stood on it like he owned it. He peppered his talk with splashes of theater, dropping his voice to signal despair, or cranking it up to roar disapproval.

Mimi didn’t want to close her eyes to his message, but knew she might have to, to preserve her sanity. Diamonds were now how she made her living. She had been working at her father’s company for over a year—a fact she sometimes found hard to believe. She occasionally dreamed of again working as a reporter—the only thing in life she had ever wanted to be. But journalism had become an industry that people escaped from, rather than to.

She had hoped the conference would inspire her. She had even convinced her father, Max, to come. Instead, the sessions made her feel depressed and sorry for herself—which didn’t feel right, as she was hearing about extreme poverty in a plush New York City auditorium with the air conditioning cranked, while the summer sun broiled the streets outside.

She also knew the industry’s problems weren’t so easy to fix. When Mimi started working at her dad’s company, Max seemed intrigued by her idea of a socially-responsible diamond brand. She was excited to help change the industry.

Then the project ran into roadblocks. She never quite determined what a “good” diamond was. What if it was unearthed by one of the diggers Brandon Walters talked about, who earned two dollars a day? Human rights activists condemned that as exploitive. Yet, they also admitted those workers had few other sources of income and would be far worse off if the industry vanished. They didn’t want to kill the business; they wanted to reform it. Mimi wasn’t an expert on any of this—and even those who were didn’t always agree.

Mimi spent many nights and weekends researching these issues, and ended up frustrated, as the answers she sought just weren’t there.

When her project began losing money, her father started losing patience. Mimi hoped that dragging her father to this conference would reignite his interest. Nope.

“These people act like everything is our fault. All minerals have issues.” Like many in the diamond business, Max believed his industry was unfairly picked on. He fixed his yarmulke on his bald head, so it stayed bobby pinned to one of his side-tufts of hair. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m only trying to pay my rent.”

Max spent most of the conference with his arms crossed, his face toggling between bored and annoyed. If he had a phone, he’d probably spend the day staring at it. But he didn’t, which was another issue.

Following Walters’ talk, he leaned over to Mimi. “I should call Channah for my messages.”

Mimi gave him her mobile and a dirty look. He had already borrowed her phone six times that day. She considered lecturing her father to get over his stupid aversion to buying a cell phone, so he didn’t constantly pester the receptionist to see who called. But she’d also done that six times that day.

Besides, she was intrigued by the day’s final speaker.

Abraham Boasberg grabbed the crowd’s attention the moment he stepped on stage. “I believe there is a reason that God put diamonds in the poor countries and made rich countries desire them,” he bellowed, puffing out his barrel chest. “And I’m going to prove it.”

Mimi sat up and thought, who was this guy?

She soon found out. Boasberg was six feet tall, stocky, bearded, with a bright red yarmulke capping a salt-and-pepper mop of curly hair. He worked in the diamond business, and his words came fast and forceful. Like Brandon Walters, he seemed to savor being the center of attention. He had a mike clipped to his suit and prowled the stage like a panther. His presence filled the auditorium.

“This whole conference, we have heard about the problems of our trade. They are real. The people who dig diamonds are part of our industry. They deserve to be treated fairly.

“But we must do more than just complain,” he declared, holding up his index finger. “We need solutions!

“What if diamonds, which once helped rip the African Democratic Republic apart, could put it back together? What if they built new roads, schools, and hospitals?” He stopped and took a breath, his chest heaving. “What if diamonds became symbols of hope?”

Max returned to his seat and handed Mimi back her phone. She was so entranced with Boasberg, she barely noticed.

“A few months ago,” Boasberg proclaimed, “a local Reverend in the African Democratic Republic found a one-hundred-and-seventeen-carat piece of rough on his property. It has since been cut into a sixty- six-carat piece of polished, about the size of a marble. It has been graded D Flawless, the highest grade a diamond can get. It’s the most valuable diamond ever found in the ADR. It’s worth twenty million. Easy.”

A giant triangular gem appeared on the screen behind him, gleaming like a sparkly pyramid.

Max’s eyebrows shot up. This guy was talking diamond talk, a language he understood.

“But that is more than a beautiful diamond.” Boasberg declared, sweat beading on his forehead. “That is the future.”

“Here’s what usually happens with diamonds in the ADR. In most cases, miners hand them over to their supporter, who’s basically their boss who pays their bupkis. Or, if they’re freelance, they’ll sell them to a local dealer, who pays them far below market value. The miners don’t know how much the diamonds are worth, and they’re usually hungry and just want a quick buck.

“And since the ADR has no money to police its borders, most dealers smuggle diamonds out of the country to avoid taxes. As a result, the ADR gains little from what comes out of its soil. Its resources are being systematically looted.

“When I met Reverend Kamora, I told him, consumers are turning away from diamonds because they believe they don’t help countries like yours. That further hurts your people. Now, instead of working for two dollars a day, they’ll do the same work for even less.

“But what if we can flip the script? What if this diamond helps your country? And what if we let people know that? That will increase its value. It’s documented that people will pay extra for products that do good, like Fair Trade Coffee. It’s the same reason kosher food is more expensive. It’s held to a higher standard.

“If we get more money for this diamond, soon every gem from the ADR will be sold this way. We’ll do an end run around the dealers who have robbed the country blind. We’ll turn ADR diamonds into a force for good.” He pivoted to the screen. “Let’s talk about this gorgeous gemstone.

We wanted to call it the Hope Diamond. That name was taken.” A few members of the audience tittered.

“We’re calling it the Hope for Humanity Diamond. Four weeks from now, we’ll auction it from my office, live on the Internet. We want the whole world to watch. We’ll even sell it in a beautiful box produced with locally mined gold.” On screen, a glittering yellow box appeared. The diamond sat inside it, perched like a king on a throne.

“What celebrity wouldn’t want to wear a diamond called the Hope for Humanity?” Boasberg asked. “It will make them look glamorous and morally superior.”

The audience laughed.

“This diamond—” he exclaimed as spit flew out of his mouth, “will transform a continent.” He stretched out his arms, revealing pit stains the size of pancakes.

“So many conferences talk about Africa, but you never hear from people who actually live there. And so, I’ve flown in the Reverend who found the diamond, to talk about what it can do for his country. Reverend Kamora, can you come here, please?”

The auditorium grew quiet as small middle-aged Reverend Kamora shuffled to the front. He walked slowly, gripping the guardrail as he climbed the stairs to the stage. When he finally arrived at the microphone, Mimi could barely hear him; his voice was low and delicate, with the soft cadence of a bell.

“For years,” he began, “blood diamonds were a curse on my country. Things happened that were hard to describe. They haunt us still.” He paused, as he momentarily got choked up.

“The African Democratic Republic has known two decades of peace, but not one minute of prosperity. Like many people in my country, I dig for diamonds for extra money. It’s hard work. I don’t make much from it. But I have no choice.

“Many people who work in my country’s diamond fields don’t understand why people in the rich countries buy diamonds. Some believe they are magic. And when I found this gem in a riverbed, sparkling in the sun, I thought God had blessed me with a bit of magic.

“But God’s real gift came when I met Mr. Boasberg. He told me that we could hold an auction for this diamond, receive a better price for it, and ensure the proceeds benefit the people of my country.

“I hope you tune into the auction of the Hope for Humanity Diamond four weeks from today. Together, we can change my country’s diamonds from a curse to a blessing. That will really be magic.”

After a tough day, Mimi felt a smidgen of optimism. When Reverend Kamora finished speaking, her eyes were filled with tears. She peered at her father. He was asleep.

After Reverend Kamora toddled from the stage, Boasberg bounded back to answer questions.

A man approached the microphone in the middle of the audience. “Mr. Boasberg,” he asked, “what are you getting out of this?”

“Nothing,” Boasberg smiled. “I’m not even taking a commission. I see this as the way forward for the business that I love, and a country I care about.”

“Mr. Boasberg,” a second person asked, “how do we know the money will go where you say it will?”

“Our accounts will be posted online and completely transparent.

We’ll account for every penny.”

On it went, Boasberg swatting back every question with the grace of a tennis pro. Maybe it was the journalist in her, but Mimi was growing skeptical. Boasberg’s almost-Messianic tone struck her as too good to be true.

Just then, she heard a familiar voice at the microphone. It was Brandon Walters, the activist who spoke earlier.

“Mr. Boasberg, I’m intrigued by your new initiative,” he said. Mimi braced herself for the “but.”

“But when you talk about dealers who’ve robbed the country blind, you didn’t mention you were once partners with the worst offender.”

Boasberg’s nostrils flared. He looked down at Walters like he wanted to kill him.

The young activist plucked the mic from its stand and spun around to address the audience.

“For those unaware, Mr. Boasberg used to own a company with Morris Novak. During the civil war in the African Democratic Republic, Morris Novak was one of the biggest dealers in blood diamonds. He remains a significant player in the industry, though his main business today is money laundering. Diamonds are kind of a sideline.

“For years, I’ve sought to expose Morris Novak’s corruption. In response, he has repeatedly threatened to sue me. Our friend Mr. Boasberg could help by supplying information about Novak’s business dealings. He won’t.”

He circled back to Boasberg. “So, while it’s admirable you want to play a role in the ADR’s future, maybe first, you should come clean about your past.”

There was a smattering of applause.

Throughout Walters’ speech, Boasberg appeared ready to erupt, and when it ended, that’s what he did. “First of all,” he boomed, “you are correct, Morris Novak is my former partner. Let me emphasize former. I haven’t worked with him in six years. Is that long enough for you?

“Second, who the hell cares? This is old news. The problem with you non-government organizations, you NGOs, is you’re always pointing fingers. Maybe if you stop the holier-than-thou B.S., you could help do something good.”

Walters seemed to relish this reaction. “I’m just saying,” he shot back, “that given your history, and that of certain of your, shall we say, ‘associates,’ you’re an unlikely savior for the ADR.”

This sent Boasberg into a fury. The bickering grew so loud, even Max woke up.

The moderator—a middle-aged woman with silvering hair wrapped in a bun—hurried to the stage and declared question time was over.

“Thank you, Mr. Boasberg for that inspiring presentation,” she said, with a jittery squeak. “The conference organizers would like to present you this humanitarian award for your efforts.”

The award was likely pre-arranged and came off as awkward with Walters’ question hanging in the air. The moderator rushed through her praise of Boasberg, while he impatiently fingered the marble statue. When she finished, he stormed off the stage.

The moderator gamely tried to end the meeting on an upbeat note, saying it had many “impactful takeaways” and “urgent calls to action,” and reminding everyone to attend the post-conference cocktails in the next room. No one listened. They were digesting that final spectacle.

So was Mimi. Walters’ question had transformed Boasberg from a passionate plain speaker to another defensive diamond dealer, like her dad. Maybe he was too good to be true.

***

Excerpt from Murder is Not a Girl's Best Friend by Rob Bates. Copyright 2022 by Rob Bates. Reproduced with permission from Rob Bates. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Rob Bates

Rob Bates has written about the diamond industry for close to 30 years. He is currently the news director of JCK, the leading publication in the jewelry industry, which just celebrated its 150th anniversary. He has won 12 editorial awards, and been quoted as an industry authority in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and on National Public Radio. He is also a comedy writer and performer, whose work has appeared on Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update segment, comedycentral.com, and Mcsweeneys He has also written for Time Out New York, New York Newsday, and Fastcompany.com. He lives in Manhattan with his wife and son.

Catch Up With Rob Bates:
RobBatesAuthor.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @robbates922
Instagram - @robbatesauthor
Twitter - @robbatesauthor
Facebook - @robbatesauthor

 

 

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My Take: This book is about a Murder in the Diamond district and I learned alot about the diamond industry. This is part of a series and it can be read alone but the mentions of the first book will have you wanting to check it out too ,like I do. I can only imagine what a $20 Million dollar diamond would look like. And I can see why kso many people want to get their hands on it. Follow along as Mimi investigates the various crimes being commited because of this diamond and see if she will become a victim of it's legacy. I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime tours and was not required to write a positve review.

Vice and Virtue by Justin M. Kiska

Vice & Virtue by Justin M. Kiska Banner

Vice & Virtue

by Justin M. Kiska

February 14 – March 11, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Vice & Virtue by Justin M. Kiska

Parker City, 1984…

Three years after the Spring Strangler case rocked the historic Western Maryland city nestled at the foot of the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, life has returned to normal for Detective Ben Winters and his partner, Tommy Mason. With a new chief now leading the department and the city slowly crawling out of its economic distress, everything seems to be moving in the right direction.

Until one sweltering summer day, a killer begins targeting police officers. Ben and Tommy find themselves once again leading an investigation the likes of which Parker City has never seen. The detectives quickly come to realize that until the shooter is found, everyone wearing a badge is in danger. To complicate matters even further, when a recently unearthed skeleton mysteriously connects to the string of police homicides, Ben and Tommy begin to think their current case may be tied to events twenty years earlier.

But how could a skeleton buried two decades ago hold the key to solving their current case?

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: February 15, 2022
Number of Pages: 288
ISBN: 978-1-68512-069-6
Series:Parker City Mysteries, #2 || Each book is a stand alone novel.
Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Tall and athletic, Tommy Mason always reminded Ben of Tom Selleck’s Magnum P.I. character from television. Tommy always had that whole ruggedly handsome thing going for him. Mixed with a little bit of a “bad boy” vibe and he drove the women wild.

Next to Ben’s clean-cut, buttoned-down appearance, their pairing caused many to do a doubletake. At first glance, they appeared to be complete opposites. But as one got to know them, they were very much alike. Each brought out the best in the other and at the end of the day, it was all about getting the job done. Sure, each had his own style, but that’s what made them such a formidable team.

Tommy’s apparent willingness to skirt the rules was always offset by Ben’s ability to find ways to use the rules to their benefit. Just as Ben’s refusal to play the internal politics game allowed Tommy to use his charm to keep too many feathers from getting ruffled amongst the powers-that-be. They each knew the other’s strengths and weaknesses and how to adapt them to their own, which is why they’d been so impressive in getting the PCPD’s Detective Squad off the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Ben asked, more than a little surprised to see his partner.

“Shirley from Dispatch called me. She thought I’d be interested,” Tommy explained. “And before you say anything about what I’m wearing, I just want to remind you, it is our day off, so I didn’t think I needed to get dressed up to come to a potential crime scene. Especially when we don’t actually know this is a crime scene yet.”

He was referring to the fact he had on a T-shirt and comfortable pair of jeans, as opposed to the full suit and tie Ben was wearing.

“Besides, now you don’t have to worry about getting your fancy suit muddy. I have no problems getting down there in the dirt,” Tommy smiled, pointing at the fresh mud stains on his knees. With that, he knelt back down to take another look at the exposed skeletal remains under the floorboards.

“So, tell me. What do we have?” Ben asked, crouching next to Tommy so he could get a better look.

“You can see there’s a pretty big cavity here under this part of the floor,” Tommy pointed out. “It’s got to be a good ten by ten area where the ground has been eaten away, even though it’s not too deep, less than a foot in some places. It’s definitely because of water…there’s a lot of mud down there. As the earth under the floor eroded, it uncovered the skeleton. Partway, at least. Of course, no one could see what was happening under here until our friend Mr. Haggarty had the unfortunate experience of stepping on a board that was rotted through and it snapped, sending him falling through the floor. You can see where he landed in the mud.

“And right there,” Tommy pointed, “you see the skull and top portion of the skeleton sticking out of the ground.”

“You came face-to-face with that thing, man?” Tommy looked over at the construction worker who was leaning against the wall. “Not a good way to start the day.”

“Yeah. You’re telling me,” Haggarty answered.

Turning back to the skeleton, Tommy said, “I’m no expert, but that hole in the skull right there…see it, it looks like it could be a GSW from a pretty heavy caliber gun.”

Leaning down and twisting his head so he could try and get a better look at the skull, Ben saw the hole and wondered if his partner was right. Finding a skeleton buried under the floor was one thing. Finding a skeleton buried under the floor with a bullet hole in its skull was something else. It took everything to a different level.

Standing and stretching their legs, Tommy said, “When Shirley first called me, I thought this was going to have been some kind of prank. Some kids snuck into the site on a dare and left a skeleton for the crew to find.”

“You thought kids somehow buried a skeleton under this building in the hopes someone would fall through the floor and find it?” Ben asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not to mention having to figure out how to bury the thing under the floor?”

“In my defense,” Tommy started, raising a finger and shaking it at his partner, “I didn’t know the skeleton was buried under the warehouse. I just knew they’d found a skeleton at the warehouse.”

The first thing that needed to happen was to get the skeleton out of the ground. That would be up to the crime scene techs. Even though he could easily reach in and pull the skull out to get a better look, Ben didn’t want to disturb anything more than it already had been when Lance Haggarty crashed through the floor. Thankfully, he hadn’t actually landed on the skull itself.

“So much for our day off,” Ben said, looking at his watch, wondering where the crime scene guys were.

***

Excerpt from Vice & Virtue by Justin M. Kiska. Copyright 2022 by Justin M. Kiska. Reproduced with permission from Justin M. Kiska. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Justin M. Kiska

When not sitting in his library devising new and clever ways to kill people (for his mysteries), Justin can usually be found at The Way Off Broadway Dinner Theatre, outside of Washington, DC, where he is one of the owners and producers. In addition to writing the Parker City Mysteries Series, he is also the mastermind behind Marquee Mysteries, a series of interactive mystery events he has been writing and producing for over fifteen years. Justin and his wife, Jessica, live along Lake Linganore outside of Frederick, Maryland.

Catch Up With Our Author:
JustinKiska.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @JMKiska
Twitter - @JustinKiska
Facebook - @JMKiska

 

 

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My Take: this is the second book in a series but I hadn't read the first book and had no problem following along. This time the killer is after Police officers and Dectetives Ben and Tommy have to find out who the killer is. There are plenty of twists and turns along the way to keep you on your toes and I enjoyed the story telling and the mystery right up till the killer was revealed. How is a 20 year old case be connected to the present day killings? I would recommend this book. I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours and was not required to write a positive review.

Thursday, March 3, 2022

Forgive Us Our Trespasses by Tom Avitable

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Forgive Us Our Trespasses

by Tom Avitabile

February 21 - March 4, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Forgive Us Our Trespasses by Tom Avitabile

The bruise on the young goalie’s cheek got girls high school soccer coach Brooke Burrell’s attention. Brooke tries to keep her advantage as the most decorated woman agent ever in government service at bay while dealing with the suspected abusive father – although she’d love to punch his lights out. Her digging reveals the reason for his abusiveness and it connects to a massive international terrorist attack.

When the father is found dead, Brooke is accused of the murder. Suddenly, she is forced to defend herself in court, and in the court of public opinion – while trying to stop the insidious plot to kill hundreds of thousands of innocent people across the globe in one terrifying instant and bring the western world to its knees.

Filled with the nonstop thrills, all-too-real scenarios, and remarkable attention to detail that has made Tom Avitabile a consistent #1 bestseller, Forgive Us Our Trespasses is edge-of-your-seat storytelling of the first order.

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: The Story Plant
Publication Date: February 22, 2022
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 9781611883220
Series: A Brooke Burrell Thriller || Each is a Stand Alone Novel
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Read an excerpt:

Brooke was escorted to the lobby of a government building where a tall man, wearing a sharp-cut suit and perfect tan, extended his hand as he introduced himself. “Mrs. Morton? Kyle Simms, head of 5-0.”

“Pleasure, Simms. Let’s get to it,” Brooke said as if she had been the one to call this meeting. It made him raise an eyebrow.

He extended his arm in the direction of the elevator. “Please.” The well-mannered Simms let her enter first. He pressed the button for the top floor. She noticed the manicured hand.Buffed, not polished. She detected the faint smell of cigars. Must have caught him coming back from a smoke break, she imagined.

“To the right,” he said as the elevator door opened. He pointed to the glass doors of a sunlit corner office. When they entered, he gestured to a small conference table opposite his very impressive desk. She noticed his “Love Me Wall.” It was de rigueur for military officers. His was filled with photos and newspaper headlines in wood frames. There was a plaque on the wall: Operation Desert Storm. A framed picture showed a platoon of Rangers. From across the room, she couldn’t make out which one of the younger men was Simms. A Ranger beret with a silver bar pinned to it was resting on the credenza. It told Brooke he had been a first lieutenant. Brooke took a seat.

“Coffee?” Simms said. Brooke considered it, then her overactive bladder of late. “No thanks. Is Jenny Kupalli alright?”

“The daughter? Yes, she’s with child services right now.”

“Thank God. I was so worried when she didn’t show for the game this morning.”

“Mrs. Morton, you are here as a courtesy. I have an inkling of your former service to our country. So I wanted to give you every chance to tell me your side of the story.”

“Courtesy? You send a unit, a cage unit? To my school! You could have just called me. I would have driven right over.”

“I’m sorry, you know how this goes. I ask them to drive you over as a courtesy, and somehow they assign an RMP, not a detective’s car. Sorry. Wasn’t intentional.” Brooke wasn’t buying it. She had used this technique to soften persons of interest the
same way by putting a little police procedural fear into them before their conversation. “Are you considering me as a suspect?"

“Again, right now you are a POI. Nothing more.”

“Let me ask you, are you recording, transcribing or in any way preserving our conversation today, Saturday at 2:03 p.m. at 5-0 headquarters?” Simms smiled. If they were, and they weren’t, she just made the whole practice inadmissible in court. “No. Kyle Simms, Deputy Director of Law Enforcement, HPD state police department,” he said, clarifying his rank just to match her pseudo-official disclaimer.

His official response told Brooke that she didn’t need a lawyer. Over the next ten minutes she read him in on her total encounter with Mr. Kupalli and her suspicions about Jenny’s abuse.

He listened intently, scratching notes. When she paused, he waited. But she was not falling for the “fill-the-silence” ploy. So, he sat back, looked at her for a few seconds. She just looked back. It was a standoff.

He broke the stalemate. “And you had never met him before?”

“I don’t believe he ever came to a game. Seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t cheer on an equipment manager.”

Simms nodded. Then, as if he made a hard left turn, said, “Do you own a 9-mm handgun?”

Brooke sighed. Simms was going to go strictly by the book. “Yes. Glock 26.”

“Do you know where it is now?”

“In the fingerprint safe by my bed.”

“Would you be willing to voluntarily surrender the weapon for ballistic elimination?”

“For my protection, and yours, you’ll need a warrant, hopefully limited in scope, Deputy Director. As I’m sure you’re aware, my husband is a high-ranking naval officer. Poking around our home might violate his Fourth Amendment rights and no less than three national security protocols.”

“Fair enough. Off record?”

Brooke shot him a look. Her defenses reared up. “Wasn’t this all off record?”

“True, but this is more personal than professional.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“That’s what I’m asking you. Did you shoot this model citizen?”

That was an odd question to ask off the record, Brooke thought. “Nope. In fact, just the opposite. I had hoped that I put the fear of God into him. I believed he’d have second thoughts about smacking around his daughter now that he knew I had eyes on him. But a Skel like him, he must’ve pissed in someone’s Cheerios somewhere along the way, and that’s what probably contributed to him achieving room temperature last night.”

***

Excerpt from Forgive Us Our Trespasses by Tom Avitabile. Copyright 2022 by Tom Avitabile. Reproduced with permission from The Story Plant. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Tom Avitabile

Tom Avitabile is a writer, director, and producer with numerous film and television credits, a professional musician, and an amateur woodworker. He has an extensive background in engineering and computers, including work on projects for the House Committee on Science and Technology. His novel The Devil's Quota became a Barnes and Noble #1 bestseller, as did The Eighth Day, the first installment of his Bill Hiccock “thrillogy” that includes the novels The Hammer of God and The God Particle, and the first Brooke Burrell novel, Give Us This Day.

Catch Up With Tom Avitabile:
TomAvitabile.wordpress.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @fictiontillithappens
Instagram - @tomavitabile
Twitter - @TomAvitabile
Facebook - @tomavitabile

 

 

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This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Tom Avitabile and The Story Plant. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

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My take: I really enjoy a good thriller and this is one of those. Although this is the second book in a series it can be read as a standa alone. The main character is a highly decorated FBI agent who has quit her job to focus on her family. She has taken a job as a soccer coach and is concerned when the equipment manager shows up with a bruise on her cheek. She has a bad interaction with the equipment managers father and her winds up murdered a little while later. She is then considered the main suspect and she decideds to investigate the murder herself. I received a review copy of the book from Partners in Crime tours and was not required to write a positive review.

Trust Me by Kelly Irvin

Trust Me

by Kelly Irvin

February 7 - March 4, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Trust Me by Kelly Irvin

When her best friend is murdered the same way her brother was, who can she possibly trust?

A decade ago, Delaney Broward discovered her brother’s murdered body at the San Antonio art co-op he founded with friends. Her artist boyfriend, Hunter Nash, went to prison for the murder, despite his not-guilty plea.

This morning, Hunter walks out of prison a free man, having served his sentence.

This afternoon, Delaney finds her best friend dead, murdered in the same fashion as her brother.

Stay out of it or you're next, the killer warns.

Hunter never stopped loving Delaney, though he can’t blame her for not forgiving her. He knows he’ll get his life back one day at a time, one step at a time. But he’s blindsided to realize he’s a murder suspect. Again.

When Hunter shows up on her doorstep asking her to help him find the real killer, Delaney’s head says to run away, yet her heart tells her there’s more to his story than what came out in the trial. An uneasy truce leads to their probe into a dark past that shatters Delaney’s image of her brother. She can’t stop and neither can Hunter—which lands them both in the crosshairs of a murderer growing more desperate by the hour.

In this gripping romantic suspense, Kelly Irvin plumbs the complexity of broken trust in the people we love—and in God—and whether either can be mended.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Suspense
Published by: Thomas Nelson
Publication Date: February 8th 2022
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 0785231935 (ISBN13: 9780785231936)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Christianbook.com | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER 1

APRIL 22, 2010
SAN ANTONIO ART CO-OP
SOUTHTOWN, SAN ANTONIO

The cloying stench of pot told the same old story.

With an irritated sigh Delaney Broward quickened her pace through the warehouse-turned-art-co-op toward her brother’s studio at the far end of the cavernous hall. On his best days Corey had little sense of time. Add a joint to the mix and he lost his sense not only of time but of responsibility. It also explained why he didn’t answer his phone. When he got high and started painting, he wanted no interruptions. His lime-green VW van was parked cattywampus across two spaces in the lot that faced Alamo Street just south of downtown San Antonio. He might be physically present, but his THC-soaked mind had escaped its cell.

Marijuana served as his muse and taskmaster. Or so he’d said.

The soles of her huarache sandals clacking on the concrete floor sounded loud in Delaney’s ears. “Corey? Corey! You were supposed to pick us up at Ellie’s. Come on, dude. She’s waiting.”

No answer.

At this rate Delaney would never get to Night in Old San Antonio, affectionately known to most local folks as NIOSA. Everyone who was anyone knew it was pronounced NI-O-SA, long I and long O, the best party-slash-fundraiser during the mother of all parties where her boyfriend would be waiting for her. “Hey, bro, I’m starving. Let’s go.”

Delaney’s phone rang. She slowed and dug it from the pocket of her stonewashed jeans. Speaking of Ellie. “I’m at the co-op now. He’s here.”

Share as little info as possible.

“He’s stoned again, isn’t he? I’m sick of this.” Ellie’s shrill voice rose even higher. “I swear if he stands me up again— ”

Us. Stands us up.”

“Stood us up again. That will be it. I’m done. I’m done waiting around for him. I’m done playing second fiddle to his self-destructive habits. I’m done with his starving-artist, free-spirit, pothead schtick. The man is a walking stereotype. I’m done with him, period.”

Delaney mouthed the words along with her friend. She knew the lyrics of this lovesick song by heart. The childish rejoinder “It takes one to know one” stuck in her throat. “We’ll be there in twenty. You can tell him yourself.”

Ellie would and then Corey would kiss her until she took it all back. With a final huff Ellie hung up.

The door to his studio— the largest and with the best light because the co-op was Corey’s dream child— stood open. “Seriously, Corey. Think of someone besides yourself once in a while, please.” Delaney strode through the door, ready to ream her brother up one side and down the other. “You are so selfish.”

Delaney halted. At first blush it didn’t make sense. Twisted and smashed canvases littered the floor. Along with paints, brushes, beer bottles, and Thai food take-out cartons.

Wooden easels were broken like toothpicks and scattered on top of the canvases. Someone had splattered red paint over another finished piece— a woman eating a raspa in front of a vendor’s mobile cart, the Alamo in the background.

Delaney’s hands went to her throat. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the odor of human waste gagged her. A fiery shiver started at her toes and raced like a lit fuse to her brain. Her mind took in detail after detail. That way she didn’t have to face the bigger picture staring her in the face. “Please, God, no.”

Even He couldn’t fix this.

She shot forward, stumbled, and fell to her knees. Her legs refused to work. She crawled the remainder of the distance to Corey across a floor marred by still-wet oil paint, beer, and other liquids she couldn’t bear to identify.

He sat with his back against the wall. His long legs clad in paint-splattered jeans sprawled in front of him. His feet were bare. His hands with those thin, expressive fingers lay in his lap. Deep lacerations scored his palms and fingers.

Her throat aching with the effort not to vomit, Delaney forced her gaze to move upward. His T-shirt, once white, now shone scarlet with blood. His blood. Rips in the shirt left his chest exposed, revealing stab wounds— too many to count.

Delaney opened her mouth. Scream. Just scream. Let it out.

No sound emerged.

She crawled alongside her big brother until she could lean her shoulder and head against the wall. “Corey?” she whispered.

His green eyes, fringed by thick, dark lashes that were the envy of every woman he’d ever dated, were open and startled. His skin, always pale and ethereal, had a blue tinge to it.

Delaney drowned in a tsunami of nausea. “Come on, Corey, this isn’t funny. I need you.”

Her teeth chattered. Hands shaking, she touched his throat. His skin was cold. So cold.

Too late, too late, too late. The words screamed in her head. Stop it. Just stop it. “You can’t be dead. You’re not allowed to die.”

Mom and Dad had died in a car wreck a week past her eighth birthday. Nana and Pops had taken their turns the year Delaney turned eighteen. Everybody she cared about died.

Not Corey. Delaney punched in 9–1–1.

The operator’s assurance that help was on the way did nothing to soothe Delaney. She sat cross-legged and dragged Corey’s shoulders and head into her lap. She had to warm him up. “Tell them to hurry. Tell them my brother needs help.”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re en route.”

“Tell them he’s all I’ve got.”

CHAPTER 2

TEN YEARS LATER
NASH RESIDENCE, SAN ANTONIO

Real men didn’t cry. Not even during a reunion with a beloved truck.

Swallowing hard, Hunter Nash wrapped his fingers around the keys, concentrating on the feel of the metal pressing into his skin. He cleared his throat. “Thanks, Mom. For keeping it all these years.”

His mom didn’t bother to try to hide her tears. She wiped her plump cheeks on a faded dish towel, offered him a tremulous smile, and bustled down the sidewalk that led from the house on San Antonio’s near west side where Hunter had grown up to the detached two-car garage in the back. It had housed his truck for the past eight years. Almost ten if he counted the two years it took for his case to go to trial. He had no place to go in those years when he’d allegedly been innocent until proven guilty. His friends no longer friends and his job gone, he had no need for transportation.

The door to the garage was padlocked. Mom handed him the key. “My hands are shaking. You’d better do the honors.” She stepped back. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“I did my time, Ma.” As a model prisoner he’d earned time off for good behavior. It was easy for a guy to behave when he spent his days and nights scared spitless.

“I know. All those nights I’ve lain in bed worrying about you in that place, whether you were safe, if you were hurt, if you were sick.” Her voice broke. “I can’t believe it’s over.”

“Me neither.”

It wasn’t over. In fact, it was just beginning, but she didn’t need to know that. His determination to prove his innocence would only worry her more. A divorced mother of four, she’d raised her kids on a teacher’s salary and an occasional child support check from the crud-for-brains ex-husband who showed up once every couple of years in an attempt to make nice with his kids. She deserved a break.

The aging manual garage door squeaked and protested when Hunter yanked on the handle. He needed to do some work around here, starting with applying some WD-40. The smell of mold and old motor oil wafted from the dark interior. Hunter slipped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. A layer of dust covered the 2002 midnight-blue Dodge RAM 1500, but otherwise it remained in the pristine condition in which he’d left it the night he said goodbye and promised he’d be back. “My baby.”

More tears trickling down her face, Mom chuckled softly. “After you finish reintroducing yourself, come back inside. I’m making your favorite chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, pineapple coleslaw, and creamed corn. Your brother and sisters are coming over after work. Shawna’s bringing a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Melissa’s contribution is three kinds of ice cream, including rocky road. She said it seemed appropriate. I hope you haven’t lost your sense of humor. And you know Curtis. He’s all about the beer.”

The last thing Hunter wanted to do was celebrate with his sibs. Mel and Shawna had visited faithfully at first, but less as the years rolled by. Curtis never showed, even though Fabian Dominguez State Jail was only a few miles down the road from San Antonio.

Nor did Hunter want to explain why he’d sworn off alcohol. The conditions of his parole included monthly pee tests— no alcohol or drugs, but that part of his life was over anyway. It had been easy to comply in prison, obviously. Whether he could maintain his sobriety in the beer drinking capital of the country remained to be seen. He’d do AA if necessary. “Mom— ”

“No buts. They’re family. They love you. You need to live life, enjoy life, make up for all you’ve missed. You haven’t even met most of your nieces and nephews. Did you know Mel is expecting another baby in August?”

“Yes, I— ”

“Today we celebrate your new job and your new life.”

His bachelor of fine arts with an emphasis in drawing and painting from Southwest School of Art might once have allowed him to teach art in one of the school districts, but not anymore.

It didn’t matter. The prison chaplain had hooked him up with Pastor James. The preacher ran a faith-based community center that served at-risk youth. He’d hired Hunter to teach art to those who’d already had their first brush with the law. He figured Hunter could teach life lessons at the same time he introduced them to art as a way to channel their anger at the hand life had dealt them. Learning what happened when a guy got off track would be the lesson.

Even though Hunter hadn’t gotten off the track. He’d been shoved off it. By an eager-beaver, newbie detective; a green-as-a-Granny-Smith-apple public defender; and an assembly-line justice system.

He would get by in this world that had hung him out to dry. Especially knowing Mom had his back. She had that don’t-mess-with-me teacher look in her burnt-amber eyes. Like her sixth graders, Hunter knew better than to argue. It felt good to know she remained in his corner. When everyone else had hit the ground, scattering in opposite directions, she never budged in her belief that son number two could not be a murderer. She’d brought him up better than that.

“You’re right. Give me a few minutes.”

She patted his chest and stretched on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. Her lips were chapped, and the wrinkles had deepened around her mouth and eyes. Her long hair had gone pure white during his years away. “Take your time, sweetheart.”

Hunter gritted his teeth. After years of looking over his shoulder, bobbing and weaving around hard-core convicts who’d as soon shank a guy in the shower as look at him, he didn’t know how to cope with nice. With sweet. With love tempered with wisdom and a hard life.

“One day at a time.” That’s what the prison chaplain had told him. “Get through the next minute, the next hour, the next day.” That’s how he did eight years at Dominguez. This couldn’t be any harder. He opened the truck’s door and slid into the driver’s seat. The faint odor of pine air freshener greeted him. And citrus.

More likely that was his imagination. Delaney’s perfume simply could not linger that long. Move on. She has. She did. To her credit Delaney held on as long as she could— until the guilty verdict. Then she was forced to move on. She couldn’t be blamed for that.

Hunter picked up the sketch pad on the passenger seat. In those days he kept one everywhere. Just in case. The first page. The second. The third. All drawings of Delaney. Sweet Laney eating a slice of watermelon at a Fourth of July celebration. Laney rocking Hunter’s newborn nephew in a hickory rocker on the front porch. Laney in a bathing suit sitting on the dock at Medina Lake. Laney with her soulful eyes, long sandy-brown hair, and air of sad vulnerability worn like a pair of old jeans that fit perfectly. That too-big nose, wide mouth, and pointed chin. Corey might have been the angelic beauty— totally unfair— but Delaney’s face had character. She had a face Hunter never ceased to want to draw and paint.

And kiss.

He turned the pages slowly, allowing the memories to have their way with him. Meeting at a party Corey had thrown when Delaney was a senior in high school. Their first date, ribs and smoked chicken with heart-stopping creamed corn, potato salad, coleslaw, and jalapeños at Rudy’s Country Store and Bar-B-Q followed by dancing at Leon Springs Dance Hall.

She had danced with the abandon of a small child. As if she didn’t care who watched. Her face glowed with perspiration. Her green eyes sparkled with happiness. His two left feet couldn’t keep up, but she didn’t mind. She twirled her peasant skirt as she flew around him, her hands in the air, her curves beckoning.

Hunter closed his eyes. Her softness enveloped him. Her sweetness surrounded him.

He needed to see her again. He needed to talk to her. Somehow he had to prove to her that she was wrong about him. Whatever it took. He laid the sketchbook aside. “Come on, dude, let’s take a ride.”

He stuck the key in the ignition and turned it.

Nothing. Not even a tick-tick-tick. He tried a second time. Nada. “I’m an idiot.” He patted the steering wheel. “Not your fault, man.”

The truck hadn’t been driven in years. The battery was dead. He might be able to jump it, but more likely he’d need a new one. Batteries cost money.

One thing at a time. He’d waited this long.

Hunter slid from the truck and eased the door closed. “I’ll be back when I get my act together.”

In the kitchen Hunter found his mom peeling potatoes. She pointed the peeler at him. “You can’t imagine how good it feels to have you home.”

“You can’t imagine how good it feels to be here.” He landed a kiss on her soft hair. She smelled of Pond’s cold cream. The same old comforting scent. Life had changed but not her. “I’m gonna take a walk. I need to blow the prison stink off.”

“Enjoy. They redid the walking trail at the lake and installed new outdoor fitness equipment.” She waved the paring knife in the air. “But don’t stay too long. You have company coming.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He pantomimed a mock salute and headed for the front door.

One thing at a time. One step at a time. That’s how he’d get his life back.

***

Excerpt from Trust Me by Kelly Irvin. Copyright 2022 by Kelly Irvin. Reproduced with permission from Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Kelly Irvin

Kelly Irvin is a bestselling, award-winning author of over twenty novels and stories. A retired public relations professional, Kelly lives with her husband, Tim, in San Antonio. They have two children, three grandchildren, and two ornery cats.

Visit her online at:
www.KellyIrvin.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @KellyIrvin
Instagram - @kelly_irvin
Twitter - @Kelly_TrustMe
Facebook - @Kelly.Irvin.Author

 

 

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This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Thomas Nelson and Kelly Irvin. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

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My Take: I really enjoyed this book. I was routing that the main characters would get back together. I would highly recommend this book if you like good mysteries. I didn't really know what happened till the very end and I was wondering. I received a review copy from Partners in Crime tours and I am not required to leave a postive review.