Deadly Animals, Marie Tierney’s brilliantly plotted debut mystery, introduces readers to Ava Bonney: a 14-year-old English girl obsessed with decomposing bodies.
Deadly Animals, Marie Tierney’s brilliantly plotted debut mystery, introduces readers to Ava Bonney: a 14-year-old English girl obsessed with decomposing bodies.
John Straley’s nonstop, high-octane Big Breath In introduces the unforgettable Delphine, a 68-year-old cancer patient-turned-investigator.
John Straley’s nonstop, high-octane Big Breath In introduces the unforgettable Delphine, a 68-year-old cancer patient-turned-investigator.
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Anyone who has followed the sleuthing of Kinsey Millhone won’t be surprised to hear that Sue Grafton, in this 15th installment of what many people call the Alphabet Murder series, has been successful again. What will surprise readers is the journey into Kinsey Millhone’s past, something that until now, Grafton has withheld (well, save for some tidbits here and there). In fact, O Is for Outlaw is solely about Kinsey’s past. And because it is, readers are treated to aspects of Kinsey’s personality that make the character more real, more fallible, infinitely more interesting. The book begins when a shifty character contacts Millhone claiming to have a box full of Millhone’s personal documents. This event pulls Kinsey into a web of intrigue that forces her to confront some very real demons, some her own making, some the making of others. Thus, Millhone reassesses choices she made regarding her ex-husband and their marriage and sets out to right wrongs before it’s too late. In sum: She’s on the case, tracking a 20-year-old murder, navigating the very tricky path of memory, while, at the same time, trying to come to grips with choices she made long ago. One of the reasons O Is for Outlaw is so intriguing has less to do with the actual mystery and everything to do with Kinsey Millhone’s moral dilemma and it’s a doozy of a dilemma. In the interim, readers are treated to Grafton’s expert storytelling abilities, coupled with her subtle sense of humor. Kinsey is still funny, quick-witted, and charmingly self-reflective. It’s Kinsey’s honesty that makes her so endearing.

This isn’t the normal whodunit. Rather, this book is about the wonderful details of Kinsey’s former life. Grafton has opened a new door, but what next? O Is for Outlaw makes you want more: more Kinsey, more information, more mysteries being solved by this tough cookie, who isn’t as tough as she thinks.

Anyone who has followed the sleuthing of Kinsey Millhone won't be surprised to hear that Sue Grafton, in this 15th installment of what many people call the Alphabet Murder series, has been successful again. What will surprise readers is the journey into Kinsey Millhone's past,…

Behind the Book by

Every writer has a story they've been waiting their whole life to tell. This is mine. I know this because I first pitched The Book of Lies over a decade ago. When my first novel, The Tenth Justice, was published, my original pitch for the follow-up was a story involving Cain. Exactly. Cain. As in, Cain and Abel. My editor at the time smartly told me: "You've just established yourself as a best-selling author of legal thrillers. Do you really want to risk it all by suddenly switching to kooky things like Cain?"

It was a moment I'll never forget. I could be brave and do what I want. Or I could cave and keep the publisher happy.
I caved. I was 27 years old and barely had paid off my student loans. I caved in no time at all. In fact, I set the record for caving.
 
Skip forward a full decade. I'm at a Florida book signing for my last thriller, The Book of Fate, and I'm talking about my love of the character known as Superman and his creator, Jerry Siegel. Right then (and this only happens in Florida) an elderly woman stands up and shouts, "I know more about Superman and Jerry Siegel than you ever will!"
 
And I think to myself, "Lady, there's no way you know more about Superman than I do."
 
And then she says, "Sure I do. Jerry Siegel's my uncle."
 
Let me be clear here. I am not good at reading subtlety. I need giant cartoon hammers over my head. Lightning bolts from the sky. Volcanoes. So I nod. 
 
And then another guy in the same signing raises his hand and says, "I served with Jerry Siegel in the Army!"
 
Boom.
 
I had my idea.
 
Over the course of the next two years, this sweet relative of Jerry Siegel invites me into her family. I hear the stories of Superman's creation. For the past 70 years, the public has been told that Superman was created by two teenagers in Cleveland. And that's true. Action Comics was published in 1938. But what no one realizes is that Superman was actually created in 1932, just weeks after Jerry Siegel's father was killed in a still-unsolved robbery. So why did the world get Superman? Because a little boy named Jerry Siegel heard his father was murdered and, in grief, created a bulletproof man.
 
And why does no one know the story? Because Jerry Siegel never told anyone. In the thousands of interviews he gave throughout his life, where they asked him where he got the idea for Superman, Jerry never once mentions that his father was killed during a robbery. To this day, half the family was told it was a heart attack, while the other half says it was a murder. It makes perfect sense. When Superman was first introduced, he couldn't fly. He didn't have heat or X-ray vision. All he was, was strong—and bulletproof. The one thing young Jerry's dad needed. And that's why the world got Superman. Not because America is the greatest country on earth. But because a little boy lost his father.
 
When I started to incorporate my thriller story into the Superman research, I had the world's greatest hero, but something was still missing. And then, I remembered my original idea from 10 years back. Cain. The man who brought murder into this world. And the world's first villain.
 
Boom.
 
I had another idea.
 
In Chapter 4 of the Bible, Cain kills Abel. It is arguably the world's most famous murder. But the Bible is silent about one key detail: the weapon that Cain used to kill his brother. In 1932, Mitchell Siegel was shot in the chest and killed. But the murder weapon from that murder is also lost to this day. So what do these two murders—thousands of years apart—possibly have to do with each other? That's what I needed to find out.
 
To be clear, research isn't magic. It's just legwork. I spoke to Jerry Siegel's family, as well as his widow and his daughter, who told me that in all the years that people have written about the Siegels, I'm the first one to actually call and speak with all of them. During the research, I went back and searched through the old newspapers from 1932 just to see what was going on when Jerry's father was killed. You won't believe what's in there.
 
It was the same with Cain. According to most modern Bibles, Cain thinks God's punishment is too much—My punishment is greater than I can bear is what the text says, which is why Cain is seen as such a remorseless monster. But when you go back to the original text—like in the Geniza fragments from Cairo—that same passage can just as easily be translated as My sin is too great to forgive. See the difference there? In this version, Cain feels so awful . . . so sorry . . . for what he's done to poor Abel, he tells God he should never be forgiven. That's a pretty different view of Cain. Of course, most religions prefer the vicious Cain. A little threat of evil is always the best way to fill the seats. But sometimes the monsters aren't who we think they are.
 
And slowly, the two worlds—my oldest saved story, and my newest one—began to collide. These stories—about Cain and Abel, about Superman—are not just folklore. They're stories about us. Our heroes and villains tell us who we are. And sometimes we need to find the truth, even if it means revealing our own vulnerabilities.
 
Most important for me, the interesting part has never been the Superman story; the interesting part is Clark Kent—the idea that all of us, in all our ordinariness, can change the world.
 
But that still doesn't mean I'm telling you what my characters really find inside the Book of Lies.
 
The Book of Lies is the seventh novel by Brad Meltzer and a follow-up to The Book of Fate, which was a #1 bestseller. Meltzer, who was just out of law school when his first book, The Tenth Justice, was published in 1997, lives in Florida with his wife, who is also an attorney.

 

Every writer has a story they've been waiting their whole life to tell. This is mine. I know this because I first pitched The Book of Lies over a decade ago. When my first novel, The Tenth Justice, was published, my original pitch for the…

Review by

Okay, so there are sharks. And reconstituted dinosaurs. Unfriendly nuclear powers and hostile aliens and berserk asteroids. But the flu? Somehow, as a serious threat to the well-being of the world population, getting the flu has rated pretty low on my list of terminal things to worry about. Not any more. The flu in question, of course, is the Spanish Lady, the horrendous version of influenza that precipitated the most lethal medical event in history and killed more people after World War I than the war itself. The First Horseman, a potential nightmare encased in fiction, proceeds on the theory that, under certain circumstances, that flu bug could kill every unimmunized person on earth. And, luckily for readers, if not the world, there are three bodies buried in the Siberian permafrost from which the deadly virus can be recreated. After a good deal of hop, skip, and jumping around between places and persons, the story settles down to watch as the bad guys/girls, members of an off-the-wall religious cult led by a charismatic madman, work to preserve the endangered natural world by simply destroying that inconvenient scourge, all human life. Of course, the good guys/girls labor to foil them, taking considerable physical mistreatment as well as falling in love in their spare time. It’s the perfect scenario for the next big movie thriller, although filmmakers may find it difficult to express the apparent expertise displayed by the author about both government and medical processes.

The first horseman reference touches on the famous four horsemen of the New Testament Apocalypse. But you knew that, of course. Whether or not he was originally identified with the spread of pestilence, (the Book of Revelation is not clear on that point), the apocalyptic connection indicates nasty consequences for an unknowing world. John Case, who wrote the bestseller The Genesis Code, is a pseudonymous award-winning investigative reporter in Washington, D.

C. He plants a mischievous hint at the end of the story that may make readers think twice about its status as fiction, but I am hopeful we can dismiss this as creative inspiration. It’s bad enough, really, to know there are Charles Manson and David Koresh types out there who, like Solange in this book, seem to magnetically attract their disciples’ loyalty through sadistic and abusive practices. The author effectively builds the reservoir of dread that fuels all good thrillers as he portrays the twisted mind at work turning ordinary people into amoral uncaring monsters.

The world survives, but, every time the flu bug goes around from now on (especially in April or May), those of us who have read The First Horseman will not feel entirely secure until the symptoms subside. Maude McDaniel is a freelance writer in Cumberland, MD.

Okay, so there are sharks. And reconstituted dinosaurs. Unfriendly nuclear powers and hostile aliens and berserk asteroids. But the flu? Somehow, as a serious threat to the well-being of the world population, getting the flu has rated pretty low on my list of terminal things…

Review by

Good novels provide settings that are more than ancillary. Distinctive locales become added characters. In Blue Moon, John Leslie’s fourth Key West-based Gideon Lowry mystery, a bluesy, island mood pervades. Leslie creates ambiance that blends a wistful, laid-back existence with the hurry-up veneer of a tourist mecca. This transformation, from ocean breeze-swept outpost to a hustling, high- dollar, real estate boomtown, brings financial pressures and transient visitors, and the dangers borne by each. Leslie captures the camaraderie of longtime residents, and the challenges they face: the intoxication of attractive strangers, and new, sometimes illicit sources of income. Private investigator Gideon Lowry is a part-time piano lounge entertainer. He’s also a Conch, a Key West native who bemoans his lost days of youth, the funkiness of a carefree, tropical life. He also regrets losing the love of restaurant owner Gabriella Gaby Wade. So when Gaby asks that Gideon do a background check on her new fiancŽ, widower and newcomer Roy Emerson, Lowry approaches the task with mixed emotions. Gaby describes Emerson as a man who puts deals together. Lowry would love to find a flaw in his character.

Lowry has other problems and opinions. The elderly owners of the mom-and-pop Cuban grocery next to his Duval Street office and apartment are being pressured to sell out. Fred Pacey, a developer with a 20 year history of ignoring tradition in favor of homogenized facades, wants to construct a central shopping mall for tourists. Lowry, too, has received offers. Positioning himself as a stalwart holdout, Gideon advises his neighbors not to sell out and ruin their way of life. Secretly, he wonders if it isn’t time to take the money and abandon the downtown rat race. Lowry’s initial queries into Emerson’s lifestyle connect the man with developer Pacey. Then, late one night, arson destroys the grocery. Gideon feels guilt over his bad advice, and his suspicions regarding the tropical terrorism are founded upon no solid facts. Soon Lowry is breaking all the rules: working on his own nickel, and trying to solve two simultaneous cases that may not exist. He walks the tightrope between rescuing his ex-lover from a danger that only he perceives, and his nightmare, destroying the friendship for good.

Advice from a Jackson Hole, Wyoming investigator (where Emerson’s wife died in a climbing accident), and help from old acquaintances, Detectives Dave Robicheaux in Louisiana and Hoke Moseley in Miami, prompt Lowry to stage an ill-advised ploy to expose the past and rescue the future. Throughout Blue Moon, Lowry runs on knowledge and instinct, but his feel for the turf, the unique island nuances and politics, mold his judgment and actions. He gambles friendship, takes risks. John Leslie’s version of the false carefree life in the Keys grips the reader and deepens suspense. Gideon may be left standing alone, staring at the cold, blue moon, but readers will appreciate the depth of this fourth book in the Lowry series.

Tom Corcoran is a writer in Florida. His first novel, The Mango Opera, was released by St. Martin’s Press in June.

Good novels provide settings that are more than ancillary. Distinctive locales become added characters. In Blue Moon, John Leslie's fourth Key West-based Gideon Lowry mystery, a bluesy, island mood pervades. Leslie creates ambiance that blends a wistful, laid-back existence with the hurry-up veneer of a…

Review by

Be afraid. Be very afraid. Bloodstream is a deliciously frightening story guaranteed to send chills up your spine an added bonus this time of year.

Newly widowed Dr. Claire Elliot has left a successful career in Baltimore to move with her son, Noah, to the small resort town of Tranquillity, Maine. After the death of his father, Noah had fallen in with bad company and run afoul of the law. Claire had decided that a move to Tranquillity would make for a fresh start for both mother and son.

However, Noah is unhappy in school, struggling to fit in among students who have known each other since birth. And Claire is beginning to have her own doubts about the move as it becomes apparent that the locals are more than a little suspicious of the big city doctor who has taken over the practice of their longtime and beloved physician. Tranquillity it seems, is anything but for Claire and her son.

Then the violence begins. One of Claire’s teenage patients opens fire in his high school biology class, killing the teacher and wounding several students. His parents blame Claire for taking him off a medication prescribed by his former physician, but Claire is certain that something else led the boy to commit such a terrible and unexpected act. When she tries to order a blood test for drugs, Claire is abruptly dismissed as the boy’s doctor.

As the violence escalates quiet children are suddenly given to vicious outbursts, cruelty to animals, then another inexplicable murder Claire desperately searches for a cause. Amid wild rumors of Satanic cults and local witches, she considers everything from illegal drugs to the small blue mushrooms that grow in the woods and are sometimes eaten by Tranquillity’s teens. And what about the strange phosphorescent green glow that Claire and Lincoln Kelly, the local sheriff, see coming from the local lake? Then Claire discovers what many of the local already know this isn’t the first time that seemingly normal teenagers have committed unspeakable acts of violence in Tranquillity. There were murders in 1887 and again almost 50 years ago. Warren Emerson, one of the murderous teens from five decades ago, still lives in Tranquillity. Cast out from the community, he lives in virtual isolation in the woods with only a cat and his memories for companionship. Could Warren, wonders Claire, hold the key to what’s happening to Tranquillity’s children? Gerritsen, whose two previous medical thrillers, Harvest and Life Support terrorized their way onto bestseller lists, looks to have done it again Bloodstream is best read with the lights on and the doors securely locked.

Lucinda Dyer is a publicist and freelance writer in Franklin, Tennessee.

Be afraid. Be very afraid. Bloodstream is a deliciously frightening story guaranteed to send chills up your spine an added bonus this time of year.

Newly widowed Dr. Claire Elliot has left a successful career in Baltimore to move with her son,…

Behind the Book by

While researching Ravens I got the chance to ride on patrol with a Brunswick, Georgia, cop. I’ll call him Officer Jack. He took me driving around and around the slow-baking city. Nothing was stirring.

Like the sad jowly cop in Ravens, Jack had been a detective before his own eagerness had tripped him up. He’d fallen far, and wound up as a corporal on this traffic beat. Many times he’d thought of getting back on that ladder again — re-applying for sergeant or detective — but all that was too much hassle, and besides, he couldn’t bear the the boredom of a desk job. He wanted to be out on the streets, working with people.

We took Rt. 17 north and then the I-95 Spur west. One strip mall after another. Ace Hardware, Wendy’s, Cap’n D’s Seafood, Empire Title Pawn. Now and then came fleeting pockets of deep antique beauty. Trailers shrouded in grey moss, clustering around an oak tree. A rolling seascape of kudzu.

A million years ago, this had been my home town.

Jack, knowing I was writing a thriller, tried to tell me thrilling stories from his detective days. But thrillingness wasn’t what I wanted from him. I wanted some essential generous detail to bestow upon my character. Although I had no idea what that might be.

We fell silent. There were no drug deals going down that day, no murders, no knife-fights, nothing — not so much as a broken taillight. Just the hot summer streets for hour after hour. Officer Jack kept apologizing. Finally, Dispatch sent us to an elementary school in the ghetto. School was in summer recess, but the old women working in the office told us they’d heard strange noises. We investigated. Tramped through the lonely gym, the cafeteria. The A/C was scarcely working and the place was an inferno. Passing one classroom, we spotted two little girls clambering out of a window. One was chubby, and got stuck, and Jack nabbed her. The other one got away.

Jack brought the chubby one back to the office and sat her down. Naturally she started to bawl.  This moon-faced white cop and his creepy companion (me): we must have been terrifying. Jack tried to get her to confess what she’d been up to. Why would any child ever try to break into school?

She said something about a ‘picture’ — but she was bawling so hard we couldn’t understand her.

Then a strange thing happened. Her partner in crime showed up. The girl had made a clean escape, but she came back to face the music because, I suppose, she knew it was wrong to leave your friend.

She sat down and folded her arms and stared at us with enormous eyes. She was tiny and beautiful, and perhaps eight years old. She was a ghetto child. She wouldn’t say a word. Tears were flowing from her eyes but she didn’t blink and she held her silence.

But Jack kept patiently, gently pressing her, and finally she turned away and let it out. She said she had brought her friend into school to see a picture.

"What picture?" Jack asked.

"Picture I made."

Jack asked if we could look at this picture. So she took us back to that classroom, and hung up on the wall was a watercolor of a school bus. It was stunning. The bus had the soft underside of a living creature. I told her how much I liked it, and Jack said she should listen to me because I was from New York and knew everything about art.

He was beaming.

He was so taken by these amazing girls.

And I had what I wanted. I wrote the scene into Ravens. It’s not thrilling; it’s just a moment of rest, an aside from the tension.

But it has its own quietly beating heart and I think it gives life to my Brunswick cop. It might even make my readers love him. And I know if I can get you to love my characters — well, that’s really the whole deal. That’s all I’ve ever looked for.

Screenwriter George Dawes Green is the author of Ravens. His first novel in 14 years, it tells the story of a family of lottery winners whose newfound weath endangers their lives.

Author photo (c) Nick Cardillichio.

While researching Ravens I got the chance to ride on patrol with a Brunswick, Georgia, cop. I'll call him Officer Jack. He took me driving around and around the slow-baking city. Nothing was stirring.

Like the sad jowly cop in Ravens, Jack…

Behind the Book by

We all have preconceived notions. It’s unavoidable. One of the most exciting things about doing book research is discovering all the ways in which our assumptions about people, places, and history are wrong. In the course of writing five novels (almost six; I’m just about done!), I’ve been forced again and again to revise my opinions about our Victorian counterparts.

 But of all the books I’ve written, none has surprised me as much as Tears of Pearl. I’d decided to send Emily and Colin to Constantinople for their honeymoon—partly because I loved the exotic nature of the city and partly because I liked the idea of Emily, who struggles with the limits English society placed on women in the 19th century, in a society where the so-called weaker sex were even more repressed.

Sounds great, right? I thought so. But after I’d read letters and memoirs from women of the period, I realized the Ottoman ladies had a great deal more freedom and upward mobility than the average Englishwoman of the time. Their veils, which I’d ignorantly viewed as repressive, actually gave them quite a bit of freedom—they enabled them to move about the city freely without anyone knowing who they were. Meeting a lover in a café? No problem. The veil keeps you anonymous.

Last year, while working on the book, I visited Istanbul (because, as we all know, you can’t go back to Constantinople…).  And for all that we like to think of our contemporary selves as modern and enlightened, many people did not react well to the idea of my trip. They didn’t think it was safe for a woman to travel alone to Turkey—surely it would be too dangerous. Now, of course it’s essential to be careful any time you’re traveling. But I can honestly say that I’ve never felt safer in a city than Istanbul. If anything, men were more respectful of a solitary woman than they are in New York or Chicago.

My first morning in the city, I met three wonderful American women at breakfast in my hotel. (You won’t find a more glorious breakfast spread anywhere than that set out at the Hotel Empress Zoe every morning.) They were going the hamam—the Turkish baths—that evening and invited me to join them. The hamam was high on my list for must-sees in the city. I’d read all kinds of fabulous descriptions of them in letters written by Victorian English women travelers. As a junkie of all things spa-related, I loved the idea of being massaged and scrubbed. But I must confess to having felt a little nervous about the whole thing.

 

 

First, because I wasn’t exactly sure what the process would be like. Second was the whole issue of sitting around naked in a room full of total strangers.

Going with my new found friends alleviated the first problem. Because if we all did everything wrong, at least we would all be wrong together, which is somehow less daunting than being wrong alone.

As for the second point, there was simply no avoiding it. And it struck me, as  I walked into the more than 300-year-old Ca?alo?lu Hamam, that countless Victorian women travelers (Florence Nightingale included) had preceded me. And surely if they—whom we all assume to have been much more modest than the Modern American Girl—could do it, I could.

Which sounds fabulous until you’ve emerged from your beautiful wooden dressing room stark naked only to have your bath attendant hand you a tiny piece of cotton to use as a towel. This and a pair of wooden clogs are all you can take into the haratet, or hot room. We did our best to cover ourselves up and shuffled over marble floors into an enormous domed room lined with washbasins. Here you’re instructed to sit and handed a silver bowel. This you dip into the nearest basin, fill with hot water, and dump over your head. Repeat over and over and over.

Obviously at this point, you have to abandon the towel. Somewhat terrifying at first. But all the women in the hamam do it—and you find that it’s actually not so bad. And before you know it, you’re relaxed, your muscles loose as you lean against the marble bench dousing yourself with water and falling into easy conversation with the people around you. By the time your attendant comes back to lead you to the marble platform in the center of the room, where she’ll massage and scrub you, you could care less what you’re wearing. The entire ritual was amazing, and by the time I emerged, my skin softer than a baby’s, I knew that if I could, I’d hamam every single day.

It was an ethereal experience in an exquisite building. Those Victorian women travelers knew a good thing when they saw it. As much as I loved Istanbul—cruising the Bosphorus to the Black Sea, combing through the treasures of Topkap? Palace, haggling in the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Bazaar—the hamam will always be high on the list of my favorite experiences. I loved it so much I went back two more times during my trip. Research, you see, needs to be well and thoroughly done…

 

Tasha Alexander is finishing up her fifth novel starring Lady Emily, who heads to Turkey in Alexander's new release Tears of Pearl.

 

We all have preconceived notions. It’s unavoidable. One of the most exciting things about doing book research is discovering all the ways in which our assumptions about people, places, and history are wrong. In the course of writing five novels (almost six; I’m just about…

Behind the Book by

Psychic spies. Remote viewers. It sounds like the stuff of fiction. Our latest thriller, The Solomon Effect, features a remote viewer named Tobie Guinness and her reluctant, skeptical partner, CIA agent Jax Alexander. But the truth behind the fiction is that virtually every United States intelligence agency in existence actually has dabbled in the paranormal for decades. Of course, military and government types generally like to avoid admitting they’re spending taxpayers’ money investigating something as woo-woo as clairvoyance. So they came up with their own name for it: remote viewing.

What exactly is remote viewing? Basically, it’s a method for experiencing and describing events, objects, and people from a distance, using only the mind. Does it really work? Yes. Do we know how or why it works? No. But we do know that anyone can be trained to do it, while those with a natural talent can learn to do it very, very well.
 
My own experience with the U.S. Army’s remote viewing program dates back to the 1980s. By that time I’d been an Army Intelligence officer for many years. Most of those years were spent doing typical espionage stuff like running agents in Southeast Asia, flying into Laos with Air America types, infiltrating and spying on domestic organizations like the SDS and the John Birch Society, and studying Soviet weapons systems. But then one memorable spring day the Army sent me—along with bunch of other majors and captains—for a weeklong course at the Monroe Institute to learn how to have out of body experiences.
 
Hard to believe, I know. But it was all part of a top secret program that saw colonels and generals attending “spoon bending parties” and learning to walk barefoot over live coals. The U.S. government was obsessed with the idea that the Soviet Union was using clairvoyants to spy on America. Our mission was to find a way to bridge the perceived gap in the “psychic arms race.”
 
Did we succeed? Well, much of that information is still secret. But in 1995/96, the government officially shut down all remote viewing projects and declassified the program’s existence. Which means that I’m now free to use my knowledge of remote viewing in novels.
 
Written in partnership with my wife, the novelist Candice Proctor (who also writes the Sebastian St. Cyr Regency-era mystery series as C.S. Harris), The Solomon Effect is a rollercoaster ride of a romp through Russia, the Middle East, and Germany, as Iraq War vet October (Tobie) Guinness uses her remote viewing talents to track down a sunken Nazi U-boat and the deadly secret it once hid.
 
Yes, this is fiction. But it’s based on a real program that once existed—and may still exist. While all remote viewing projects were officially ended in 1996, the British government recently admitted to using remote viewers to try to track down Osama bin Laden after 9/1l, and there are rumors that American programs likewise persist. It was Major General Ed Thompson, a former Army Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence, who once said, "I never liked to get into debates with skeptics, because if you didn’t believe that remote viewing was real, you hadn’t done your homework."
 
Lt. Col. Steven Harris (Ret.) and Candice Proctor, who write together as C.S. Graham, now live in New Orleans. Their latest novel, The Solomon Effect, is being published this month by HarperCollins.

 

Psychic spies. Remote viewers. It sounds like the stuff of fiction. Our latest thriller, The Solomon Effect, features a remote viewer named Tobie Guinness and her reluctant, skeptical partner, CIA agent Jax Alexander. But the truth behind the fiction is that virtually every United States…

Review by

In Quicksilver, Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens combine intrigue with an impressive extrapolation of the state of the art in orbital weapons. What begins as a project to increase the country’s surveillance satellite capabilities suddenly emerges as a weapon of unprecedented destructive power. Most of the action takes place in the Pentagon, one of the nation’s most secure buildings. The new National Infrastructure Agency is located well below the basement. The physical security of this latest command node is as great as the secrecy surrounding its activities protection that includes placing blast doors throughout the building and making efforts to root out terrorists. This is the situation faced by the President when well-armed terrorists take over the Pentagon. Their infiltration takes advantage of a ceremony celebrating Russia’s entry into NATO. Bureaucratic reflexes among the President’s advisors frustrate his ability to deal with the crisis. Quicksilver demonstrates the authors’ grasp of scientific theory and security measures surrounding the country’s military space program. Beyond the ingenuity that allows the terrorists to penetrate the Pentagon’s most secret project is the awesome power they demonstrate by destroying the center directing the nation’s military satellites, including Quicksilver. The tension builds as the President directs the country’s most powerful weapons to hone in on the terrorists’ headquarters. The result is a spell-binding tale and a new standard for techno-thrillers. John Messer once served in the Pentagon.

In Quicksilver, Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens combine intrigue with an impressive extrapolation of the state of the art in orbital weapons. What begins as a project to increase the country's surveillance satellite capabilities suddenly emerges as a weapon of unprecedented destructive power. Most of the…

Review by

On a sultry Los Angeles summer night, cop-turned-lawyer Stone Barrington should have been having the time of his life. The boat was spirited, the ocean calm, the lights of Catalina twinkling in the distance. He had $25,000 in found money and a steamy redhead awaiting him back on shore. Perfect, but for the fact that he was bound hand and foot, his mouth duct-taped shut, and his allergies to L.

A. smog blocking most of his breathing through his nose. Sublime, but for two thugs named Vinnie and Manny, who are currently chaining him to an anchor and manhandling him to the stern. Compliments of Onofrio Ippolito, Manny says maliciously, planting his foot in the small of Stone’s back and kicking him overboard.

The balance of Swimming to Catalina is told in flashback: it seems that Stone’s one-time girlfriend, Arrington, has gotten married to screen idol Vance Calder. (If she had married Stone, she would have been Arrington Barrington, which is too painful to contemplate.) Now Arrington has gone missing, and Vance Calder summons Stone to help find her. Oh, and one more small detail: Arrington is pregnant, perhaps with Stone’s child. Reluctantly Stone leaves his digs in the Big Apple and catches the redeye to the Big Orange. Stone’s inquiries into Arrington’s disappearance do not go unnoticed by the criminal element of Los Angeles. It seems that wherever he goes a silver Lincoln Town Car follows. He changes hotels, changes cars, to no avail. The Town Car is registered to Onofrio Ippolito, a shady investment banker suspected to be linked to organized crime. The plot thickens . . . On the verge of a breakthrough, Stone receives a call from an excited Vance Calder: Arrington has returned, and Stone’s services will no longer be required. (If this sounds a bit fishy to you, imagine how it sounds to Stone.) Stone decides to stay in L.

A. a few more days, albeit incognito, to sniff around and see what he can turn up. Before he’s through a movie studio will be in turmoil, a criminal operation will be revealed, a mystery or two will be solved, and several people will wind up deceased.

In Swimming to Catalina, Stuart Woods has delivered another in a series of well-crafted, tightly plotted novels of suspense.

Bruce Tierney lives in Nashville, Tennessee.

On a sultry Los Angeles summer night, cop-turned-lawyer Stone Barrington should have been having the time of his life. The boat was spirited, the ocean calm, the lights of Catalina twinkling in the distance. He had $25,000 in found money and a steamy redhead awaiting…

Behind the Book by

I was lucky enough to attend the excellent Murder 203 conference in Connecticut recently, and one of the questions I was asked most often during the event concerned the settings of the first two David Trevellyan novels. Specifically, panel-goers were curious about how I came to base them both in U.S. cities. Specially as I—and my protagonist—actually come from the U.K.?

I thought this was an excellent question, because it touches on something which is very important to me as a fan of crime fiction—that location should be a critical part of the book as a whole, and not feel like it was sketched in afterwards as a random backdrop for the action. I’ve always felt as a reader that a well-chosen and carefully integrated location can make all the difference in the world. There are lots of ways in which the setting can be the key factor that takes a good book and transforms it into a great one. An author can build the bones of a mystery through intricate plotting, for example, and that may satisfy a reader’s mind. But to fully engage the rest of the senses, nothing can beat the sights and sounds and smells of an appropriately exotic and mysterious location. Not to mention that books are simply more enjoyable to read if the location is inherently interesting. I love traveling to new places, and often my first sense of somewhere that will become a favourite destination comes from reading a book that is set there. And I think this sense of discovery can be heightened if the area is first seen through the eyes of a stranger—like David or me—because all the tiny mundane details that merge into the background to people who are familiar with them will stand out so much more clearly.
 
For me, though, the most significant impact of a good location is the way it can be used to flesh out the understanding of a book’s main characters. It’s one thing to be told that a detective is a smart, adaptable woman, for example, but this can’t compete with the insight you gain from seeing how she reacts to being placed in a brutal, deprived, inner-city environment which might be a million miles from the conditions she grew up in. This is a principle I’ve tried to carry over into my writing, and—while not denying how much I love to spend time in Union Square and Lincoln Park—explains why I chose New York for David Trevellyan’s first adventure and Chicago for his second.
 
At the start of Even, we first catch sight of David when he discovers the body of a homeless man lying discarded in a filthy alleyway. This initial scene could have taken place in most cities in most countries of the world, but I chose my setting for a specific reason. I wanted David to be quickly drawn into an accelerating spiral of deceit and it was important not just for the plot, but for our understanding of the man himself, to see how he responded to immense extremes of glamour and decay. I also needed these to be constrained by a tightly defined geographical area, and of all the places I’d spent time in, none fitted the bill better than Manhattan.
 
In Die Twice, David finds himself on the tail of a rogue Royal Navy Intelligence agent. This time I decided on Chicago, because as well as its spectacular architectural gems, the city offers such a diverse range of contrasting districts. It allowed me to show David at work in smart office buildings, seedy nightclubs, prosperous neighbourhoods, and grimy backstreets—as well as stranding him in the kind of abandoned industrial complex that no-one would want to be caught in after dark. I also happen to live in the city, so I allowed myself the luxury of including some of the places I have a particular soft spot for. My very favourite building is the John Hancock Center, so that’s the first place David mentions when he arrives from the airport. I couldn’t get him up to the Signature Lounge—I love to drink there, myself—but he does at least visit the top of the Sears Tower. Though not in a way most tourists will experience . . .
 
Andrew Grant’s second David Trevellyan novel, Die Twice, hits shelves May 11. Grant, a native of England, now lives in Chicago, where he is at work on the third David Trevellyan thriller.

 

I was lucky enough to attend the excellent Murder 203 conference in Connecticut recently, and one of the questions I was asked most often during the event concerned the settings of the first two David Trevellyan novels. Specifically, panel-goers were curious about how I came…

Behind the Book by
Tony Hillerman once inscribed a book to me with these words:

“For Rosemary – Who qualifies for the ‘Listening Woman’ title I once used.

–Tony Hillerman”

That inscription ranks with the most cherished compliments I have received in my life. But much as I love to know that he valued me as a good listener, I have to admit, it was easy to listen to Tony Hillerman. In fact, it was a breeze.

Like so many other people who came to know and love Tony Hillerman and his work, I first met him at a book-signing event. Working on assignment for a newspaper, I figured that while the occasion and the man would become indelible memories for me, I would be sure to fade into a sea of media faces in the mystery writer’s recollection.

I soon discovered that I was, as Tony would put it, “dead wrong.” I could not know then that I would have the privilege of co-editing The Oxford Book of American Detective Stories and A New Omnibus of Crime with this man.
 
When I was putting together my first book, The Fatal Art of Entertainment: Interviews with Mystery Writers (G.K. Hall, 1994), Tony was on my wish list of interviewees. It seemed a long shot but nevertheless I sat down and wrote a letter beginning, “Dear Mr. Hillerman . . .”
 
To my delight, I received an immediate reply, inviting me to interview the author in his home on the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Arriving at his door after the long trip from Boston, Massachusetts, I again referred to the author as “Mr. Hillerman” as I greeted him.
 
“Well, Ms. Herbert, you can call me Tony,” he said, smiling. “But do you know, I appreciate that you called me ‘Mr. Hillerman.’ It was one of the things that made me remember you from that time you interviewed me in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I find that politeness refreshing.”
 
For my part, I found it intensely stimulating to hear Tony talk about his life and work in an interview that lasted for hours, during which he even showed me a manuscript in progress and asked my opinion of a proposed plot twist. Although Tony would have shrugged off any extolling of his own importance, I felt not just trusted but honored to be privy to that secret in his plot.
 
When Oxford University Press asked me to find an important American mystery writer to co-edit The Oxford Book of American Detective Stories with me, Tony leapt to mind. But I wondered if he could make time for the project. So I offered to do all the groundwork and to write all the essays introducing each story and author. I told him all he would have to do is decide on the final contents and write a preface.
 
Tony told me, “That’s not fair. I insist on writing my share of the essays. And I’ll do the preface, too.”
 
And he was true to his word.
 
More recently, when I approached Oxford University Press to put together an anthology that would begin where Dorothy L. Sayers’ landmark 1928 anthology, The Omnibus of Crime, left off, Tony readily agreed to edit it with me. And so we launched into selecting stories to represent three quarters of a century of developments in our beloved genre.
 
We both knew it was a tall order to walk in the footsteps of Dorothy L. Sayers, but we were absolutely game to give it a try. To honor Sayers, we decided to call our book A New Omnibus of Crime. But while, like her volume, ours would be packed with stories that have crime at their hearts, our Omnibus was destined to speed at a faster pace than Sayers’, and to showcase crime writing in profoundly changing times.
 
As Tony wrote in his “Preface” to our book, Sayers’ The Omnibus of Crime “was and is a masterwork and a treasure. But, as Bob Dylan musically warned us, ‘The times they are a-changin’.
 
“And so has crime and the nature of mystery and detective fiction. . . . Therefore after seventy-five years which have included global warfare, the rise and fall of nations, the advent of space flight, motorized roller skates, crack cocaine, political correctness, and all sorts of other innovations, Rosemary Herbert and I feel the time is ripe for another look at what has become the most read form of printed literature on the planet.”
 
“How’s that for a start, Rosemary?” Tony asked me after reading those paragraphs to me out loud. Am I stealing anything you want to say in your ‘Introduction’?”
 
We were sitting side-by-side at two computers in his home office. I read him the opening words of my piece. It was clear we were working in tandem, without stealing one another’s thunder. And I was not just listening to Tony. He was listening to me.
 
When we turned back to our computer screens, Tony proved himself to be just as polite to Sayers as I had once been to him.
 
“With Miss Sayers,” he wrote, “and readers of today and tomorrow—in mind, we put together A New Omnibus of Crime. We think it does a fair job of representing the strengths of the crime writing genre in our time. Like her book, we hope it will also stand the test of time.”
 
While Tony is not here to celebrate the paperback release of our book, I’m proud to attest that his taste, his love and knowledge of the genre, and his voice are all alive in the book that was my very great joy to co-edit with him.
 
Rosemary Herbert co-edited A New Omnibus of Crime and The Oxford Book of American Detective Stories with Tony Hillerman, and served as editor-in-chief of The Oxford Companion to Crime & Mystery Writing, all published by Oxford University Press. Her forthcoming mystery novel, Front Page Teaser: A Liz Higgins Mystery will be published by Down East Books in October.

Tony Hillerman created the celebrated Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee mysteries, set in New Mexico. He was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America.  

Tony Hillerman once inscribed a book to me with these words:
“For Rosemary – Who qualifies for the ‘Listening Woman’ title I once used.
–Tony Hillerman”

That inscription ranks with the most cherished compliments I have received in my life. But much as I…

Review by

Something nasty in the woodshed Sometimes when I read mysteries by British women writers, which is as often as I can, a phrase from Stella Gibbons’s Cold Comfort Farm comes to mind: the something nasty in the woodshed once seen by Aunt Ada Doom.

An odd connection to make, you may think, considering that Gibbons’s brilliant parody is not a mystery and that a woodshed is not a common element in mysteries. But for me the connection is real and, given the odd workings of my mind and the principle of six degrees of separation, easily made. Usually there is something indefinably nasty lurking in the background of such British mysteries, something shudderingly different from the garden-variety sex, violence, and betrayal of American crime novels. Just as we never quite learn what it was in the woodshed that frightened Aunt Ada Doom, so are we often uncertain of the source of the nastiness in the mysteries. Sometimes even after we’ve read the last page.

So it is in Frances Fyfield’s latest suspense novel, Blind Date. In it, the kernel of the mystery as well as the wellsprings of the nastiness might lie in the sentiment, How do you make people love you? Variations on the enigmatic phrase are planted throughout, either as a thought of one of the characters or as the unseen narrator’s comment.

Caroline Smythe thinks it early in the novel. Caroline is spending, as she has for years, a two-week holiday at the bed-and-breakfast of an old acquaintance, Diana Kennedy. To say that Diana’s family are old friends would be false, as Caroline bitterly knows; what Diana has offered over the years is merely a pretense of friendship, laced with insults and rejection. Caroline has more than a passing interest in love in at least one of its forms. She runs an introduction service, a dating agency. The phrase arises again, twice, when Patsy, one of a quartet of young women friends, signs up with her agency.

Another of the quartet is Elisabeth, Diana’s daughter and a former policewoman who is recovering from severe wounds inflicted by an attacker. The wounds pain her less than the memory of her sister, Emma, slain by an attacker. Even more painful is her belief that she had caught the attacker, but he was freed by a judge who ruled her pursuit entrapment. The man subsequently killed himself, leaving behind the horrifying suspicion that he was not the killer after all. How, Elisabeth wonders, had she made the suspect love her? Even young Matthew, Emma’s son being raised partly by Diana, is affected. Stubbornly independent, reclusive, and besotted with gems as his late jeweler grandfather was, Matthew thinks, You are only as good as the people who love you. . . . How do you make people love you? Perhaps there can be too much of love, if it’s of the wrong kind, such as the smothering love of Caroline for her mama’s-boy son, Michael. He is, to return to that word, a nasty piece of work, just like his mother. He emulated her gleeful messing up of other lives, but he took it to extremes. Patsy is injured by an attacker and yet another of the quartet, Angela, is murdered by one. Are all of the attacks and murders being committed by the same person? Other questions arise, as they often do in mysteries. Did Matthew witness the murder of his mother and the attack on his Aunt Elisabeth? Who is Joe Maxell, besides being an acquaintance of Michael’s, and why is he sharing Elisabeth’s flat in the tower of a London church, a place so eccentric it defied belief? Why do all of these people seem to know each other? If there is any noticeable weakness in the novel, it rises out of that last question. The stew of personalities and murky motivations can be frustrating to deal with. On the other hand, it could be said that muddle is not a flaw but a hallmark of the mystery novel, so many of which have trouble keeping up with the dead bodies and how and why they got that way.

Fyfield’s mystery finally answers most of the questions it raises. It doesn’t open wide the door to the identity of the killer, but we know who’s behind it, and we’ve been led to the doorstep fairly early. The central, repeated question, however, goes unanswered. As to that, Joe and Elisabeth could tell us, you don’t make it happen, it just does.

Roger Miller is a freelance writer. He can be reached at roger_miller@bookpage.com

Something nasty in the woodshed Sometimes when I read mysteries by British women writers, which is as often as I can, a phrase from Stella Gibbons's Cold Comfort Farm comes to mind: the something nasty in the woodshed once seen by Aunt Ada Doom.

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