Dark fiction novels rooted in horror, suspense, and mystery.
These books explore dangerous situations, hidden motives, and the moments when ordinary lives tilt toward the unknown. Rather than relying on shock alone, they build intensity through pacing, atmosphere, and character. For readers who enjoy being pulled steadily deeper into shadowed territory.
In Footsteps in the Shadows, Lou Manfredo crafts a masterful collection of crime stories that delves into the darker sides of human nature and the weight of moral choices. Beginning in contemporary Brooklyn, readers are introduced to Detective Joe Rizzo, whose sharp instincts and steady resolve are tested as he uncovers truths buried beneath the city’s chaos. Whether navigating the haunting silence of empty subway stations or pursuing leads down rain-soaked streets, Rizzo’s world is one of tension and grit.
The collection’s early stories set the stage with meticulously crafted cases that invite readers into the lives of investigators and the moral dilemmas they face. As the pages turn, the narrative broadens, spanning generations and offering perspectives from a small-town sleuth in mid-20th-century Long Island to the struggles of a modern detective grappling with his family's legacy.
Rich in atmosphere and charged with emotion, Footsteps in the Shadows captures the fragile humanity of those on both sides of the law. These tales resonate with fear, hope, and determination, drawing readers into a world where every choice carries weight and every shadow tells a story.
With compelling characters and vivid storytelling, Manfredo offers a haunting exploration of crime and its ripple effects, making this a must-read for fans of gripping, emotionally resonant fiction.
DEA Agent Faith Nelson is supposed to be going home for Christmas. Her father is facing heart surgery in Oakland. Her mother needs her. And Faith needs distance from Minnesota, from the shooting that made her a reluctant hero, and from the nightmares that followed.
Then a cartel accountant stops cooperating with a federal grand jury when his college-age stepdaughter disappears.
Faith is sent north to Duluth in the teeth of a winter storm, paired with a partner she does not trust and trapped in a case that keeps turning darker. The missing girl may not have been taken at all. Her roommate knows more than she is saying. A Mexican cartel executioner has entered Minnesota. And when the trail leads beyond Duluth toward the frozen north shore of Lake Superior, Faith finds herself alone, injured, and running out of time.
Up North is a crime thriller about violence, survival, and the terrible cost of doing the right thing when the cold is closing in and no one is coming fast enough.
Praise for Up North
“Northern Minnesota in winter is no place for the faint-hearted. Faith Nelson keeps relearning that lesson in Dave Case’s intense thriller, Up North. Case has brought decades of police experience to his writing, which gives his action scenes a welcome authenticity.”
— Sara Paretski, author of the bestselling V.I. Warshawski series and the soon to be released Bad Company
Chapter 1
A flash of brake lights ahead in the darkness warned Faith Nelson that the other car was slowing down. She took her foot off the gas and coasted to a stop on the gravel road. She lowered her window but all she heard was the soft murmur of her engine.
It was an inky dark night along the Minnesota River. The air heavy with humidity and the stink of fish. A well-lit pier up ahead produced a shock of intense yellow light. A stand of trees off to the side created a black blotch against the glowing radiance maybe a block away.
She was thinking in blocks instead of feet. Typical city girl. The misplaced frame of reference made her smile. It wasn’t the only thing that made her feel out of place here. She was a black city girl from Oakland in the Midwest.
She strained her ears and heard a car door shut. When she’d first been assigned the agency minivan, she’d disabled the dome light so there was no illumination when she opened her door. Leaning over, she popped the glove box and retrieved her Maglite, praying the batteries were still good, but didn’t want to risk checking it. She shut the van off and pocketed the keys.
As she got out, the tick of the engine was overpowered by the chirping of the crickets. She stuck the flashlight in her back pocket, then pulled her Glock, holding it in low-ready as she moved slowly forward. The gravel crunched under her soft steps. With her elbow, she felt the extra magazines on her belt. Hopefully she had enough bullets.
She could almost hear her range instructor back at Quantico barking in her ear: What’re you gonna do, Nelson?
His hot breath on her neck as he shouted. Have a plan, Agent! Always have a plan.
But she had none.
Why were they abducting Moose? Had he done something? Double-crossed them?
As she closed the distance, Faith heard a sound, but couldn’t tell whether it was a trunk or car door closing. She made it to a cut in the trees and could see through the leaves where a splintered path led down to the river. It was hard to believe she was in suburban Minneapolis, where the river valley divided Bloomington from Burnsville. She might as well be in the middle of nowhere, as isolated as she felt. At least it was warm. It was still September.
She crept forward. From the light of the pier she could make out the concrete seawall at the river’s lip, complete with docking cleats. No barge was moored at the landing.
The vegetation had been cleared away closer to the pier and the flat ground packed with stone led to the concrete. This was the easternmost portion of the dock. No doubt they’d dredged the river so that it was good and deep right off the wall. Any arriving vessels would be heavy with ore or grain or garbage or whatever else it was they were bringing in. The smell of fish filled her nose. The odor was anything but fresh.
From her position in the darkness, she could make out three figures in the glaring light, their splintered shadows stretching across the gray concrete in several directions. Their boldness only reminded her that she was completely on her own. No cavalry was coming to her aid.
Two men stood facing each other. The third crouched, working on something at the foot of the tallest man. She edged closer, counting on the deep shadows to keep her hidden.
The target of her surveillance, Darrell Lundgren, was easily recognizable as the tall man at the edge of the cement. His arms were secured behind his back. He was six-five and had long hair. Earlier, Faith had thought she’d be watching a dope deal. Lundgren, known as Moose to his biker gang, had an unscheduled meet with a guy who was supplying him with crank. But Moose had been taken at gunpoint by his contact and another man. And now they were all here next to the dark undulating water of the river.
Her problem being that she’d been conducting an unauthorized surveillance. Her calls to the other agents on her team had gone unanswered. Under her breath, she cursed her training agent and his Monday Night Football soiree.
Evan Thompson was Moose’s contact. Thompson was bald, short, and stocky, and stood in front of Moose. He held his revolver at waist level, pointed at Lundgren’s stomach. His accomplice, a guy in a wife-beater and Levi’s, was wiring something to Moose’s ankles.
Thompson ran his empty hand across his bald head. His voice floated up through the darkness as she closed the distance, worried she’d be spotted at any second. “It doesn’t really matter whether you’re a snitch or a pig. You ain’t walking away from this.”
Was Moose a cop? She couldn’t make out his response, though she could see him shaking his shaggy head. For once he wore no ponytail, and his greasy hair covered his face.
“But I’ll do this,” Thompson said. “Tell me what you’ve shared—” he paused and circled his gun’s barrel. “—and I can make it quick.” He cleared his throat and spat. When Moose didn’t respond, Thompson hooked his thumb at the river behind him. “Otherwise, you’re going in alive.”
Faith heard Wife-Beater Guy mutter something unintelligible.
Thompson looked down. “What’s wrong?”
The guy’s answer was inaudible. She finally got close enough to see that he’d wrapped Lundgren’s legs, from the knees down, with thick nylon rope and was using pliers to wire cinderblocks to the crimped loops at the end of the line.
They were going to drown him, if they didn’t shoot him first. Her mind raced.
What’re you gonna do now, Nelson! Gotta do something! Clock’s ticking! She forced herself to think.
There was at least one firearm in play, making Thompson the most immediate threat. Before she’d entered the Criminal Investigations Training Program with the D.E.A., Faith had never fired a gun, and then it had taken her three times to qualify. Shooting wasn’t a skill that had come naturally.
Know what’s down range! What’s behind your target! Don’t want to kill Grandma if you miss!
At least the backstop was the river and the uninhabited bank on the other side. How much time did she have? Regardless, she had to get closer. Rising from her crouch, she started for the men, hoping the deep shadows and their attention on one another would obscure her approach.
Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Get it right! Someone’s life might be at stake! The range instructor’s voice rang in her ears. Don’t let your front sight bounce! Keep it level and steady!
Wife-Beater Guy said something else to Thompson as he scooched back from Moose. He must be done. Faith’s stomach dropped and she couldn’t breathe. Game time.
Smooth is fast! her instructor had shouted. Squeeze!
“Police!” Faith yelled. “Thompson, drop the gun!”
Thompson turned and looked at her.
She was surprised at how close she’d gotten as she exhaled slowly out of pursed lips.
A smile spread across Thompson’s face before his hand moved, bringing the gun around toward her. The hole of the barrel huge and black.
She squeezed the trigger.
Double tap! She could feel the spittle on her cheek as the instructor had screamed, Two to the chest!
The first explosion scared her. The second sounded hollow and wasn’t quite the surprise the first had been.
Thompson stood there. Had she missed him? Was he wearing a ballistic vest? The gun didn’t move for a second. He slouched, took a half step, the gun rose, tilted downward to rise again.
One to the head! The words from the range reverberated in her skull.
Faith squeezed again.
Thompson staggered. A hole had appeared above his right eye. His gun dropped to the ground.
Something was happening to the left, but Faith didn’t take her eyes from her target as Thompson fell backwards into the river.
Faith looked at the other two men and found the movement she’d registered a second ago had been Lundgren falling. Legs splayed wide, he was struggling to keep his bulk on top of the man in the wife-beater, who was working his right hand toward his waistband.
“Roll off, Moose!” Faith yelled. Her voice sounded foggy and distant in her ears.
Lundgren fell off to the side, just as the man under him freed a black semi-auto. As Wife-Beater brought it up, Faith squeezed off her fifth and sixth and seventh rounds. The echoing bangs were reduced to pops in her abused ears. She knew without seeing it that she’d hit him center mass. His shirt was torn in three places on his chest. The gun dropped to the cement and he whimpered and hacked as red seeped out through the holes in the cloth.
“I. Give.” The man coughed and spit a glob of blood. Faith kicked his gun into the grass. Only then did she shift her Glock to one hand and pick up both firearms, shoving them in her waistband. The flat, metallic planes cold against her flesh. She pulled the flashlight from her back pocket and had to slap it hard on her thigh to turn it on. She swept the dark water of the river with her light. Thompson was nowhere to be seen.
As she took deep breaths, reality came back into focus. She checked the wounded man. He was slumped over unconscious, the front of his wife-beater soaked in red leaking over his belt onto his jeans. The stain spread toward the ground.
Going to Moose, she tried to roll him over, but she couldn’t. He was too big, and not cooperating. His face was a rictus of agony and spittle drooled from the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak. His hands were swollen and purple and blood streamed from his wrist restraints. His words came out as a hoarse croak.
“Ahhhh! Don’t, please,” he said. “My wrists.” He craned his neck to look at her. “ATF”
He hadn’t been handcuffed. His wrists had been wired together. The steel cut deep into his skin. She searched the ground before finding the pliers partially under Wife-Beater.
She felt sick as she tried to work the jaws under the bloody wire. But they were so tight, embedded in Moose’s flesh. Moose groaned with each movement as she forced the jaws through to the cutter almost at the hinge. Soon, the plier’s grips and her hands were slick with blood. She had to use both hands to cut through the first wire, then the second.
Clearly, he needed medical attention. She ran to her minivan and called nine-one-one, reporting the shooting to a police dispatcher who eventually understood where Faith was trying to direct the help. Then she drove the van down the road to the pier. Lundgren was trying to use the pliers to free himself, but he could barely hold the implement. His face twisted in a grimace. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked up at her.
She took the blood-slick instrument and started on the wire around his ankles. He jerked involuntarily from the pain as she worked the metal that was entrenched beneath his flesh along with material from his sock. Then he chuckled, his teeth streaked with blood. “Oh God, I thought I was dead. The way you took out those two guys—I owe you big time.” He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, more tears rolling down his cheeks. “Man, you’re an angel.”
He groaned.
“I’m ATF,” he said again, with more clarity this time as she worked the remaining wire from one leg. “You saved my ass.”
Faith wrestled with the remaining cable.
“You local?” Lundgren asked, his voice gravelly.
She shook her head, biting her tongue. “DEA”
“You said police before?”
“I’m from Oakland.” She grinned. “Cops are more intimidating than feds.”
When seventeen-year-old Usaré García slips away from her high school dance, no one expects the night to end in murder.
Her body is found across campus, and the investigation quickly reaches far beyond one student, one suspect, or one bad decision. Street gangs, racial tensions, hidden relationships, and old loyalties all begin to surface inside the school’s tightly wound world.
Enrique Tavish is not a detective. He is a school administrator who knows the south side, understands the advantages of passing easily through white spaces, and has spent years trying to keep his own hungers and anger under control. But when Usaré’s death exposes a web of deception around students, staff, gangs, and police, Tavish cannot stay safely on the sidelines.
His focus turns to Los Levantes, a street gang with cartel connections, but the deeper he pushes, the more dangerous the case becomes. Soon Tavish’s family is threatened, the police are questioning his methods, and justice begins to look less like a clean answer than a personal reckoning.
Ways to Be Wicked is a dark crime thriller about murder, identity, temptation, and the dangerous line between conscience and revenge.
“In his stunning new book Specters in the Gallery, J. Michael Major delivers an intriguing, finely crafted, twist-laden short story collection chock full of clever tales and unexpected outcomes. Major’s stories explore the exhilaration of danger, the sliding scales of justice, and the sardonic laughter of wry wit. In story after story, Major creates compulsively interesting scenarios. He then bends, twists, turns and corkscrews his plots in directions you’ll never see coming. Fast-paced, fiendishly clever, dark, playful, and unsettling, Major’s stories don't just pull the rug out from under you. They redefine the very nature of the floor. I invite you to step into Major’s amazing gallery of wordly delights. Experience the brilliance of his storytelling for yourself. If you dare!” —Gary K. Wolf, Creator of Roger Rabbit
Step inside a gallery where every portrait has a pulse, every joke has teeth, and every ordinary life is one bad choice away from the grotesque.
In Specters in the Gallery, J. Michael Major gathers dark, twist-laden stories of ambition, revenge, justice, faith, desire, and punishment. A private investigator follows the murder of a ruined writer and uncovers a creation dangerous enough to kill for. A desperate artist discovers the terrible price of being seen. A town buries its secrets beneath progress. A chain letter becomes a death sentence. Across horror, crime, satire, and speculative fiction, Major turns familiar fears into sharp little nightmares with a grin at the edge of the blade.
Fast-paced, clever, viciously playful, and unsettling, these stories do not simply pull the rug out from under you. They make you question whether the floor was ever there at all.
Enter carefully. Not everything on display is finished being alive.
“A marvelous collection of enchanting short stories, rich in imagination, intrigue and twisty turns of terror. J. Michael Major journeys across genres with skill and verve, producing an immensely engaging and clever concoction of tales that will keep you turning the pages.” —Brian Pinkerton, author of The Perfect Stranger
John Hyland lives a small, tightly controlled life in suburban Chicago. He works a dull office job, keeps the same routines every day, and tries to stay ahead of painful memories from his past. Then an old man at a diner starts calling him by another name—Blaney—and seems certain John is tied to a long-ago crime involving stolen gold. That strange meeting cracks open the careful life John has built.
As John tries to understand why this man has singled him out, the story begins to connect his lonely present to buried trauma, old violence, and a mystery that reaches back dec-ades. Fear follows him from the diner to his job, to his apartment, and finally out toward the rail lines linked to the famous robbery known as “The Big Touch.” John is no longer simply hiding from old wounds. He is pulled into something larger, darker, and far more dangerous than he expected.
What remains is a mood of unease and quiet sorrow, mixed with deep empathy for a man cornered by memory, guilt, and the pull of the past.
In the vast reaches of the Indian Territory, danger rarely stays buried for long. After weeks on the trail, Deputy Marshal Bass Reeves finds himself drawn into a new and growing threat that spreads across the frontier like wildfire. A violent prison break unleashes three desperate men—killers with nothing left to lose. Led by a former Confederate colonel with fierce ambitions and old grudges, the fugitives head west with a reckless plan that could ignite trouble across the Territory.
As rumors travel faster than riders, Reeves and the Lighthorse lawmen begin to piece together the trail of violence left behind. Each clue reveals a larger scheme—one involving stolen gold, rising unrest, and talk of stirring old loyalties back to life. With every mile, the stakes grow heavier, and the line between justice and vengeance becomes harder to see.
Across trading posts, settlements, and lonely stretches of open land, alliances shift and tempers flare. Settlers whisper of uprisings. Merchants close their doors early. And the name of the escaped colonel begins to echo like a storm rolling in from the horizon.
Set against a land where memory is long and justice rides hard, this new chapter in the Legends of the West series follows Bass Reeves as he tracks a danger that threatens far more than one town or one badge. It marks a turning point in a struggle shaping the future of the frontier—one forged in grit, shadows, and the relentless pursuit of what is right.
In the untamed frontier of the Indian Territories, Deputy Marshal Bass Reeves rides a fine line between justice and survival. Tasked with tracking down fugitives and bringing law to a lawless land, Reeves is a man of few words and swift action. Alongside his partner, Lighthorse lawman David Walks-As-Bear, he faces a brutal landscape where outlaws rule and the weak are left behind. But when rumors of a gold shipment set the criminal underworld on edge, Reeves finds himself on a collision course with a gang of ruthless bandits—and a mysterious Irishman named Donovan who’s more than just another gunslinger.
As the sun beats down on the dusty town of Temptation, alliances shift, bullets fly, and the line between legend and reality blurs. In a place where dime novels paint heroes and villains with broad strokes, Reeves knows that justice isn’t always black and white—it’s written in blood, grit, and the thunder of galloping hooves.
Step into a world of high-stakes showdowns, frontier justice, and larger-than-life figures who shaped the Wild West. Legends of the West delivers the thrill of the chase, the weight of the badge, and the unforgettable ride of a man who became a legend in his own time.
Shannon Delaney always lived in the shadow of her twin sister, Sarah. Sarah is brilliant, beautiful, and bound for Berkeley, while Shannon is unsure, overlooked, and heading nowhere fast. The only thing that’s ever been hers is Frankie—her best friend since fifth grade, the one boy who saw her for who she really was.
But now Frankie is slipping away, drawn into Sarah’s orbit as they compete together in a high-stakes math tournament. Then something strange happens. A mysterious blue light glows from an old glass paperweight by Shannon’s bed, revealing ghostly visions—of snow, of love, of heartbreak. She tries to convince herself it’s just a dream, but the feeling won’t fade. The glass may be showing her the truth.
As Shannon watches her world shift—her sister’s secrets, Frankie’s choices, her own unraveling sense of self—one thing becomes clear: the hardest truths aren’t always the ones others hide. They’re the ones buried inside.
After Olympic sharpshooter Angel Meade is shot at a competition in Beijing, her fiancé, forensic expert Ridge Warner, donates blood to save her life. Then, a mysterious DNA report throws their relationship into chaos. Angel becomes distant, secretive. Ridge knows she’s hiding something, but has no inkling of what it could be.
Back in the mountain town of Woodland Park, Colorado, Ridge tries to settle in—but peace doesn’t last. A pastor is found murdered inside his church in a shocking and disturbing scene. Ridge is asked to help with the investigation, and within hours, he’s nearly killed by a hidden explosive. All signs point to something darker happening beneath the surface of this small mountain town. People are lying. People are dying. And Ridge finds himself at the center of it all.
As the story unfolds, trust becomes a fragile thing. Relationships are tested. Loyalties shift. The deeper Ridge digs, the more tangled the truth becomes. Beneath the surface of this quiet town, something dark is pushing forward, and Ridge must confront the possibility that the truth may come at a cost he’s not ready to pay.
From the Low Countries comes a high-stakes collection of crime fiction.
In Dutch Treats, the shadows stretch long and the tension runs deep. This gripping collection brings together twenty-one stories by some of the most celebrated crime writers in The Netherlands and Flanders—authors whose names are household words in Europe and whose work has won top awards like Holland's Golden Noose and Belgium's Hercule Poirot Prize.
These stories are sharp, surprising, and expertly told. Each is a stand-alone mystery, translated with care by editor Josh Pachter, a well-known name in the world of short crime fiction. They explore everything from quiet deception to bold, dangerous choices—with characters who are clever, reckless ... and sometimes just unlucky.
This isn’t merely one more mystery collection. It’s a showcase of major talent, featuring heavy hitters like René Appel, Michael Berg, Dominique Biebau, Bavo Dhooge, Hilde Vandermeeren, and Marion Pauw, to name a few. Their stories have appeared in the world’s most respected mystery magazines, and now, for the first time, they’re gathered in one exciting volume.
For readers who enjoy clever plots, moody settings, and a fresh perspective on crime, Dutch Treats is an unforgettable read.
Every parent believes they’d sacrifice anything for their children. The Ashes of Us dares readers to explore the true cost of that belief. When Addison McCall, a brilliant college student, is brutally assaulted, she turns to her father with an reprehensible request. She believes that ending her perpetrator’s life is the only way to find peace. Dr. David McCall, a respected clinical pathologist, possesses the means, medical knowledge, and skill to carry out her chilling plea. Driven by love, guilt, and a desperate need to protect his daughter, Dr. McCall steps into a moral abyss that could destroy his soul, and the very bond they share.
In her gripping second novel, The Ashes of Us, Dr. Ashley Baker, PsyD (author and clinical psychologist), navigates themes of generational trauma, the power of paternal love, and the devastating price of seeking justice.
Chicago Cop Stacey Macbeth had ended Lonnie Huggins’ reign of terror when he sent the vicious criminal to prison. Now, however, a non-for-profit team of investigators has freed him back into the real world on some trumped up allegations of misconduct on the part of Macbeth. Word on the street is that Huggins is out and looking to settle some old scores, starting with Macbeth. With innocents caught in the crosshairs, Macbeth vows once more to bring Huggins to justice, setting the stage for a head-to-head confrontation where the rule book has been hurled from the window. Both men embark on a collision course in which each is seeking his own brand of Chicago Justice, knowing that this time there will be only one left standing.
5.0from 9 readers
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<div class="element-number case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">6</span></div>
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<h1 class="element-title case-mixed">Motives</h1>
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<h2 id="subhead-1" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-mixed">TUESDAY 1330 Hours</h2>
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-after-subhead first-with-first-letter-t"><span class="first-letter first-letter-t first-letter-without-punctuation">T</span>he door to the 27<sup>th</sup> Ward Alderman’s office on Chicago Avenue opened, jangling the bells behind the glass. A black man in his early thirties stepped through from the street, dressed conservatively in a navy suit. Mavis Stomps watched from the back of the room under the switched-off overhead lights. She knew who he was but had only met him once since he’d come to his church as pastor. By all accounts, people seemed to believe he ran his church in Cabrini-Green for the glory of the Almighty and no personal agenda.</p>
<p class="subsq">He was average height and weight and wore rimless glasses, and no jewelry. He had a smooth, caramel complexion and a close-cut beard matching a trimmed Afro. Everything about him was church conservative. As he stepped up to the receptionist’s desk, she saw that he carried himself with confidence.</p>
<p class="subsq">The girl working the front of the office looked up. Mavis snubbed out her cigarette on the window sill and blew the smoke toward the back of the hallway.</p>
<p class="subsq">“May I help you?” the girl said in a nasally voice that just irked Mavis to no end.</p>
<p class="subsq">“My name is Turner Galbreath. I’m here to see the alderman.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Mavis stepped from the shadows toward him. “Ah, Reverend Galbreath, thank you for coming.” She extended her hand as she got close.</p>
<p class="subsq">His manicured hand took hers, his grip strong and calloused.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Let’s go in back. We can talk.” She gestured for him to follow.</p>
<p class="subsq">Her office, paneled in dark wood, was Spartan, containing a worn desk and a couple of plastic chairs. The desk had come from another closed school, which had been another loss for her ward and her community. The plastic chairs were the white stackable variety. She led Galbreath in and shut the door before taking her seat behind the desk.</p>
<p class="subsq">“I know you’re a busy man. So I really appreciate your stopping by.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He settled into one of the chairs and looked around before nodding.</p>
<p class="subsq">Given his silence, she continued, “I have been a bit slow getting together with my ministers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">His stare bore into her as if she had his undivided, borderline hostile attention. He must be an effective preacher with a look like that. “Your ministers?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You know, Reverend, the ministers in the ward is what I’m saying.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I see. Please forgive my cautious nature, but I’ve been quite disappointed with public servants of late.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Really?” She found herself wishing she’d taken the opportunity to slam a little more whiskey, but perhaps a clear mind was needed. The good reverend might prove a little challenging.</p>
<p class="subsq">Elbows poised on the arms of the plastic chair, Galbreath steepled his fingers in front of him. “As assistant chairwoman of the police/fire committee, I’m sure you’ve heard about our picketing.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“As a matter of fact, that’s why I wanted to see you.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He settled back into the chair and seemed to want her to continue, but finally went on when she didn’t. “We’ve called and left quite a few messages with your office. We’d like to see you join us on the picket line.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Perhaps.” She weighed the option of a photo op. “But I prefer to work behind the scenes, where I can do more good as an elected official.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s all well and good,” he said. “Your community would benefit by seeing you standing with us. Seeking those very same answers you say you’re looking for.” He made quote marks in the air. “Behind the scenes.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“My people know I’m at work.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do they?” he asked. “I can assure you that those members of our community who stand with me are skeptical.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Mavis felt her blood pressure begin to rise. “I promise you I do labor on behalf of the constituents of my ward and I don’t appreciate anyone saying I don’t.” She crossed her legs under the desk and laid her hands in her lap, to keep them from betraying her rage. “I work tirelessly for my people.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I didn’t come to level allegations.” Galbreath smiled. “Just telling you what some of ‘your people,’”—he made the quotation gesture again—“have said in my presence. Though, I shouldn’t think an alderman as powerful as yourself cares what a few picketers think or say.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I do care, though.” She clinched her hands in front of her face.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Don’t you see?” she said. “That’s how this mayor works, dividing the people.” She pointed at him. “First you’re out there saying the poh-leece did this or the poh-leece did that, but then slowly you start saying, ‘Where’s Alderman Stomps?’ Next thing you know, the poh-leece is all but forgotten and I’m on the hot seat.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Galbreath took a deep breath and slowly released it. “You seem a little defensive, Alderman.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Damn right.” She stood for effect. “Damn right I’m defensive.” She quieted a little. “Wouldn’t you be? Man I invite into my inner sanctum, accuses me of sitting on my hands, letting my people down, when he don’t know jack about what I’m doing or why I asked him to stop by in the first place. But that’s how this mayor likes to divide the people. I can’t stand it and won’t put up with it.” She tried to look like she was calming herself down. “Sorry I cursed, Reverend, but I get riled up.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He watched her, like he was trying to decide to believe her or what to say, maybe both. “Okay. Why did you invite me?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You are leading the group picketing the poh-leece and I was wondering what is it you want to know?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“It hasn’t changed since we began. We’re demanding answers about the circumstances surrounding the death of Antwan Simms.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I know that part, IAD has reopened the investigation. But you know that, too. What else?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What else?” The man brought a certain majesty to the plastic chair in his lack of movement.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yes, what else are you looking for? You already know the cops have reopened the case. So that’s not what you’re protesting for. What else?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Nothing, other than Antwan’s mother deserves to know how her son died, and the police should know already. That’s it.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“C’mon, don’t play me, Reverend. There’s always some other reason, what’s yours?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I don’t know what you’re driving at.” His head moved very little. “You mean an ulterior motive?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah, something like that. What is it?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I can assure you that we’re seeking answers on behalf of Ms. Collins. She’s a right to know the truth about her son’s death. We know there’s more to the story than we’ve been told, including allegations that Antwan might’ve been thrown from that building. There’s supposedly a witness. If anyone has a right to know the truth, it’s the boy’s mother.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Okay.” Mavis settled back into her chair. The honest and righteous were pretty damned dangerous, but they could be useful. She smiled. “Good. I want to applaud what you’re doing, Reverend. In fact, I asked you in here to encourage you to continue and protest more. Maybe escalate things a little, make the poh-leece and the media recognize that you’re serious. What do you need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you need more people? Signs? A loudspeaker? What do you need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I think I’ve got all we need. We’re looking for answers, not trouble.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I bet you could use some more bodies. Everyone can use more bodies. I can provide you with those bodies. The media loves to see a crowd. I might be able to arrange a little more coverage, too. You’ve got to work with me is all.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“And you’ll be working behind the scenes?” he asked.</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s right. The more pressure you can bring to bear on the superintendent and the mayor, the easier it’ll be for me to get your answers. And maybe even effect a little change in the process. And I will be there with you as well, tomorrow in fact.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What are <i>your</i> ulterior motives, Alderman, if I may ask?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Sure. Sure, you can ask, Reverend.” She sat forward and put her elbows on the table, leaning toward him like a co-conspirator. “We need to bring some change to the way the poh-leece do business in our community. If we lie down and take it, they’ll just keep on kicking us in the teeth. I think it’s going to remain open season on black people until that change comes about.” <i>Not to mention</i>, she thought, <i>getting rid of that pompous ass white superintendent and getting a right-thinking man of color to replace him</i>. Someone she could exert some control over. “I need for there to be pressure on Plumb and the mayor, both media and community pressure. If we can stir up some interest, we’ll be able to rally others to our cause and that’ll add up to even more pressure from all fronts. That’s the only thing these people respond to.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Really? And what change is it that you hope to inspire?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“That they treat us with the respect we deserve as a community and that our rights aren’t trampled on like just some more garbage in the street. That a black man can leave his home and not be afraid of the poh-leece.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’m not afraid of the police,” he said. “A lot more innocent people are gunned down by gang members than by police. My issue. Well, our issue, at least the issue we’re trying to address, is about a particular incident, a particular officer, and perhaps a cover-up. I realize the police have their hands full, but on the whole, I have a lot fewer problems with them than those drug dealing, gun toting gangbangers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Reverend, you mean to tell me that when a poh-leece car drives by you with two white cops in it you don’t get nervous? C’mon now?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I don’t think I’m any more likely to be stopped by white officers than by black officers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You’re wrong, sir.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“If anything, it’s a power thing, or a covering for one of your own when something goes wrong thing, not just a black-white thing,” Galbreath said.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Reverend,” Stomps said. “This is Chicago. Everything, and I mean <i>everything</i>, is black and white. You feel me?”</p>
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A serene evening walk takes an ominous turn for Kendi Liston when he stumbles upon a lifeless woman in the shadows of his apartment building. Faced with a haunting choice—to help or to protect himself from inevitable suspicion—Kendi makes the fateful decision to report the discovery. But in a world where his identity often precedes him, this single act of integrity may cost him everything.
As the investigation unfolds, Kendi becomes entangled in a web of prejudices, assumptions, and danger. Officers Regan and Crowe, both battling their own demons, approach the case with opposing philosophies that escalate tension and risk. Witness accounts and evidence intertwine in ways that challenge perceptions of guilt and innocence, leaving no character untouched by the consequences.
This gripping narrative explores the weight of truth, the complexity of identity, and the silent battles fought in every interaction. With masterful pacing and profound emotional depth, Right There in Black and White immerses readers in a world where every choice matters and nothing is as simple as it seems.
Stacey Macbeth knows the streets of Chicago better than anyone, but his beat is like no other—Cabrini Green, one of the most infamous housing projects in America. As a tactical officer, Macbeth works to keep peace in a place ruled by gang violence and a constant undercurrent of fear. But when a major drug shipment disappears, the delicate balance of power shatters. Determined to recover their missing stash, a ruthless gang begins a trail of violence that threatens to spill beyond the neighborhood, endangering the entire city.
Caught in a high-stakes race against time, Macbeth and his team must navigate the treacherous web of Cabrini’s factions to stop the gang before it’s too late. In a world where every decision can mean life or death, Macbeth’s resolve is tested as the streets he’s sworn to protect erupt in chaos.
Drawing on firsthand experience from his years as a Chicago police officer, Dave Case paints a vivid, unflinching portrait of life on the front lines. Gritty, intense, and deeply authentic, Out of Cabrini captures the human drama and explosive action of a city in crisis. With lives hanging in the balance, the story builds to a gripping, unforgettable climax.
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<div class="element-number case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">7</span></div>
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<h1 class="element-title case-mixed">The Preliminary Hearing</h1>
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<h2 class="element-subtitle case-mixed">0930 Hours—Monday</h2>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-i"><span class="first-letter first-letter-i first-letter-without-punctuation">I</span>t was a Monday morning in Branch 42, a satellite felony courtroom at Belmont and Western, part of the Circuit Court of Cook County. It was crowded, but it always was, particularly on a Monday. It stank, too. The heater was going full bore. The place smelled of stale sweat and… funk, and this in the dead of winter, too.</p>
<p class="subsq">Judge Margarette Coleman-Brown slid her reading glasses to the end of her nose. She wanted to take a deep breath, but she didn’t dare. Not when it reeked like it did. Instead, she sat back in her chair. How she hated the beginning of the week.</p>
<p class="subsq">She had recognized that her sour moods were no longer contained to just Monday mornings. Her disposition began to darken as the afternoon waned on Sunday. It wasn’t fair to her family; they were suffering from her crabbiness. She had begun to doubt whether a felony trial room was worth the price, but doing bond hearings and prelims was a necessary step to get there. Yeah, life would be good then. There weren’t many black female trial jurists. She didn’t see how they could pass her again. The next seat had to be hers. It had better come soon, though.</p>
<p class="subsq">She sighed and wondered if a fan might not help with the odor. But stirred-up funk was still just that. It occurred to her that the bench sat up high in the room. Was funk hot air? Or did the hot air rise and bring the odor with it? She could get lower in the room, but then she’d be closer to the source. This wasn’t getting her call handled. She gave a nod to her clerk. “Let’s get the in-custodies out of the way next.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The clerk flipped the last in-custody file open. “Mister Sheriff, bring out Alonzo Huggins.” The holding cell door clanged open and two deputies escorted a black man out. He was wearing a Department of Correction tan jumpsuit with the sleeves ripped off to expose arms that were thick with prison muscle. His hair was pulled tight in cornrows. She hated that style. It looked stupid and was associated too strongly with the whole “thug life” motif. If that wasn’t enough, the man wore on his face an expression of utter contempt. She couldn’t tell if it was meant for her personally or just for the whole legal system in general.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Are you Alonzo Huggins?” she asked, as the man was brought in front of her. Jailhouse tattoos ran up and down his arms. He made her uncomfortable. And that was hard to do. “You will either say yes or no.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.” Huggins flexed his hands. The sheriff’s deputies must’ve felt the same way about him. There were two, where one usually sufficed.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you live at 1150 North Sedgwick, apartment 1301?” This day couldn’t be over quick enough for her. She had to admit, though, she was glad this asshole wasn’t going anywhere. He looked like a real piece of work.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you have an attorney, Mr. Huggins?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who’s your attorney?” She had to admit to being a little surprised. What self-respecting member of the bar would want this guy as a client? Then again, were there any self-respecting attorneys to begin with?</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Sherman Gold.”</p>
<p class="subsq">She raised an eyebrow. Ah, that’s who. Gold was in it for the money. No. Not just the money. He liked the glory, too. The action too, or, as she was sure he would say, the challenge. Huggins must have quite a bit to have Gold for his counsel. “Is Mr. Gold going to be here today?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“He outta town.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Public Defender appointed for the purpose of the preliminary hearing,” she said to the court reporter. But she had briefly entertained the thought of giving Huggins a date. She’d just as soon not see him any more today. It was bad enough, as it was.</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s bullsh… I want my lawyer!” Huggins raised his voice. He turned to the Public Defender’s bench. Steven Reifman, the courtroom’s PD, sat at the table. He was a skinny, nearly-bald white man in a brown, wrinkled suit two sizes too big for him. He looked like what she expected Bob Cratchet to look like. Overworked and underpaid. But, he was still a good, competent attorney.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins, you’re not getting a continuance. Public Defender appointed. Take him in the back, Mr. Sheriff.”</p>
<p class="subsq">She sighed, feeling worn out. Maybe Traffic Court would be a better alternative.</p>
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<p class="ornamental-break-as-text">* * *</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Steven Reifman took</span> his stack of court files from the clerk and sat down at the Public Defender’s table. There were a lot of cases, as usual. He was handling the call without a partner, as usual. At least his day wasn’t as bad as it seemed the judge was having. Then again, most of her Mondays were crappy.</p>
<p class="subsq">He quickly looked through the folders. Since he’d worked in the office for twelve years, he’d come to know what to look for. This group of defendants was typical, except for Alonzo Huggins. Maybe it was going to be an interesting call, after all. He put the Huggins file on the top and stood.</p>
<p class="subsq">He walked behind the bench to the detention area. The sheriff just nodded at him as he passed. As he got close to the holding cell, Huggins stood. He’d been sitting on the metal bench: big, mean-looking, muscular, with a face that would freeze the heart of the bravest rabbi, particularly his eyes. Alonzo Huggins had absolutely frightening eyes. Like death whacked-out on crack.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’m the PD appointed to represent you today. My name is Steven Reifman. I’m going to be your attorney.” He opened the file but couldn’t bring himself to look into those eyes staring at him through the lock-up bars. He waited for some kind of indication that Huggins had heard him. There was none. So he had to look up. Shit. “I said I’m representing you.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What charges?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Two counts Unlawful Use of a Weapon.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What ‘bout my car?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Well, let’s see.” Reifman scanned the case report. “It seems, Mr. Huggins, that your car was towed and impounded. It’s the law now that if you get caught with a gun, they can confiscate your vehicle.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Reifman compared the case and arrest reports for discrepancies. None. Huggins had been caught the day after release from prison with not one, but two, handguns. Reifman became aware of Huggins standing within feet of him, staring. He felt the skin on his forehead start to burn. He knew Huggins could reach through the bars and snap his neck.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who tricked on me?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Excuse me?” Reifman took a step back.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who gave me up?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I can’t tell from these reports.” Reifman looked up, but stared at the bridge of Huggins’ nose to avoid eye contact.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Give me some paper and something to write with. I got to get a message to my boys.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins, really.” Reifman grew brave. He lifted the files in front of his chest, as if they would protect him from the cold chill that gripped his heart. “I can’t give you anything to write with while you’re in the bullpen and, even if I did, I would have to read it first. If it contained any criminal content, I’d have to disclose that to the State’s Attorney. I’ll not be a party to a criminal conspiracy.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The clank of the lock-up door echoed throughout the holding area. Reifman took another step back and looked over his shoulder. The man entering the detention area was white, in his middle to late forties, and almost glowed with a golden hue. No salon tan. He had long salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a ponytail and was dressed in a tailored Italian suit. Reifman stole a glance at Huggins. The monster was smiling; one gold tooth showed.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Good morning, Lonnie,” the man said, approaching. “I’m Sherman Gold, Mr. Huggins’ private counsel. Nice to meet you.” He held out his well-tanned hand, decked out in gold and diamond rings.</p>
<p class="subsq">Reifman was surprised. But recovered well enough to hand Gold the Huggins’ court file, instead of his hand. Better to be done with this one, anyway. A little too interesting, thank you very much.</p>
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<p class="ornamental-break-as-text">* * *</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Sherman Gold opened</span> the file and read. Finished, he turned to make sure no one was within earshot.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Not good, Lonnie,” he whispered. “Out Friday, pinched Saturday.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I got to get my car back.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“We’re going to have to beat the case first. Might. Might get it back.” Even Gold felt uncomfortable giving Lonnie Huggins bad news. “There’s a different standard at the impound hearing. It’s only a preponderance of the evidence, not beyond a doubt anymore. On the face of it, I’d say that you’re screwed.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Man, fuck all that. I got to get my motherfuckin’ car!”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold fancied he could feel the heat from Huggins. He’d caught a last-minute flight from his Palm Springs home, cutting short his winter getaway, just to represent this client. He was well aware of the compensation he had received from representing the Mickey Cobras, but the money carried risk. Taking it was dancing with the devil; the fire was always there, so you could get burned by the slightest misstep.</p>
<p class="subsq">“What happens if we lose the case?” Huggins asked.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Well, you’ll go to prison on the violation, and they’ll try you for the gun case.” He looked up at his client, definitely the worst of the worst.</p>
<p class="subsq">“No, what be happenin’ to my car?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Sold at an auction, more than likely.” Gold watched as Huggins grabbed the bars. The muscles in his arms bunched and swelled, but the bars held.</p>
<p class="subsq">“You got to tell my boys something for me,” Huggins said. “We got to be getting’ that car back. Shit still be in the motherfucker. Tell ‘em I be calling Boo’s.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold nodded and turned to walk back out to the courtroom. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “I just don’t see them being able to do anything about it. Not right now.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Hold the fuck up,” said Huggins. “Who gave me up?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Says here,” Gold said as he read from the case report, “that a concerned but unknown citizen flagged down the officers, after seeing you get into your car with the gun sticking out of your pants.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Huggins smirked, shaking his head. “Now, ain’t that some motherfuckin’ bullshit.”</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">The hearing took</span> place ten minutes later. There was a finding of Probable Cause and a filing of the Violation of Parole. Gold wasn’t surprised in the least. He’d better plan for a jury. His client would be doomed at a bench trial.</p>
<p class="subsq">He put on his cashmere coat, draped a scarf over his shoulders, packed up his briefcase, and picked up his wool cap off the bench. As he walked out through the courtroom, he nodded at the woman with the swollen face and yellow hair. He remembered her from Huggins’ last court case; she must be his girlfriend. The title apparently carried some penalties. Gold had a hard time looking at her left eye, which was swollen shut.</p>
<p class="subsq">There were two young teenagers with her. They must be the young men Huggins spoke of. Gold couldn’t help but wonder what kind of criminal backgrounds they must possess. Job security, no doubt.</p>
<p class="subsq">The entourage followed him from the courtroom to a secluded corner. The young men stepped in front of the woman. They didn’t identify themselves, nor were they asked to. The young man on the left crossed his arms and stared at him. The one on the right chewed at his thumbnail and looked at Gold with the eyes of a tired, old man.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Boo?” asked Gold. The man on the right nodded, still chewing on his nail.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins asked me to deliver a message to you.” Gold thought for a second. How could he say this without saying it? He was a lawyer; it should be easy. Yet, it had to be within their ability to understand. It’d have to be practically spelled out and that, of course, was a good way to get into trouble. “He wanted me to tell you that he’s concerned about some… property he left in his car. He’s hoping that you’ll be able to get it back for him. He’ll call you at Boo’s apartment.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Boo stopped gnawing his fingernail long enough to shoot a glance at the other man. He nodded back. Boo dropped his hand. As he spoke, he looked away, talking into the corner of the lobby. “So, Lonnie only be charged with them guns, not no drugs, right?”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold nodded his head. You just couldn’t be subtle these days. The sun of Palm Springs seemed like an eternity ago. He looked out the window and watched the snow fall. Traffic was going to be terrible on his way back to his office, and his calendar was empty for the next two weeks. Wonderful.</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Latricia Gibbons’</span> swollen mouth twisted into a grin after Boo and Dease had walked by. A trickle of blood ran into her mouth from her split lip. The attorney began to bundle up. He told her that he was doing everything he could for Lonnie. Things was looking up. Shit, things could still be worse; he could get Lonnie out.</p>
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The ten victims in The Furious Others lived ordinary lives until serial killer Jason LeDown entered stage left, knife in hand, with a belly full of bad intentions. That’s where fear is found, in the space between a typical Friday and a man intent on murder. The fictional characters in The Furious Others depict real people: mothers, lovers, hip-hop aficionados, and green thumbs, united by the tragedy of lost lives.
Author and clinical psychologist Dr. Ashley Baker PSYD envisions a fictional world where the murderer is not the main character in the serial killer trope. Instead of exploring Jason Le Down’s methods of madness, Dr. Baker chooses to honor the victims rather than romanticize monsters.
As a condition of Jason’s LeDown’s purgatory, those he harmed reflect on their humanity, proving they’re more than crime scene photos or roadside crosses. In this multiple point of view novel, the deceased blaze a fast-paced trail, recounting their last moments, with tentacles of grief stretching across timelines.
In The Furious Others, Dr. Baker, drawing from her own experience of devastating loss, paints a vivid picture of collective trauma and sorrow. The quest for closure drives the story to its gripping conclusion, making The Furious Others a powerful testament to the strength of the human spirit.
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Step into the gritty world of crime and consequence with award-winning author Lou Manfredo's first collection. "A Dozen Ways to Die" offers twelve meticulously crafted tales that span the breadth of American history and the depths of human nature.
From the smoky speakeasies of Prohibition to the neon-lit streets of modern cities, Manfredo's stories peel back the layers of morality, justice, and the human condition. Meet a cast of unforgettable characters: hardboiled detectives, conflicted soldiers, cunning gangsters, and ordinary people facing extraordinary choices.
Among the twelve stories in this collection, "The Alimony Prison" is a Prohibition-era tale of corruption and survival; "Last Call" is a poignant exploration of a World War II soldier's moral struggle; and "Soul Anatomy" is a contemporary story that delves into the complexities of police shootings and ethical dilemmas.
Manfredo's prose crackles with authenticity, drawing on his extensive experience in law enforcement to paint vivid, realistic portraits of crime and its consequences. His unique blend of classic noir sensibilities and modern storytelling creates a collection that is both timeless and timely.
"A Dozen Ways to Die" is more than just a collection of crime fiction—it's a journey through the darker corners of the American experience, where the lines between right and wrong blur and every choice has a price.
Perfect for fans of Raymond Chandler, Dennis Lehane, and anyone who appreciates finely crafted crime fiction that goes beyond the surface to explore the complexities of the human psyche.
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1880. In the actual Contention City, Sheriff Lon Dayton is contacted by the notorious Dutch Bascom regarding the territorial governor’s proclamation of amnesty for Bascom and his gang. Dayton has no choice but to walk the tightrope balancing the alleged intentions of the outlaws against the promises of the unscrupulous politicians and railroad men who claim to be in favor of the outlaw’s surrender. But are they really?
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Something is moving beneath the complex. Animals are getting sick. Workers are having accidents. And when disaster rips through Sunnyvale, the people who built their lives around the food chain suddenly find themselves on the wrong end of it.
Cleaners, butchers, security guards, office staff, and one disgraced veterinarian must fight to survive under the ruthless command of CEO John MacDonald. But at Sunnyvale, survival has always come at a cost.
It’s 1984 in West Germany when U.S. Army Counter-Intelligence Agent Conrad Vogel gets a routine assignment—a background check on a low-level enlisted soldier. Expecting little to come of it, he soon uncovers the GI’s relationship with a German barmaid—a barmaid who knows much more than she should and people that she shouldn’t, and what appeared to be routine suddenly becomes anything but.
With the Soviet Union and its Warsaw Pact nations still a potent threat to the Free World, and terrorist bombings and assassinations in full swing against military personnel, Conrad sets out to unravel a web of espionage, betrayal, and murder.
Former Navy SEAL Jack Landis may have taken on more than he can handle. While investigating a relatively simple slaughter of animals in Iraq, what he finds is an empty field with large pools of blood surrounded by mysterious scorch marks. It doesn’t take him long to conclude that the scorches could have been made by extremely powerful laser weapons. The resources it would take to build and deploy weaponry like that far exceeds what the Iraqis could muster. So the question becomes, who fired these weapons?
Back in Washington, CIA Deputy Director Richard North is outraged when he is passed over for the top job, a job that he had earned. Lou Pendleton is a buffoon and political lackey and won’t be hard to disgrace. But North quickly finds that Pendleton isn’t as easy to knock off the top spot as he had thought. When scandal doesn’t work, North turns to more extreme measures, putting the United States and thousands of lives in harm’s way.
Pendleton asks Jack to take on the responsibility for tracking down North and stopping him. This leads Landis to Russia and the Middle East, where he must rely on his training, instincts, and a network of allies, some more reliable than others, to navigate the labyrinth of clues to stop North from precipitating World War III.
In this chilling collection, prolific short story writer David Dean turns his talents to tales of suspense and the supernatural. Nominated for Edgar, Derringer, and Barry Awards, as well as twice winning Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine’s prestigious Readers Award, Dean proves here that he’s no stranger to an even darker world than that of crime fiction. Her Terrible Beauty and Other Tales of Terror and the Supernatural offers a variety of stories that will amply demonstrate his talent for the terrifying.
A writer who decides to winter over at his family’s lake cottage discovers that an unsettling local legend contains much more than a kernel of truth, in war-torn Bosnia a company of Serbian soldiers happen upon a village like no other they have encountered… and wish they hadn’t, and a student of Edgar Allan Poe’s literature uncovers the real reason why three roses and a bottle of Cognac are left on his grave every January 19th.
Her Terrible Beauty and Other Tales of Terror and the Supernatural is the third volume in the collected short fiction of David Dean.
Up-and-coming Amsterdam lawyer David Driessen thinks he’s hit the jackpot when a wealthy client showers him with praise, glamour, and plenty of money. But David learns far too late that every gift from the shady realtor comes with a catch—and a price tag. As his gambling addiction, his constant need for cash, and his wife’s infidelities combine to drag him deeper and deeper into his client’s twisted world of money and despair, David struggles to stay ahead of it all… before his time runs out.
In The Amsterdam Lawyer, René Appel—two-time winner of the Golden Noose, the Netherlands’ equivalent of the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Allan Poe Award—once again demonstrates the skill that led leading Dutch daily newspaper Algemeen Dagblad to proclaim him “the godfather of the Dutch psychological thriller.”
“A fascinating novel, bubbling over with greed, mistrust, and ruthlessness.” Gijs Korevaar, Algemeen Dagblad
"René Appel is a first-rate Dutch crime writer. The Amsterdam Lawyer is a compelling and twisted legal thriller, the first of what will hopefully be many of his books to appear in English." Steve Steinbock, reviewer for Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
The Amsterdam Lawyer is translated from the Dutch by Josh Pachter.
