Thursday, September 18, 2014

October's Line-Up AND The Reading Frenzy's 500 Facebook Likes GIVEAWAY!!

Well the weather is finally turning cooler, the leaves are just taking on their beautiful Autumn colors and as you get ready for all those ghosts and goblins, Prince and Princesses to show up at your door on the 31st take a break and check out my October line-up.

But first I'd like to thank all my fans
Facebook and otherwise by having a
The prize is 5 recently released novels and a $10.00 Amazon Gift Card
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To Enter use the Rafflecopter form below
Good Luck!!

Now on to the October Line-UP

October 1st - Interview with author John Lutz-Frenzy

October 2nd - Interview with Michael Siemsen-Exingency (which is our January Goodreads book club selection so stay tuned for more information)

October 7th - Partners In Crime Blond Cargo by John Lansing Book Blast

October 8th - The Edison Effect Showcase Partners In Crime Blog Tours

October 15th - My Monthly GoneReading Showcase which in case you didn't know is the philanthropic reading accessory site I partner with.

October 20th - Bitter Greens by Kate Forsyth Interview + Giveaway sponsored by St. Martin's Press

October 21st - Interview with Joe Clifford- Lamant + Giveaway

October 22nd - Contest for Jennifer Armentrout - Stone Cold Touch - Where readers choose which hero the heroine chooses to end up with.

October 30th - Interview with Kat Latham - Tempting The Player

Remember there are always add ons so check in every day for fantastic interviews/giveaways and blog tours.

Enjoy Your October!!

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Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Partners In Crime blog tour Cornered by Alan Brenham - Interview - Giveaway

Welcome to my stop on the Partners In Crime Blog Tour for Cornered by Alan Brenham. Enjoy our interview and don't forget to enter the contest below!
Thanks for stopping by!


by Alan Brenham

on Tour September 2014

Cornered by Alan Brenham

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Published by: Black Opal Books
Publication Date: July 19, 2014
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 9781626941380/9781626941373
Purchase Links:


He’s haunted by the memory of a kidnapping case gone wrong…
Not wanting history to repeat itself, Detective Matt Brady struggles to solve the disappearances of seven young women, but he quickly finds himself pitted against a criminal organization that knows as much about police procedure as he does—an organization that will do whatever it takes to stay one step ahead of him. His troubles are compounded when a young veterinarian injects herself into the investigation and is targeted to become victim number eight. When he tries to protect her, he finds himself in the crosshairs of a professional cop killer. Can Brady solve the case in time to save his new love, or will this investigation be the death of both of them?


"Alan Brenham’s Cornered is a taunt thriller filled with murderous twists and turns that will satisfy readers who love good crime fiction. As a cop and a lawyer, Brenham has been there and done that and in this, his second outing, the authenticity of his storytelling ability continues to shine through." - Michael McGarrity, New York Times Bestselling Author of Hard Country & Backlands

Read an excerpt:

Brady moved next to Killebrew. “So you find anything?”
“No prints. But we did find a nine millimeter shell casing outside.” He pointed at the door. “The witness said she used a key to open the door when Becker failed to answer the doorbell.”
Brady knelt down next to the body and peered at her head. One apparent gunshot wound above the right eye. Her half-opened dilated pupils stared straight up towards the ceiling.
Killebrew stepped close to the wall opposite the front door, pointing at a hole. Blood spatter was on the lower half of the wall. “We removed the bullet from here. The round appears to be a nine millimeter. Same as the shell casing.”
He stood up and surveyed the living room. The front window was covered with flowery-patterned drapes. A piano sat in the far corner by the front window. He was no expert on furniture but the furniture appeared to be fairly expensive pieces. He saw some mail lying on the coffee table. Using a pen, he sifted through it, checking the sender’s address, but nothing jumped out at him. A family portrait of her, an ordinary-looking man with narrow shoulders he assumed was Burt Smith, and twins—a girl and a boy—sat on the end of the table.

 Interview with Alan

Alan Welcome to The Reading Frenzy.
The cover on your new novel Cornered is fantastic.
Did you have any say in the choosing and do you think it represents your novel well?
Yes, I did. The artist created a draft cover image and from that point we went back and forth with changes until we finally agreed on the present cover. I wanted a different color and format arrangement than the one he did for Price of Justice. I think it does a fantastic job of depicting what Cornered is all about.

 Tell us a little about Cornered.
Cornered is a story about a small town detective trying hard to solve the disappearances of young women while trying to exorcise a long-time demon from a kidnapping case gone wrong. His efforts change his status from hunter to hunted. I chose Temple for the setting because I used to be a Temple PD detective and was very familiar with the city’s geography.

 Alan what a varied and distinguished career background you have in both law enforcement and being an attorney, both in the US and overseas. What do you think in your background most helps you in your being a novelist?
Thank you. My law enforcement experience opened a lot of doors allowing me to consult with other detectives in Texas. It’s been a while since I worked a criminal case from a law enforcement perspective so their help is very important.
My criminal trial experience both as a prosecutor and as a defense attorney gives me the ability to make the story more realistic. It also lessens the need for some fact-checking.

Alan Cornered is your second novel, your first novel Price of Justice was voted best in Police/Crime fiction from the Texas Association of Authors in 2013, a finalist in the Eric Hoffer Awards, and a finalist in the 2014 International Book Awards. Wow! Congratulations!
This is a hard act to follow. How did winning these awards affect the writing of the second novel Cornered? Or did it?
Thank you. They spurred me on to make Cornered even better. One always likes a pat on the back for a good job. I hope Cornered fares as well with readers and judges as Price of Justice did. Time will tell.

Alan you’re now working on your 4th novel. Has your writing changed from number one to now?
It’s my belief that one never stops learning. It was like that as a law enforcement officer - new ways of doing things. As an attorney, reading the latest cases and keeping up with court decisions which affected my own cases was a daily thing.
Now I spend non-writing hours studying a lot of different authors in the thriller genre - breaking down how their characters blend into the plot as well as techniques for creating and maintaining conflict and suspense. So, in answer to your question, I believe my writing has gotten better. The readers will be the final judges.

Alan do you write to a certain audience or do you think your novels cross the gender barrier?
I’ve written all three novels featuring strong male and female characters with a romantic twist added in so they would appeal to both genders. At the same time, these three novels, Price of Justice, Cornered, and Rampage, are aimed at an adult audience due to the language and the violence. My next novel, at least at this stage of planning, will seek a wider audience while still crossing the gender barrier.

Alan, Cornered has received some wonderful critical/editorial and reader reviews. As an author what’s your take on reviews? Do you think they help or hurt book sales?
Reviews, good or bad, are one person’s opinion of the worth of a book. That said, I believe those reviews are helpful to potential readers in deciding whether they want to purchase a certain book. But I don’t think they are the sole determining factor behind whether a reader buys this book instead of that one.     

Alan you’re a pretty connected author. How much time per day do you devote to social media/your website etc..
For me, it’s important to keep an active social media presence. As soon as I park myself and my cup of coffee in front of the computer monitor, my first stop are the social media pages - Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and Google+. During the course of an average day, I’ll spend most of the morning reading posts and connecting with both old and new followers.
Thank you so much for taking the time to answer these questions.
Good luck with this book and all your future endeavors.

Author Bio:

Alan Behr served as a law enforcement officer and criminal investigator for seventeen years before earning a law degree from Baylor University. After obtaining his law license, he worked as a prosecutor and criminal defense attorney for twenty-two years. His personal and official travels took him to several European and Middle Eastern countries, Alaska and almost every island in the Caribbean. He has lived in Berlin, Germany while working with US military forces. After retiring from government service, he has authored two crime novels - Price of Justice and Cornered - under the pen name of Alan Brenham. He is presently working on two more novels. Alan and his wife, Lillian, currently live in the Austin, Texas area.

Tour Participants:

To Sign up either complete the linky with your Blog Name, Requested Book Format, Requested Post Date(s) and how you'd like to Host (Review or Other Option) or email me at Thank you for your interest in this tour.


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Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Interview with NYT Bestseller Carla Neggers-Harbor Island + Review courtesy RT Reviews Magazine

Please welcome USA Today and NYT bestselling author Carla Neggers, a personal favorite who I'm lucky enough to review for RT Magazine. Carla is here today to talk about her latest Donovan and Sharpe novel Harbor Island and a little about her last Irish trip.
Carla Take it away!!!

  • ISBN-13: 9780778316534
  • Publisher: Harlequin
  • Publication date: 8/26/2014
  • Series: Sharpe & Donovan Series , #4
  • Pages: 352


In this vivid and suspenseful addition to her widely acclaimed Sharpe & Donovan series, New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers takes readers on a heart-stopping journey from Boston to Ireland to the rocky coast of Maine
Emma Sharpe, granddaughter of world-renowned art detective Wendell Sharpe, is a handpicked member of a small Boston-based FBI team. For the past decade Emma and her grandfather have been trailing an elusive serial art thief. The first heist was in Ireland, where an ancient Celtic cross was stolen. Now the Sharpes receive a replica of the cross after every new theft—reminding them of their continued failure to capture their prey.

Read an excerpt:

Boston, Massachusetts
As she wound down her run on the Boston waterfront, Emma Sharpe could feel the effects ofjet lag in every stride. Three days home from Dublin, she was still partly on Irish time and had awakened early on the cool November Saturday. She'd strapped her snub-nosed .38 onto her hip, slipped into her worn-out running shoes and was off. With less than a half mile left in her five-mile route, she was confident she hadn't been followed. Not that as an art-crimes specialist she was an expert at spotting a tail, but she was an FBI agent and knew the basics.
Matt Yankowski, the special agent in charge of the small Boston-based unit Emma had joined in March, hadn't minced words when he'd addressed his agents yesterday on a video conference call. "This Sharpe thief knows who we are. He knows where we work. It's also possible he knows where we live. If he doesn't, he could be trying to find out. Be extra vigilant." Yank had looked straight at Emma. "Especially you, Emma."
Yes. Especially her.
This Sharpe thief.
Well, it was true. She was, after all, the granddaughter of Wendell Sharpe, the octogenarian private art detective who had been on the trail of this particular serial art thief for a decade. Her brother, Lucas, now at the helm of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, was also deeply involved in the stepped-up search for their thief, a clever, brazen individual—probably a man—who had managed to elude capture since his first heist in a small village on the south Irish coast.
Emma slowed her pace and turned onto the wharf where she had a small, ground-level apartment in a three-story brick building that had once been a produce warehouse. Her front windows looked out on a marina that shared the wharf. A nice view, but people passing by to get to their boats would often stop outside her windows for a chat, a cigarette, a phone call. Although she'd grown up on the water in southern Maine, she hadn't expected her Boston apartment to be such a fishbowl when she'd snapped it up in March, weeks before the boating season.
Had the thief peeked in her windows one day?
She ducked into her apartment, expecting to find Colin still in bed or on the sofa drinking coffee. Special Agent Colin Donovan. A deep-cover agent, another Mainer and her fiancé as of four days ago. He'd proposed to her in a Dublin pub. "Emma Sharpe, I'm madly in love with you, and I want to be with you forever."
She smiled at the memory as she checked the cozy living area, bedroom and bathroom. Colin wasn't anywhere in the 300-square-foot apartment they now more or less shared. Then she found the note he'd scrawled on the back of an envelope and left on the counter next to the coffee press in the galley kitchen. "Back soon."
Not a man to waste words.
He'd filled the kettle and scooped coffee into the press, and he'd taken her favorite Maine wild-blueberry jam out of the refrigerator.
Still smiling, Emma headed for the shower. She was wide awake after her run, early even by her standards. After three weeks in Ireland, she and Colin had thoroughly adapted to the five-hour time difference. Their stay started with a blissful couple of weeks in an isolated cottage, getting to know each other better. Then they got caught up in the disappearance and murder of an American diver and dolphin-and-whale enthusiast named Lindsey Hargreaves. Now, back home in Boston, Emma was reacquainting herself with Eastern Standard Time.
Making love with Colin last night had helped keep her from falling asleep at eight o'clock—one in the morning in Ireland. He seemed impervious to jet lag. His undercover work with its constant dangers and frequent time-zone changes no doubt had helped, but Emma also suspected he was just like that.
Colin would know if someone tried to follow him. No question.
She pulled on a bathrobe and headed back to the kitchen. She made coffee and toast and took them to her inexpensive downsize couch, which was pushed up against an exposed-brick wall and perpendicular to the windows overlooking the marina. She collected up a stack of photographs she and Colin had pulled out last night, including one of herself as a novice at twenty-one. Colin had put it under the light and commented on her short hair and "sensible" shoes. She wore her hair longer now, and although she would never be one for four-inch heels, her shoes and boots were more fashionable than the ones she'd worn at the convent.
Colin had peered closer at the photo. "Ah, but look at that cute smile and the spark in your green eyes." He'd grinned at her. "Sister Brigid was just waiting for a rugged lobsterman to wander into her convent."
Emma had gone by the name Brigid during her short time as a novice with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, a small order on a quiet peninsula not far from her hometown on the southern Maine coast. In September, a longtime member of the convent and Emma's former mentor, an expert in art conservation, was murdered. Yank had dispatched Colin to keep an eye on her. He'd tried to pass himself off as a lobsterman—he'd been one before joining the Maine marine patrol and then the FBI—but Emma had quickly realized what he was up to.
"I bet you were wearing red lace undies," he'd said as he'd set the photo back on the table.
Emma had felt herself flush. "I don't wear red undies now."
He'd given her one of his sexy, blue-eyed winks. "Wait until Valentine's Day."
They'd abandoned the photos and had ended up in bed, making love until she'd finally collapsed in his arms. He was dark-haired, broad-shouldered and scarred, a man who relied on his natural instincts and experience to size up a situation instantly. He didn't ruminate, and he wasn't one to sit at a desk for more than twenty minutes at a time. She was more analytical, more likely to see all the ins and outs and possibilities—and she was a ruminator.
As different as they were, Emma thought, she and Colin also had similarities. The FBI, their Maine upbringings, their strong families, their love of Ireland. Their whirlwind romance wasn't allan "opposites attract" phenomenon, a case of forbidden love that had come on fast and hard. They hadn't told anyone yet of their engagement. On Monday night in Dublin, Colin had presented her with a beautiful diamond ring, handmade by a jeweler on the southwest Irish coast. She'd reluctantly slipped the ring off her finger when they'd arrived at Boston's Logan Airport from Dublin late Tuesday.
Emma was so lost in thought, she jumped when her cell phone vibrated on the table. She scooped it up, expecting to see Co-lin's name on the screen. Instead, it was a number she didn't recognize. A wrong number? She clicked to answer, but before she could say anything, a woman spoke. "Is this Emma Sharpe? Agent Sharpe with the FBI?"
"Yes, it is. Who are you?"
"What? Oh. My name's Rachel Bristol. I need to talk to you. It's important."
"All right. Please go ahead."
"Not on the phone. In person. Meet me on Bristol Island. It's in Boston Harbor. There's a bridge. You don't have to take a boat."
"Ms. Bristol, what's this about?"
"It's about your art thief. Bristol Island, Agent Sharpe. Be at the white cottage in thirty minutes or less. There's a trail by the marina." She paused. "Come alone. Please. I will talk only to you."
Rachel Bristol—or whoever she was—disconnected. Emma sprang to her feet. Thirty minutes didn't give her much time.
She ran to her bedroom and dressed in dark jeans, a dark blue sweater, a leather jacket and boots. She grabbed her credentials and strapped on her service pistol. She didn't leave a note for Colin. She would text him on the way.
Meeting confidential informants was a tricky business even with protocols, training and experience. But it didn't matter. Not this time.
Her thief.
Her problem.
• *
"Check the bathroom," Matt Yankowski said, making an obvious effort to hide his mix of urgency and irritation over the whereabouts of his wife, Lucy.
Colin Donovan frowned as he stood on the uneven wood floor in the sole bedroom of the senior FBI agent's hovel of an apartment near Boston's South Station. It was bigger than Emma's, but it had roaches and rusted appliances and a shower out of Psycho. He'd had a quick peek into the bathroom. He hadn't gone in and checked for signs of Lucy's presence. What was the point? If he'd been Lucy Yankowski, he'd have gone running from this place, too.
But this was Yank, technically Colin's boss and a man on his own in Ireland, worried about his wife and his marriage. Colin didn't want Yank to have to explain. Easier, smoother and more tactful just to check the damn bathroom.
Colin pushed the bathroom door open the rest of the way and stepped onto the cracked black-and-white hexagon tile, so old and worn that the black tiles by the shower stall were now gray. With his cell phone pressed to his ear, he glanced at the pedestal sink and the towel rack. "Yank, do you know your towel rack is on crooked?"
"Yeah, and I don't care. It does the job. See anything?"
"Guy stuff. Shaving brush, shaving soap, razor. Nothing remotely feminine."
"Check the shower. See if she left her shampoo in there."
"I guarantee you she didn't use the shower. She'd have gone to a hotel before she used your shower, Yank. Damn."
"Just check, will you?"
"That means I have to touch the shower curtain."
"It's clean. It's just stained. It came with the place. I didn't want to spring for a new one."
"You can get a new shower curtain for next to nothing."
Yank made no comment. Colin pulled open the curtain. He figured he could wash his hands when he was done. Yank was tidy and clean despite his rathole apartment, but the shower and shower curtain were disgusting. Only word for it.
"No shampoo at all in here," Colin said, stepping back from the shower. "Just a bar of orange soap."
"My coal-tar soap. I didn't bring it to Ireland with me."
"I could have gone my whole life without knowing you use coal-tar soap, Yank."
"Think I like having you search my place?"
Colin sighed and went back into the bedroom. "Lucy wasn't here, or if she was, she didn't stay long. Your bed's made. Your fridge is empty. Your bathroom and kitchen sinks are clean. The roaches—"
"I don't need to hear about the roaches," Yank said. "I've been living there almost a year. I know all about the damn roaches. I got a cheap place and rent month-to-month because I thought Lucy would move with me. We would sell our house in northern Virginia and buy a place in Boston. Made sense to rough it a little."
He'd roughed it more than a little, but Colin let it go. He returned to the kitchen. A roach was parading across the floor.
Where there was one cockroach, there were a hundred cockroaches. Often like that in their line of work, too. But Yank didn't need to hear that right now.
"Where do you think she is?" Colin asked.
"Off stewing."
"Paris. Prague. Tahiti. How the hell do I know? I'm just her husband."
Colin could hear the strain in Yank's voice. He was in his early forties, a classic, square-jawed, buttoned-down FBI agent with hardly ever a wrinkle in his suit. He and Colin had met four years ago when Colin had volunteered for his first undercover mission. Matt Yankowski, a legendary field agent, had been his contact agent through two years of grueling, dangerous, isolating work. Then the director of the FBI had called in Colin for another mission—one even more grueling, dangerous and isolating. It had ended in October with the arrest of the last of a network of ruthless illegal arms traffickers. They'd almost killed his family. A friend. Emma.
"When was the last time you were in contact with Lucy?" Colin asked.
"Sunday. Before I left for Ireland. It wasn't a good conversation. Leave it at that. I called her on Thursday and left her a message. She didn't call back. I texted and emailed her yesterday and again this morning. Zip."
"Did you tell her you were going to Ireland?"
"No, I did not." Yank grunted, as if he was already regretting having called Colin. "All right, thanks for taking a look. I just wanted to be sure she wasn't in Boston passed out in my apartment."
"What about passed out at home in Virginia?"
"Not your problem."
"Yank, I don't have to tell you that you need her back in touch soon. With all that's going on, we can't have your wife AWOL."
"That's right, Donovan. You don't have to tell me."
"Yank…" Colin hesitated a half beat. "Have you talked to the director lately?"
"Yeah. He says he's retiring." Yank sounded relieved at the change in subject. "He's moving to Mount Desert Island to be a grandfather and write his memoirs. That's why you two bonded, you know. He loves Maine."
"Maybe he and I could do puffin tours together."
"I could see that, but I don't know who'd scare tourists more, you or him. I've heard some rumors about his replacement. All the names give me hives, but it'll be what it'll be. Hey, you wouldn't want to spray for roaches before you leave my place, would you? There's a can of Raid under the sink."
A can of Raid and a million roaches. Colin debated, then said, "I'll spray for roaches if you stop at the Celtic Whiskey Shop on Dawson Street in Dublin before you leave and pick me up a good bottle of Irish whiskey."
"Let me know when Lucy is back in touch."
Colin disconnected. He sprayed for roaches—and sprayed actual roaches—and then got the hell out of Yank's walk-up as fast as he could. The only reason the place didn't have rats was because it was on the third floor. Needless to say, there was no security in the building. There was barely a front door.
Colin welcomed the bright, cool November air. He had woken up to Yank's email asking him to check his apartment for Lucy and telling him where to find a spare key in his office a few blocks from Emma's place. She'd already left on her run. Bemused by Yank's request, Colin had walked over to the highly secure, unassuming waterfront building that housed HIT, short for "high impact target" and the name Yank had chosen for his handpicked team. Yank had shoehorned Colin into HIT in October. Colin had packed his bags for Ireland a few weeks later to decompress. He'd expected to hike the Irish hills and drink Irish whiskey and Guinness alone, but Emma had joined him in his little cottage in the Kerry hills. She hadn't waited for an invitation, but that was Emma Sharpe. His ex-nun, art historian, art conservationist, art-crimes expert—the love of his life—was the bravest woman he knew. Which had its downside, since she'd do anything regardless of the risk. He saw he had a text message from her.
Meeting CI on Bristol Island. Back soon. Had a good run.
A confidential informant? Emma? Bristol Island? Where the hell was Bristol Island? Colin texted back.
Are you alone?
He buttoned his coat and continued toward the HIT offices and her apartment, looking up Bristol Island on his phone. It was one of more than thirty Boston Harbor islands, unusual in that it was privately owned and not part of the Boston Harbor National Recreational Area. He waited but Emma didn't respond to his text. He didn't want to call her in the middle of a delicate meeting. As with Lucy Yankowski, Emma's silence didn't necessarily mean anything.
It didn't necessarily not mean anything, either.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Interview with AE Jones - Mind Sweeper - Giveaway

Today I'm pleased to present Award winning author AE Jones who is here today speaking about her 2013 RWA Golden Heart winner Mind Sweeper.
She's also graciously offered one e-copy Open Internationally of her novel.

2013 RWA Golden Heart® Winner, Mind Sweeper

An angel, a demon and a vampire walk into a bar. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, but it's just another day in the life of Kyle McKinley.

Kyle was born with the ability to erase memories, and the inability to keep her opinions to herself. She and her teammates – a vampire who looks like a sexy pirate with fangs, and a Shamat demon with a penchant for Italian pastries – provide supernatural damage control when humans see too much. Today’s problem? A sword-wielding angel and a demon had a supernatural smackdown during happy hour in a Cleveland bar, leaving behind a headless vampire and a dozen human witnesses.

This latest supernatural slip-up is attracting all kinds of attention. So much attention that the police step in, and Kyle has to deal with Joe Dalton, a know-it-all human with the sexiest turquoise eyes she has ever seen. Kyle has no room in her life for yet another human who will treat her like a freak. However, Dalton definitely makes her naughty parts sit up and take notice, and it’s more than mutual. But before they can act on their attraction, they must join forces to solve a dangerous puzzle. And when they uncover the truth, the apocalyptic ripple effect forces Kyle to make a choice. Learn to trust again, or risk losing everyone she cares about, including Dalton.

Mind Sweeper is Book One in the Mind Sweeper Series.
Book Two - The Fledgling, A Mind Sweeper Novella (coming October 2014)
Book Three - Shifter Wars, (coming Fall 2014)

Giveaway Details
One e-copy of Mind Sweeper
Open Internationally
please use Rafflecopter form
below to enter
Thanks AE
Good Luck!

Friday, September 12, 2014

Showcase-Counterfeit by Scott Miller sponsored by Partners in Crime Blog Tours


by Scott Miller

on Tour September 2014

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense, Crime Fiction
Published by: Blank Slate Press
Publication Date: Oct 2013
Number of Pages: 248
ISBN: 978-0985007119
Purchase Links:


Counterfeit placed third in the 2013 Walter Williams major work award for Missouri writers!


What if a man with the talent and patience to create perfect, undetectable copies of US hundred bills carries out his plan? Has a crime even been committed? What if he never spend a dime of the money on himself?
The last person social worker Mitch Adams wants to hear from is St. Louis Homicide Detective JoJo Baker, a man with whom Mitch shares a tangled past. Baker wants Mitch to see Lonnie Washington, a disabled African-American arrested for counterfeiting and armed robbery, believed to be suicidal while he sits in jail awaiting trial. The evidence points to an open and shut case, but Baker insists it's not so black and white. Reluctantly, Mitch agrees and discovers there is more to the story--more than enough to get them both killed. At first Lonnie won't cooperate, but as he begins to open up, Mitch comes to believe that the true criminal may not be the man behind bars, but the prosecutor who put him there--a man with far-reaching political ambitions, the approval of the public, and his very own Secret Service detail. With millions in perfect fake $100 bills up for grabs, Mitch's life hinges on the word of a counterfeiter, the greed of a prosecutor, and his refusal to go down without a fight.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Showcase A Death In Vegas by Christopher Meeks - Partners In Crime Blog Tours

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: White Whisker Books
Publication Date: August 15, 2014
Number of Pages: 176
ISBN: 978-0-9836329-9-3
Purchase Links:


In A Death in Vegas, the president of BenBugs, a company that specializes in beneficial bugs for organic gardening, discovers a young woman dead in his Las Vegas hotel suite. She had worked as a sexy lady bug at his convention booth—and he had nothing to do with her death. While that’s being investigated, the FBI raids his booth on a money-laundering scam that he knows nothing about, either. Soon, the coroner doesn’t have good news. The police and FBI are against him—and his wife cannot be found. He flees to find the answers.


“With his tongue planted firmly in cheek, Christopher Meeks spins a charming and surprisingly sexy tale of murder, betrayal, and the importance of beneficial insects.”
Mark Haskell Smith, author of Baked and Raw: A Love Story
“I've never, ever wanted to go to Vegas. I don't care if what happens there, stays there. But Christopher Meeks makes me want to go so I can find out who done it. A fun, exciting read, with Chris's usual wonderful writing and great sense of humor.“
Jessica Barksdale Inclan, author of Her Daughter's Eyes and How to Bake a Man.
“Christopher Meeks had me at page three. I couldn’t wait to find out how Patton Burch was going to explain the naked body he woke up to in his Las Vegas hotel room – first to the cops and then to his wife.”
Sam Sattler, Book Chase

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Review When Shadows Fall by J.T. Ellison

Those of you who know me know one of my go-to, all time favorite thriller authors is J.T. Ellison. Her Taylor Jackson series is amazing and when she started a spin off series with one of the major co-stars Dr. Samantha Owens I was skeptical of how she would pull it off, but pull it off she did because this is one of the best crime drama series out there. Then just when I didn't think she could surprise me anymore she is now writing a series collaborating with Catherine Coulter about an Brit Scotland Yarder who comes across the pond to work for the FBI the upcoming second book in their new series The Lost Key just got the coveted TOP PICK GOLD from RT Reviews Magazine. Woot Woot!

Please enjoy my showcase of JT and my review of When Shadows Fall


  • ISBN-13: 9780778317104
  • Publisher: Harlequin
  • Publication date: 8/26/2014
  • Series: A Samantha Owens Novel Series , #3
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 448


Dear Dr. Owens,

If you are reading this letter, I am dead and I would be most grateful if you could solve my murder…

Forensic pathologist Dr. Samantha Owens thought life was finally returning to normal after she suffered a terrible personal loss. Settling into her new job at Georgetown University, the illusion is shattered when she receives a disturbing letter from a dead man imploring her to solve his murder.

Read an excerpt:

Georgetown University School of Medicine
Washington, D.C.
DR. SAMANTHA OWENS STARED OUT THE WINDOW OF HER OFFICE, ADMIRING THE view she'd be enjoying for the next several years. Trees. Lots and lots of trees. The Georgetown University campus was landscaped to perfection, bringing the joys of wildlife and green space to their urban oasis. Maples and willow oaks, zelkovas and ginkgo, viburnum and holly, and more she had no names for. In truth, this deep into the warm, wet D.C. summer, everything was so green it made her eyes hurt. It was all so bloody alive.
And so different from her anonymous, stainless-steel office in Nashville. A welcome change. A change she'd openly pursued, sure to the core she no longer wanted to work in law enforcement. The idea of keeping herself separate from the hurt and fear and messiness of the real world appealed to her.
Her new reality: she was the head of the bourgeoning forensic pathology department at Georgetown University Medical School. Her first classes would start the following week, though students were already on campus doing their orientations. And now that she was here, the sense of adventure and excitement were gone.
Looking out at the tree-lined campus, she couldn't help wondering, yet again, if she'd made a mistake. The freedom she'd hoped for, planned on, felt like a noose around her neck. Even though she was calling the shots, she was increasingly feeling trapped. So many people were counting on her. She'd developed the forensic program, made a commitment to the university, even signed a contract. She was stuck.
No longer a medical examiner, no longer a part of organized law enforcement. She was a teacher, with two class sections of doctors who wanted to help solve crimes. Students who seemed so young, teenagers, almost, though many were in their twenties, and even thirties. Untouched by tragedy; unknowing of the world's painful embrace.
They'd learn soon enough, especially with her at the helm. She'd seen more than most in her career, especially during her tenure as the Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Tennessee. Her job was to teach them everything she knew so they could stride out into the world in pursuit of justice.
The way she used to do.
Sam turned from the window to her desk, a thick slab of oak polished to a high gleam, and casually straightened the stack of papers in her out-box. Her OCD was under strict rein, especially in front of all these new people, but there was no need for things to be messy.
She should be eager for this new life to begin. She honestly had been, until a few weeks ago, when her friend John Baldwin, from the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, sat her down and threw a bomb into her world. Sent her spinning, unsure of all the choices she'd made over the past few months.
He'd come to town for a case two weeks earlier, taken her out for lunch and, before the food arrived, got straight to business.
"I wish you'd talked to me before you made this drastic change."
"It's the best thing for me. I don't want to be out there anymore, Baldwin. I paid my dues, with more than I care to remember."
"Which is why I'm here. We want you to join the FBI." She choked on the water the server had set down. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. We need your mind."
She laughed. "I'm a medical examiner, Baldwin, or I was. Not a field agent. For starters, I hate guns."
"I know. That's not a problem. You'd be an official consultant, mostly with me and my team, but with other parts of the Bureau, too, depending on the cases. You'd need to go through some training at the Academy in Quantico, to make it all official, but you'll be able to work on cases again. Sam, you can't tell me you don't miss it."
"I don't. Not at all."
"You're lying to yourself."
Watching the students wander the campus, Sam wondered if he was right. Did she belong here? Innocent faces glued to smartphones, earbuds firmly embedded in ears, an insouciant walk; these kids didn't seem to have a care in the world. What if she wasn't cool enough for them?
"Right. There's the thing to worry about. Being cool."
She settled at the desk and opened her laptop. Debated putting in her own earbuds; decided she was being silly. She knew her lesson plan cold, but giving it one more look wouldn't hurt; she hated using notes. Regardless of the doubt she was feeling, she was here to engage these young doctors, intrigue them, but also allow them a glimpse into the real world of forensic pathology. Not the exciting, tumultuous world they saw on television, but the bloody, messy, heart-wrenching process of dissection, both of bodies and of lives. To show them the hardest truth of all: the dead have no secrets.
But the living do.
Forget the notes. Maybe she'd just read for a bit, settle into her office. Adjust to the sights and sounds of her new life.
She was deep into an article on forensic ballistics when a soft knock pulled her from her review. She looked up to see Xan-der in her doorway, a grin on his face.
"Hey," he said.
Her stomach flipped, as it always did when he caught her unawares. A biological response to an emotion none truly understood. An emotion she was grateful for, because she knew the depth of it had saved her from sinking into the deepest abyss.
Alexander Whitfield. Known to his parents and family as Moonbeam, or Xander Moon. A true misnomer for a tough former army ranger. And Xander was still a ranger through and through: intense, alert, always combing the background for unseen threats. Romantic, and a fatalist. Just like her.
He was a different man now than the one she'd met several months before. More open, more forgiving. Happier. They'd settled into a version of domestic bliss, splitting their time between her Georgetown town house and his cabin in the backwoods of the Savage River Forest.
He'd separated from the army the previous year after the terrible cover-up of a friendly fire incident that had killed one of his best friends. He'd run to the woods, disengaged from the world and would have stayed there, lost and alone, if it weren't for Sam. Two broken souls, made whole by their joining.
Xander wasn't fully ready to reenter the world, but he was coming back, a bit at a time. Though he'd done his best to hide it, she knew he was happy she had turned down Baldwin's job offer.
"Hey," she said. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd bring you lunch. I know how you can lose yourself in your work. What is it today? Blood spatter?"
"It's eerie how you do that." She turned the laptop around and showed him the article. "I was just starting the section on backspatter."
He didn't pale, but his lips tightened together in a grim line. He'd spent most of his life behind the trigger; he was more than familiar with the concept.
Sam glanced at the screen, saw the full-color image of a man at the wrong end of a shotgun and slammed the laptop closed. "Sorry. What's this about lunch?"
Xander's dark hair flopped onto his forehead. "You're not one of those M.E.s who can eat a tuna sandwich standing over a corpse, are you?"
"Highly unethical behavior, tuna eating. I'd stick with cookies or crackers myself. The crumbs are easier to brush away."
He laughed, deep from his belly, which made her smile. She loved his laugh.
"I wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers." He glanced over his shoulder at the open office door. "Maybe we should inaugurate your office."
He kissed her, long and lingering, and she was damn close to saying lock the door when another knock sounded, this one accompanied by a high-pitched throat clearing. They jumped apart like teenagers caught making out on a porch, and Sam smoothed her shirt down-good grief, one of her buttons was undone; how had he managed that?-before turning to see who'd so rudely interrupted them.
It was one of her new T.A.s, Stephanie Wilhelm, a slight blonde with a sharp sense of humor to match her highly unorthodox look-today a black Metallica concert T-shirt under a black men's pin-striped jacket and dark jeans tucked into leather combat boots. Sam liked the girl. Her independence among the clones had landed her the coveted T.A. position in the first place.
"Forgive me, Dr. Owens, but this letter arrived for you. It's marked urgent. I thought I should bring it to you right away."
Her words were directed to Sam, but her eyes were locked on Xander, who was sitting on the edge of Sam's desk, arms crossed on his broad chest, vibrating in amusement as he watched her fumble with her button.
"Thank you, Stephanie. I appreciate it."
"If you need anything else…" She dropped off, winked lasciviously.
"Out," Sam said, and Stephanie left with a grin.
"I'm hot for teacher," Xander said, and Sam swatted him with the letter.
"Quit it. The last thing I need is a reputation for looseness among my students." She sat on the desk next to him and opened the letter. Thick strokes of black ink, the words slanted to the right. A man's handwriting.
She read the first line, felt the breath leave her body. "Uhoh."
Xander caught her tone. "What's wrong?" She scanned the rest of the letter. "You need to hear this." She read it aloud, vaguely noticed her voice was shaking.
"Dear Dr. Owens,
If you are reading this letter, I am dead. I would be most grateful if you would solve my murder. I know how determined you are, and talented. If anyone can figure out this mess, it's you.
I've compiled a list of suspects for you to look at, and set aside some money to cover your expenses. I fear your life may be in danger once they find I've contacted you, so I urge you to take every precaution. Yours,
Timothy R. Savage"
"Let me see that." Xander took the letter from her, barely touching the corner between his thumb and forefinger. Sam watched his face as he read it, saw the darkness draw over him like a shroud.
"Who the hell is Timothy Savage?"
"I have no idea. But it's a pretty sick joke. Who would do such a thing?"
"I don't know. John Baldwin, maybe? Trying to draw you into a case against your will?"
She opened her mouth to deny the possibility, but stopped herself. She'd known Baldwin for many years. He was engaged to her best friend. He was a good man, a no-nonsense cop in addition to being a talented profiler. He wouldn't resort to manipulation. Would he?
"No. It's not him."
Xander shrugged. "Where's the envelope?"
In her surprise, she'd dropped it on the floor. She pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and picked it up, careful not to directly touch any part of it. Ridiculous, she'd already gotten her prints all over it, so had Stephanie and countless others, but she had to treat it as evidence now.
"Return address is Lynchburg, Virginia," she said. "Let me plug it into my laptop, see if it's real."
He read the information to her, and she entered it into Google. The name Timothy Savage popped up, along with a map of his address, and a death notice from the local Lynchburg paper.
"Oh, no. Xander, Timothy Savage really is dead." Xander breathed hard out his nose. "Then Sam, honey, you better call Fletcher. This might not be a joke, after all."
Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens
Washington, D.C.
D.C. HOMICIDE DETECTIVE DARREN FLETCHER WAS KNEE-DEEP IN MARSH WATER, standing over the body of a male Caucasian, approximately twenty to twenty-four years of age, who didn't appear to have a mark on him. But he was dead, without a doubt, staked to a small canoe dock ten feet offshore, bobbing in the gentle tidal flow of the Anacostia River. Fletcher stared at the boy-he really was too young to be called anything else-and thought of his own son, only a few years younger, and promised to be a better father. He'd lost count of how many times he'd stood over deceased young men and made the same fervent prayer.
He slapped at a mosquito, brought his hand away from his neck with a smear of blood on his palm.
Murder. It came in all forms.
But this, who would kill a man this way? Tying him to a stake in a river, leaving him to drown? Had the killer watched as the tide slowly rose, waiting to see the results of his handiwork? Watched the terror of his victim, the dawning knowledge that death was coming for him? The boy's eyes were open, caked in mud, as if he'd looked at someone in his last moment. The water had spilled over his head, then receded, leaving its filthy, choking mark.
Fletcher shook off a chill, glanced around for cameras and saw none.
Lonnie Hart, his longtime partner, came down the path to the water. He gave a sharp, clear whistle.
Fletcher's head snapped up. "What's the matter?"
Lonnie waved for him to come back onto dry land. He headed off, not unhappy to have to get out of the marshy water. It smelled, fecund and ripe, and the body's bloated rawness wasn't helping.
When he got closer, Hart said, "We're in luck. Another five feet out and it would belong to us, but you're standing on federal land. I called the Fibbies, told them to get their pretty little behinds over here. National park, it's their jurisdiction. We'll let them take over."
"Thank God for small mercies, eh, Lonnie?" And to the body: "Sorry, dude. Red ties are coming. They'll treat you right."
He squished up the bank, climbed out of the muck. Hart stuck out a hand and helped tow him onto the small wooden dock. Once on dry land, he shook like a dog, spraying droplets of water on Hart, who punched him on the shoulder and nearly toppled him back into the river.
"Ugh. Come on, man. That's gross."
Fletcher grinned at him, then stripped off his socks and wadded them up, stowed them in the pocket of his gym shorts and slid his dry loafers back on his feet. It was a stroke of luck his gym bag was still in the car, sheer laziness on his part not taking it into the house after his workout last night. He hardly wanted to ruin his good pants getting into the nasty water.
"Not sure if I'm happy about this being a Fed case. Haven't seen one of the strange ones lately. I could have used a challenge."
"Fletch, you've seen enough weird for two lifetimes."
"True that."