#BookBlitz “The Lyme Regis Murders” by Andrew Segal

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coverCrime Thriller
Date Published: 1st December 2019
Publisher: HappyLondonPress
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Can innocence ever be an incentive to murder?
A quiet seaside town is thrown into turmoil. Tammy Pierre, London based private investigator, accompanied by her sometime lover, Israeli art dealer and martial-arts coach, Dov Jordan, has just been brought close to tears by police photographs shown to her by an hysterical Eleanor Goldcrest, at the home of three innocent toddlers whose brutally murdered bodies have been found on the beach at Lyme Regis.
Wealthy financier, Eric Goldcrest, alarmed that his partner of three years, together with the local police has him nailed as guilty of murdering the children, now retains Tammy to prove his innocence and find the real culprit. But has his involvement in all this been misinterpreted?
In this investigation, with no apparant motive or forensic evidence, Tammy’s skills will be tested to the limit. In a twist that muddies the waters, Eric Goldcrest, laments that he’s simply never made it clear to Tammy about his position in the family and his relationship with the children, all of which have been assumed by the investigation.

Purchase Links

Amazon  

Hardback coming soon

Barnes and Noble  

Kobo  

Book Shout  

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About the Author

 photo andrew12_zpsto7ffqkq.jpgA contract killer changed my life

The encounter inspired me to become a Crime Thriller writer.
He was a contract killer, and he was in my car!
I’d been lost, looking for West Thurrock in Essex, and asked a little old man in a shabby coat, on the opposite side of the road, the way. He offered to show me if I gave him a lift, and whilst I make it a rule never to give lifts to anyone I don’t know, I reasoned, he could hardly be a contract killer, could he. Could he? Of course not.
As we drove he casually informed me that he’d, ‘Done it for the Kray’s, mate.’ That would have been the notorious East London gangsters he was referring to, known to kill, or have killed, without conscience.
Once I’d dropped him off and recovered my composure, I realised I was looking at fodder for a short story. What then followed was a raft of short stories, including, ‘I am a Gigolo,’ something I told my wife when I first met her, and which almost ended our relationship before it had begun. That title is now the heading for a book of short stories.
Jokingly, over lunch, I told a fellow professional I’d once been a contract killer, and devised a story. He believed every word, and left me at some pains to disabuse him. That title, I am a Contract Killer, now heads a further collection of short stories.
Writer of scary short stories and full-length novels like The Lyme Regis Murders.
It’s been an fascinating journey… I hope you’ll want to share with me.
Contact Links
Blog  

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RABT Book Tours & PR

#SMC “The Final Play” by Shelly Ellis

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Best friends. Lethal choices.

Three best friends from the streets found success–in very different ways. But with a crisis detonating around them, their bond could also destroy everything they care about . . .

AMAZON:  https://amzn.to/31iHzds

ADD TBR:  http://bit.ly/2IPj8hB

BLOGGERS & REVIEWERS:  http://bit.ly/2mtHuoP

THE FINAL PLAY BY SHELLY ELLIS | COMING OCTOBER 29

No matter how tough the odds, Ricky, Derrick, and Jamal learned to unite and fight during their time at the Branch Avenue Boys’ Youth Institute. But their adult lives have driven them apart—and set off a series of events their friendship may not survive.

All Jamal’s political achievements can’t erase his bargain with D.C.’s corrupt mayor. And when he finds himself the latest target on Mayor Johnson’s hit list, he’ll risk everything to end the mayor’s deadly reign—even if it’s the last move he ever makes.

Institute head Derrick refuses to cave to D.C. drug king pin Dolla Dolla and sell out all he believes in. But his courageous stand might cost him the Institute—and the woman he loves . . .

With a pregnant girlfriend, Ricky can’t stay on the run forever. Now he’s making a dangerous play to win. But with Derrick and Jamal in Dolla’s sights, Ricky and his friends must resolve the conflicts keeping them apart if they want to come back together—even if that means none of the Branch Avenue Boys will be left standing . . .

#TheFinalPlay #BranchAvenueBoys #ShellyEllis #HonMagPR

#BlogTour “The Mafia Vows Duet” by SR Jones

The Contract (Mafia Vows prequel)
The Debt (Mafia Vows #1)
The Promise (Mafia Vows #2)
by SR Jones
#MafiaVows #SRJones #ThePromise #TheDebt
#BareNakedWords #DarkRomance #BlogTour
AVAILABLE NOW ON KINDLE UNLIMITED
***Please note this is a romantic suspense with dark themes and as such trigger warnings apply***
Genre: Dark Romance
The Contract: A Mafia Vows series prequel
 
In my world, family and honor are everything.
In my world, women are powerless.
In my world, men call all the shots. My uncle is a mafia king, and my father wants the same power. I am a pawn in their games – to be used and traded.

Two weeks ago, I was promised in marriage to a man I barely knew.
Two days ago, I discovered that man liked to torture women for fun.
Two hours ago, I begged my mother to stop the marriage.
Two minutes ago, I found myself promised to another man… to my uncle’s terrifying enforcer.

The only way to avoid marriage to a madman is by becoming the bride of a murderer.
He’s six-feet-five of sheer muscle and power, and he scares me as much as he excites me.
Ruthless, merciless, and without fear, his cruel smirk tells me he is going to enjoy having me at his mercy.

He might own me, but I’m not giving in without a fight.

**Please note this book contains adult and dark themes and suspense, so please be aware that trigger warnings do apply!**

 

The Debt: Mafia Vows Book One:
 
In my world, power is taken not given.

In my world, women are a pastime and nothing more.
In my world, emotions are dangerous and need to be locked down.

Maya was born into this, but she doesn’t understand it. It makes her vulnerable, and now she’s been promised to a man I wouldn’t let my worst enemy marry. She needs help – my help.

I step in and take her as my bride in order to save her skin.
Our marriage might be fake, but our passion is real.
My ring on her finger is the tie that binds us.

Maya thinks she can walk away once the danger has passed. She believes our passion is fleeting. She hopes I will simply let her go.
She’s wrong.
On. Every. Single. Count.

We’re playing a dangerous game. One where the lines are so blurred, we can’t see them.
I’m going to take her and make her mine, and in this game, she’ll play by my rules.
But someone wants Maya out of the game completely, and our world is about to implode.

***Please note this is a romantic suspense with dark themes and as such trigger warnings apply.

The Promise: Mafia Vows Book Two
Damen: 
In my world, you trust no one. 
In my world, family can be the worst enemy of all. 
In my world, no one hurts what is mine. 
I made a promise: to keep Maya safe at all costs. Now someone has taken her, and she is facing true horror. I will burn this world to the ground in order to save her. Then once I have her home, I will never let her go again. 
Maya: 
He says he wants me to be his, but he won’t tell me he loves me. Ownership, control, these are what he trades in, but I need more. Making something real from how we began won’t be easy, but we can build something beautiful from brutality. We can find our own truth amongst the lies. Trouble is, we both need to believe in us to make this work, and I’m not sure he does. 
This is the final part of the Mafia Vows duet. This is a romantic suspense with dark themes. Please be aware that this contains triggers, plus loss and grief.
Reading order of the series is:
The contract. A Mafia Vows prequel
The Debt: Mafia Vows One
The Promise: Mafia Vows Two.
Meet The Author

Hi guys. I’m a romance author from Northern England. I write Paranormal romance as Skye Jones and HOT and dangerous contemporary romance as S.R. Jones.

The one thing my books have in common are seriously alpha heroes, who are bad, damaged, but oh-so-reedembale!
I love Starbuck’s Mochas, chocolate, my husband, and my dogs, not necessarily in that order! If you want to join my readers group where I have regular giveaways, book talk about all the romance we’re loving on, and hot guys, then come along and say hi: Addicted 2 Alphas
https://www.facebook.com/hotbritishromance/

You can also follow me on instagram here, but I can’t promise not to post lots of pics of my puppies! Skye Jones (@skyejwords) • Instagram photos and videos

#BookBirthdayBlitz “The Fourth Victim” by John Mead

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The Fourth Victim cover

Whitechapel is being gentrified. The many green spaces of the area, which typify London as a capital city, give the illusion of tranquillity and clean air but are also places to find drug dealers, sexual encounters and murder…

Detective Sergeant Julie Lukula doesn’t dislike Inspector Matthew Merry, but he has hardly set the world of the Murder Investigation Team East alight.  And, it looks as if the inspector is already putting the death of the young female jogger, found in the park with fatal head injuries, down to a mugging gone wrong.  The victim deserves more.  However, the inspector isn’t ruling anything out – the evidence will, eventually, lead him to an answer.

Purchase Links

Amazon UK    Amazon US     Waterstones     Wordery     Blackwells

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John MeadAuthor Bio

John was born in the mid-fifties in East London, on part of the largest council estate ever built, and was the first pupil from his local secondary modern school to attend university. He has now taken early retirement to write, having spent the first part of his life working in education and the public sector. He was the director of a college, a senior school inspector for a local authority, and was head of a unit for young people with physical and mental health needs.

He has travelled extensively, from America to Tibet, and he enjoys visiting the theatre, reading and going to the pub. It is, perhaps, no surprise that he is an avid ‘people watcher’ and loves to find out about people, their lives, culture and history. When he is not travelling, going to the theatre or the pub; he writes.

Many of the occurrences recounted and the characters found in his novels are based on real incidents and people he has come across. Although he has allowed himself a wide degree of poetic licence in writing about the main characters, their motivations and the killings that are depicted.

John is currently working on a series of novels set in modern day London. These police procedurals examine the darker side of modern life in the East End of the city.

Social Media Links  

Twitter     Amazon Author Profile     Goodreads

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The Fourth -Mead2

 

#BookTour “The Best Lousy Choice” by Jim Nesbitt

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on Tour August 1-31, 2019

Synopsis:

The Best Lousy Choice: An Ed Earl Burch Novel Dallas private eye Ed Earl Burch is an emotional wreck, living on the edge of madness, hosing down the nightmares of his last case with bourbon and Percodan, dreading the next onslaught of demons that haunt his days and nights, including a one-eyed dead man who still wants to carve out his heart and eat it. Burch is also a walking contradiction. Steady and relentless when working a case. Tormented and unbalanced when idle. He’s deeply in debt to a shyster lawyer who forces him to take the type of case he loathes — divorce work, peephole creeping to get dirt on a wayward husband. Work with no honor. Work that reminds him of how far he’s fallen since he lost the gold shield of a Dallas homicide detective. Work in the stark, harsh badlands of West Texas, the border country where he almost got killed and his nightmares began. What he longs for is the clarity and sense of purpose he had when he carried that gold shield and chased killers for a living. The adrenaline spike of the showdown. Smoke ‘em or cuff ‘em. Justice served — by his .45 or a judge and jury. When a rich rancher and war hero is killed in a suspicious barn fire, the rancher’s outlaw cousin hires Burch to investigate a death the county sheriff is reluctant to touch. Seems a lot of folks had reason for wanting the rancher dead — the local narco who has the sheriff on his payroll; some ruthless Houston developers who want the rancher’s land; maybe his own daughter. Maybe the outlaw cousin who hired Burch. Thrilled to be a manhunter again, Burch ignores these red flags, forgetting something he once knew by heart. Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. And it might just get you killed. But it’s the best lousy choice Ed Earl Burch is ever going to get.

Book Details

Genre: Hard-boiled Crime Thriller

Published by: Spotted Mule Press

Publication Date: July 9, 2019

Number of Pages: 347

ISBN: 978-0-9983294-2-0

Series: An Ed Earl Burch Novel; 2

Purchase Links: Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

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Read an excerpt:

Burch slipped through a thick snarl of gawkers, glad-handers, gossips and genuine mourners going nowhere fast in the vestibule of Sartell’s Funeral Home, nodding and smiling like the prodigal returned to the paternal table. To ease his passage toward the chapel where Bart Hulett’s charred corpse was surely hidden in a closed casket, he patted the passing shoulder, shook the hand thrust his way and mouthed the “good to see you” to the stranger’s face that smiled in mistaken recognition. Baptist reflexes from a long-ago boyhood, handy for the preacher, pol or low-rent peeper — remnants of an endless string of God Box Sundays he’d rather forget. The chapel was packed and the well-mannered buzz of polite stage whispers filled the room, triggering another Baptist flashback — the hushed sanctuary conversations of the flock anticipating the opening chords of a Sunday service first hymn. Ten rows of hard-backed dark wooden pews flanked each side of a center aisle leading to a low lacquered plywood platform topped by a glossy Texas pecan wood casket with burnished brass lugs and fixtures. Two blown-up photographs in fluted gilt frames faced the mourners, standing guard at each end of the casket — a colorized, wartime portrait of a young Bart Hulett in Marine dress blues and visored white cover at the foot; a candid of Hulett and his blonde wife on horseback at the head, their smiling faces goldened by the setting sun. Behind the pews, five rows of equally unforgiving aluminum folding chairs, all sporting the durable silver-gray institutional enamel common to the breed, stood as ready reserve for the overflow of mourners. The pews were filled and a butt claimed every chair — a testament to Bart Hulett’s standing as a fallen civic leader and member of one of the founding families of Cuervo County. No cushions in pew or chair. Comfort wasn’t on the dance card in this part of West Texas. The land was too stark, harsh and demanding, intolerant of those seeking a soft life of leisure. And Baptists damned dancing as a sin and kept those pews rock hard so you’d stay wide awake for the preacher’s fiery reminder about the brimstone wages of sin. Dark blue carpet covered what Burch’s knees told him was a concrete floor. Flocked, deep-red fabric lined the walls, brightened by a line of wall sconces trimmed in shiny brass that reflected the dimmed light from electric candles. Two brass candelabras hung from the ceiling, bathing the chapel in a warm, yellow glow. Heavy, burgundy velour drapes lined the front wall and flanked the rear entrance and the opening to a sitting room to the left of the casket. The total effect was meant to be plush, somber and churchly, yet welcoming. Don’t fear death. It comes to us all. Just a part of the great circle of life and God’s eternal plan. Let us gather together and celebrate the days on earth of this great man who has left us for his final reward. But Burch wasn’t buying the undertaker’s refried Baptist bill of fare. To his eye, the drapes, the wall covering and the brass light fixtures looked more like the lush trappings of a high-dollar whorehouse than a church, an old-timey sin palace that packaged purchased pleasure in a luxury wrapper. All that was missing was a line of near-naked whores for the choosing and a piano man in a bowler hat and gartered shirt sleeves, tickling the ivories while chomping a cigar. Nothing more honest than a fifty-dollar blow job from a working girl who knows her trade. Nothing more bitter than the cynical heresy of a backslidden Baptist sinner. Nothing more useless than a de-frocked cop still ready to call out the hypocrisy of a church he thought was just a dot in his rearview mirror. Burch cold-cocked his bitter musings and wiped the smirk off his face. He grabbed a corner at the rear of the room and continued his chapel observations. He tried to settle into the old routine. Relax. Watch and wait. Keep the eyes moving and let it come to you. Don’t force it. But the watcher’s mantra wasn’t working. Couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes had been on him while he juked and doubled back through town earlier in the day and that eyes were on him now. Couldn’t blame the demons for this. He was still cool and calm from that special cocktail he served himself before leaving the ranch. That meant the sixth sense was real, not a figment of his nightmares. And he was far too old a dog to ignore it. Burch took a deep breath and let it out slow, just like he did at the rifle range before squeezing off the next round. His heartbeat slowed. He felt himself relax. The uneasy feeling was still there, but it was a small sliver of edginess. Do the job. Watch and wait. Keep the eyes moving. Let it come to you. From the chapel entrance, a thick line of mourners broke toward the right rear corner of the room and angled along the wall opposite Burch before bending again to crowd the closed casket, leading to a small knot of Hulett family members standing next to the photo of Bart and his dead wife. Stella Rae was playing the head of household role, reaching across her body to shake hands with her left because her right was burned, bandaged and hanging loose at her side, the white tape and pinkish gauze riding below the rolled-back cuff of a navy cowgirl shirt with white piping and a bright red cactus blossom on each yoke. She was wearing Wranglers too new to be faded and pointy-toed lizard-skin boots the color of peanut brittle, her dark blonde hair swept back from her oval face and touching her shoulders. The warm light from the candelabras picked up the slight rose tint of her olive skin and the flash of white from her smile. A beautiful woman putting on a brave front. A woman custom-made to be looked at with lustful intent. Burch didn’t need imagination to mentally undress Stella Rae Hulett. He had seen her at her carnal best while staring through the telephoto lens of a camera as she fucked her lover in a dimly lit motel room. He had his own highlight reel of her taut body stored in his brainpan. But his mind was on the charred chain in the bed of Gyp Hulett’s pickup, his eyes locked on the bandaged hand dangling at her side. How’d you really burn your hand, missy? Where were you when your daddy died? Jason Powell stood behind her, looming over her right shoulder, the protective hand of a lover on her upper arm as he nodded to each mourner paying respect as Stella Rae shook their hand. Gotta give the guitar picker some credit. Looks like he’s in it for the long haul. To Stella’s right stood a young man in jeans, boots and a red brocade vest over a crisp, white shirt and a bolo with a silver and onyx slide. His round face was pale and pockmarked, his hair black and wiry. Burch guessed he was looking at Jimmy Carl Hulett, Bart Hulett’s only son. Jimmy Carl looked like a sawed-off version of his ancient cousin, Gyp, minus the gunsight stare, the wolf smile and the Browning Hi-Power on the hip. Which was another way of saying the boy had more than a few dollops of bad outlaw blood running through his veins, but none of the lethal menace. The younger Hulett looked uncomfortable shaking the hands of mourners, his eyes shifting but always downcast, his head nodding with a nervous jerk, the overhead glow highlighting a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. Between handshakes, he wiped his hawk’s beak nose with a dark blue bandana. He looked like a man who needed a drink. Or a spike of Mexican Brown. Burch knew the look. Saw it a thousand times as a Dallas street cop. Telltales of a junkie. A loser. A Hulett in name only. A weak link who would sell his soul for his next fix. Or sell out his daddy. How bad are you hooked, boy? Who has his claws in you besides your dealer? Malo Garza? Needle Burnet? Or another player to be named later? Burch tucked these questions into his mental deck and resumed scanning the crowd, ignoring that edgy sliver, keeping a slight smile on his face — just a prodigal looking for old friends and neighbors. Damned tedious work, standing in the corner of a whorehouse chapel, watching and waiting, working a cop’s most hackneyed routine — hitting the victim’s funeral. His feet and knees started to ache. Never cut it walking a beat again. He ignored the pain and kept his eyes moving. He wasn’t expecting a lightning flash of sudden insight or the appearance of a beady-eyed suspect wearing their guilt like a gaudy neon sign. That only happened on Murder, She Wrote and Angela Lansbury didn’t fit in with this West Texas crowd. Burch was looking for smaller stuff. Dribs and drabs. A pattern. A sense of how people caught up in a case fit together — or didn’t. A loose thread. An odd moment. A step out of line or time. A facial tic or look. Like a Hulett with the junkie’s sniffles. A mismatch. Like a beautiful woman with a burned and bandaged right hand. A shard. Anything that caused his cop instincts to tingle, triggering questions he needed to ask. He found two. Small kernels, granted, but grist for the mill. He kept his eyes moving, looking for more of something he wouldn’t know until he saw it. Minutes dragged by, grinding like a gearbox with sand in it. The line of mourners grew shorter. The pain moved up to the small of his back. The sliver grew into a sharp stab of warning. Eyes were on him. Felt rather than seen. He shifted his gaze to his right, keeping his head still. Across the center aisle, at the near end of the last row of chairs, a gaunt brown face with thin black hair turned to face the front of the chapel. Before the turn, Burch saw intense, dark eyes studying him — the watcher being watched. Both knew the other was there so Burch took his time studying the man’s profile. Thin, bony nose, hair brushed back dry from a receding widow’s peak, black suit with an open-collar white dress shirt. The man quit pretending he hadn’t been made, turning to look at Burch with a slight smile and close-set eyes that flashed a predatory interest. Burch returned the stare with the dead-eyed look of a cop and burned an image for his memory bank. Who are you, friend? Another Garza hitter? Jesus, Burch, that isn’t what the narcos call their gunsels. Get your head out of the 1940s. Sicario — that’s it. What about it, friend? You another of Malo’s sicarios? Or are you outside talent? Maybe that specialist Bustamante talked about. Maybe a freelancer working for Malo’s competition. Or the Bryte Brothers. You the eyes I feel watchin’ me? Why the sudden interest? Those two shooters I smoked friends of yours? Movement up front caught Burch’s attention. Gyp Hulett, hat in hand and wearing a black frock coat straight out of the 1890s that wasn’t in the truck cab during the ride to town, parting the sitting room drapes. The old outlaw walked up to his younger cousins in a bow-legged stride, whispering to each, then beckoning them to follow him as he retraced his steps. Burch glanced back toward the gaunt Mexican. Gone. A sucker’s play if he followed. Burch slid out of his corner perch and along the back row of chairs to get a better look at the sitting room entrance. Gyp parted the drapes to let Stella Rae and Jimmy Carl enter. Through the opening, Burch could see Boelcke standing next to a tall man with a thick, dark moustache, an inverted V above a stern, downturned mouth, echoed by thick eyebrows. He had ramrod straight posture and was wearing a tailored, dark gray suit, a pearl gray shirt and a black tie. Black hair in a conservative businessman’s cut, light brown skin and an aquiline nose gave him the look of a criollo, the New World Spaniards who ripped the land of their birth away from the mother country. Malo Garza, paying his respects in private. Gyp Hulett swept the drapes closed as he ducked into the room. Burch braced himself for the bark of a Browning Hi-Power he hoped he wouldn’t hear and marveled at the high hypocrisy of Garza showing up at the funeral of a man he wanted dead. Took balls and brass to do that. Matched by a restraint Burch didn’t know Gyp Hulett had. “Bet you’d like to be a fly on the wall in that room.” For a split second, Burch thought he was hearing the voice of Wynn Moore’s ghost. Then he looked to his right and met the sad, brown eyes of Cuervo County Chief Deputy Elroy Jesus “Sudden” Doggett. “Wouldn’t mind that one bit. Imagine it’s quite the show. Lots of polite words of sorrow and respect. Lots of posturing. Lots of restraint. Have to be considerin’ one man in there would like to kill the other.” “That would be your client, right? The ever-popular Gyp Hulett, gringo gangster of the Trans-Pecos.” “Can’t tell you who I’m working for, Deputy. You know that’s confidential.” Doggett’s eyes went from sad to flat annoyed and his voice took on a metallic edge. “That ain’t no secret, hoss. Not to me or anybody else who matters around here, including the other big mule in that room. And that man probably wants to kill you.” “Malo Garza? The man don’t even know me.” “That’s a point in your favor. If he did know you, he’d put you out of your misery right now.” “A big dog like him? He’s got more important things to worry about than lil’ ol’ me.” “You don’t know Malo Garza. Anybody pokin’ his nose anywhere near his business draws his personal interest. And believe you me, that ain’t healthy.” “Ol’ Malo might find me a tad hard to kill. I tend to shoot back. If he wants a piece of me, he’ll have to get in line.” Doggett paused. His eyes turned sad again. When he spoke, the edge was gone from his voice. “Listen to us — two guys talkin’ about killin’ at a great man’s funeral. Let’s step outside for a smoke and a talk.” “Unless this is the type of talk that follows an arrest, I’d rather stay here and watch the floor show.” Doggett chuckled. “Don’t have that kind of talk in mind right now, although the man I work for just might. This’ll be a private chat between you and me.” “Thought we had a meeting tomorrow. You are the hombre that had that trustee give Lawyer Boelcke that invitation to Guerrero’s, right?” “Right. Things change. Come ahead on. I’ll have you back for the next act. It’s one you won’t want to miss. Star of the show. Blue Willingham, shedding crocodile tears for Bart Hulett. He won’t show up until Garza’s done paying his respects.” Nothing like dancing the West Texas waltz with bent lawmen, lupine outlaws, patrician drug lords, gaunt killers and Baptist undertakers with bordello tastes. In three-quarter time. *** Excerpt from The Best Lousy Choice: An Ed Earl Burch Novel by Jim Nesbitt. Copyright © 2019 by Jim Nesbitt. Reproduced with permission from Jim Nesbitt. All rights reserved.
 

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Author Bio:

Jim Nesbitt Jim Nesbitt is the author of three hard-boiled Texas crime thrillers that feature battered but dogged Dallas PI Ed Earl Burch — THE LAST SECOND CHANCE, a Silver Falchion finalist; THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER, an Underground Book Reviews “Top Pick”; and his latest, THE BEST LOUSY CHOICE. Nesbitt was a journalist for more than 30 years, serving as a reporter, editor and roving national correspondent for newspapers and wire services in Alabama, Florida, Texas, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina and Washington, D.C. He chased hurricanes, earthquakes, plane wrecks, presidential candidates, wildfires, rodeo cowboys, migrant field hands, neo-Nazis and nuns with an eye for the telling detail and an ear for the voice of the people who give life to a story. His stories have appeared in newspapers across the country and in magazines such as Cigar Aficionado and American Cowboy. He is a lapsed horseman, pilot, hunter and saloon sport with a keen appreciation for old guns, vintage cars and trucks, good cigars, aged whiskey and a well-told story. He now lives in Athens, Alabama.

Catch Up With Jim Nesbitt On: jimnesbittbooks.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Twitter, & Facebook

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Tour Participants

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

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Giveaway

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Jim Nesbitt. There will be 2 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card each. The giveaway begins on August 1, 2019 and runs through September 2, 2019. Void where prohibited.

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#BookTour “An Eye for a Lie” by Cy Wyss

An Eye For A Lie by Cy Wyss Banner

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Synopsis:

An Eye for a Lie by Cy Wyss Lukas Richter is a San Francisco police detective with a cybernetic eye and heightened senses. He can detect the same autonomous responses as a polygraph machine, so he has a leg up in determining guilt. In An Eye for a Lie, his first full-length novel, Richter is accused of murder and the evidence seems incontrovertible, including a bullet that was somehow fired from his gun when he claims he was nowhere near the crime scene. In the background, San Francisco is aflame over Richter’s shooting of an unarmed Asian man, an incident some are calling “the Asian Ferguson.” Can Inspector Richter convince a plucky and suspicious FBI agent of his innocence in the face of overwhelming accusations and public persecution?

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery

Published by: Nighttime Dog Press, LLC

Publication Date: May 27, 2019

Number of Pages: 258

ISBN: 978-0-9965465-3-9

Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

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Read an excerpt:

“All units, active shooter in progress, be advised perp is SFPD . . .” The police frequencies in Vessa’s sedan couldn’t get enough of the situation. She was hardly in her car before the address where Richter was came over the air. She headed there immediately, lights flashing, accelerator floored. He was in a townhouse on ninth, near Tehama, only a handful of blocks from the Hall of Justice. The entire area was cordoned off and blanketed with police cars. Vessa badged her way through and got to Commander Bayes who stood with Deputy Chief Forrest several yards from the front door. The townhouse was painted lime green and the entrance stood ajar. “Commander, what’s the situation?” Vessa asked. “He’s holed up in there,” Bayes shook his head toward the house. “Got a hostage.” “A hostage? You’re kidding.” “Wish I was. Teenage girl, still up there. He let the rest of the family go.” Now, Bayes shook his head a different way, indicating Vessa should look near one of the ambulances. There was a man and a woman, firmly behind police lines. Both were slender with brown hair and the woman wore a red sweater. She was crying and the man and a paramedic were trying to comfort her. “Commander, none of this makes sense. Can you imagine Richter taking a hostage? It doesn’t feel right.” “C’mon, Agent Drake,” Bayes said. “None of us can say we really know him now.” Vessa frowned up at the building. Between her and the front door lay perhaps twenty feet of tarmac and parked cars. Bayes turned to Forrest and they conferred. Before Vessa even knew what she was doing, she was off –crossing the street at a sprint. “Hey!” Bayes yelled. Forrest pointed. “Stop her!” It was too late. She broke away from the lines and was at the door before anyone could grab her. She pushed the dark portal open and slipped inside, shutting it behind her, closing it fully so it locked. Inside, it took a couple of minutes for her eyes to adjust to the pale strobe lights coming through the front blinds and door windows. She was in an open living room. It was small and closely furnished with a dining room capping it off near the back of the building. She guessed the kitchen would be around the corner. To her right, a staircase led upward. The landing was dark. Vessa had taken her gun out without consciously realizing it. Now, she stared at it in the undulating red and blue lights. What was she going to do with it? Shoot her lover when she found him? She holstered the gun. “Oh, Luke,” she said softly. As if in answer, something moved above her, making a dull thud on the floor. She startled. Slowly, she made her way up the stairs. “Luke?” she called. “I’m coming upstairs.” There was no answer. At the top of the stairs were three doors. Two were dark and closed. Wan light traced the outline of the third door. She opened it cautiously. “Luke?” The door creaked on its hinges to reveal a seemingly empty bedroom. The air was stale although the room was tidy and sparsely furnished with a queen-sized bed and two nightstands. The fluorescent lights from the street diffused around the edges of a thick curtain drawn across a large window. The occluded light wasn’t strong enough to dispel the rooms shadows. “Luke?” Vessa noticed she was whispering. She cleared her throat and spoke with as normal a voice as she could muster. “Luke? Where are you?” “Here,” came a reply. She was practically on top of him by that time. He sat with his back to a wall across from the foot of the bed. Vessa jumped. “Oh! You startled me.” He was staring at her. She half expected his evil eye to glow in the dimness but instead, she saw only normal dark eyes glittering from his outlined face. He sat with his knees bent and his arms resting between his legs. In his hands was a mass of blackness-his gun. That ugly piece of metal was a cursed reminder of what was going on and why they were here, facing each other in this shadowed space. Vessa craned her neck around but didn’t see anyone else. “Where’s the girl?” Richter watched Vessa intently for several seconds before answering. “The couple’s outside. I let them go.” “No, apparently there’s still a teenager in here somewhere.” Richter’s gaze dropped to the carpet in front of him. “That would explain why it’s just you and not SWAT. They think I have a hostage. Well, I don’t.” “You have me.” His head snapped up. “You’re not a hostage. Why are you here, anyway?” “I’m here to get you. I don’t want them gunning you down.” “You’re here to arrest me, Special Agent Vessa Belle Drake?” “Oh, Luke. We’ll figure this out.” Richter brought the gun up in his right hand and pressed it to the underside of his chin, angled back toward his brain. Vessa gasped. “No!” She was rooted to the spot, eyes wide. He stared at her. “I guess whether I do it or SWAT does it, it’s still death by cop.” Tears burned her eyes. “No, Luke. No. Why would you even think it? There must be some mistake. There must be some reason why those bullets matched.” “I won’t be locked up. I won’t be put back in the cage and poked and prodded, and studied to death this time.” Vessa remembered the shaking man sweating beside her in his bed at night. Even though he didn’t speak of them, she knew he was having nightmares. Was it possible he was actually capable of pulling that trigger? Her chin throbbed where he’d bitten her. She couldn’t stand this. How could she have been so wrong? She was never wrong. She swallowed. Never before had she fallen for a guilty man. How was she so blinded by hubris that she could feel this way about Richter when he was a merciless killer? He stared at her, gun in his hand. He didn’t move. She shook slightly with the emotions flooding her. Here she was, at the cusp of what she felt was the most important moment in her life. The man she loved sat before her, ready to take his own life if she didn’t do or say the right thing next. She was paralyzed-absolutely paralyzed. All her training, and here she was, a shaking, paralyzed ball of nerves. She burst into tears. How utterly professional. Richter frowned. Vessa’s nose and eyes ran uncontrollably and she heaved great sighs. She didn’t dare wave her arms around and wipe her face. Instead, she simply stood there and let her emotions pour down her cheeks. Richter sighed. He lowered the gun. He dropped it with a thud to the carpet and kicked it toward her. “How am I supposed to kill myself with you crying like that?” She rushed to pick up the weapon and tucked it into the small of her back, under her blazer. She faced Richter, this time allowing herself to wipe the fluids from her face with her hands and sleeves. She could only imagine how many shades of fired she would be if Bully Benson had seen her outburst. She almost felt like declaring herself unfit for duty on the spot. “I can’t stand it,” she said. “I can’t lose you this way.” He said nothing. What was there to say? They stared at each other. Tears fell from her eyes until the momentum of her outburst ran its course and she finally managed to get a grip on herself. Richter sat, inordinately relaxed, leaning against the wall, hands folded innocently between his legs. “What now?” he asked. She glanced toward the thick curtains shielding them from the snipers across the street. “I’ll have to cuff you. Then you won’t be seen as a threat. Keep your head down, and I’ll stay between you and them.” He craned his neck and looked over the bed toward the window. He watched the dark cloth for several seconds. “Is your eye working? What do you see?” “It’s working,” he said. “And, I see only reflections. Your temperature is up, though.” She came over and stood beside him. “Stay low,” she said softly. He got up and they crossed the room with him crouched low. They entered the windowless landing. Vessa closed the bedroom door behind them. She looked at the other two doors. The girl was probably behind one of them, asleep or with her headphones on, completely oblivious. Vessa pulled her cuffs out. Richter stood tall. “All right?” she asked. She needed him to cooperate. She wasn’t about to subdue such a large man in such a small space. “Just a second,” he said. He bent and kissed her. They embraced. Vessa wanted the floor to open up and swallow them so they could stay like this forever. Of course it did not, and the moment had to end. He straightened up again, turned his back to her, and extended his arms behind him so she could easily cuff him. “I didn’t shoot him,” he said. Before she could even think about it, Vessa responded. “I know. I believe you.” *** Excerpt from An Eye for a Lie by Cy Wyss. Copyright 2019 by Cy Wyss. Reproduced with permission from Cy Wyss. All rights reserved.
 

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Author Bio:

Cy Wyss Cy Wyss is a writer based in Indianapolis, Indiana. She has a Ph.D. in computer science and her day job involves wrangling and analyzing genetic data. Cy is the author of three full-length novels as well as a collection of short stories and the owner and chief editor of Nighttime Dog Press, LLC. Before studying computer science, Cy obtained her undergraduate degree in mathematics and English literature as well as masters-level degrees in philosophy and artificial intelligence. She studied overseas for three years in the UK, although she never managed to develop a British accent. Cy currently resides in Indianapolis with her husband, daughter, and two obstreperous but lovable felines. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, and walking 5k races to benefit charity.

Catch Up With Cy Wyss On: cywyss.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Twitter, & Facebook!

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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Cy Wyss. There will be 2 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card each. The giveaway begins on May 27, 2019 and runs through July 29, 2019. Void where prohibited.

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#Review “Below the Fold (Clare Carlson Mystery)” by R.G. Belsky

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5/5 Stars!

What a head-slammer! Every time I thought I had figured out who the murderer was, I ran right into a wall!

A woman is found murdered in an ATM vestibule in New York City. But she was homeless and just another anonymous lost soul living on the streets. Her death barely registers a blip on anyone’s radar and will never be solved.

But this story calls out to TV news director Clare Carlson. No one is born homeless. The woman had a life and Clare wanted to tell that story. Her news team puts together well-received segments on the tragic life of Dora Gayle—a college-educated woman who loved life and poetry, but for whom a broken heart and giving up her infant daughter for adoption were probably the early beginnings of the downward spiral that led to Dora being brutally stabbed to death by a stranger.

But Dora’s story is soon forgotten because life goes on.

Another murder occurs that’s sure to be high profile. A young, female investment banker is beaten to death in her toney apartment. She was involved in a major embezzlement and bank fraud case and had recently agreed to testify against her co-conspirators.

The story has Clare’s attention, but she’s floored when she learns what was found near the body—a note with five names which includes a media mogul (and Clare’s boss), a politician, a ruthless attorney, a cop involved in scandal… and Dora Gayle.

No one knows how the people on the list are connected, including the people on the list. Clare’s boss gives her free rein to investigate and report in hopes of finding some answers or at least clearing his name.

Clare Carlson is damn good at her job. Despite being a Pulitzer Prize winner, she’s about the story, not the glory. She dives into the investigation interviewing anyone on the list… and anyone else who’ll talk to her.

Clare’s also glad for the distraction because it takes her mind off the daughter she gave up for adoption. I liked Clare. She’s not smug and arrogant or annoying. She’s committed to her job and a true professional. But she’s not without her flaws. She has three past marriages under her belt and having the hots for a married cop was not a good look for her. But, she got her hand smacked and her feelings hurt and just has to get over herself. One day.

Suspicion surrounds everyone on the list and a few others, but it’s revelations from the past that open… and close the door on the case.

When Clare and crew take a step back and recalculate—sort of like Siri—they realize they went for the easy, and wrong solution.

She relaunches her investigation being more methodical, but as she digs deeper, the suspect list grows, and the plot twists are fast and furious!

Well-paced and detailed, the author does a great job in this read of baiting and distracting and heightening the suspense, only to smack the reader with yet another plot twist—I think I’m bruised.

Below the Fold must be read to the last page to have all those pesky loose ends tied up, and it is so worth it. There was only one guy I felt didn’t get his comeuppance, but there’s always book 3, right? Crime fiction and mystery lovers will read this in one sitting and I highly recommend you do.

Enjoy!

This is book 2 in the Clare Carlson series, and I wanted to get Clare’s full backstory and decided to purchase book 1, Yesterday’s News. Imagine my surprise finding out I already own it! (Don’t judge me—I buy a lot of books!)

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Synopsis:

Every human life is supposed to be important. Everyone should matter. But that’s not the case in the cutthroat TV news-rating world where Clare Carlson works. Sex, money, and power sell. Only murder victims of the right social strata are considered worth covering. Not the murder of a “nobody.”

So, when the battered body of a homeless woman named Dora Gayle is found on the streets of New York City, her murder barely gets a mention in the media. But Clare―a TV news director who still has a reporter’s instincts―decides to dig deeper into the seemingly meaningless death. She uncovers mysterious links between Gayle and a number of wealthy and influential figures. There is a prominent female defense attorney; a scandal-ridden ex-congressman; a decorated NYPD detective; and―most shocking of all―a wealthy media mogul who owns the TV station where Clare works. Soon there are more murders, more victims, more questions. As the bodies pile up, Clare realizes that her job, her career, and maybe even her life are at stake as she chases after her biggest story ever.

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Book Details

Genre: Mystery

Published by: Oceanview Publishing

Publication Date: May 2019

Number of Pages: 357

ISBN: 978-1-60809-324-3

Series: Clare Carlson #2

Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for R.G. Belsky. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on May 01, 2019 and runs through June 02, 2019. Void where prohibited.

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#BookTour “Below the Fold (Clare Carlson Mystery)” by R.G. Belsky

Below The Fold by R.G. Belsky~~~

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Synopsis:

 

Every human life is supposed to be important. Everyone should matter. But that’s not the case in the cutthroat TV news-rating world where Clare Carlson works. Sex, money, and power sell. Only murder victims of the right social strata are considered worth covering. Not the murder of a “nobody.”

So, when the battered body of a homeless woman named Dora Gayle is found on the streets of New York City, her murder barely gets a mention in the media. But Clare―a TV news director who still has a reporter’s instincts―decides to dig deeper into the seemingly meaningless death. She uncovers mysterious links between Gayle and a number of wealthy and influential figures. There is a prominent female defense attorney; a scandal-ridden ex-congressman; a decorated NYPD detective; and―most shocking of all―a wealthy media mogul who owns the TV station where Clare works. Soon there are more murders, more victims, more questions. As the bodies pile up, Clare realizes that her job, her career, and maybe even her life are at stake as she chases after her biggest story ever.

~~~

Book Details

Genre: Mystery

Published by: Oceanview Publishing

Publication Date: May 2019

Number of Pages: 357

ISBN: 978-1-60809-324-3

Series: Clare Carlson #2

Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

~~~

Read an excerpt:

OPENING CREDITS THE RULES ACCORDING TO CLARE Every human life is supposed to be important, everyone should matter. That’s what we all tell ourselves, and it’s a helluva noble concept. But it’s not true. Not in the real world. And certainly not in the world of TV news where I work. Especially when it comes to murder. Murder is a numbers game for me. It operates on what is sometimes cynically known in the media as the Blonde White Female Syndrome. My goal is to find a murder with a sexy young woman victim to put on the air. Sex sells. Sex, money, and power. That translates into big ratings numbers, which translates into more advertising dollars. These are the only murder stories really worth doing. The amazing thing to me is not that there is so much news coverage of these types of stories. It’s that there are people who actually question whether they should be big news stories. These critics dredge up the age-old argument about why some murders get so much more play in the media than all the other murders that happen every day. I don’t understand these people. Because the cold, hard truth—and everyone knows this, whether they want to admit it or not—is that not everybody is equal when it comes to murder. Not in life. And certainly not in death. It reminds me of the ongoing debate that happens every time Sirhan Sirhan—the man who killed Robert F. Kennedy—comes up for a parole hearing. There are those who point out that he’s already served fifty years in jail. They argue that many other killers have served far less time before being paroled. Sirhan Sirhan should be treated equally, they say, because the life of Robert F. Kennedy is no more or less important than the life of any other crime victim. Me, I think Sirhan Sirhan should be kept caged up in a four-foot by six-foot cell as long as he lives—which hopefully will be to a hundred so he can suffer every minute of it. For God’s sakes, people, he killed Robert—freakin’—Kennedy! And so, to those who think that we in the media make too big a deal out of some of these high-profile murder stories, I say that’s completely and utterly ridiculous. I reject that argument completely. I won’t even discuss it. * * Now let me tell you something else. Everything I just said there is a lie. The truth is there really is no magic formula for murder in the TV news business. No simple way to know from the beginning if a murder story is worth covering or not. No easy answer to the question of how much a human life is worth—or what the impact will be of that person’s death by a violent murder. When I started out working at a newspaper years ago, I sat next to a veteran police reporter on the overnight shift. There was an old-fashioned wire machine that would print out police slips of murders that happened during the night. Most of them involved down-market victims in bad neighborhoods whose deaths clearly would never make the paper. But he would dutifully call the police on each one and ask questions like: “Tell me about the body of that kid you found in the Harlem pool room—was he a MENSA candidate or what?” Or, “The woman you found dead in the alley behind the housing project—any chance she might be Julia Roberts or a member of the British Royal Family?” I asked him once why he even bothered to make the calls since none of these murders seemed ever worth writing about in the paper. “Hey, you never know,” he said. It was good advice back then, and it still is today. I try to teach it to all my reporters in the TV newsroom that I run now. Check every murder out. Never assume anything about a murder story. Follow the facts and the evidence on every murder—on every crime story—because you can never be certain where that trail might take you. Okay, I don’t always follow my own advice in the fast-paced, ratings-obsessed world of TV news where I make my living. And usually it does turn out to be just a waste of time. But every once in a while, well . . . Hey, you never know. *** Excerpt from Below The Fold by R.G. Belsky. Copyright © 2019 by R.G. Belsky. Reproduced with permission from R.G. Belsky. All rights reserved.

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Author Bio:

R.G. Belsky R. G. Belsky is an author of crime fiction and a journalist in New York City. His newest mystery, Below The Fold, is being published in May 2019 by Oceanview. It is the second in a series featuring Clare Carlson, the news director for a New York City TV station. The first Clare Carlson book, YESTERDAY’S NEWS, came out in 2018. Belsky previously wrote the Gil Malloy series – THE KENNECONNECTIONION, SHOOTING FOR THE STARS AND BLONDE ICE – about a newspaper reporter at the New York Daily News. Belsky himself is a former managing editor at the Daily News and writes about the media from an extensive background in newspapers, magazines and TV/digital news. He has also been a top editor at the New York Post, Star magazine and NBC News. Belsky won the Claymore Award at Killer Nashville in 2016. He has finished as a Finalist for both the Silver Falchion and David Awards. And his first Clare Carlson book, YESTERDAY’S NEWS, was named Outstanding Crime/News Based Novel by Just Reviews in 2018 and was a Finalist for Best Mystery of 2018 in the Foreword INDIES Awards. His previous suspense/thriller novels include LOVERBOY and PLAYING DEAD. Belsky lives in New York City.

Catch Up With Our R.G. Belsky On: rgbelsky.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Twitter, & Facebook!

~~~

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

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Enter To Win!

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for R.G. Belsky. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on May 01, 2019 and runs through June 02, 2019. Void where prohibited.

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