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Saturday, August 1, 2015

Tropical Depression by Jeff Lindsay Book Blast (Aug 25)

Tropical Depression

by Jeff Lindsay

August 25 Book Blast




Synopsis:

cover

NEW YORK TIMES bestselling author Jeff Lindsay mastered suspense with his wildly addictive DEXTER series. Before that, however, there was former cop and current burnout Billy Knight. When a hostage situation turns deadly, Billy loses everything—his wife, his daughter, and his career. Devastated, he heads to Key West to put down his gun and pick up a rod and reel as a fishing boat captain. But former co-worker Roscoe McAuley isn't ready to let Billy rest.

When Roscoe tells Billy that someone murdered his son, Billy sends him away. When Roscoe himself turns up dead a few weeks later, however, Billy can't keep from getting sucked back into Los Angeles, and the streets that took so much from him.

Billy's investigations into the death of a former cop, and his son, will take him up to the highest echelons of the LAPD, finding corruption at every level. It puts him on a collision course with the law, with his past, with his former fellow officers, and with the dark aftermath of the Civil Rights Movement. Jeff Lindsay's considerable storytelling gifts are on full display, drawing the reader in with a mesmerizing style and a case with more dangerous blind curves than Mulholland Drive.



Book Details:


Genre: Thriller, Suspense, Police Procedural
Published by: Diversion Books
Publication Date: August 25, 2015 (Re-Release)
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 2940151536677
Series: Billy Knight Thrillers, Book 1
Purchase Links: Amazon Barnes & Noble Goodreads

Tour Info:


Book Formats: ePub, mobi, PDF, Print, Netgalley, Edelweiss
Hosting Options: Review, Interview, Guest Post, Showcase
Giveaway: There will be a Diversion Books Rafflecopter for copies of Tropical Depression; There will also be a sign-up form for people to join a mailing list to get a sneak peak to Jeff Lindsay's upcoming novel Red Tide.
More: For 2 weeks PICT bloggers can take advantage of a special review period of Tropical Depression: A Billy Knight Thriller. ** Let me know if you have questions **


Giveaway:

Diversion Books is hosting a Rafflecopter Giveaway for Tropical Depression. Don't miss out! Visit the tour stops & enter so you have a chance!

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Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours is pleased to announce that we've been given the opportunity to share a special mailing list so you too can see a sneak peek, Jeff Lindsay's upcoming book, of Red Tide's trailer.

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Read an excerpt:

Somebody once said Los Angeles isn’t really a city but a hundred suburbs looking for a city. Every suburb has a different flavor to it, and every Angeleno thinks he knows all about you when he knows which one you live in. But that’s mostly important because of the freeways.

Life in L.A. is centered on the freeway system. Which freeway you live nearest is crucial to your whole life. It determines where you can work, eat, shop, what dentist you go to, and who you can be seen with.

I needed a freeway that could take me between the two murder sites, get me downtown fast, or up to the Hollywood substation to see Ed Beasley.

I’d been thinking about the Hollywood Freeway. It went everywhere I needed to go, and it was centrally located, which meant it connected to a lot of other freeways. Besides, I knew a hotel just a block off the freeway that was cheap and within walking distance of the World News, where Roscoe had been cut down. I wanted to look at the spot where it happened. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t learn anything, but it was a starting place.

And sometimes just looking at the place where a murder happened can give you ideas about it; cops are probably a little more levelheaded than average, but most of them will agree there’s something around a murder scene that, if they weren’t cops, they would call vibes.

So Hollywood it was. I flagged down one of the vans that take you to the rental car offices.

By the time I got fitted out with a brand new matchbox—no, thank you, I did not want a special this-week-only deal on a Cadillac convertible; that’s right, cash, I didn’t like credit cards; no, thank you, I did not want an upgrade of any kind for only a few dollars more; no, thank you, I didn’t want the extra insurance—it was dark and I was tired. I drove north on the San Diego Freeway slowly, slowly enough to have at least one maniac per mile yell obscenities at me. Imagine the nerve of me, going only sixty in a fifty-five zone.

The traffic was light. Pretty soon I made my turn east on the Santa Monica. I was getting used to being in L.A. again, getting back into the rhythm of the freeways. I felt a twinge of dread as I passed the exit for Sepulveda Boulevard, but I left it behind with the lights of Westwood.

The city always looks like quiet countryside from the Santa Monica Freeway. Once you are beyond Santa Monica and Westwood, you hit a stretch that is isolated from the areas it passes through. You could be driving through inner-city neighborhoods or country-club suburbs, but you’ll never know from the freeway.

That all changes as you approach downtown. Suddenly there is a skyline of tall buildings, and if you time it just right, there are two moons in the sky. The second one is only a round and brightly lit corporate logo on a skyscraper, but if it’s your first time through you can pass some anxious moments before you figure that out. After all, if any city in the world had two moons, wouldn’t it be L.A.?

And suddenly you are in one of the greatest driving nightmares of all recorded history. As you arc down a slow curve through the buildings and join the Harbor Freeway you are flung into the legendary Four-Level. The name is misleading, a slight understatement. It really seems like a lot more than four levels.

The closest thing to driving the Four-Level is flying a balloon through a vicious dogfight with the Red Baron’s Flying Circus. The bad guys—and they are all bad guys in the Four-Level—the bad guys come at you from all possible angles, always at speeds just slightly faster than the traffic is moving, and if you do not have every move planned out hours in advance you’ll be stuck in the wrong lane looking for a sign you’ve already missed and before you know it you will find yourself in Altadena, wondering what happened.

I got over into the right lane in plenty of time and made the swoop under several hundred tons of concrete overpass, and I was on the Hollywood Freeway. Traffic started to pick up after two or three exits, and in ten minutes I was coming off the Gower Street ramp and onto Franklin.

There’s a large hotel right there on Franklin at Gower. I’ve never figured out how they break even. They’re always at least two-thirds empty. They don’t even ask if you have a reservation. They are so stunned that you’ve found their hotel they are even polite for the first few days. There’s also a really lousy coffee shop right on the premises, which is convenient if you keep a cop’s schedule. I guessed I was probably going to do that this trip.

A young Chinese guy named Allan showed me up to my room. It was on the fifth floor and looked down into the city, onto Hollywood Boulevard just two blocks away. I left the curtain open. The room was a little bit bigger than a gas station rest room, but the decor wasn’t quite as nice.

It was way past my bedtime back home, but I couldn’t sleep. I left my bag untouched on top of the bed and went out.

The neighborhood at Franklin and Gower is schizophrenic. Two blocks up the hill, towards the famous Hollywood sign, the real estate gets pretty close to seven figures. Two blocks down the hill and it’s overpriced at three.

I walked straight down Gower, past a big brick church, and turned west. I waved hello to Manny, Moe, and Jack on the corner: it had been a while. There was still a crowd moving along the street. Most of them were dressed like they were auditioning for the role of something your mother warned you against.

Some people have this picture of Hollywood Boulevard. They think it’s glamorous. They think if they can just get off the pig farm and leave Iowa for the big city, all they have to do is get to Hollywood Boulevard and magic will happen. They’ll be discovered.

The funny thing is, they’re right. The guys that do the discovering are almost always waiting in the Greyhound station. If you’re young and alone, they’ll discover you. The magic they make happen might not be what you had in mind, but you won’t care about that for more than a week. After that you’ll be so eager to please you’ll gladly do things you’d never even had a name for until you got discovered. And a few years later when you die of disease or overdose or failure to please the magic-makers, your own mother won’t recognize you. And that’s the real magic of Hollywood. They take innocence and turn it into money and broken lives.

I stopped for a hot dog, hoping my sour mood would pass. It didn’t. I got mustard on my shirt. I watched a transvestite hooker working on a young Marine. The jarhead was drunk enough not to know better. He couldn’t believe his luck. I guess the hooker felt the same way.

The hot dog started to taste like old regrets. I threw the remaining half into the trash and walked the last two blocks to Cahuenga.

The World News is open twenty-four hours a day, and there’s always a handful of people browsing. In a town like this there’s a lot of people who can’t sleep. I don’t figure it’s their conscience bothering them.

I stood on the sidewalk in front of the place. There were racks of specialty magazines for people interested in unlikely things. There were several rows of out-of-town newspapers. Down at the far end of the newsstand was an alley. Maybe three steps this side of it there was a faint rusty brown stain spread across the sidewalk and over the curb into the gutter. I stepped over it and walked into the alley.

The alley was dark, but that was no surprise. The only surprise was that I started to feel the old cop adrenaline starting up again, just walking down a dark alley late at night. Suddenly I really wanted this guy. I wanted to find whoever had killed Roscoe and put him in a small cell with a couple of very friendly body-builders.

The night air started to feel charged. It felt good to be doing cop work again, and that made me a little mad, but I nosed around for a minute anyway. I wasn’t expecting to find anything, and I didn’t. By getting down on one knee and squinting I did find the spot where the rusty stains started. There was a large splat, and then a trickle leading back out of the alley to the stain on the sidewalk.

I followed the trickle back to the big stain and stood over it, looking down.

Blood is hard to wash out. But sooner or later the rain, the sun, and the passing feet wear away the stains. This stain was just about all that was left of Roscoe McAuley and when it was gone there would be nothing left of him at all except a piece of rock with his name on it and a couple of loose memories. What he was, what he did, what he thought and cared about—that was already gone. All that was hosed away a lot easier than blood stains—a lot quicker, too.

“I’m sorry, Roscoe,” I said to the stain. It didn’t answer. I walked back up the hill and climbed into a bed that was too soft and smelled of mothballs and cigarettes.

 




Author Bio:

authorJeff Lindsay is the award-winning author of the seven New York Times bestselling Dexter novels upon which the international hit TV show Dexter is based. His books appear in more than 30 languages and have sold millions of copies around the world. Jeff is a graduate of Middlebury College, Celebration Mime Clown School, and has a double MFA from Carnegie Mellon. Although a full-time writer now, he has worked as an actor, comic, director, MC, DJ, singer, songwriter, composer, musician, story analyst, script doctor, and screenwriter.

 

Catch Up:
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Friday, July 24, 2015

Unleashed by Eileen Brady (9/1-9/30)

Unleashed

by Eileen Brady

on Tour September 2015




Synopsis:

cover

Dr. Kate Turner is happy with her new life in Oak Falls, upstate New York. Working as a relief veterinarian at a small house-call practice, she truly enjoys helping her patients.

All that changes when client Claire Birnham is found dead, an apparent suicide. A talented artist, Claire had everything to live for: new job, Manhattan apartment, her Cairn terrier Toto. As feisty as the Wizard of Oz Toto, he and Claire were devoted. Kate can’t imagine Claire simply abandoning her pet. Was her death murder?

Questions end in the police arresting young kennel helper Eugene. The fragile friendship between Kate and police officer Luke Gianetti frays as she ignores his advice and keeps asking questions. House calls provide gossip and clues, some helpful, some not so much, as she treats her animal patients. Did Claire’s recent insurance windfall prove too tempting for her hard working and hard drinking mother? What does trouble in the art gallery where Claire worked signal? How huge a grudge did heavy metal rocker A.J. hold against high-school sweetheart Claire after she dumped him? Was Claire a threat to AJ’s rich new girl?

Dr. Kate mixes real medicine with murder as she risks her life over Claire’s death, aided by insights from a former fire investigator, aka her Gramps. Unleashed is as irresistible as Muzzled.



Book Details:


Genre: Cozy Mystery
Published by: Poisoned Pen Press
Publication Date: August 4th 2014
Number of Pages: 272
ISBN: 9781464203947
Purchase Links: Amazon Barnes & Noble Goodreads

Tour Info:


Book Formats: ePub, mobi, Print (US)
Hosting Options: Review, Interview, Guest Post, Showcase
Giveaway: PICT Rafflecopter Giveaway
Series: Kate Turner, DVM #2


Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER 1

After kicking my cheating boyfriend to the curb I needed to find a job far far away from him.

Quickly. With $150,000 worth of student loans left to pay for my veterinary education, I couldn't afford to be without an income. That's how I ended up in the tiny town of Oak Falls, about two hours from New York City if you put the pedal to the metal, but light years away from the crowds. Hired as a relief vet while the practice owner, Doc Anderson, took an around-the-world cruise, I lived in an apartment attached to the office. At least it was a short commute.

Now, seven months of house calls later, I thought I had seen just about everything.

I was wrong.

Friday morning, my veterinary technician, Mari, and I piled into the office F-150 truck and drove to our first appointment of the day. Seventy-two Chestnut Lane turned out to be an older farmhouse-style home on an acre of land that bordered the state park. Mature elms created a canopy over the front walkway, lined by low-lying junipers and daylilies. A pretty setting, but we were there to take care of a sick pug whose owner had called for an early morning appointment.

An attractive young woman in her twenties with light brown hair and a gentle face opened the door. "Are you the vet?"

Nodding, I introduced myself. "Yes, I'm Dr. Kate Turner and this is my assistant, Mari."

"Nancy Wagner. Come in." She stepped aside. "Don't let anyone out."

Both Mari and I are masters at not letting dogs, cats, or any other type of pet escape through exits of any kind. Watching carefully, we snuck through the door, using our legs like goalies at a soccer game to block anyone trying to flee.

Nancy watched us close the door. Satisfied none of her pets had gotten out, she led us down a fairly narrow hallway.

Unfortunately our progress abruptly stopped when a large gray and white pot-bellied pig with a pink nose turned the corner, effectively throwing a block.

Oops.

Could the sick pug we were supposed to be seeing actually be a sick pig? Had our receptionist Cindy made an interesting typing mistake?

"Is this the patient?" I asked.

"Yes. This is my Angel. He's almost a year old and he's got a terrible rash on his belly."

Just because veterinarians treat all kinds of animals doesn't mean we have every species' medical problems right at our fingertips. Luckily, I knew quite a bit about pot-bellied pigs. During vet school several had come into the university's small animal clinic with various problems. I'd also gone on farm calls to a pot-bellied pig breeder, and babysat one named Daisy for a friend for a month. Most of the pigs I'd handled were gentle and surprisingly smart.

"All right. Where can I examine him?"

"I guess we could use the living room." Nancy made a kissing sound and the pig turned and trotted off behind her. My guess was he had the run of this part of the house.

Without much trouble Angel rolled over on his back and presented us his belly to scratch. A diffuse red rash spread across the pale, almost hairless skin on his abdomen and halfway up both sides. The lack of any raised diamond shaped lesions or pustules quickly ruled out some of the bad pig diseases — which left anything from fungal to contact dermatitis to a million other things. To be certain I took several skin scrapings which Angel seemed to enjoy.

"Is he healthy otherwise? How is his appetite?"

"Perfectly normal."

Maybe this was a husbandry problem, having to do with diet or his environment.

Mari, Nancy, and I sat on the wooden floor. Angel loved having his belly rubbed and grunted with pleasure. I listened to his heart and lungs and continued my exam. "What are you feeding him?"

Nancy pointed over to the kitchen counter. "He gets his pig chow plus vegetables and fruits, and some of what I eat every day. Then I let him root around in the yard outside."

Since pigs are omnivores, which means they eat everything, it sounded like a fairly balanced diet. Except for the rash he looked like a healthy piggy. Digging a little deeper I questioned her further. "Did you spread any chemicals or fertilizers outside recently, or add any new plants or trees?"

"Absolutely not. I'm very careful because of all my pets." Nancy sounded indignant.

"What about his sleeping pen?" Since our animal patients can't talk to us, I found taking a detailed history is of huge importance. "Do you change the hay frequently? Is there any evidence of mouse or rat infiltration in his stall?" Skin lesions could be a result of moldy hay or damp unsanitary conditions.

His concerned owner continued to stroke Angel's belly. "I'm sure everything is fine. I don't have any skin problems."

Not sure if she understood I tried to reassured her. "From a preliminary look, I don't think this is contagious to people, but I'm curious if it has something to do with where he sleeps.

Again she looked up at me, eyes wide. "He sleeps with me."

For a moment I thought she sometimes camped in the backyard.

Mari subtly nudged me with her elbow.

I persisted. "Where exactly does Angel sleep at night?"

"In bed. With me," Nancy said in a matter-of-fact voice, as though everyone sleeps with their pig.

That's when a rooster walked into the room. Brightly feathered, brown and black with a red comb, he strutted past us, barely glancing at the pig on the floor. "Hi, Tommy," Nancy said to the chicken.

Mari poked me again and whispered, "That's odd."

I was there to figure out what was wrong with Angel, not the owner, so continued. "Does he sleep on top of the bed?"

"No. Under the sheets. He gets cold at night." she explained, "Besides, he likes to cuddle."

Picturing her spooning with her pig seemed all wrong. I kept going.

"Have you changed your detergent or fabric softener?" Since pigs have sensitive skin I went with one of the most common causes of rashes — contact dermatitis.

Nancy frowned and pursed her lips. "Oh my gosh. I changed my fabric softener to Lavender Fields right around the time I noticed the rash. Do you think that might be it?"

"It certainly could be a cause. Would you be able to wash him with a hypoallergenic shampoo?"

"Sure, Angel likes taking showers with me."

Of course he did. Another place I didn't want to go.

"Great. Mari will get the pet shampoo for you. Follow the directions and wash all the linen and whatever else he comes in contact with in hot water. Use your regular detergent but skip the fabric softener. If that's the cause of his skin condition you should see a difference in about ten days. Meanwhile, we'll call you with the results of our tests. There may be some other type of diagnostics to run, depending on how he responds."

Angel rolled over, then pulled himself up onto his relatively slender feet. I noticed a large doggy door leading out into the backyard. As we watched, the pig aimed his snout into the door flap, pushed it open, then squeezed through.

"Thanks so much, doctor," Nancy said, relief in her voice. "I was worried it might be something serious." She hesitated for a moment. "Do I have to wash Tommy, too?"

For a moment I was confused. "Who is Tommy?"

"My rooster." She smiled a sweet smile. "He sleeps with me too."

* * *

After saying goodbye and getting into the truck, Mari couldn't hold it in. She laughed her butt off. What exactly was going on in that house? I wasn't sure. Nancy appeared to be a normal person, but lonely. Maybe her surrogate animal family filled the gaps in her life. The animals were healthy and well looked after, so who was I to judge her? After all, I talked to my dog Buddy, and he often slept at the bottom of the bed. During thunderstorms I let him crawl under the blankets. Whatever gets you through the day. Still, I couldn't imagine sleeping with sharp piggy hooves in the bed with me.

"Is there a Mr. Nancy in the picture?" I wondered, turning the corner onto Scenic Drive.

"No such luck." Mari entered something into the laptop. "She confided in me that she doesn't get that many second dates."

I tried not to crack a smile. "Gee, I wonder why?"

An hour later we arrived back at the animal hospital and I immediately looked at the skin samples. Everything checked out fine, no nasty scabies or demodex mites, no yeast or any of the other common skin problems that might cause a rash. Knowing Nancy would be worried I called her back while writing up my records.

"Thanks, Dr. Kate. I'll give you an update in two weeks. She took a moment, then continued, "Why don't you check out my Facebook page and follow the link to our website and my blog?"

Six o'clock rolled around before I had an opportunity to go into Doc's office to check my email. For curiosity's sake I looked up Nancy on Facebook.

To my surprise there were lots of postings on her page and a professional looking link to her website. When I clicked on it I got another surprise. Nancy wrote a blog about her pets and her life, a pretty popular blog, and now I was part of it.

Obviously taken from an overhead cam, the posted picture caught me rubbing Angel's tummy. It was a toss-up who sported the bigger grin, me or the pig.

(Continues...)




Author Bio:

author

Eileen Brady is a veterinarian living in Scottsdale, Arizona. She is a wife and mother of two daughters and often has to chase her six cats and two dogs away from her laptop keyboard. The Kate Turner, DVM Mysteries is her first series.

Catch Up:
author's website author's facebook


Tour Participants:



Join In:

To Sign up either complete the form below or email Wendy at wendy@partnersincrimetours.net. Thank you for your interest in this tour.

 
 
 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours