Stockholm Syndrome: Two doctors. One killer. One Woman in labour - A Hope Sze Medical Mystery Book 4 by Melissa Yi

 Manouchka ignored him. She leaned on my arm. Somehow, it felt Biblical, like she was weary and in need of shelter. Which she wasn’t going to get anytime soon.

I screamed. It happened so fast. I’d never seen anyone use a gun, except my dad fooling around with a BB gun in our back yard, and now Stan dropped to his knees before he caught himself on his hands, gurgling. Behind him, the blonde woman and her husband ducked into triage and slammed the door behind them. Suddenly, only me, Stan and the gunwoman stood in the hallway. “Call 911!” I yelled in the general direction of the nursing station, ignoring the gunwoman. The triage nurse had probably seen or heard enough to call for help, but it never hurt to sound the alarm. Meanwhile, I’d focus on the A, B, C’s of resuscitation. Especially the airway and breathing. My eyes fixed on the bloody hole in Stan’s back, below the point of his left scapula. Probably too far from the midline to cut his spinal cord, but right in “the box” where shrapnel could pierce a heart or lung or both, depending on the trajectory. Stan dropped on to his stomach, still breathing, so his heart probably hadn’t been hit. I have zero experience with gunshot wounds, but they say that after a heart attack, if you have myocardial rupture, and the heart bursts open, the person dies in a few beats. He’d already made it past that. I fell on my knees beside Stan, who was barely sucking air into his lungs. Did he have a pneumothorax? The hole in his chest could still kill him within minutes. My first instinct was to turn him on his back, because that’s how patients always roll into the emerg on a stretcher, face up. Also, the exit wound in front of his chest would gape more than the relatively neat hole in back. I stopped and grabbed the stethoscope hung around the back of my neck. Even with Stan face-down, I could listen to his breath sounds. “Don’t touch him,” said the burqa woman. I looked up. She trained her gun on my face. My hands stilled, slowly relinquishing the navy rubber tube of my stethoscope. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten her, but I had a higher calling here. I lifted both palms in the air. “Look. I’m a doctor. He’s a doctor.” 

“I need Casey Assim,” the woman said. Her voice had descended into growl territory. It took me a second to process that. Casey. That was the name the ward clerk had buzzed us about in Manouchka’s room. So Casey Assim must be a patient, a new one who hadn’t made it on the whiteboard yet. The one Stan had been on his way to deliver? Stan tried to cough. He choked instead. The breath rattled in his lungs before he boosted himself on to his hands and started crawling on his hands and knees toward the open doorway. Toward the case room. Or the closed triage door. Or the nursing station. Any way you sliced it, civilization. He knew where to go. His brain was still clicking. He had the strength to crawl. Should I try and distract the burqa woman? Maybe try and wrestle the gun away from her? But that was an insane Hollywood move. And also, I couldn’t help noticing that Stan was deserting me while this woman held us at gunpoint. I could distract her for the few crucial seconds while Stan got away, but I wouldn’t jump her. I heard a nurse scream from further down the hallway. She tried to stifle it, which made it sound even worse. From my view, at least thirty feet away, I could tell that they’d sealed all four case room doors, but the nursing station was an open desk area. The counter might protect you a little, but not the open table. Maybe the staff would run toward the OR and back out the other side of the U, toward the ward. But could the patients run that fast? The overhead paging system blared, “Code Black, Fourth Floor. Code Noir, quatrième étage.” Then someone pulled the fire alarm. The high-pitched bell made my ears cringe. “Is Casey the person you’re looking for?” I asked, raising my voice above the alarm. My arms quivered in the air. “I⁠—” The burqa woman looked down at Stan crawling and shot him in the back of the head. The sound of the bullet echoed through the hallway. His body flopped on the floor. Blood coursed from the back of his skull. I couldn’t make a sound. I’d met murderers before. But they’d never killed anyone in front of me. This was like an execution. And what had Stan done? He hadn’t broken patient confidentiality. He’d done the “right thing.” Now he was probably dead. I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t want to die. I gazed down the case room hall, now empty of obvious human habitat, although I knew the triage room must be packed like Sonic dance club on the night of a full moon, and at least three out of four women labouring in the case room hadn’t made a break for freedom. It was only me and the burqa murderer now. The fire alarm shrieked overhead, a piercing scream that made my jaw ache and my arms tremble. This couldn’t be happening. Oh, yes, it could. I’d survived enough tight situations to know that real life could surpass any nightmare. They call me the detective doctor. But it’s one thing to try and figure out any wrongdoing after the fact. It’s quite another to have someone a) pull out a gun, and b) shoot your senior resident in front of you. 

“How may I help you?” I said, trying to sound civil, like this was normal. Like I wasn’t about to get whumped. I thought of my main man, Ryan. My first runner-up, Tucker, who made my toes curl. My little brother, Kevin. My parents. My grandmothers. I love you. I’m sorry I never told you enough. The burqa woman detoured to grab me from behind, her body a solid presence behind mine while she drilled the muzzle of the gun against my right temple. The muzzle was still cool after shooting Stan. She’s right-handed, I noticed with the back part of my brain. Maybe it would make a difference, maybe it wouldn’t. But my shocked brain insisted on memorizing facts like this and noticing that she smelled like beer, tangy sweat, and something unpleasantly familiar. “Get me Casey Assim,” she said. “Now.” 

“I can get you Casey Assim,” I said, since at this point, I would have promised both my grandmothers. Not that I’d actually deliver them to this madwoman. But I’d lie up and down Main Street if it would buy me a few seconds. All was fair in love and at gunpoint. “They brought her in,” said the killer. “She’s in labour. It’s her due date. I know it’s her.” Faulty logic, but my shoulders jerked as my hindbrain calculated, That’s a man’s voice. This is a man, not a woman. A man dressed in a burqa. He was crazier than I thought. I was deader than I thought. “Okay,” I said. “Get me to her room, or I’ll kill you, too.” He wasn’t that much taller than me. Maybe five foot eight, but stocky, like a wrestler, with wide shoulders and firmly planted feet. And did I mention that gun? “No problem,” I said, an expression my dad hates. He says, There’s always a problem. Why would you say there’s no problem? He had a point, especially when I was nose to nose (okay, back of head to nose) with Mr. Death. Dad. I’m sorry. I love you. I felt Mr. Death jerk his head toward the doorway. He knew that was the main entrance to the case room. He knew how to get there, but he wanted me to lead him, like a little Dr. Gandhi, while he kept the gun trained on my temple, the thinnest area of my skull. He wanted me to play hostage. Part of me thought, No. Run. If only I’d run in the first place, when my subconscious brain must have recognized that the way he moved and the breadth of his shoulders didn’t jibe with a pregnant woman. Now it was too late to run. The emergency department and hospital front desk had security guards. Obstetrics had nothing. I must have glanced or somehow turned left, toward the elevator, because the bastard cocked his gun, and I felt as well as heard the hammer shift. I don’t know guns, but I’ve seen enough TV shows to figure out what’s fatal. I froze in place like an Arctic hare dropped in downtown Tokyo. I’ve actually listened to a podcast about what to do when an active shooter enters a hospital. Running is your best option. But running with a bullet in your brain? Not possible. Without taking my eyes off the gun, I took a step toward the doorway. Toward triage. “That’s it, bitch,” Bastard whispered. I gestured at Stan’s unmoving body, which lay five feet away from us, blocking the doorway. I could smell Stan’s blood. I have a strong stomach, but I had to hold my breath and not-think, not-think, not-think if I was going to survive even the next few minutes. Bastard didn’t answer, except to keep his gun pressed against my cranium. I walked. I walked with Bastard’s body cemented against my back. Have you ever had an unwanted guy grind behind you on the dance floor? Like that, times a billion. I had to glance down as I/we stepped over Stan’s body, carefully picking my way to avoid his sprawled arms and the ever-widening pool of blood. Stan’s yarmulke clung to his curly hair a centimetre above the bullet hole. I scanned the green felt for dots of blood and possibly brains. Then my eyes slid south. Was it possible that I glimpsed the pale, folded surface of cerebral cortex under the film of blood dripping from the entry site? No. Probably my imagination. I clung to the fact that his religious symbol remained intact. Maybe he and I would, too. I sent a brief prayer toward Stan and any available deity: Please. People have survived gunshot wounds to the head. I’ve never seen it, but I remembered a neurosurgery resident explaining to me, in detail, how a high-velocity bullet could hit a non-critical area of the brain and come out the other side, necessitating surgery, ICU, and a lot of rehab, but not a one-way ticket upstairs/downstairs. The bullet had hit Stan in the occiput, so bye-bye occipital lobe. But I thought it was higher up than brainstem, which would have spelled instant death. So it was possible, if not probable, that he might pull through. But the longer he lay on the ground, the lower his chances of any meaningful recovery. At least by drawing the gunman away from Stan, I was allowing the emergency crew to make its way toward him. On the other hand, it meant I was drawing the gunman toward a bunch of defenseless pregnant women. I might have yelled for them to run, but the fire alarm was doing all the screaming for me. The sound invaded my head, made it hard to think anything except Shut up. My body walked anyway, with the diaphragm of my stethoscope banging a drum beat against my chest. I held my hands up in the air, both to calm down the gunman and so that anyone looking at me would immediately compute that something was wrong. Flee. Now. The case room hallway looked deserted. It didn’t feel empty, though. First door on the right. Triage. I imagined all those exhausted pregnant women and men, plus the triage nurse, holding their breath and barring the door. I walked a little faster, hoping that Bastard wouldn’t pause and knock on that door. He didn’t. Now we’d reached the nursing station on our left. The long, white counter hung with tinsel, which the elderly ward clerk usually sat behind, answering the phone with her crystal-studded acrylic nails, and which I stood in front of to write my charts or answer my pages: empty. Behind the counter, the communal wooden table and small alcove, where the nurses sat to chart and to watch the fetal monitors mounted to the wall, under Christmas balls dangling from the ceiling: empty. Everyone had taken off. Or was at least out of sight, for the moment. Bastard exhaled. I tensed. He could easily yell, 

“Bring me Casey, or I’ll kill this chink!” And then, if no one answered, he’d shoot me out of spite. The alarm screeched on. Overhead, the hospital operator intoned, “Code Black, Fourth Floor. Code Noir, quatrième étage.” Bastard’s left hand relaxed on my shoulder while he held the gun to my right temple. Was he letting down his guard? I could try to break away from him now. But which way should I run? Back toward the elevators and Stan? He’d shoot me before I got ten paces. Around the hallway’s U-shape to the OR and then the ward rooms? Much, much farther. And at least fifty feet of hallway, where I could get shot. Under the desk, so I could hole up like a mouse before he executed me? So many bad choices, so little time. The only thing I didn’t consider was running for a case room or triage. He’d whack me, then take potshots at anyone and everyone else in the room. But he didn’t want me. He wanted Casey Assim.

I was now facing the first case room door. Obviously, all he heard was Casey’s name and nothing else. He was like a missile locked on detonate. “Get her out of there. Or get me in. I don’t care. She’s gonna have my baby.” He placed the gun at the back of my head now, which made me think of Stan. Stan. Dead Stan. Don’t think that way. He might still make it. Come on. At close range, I finally recognized that insistent stink emanating from Bastard’s pores as marijuana. Lovely. I forced myself to speak in a low, well-enunciated voice. “She’s not there. Let me call the operator. I’ll find you Casey.” He pushed the gun a little harder against my occiput. “Open. That. Door.” I stared at the edging etched into the white wood of the first case room door. If he shot me, could the bullet drive right through the wood and hit Manouchka or June too? My hand dipped toward the metal door handle, but a sound caught my ear. Not just any sound. A whistle. On our right, echoing off the empty hospital corridor walls. Someone whistling in the midst of blood and terror. It was as startling as if a bluebird had launched itself above our heads in this hospital hall of horror, singing a tale of joyful spring in mid-November. I knew that whistle. My nails cut into my palms to stop myself from yelling. My breath rasped in my throat, and I know this sounds strange, but my nipples hardened. I even recognized the song, “What a Day for a Daydream.” It was the stupidest, most inappropriate song for this scenario, and that would have told me the whistler’s identity even if I’d been blindfolded and gagged. It was one man I didn’t want trapped with me. I wanted to scream, Run, Tucker...

~~~

I normally enjoy medical novels, and this was no different in my response to the story. However, it is certainly not an easy book to read! Who can imagine what it would be like to have a man dressed in a burqa, easily look like a pregnant woman, and walk into the maternity ward, only to have it be the beginning of a very long nightmare. One where a medical resident had already been shot and when he began to crawl, was shot again in the head... Not something you ever want to encounter... 

This book immediately made me think about another book by Dr. Charles C. Anderson, The First to Say No, which is about women in emergency rooms... Dr. Anderson took on a mission to make changes which would allow women to file legal action against those who attacked them while they were working... He took his cause all the way to Washington. Do a search on his name for more information covered here at BRH.

The book is written in first person with Hope Sze a doctor who is thinking about which woman will be her next patient, on routine shift, when an individual walks in and starts demanding attention. The salvation of reading the book is that Dr. Sze shares all of her thoughts and words as she faces what happened that long day... The author uses her thoughts in such a way that readers are sometimes laughing, sometimes frightened, and sometimes angry--the reality of each scene cannot help but be read as a "What if" type of unbelievable scenario which each rader will automatic consider from the reader's point of view.  

After trying to find the man's girlfriend, he becomes so enraged that, when one woman, who is pregnant, is discovered in her room--and not his girlfriend, he starts acting purely from his rage, including considering taking out his "needs" on Hope Sze, the doctor... That is mainly brought about by her attempts to keep the woman in labour safe and away from abuse, or worse, by the gunman...

Compelling, a page-turner that you can't stop reading, while also wondering, along with the hostages,  why nobody is there helping to solve the problem, other than the Two doctors, One killer, and One Woman in labour... Makes you wonder why a doctor would choose a maternity ward for a a book... But I have to recognize the brilliance of these three people as they deal with a madman with a gun! If you like medical thrillers, you might want to start with the first book in this series to gain more background on how Hope has two men in love with her...and her thinking she should be able to keep both of them... Yes, there's always a little romance in the mix when the writer is a female, right?! LOL

GABixlerReviews

Murder Run by Shelly Frome - Can You Ever Stop Running? A Mystery You'll Never Solve...

They had just been talking, planning for a full field of wildflowers like they'd seen one day on the way back from town with supplies...All they had to do was pick out the particular flowers or just get a variety and enjoy whatever came up.

But even as they had stopped along that road, admiring the flowers, she had been on edge, looking around to see if anybody else was there--often glancing back to the road to see if there were any vehicles coming toward them...

Now he knew he'd failed...it was too late for him to protect her from harm... But he couldn't stop thinking of the subtle hints she'd thrown his way...

That time he'd finished setting up the tree he'd cut for her. And he'd stoked the fire he'd made of apple wood from the old orchard. She wanted him to listen closely to the ballet music from Appalachian Spring playing on her CD player. She'd said that her all-time favorite, Martha Graham, had danced the lead. She'd also said the story--which she thought Jed could relate to--had to do with pioneers who'd built a new farmhouse. This particular passage had to do with a young bride and her intended which was "very sweet."

But it wasn't only that which was getting to Jed. It was the memory of that same Christmas box. She'd been riffling through it holding up some ornaments for his approval when she said. At times like this, how can you help feeling safe and snug? What do you think Jed? Tell me things are going to be okay, even if you don't mean it.

~~~

"Wake up, Pal, we got a situation. . . . Hey, I'm talkin' here. Maybe she makes it, maybe she don't I'm sayin' you better move it?"

The voice came out of the past. The words cut into the here and now of the Connecticut night. Left with just the dial tone, Jed Cooper hung up, got off the cot, and tried to get his bearings. Though he'd been house sitting this junk trailer for a while, he still had to grope around to find the pull cord for the lights. He waited a few seconds more and punched in the unlisted number of the she the guy must've been talking about. It was busy...

Jed straggled out into the March dampness, skirted around the rusty snow plow blade, and hurried up the path. He slid behind the wheel of the Chevy pickup, cranked the old motor, gave it hardly any time to idle, and took off onto Green Hill Road.

Off the beaten path in the Litchfield Hills, there were no street lights. Under the misty cloud cover, his brights only made matters worse. And way out here his cell phone was useless...

Taking the dips and rises as best he could, he began to have second thoughts. Granted, the guy had to be talking about Miss Julie. Putting aside what in God's name he was doing at her place, what if he was lying in wait? And even if he'd split, what were the repercussions? Could Jed just tear into a single woman's hidden drive this late at night? And then what? Check things out, or call up to her window to see if she was okay? Or, hoping no one had spotted him, ring her bell? Suppose he got no answer?

Besides, there were too many incidents already on his record. One more, and he'd had it.

But then again, she'd gotten so skittish today, she didn't even let him finish his chores. Told him to put down the chainsaw and completely changed her mind about clearing the drive. "If I can see the road, someone can see me," she said. "I want you to go up to the attic and put a latch on the crawl space."

But why? What was that all about? She didn't say; wouldn't tell him...

~~~

Murder Run

By Shelly Frome

I have been very fortunate in finding a "handyman," Steve, who had just started mowing for me this summer, but stayed on to accomplish some really amazing things that had needed to be done on the Cabin. I never knew how handy it was to have a man around the house until I met Steve... So when I read the blurb of this book and realized that a handyman was the main character, I immediately decided I'd want to read it... I didn't know at that time that the single woman for whom the handyman was working would be murdered! LOL

Because, of course, everybody in town assume that Jed, the outsider, the vagabond, who had worked for many other older women, had to be the killer! Who else?!

He didn't have to wait to find out what was
next. First the crackle of the police radio
and, in practically no time, Road Trooper
Charlie Take was up the stairs and upon him.
Tate glanced at the lifeless form on the bed,
glanced back, and uttered the inevitable
words:
"Right. Jed Cooper. Now how in hell did I
know it would be you?
~~~

One thing to be noted immediately, this writer will give you no "clues" about whodunit--that is unless you read very carefully!

For instance, if you didn't catch that Jed had recognized the voice that had called him about heading to his employer's house, you might have missed that Jed was not just an unlucky vagabond who had never been able to hold on to a job, drifted around the country to pick up jobs where he could and, perhaps now, was being framed...

Certainly the local police or local road trooper were not even willing to listen to what Jed had to say. All they were waiting for was a confession, or they would keep hunting until they found evidence regarding the murder. Which they didn't work hard to do.

But one thing soon caught Jed's attention, Trooper Charlie Tate was at the "right place at the right time" too often to be coincidental...

Jed had gathered a few clues as he'd made his way to her house. He'd seen a white very distinctive car hidden away from the road and had gotten there early enough that he'd seen the man run from the house, knew he had a limp, and had tracked him into the woods... While the information was turned over to the assigned investigators, neither paid much attention nor tried to follow up to find the car or man... Jed was on his own if he was to escape being charged for murder...

Small town America was in full play as most considered him guilty, while a few independents chose to give him a chance. It was the women who were willing to help him get out of town--Jed knew who owned that car!

He was headed home--to the place where his mother still lived but had allowed him to be taken from... Only one good thing happened on that trip, he met his boss' niece who had inherited her home and began to get to know each other.

Think of Jed as a whistle-blower, if you will. An individual who knew a lot about people and what had been happening during his earlier years... Then consider that when going back in time, he finds that much has changed about the "business" that had been carried out in those years. In fact, new management had taken over that business...

And many stumbling blocks were thrown out to Jed to keep him from trying to find out more...Take for instance, the two "sweet things" that came into a bar where he was drinking...

Ginger and Dee didn't at all like the way things were going and switched gears. First by ordering another round for themselves, which Butch complied with as offhand as possible. And then by going into a biker song routine.

"Hey," Ginger piped up, "how about 'Motorcycle Mama'?" Getting more and more sloshed by the minute, she got to her feet, began wiggling around, and tried to drown out the speakers.

"Motorcycle Mama, won't you lay your big . . .down? What is it--ass, feet, butt? Help me out here."

Another dirty look from the bank girls, another finger from Ginger.

"Never mind. The next lyric's for you, Jed." Shaking it a little more, still hollering over the speakers, Ginger sang, "I always get in trouble when you bring it around. Ring any bells, hotshot? Huh? Huh?"

When this got her nowhere, she tried to shop Dee. Claiming that Dee was a combo of "Motorcycle Mama" plus the gal in the Neil Young song. While insisting on a large 7-up chaser to make sure she stayed on top of her game...And then it happened all at once. Without really looking, Ginger reached for the tumbler of 7-Up and knocked both it and her cocktail onto Jed's lap. Before he knew what was happening. Ginger leaned over the bar giggling and shoved a towel onto his lap yelling, "No, no, my bad, my pleasure, sir..."

Jed help up his hands in mock surrender. He told the guys who were crowding him out the door he was just leaving anyway...

~~~

What you'll find is one hell of a mess...a dangerous mess, where problems are handled by getting rid of the people causing those problems...

One reason it all seems a mess is that the author had not identified the business early enough so that readers must play close attention to the characters, their names, and their demeanor to know who are the old players and the new. Others don't even identify themselves when they confront people like Jed and some of the other characters from the old hood... I can give you only one hint. The book is a crime novel--don't expert too many people beyond Jed who you would consider to be the good guys...

And the amazing thing is that it ends that way...some things get so complicated that it is better to make the best of a mess and move on... And somehow that makes a certain kind of sense out of an extremely complicated mystery... Dare you try to solve it? I certainly didn't, but managed to put most of my unanswered questions to rest and confirm that the ending was the best it could be for me to be satisfied... Yet, the details linger in my head, puzzling, provoking attention to what would have or should have come next... 

My only lovely gift from the author? Jed was a strangely intriguing character...and he had met someone and they seemed to be happy in their new relationship. And he was hard at work creating that field of wildflowers that he'd once promised to a memorable woman... An honorable handyman indeed!

GABixlerReviews

Shelly Frome is a member of Mystery Writers of America, a professor of dramatic arts emeritus at the University of Connecticut, a former professional actor and, all told, has written over twenty-five plays in addition to his articles and novels. 
A frequent contributor of articles on all facets of creative writing and acting, Shelly appears in numerous periodicals including Southern Writers Magazine where he is the film columnist. He is also a contributor to writers' blogs and websites in the U.S. and the U.K.
His fiction includes Twilight of the Drifter, The Twinning Murders,and Lilac Moon. His Hollywood crime caper Tinseltown Riff was released in March 2013. His latest crime novel Murder Run was just released in August.
Among his works of non-fiction are the acclaimed The Actors Studio and texts on The Art and Craft of Screenwriting and writing for the stage. Shelly lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina.

Literary Scholar of Detective Lit, D. A. Mishani, Introduces New Series...and Avraham Avraham...

An image froze in his mind. He didn't know
exactly what the boy looked life, but he could
see Ofer Sharabi placing his black bad on a
bench in a dimly lit, deserted public park
and lying down on his back. He's covering
his body with a gray sweatshirt--like the one
on the girl at the bus stop. He's getting ready
to go to sleep. There's not a soul there aside
from Ofer. And that's good. He's not in
any danger...
~~~

Avraham Avraham is such an important character in Mishani's new series that I wanted to try to picture him through somebody who plays a similar role...I thought of David Boreanaz in his character on Bones... I think the personality Boreanaz plays as Seely Booth is the closest I could come in trying to share a little about our new character in a series.

Pressing his palm down on
the metal door handle to
Ilana's office was one of those
moments in his work that
Avraham lived for. One
moment he'd be at Tel Aviv
Headquarters, and an
instant later, when the
door closed behind him,
he'd be entirely somewhere
else--at home...
~~~

I see Avi as sensitive, introspective, dedicated to his job, protector of the innocent. He has very strong opinions, based upon his personal gut feelings as opposed to evaluation of the overall case and this leads him sometimes  wrong.., maybe... He is able to work well with women and is even to some extent needy to have a female support him in his professional development. I'm not quite sure of the power of his role yet...he has a female who seems to be both mentor and supervisor and there seems to be an underlying personal connection, whether of friendship or more, I think, has to be discovered in the future. However, his supervisor has years of experience and guides, but does little in actually solving the case.  He seems to depend on himself for mostly handling all details of cases, perhaps getting lost from the bigger picture, even though he might be assigned the lead for the case...

The Missing File

By. D. A. Mishani

Another fifteen minutes
or so went by with them
sitting there like that, in his
small room, face-to-face...
Let's go over the main
things again.

Across the desk from him sat a mother. Another mother. She was the third he had seen this shift... All his recent shifts were made up of similar complaints. A week earlier a woman had complained that her mother-in-law had put a curse on her. He was sure that the duty officers at this station were out there stopping people in the street and asking them to come in and file ludicrous reports to make fun of him. He wasn't aware of such complaints being filed on the shifts of the other investigators.

It was 6:10 p.m., and if there had been a window in Inspector Avraham Avraham's office he would have seen that it was starting to get dark outside. He had already decided what to pick up for dinner on the way home, and what to watch on the television while he ate. But first, he had to ease the concerns of the third mother. He stared at the computer screen, waiting for the right moment...

The problem is that if I decide now that your son is missing and that the case requires immediate attention, I am obliged to send out officers to begin looking for him right away. Those are the procedures. And I can tell you from experience that there is a chance we will find him in a situation in which you wouldn't like us to find him. What do I do if he found with a joint in his hand? I won't have much choice, and will have to open a criminal report... He fixed his gaze on her, trying to access the impression his little speech had made. She appeared lost. She wasn't used to making decisions--or insisting. "I don't know if something happened to him," she said. "It's not like him to disappear like this."

 

And so Avi sent the third mother home to come back the next day... Mrs. Sharibi brought several pictures of Ofer and had also brought his cell phone which she had earlier told him was found in his room--he hadn't taken it with him...

And so routine police procedures began...

Avi and a female junior officer began interviewing neighbors of the Sharibi family. Ze'ev and his wife had just had their first child, who was not yet a year old. it was the same evening when the police had arrived at their building which surprised Ze'ev, even though he had figured they would be interview them. When Avi suggested they split up for the interviews and he took the wife into the kitchen and the junior officer and Ze'ev stayed in the front room, again Ze'ev was surprised--perhaps disturbed that the main officer would not choose to talk to him first...

That was not the last time that Avi met Ze'ev either. In fact, although he didn't see him every time, Ze'ev was keeping close track of the investigation and, in particular, Avi... It didn't take an long to have Avi pinpoint Ze'ev as a "person of Interest..."

Ze'ev knew why the police cars
were there the moment he saw
them parked outside the building.
It was a gut feeling, a sharp
searing of his conscience, from
deep within. He knew, too,
that he was ready, but didn't
know for what just yet.
Who's playing Ze'ev?!!!
~~~

But was he involved with Ofer missing? In the meantime, a tip had come in anonymously about Ofer having been spotted...but the caller had referred to him as "body..." A small search was organized and Avi again found that Ze'ev had come to join the search...

The sequel to this novel will be out soon and my review follows this one. I must admit that I'm holding on my opinion of Avi. He is definitely not the macho type that we might see as the primary investigator...  In some ways, he reminds me of Alex Delaware, main character in the series I loved by Jonathan Kellerman. Alex had a sidekick and I'm thinking that is what might improve Avi's story since he's usually looking around for somebody with whom he can talk over the case... That seems to be no longer Ilana when she brings in a younger, much more aggressive detective to work the case with him.

He does make touch with a female officer when he flies to Brussels for an officer exchange program...A possible love interest to come in the next book? 

While I hold out my personal opinion of Avi, there is no doubt that my primary attraction for the novel is Mishani's outstanding writing. I found myself too sympathetic toward Avi, because on the one hand, he appears to lack the ability to take an overall assessment on his cases. On the other hand, he becomes driven when he senses that somebody is lying to him and, with sufficient but incomplete evidence, he makes a firm plan of action for a particular individual, even if he is wrong.

Mishani specialized in the history of detective fiction and has a routine story he throws into Avi's interviews--but his colleagues don't appreciate it at all! In essence, he talks about the lack of crime in Tel Aviv and thus lack of crime fiction... This is one reader, though, who can't quite decide whether the author's writing is enough to keep readers interested when we have less than complete faith in the main character's ability to do his job... Watch for my review of the sequel! At this point, I think you should try at least one of his books just to have the experience of reading a "Literary scholar specializing in the history of detective literature" and check out how he has put his expertise to use in his Debut fiction series! I believe readers will clearly see how it has resulted in the way he's writing his own fiction now...


GABixlerReviews

Dror A. Mishani (born in 1975) is an Israeli crime writer, translator and literary scholar, specializing in the history of detective fiction. His detective series, featuring police inspector Avraham Avraham, was first published in Hebrew in 2011 and is translated to many languages. The first novel in the series, “The Missing File”, was shortlisted for the 2013 CWA international dagger award and won the Martin Beck award, for the best translated crime novel in Sweden.

Dror lives with his wife and two children in Tel Aviv.

Related articles

• Book Review: The Missing File by D. A. Mishani
• Israeli Scholar D A Mishani Turns Novelist with Debut Novel 'The Missing File'

Get to Know Eddy Harkness, Series Lead, in Third Rail by Rory Flynn! Out June 10th...

Harkness walked through the bar, getting a read on. He started at the cash register. Mach seemed orgamized, the kind of guy who kept his valuables together--keys and cell phone, wallet and Ray-Bans, drugs and money. Harkness trailed his fingers along the red leather bar stools and set them spinning.

The stool closest to the register was scuffed with tiny white scratches, almost invisible in the dark bar. Harkness jumped up on it, boots scraping the leather, and pushed up a stained ceiling tile. A BPD lifer named O'Rourke pointed his flashlight up into the ceiling to reveal wires and a metal duct.

"Thanks for finding the ventilation system," Sergeant O'Rourke said. "Was getting kind of toasty in here."

Harkness held up his right hand to quiet the smart-ass, then then it move toward the duct like a dowsing rod, his fingers running along the cool aluminum until they found the smudged edge. He peeled back a piece of silver tape, then ripped the metal duct open--a little at first, then more, until the flashlight revealed dozens of foil-wrapped bricks.

O'Rourke's eyes popped open. "Holy Crap.'

~~~

Third Rail:

An Eddy Harkness Novel

By Rory Flynn

We all know Shawn is not a psychic in his investigative program, helping the police. Neither is Eddy Harkness. But both had trained to observe and since their skills are above average, most people are surprised when Eddy finds something that nobody else can... It's fun to watch such a character in action as a reader. Not so much for the criminal who has hidden drugs where he thought nobody would find them!

The power of observation  is the only thing Eddy and Shawn have in common though. Eddy is more mature, experienced and is an actual cop--at least he was...

Harkness pushes the coin transfer unit down
Main Street, stopping to send coins gushing down
into its metal belly like a slot machine paying off
for someone else.
It's enough to make even the straightest
arrow go bemt.
As he walks from meter to meter, Harkness
asks the question he turns over in his mind
every day like a riddle--will he ever get back
to Narco-Intel
Next he starts going over every place they
went that night...and where he lost is Glock!
~~~

Now he's a Meter Man...

He also was once at Boston PD, but now is back in his old home town. A commissioner had pulled him aside and established him as lead of a small group called Narco-Intel. But many in town already know him and have strong feelings one way or another... My opinion was he was screwed,,, 

Of course, pinpointing where drugs were in Mach's place didn't help those involved in criminal activities and there is a blurred line telling who was good or bad, even if you wore a uniform...

For finding the drugs, Mach fired Eddy's friend, Thalia. Moving in with Eddie was about the only thing she could do at that point--but that put her in danger too, because people were starting to get killed...

Mach had indicated he was through with drugs and had gone into "girls" and indeed he was not involved with the new group, new drug, that was now being sold--Third Rail! They got them both the night they went from place to place getting more and more out of control... Neither one was able to identify what they took or had been given...

One thing he did know, his Glock was gone! And if his bosses found out, he'd be gone! Going over everywhere they went, inch by inch had not produced anything and soon Eddy was putting pressure on Thali ra as to whether she had taken it! Soon he didn't have to figure out whether somebody had found it--men started making comments about him using his gun...or not... Then he got word that whoever had it was using it! Eddy had to act to get it back!

, 

Bent forward, face flushed red,
eyes wide, the driver lays on the
horn. He's had a heart attack.
Or he's insane. The volvo races
by Harkness, jumps the curb,
and roars across the green to
smash into the town monument.
~~~

Then deaths started to occur and the reason turned out to be the new drug! More powerful than anything around, it was also very expensive because of what it did...and the rich users from Boston were coming in now...The first guy to go ran his car into a town monument, causing a political issue that got everybody in town involved!

Eddy started to do some deals and soon was fairly certain who was making the drugs and where their work was being done...But it was only by his knowing one of the town women, who was involved with the man he though was leading the drug making, that he finally got the method...

But it wasn't a happy one... The friend's child had been taken by her lover and hidden so that the baby would not disturb a party that was planned! She was begging him to come out there--right into a "Third Rail" party where nobody would be in control and nobody knew just what this drug would do to each individual! Without saying more, let me tell you that she was quite grateful that Eddy responded to her call! Amazing climax...

One reviewer mentioned Flynn writing like Robert B. Parker's Stone series. I could be wrong, but I'm not sure I agree with this. Even in Stone's series, Parker's infamous dialogue would nearly always be right there...but I didn't see a resemblance to Parker's style of writing. Since this was the first book for Harkness, again I could be wrong, but Harkness seems to have a rougher, more aggressive personality--a Charles Bronson type as opposed to Tom Selleck who played Stone in TV movies... What do you think? Personally, I'm looking forward to reading about Eddy Harkness in the future, no matter who might play him in movies!

Highly Recommended!


GABixlerReviews

Rory Flynn lives with his family in Concord,
Massachusetts. Third Rail is his first crime novel.

Bruce DeSilva Gets Rave Reviews - Chat With Him Today at 4 PM EST!

Rogue Island is a tense, terrific thriller and a remarkably assured debut from Bruce DeSilva, an author to watch. -- Dennis Lehane, best-selling author of Mystic River and Shutter Island.

The Rhode Island of Bruce DeSilva’s imagination is a claustrophobic little state where everyone knows your name, secrets are hard to keep, and corruption has ruled since the first colonial governor dined with Captain Kidd. In this vivid landscape peopled by colorful mobsters, brutal cops and sleazy politicians, a droll hero named Mulligan fights long odds to find a measure of justice. Rogue Island is a stunning debut in the noir tradition. -- Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Long Lost and Hold Tight.

Rogue Island is a blast! Writing with genuine authority, a dose of cynical humor and a squinting eye on the world, Bruce DeSilva delivers a newspaper story that ranks with the best of them. -- Michael Connelly, best-selling author of the Harry Bosch crime novels.

Bruce DeSilva puts it all out there: a gripping plot, memorable characters, and terrific writing. Rogue Island is a stunning debut, and DeSilva is a writer to watch. -- Alafair Burke, author of 212.

Not since Dennis Lehane's A Drink Before the War have I read a first novel as compelling and sure-handed as DeSilva's Rogue Island. Investigative reporter Liam Mulligan has the tough-talking charm, the old school street smarts, and sexy chivalry of a Marlowe or Spade. He needs all these skills to navigate a world where vigilantes prowl the neighborhood with baseball bats, and everyone from sleazy politicians to mafia losers are out to slice off their pound of flesh. I hope Mulligan is around for years to come. He’s funny, fallible, and real.
-- James W. Hall, Edgar-Award-winning author of Hell’s Bay and Magic City

Fans of Michael Connelly and Robert B. Parker, rejoice. L.S.A. Mulligan is on the case. Rogue Island is full of high spirits, low cunning and barbed wit. A wry and entertaining debut in the grand hard-boiled tradition from Bruce DeSilva. -- Peter Blauner, critically acclaimed author of Slow Motion Riot and Slipping Into Darkness.

Bruce DeSilva knows exactly how thrillers work, and he pulls out all the stops in this impressive debut. With a powerful and authentic sense of place, DeSilva peels back the curtain and shows us the real deal; a Providence as gritty and corrupt as any big city, and deadlier than most. -– Sean Chercover, award-winning author of Trigger City.

Live on Facebook's Reviewers Roundup Discussion Board...Bruce DeSilva will be discussing his book, writing and much more!

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=155091741301&v=app_2373072738#!/topic.php?uid=155091741301&topic=14766

If you find you can't participate (comment), click quickly bad to Reviewers Roundup Group, join and come on back to talk!

Review: Rogue Island - Crime Thriller at Its Best!

Image by rhondda.p via Flickr

Rogue Island

By Bruce DeSilva






A Forge Book

ISBN: 9780765327260

302 Pages





Agreeing to review the first novel for Associated Press’s Bruce DeSilva was a little daunting for this independent reviewer, but after learning that it had taken Ed McBain, who wrote the 87th Precinct novels and then Otto Penzler, the dean of NYC crime-novel editors to encourage him to finish his novel, and after getting over my initial excitement when I received it, I figured Bruce would expect me to do just what I always do—tell my readers how I honestly felt about his book!

Rogue Island by Bruce DeSilva had an “old” flavor to me, one I immediately felt comfortable with—could I really see shades of Mike Hammer in Mulligan’s style of investigating and hear Robert B. Parker's Spenser’s witty dialogue as Mulligan quipped back his quick thoughts or was Mulligan and entirely new man I had to get to know and love? Which I did...

Or did I admire most his desire to find the truth amidst all of the corruption surrounding him, even while fighting a losing battle, as proven by his ending?

Of course, Ed McBain had been right! Bruce DeSilva’s novel is a thrilling addition to crime fiction, that reads as if Mulligan has been alive and well for many years! And I’m hoping that he will continue in future books as the tenacious investigative reporter who still believes in printing the true story, no matter what...

Take his “Dumb and Dumber” caricature story for the two arson investigators who were supposed to be working to solve an epidemic of major fires in Mount Hope, Rhode Island. There had already been nine arsons in three months with five dead. Mulligan was seeing his community, his friends, losing their homes or businesses and he knew, since Polecki and Roselli had paid their way upward and then were moved to get them away from dealing with the public, that these men were not going to find the firebug or whoever was responsible. So after outing their incompetence in headlines, Mulligan began his own investigation.

While Max Lomax would be on Mulligan’s back to write the “Dog Story,” Mulligan would whistle for Secretariat to come give him a ride, shrug at his failure to gallop to him, and then walk to his Ford Bronco. Then he'd take off to talk to his friend, the fire insurance investigator, to begin brainstorming what was really behind the fires. Even the local bookmaker was concerned enough that he formed a local group, the DiMaggios to prowl the streets with baseball bats, while he, himself, sat in his private room, in his shirt, tie and boxer shorts, taking bets. They called him Whoosh for a reason! Trading information with Whoosh while Mulligan placed a bet was just part of everyday life...

Just like his friends Whoosh and Rosie the fire chief, and Lomax, Gloria and Veronica, with whom Mulligan might be falling in love, DeSilva has created characters worthy of the gutsy and sometimes dangerous newspaper world of yesterday, while he laments the possible future for newspapers in today’s world. Though his book highlights this potential loss, Bruce DeSilva, in Rogue Island has provided readers with a dynamic invasive look into the power of crime and corruption and how far it pervades our society—and even how to use it to help make things better, under the circumstances...Right?

Frankly, I think this is one hell of a book! Highly recommended!

Book Received
From publisher

G. A. Bixler

Rogue Island  Pre-Order Available in October! Link with Bruce DeSilva at Facebook and read more, by clicking title of article...