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Download Murder Snippet #3

Missed a day, so shoot me. Putting the finishing touches on the book. Have to admit, it's probably my favorite Drake novelto date. Shit gets real. Really real.Enjoy!Chapter 3“You alright, hon? You look tired.” Colin Elliot lowered his spoon into the bowl of cereal and then proceeded to rub his eyes. “Was up late last night writing, then went for a run,” he groaned as he stretched his calves. “Might have pushed things just a little too hard.” Ryanne walked over to her husband and laid a hand on his shoulder. He leaned into her, resting his head against her hip. “You’ve been pushing too hard, Colin. You’re going to burn out.” Colin pulled away and looked up at his wife. Her face was round, and while it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, it wasn’t exactly pretty, either. Her lips were on the flat side and her nose was a little too thin. She had dark circles around her eyes, a matching raccoon set to his own, but this wasn’t what caught him off guard. It was her smile. It wasn’t a patronizing grin, but a genuine expression of gratitude or maybe—maybe—even affection. He could hardly believe that this was the same woman who had screamed at him the other night, screamed so long and loud that the police had come to the door to make sure that everything was alright.  Colin swallowed hard and tried to put the image of her face, beat red, her mouth twisted in a snarl, out of his mind. “Had to finish the book,” he said quietly. “Need to get it out quickly.” Something flashed across Ryanne’s face, something unpleasant, and her hand slipped off his back. She looked as if she were going to say something, but before she had a chance, laughter suddenly filled the kitchen. “Juliette, have you eaten breakfast yet? We have to leave soon,” Colin said with a half-hearted smile. Juliette bounded into the kitchen, her long blond ponytail swinging side-to-side. “Nope. Colby took it,” she replied, twisting her shoulders as she spoke. Colin shook his head and turned to his other daughter, who followed Juliette into the room. “Is this true, Colby?” “Colby took it,” the girl repeated, imitating her sister.  Colin turned to Ryanne, but she had already made her way to the sink, taking his half finished bowl of cereal with her. And Ryanne took mine. “Come on, guys. No fighting this morning, okay? Daddy’s tired. Just finish your breakfast and then put your shoes and jackets on.” Juliette looked at him as if he had two heads. “I told you already, I didn’t get a chance to eat it. She took it.” Colin turned to Colby who, unlike her sister, had her hair tied on the top of her head in a bun. With a sigh, he said, “Did you, Colby? Did you take Juliette’s breakfast?” Colby shrugged. “So what if I did? I’m the older sister, and if I want another bowl of cereal, I can have one. If we weren’t so poor then maybe we could all have two bowls of cereal. Carla Banks gets to have as much cereal as she wants, you know.” Colin’s eyes bulged. How does a seven-year-old get so much sass? “You’re only six minutes older than me!” Juliette cried, missing the point entirely. “Six minutes!” “That’s enough,” Ryanne snapped, as she leaned over the sink, her back to them. “Get your shoes on, and if you keep bickering, then nobody is going to get dinner tonight.” And there it was: the anger from the night before creeping back into her voice.  She’s getting worse, Colin thought. It used to only be me she yelled at, but now she’s getting short with the kids as well. Colby pursed her lips and pushed her chin into the air. “I’m still older. Six minutes, six hours, what does it matter? I’m the big sister.” Colin sighed and rubbed at his sore calves. “That’s enough!” Ryanne bellowed. She slammed her hands on the side of the sink and spun around. “That’s enough!” Colin cringed, thinking about the neighbors, hoping that they were already at work.  What had the police officer said? If we come back, we’re going to have to keep you separated for the night. Maybe even bring child services in. “Please, Ryanne, it’s fine. I’ll take them to school today.” Ryanne’s eyes blazed into him, a scowl forming on her lips. Colin quickly stood and put his arms around his girls and guided them toward the front door before his wife could get her hooks in. “C’mon girls, put your shoes and coats on quickly, okay? We’re going to be late for school.” Both Colby and Juliette looked at him for a moment and he saw something in his eyes that broke his heart. Fear, he thought with a pang of guilt, they’re afraid of her. There was something else in their juvenile expressions, too, something that he hadn’t seen before. Was it anger? No, that wasn’t quite right. Disdain, maybe? “Please, girls. Hurry.” Without argument, the girls went to the entrance and started to get ready for the cold. Colin followed, and slid his own boots on. He turned back to say goodbye, and was surprised to see Ryanne standing only a few feet from him, hands on her hips. “I’m going out today,” she informed him. “Don’t expect me home until later.” Colin nodded. “That’s fine. I have writer’s group this afternoon, anyway. But do you think you can pick the girls up from school?” Ryanne’s scowl deepened, and he knew exactly what she was thinking because she had made it explicitly clear the other night. Must I do everything around here? Can’t you get a real fucking job? Or how about you write a fucking book that people actually want to read? Colin swallowed hard as he waited for the backlash. But while Ryanne’s eyes narrowed to slits, she exercised what what was for her unprecedented control, and he turned back to the girls. “Say bye to mommy,” he said softly. “Give her a kiss then let’s get moving. The bus is leaving.”

Download Murder Snippet #2

Chapter 1 Damien Drake hunched low, hiding his six-foot frame behind a parked Lincoln Navigator. He was breathing heavily, and sweat was dripping down his forehead despite the snow that flitted down around him.  I’m getting sloppy.  If it hadn’t been for his recent health kick—not skipping the booze, certainly, but cutting back—he almost certainly would have been seen. And what had Ken Smith instructed him? Don’t be noticed. If you’re noticed, I will deny ever speaking to you, Drake. And you know what that means. Drake grimaced as he recalled their conversation by the fire in Ken’s lavish penthouse condo.  Yeah, I know. I know what that means. He instinctively held his breath when he heard the voices, louder now, and he remained completely still, hoping that the two people he had been following hadn’t noticed the puffs of warm air filtering up from behind the Lincoln. “You know what the worst thing is?” the male voice asked. “What’s that?” “He’s the one who’s dirty; he’s the one who bailed his son out of all his problems as a teenager, paid off the cops, reporters, and god knows who else. And yet he’s painting me as a criminal. If it wasn’t so damaging, it would be damn comical.” Drake heard the sound of a car door opening. Taking one deep breath, he raised his head just enough to peer through the Navigator’s windows at the two people who were speaking.  One was Dr. Gary Kildare, of course, but the other was a pretty woman he didn’t recognize. “Yeah, but you can’t go after Ken, at least not directly. If you do, you might as well just forget about winning the election,” the woman said, her bright red lips turning downward in a frown. “After what happened with Thomas…” Dr. Kildare nodded. “Yeah, I know. And I feel bad about what happened to his son,” he paused. “I know that this is going to sound terrible, but I can’t help but think that Thomas’s death was the best thing that happened to Ken’s election hopes. Seriously.” The woman’s frown deepened. “You’re right, it does sound terrible.” Dr. Kildare sighed heavily, then rubbed at his temples with a gloved hand. “I know; I’m sorry. It’s been a long week is all,” a weak smile crossed his face, which made him look much older than he did on the large election posters that covered the windows of the building that they had just exited. “Thank you, Mary. Thanks for everything.” Then something happened that made Drake’s eyebrows lift, something that convinced him that hanging outside in the freezing cold for the better part of an hour wasn’t a complete waste of time. Dr. Kildare leaned in and kissed the woman, who Drake was now fairly certain was his campaign manager, on the lips. Only this wasn’t one of those European-style exchanges between close friends.  This one lingered.  When they eventually pulled apart, Dr. Kildare wiped his mouth and then his eyes darted around. Drake dropped a split-second before the man’s gaze fell on the Navigator. Shit, that was close. “See you tomorrow?” Dr. Kildare asked. “Of course.” “You’re sure that we can’t meet later tonight?” There was an inaudible exchange that Drake didn’t pick up. “Alright, tomorrow then,” Dr. Kildare said, a hint of solemnity on his tongue. “Goodnight, Mary.” “’Night, Brent.” A car door closed, and then the sound of an engine starting filled the winter air. Drake finally allowed himself to exhale, and then slumped against the Navigator’s wheel well. His relief, however, was short-lived; the sound of footsteps approaching in the freshly fallen snow incited panic. What the hell? It dawned on him that he had only heard one door  close, and then the obvious fact that the doctor and campaign manager had said goodbye outside the car came to the fore. Drake had expected that they would leave together, which was obviously not the case. Jesus Christ, I really am getting sloppy. Sloppy and slow. The real problem, was that there was only one other car in the lot beside Dr. Kildare’s Mercedes. And that car was a black Lincoln Navigator. Drake swallowed hard, and focused on the sound of the footsteps. He was huddled by the rear driver side door, and when he confirmed that Mary was making her way around the front of the car, he slid around the back of the vehicle, staying crouched and out of sight. The sound of a key fob chimed, and then the driver’s door opened. Mary stepped inside, knocked the snow from her boots, then slammed it closed. Drake glanced around, desperately trying to find a way out of the situation. He considered running, but there were no other cars in the lot that he could hide behind. And in his black coat, there was no question that he would be spotted in the snow. Does it matter? I can hide my face; she’ll never know who I am. Drake shook his head. It did matter; it mattered because Mary would tell Dr. Kildare, and they would know that Ken was spying on them. And that would make them cautious, and Drake couldn’t afford that. He needed them to be loose, to be free-speaking, in order to get what Ken wanted. There was only one other thing he could think of to do.  Drake waited for the engine to roar to life, and then when the brake lights came on, he quickly swung around to the passenger side of the vehicle. With a hand on the bumper to gauge the car’s speed, he moved with it as Mary backed out of the parking spot. He stared at the side mirror, and realized that he couldn’t make out her face; it was bent in such a way that he could only see that Navigator logo embroidered on the passenger seat headrest. Drake was reminded of the signs that he occasionally saw plastered to the back of transport trucks. If you can’t see me, I can’t see you. He wondered if that were true, but then had to focus when Mary put the car into drive. To make things worse, Dr. Kildare’s campaign manager had a lead foot, it appeared. The car shot forward, and Drake had to jog to keep up with it, which was no small feat considering that he had to remain crouched the entire time. He slid in behind the vehicle, his thighs burning, the inside of his legs chaffing. Just when he thought he was going to collapse with exhaustion, the car neared the entrance to the parking lot. And there, parked at the side of the road coated in a fresh layer of snow, he spotted his car. As Mary passed his Crown Vic, Drake leapt and landed on the road, barely missing the bullet-ridden hood of his ride. The air was forced from his lungs, and he gasped, but remained completely still. The snow had looked much more comfortable, more cushioning, than it actually was. After a moment, he turned his head and peered beneath his car. Breathing heavily, his heart-pounding in his chest, he watched as the Navigator turned left and sped into the night. When he was confident that Mary was gone, Drake started to laugh. This is ridiculous. Absolutely fucking ridiculous. But as insane as it might be, he finally got something on Dr. Kildare. After all, everyone knew that the good doctor’s wife’s name was Julia, not Mary.Check back tomorrow for Chapter 2!

Download Murder Snippet #1

Download Murder, book 3 in the Damien Drake series is less than a week away! As with the other books in the series, I'll post the first few chapters here, one each day, to whet your appetite for murder and mayhem.ENJOY!Download MurderPrologueThe whistling was generic, not representative of anything that either of the girls could recognize. It was just a string of pitchless notes that didn’t seem to follow a particular pattern or tune. Which somehow made it all the more terrifying.   Melissa shivered and opened her eyes. Her neck and shoulders were sore from falling asleep with her back against the cold concrete, and her hands, bound tightly behind her, had long ago gone numb. Her heart rate quickened with the sound of a door opening, and Melissa shut her eyes tightly, trying to will their captor away.  The whistling abruptly stopped, and she somehow mustered the courage to open her eyes again. A shadowy figure was crouched but a foot from her, head tilted to one side. When a gloved hand moved toward her face, Melissa recoiled so quickly that the back of her skull bounced off the wall hard enough to send stars shooting across her vision.  But the hand didn’t grab her as she thought it might; instead, the fingers brushed a lock of a brittle brown hair away from her face. “Why are you doing this?” Melissa whimpered.  When the figure’s only response to change the angle of the head tilt, rage suddenly filled her. “Fuck you,” she growled. When the shadow didn’t respond at all this time, didn’t even seem to acknowledge her, she leaned forward and spat. The spray struck her captor directly in the face, and the figure stumbled backward. The crawlspace couldn’t have been more than four feet tall, and for a second Melissa thought that the captor might crack their head on one of the low crossbeams.  The figure ducked just in time.  “Tsk, tsk, tsk; that isn’t polite,” her captor said. When the fingers extended toward her face again, Melissa didn’t cower away. This time, she stared forward, hatred in her eyes. “That simply isn’t tolerated here, sweetie.” There was no anger in the voice—just simple, perfunctory castigation.   The gloved hand slipped out of sight. When it reappeared, the leather fingers were wrapped around the handle of an eight-inch butcher’s knife.  Melissa didn’t want to show fear, didn’t want to feed her captor’s sick desires. But when her eyes fell on the blade, she couldn’t help it; her eyes widened. Her captor must have noticed this, as a dry chuckle suddenly filled the crawlspace.  “Oh, it’s not for you, hon,” the figure said. With that, the shadow spun around to face the other woman.  She had been here when Melissa had first arrived, and even though it was difficult to tell how much time had passed in the crawlspace, Melissa thought it to be around three days. And in all that time, the other women hadn’t said a single word, hadn’t so much as muttered her name. In fact, the only sign that she was alive was her near constant shivering. Like Melissa, her hair was grimy, covering her pale face in thin spaghetti-like strands. As the figure moved toward her, however, the woman started to animate. Hope suddenly bloomed inside Melissa. She’s been saving her energy; all this time, she’s been waiting for just the right moment. Together… together maybe we can take the knife, maybe— But when the woman simply held her arms out, palms up, all optimism fled her. There were scars on her wrists, a network of criss-crossing pink lines that stood out on her alabaster forearms. This woman wouldn’t fight, Melissa knew. “See?” the captor instructed. “This is how you’re supposed to behave.” Without hesitation, the blade flashed out and a scarlet streak appeared between the pink scars. Blood immediately spilled forth, coating the lower half of her arm before pooling in her palm. The woman’s eyelids sagged, and her neck drooped.  “That’s alright, sweetie. You’ve done your part—I’ve seen you die.” The figure cleaned the blade on the woman’s dirt-smeared shirt before putting it back into the holster. Then a gloved thumb reached out and pressed into the wound, soaking the pad in her blood. Melissa wanted to be angry, to scream at her captor, to demand, for the hundredth time, the reason why she had been taken, why they both had been kidnapped. But the only thing she could muster was a muted curse. “Leave her the fuck alone.” The dark figure turned and moved quickly, half-squatting, half-crawling, over to her.  Melissa tried to turn away, to hide her face, but a hand shot out and grabbed her cheeks tightly, forcing her lips into a pout.  “We don’t curse down here,” the captor hissed. Melissa struggled, but the grip was too tight to pull away. Her cheeks ached, and even if she wanted to speak then, she wouldn’t have been able to. The blade is going to cut me now, cut me deep just like the other woman. Then I’m going to die here in this shitty, freezing basement.  The man squeezed even tighter. Then, with his thumb still dripping with the other woman’s blood, he smeared it across her lips, crudely painting them with the tacky substance.  Melissa gagged, and her captor finally released her face. She tried to spit without touching the blood with her tongue, without letting any of it into her mouth.   Bile rose in her throat when she tasted the coppery liquid, but she somehow managed to fight the urge to vomit. Apparently satisfied, the captor backed away, moving closer to the dim bulb that provided the only illumination in the crawlspace.  The gloved hand moved again, but instead of withdrawing a knife, it came back holding a black notepad.  As Melissa watched in horror, the figure flipped to a blank page, and then pressed the gloved thumb against the upper right hand corner, leaving behind a bloody thumbprint.  “Write what you know,” Melissa’s captor whispered. And then the whistling started again as the pen started to move across across the page.Pre-order your copy today! And come back tomorrow for Chapter 2... 

CAUSE of DEATH - Snippet #5

Chapter 4Dr. Edison ‘Eddie’ Larringer left Triple D Investigations with a single thought echoing inside his head.This was a mistake—this was all a mistake.He was sweating, he was tired, but most of all he was confused. It dawned on him that everything he had told Drake, everything that had been consuming all of his thoughts for the past six days, had been a fabrication.It wasn’t unthinkable; in fact, it was even plausible given how exhausted he was. Beckett’s forensic pathology final exam was on Monday, and he was struggling just to stay afloat. If anything, Eddie was a realist; and if he was being honest with himself, he knew that he wasn’t going to pass. And one more fail meant that his entire career as a physician was in jeopardy. Which is why he had, after much moral anguish, broken into Dr. Campbell’s office.He didn’t have to take the folder with the photographs that lay on Beckett’s desk, which at first had looked like hard copies of the final exam. After all, he didn’t need them—the USB key he had taken had digital versions embedded within the Powerpoint presentation. That was enough, more than enough, for Eddie to pass.He didn’t need the folder.In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure why he had taken it. He just had.And now Eddie was beginning to think that this had been the biggest mistake of his life.If only I hadn’t looked at the photographs. Things would be different if I had just burned the entire folder.But he hadn’t. And once he looked, it was impossible for him to unlook.At first blush, the digital and printed images looked nearly identical.But they weren’t; they were just a little off. And when Eddie searched the Internet for accidental deaths over the last six months, he found the description of one that perfectly matched the image in the folder.Only that image also matched the one from the course, which, considering the grainy texture of the photo in the Powerpoint, must have been taken years ago.It wasn’t exemplary, it was nearly exactly the same. Textbook, in a way that defied logic.Eddie just couldn’t believe that it was a coincidence.Someone had taken a photograph of a recent crime scene staged to look exactly like the one used in the test.And the only reason that someone would do this, in his opinion, was to cover up a murder.Eddie quickly made his way across the parking lot to his worn Cavalier, and fumbled with his keys to open the door. It was already dark out, a fact that further added to his anxiety.Once inside, he sat behind the wheel for several moments before starting the car.Should I go to the police as Drake suggested? He wondered.That, too, would lead to him failing his exam, of that Eddie was certain. After all, stealing a test from his professor’s desk would amount to more than just him staying behind to repeat a year of forensic pathology. NYU took plagiarism, theft, and cheating very, very seriously.And so did the police.If he went to the cops and admitted what he had done, it would mean that they would take away his medical license.Eddie had thought about the bind he had gotten himself into for several sleepless nights. But when the young and pretty Suzan Cuthbert started to audit the class, it looked to him like a solution to his problem had fallen into his lap. After all, everyone knew what happened to Suzan’s father, and a little research on his part revealed information about his partner, about Damien Drake.Surely, the man would help him out, would take him seriously, given that he knew Suzan. What he hadn’t planned for was the man’s temper.Eddie eyes lifted to the rearview, and he was shocked to realize that he barely recognizing his own gaunt features.“A mistake, this was all a big mistake,” he said in a dry croak. “A mistake.”But try as he might, there was no way he could put the image of the man in the sweater, his body hunched over his own neck, out of his mind.He couldn’t unsee.It’s no coincidence. It can’t be.Eddie reached for his keys and was about to put them in the ignition when a flash of movement in the mirror caught his eye.“What the—”But Dr. Edison Larringer didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence. A dark figure rose from the back seat, and a thick piece of rope was wrapped around his throat.He gasped, and reached for the ligature, but it was yanked tight, forcing the back of his head against the headrest. Eddie clawed desperately at the rope, trying to force his fingertips between the twine and the soft tissue of his neck, but it was no use.It was just too tight.As he gasped and desperately tried to fill his lungs with fresh air, he saw the door to Triple D Investigations swing open and the man himself step out into the parking lot.Help me! Eddie tried to scream. Help me, Damien! Help me!But no words came out.And yet despite this, Drake seemed to pause for a moment, his face a sickly yellow in the streetlights, his eyes scanning the parking lot and street beyond.Please, help me!Eddie’s heart sunk when Damien shook his head and made his way to his own car.Only seconds later, Dr. Edison Larringer’s entire world went dark.

CAUSE of DEATH

The release date for CAUSE of DEATH has been pushed back....... but relax, just by two days. It will be zapped to your ereader on August 13th. So clear your Sunday, because you aren't going to be able to put this one down.Chapter 3“Wait a second, you stole this? From Beckett Campbell?”A look of confusion crossed Eddie’s face.“Yeah, I took it. But the important thing is that this man—” he reached across the table and took the photograph from Drake. “—was murdered.”Drake stared at Eddie for a long time before saying anything; he was having a hard time reading the man. Eddie was convincing enough, but this whole thing about stolen photographs from Beckett of all people, of forensic pathology exams, positional asphyxia, if that really was a thing, all seemed like a cruel joke.A setup of some sort, the reason for and the point of, Drake couldn’t begin to imagine.He leaned back in his chair and prepared himself to put this young doctor—if he was in fact a doctor—to the test.“Alright Eddie, I’m not sure what king of game you’re playing, but I’ll play along. But here’s the thing: if after I’ve drunk a fifth of scotch I decide that I don’t like the rules of this game, then I’m going to make sure that there is only one loser, and it ain’t gonna be me. Got it?”Eddie screwed up his face and recoiled.“Game? What are you talking about, game? Someone’s been murdered. Maybe you haven’t been—”“How’d you find me, Eddie? Of all the private investigators in New York City, you came to me—why? If you’re so convinced that the person in the photo was murdered, why don’t you go to the police?”Eddie dropped his gaze and said nothing. Drake grimaced and slid the photograph back into the folder.“Thanks so much for coming in today, Eddie. But I’m afraid you caught me at a bad time. See, I was just about to go get drunk and celebrate signing a new client—a real client,” Drake said as he pushed the folder across the desk toward Eddie, an unfamiliar smugness forming on his face. “So if you’ll excuse me, I—”Eddie’s eyes shot up.“Suzan told me about you. Suzan Cuthbert.”Drake froze.“What?” He felt anger immediately start to mount inside him, and his body tensed. “You better watch what you say next, Eddie, or—”“Suzan’s at NYU in her first year of medical school, and she started auditing the forensic pathology resident course,” Eddie said leaning away from Drake. “It… uh, the death of her father came up.”Drake leapt to his feet so quickly that his chair toppled behind him.“You little shit,” he seethed. “You come in here with some bullshit story about some sort of copycat killer, then you have the gall to bring up Suzan? Was it that bastard Ivan Meitzer that put you up to this? Revenge for not giving him the Butterfly Killer story?”Drake saw red and before he even realized what he was doing, he reached across the table and grabbed Eddie by the collar of his white polo shirt. He twisted the material in his hand, bringing Eddie’s face to within inches of his own.“You get the fuck out of here—take your goddamn pictures and get the fuck out of here.”He stared into the man’s wide eyes as he threatened him. When Eddie tried to look away, he tightened his grip on his shirt until his eyes came back to him.Only then, after staring at the man’s watering eyes for the better part of a minute, did he shove the young doctor away.Eddie fell back into his chair with a grunt, but then quickly stood, grabbed the folder and shoved it into his messenger back. Then, with a final, wistful glance, Dr. Edison Larringer scrambled out of the office, then through the reception area of Triple D Investigations, leaving both doors wide.Drake fell back into his chair and sat there, breathing heavily as he watched the man go. Then he reached into his desk and pulled out the bottle of whiskey and glass again.Seriously? Whoever put the kid up to this must have some serious balls to bring up Suzan.As he poured himself another drink, the image of the psychiatrist whose nose he had broken outside Suzan’s school flashed in his mind.When I find out who’s behind this, I’ll break more than his fucking beak.Drake poured himself another drink, and when his blood pressure started to normalize, he found himself back at his computer again without even thinking about what he was doing.Only this time he didn’t search for his own name, or Chase’s, and not even Suzan.Instead, he searched for Beckett, and a photograph of his friend, smiling widely, his bleach blond hair spiked atop his head, was the first result that popped up.

CAUSE of DEATH -- Snippet #3

Chapter 2The man introduced himself as Dr. Edison Larringer, Eddie for short, a pathology resident at NYU. He spoke in the rushed, hurried speech of a man that needed to be somewhere, everywhere, anywhere but here.“How can I help you, Eddie?” Drake asked, sweeping the scotch and empty glasses back into the drawer. Business had been tough to come by, and he wasn’t about to turn down his second whale of the day.And that said nothing of the other niggling fact, his gut reaction that this man had something important to show him.Eddie didn’t answer. Instead, he swallowed hard and placed the folder on the table and spun it around. Drake picked it up and opened it. The first thing he saw was an 8 x 10 photograph depicting a man half on and half off a bed, his neck bent awkwardly beneath him, his face masked in shadows. There was a second photograph beneath the first, and without thinking, Drake held them side by side.They looked to be copies.Drake took his time looking at them, his eyes moving from one to another, trying to ascertain what was so important that the young doctor felt the need to burst into his office at half-past six on a Friday evening.When nothing came to him, and he doubted that nothing would no matter how long he stared, Drake looked at the man across from him, an eyebrow raised.“I’m not sure—” he began, but Eddie cut him off.“They’re both dead,” he said quickly.“Yes, I can see—”“But they aren’t the same; they’re actually different. Look at the clock, it’s a different time, and the sweater isn’t exactly the same, the first has like this cross stitch pattern while the other has—”Now it was Drake’s turn to interrupt.“Woah, slow down there partner. Take a deep breath. Go slow. It’s late and I’m old.”Eddie’s eyes bulged and his mouth twisted as if to say, How dare you tell me to slow down with something as important as this? Don’t you get it? Don’t you understand?But in the end, the young man did as asked.When Eddie spoke again, his words came out more slowly. Still fast by any measure, but slower on a relative scale.“On the left is a photograph from the NYU forensic pathology course exam, the one with the clock that reads 3:41. The one on the right is a copy, but it’s a copy, if you catch my drift. See the clock? It reads 3:42 am.”Drake turned his attention back to the photographs, and noted that what Eddie was saying was true. And yet he still didn’t see the significance.“I see that, but what does it mean? The pictures were taken a minute apart. So what?”The man took another deep breath.“Okay, so the one on the left is from the test—we are given the photograph and then supposed to determine possible causes of death, differentials, if you will—and it’s a real photograph from a crime scene. I don’t from know when, but judging by the decor, it’s at least a decade old, maybe even more. It’s the same image used every year in the course.”Drake nodded.“Okay…”“It’s suppose to be a trick; see how the bedspread is all messed up? The first inclination is that there is foul play involved, that there was a fight, an altercation of some sort that caused his death. At least that’s what the professor expects your final diagnosis to be. But the real cause of death is much more… ordinary. This man just got very drunk and fell out of bed. He was so drunk that he never woke up when his windpipe was closed off—positional asphyxia, it’s called.”Drake looked at the photograph, tilting his head off to one side as he squinted. He had never heard of positional asphyxia, but it looked like a very unpleasant way to go.He would much rather go out with his fists raised.Drake shook his head and held out the second photograph, the one with the clock reading 3:42.“And this one?”Eddie blinked.“That one is different; it’s not the same person, not the same crime. It’s been staged.”Drake’s eyes narrowed.“How do you know?”“It’s been made to look like the first one, like the photo from the test, but it isn’t the exact same.”Drake felt himself nodding.“And where did you get this one from?” he asked, shaking the photograph in his right hand.Eddie suddenly leaned back in his chair, and Drake thought he saw sweat begin to bead on his forehead. For the first time since barging into Triple D, the man seemed to be at a loss for words.Drake waited and eventually Eddie lowered his eyes.“I stole it,” he said quietly.Drake stared.It wasn’t the revelation he had expected, but it was something.“From where?”Again, Eddie hesitated. When he finally answered, his voice was barely audible.“I stole it from the professor of the course—I stole it from Dr. Beckett Campbell. And I know one thing for certain: that man, the one in the photograph with the clock reading 3:42? He didn’t die from positional asphyxia. He was murdered.”

Cause of Death - Snippet #2

Part I – Natural CausesChapter 1“How can you be so sure, Mrs. Armatridge?” Damien Drake asked with something akin to a sigh.The woman across from him fiddled with the pearls that hung loosely around her neck like a rosary. Her heavily mascaraed eyes narrowed.“I know, trust me, I know.”Drake leaned back in his chair, tucking his hands behind his head.“I need a little more to go on than a woman’s intuition, you understand. I get that you’re upset, but I have a business to run. I can’t go off and pursue everyone woman who thinks that their maid is stealing silverware. It wouldn’t do me any good to harass people for no reason.”The woman scowled, and then started rooting around in her purse. This made Drake uncomfortable, and he unlaced his fingers and leaned forward in his chair. He slid his right hand under his desk and placde his fingers loosely on the butt of the gun that was taped beneath.“Mrs. Arma—”“Here,” she said, pulling out a check book.Drake relaxed and took his hand off his pistol.She scrawled a number on the check, signed it, and tore it off. Drake reached out and took it from her, his eyes scanning the figure.He tried not to gawk.“Maybe this will make you reconsider harassment, Damien. As you can tell, I’m serious about this. Very serious. I want proof that she’s stealing, and then I want her arrested.”Drake nodded quickly, and then put the check into the top drawer of his desk, sliding it beneath the half empty bottle of Johnny Red.“I understand your concerns, Mrs Armatridge and I can see that you are a woman of conviction. I have no issue moving forward with our relationship. But to do so, I’m going to need more than a check.”A razor thin eyebrow extended high up her forehead. Drake tried to suppress a smile. Mrs. Armatridge’s eyebrow looked like a paperclip trying to find solace in her white perm.“Such as?”“I’m going to need a set of keys, and codes to any alarms that you might have. I also need a complete itinerary and schedule—for you, your husband, and the maid. To the minute. I want to know when you guys are home, but more importantly I need to know when you aren’t going to be there.”The woman fiddled with her necklace again. Despite her previous gesture, and the check, Drake could see that she had become nervous.And that had been his intention—to let her know just how serious things were about to get. Spying on people, even those you loved, family, had a tendency to end in strife.“Why do you need keys?” she asked.“I need to set up surveillance—cameras and what not.”Drake expected to surprise the woman with this comment, but if anything it seemed that the opposite was true.It seemed to offer comfort.“And you’ll show me everything you record? Everything?”Drake nodded.“Of course. I’ll show the tapes to you, and only you. And when—if—we see anything illegal, we’ll inform you immediately. I have to admit, though, that these things don’t always work out as planned. If, after two weeks, we don’t see anything out of the ordinary, we’ll pull the cameras and then sit down and have another chat.”The woman nodded.“Good.”“But,” Drake began hesitantly, “sometimes with these cameras, we pick up things that are… how can I say this delicately… not just theft. Things that are outside the realm of what one might consider ordinary. Before we move forward, you need to be aware of this and let me know what you want me to do with such videos, should they be recorded. Of course, at Triple D Investigations, you can be assured of our complete discretion.”The woman smiled, and Drake suddenly felt slimy. He had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Armatridge wasn’t only concerned with missing spoons and forks. There was something else that she wanted to catch on video.“Show me,” she said quietly. “I want to see everything.” Be careful what you wish for, Drake thought. With a nod, he stood, offered the woman a tired smile and shook her hand.“Thank you, Mrs. Armatridge. Please provide Screech with the information and keys I requested before you leave.”The woman thanked him back, and then left his office.“And close the door behind you, please!” he shouted, and the woman obliged.When she was gone, Drake reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the check. He could barely believe it.Ten grand for a job like this? It had to be some sort of joke.Leaving the NYPD and starting the small PI outfit, first on his own and then with Screech whom he had found online, had been meant as a stop gap measure, a way to earn some petty cash while things cooled off at the precinct.Before he could apply to be a detective again.After all, Sergeant Rhodes couldn’t be around forever, could he?He held the check up to the light, confirming its legitimacy.But with money like this…Drake chuckled, put the check back, then retrieved the bottle of whiskey and poured himself two fingers.If anything deserved a celebration, it was this.While he sipped, his mind wandered back to his bug-eyed ex-boss. Instead of searching for Sergeant Rhodes, however, when he turned on the computer, it was his own name that he Googled.Two articles came up, both written by the same man: Ivan Meitzer.The first was the Skeleton King expose that he himself had been the informant for, which despite being more than a year old was still the top hit, and the second was the one that Ivan had published shortly after they had captured the Butterfly Killer.Drake had promised Chase that he wouldn’t do the expose despite the debt he owed to Ivan, but it hadn’t mattered; someone had gone ahead and spilled the beans, and it had predictably painted Drake in a less than favorable light. When Screech had first brought the article to his attention, he had gone on a rampage wondering who had been the source—Detective Simmons? Yasiv? The bastard Sergeant Rhodes himself? Chase?—but after his rage fizzled, he came to realize that it didn’t matter who had broken their silence. It was out, and that’s what counted.Drake read the headline for what felt like the thousandth time.Veteran NYPD Detective breaks all the rules in pursuit of the Butterfly Killer.He shook his head.Drake resisted the temptation to read the article again, and instead found himself searching for “NYPD Detective Chase Adams”, as was his habit.One of the first results was Chase smiling broadly, a plaque held in both hands. Standing behind her was Sergeant Rhodes, his weasely eyes poking out from behind round spectacles.Detective Chase Adams makes First Grade detective in record time, the heading beneath the photo read.Drake smiled.After everything that they had been through together, he was happy for her. And a little proud.He was staring at her image when the door to his office opened, and Screech burst in. Tall, thin and wiry, Steven Horner aka Screech, was in his mid-twenties, but acted as if he had just entered his teenage years. His hair was shaved on the sides with a swooping pompadour on top, which made his face appear even more narrow. His thin goatee didn’t help him look any less like a Planter’s peanut, either.“Well, that shit was interesting,” Screech said as he bounded toward him.Screech also had a problem with walking; he simply hadn’t seemed to master the art of it. He either bounded, skipped, sprinted, or sauntered.He never walked. Drake raised an eyebrow, and deliberately peered around him.“Don’t worry, the GILF is gone,” Screech said. “Listen, you really want me to set up cameras in her house?”Drake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached inside the drawer and grabbed a second glass, filling it with a splash of scotch and motioning for Screech to grab it.As he did, Drake laid the check on the desk in plain view.“For ten grand, we’re going to videotape her cat taking a dump, if she so desires,” Drake said. Screech laughed, a high-pitched, irritating noise from which Drake imagined that his nickname had been borne, and then he took a sip of his scotch.“Salud,” Screech said after he was done tittering. They clinked glasses and then both of them drank.***Screech left shortly after Mrs. Armatridge with instructions to set up the cameras in her home the following morning when the maid was out doing groceries, the Mr. was out getting his car serviced and the woman herself was at church service. Drake, feeling more than a little buzzed, was just locking his office door, when a shadow appeared in the entrance to Triple D Investigations.“You forget your dental dam, Screech? Because—”But the door was thrown so wide that it bounced off the back wall and startled Drake. He removed the keys from the lock and whipped around and found himself staring at a lean, light-skinned black man who stood in the entrance.“Detective Drake?” the man gasped.Drake’s eyes narrowed, and he felt his body tense, preparing for action.“Nobody’s called me that for some time,” he said quietly, trying to measure up the other man. He was young, with neatly cropped, curly black hair and dark circles under his eyes. But for all of his bluster, his pose was non-aggressive.He was scared.“But that is you?” the man asked, moving forward.Drake nodded.“Yeah that’s me—Damien Drake.”The man took a deep, hitching breath. When he reached into his leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder, Drake instinctively took a step toward him. Scared or not, he wasn’t about to be taken by surprise.But when the man pulled out a folder, Drake felt his body relax and he admonished himself.You’ve got to stop doing that. You’re going to give myself a heart attack thinking that everyone is going to pull an Uzi from their purse.“We’re closing, so if this is about a job, come back tomorrow,” Drake said.The man shook his head.“No, I’m pretty sure you’re going to want to see this,” he said flatly.Drake eyed him suspiciously, and when the other man didn’t falter, he nodded.“Fine, step into my office, then.”

Detective Damien Drake is back!

Well, almost. Just putting the finishing touches on CAUSE of DEATH, which drops next week. It may be shorter than its predecessor, but it's punchier and a higher body count. And who doesn't like more murder?Leading up to the launch of CAUSE of DEATH, I'll be posting a new chapter or two daily to whet your appetite. And remember, CAUSE of DEATH is available for pre-order at a special price... which will increase when it goes live on the 11th. Alright, I'll STFU up and let you read. After all, that's what you came here for, didn't you?Cause of DeathDetective Damien Drake Book 2PrologueThe man poured two glasses of scotch. He added a splash of pure ethanol to one of them, stirred it with his finger, then made his way back to the table. As he approached his guest from behind, he forced a smile onto his face.“It’s real nice of you to bring me in,” the seated man said loudly. “It’s—”The man laid the two glasses on the table.“Aw, sorry, didn’t know you was back. I was sayin’ it’s real nice to bring me in. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out der.”The smile remained on the man’s face as he took a seat across from his guest in the torn trench coat.“Well, Trevor, I think that the drink might warm you up some. Don’t know about keeping the witches at bay, however.”Trevor was dark-skinned man with a receding hairline, and a patchy beard that was interspersed with blotches of gray. He had wide-set eyes, which had a habit of darting about nervously.“Thank you, Mister,” Trevor said. “Wha—wha’d you say your name was, again?”The man smiled and took a sip of his own scotch.“I didn’t.”Trevor eyed him suspiciously, but the call of the drink was too great for him to heed any warning signs. He gulped greedily, wincing as he swallowed.“I ain’t the gay type… I—I—I ‘preciate the drink and warm house ‘n all, but I ain’t doin’ no gay shit.”The man chuckled.“Why is it that everyone thinks a kind gesture is expected to be repaid in some way?”Trevor took another sip, his eyes darting. Instead of answering the question, he cleared his throat, and said, “This be a real nice place you got. What are you? Some sort of doctor? Lawyer? I saw a place like dis once in a book, it was a rich lawyer’s house.”“Something like that,” the man said with a smile. He observed that Trevor’s glass was nearly empty, and even though he had just sat down, offered, “Would you like another?”Trevor seemed to consider this for a moment. The crystal rock glass was trembling slightly in his fingerless gloves, but it was unclear if this was from fear, hunger, or just the alcohol.With a slow blink, Trevor brought the drink to his lips and finished the rest of the pale gold liquid.“Sure,” he replied. When he went to put the glass back on the table, it banged loudly, as if he had misjudged the distance. “Is good shit. I’ll have another.”Another came out like anudder.“Yes,” the man said, taking a sip of his own scotch. “Yes, it is ‘good shit’.”Then he stood and started toward the kitchen. As he went, he said, “I see that your gloves have holes in them—the fingers are missing. Interested in a new pair?”When he made it to the kitchen, he made sure to make his guest’s glass with half ethanol and half scotch this time.“Why you doing this, man? What’s in it for you?”He sighed, and placed his palms on the marble counter top, closing his eyes as he did. His chest rose and fell with several deep breaths, then, after he had collected himself, he picked up the glass and the pair of leather gloves beside them. Tucking a sweater that he had laid on the counter earlier in the day beneath one arm, he made his way back to the kitchen table and placed all three items in front of his guest.Trevor did the shifty eye thing again, but this time he didn’t immediately grab for the drink.Ah, I thought it might come to this, the host thought. Sooner than I expected, but here it is. The hesitation before the fall—before total and complete acceptance.“Look,” he began slowly, pausing to have a sip of his own glass scotch. “I know this seems strange, and I bet it’s been a long, long time since someone has shown you this level of kindness, of respect. And you have every right to be suspicious—in fact, I doubt you would have survived on the streets for as long as you have without your instincts. But, I assure you, I want nothing in return for my hospitality.”Trevor grunted.“Then why you doin’ this?” he asked, his words slurred.The man smirked. Trevor was more astute than he had first thought. The others’s inquisitions had stopped at sidelong glances, pursed lips.It would all end the same way, however, but still…“Because I know what it’s like—I know what it’s like to be down on your luck. I was in your position once, a long time ago. But I got out. Built all of what you see around you with perseverance and dedication. And now I’m looking to pay it back.”Trevor squinted at him, his thin lids lowering over bulging eyes.“Go ahead, have a drink, put the sweater and gloves on. Keep warm. There are no strings attached here.”Suspicious or not, old habits die hard.And a free drink was nearly impossible to resist.Trevor gulped greedily at his scotch, and then tore his worn gloves off. He slid the leather gloves on, and then wiggled his fingers almost seductively.“Comfortable, aren’t they?” the host asked.Two drinks and twenty minutes later, Trevor could barely keep his eyes open, let alone stand. And yet he gave both a valiant effort.The host quickly made his way over him before the trench coat clad man toppled onto the table.“Here, let me help you,” he said. “You can stay here for the night. I have a spare bedroom.”Trevor mumbled something incomprehensible, and the man slipped an arm around his waist, taking the brunt of his weight.Holding Trevor upright, he led them a bedroom with decor that more reflected a cheap motel than the rest of his house. Inside, there were two single beds, between them there was a peeling, particle board nightstand atop which stood a clock.The neon green numbers read 3:34 am.Trevor said something that could have been thank you, but could have just as easily been fuck you, as the host lowered him onto the bed.Without bothering to pull the cheap bedspread back, the host retreated to the doorway and observed the scene.“Sleep well, my friend,” he said as Trevor started to snore. His smile broadened. “Don’t worry about anything… you’ll be safe here. I promise.”And then he started to laugh._____Check back tomorrow for the next snippet!

Butterfly Kisses is live!

... and it's just a buck for this week ONLY! Join tortured detective Damien Drake as he races to stop a killer whose love for murder is only exceeded by his love of insects.Available on ALL platforms (digital and print) -- coming to audio soon.Just click HERE to be redirected.

Butterfly Kisses - Final Snippet before release

Chapter 6The man lay face down, his arms and legs bound behind his back by a single length of rope. There was a worn chair off to one side, and on it were laid a shirt and suit jacket, both of which looked to be draped with care as if to avoid wrinkles.The man’s back was bare, and on it was a crude, almost child-like image of a butterfly painted in a dark brown substance. The body of the butterfly, a simple, sausage like shape with two projections near the top, ran nearly the length of the man’s spine, and the wings, two ‘B’ shapes, one backward, extended to his shoulder blades.“A butterfly,” Drake muttered unintentionally. This, he had not been expecting.“A butterfly,” Chase repeated. “Can’t confirm it yet, but it appears to be drawn in blood.”As Drake processed this information, he moved closer to the body. The uniformed police officer stepped aside to allow him access.The blood, if that was indeed what it was, didn’t appear to have come from the man’s back. In fact, aside from the drawing, his flesh appeared unmarked.Drake moved closer still, stepping near the man’s head and crouching on his haunches.The vic’s eyes were open, and what he suspected were hazel irises had turned a slight milky color in death. He was clean shaven, and his hair had recently been cut—short, professional.His pale lips were open slightly.“He was placed here after he was already dead,” he stated matter-of-factly.Chase appeared beside him.“How can you tell?”Drake reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pen, and then used it to indicate the area around the victim’s mouth.“See here? The sand is the same height as the rest of the area around the body. If he had still been breathing, his breath would have blown it away.”Drake squinted hard. In moving his pen around, he noticed what looked like a small amount of dirt at the corner of the man’s mouth, which didn’t fit with his otherwise manicured appearance. He got the impression that this was the type of man who would be mortified if caught with a piece of spinach lodged between two perfectly white teeth.He moved the pen toward the man’s face.“It looks like—”But the sound of the curtain being drawn back gave him pause.“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Drake, my man. You should know better than to touch the body before a doctor is in the house.”Drake turned to see Beckett moving toward him, his shock of white blond hair spiked high atop his head. He was grinning, showing off a winning smile.Drake stood.“You’re not a real doctor.”The man shrugged.“That’s right, I only play one on TV,” he turned to Chase next. “And who’s this?”Chase extended her hand.“Chase Adams, Homicide.”He shook her hand, a short and perfunctory process, unlike his own experience, then turned to the body on the ground.“Beckett Campbell, at your service.”He whistled loudly.“Butterfly, huh?”In one fluid motion, he pulled a set of purple lab gloves from the pocket of his leather jacket—how many doctors wear leather jackets, Drake wondered—and slipped them on.“I think there’s something in his mouth, dirt maybe,” Drake offered.Beckett held up a finger.“In time, my friend. In time.”He straddled the victim’s body, and then closed his eyes as if in some sort of trance.Chase moved forward.“We think the vic died—”Beckett sucked in a deep breath and waved his arms dramatically.“Silence while I do my work.”Drake rolled his eyes, and Chase looked over at him. He shrugged and turned back to the charade.Beckett squatted over the man, looking as if he was going to sit on his back, and then gently prodded his ribs with two fingers. Apparently satisfied, he moved his hands upward, ending at the base of the man’s neck. After cradling his head briefly, Beckett stood straight, and then stepped over the body, moving toward where Drake had been moments ago.Before he crouched, he turned to Chase, still beaming.“I was only kidding. You can talk as much as you want.”Chase said nothing, and her face gave away less, and Beckett shrugged.“No external injuries as far as I can tell,” Drake offered.Beckett gestured toward a small black bag that he had set down after entering the curtain. Drake fetched it for him and then the coroner withdrew what looked like a scalpel missing the blade.“No, no external injuries. Except, of course, the injection site near his neck.”Drake grimaced.“The what?”“The injection site. Small pinprick on the left side of his neck. Little red dot, you know?”Drake, incredulous, walked over to that side and hunched down low.As he did, Beckett asked Chase for an evidence container.And there it was, something so small that Drake couldn’t really blame himself for having overlooked it. A tiny red dot on the man’s otherwise flawless skin.“Area still looks a little puffy,” Beckett continued. “Must have been some pretty serious inflammation tohave lasted for… what? Eight hours since he died?”Chase confirmed the timeline.“Damn, I’m good,” Beckett muttered. “Oh, and there’s also this.”Drake moved to the other side of the body again, and watched as Beckett eased the metal device into the man’s mouth and used it to push his lips to one side like a dentist attempting to clean his molars.And that’s when Drake saw it: a flicker of movement, a dark shape wriggling toward the back of the victim’s teeth.Drake felt his stomach lurch, and now regretted the second bottle of whiskey.And the third.“Jesus,” he muttered.“No, not him, I’m afraid,” Beckett replied. “Unless Our Lord and Savior was reincarnated as a caterpillar.”As the dark form wriggled completely out of the man’s mouth, Drake looked away. His eyes fell on Chase, and he was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one who was feeling queasy.Beckett brought the plastic specimen container close to the victim’s face, and then put his tool in front of the caterpillar. The insect crawled on top of it, which Beckett used to put it in the specimen container.After screwing the lid closed, he put it in a clear plastic bag and held it out to Drake.“Looks like your killer has a thing for butterflies,” Beckett said, hooking a chin toward the corpse. “But I guess you knew that already, didn’t you?”___________Butterfly Kisses drops at midnight! Grab your copy by ordering from any of your favorite retailers!