Turner Hahn and Frank Morales Are Back
Homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales are back on duty.
The two are investigating a couple of murders which pushes them to the limits of their wits. One case involves the death of a very successful corporate lawyer. A high priced corporate lawyer who happens to be married to a woman who heads the largest cosmetics firm in the country. How the murder took place is perplexing enough. But as more bodies begin to drop Turner and Frank soon realize they are facing a maniacal mastermind who may very well be smarter than both of them combined.
Twists and turns, dead ends and red herrings . . . with an ending that will truly be surprising. This case has it all. And this is only case number one!
Case number two involves the disappearance of a young girl fifteen years earlier. A Cold Case File. Except it is not a cold case any longer. The girl has returned. And now lies on a cold metal table in the morgue. Someone has gone out of their way to make the homicide look like a suicide. Apparently a crime syndicate is frantic to make sure neither Turner nor Frank find out the facts surrounding the girl’s disappearance fifteen years earlier. A hit man is in town grimly eliminating everyone who may have known the girl. A hit man with orders to possibly rub out Turner and Frank as well.
Turner and Frank are at their best. Dry wit, interesting characters, lots of action, vivid imagery, and two genuine classic mysteries.
─ Les Edgerton
Edition #51 – October 6, 2013
GUILT OF INNOCENCE
We had a problem.
Although it was just seven in the morning the sun was coming up and the heat was beginning to build. It was late July. July in this city meant only three things: wind, heat . . . and more heat. The wind was blowing a steady gait from out of the south. That meant it was going to be a very hot day. Hot enough to make Superman sweat. Hot enough to make a Bedouin think about wearing khaki shorts. Hot enough to make Turkish coffee taste like a frozen cherry slush. Hot enough to make Lucifer think of ski slopes in Aspen.
Hot enough to make perspiration perspire.
The blue shirt underneath my sport coat was damp. And the day was just beginning. By time nine o’clock rolled around I would have to change shirts and ditch the coat. By the time we finished our initial investigation I’d be nothing more than a piece of melted cheese dip. Already I could feel the heat radiating off the car beside me. The small Caddy, black as coal, was going to turn into a boiler in about an hour. There’s nothing like a black car and leather seats which can absorb heat and magnify it tenfold. Throw a dead body into the car, add in about three tons of humidity, and you can imagine the rest.
But that wasn’t the problem.
As I walked around the driver’s side of the black Cadillac CTS-V my eyes kept glancing at the front windshield. Punched through the glass, about six inches above the upper rim of the steering wheel, was a bullet hole. Striation lines radiated from the hole outward across the glass but the windshield itself was intact. A quick glance at the back window had the bullet’s exit point. About half the window was gone. The remaining glass was coated in blood and brain matter.
Slumped back across the tan leather seats of the car was the victim. The front part of his head was there. The back half wasn’t. The dead man looked to be in his 30’s or early 40’s. He had on a blue suit. Dark navy blue. Hand stitched. Tailor made.
Made from imported Egyptian cotton. Maybe worth a grand or more. Minimum.
Underneath the suit was an off white linen shirt. Not something found in a typical Wal-Mart. Around his neck was a signature red silk tie. Again, maybe one or two C-notes for a price tag. Expensive Italian leather for shoes and wrap-around shades still setting perfectly on the bridge of his nose completed the picture…
B.R. Stateham is a sixty-four year old kid who never grew up. He writes dark noir police-procedurals and even darker fantasy sci/fi. And although he look like a second-cousin to Frankenstein, really, he’s just as stubborn.
He plans to keep on writing that which he loves to read. Since he can’t find the style of writing he likes to read—he thought he might as well write it.
Maybe you might find that you like this particular style as well. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.