Author of Mystery and Suspense Novels

THE FALSE-HEARTED TEDDY
A Bear Collector's Mystery
Available in May 2007 from Berkley Prime Crime
Pre-order from Amazon

Excerpt:

    There was a pair of gentle taps on the door. Donna gave me a nervous look.

     "It's okay. It's probably Ash."

      I limped over to the door and received an ugly surprise. No sooner did I press down on the handle far enough to disengage the latch, than the door slammed backwards into me with enormous force. I fell rearward, bounced off the dresser, and crashed to the floor, landing hard on my hip. Meanwhile, a platoon of heavily-armed cops came piling through the doorway in a never-ending stream, like clowns from a car, all of them shouting, "Police! Get your hands up!" Behind me, Donna screamed.

      Although I often find fault with the mystery novels that Ash loves, the supposedly more realistic thrillers can be just as fake. For example, the male protagonists in thrillers are usually endowed with an uncanny ability to immediately identify the manufacturer, country of origin, model, and caliber of the firearm being pointed at them. Even more amazingly, they sometimes can even venture a guess as to the sort of ammunition inside the gun, which should qualify as some sort of extra-sensory perception. Real life is a little different, however. Having had guns aimed at me several times during my career as a cop, I can assure you that your thoughts aren't: Gosh, that's an American-made, Smith and Wesson brand, Model 4040PD, .40 caliber, semiautomatic pistol with a black matte finish-and probably loaded with hollow-point bullets-being pointed directly at my melon. Rather, your brain simply registers it's a gun as you try not to wet your pants.

      So, although I didn't recognize the guns, I did know one of the persons holding them as they charged into the room. It was Lieutenant Sarah Mulvaney and, insofar as her frozen facial muscles allowed, she was smiling. With her gun pointed directly between my eyes, she said, "Hey, wise-ass, move and you're dead."

      It was a bad bit of dialogue from a Grade B cop movie, but I decided not to say anything. Nor did I move.

      Since my prone body completely blocked the pathway into the room, two of the uniformed cops ran across the top of the bed to get to Donna, who was whimpering with fear. They quickly handcuffed her and then dragged her back over the bed. Meanwhile, Mulvaney continued to keep her pistol-by now I'd been looking at it long enough to tell it was a semi-auto-pointed at me.

      I said, "Am I allowed to ask what this is all about?"

      "Yeah, it's about twenty-five years, if they don't give you the lethal injection."

     Mulvaney slowly raised the pistol and nodded at a trio of waiting cops. "Get him up and in handcuffs."

      They yanked me to my feet and a second later I was wearing a set of stainless-steel bracelets-and not the kind that's the hot look in jewelry in Italy this year.

     Leaning against the dresser, I said, "I didn't kill anybody."

     "We've got information that says otherwise."

     "Information from who?"

     "An anonymous informant who called the front desk at the police station to tell us we could find evidence linking you to Jennifer Swift's murder in this room."

     "Why am I not surprised that you're one of those dishonest cops who likes to run the 'anonymous informant' hoax?"

     "We actually received a call," Mulvaney said hotly.

     "Right, as if I don't know how this game is played. I refused to give you permission to search my room and, what do you know? Some 'anonymous person'-that you'll never have to put on the witness stand, because he doesn't exist-was kind enough to telephone you and provide you with precisely the information you wanted. It's a freaking miracle."

     "Believe what you want." She turned to a uniformed officer. "Search him."

     One of the cops patted me down for weapons and pulled my wallet out. He flipped it open to show my S.F.P.D. badge to Mulvaney. She took it and stuffed it into her jacket pocket.

     "There'd better be sixty-eight bucks in that wallet when you hand it back to me."

     "For a killer, you're a funny guy."

     

Available in May 2007 from Berkley Prime Crime