I’d like to announce the availability of my latest detective novel, The Brooklyn Trace, an Eddie Daley Mystery.
Eddie Daley’s got a sister problem. One sister is his girlfriend. The other has hired him to find her missing son. Now, both women think they’ve found their life match in Eddie. They may both be right—but he still needs to find the kid.
Ex-Special Forces soldier turned investigator Eddie Daley is on a new case. During a routine skip trace on deadbeat dad, he encounters motel owner and retired Marine Mina Good Crow, his toughest puzzle yet. After one thunderous night with Mina, he finds himself swept up in Mina’s cyclone en route to her mother’s home in South Dakota and then on to an ever-widening and increasingly dangerous mystery in Brooklyn, New York. At the center of that storm is Mina’s sister, Kari, whose husband and son died in a mysterious car crash. There’s just one problem: Kari doesn’t believe her son is dead. There’s a second problem too. Eddie is as attracted to Kari as he is to Mina, and it’s mutual.
To get you started, here’s the opening paragraph. I hope you check it out.
I’d been driving all day, sucking in western Oklahoma road dust, and I wasn’t in the mood for any more damned mysteries. Nevertheless here I was, at the intersection of a brown field the size of Africa and some grit and gravel road to infinity. According to the signs I was on highway 56, or 385, or 412, or 64. The hell if I could tell which; they all pointed to the road I was on. None of them told me what this endless cross street was. The Camaro was down to her last quarter tank, and I was running even lower than that. So here I sat, looking up at thunderclouds gathering in the distant purple sky, wondering if I should turn around, and shaking the crap out of my useless GPS unit. All it could tell me is I was halfway between Cimarron and West Butthole counties, and this dinkhole of a pockmarked town I was searching for was nowhere in sight. I was just about to chuck the damned thing out over the convertible top and into the field when a cloud of rick-rackety, noisy dust came clombering down the clotted gravel road, right in my direction. I swear to God the thing appeared out of nowhere, like kids from a Stephen King cornfield. Just for safety I reached into the glove box, pulled out my best friend, and laid her under my seat. She was fully loaded and always in a bad mood.