Ready to meet the Dark Side? Plus, you can enter a rafflecopter giveaway.
Enjoy!
Title: Dark Side of Sunset Pointe
a Lance Underphal Mystery
a Lance Underphal Mystery
Author Name: Michael Allan Scott
Author Bio:
Born and raised at the edge of the high
desert in Kingman, Arizona, Michael Allan Scott resides in Scottsdale
with his wife, Cynthia and their hundred-pound Doberman, Otto. In
addition to writing mysteries and speculative fiction, his interests
include music, photography, art, scuba diving and auto racing. For
the latest, please visit http://michaelallanscott.com
desert in Kingman, Arizona, Michael Allan Scott resides in Scottsdale
with his wife, Cynthia and their hundred-pound Doberman, Otto. In
addition to writing mysteries and speculative fiction, his interests
include music, photography, art, scuba diving and auto racing. For
the latest, please visit http://michaelallanscott.com
Author Links - The link for any or all
of the following...
of the following...
Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter |
Pinterest | Linkedin | Goodreads | Amazon
Pinterest | Linkedin | Goodreads | Amazon
Website: http://michaelallanscott.com/
Book Genre: Mystery,
Thriller & Suspense
Thriller & Suspense
Publisher: Telemachus
Press
Press
Release Date: 11/19/12
Buy Link(s):
Goodreads –
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16233621-dark-side-of-sunset-pointe---a-lance-underphal-mystery
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16233621-dark-side-of-sunset-pointe---a-lance-underphal-mystery
Book Description:
A contemporary mystery/thriller—a
paranormal mystery, to be more precise. For mystery fans, it twists
and turns like a dragon kite in a high wind. Mystery connoisseurs,
beware. The Lance Underphal Mystery series will keep you guessing .
. .
paranormal mystery, to be more precise. For mystery fans, it twists
and turns like a dragon kite in a high wind. Mystery connoisseurs,
beware. The Lance Underphal Mystery series will keep you guessing .
. .
Lance Underphal was devastated by his
wife’s death, and now, the down-and-out crime-scene photographer
can’t let her go. He wakes up plagued by premonitions. The double
shooting of an Arizona real estate developer and his
mistress/bookkeeper immerse Underphal in a world of incomprehensible
phenomena.
wife’s death, and now, the down-and-out crime-scene photographer
can’t let her go. He wakes up plagued by premonitions. The double
shooting of an Arizona real estate developer and his
mistress/bookkeeper immerse Underphal in a world of incomprehensible
phenomena.
Frank Salmon, the homicide detective on
the case, does his best to blow off Underphal’s “visions.” But
the murders keep piling up and the visions are all too real.
the case, does his best to blow off Underphal’s “visions.” But
the murders keep piling up and the visions are all too real.
Salmon pursues Underphal’s clues from
a popular strip club to a failing community bank, adding a
blackmailing stripper to the body count.
a popular strip club to a failing community bank, adding a
blackmailing stripper to the body count.
Underphal struggles mightily with his
psychic curse, teetering on the brink of insanity. His only hope for
redemption is the voice in his head, the voice of his dead wife.
Stumbling through dark vortexes of murderous intrigue, he comes to
realize his visions will either kill him or lead to the capture of a
killer—maybe more than one.
psychic curse, teetering on the brink of insanity. His only hope for
redemption is the voice in his head, the voice of his dead wife.
Stumbling through dark vortexes of murderous intrigue, he comes to
realize his visions will either kill him or lead to the capture of a
killer—maybe more than one.
Excerpt
Whiting runs a trembling hand through
thinning hair, his scalp hot and moist.
They’ve got to do something about these numbers. Short stubble on raw cheeks twitches as he
anxiously works his jaws. They could
lose the whole damn project. Thirty million! He can’t believe it, he’s bet everything on
this project. And with the hard-money
loan, they’ve got a bigger nut than ever.
Shit! Those hard-money bastards, they’re
Rodriguez’s contacts. Of course they had to have the money to finish—all the
construction cost overruns. Fucking Rodriguez. His fingers manically drum on the hardwood
desktop, their nails ragged, bitten to the quick. They’re in way too deep to quit now.
Chewing
his bottom lip, Whiting redials Rodriguez’s cell.
Rodriguez
sounds out of breath, frustrated. “Damn
Gary, whaddaya want?”
“Mike,
we need to go over some numbers. Ya got
a minute?”
Rodriguez
gives a short chuckle then lowers his voice, “I’m kinda in the middle of
somethin’.”
“Yeah,
but . . .” Gary hears a thump, then a
woman’s muffled words. “Hey, are you at
the office? Who’s with you?”
“Yeah,
like I said, we’re kinda in the middle of somethin’ here.”
Whiting
hears giggling in the background.
To
Diane, Rodriguez says, “Stop that.” To
Gary, he says, “Diane’s never done it on the desk before.”
Whiting
can almost hear Rodriguez’s leering grin.
In
the background Diane laughs then says, “Do I get overtime for this?”
Now
they’re both laughing.
“Damn
. . . Mike, you guys . . . in the office?”
“Hey,
don’t sweat it. It’s almost seven, no
one’s around, yard gates are locked, lights are off. No one’s gonna know.”
Whiting
hears Diane coo and then more giggling.
Rodriguez
speaks closer into the phone, “That is, as long as you keep your mouth shut.”
“Hey,
no problem. I don’t care what you do
with Diane. She’s your bookkeeper.”
Diane
lets out a short yelp and says “What was that?”
“Shit!” Rodriguez whispers, “Shit.”
“Mike,
what’s going on?”
“Hold
on, I think someone’s here.”
Whiting
hears grunting, rustling, probably scrambling for clothes, the metallic snap of
window blinds.
Under
his breath, Rodriguez says “Who’s that?”
He whispers to Diane, “Get your panties on.”
Whiting
hears Diane whine, “I’m trying.”
He
hears Rodriguez whispering to himself, “Who is that? Is that . . ? I’ll get that bastard.”
Rodriguez says, “Gary, hold on, I
gotta take a picture with this thing, hold on.”
“Okay.” Whiting hears the blinds clacking.
He
hears Rodriguez talking to himself, “Damn, it’s dark . . . but I think I got
‘em.”
“Mike
. . . Mike?”
“Yeah,
I’m back, hold on. Gotta check this
out.”
Whiting
clutches the phone in a sweaty hand, pressed hard against his ear. He hears a loud bang. A door slamming the wall? Too
weird. He needs a Valium.
Diane
screams. Rodriguez yells, “You, you asshole! What the fuck do you want!?!”
Whiting
hears POP, POP! Screeching, a low grunt,
loud thumps . . . POP, POP, POP! “Uh,
uh, uh . . .” Guttural gasps. A long wail.
High-pitched keening, its otherworldly echo raising every hair on goose
flesh. Whiting drops the receiver,
horrified. The plastic handset bounces
off the desktop as it sinks in. They’ve been shot!
Keep being distracted by reading,
Urania
No comments:
Post a Comment
I love to be distracted by your comments! So feel free to post your thoughts here.