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Showing posts with label #police Procedural. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #police Procedural. Show all posts

Monday, April 28, 2025

Guest Post By Tj O'Connor Author of the Whisper Legacy (#contests, #guest Post Enter A Gift Card and A Copy of the Book)

The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor Banner

THE WHISPER LEGACY
by Tj O'Connor

April 28 - May 23, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:
The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor
Curran’s enemies thought he was dead.
They were wrong.
He thought his past was left on the Voula Beach Road.
He was wrong.
Now, that nightmare is drawing his enemies out.
The halls of power are being targeted—but by who?
Is the secret of the Voula Beach Road behind the chaos?
Curran knows the answer.
It’s all in
The Whisper Legacy . . .

Marlowe “Lowe” Curran was once a freelance intelligence operative swashbuckling around the world—until Greece—until the Voula Beach Road. There, he lost everything and nearly his life. Now, he’s a luckless, aging PI living on guilt and nightmares—barely paying his rent if not for Tommy Astor, a well-connected Washington powerbroker. Curran becomes a suspect in the murder of a philandering husband. He has an alibi—but that will get him arrested. Is committing crimes trying to resolve other crimes still a crime? For Curran it is, especially after he’s a suspect in two murders. Chasing the real killer, Curran is haunted by his demons from the Voula Beach Road, and something called Whisper. On his trail is an angry, vengeful US Deputy Marshal, gun-happy assassins, and a shadowy figure thwarting Curran’s every success. For each step forward, there’s another threat, another roadblock, another piece of evidence stacking up against him. Whisper is at the center of his nightmares—whatever Whisper is. Is Whisper why Charlie Cantrell had to die? Why bodies are dropping across Washington? Why the President’s short list for running mates is getting shorter? Faced with old foes and aided by his last surviving Voula Beach friend, Curran must stay ahead of the assassins, rescue a kidnapped little girl, and find the deadly secrets hidden within The Whisper Legacy.

THE WHISPER LEGACY Trailer:
Book Details:

Genre: Political Thriller, Action Thriller, Detective Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: March 25, 2025
ISBN: 978-1685129149
Series: A Pappa Legacy Novel, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop | Goodreads | BookBub

GUEST POST: 

 

Who Is Lowe Curran and Why Is He Trying to Be Me?

I have written almost a dozen novels. Of those nine have been published, two are on their way, and one was re-written into a sequel. In those stories, there is always a character or two (or four) stolen from my real-life adventures as an anti-terrorism consultant—past and present. Sure, sure, we all promise that “names, characters, and places are the work of fiction and aren’t anyone living or dead” blah, blah, blah. That’s true overall, except come on people, get real. Most of our main characters—the good and the bad—are part of us in some way. Well, except for Oliver Tucker who’s a dead detective in my paranormal mystery series. I’m not dead yet. But in my thrillers, the main characters are sort of a Frankenstein of people I’ve known along my travels. And, yes, the main characters carry a lot of me with them. Marlowe “Lowe” Curran, without a doubt, tries the most to be me—more than any protagonist I’ve ever written.

Sorry, it wasn’t planned that way.

Curran—that’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an—the narrator and main character in The Whisper Legacy, is a down-on-his luck private investigator and security consultant. He was once a hired gun for the US Government protecting big shots and bad guys overseas. Until the Voula Beach Road mission that ended his career, nearly his life, and wiped out almost all his friends and colleagues. It destroyed him for years. Now, he’s fighting back and trying to evade a murder wrap in order to find out who or what Whisper is. It won’t be easy. First, he’s coming to grips with loneliness and age. He creaks and groans too often. Can’t pass a bathroom without a pitstop. He’s slowing down and no longer the swashbuckler he once was. If he can overcome all that, he might live long enough to learn what Whisper has to do with his past and why it might end his future. Oh, and why the body count of Washington DC elite is rising.

Me, too.

Well, not the Washington body count, but everything else.

I, being of sound mind and aging body today, am a private investigator and anti-terrorism consultant. While I was never washed up in the old days, I certainly felt that way many, many times. After leaving my dream job as an OSI agent running its anti-terrorism program, I was lost. Depressed. A failure. I had to leave, mind you. Divorce took my children ten hours away and a life travelling the world and doing OSI’s bidding would have left me without them. That was not acceptable. I resigned. Boom. My life’s dream was crushed.

It took me a couple years to rebuild a career and finally feel like I was back in “the game.” Then, a few years later, the company where I was an executive, sold out and left me alone and on my own again. Boom. A failure. Alone. I was neither, but those feelings haunted me like Curran’s nightmares plagued him.

Finally, I found my feet again consulting with a Washington DC thinktank on anti-terrorism with Homeland Security. Yeehaw. Back on my feet. Off to the races. Except now, I was older. Slower. Out of shape and yep, had to keep an eye out for the men’s room. Okay, TMI. Sorry.

Even though I was supporting Homeland and doing important work, I still struggled with the loss of my prior adventures. Sure, sure, maybe those adventures were long ago and not as super-cool as I recalled. But they were mine and they made me who I am. Now, I wasn’t quite “that guy” any longer.

Why do I tell you all this poor-me? Because it somehow slipped into Lowe Curran’s character and became his resume. No, I never lost my team on Greece’s Voula Beach Road. But wait! My first brush with terrorism was on that very road back in the late 1980’s. That event gave me the realism to write Curran’s fictional ambush—the breeze of salty sea air, the smoke from roasting lamb, and the smell of gunfire and explosions. Ah, the good old days…

In The Whisper Legacy, Curran operates out of an old barn loft apartment helping his aged, yet still beautiful and alluring landlady stop her cheating husband. After OSI, I lived in a barn loft apartment. No, my landlady wasn’t a Janey-Lynn, but hey, a guy can dream. Right?

Poor Curran is trying to stay in shape and regain his glory days. Me, too. I used to run five miles a day and ten miles twice a week. I studied Martial Arts, weight lifted and stayed in great shape. Age stole all that. Oh, yeah, sure, probably a little laziness and excuses, too. Now, in my early sixties, I’m back to working out two hours a day to fight my body’s natural love of good food (which I cook, of course). I feel for Curran. He hates aging. Hates not being “that guy.”

Dammit, man, me, too!

Oh, and Curran is a man about dogs—he steals, er, rescues Bogart, a black lab, from a nasty POS. I have three rescues and two rescue cats. Just sayin’.

So, life imitates art? Or is art the canvas for life? For Lowe Curran, well, we’re stuck with each other. I love him. Not because he’s so much of me, but because he fights the good fight with laughs, good nature, and sheer will. I try to do that, too. Though, I think he pulls it off better than me most of the time.

The Whisper Legacy has far more about my world than just Lowe Curran. Give it a read. See if you can find me, my world, and my fears in there. Maybe there’s a few of yours in there, too.

 

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Marlowe “Lowe” Curran

Getting old is not for the meek. Especially when in your youth, you were an adventurer and risk taker—a man of mystery and worldliness. You know, stuff that made your heart rumba and your pulse sizzle. Having to perform menial, boring deeds in your later years is tough. Especially when you sit around with good bourbon and reminisce about the old days. You tend to drink too much and pine for those glory days and lost adventure. So much that it eats at you. Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Just saying, you know, it happens to other people.

For instance, if anyone had told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing outside an old, two-story brick Rambler in Leesburg, Virginia, at ten in the evening, wearing old, raggedy pajamas, an ill-fitting robe, and carrying a dog leash—absent the dog—I would have been offended. Such a scenario might have suggested I’d lost my faculties too early in life. Perhaps I’d gone crazy or became homeless. Of course, I’d never seen a homeless person wearing pajamas and a robe at ten in the evening, crazy or not. Still, you get my concern.

I’m Curran. That’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an. It’s Irish—not that it matters. But pronunciation is important.

Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t normally dress up in old pjs and walk neighborhoods with a dog leash. It just seemed like the thing to do tonight. I’m also not that damn old, either. At present, I’m pushing my early-mid-fifties and have a full head of dark, reddish hair, and almost always in need of a shave. It’s not that I’m trying to be suave and cool. I’m sorta lazy about shaving. I’ve been told I look like the dashing Sean Bean. No, not Mr. Bean—Sean Bean. Anyway, that’s me and I’ll explain more later. For now, my pjs were falling down and the ratty robe I had on wasn’t fitting all too well, either.

My feet were sore from my ambling down a block of crumbling sidewalk in the middle of this beautiful August night. Of course, August in Virginia was hot, humid, and, well, hot. My ensemble was cooler than jeans and sneakers, but it did not include slippers. Barefoot was not accidental. It’s for effect.

See, I was going for that crazy old dude persona.

Most concerning to me was my partner. Or lack thereof. Actually, he was my long-time friend and co-conspirator in many such episodes of my life. He’s missing. Stevie Keene should have been here an hour ago and running countersurveillance. He should have been watching my back and ensuring I wasn’t walking into a gunfight or a pair of handcuffs.

He wasn’t.

Stevie hadn’t responded to my cell calls. He also wasn’t in the van parked across the street from our target like he should be. That was bad. Real bad. I was going in blind.

“Stevie? Where in the flying monkeys are you?” I whispered to his voicemail again. “You’re late. I can’t wait any longer. If you get here while I’m inside, stay put and watch my escape route. And brother, you better have a good story—like being abducted by aliens.”

I peeked at the old Rambler’s front windows and dangled the dog leash. I called out as loud as I could, “Rufus? Come on boy. I’ve got cookies.”

No, I had no dog named Rufus. I also had no cookies. Try to keep up.

The house windows were blacked out—odd even for this part of town. I knew someone was inside. First, a thin sliver of light escaped through a corner of the window. Second, the electric meter around the side was whirling away like a NASA satellite station. Third, and perhaps most important, I’d seen the short, pudgy, receding hairline kid with his embarrassing attempt at a beard slip inside an hour or so ago. He looked like he’d glued stray hair here and there on his cheeks. His eyes were inset, or maybe his fat cheeks hid them.

Billy Piper reminded me of that dumpy loser who tried to smuggle dinosaur eggs off the island in Jurassic Park. He got eaten in the first thirty minutes of the movie. Served him right—poor defenseless dinosaurs.

“Rufus? I’ve got cookies.” I banged loudly on the door and rattled the doorknob. “Don’t hide on me, Rufus. Don’t be a bad dog.”

If Piper was trying to be stealthy, he failed. I heard him approach the door inside before he peeled back the window covering and glared out.

“What are you doing, old dude? Get lost.”

As I’ve already said, I’m not that old. But, given I’d put on a shaggy gray wig and plastered fake beard crap on my face, I give it to him.

A dog barked then yelped as the face pushed closer into the window. “Shut up, mutt. What good are you? This old fart is almost in the house and you just noticed?”

Time to play the role.

“You got my Rufus? Give me my dog.” I banged on the door again. “Now, before I call the cops. Dog napper.”

“It’s my dog, old dude,” Piper yelled. “Get off my property or I’ll kick your old ugly butt.”

I held up the leash and took a step back, turned in a slow circle to appear dazed. Then, I began to cry. It took nearly a full minute before Piper opened the door and stepped cautiously outside.

“What the hell is wrong with you, old dude? My dog isn’t Rufus.”

I turned to him, reached up to wipe my tearless eyes, and let my bright red identification bracelet show below my pajama sleeve.

“Where am I? Who’s Rufus?” I turned in a circle again and let a few more whimpers out. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

At first, Piper turned red-faced with anger. Then, when he saw my medical bracelet, he reached out and grabbed it. “Oh, you’re one of those Alzheimer’s people. Get the hell out of here. Understand? Go home. Shoo.”

Home, indeed. “This is my home. What are you doing here?”

Beside Piper, a brawny black lab trotted into the doorway and barked. Not a threatening bark. More like an obligatory “woof.” After two such woofs, he trotted up to me and sat wagging.

“Useless dog. What are you doing inside?” He grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him past me. He shook him several times, cursing. After berating him again with another smack to his hindquarters, he found a short chain affixed to a big walnut tree in the front yard and clipped it on his collar. “Flippin’ mutt. You’re supposed to warn me before they get to the door.”

“Don’t hurt my Rufus,” I yelled.

The chain was twisted and wrapped around the tree. The lab only had about two feet of room to move. There was no water bowl and no signs of one anywhere. The wear marks on the grass suggested the dog spent too much time chained to that tree.

What an asshole.

“What are you doing to my Rufus?” I growled. “Where’s his food and water?”

“Screw the dog. Maybe now he’ll bark when he’s supposed to.” Piper shoved me sideways and reentered the house. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”

“Call? I didn’t call you.”

“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” He squared off on me in the doorway. “Get lost, old dude.”

“What about my Rufus?” I shoved Piper back a step. That surprised him. I guess old men with Alzheimer’s should be weak and defenseless. “Get out of my house.”

Piper reared back to strike me and held his fist in a threat. “I’m gonna put you straight.” His smartwatch buzzed wildly and flashed like Dick Tracey was calling. If you don’t get the shout out to Dick, forget it. You’re way too young to understand. “Go dammit.”

“Not until I get my Rufus.”

His watch signaled him again.

“Ah, shit. No. No. No.” Piper shoved me sideways and I feigned a fall just inside the doorway. He kicked at me and barely connected as I parried with my arm. “Get outta here, old dude. Wander or doddle your way back where you came. I got my own problems.” He shoved me out the doorway, swung the door to shut it, and ran down the hallway.

I, not being a confused old geezer, lodged my foot in the door before it closed. With no more than a sore big toe when it hit, I kept the door ajar.

I followed his footfalls to the back of the house. I might be committing a few felonies soon, so I slipped on leather driving gloves to eliminate the chance of any fingerprints. After all, my felony count had just started and the night was young.

I know cool TV stuff like that.

At the end of the hall, I descended the stairs into a dark basement. There, a small room lay ahead, lighted by a single overhead light that bathed the room in a hazy illumination. There were only a few old boxes stacked around and a bicycle hanging on a wall rack. Ahead was a heavy, steel door, still ajar. A carnival of flickering lights escaped through the opening. Beyond, I heard Piper cursing and babbling in a panicked voice.

I eased inside and found a larger section of the basement. The space was lined with soundproof tiles and heavy industrial carpeting. There was a refrigerator and small stove on one side of the room, and cabinets of computers and electronics on the other. Between them was a command console and two gamer’s chairs facing a wall of computer monitors and large video screens. The walls not blocked by computer gadgets were covered with movie and book posters of every major spy thriller I’d ever heard of. One was a poster of a pale-faced Alec Guinness wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses—an aged, probably original collector’s poster of John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People.

Holy crap, Billy Piper was a wannabe spy.

“Shit, they caught me.” Piper stood in front of a shelf of electronics and spun around when I stepped inside. “What the hell, old dude?”

We had to talk about that old dude thing. I was getting there, but really, how rude?

“I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave.” Piper balled his fist and came toward me. “It’s gonna cost you. You should’ve left to find Rufus.”

“Who the hell is Rufus?” I asked.

I don’t know if it was my sudden calm, steady voice, or the silenced .22 pistol in my hand—aimed at him—that startled him the most. Either way, I had his attention.

“What the … who are you, old dude?” He stared at the pistol. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”

“Nope.”

“Who then?” He took a step back as his face tightened and filled with so much anger his cheeks were ablaze. “Ah, shit. Are you with them?”

“Them?” I waived my pistol back and forth to keep his attention. “Explain.”

“Screw you.” He spun around as his computers began wailing some kind of alarm. “Come on man, I got bigger problems than anything you can bring. If you don’t get outta here, those problems are going to be yours, too. Go find Rufus or whatever. Get out.”

I aimed the pistol at his head. “I think not, Billy.”

He spun back around at me. “You know me? Did they send you?”

“Oh, I know you.” Boy was he slow. “I’m here about money and information. I have no idea who ‘they” are. Although, ‘they’ might be like my clients. You hacked them and now they want their files and money returned. Right, Chip Magnet?”

“Oh, man. You are them.” His face blanched and the tough guy drained away. “Dude, I got money. I can pay. I pay you and you say I wasn’t home. Deal?”

Desperation replaced his bravado he’d taunted me with moments ago. “Chip Magnet, are you for real? What a totally bullshit handle, Piper.”

He shrugged. “It means—”

“I know what it means, idiot. Look, Billy, you hacked the wrong people—my people. I’m here to fix things. And in the future—if you have one—you might take care who you hack. Some folks out there don’t go to the police. They don’t hire lawyers or call the credit bureau.”

“Huh?” His eyes locked on my pistol as it raised to eye level. “What?”

“They send me.”

Chapter Two

U.C.

The man in the expensive Saville Row suit and Gucci loafers sipped his vodka martini and settled back on his king bed, pillows plumped and perfectly positioned by the staff. He glanced around his Waldorf Astoria suite feeling very pleased with himself. Never had his accommodation been as nice. Never had his payment been as nice—nor as often—as with this assignment. He wondered how long it would be before it would all end.

The man wore a collarless shirt that fit snug over ripped muscles. His head was mostly bald but for close-cut, thinning dark hair around the sides and back. His face was narrow and strong, accentuated by a salt and pepper beard that was three days of growth meticulously trimmed for effect—a dangerous, stay-clear effect. In the years he’d operated at the higher end of his profession, he found his persona and image as daunting to his prey as his skills. The million-dollar benefactors he serviced expected a little refinement and image, not to be confused with Hollywood assassins cloaked in black leather feigning brooding personalities. His clients demanded thoughtfulness, the ability to move in any surroundings—Washington dinner clubs or Bangkok brothels.

U.C. had mastered the chameleon persona years before.

The satellite phone on his nightstand vibrated. He scooped it up. The Controller didn’t like to wait. Not for the million-dollar price tag for U.C.’s services. Glancing at the screen, the call wasn’t from the Controller, but one of the minions sitting in a lesser hotel room somewhere in the bowels of Alexandria, Virginia.

“Yes?”

The voice was frantic. “U.C., I found him. There’s a problem.”

“Problem?” U.C.—bestowed upon him many years prior because of his preference to operate against his targets Up Close—sipped his drink. “If you found the target trying to hack our servers, just send me the address and—”

“He got through.”

“What?” U.C. bolted upright and spilled his drink. “You told me the security was impenetrable.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Someone left some nodes insecure, maybe. I don’t know.”

U.C.’s mind raced. “An inside job?”

“Maybe.”

He closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”

“U.C.?” The caller hesitated. “The hacker got all the way into the E-Suite.”

He was on his feet now, moving around the room gathering his things—the most important ones—his shoulder bag, jacket, and silenced pistol.

“Did you hear me?”

U.C. grunted, “Text me the address. Get four men there fast. I’ll meet you there.”

Hesitation, then, “Orders?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

U.C. tapped off the call and instantly activated the satellite text program. As he did, the Sat phone concurrently launched an encryption program that NSA would take years to break—another luxury of working for the Controller.

He typed out a simple message—Urgent. Hack successful. Compromised. I’ll contain.

Miles away, across the Potomac, the Sat Text arrived at the Controller’s private office. It took only moments to return a response.

U.C. rarely initiated such calls. Rarely one marked with “Urgent.”

The Controller—Define compromise.

U.C.—Total.

The Controller—Confidence?

U.C. finished his text and exited his suite—Whisper is compromised.

***

Excerpt from The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O'Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O'Connor. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:
Tj O'Connor

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.

Catch Up With Tj O'Connor:

tjoconnor.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @tj37
Amazon Author
Instagram - @tjoconnorauthor
Twitter/X - @Tjoconnorauthor
Facebook - @TjOConnor.Author
YouTube - @tjoconnorauthor3905

 

 

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Thursday, April 3, 2025

Review of the Mystery Novel Cops and Robbers by Justin M. Kiska (#contests- Enter To Win An Amazon Gift Card -2 Winners)

 

I would like to welcome Justin M. Kiska to Books R Us! Justin has written a dual-timeline mystery titled "Cops and Robbers." I’m excited to share a bit about the book and my thoughts on it. Additionally, enter below for a chance to win an Amazon gift card (two winners will be selected). Thank you for stopping by!

 

COPS & ROBBERS

by Justin M Kiska

March 10 - April 4, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

PARKER CITY MYSTERIES

 Spring, 1985 . . 

Cops & Robbers by Justin M Kiska
Just north of Parker City in the small town of Wakeville, a string of robberies have the residents of the quiet community on edge. Then, when two homes in one of Parker City’s wealthiest neighborhoods are broken into on the same night, PCPD Detectives Ben Winters and Tommy Mason wonder if the crime wave has spilled into their jurisdiction. There’s one chilling difference, though. This time, the intruders left a dead body behind in their wake.

As Ben and Tommy delve into the investigation, what initially appears to be a robbery gone wrong soon unravels into something far more sinister. Their pursuit of the truth leads them down a path, uncovering ties to a crime spree that shook Baltimore fifty years earlier. As past and present collide, the young detectives must race to find a killer driven by a motive buried deep in the past.

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery - Police Procedural with a dual timeline element
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: February 18, 2025
Series: PARKER CITY MYSTERIES; 5 [Amazon | Goodreads]
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

1985

Tommy Mason sat in his beat-up, but much-loved, Bronco on the side of the road. His hands rested on the steering wheel as his eyes focused on the rearview mirror. Behind him, an unmarked police car with a red bubble light on its roof pulled up and parked. This certainly wasn’t how Tommy was expecting to start the day, being pulled over on his way to work. What he’d been pulled over for, he had no idea. He drove this stretch of road every day. He knew the speed limit. There were no stop signs or red lights to run. The Bronco was just in the shop, so he knew there were no lights out or any sort of violations that a cop would think it necessary to pull him over for. And his license plate tags were up-to-date. He was going to have some questions for whoever this patrol officer was.

Keeping his eyes on the rearview mirror, he watched as the door to the police car swung open and a square, rather unkept looking officer stepped out. Tommy raised an eyebrow as he watched him approach the Bronco. The officer was wearing a pair of dark Aviator sunglasses and a blue windbreaker with a badge pinned to his chest. He looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and could use a comb to run through his hair. As he sauntered up to Tommy’s window, he placed a traditional eight-point police hat on his head to complete the official appearance.

“Huh…” Tommy grunted, watching the cop giving the Bronco a thorough, yet overly exaggerated examination. “This is going to be fun.”

When he reached the driver’s side of the truck, Tommy rolled down the window and gave the officer his trademark thousand-watt smile. The same smile that had gotten him out of so many jams in the past. Incidentally, it had also been the cause of a few problems as well. But he preferred to think of the good his smile had done. And might do for him again.

“Good morning, officer. What seems to be the problem?” He tried to sound as cheery as possible.

Tommy expected some sort of response, but instead found himself staring silently at his own reflection in the officer’s sunglasses while the man chewed on an enormous wad of gum.

When he finally spoke, he said, “I’m Officer Smith with the Parker City Police Department. Do you know why I pulled you over this morning?”

“Officer Smith? I can’t say that I do. I don’t think I was speeding. But I guess I could have been. You see, I’m just traveling through Parker, so I don’t know the area all that well,” Tommy lied.

“Well, you were speeding back there, sir. Sorry to say. It happens sometimes. But unfortunately, I had to pull you over. It’s all about safety. You understand.”

“Dang, Officer! I really didn’t mean to be speedin.’” Tommy had suddenly taken on an accentuated southern drawl. “I guess it’s just such a nice mornin’ I wasn’t paying much attention. Look how beautiful that sky is. So bright blue. I just love the spring. Don’t you?”

“Spring is very nice but–”

“And I was just thinkin’ about all the flowers. It’s been a bang-up season for the flowers this year. Have you noticed how vibrant the flowers have been? I think that’s the best word for them. Vibrant.

“I really haven’t–”

“I mean, I’m not much of a flower guy, to be honest with you. But something about them this year just got to me. My girlfriend’s always bringing home fresh flowers. I guess I’ve started paying attention to them.”

Trying to take control of the conversation, the officer raised his voice slightly. Tommy could hear a hint of irritation, but Smith was trying to keep himself in check. Tommy admired that. “Sir. If I could please see your license and registration card.”

“Officer…Smith? Was it? I really am sorry about this. Was I really goin’ that fast that you need to give me a ticket? I didn’t feel like I was goin’ too fast. Not that this old bucket of bolts can even get its giddy-up on to start with. I mean, maybe you could just give me a warning. And I promise the next time I come through Parker City I’ll drive real slow.”

“I need to see your license and registration, sir.”

Tommy leaned over and opened the glove box, rifled around looking for the Bronco’s registration for a moment, then popped back up and said, “Really, I’m very sorry. I must have been daydreamin.’ You see, I’m plannin’ on askin’ my girlfriend to marry me. I’m on my way home. I was in Baltimore for a job last night. And tonight I’m taking Suzanne out…Suzanne’s my girlfriend…I’m taking Suzanne out to dinner to pop the question. She’s gonna be so surprised. She didn’t think I was ever gonna ask her. But I am. I asked her father’s blessing and everything. It’s gonna be perfect.”

“Uh huh. Well, it sounds like you’re a man in love.” The officer’s stone-cold demeanor began to melt. A smile slowly spread across his lips. “Maybe there is something we could do.”

“That would be so great. I would really appreciate it. Because I really have to be going. But not too fast!” Tommy forced a laugh. He knew he must sound completely ridiculous.

“Let me think here. If I write you up and turn in the speeding ticket as is, it could be a few hundred dollars in fines. Plus, you’ll have to show up in traffic court. Nobody likes that. The judge might even say you have to go back to driving school.”

“You’re kiddin’?” Tommy’s eyes went wide, dutifully playing his part.

“Let’s see. What can I do?” Smith made a show of scratching his head while he looked off at some point in the distance. “What say you just give me fifty dollars to take care of the warning notice fee right here and we’ll be square. I’ll be able to let you get on your way and I’ll fill out all the paperwork later.”

“A warning notice fee,” Tommy repeated. “Well, fifty sounds better then three hundred any day.”

“Hey, not all policemen are hardasses. And you’re right. It’s a nice day. You caught me in a good mood,” Smith said, a smirk curling the side of his lip. “So, fifty dollars and it’s all taken care of.”

“Okay. I just want to make sure I got this. I just have to pay you fifty dollars for the warning notice fee and we’ll be all good? No ticket? No traffic court?”

“That’s right.”

“But you still need my license and registration so you can get my name for the paperwork. Right?” Tommy asked, reaching into his back pocket.

“Um. Yeah. Right. I need your name and address for the warning.”

Tommy handed over a black leather wallet and smiled. He watched intently as Officer Smith opened it. He could only imagine what Smith’s eyes looked like behind the sunglasses.

“Wha…what’s this?” Smith asked.

“You see, that is a real Parker City Police Department badge,” Tommy said leveling his gaze. “And you can see by my ID card that my name is Detective Thomas Mason. I know everyone in the PCPD. Who the hell are you?”

Before Smith could answer, Tommy raised his service revolver from beneath the edge of the window. The color drained from the imposter’s face. Tommy knew exactly what was about to happen, so he was fully prepared. As the fake cop dropped the badge wallet, Tommy flung open the driver’s side door, hitting Smith square in the hip. Losing his balance, Smith stumbled and fell to his knees. Tommy swung the door again, this time hitting him full-on in his side, sending him sprawling across the pavement. Before he could even think about getting up, still dazed from the unexpected blows, Tommy was standing over him with his foot firmly in the middle of his back.

“You, dipshit, are under arrest for impersonating a police office and ruining my good mood.”

***

Excerpt from Cops & Robbers by Justin M Kiska. Copyright 2025 by Justin M Kiska. Reproduced with permission from Justin M Kiska. All rights reserved.

 

MY THOUGHTS:

"Cops and Robbers" features two timelines (1927 and 1985) that enhance and add intrigue to the plot.
The story revolves around a series of robberies targeting affluent residents in the area. When a philanthropist named Clara is murdered in her home, the main characters, Ben and Tommy, are called to investigate the crime. Although the investigation begins slowly, it gains momentum as the story unfolds. All the characters are well-developed, especially Tommy, who adds humor to the story.
Although this is the fifth book in the series, I had no problem following the story, and it can be read as a standalone. It was interesting to read about life in the 1920s and 1980s when technology was limited. I enjoyed the book and recommend it to readers who like historical fiction with a twist. 5/5 stars 

Author Bio:

Justin M Kiska

When not sitting in his library devising new and clever ways to kill people (for his mysteries), Justin can usually be found at The Way Off Broadway Dinner Theatre, outside of Washington, DC, where he is one of the owners and producers. In addition to writing the Parker City Mysteries Series, which includes Now & Then (Finalist for the 2022 Silver Falchion Award for Best Investigator), Vice & Virtue, Fact & Fiction (Killer Nashville Top Pick and Finalist for the Chanticleer CLUE Award), and Black & White, he is also the mastermind behind Marquee Mysteries, a series of interactive mystery events he has been writing and producing for nearly twenty years. Justin and his wife, Jessica, live along Lake Linganore outside of Frederick, Maryland.

 

Catch Up With Our Author:

JustinKiska.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @JustinKiska
BookBub - @JMKiska
Instagram - @JMKiska
Facebook - @JMKiska

 

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