MYSTERY MONDAY

 
SOME OF YOU MAY KNOW I WRITE IN 3 GENRES: PARANORMAL, MYSTERY N HISTORICAL... AND WHILE ALL OF MY NOVELS ARE LACED WITH MYSTERY, I HAVE 3 NOVELS THAT ARE CLASSIFIED AS MYSTERY/SUSPENSE.
TODAY I AM SPOTLIGHTING
THE DOCTORS
Here's a synopsis:
 
The FBI agent, Donald P. Cobbs who wears big Stetsons and lizard boots in god awful colors can't believe his ears. It's the third informant from his case that died in some kind of freak accident. Now he's gotta wait for another green horn fresh out of residency to be hired by Lanny Loch and Richard Pathroff and hope the new guy on the block will be his newest informer. Or victim? Hence Adam J. Frye.

Adam and his wife Maggie think the hard days of med school and residency are behind them; the money will start rolling in, life will be smooth working for Doctors Loch and Pathroff, but their dreams are shattered when some cowboy FBI agent pays them a visit informing Adam that his life is in grave danger. He's the fourth associate of Loch and Pathroff. The other three are dead. As doornails.

It isn't long after Cobbs' visit that Adam gets suspicious over the sudden deaths of some of his healthy patients. The straw that breaks the camel's back is a young woman who comes to Frye with suspicions of her father's untimely death and asks him to "check things out." That's when Adam decides to help the FBI. He and Maggie uncover a diabolical scheme that involves the mob.

Adam having aroused suspicion unknowingly by one of the mob's key players, is on their watch list. Suddenly the tables turn on Adam when he's set up on his own wire. He's guilty in everybody's eyes. He's got to prove his innocence to the FBI, and he's got to do this before he's either thrown in jail or killed by the mob; made fish bait like the last unsuspecting associate. He can't make an error, it's life or death.
 
EXCERPT from the prologue: 
The FBI agent couldn’t believe his ears. That cigarette throated voice that just delivered bad news, caused him to slam down the phone so hard the things on the desk rattled and he captured the attention of his associate, Melvin Jones. Jones looked up from the computer screen on his desk wondering what caused his boss to act so volatile. The Director had asked to speak to Cobbs, so Jones knew it had to be of the utmost importance. He waited a minute for Cobbs to make eye contact with him, but Cobbs was still trying to absorb the bad news and hadn't looked up. When he finally raised his eyes, he was staring into nothingness. The eyes looked dazed and right past his associate to the picture on the wall. But he didn't see that either. The Sunflowers in Van Gogh's vase were nothing more than splotches of color. He was wondering, though, how the hell he could have such rotten luck. This was the third informant from the case who died under suspicious circumstances.
Of course Cobbs knew his informants were murdered, every one of them, all fine doctors too; graduated with honors from prestigious Universities; Bob Walsh, Melvin Burns, and now Jules Stern, the latest victim of an unfortunate accident. And in spite of fancy detective work, the cases never went to trial for murder because there wasn’t enough evidence to substantiate the FBI’s theory. After all, they were trying to incriminate two upstanding, well respected gentlemen in connection with the murders of their associates.
Donald P. Cobbs stood at Jones' desk, now making eye contact with his associate.
"I didn't see this one coming. I don't know why, but I didn't see this one coming. He assured me he was so careful, but apparently he wasn't careful enough," Cobbs said, his voice trailing off at the end.
"Who are you talking about?" Jones was more than a tad bit curious; after all they had several open cases they were currently involved with. There was one however, that had been going on too long and if it was that particular one, he was going to resign on the spot, just like he had threatened before when things went awry.
"I'm talking about-."
"Don't say it. Just don't tell me what I think you're going to tell me." Jones pushed the laptop away; enough with cases and deadlines and dead ends.
"Yeah, you guessed it. Jules Stern is dead!" Cobbs said.
It was that particular case Jones feared it would be. Jones was a tall black man with impeccable taste in clothing; put him next to Cobbs, the oversized Texan with a southern drawl who wears big Stetsons and lizard boots in God awful colors, and they looked like Frick and Frack. "Dead?" Agent Jones said as if Stern was some kind of eternal being.....
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2 comments:

  1. Great blog. Thank you so much for sharing.

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    1. Thanks so much Denise! I always appreciate a kind word!

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