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@alisonbrodie2 Brake Failure by Alison Brodie Book Spotlight!

Title:  BRAKE FAILURE

Author:  Alison Brodie

Publisher:  Clipboard Press

Genre:  Contemporary Romance

Page count: 340

ISBN:  978-0-9954568-2-2

Publication date:   9 January, 2017

Brake Failure is a contemporary romance with humour, suspense and a kick-ass heroine.  The story is set in one of the most fascinating periods of America's history:  the months leading up to Y2K "melt-down."

"Is it too late to tell him you love him when you're looking down the barrel of his gun?"

Ruby Mortimer-Smyth is an English debutante, destined for Ladies Day at Ascot and taking tea at The Savoy. She knows the etiquette for every occasion and her soufflés NEVER collapse. 

She is in control of her life, tightly in control.  Until fate dumps her down in … Kansas. 

Ruby believes that life is like a car; common-sense keeps it on the road, passion sends it into a ditch.  What she doesn't know is, she's on a collision course with Sheriff Hank Gephart. 

Sheriff Hank Gephart can judge a person.  Miss Mortimer-Smyth might act like the Duchess of England but just under the surface there's something bubbling, ready to explode.  She's reckless, and she's heading for brake failure.  And he's not thinking about her car.

With the Millennium approaching, Ruby gets caught up in the Y2K hysteria.  She joins a group of Survivalists, who give her a gun and advise her to stockpile basic essentials, such as gasoline and water-purifying tablets.  So she bulk-buys Perrier, Gentleman's Relish and macaroons. 

Ruby, far from home, is making Unsuitable Friends and "finding herself" for the first time.  She falls in with a gang of Hells Angels and falls foul of the law.  At every turn, she comes up hard against Sheriff Hank Gephart, whose blue eyes seem to look deep into her soul.  She desperately wants him but knows she can never have him.

She's angry and confused at the emotions he arouses in her.  Pushed to her limit, she bursts from her emotional straightjacket.

As the clock strikes midnight of the new Millennium, she's on a freight train with three million dollars, a bottle of Wild Turkey and a smoking gun.

What happened to Miss Prim-and-Proper?   And why did she shoot Mr Right?

______

Note:  Alison Brodie wrote this story from first-hand experience.  She lived in Kansas during this time and was stunned by the hysteria, unnerved that the US government was spending $150 billion preparing for Armageddon.  As Lionel Shriver says in her novel, We Have To Talk About Kevin:  “1999, a year widely mooted beforehand as the end of the world.”

Praise for Brake Failure

5 *  “OMG…I freakin’ LOVED this book…going on the list of one of my favorites of 2016.” –Star Angels Reviews

5*  “Everyone needs to read this book.  It’s blooming brilliant.” –The Reading Shed

5*  “Hilarious.”  -Lauren Sapala, Book Reviewer and Writers’ Coach.

5*  “A laugh-out-tale that will keep you flipping the pages as fast as possible.” –Tome Tender

5*  “Empowering…comical…refreshing.” –San Francisco Book Review

Read an Excerpt – Brake Failure

Paranoid by Lisa Jackson Review! #SheSpeaks #ReadPARANOID

http://bit.ly/ReadParanoid
Kensington
June 2019, ISBN: 1496722469
Genre: Thriller/Suspense

About the Book

When is a weapon only a toy? In this riveting page-turner from #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson, a woman haunted by guilt realizes that nothing can be trusted--not even her own memory . . .

There are people in Edgewater, Oregon, who think that twenty years ago, Rachel Gaston got away with murder.

Rachel still has no idea how a foolish teenaged game turned deadly--or who replaced the soft pellet air gun she thought she was using with a real weapon. When a figure leaped out at her from the darkness of the old fish processing plant, she fired without thinking. Too late, she recognized her half-brother, Luke, and saw the blood blooming around his chest.

Despite counseling, Rachel's horrifying dreams about that night have never stopped. In a small town like Edgewater, it's impossible to escape the past or avoid rumors and gossip. Busy raising two teens after her divorce from detective Cade Ryder, she'd rather not attend her upcoming high school reunion, though she agrees to help track down alums for the gathering. But as Rachel confronts old memories, she feels her imagination playing tricks on her, convincing her that objects in her house have moved. That there's a hint of unfamiliar cologne in the air. That someone is tailing her car. Watching her home.

Cade knows his ex is highly strung. Rachel's anxiety played a part in their split, though Cade takes his share of the blame too. Yet maybe this time, she's right to be scared. And as connections surface between a new string of murders and Luke's death, Rachel realizes that the truth is darker than her worst fears . . .

Photo by Shelby Kohler Photography

Lisa Jackson is the number-one New York Times bestselling author of more than 85 novels, including Afraid to Die, Tell Me, You Don’t Want to Know, Running Scared, Without Mercy, Malice, and Shiver.  She is also the co-author of the Colony Series, co-written with her sister, Nancy Bush. There are over 20 million copies of Lisa Jackson’s books in print in twenty languages. 

Before she became a nationally bestselling author, Lisa Jackson was a mother struggling to keep food on the table by writing novels, hoping against hope that someone would pay her for them. Today, neck deep in murder, her books appear on The New York Times, the USA Today, and the Publishers Weekly national bestseller lists.

With over thirty bestsellers to her name, Lisa Jackson is a master of taking readers to the edge of sanity – and back – in novels that buzz with dangerous secrets and deadly passions.  She continues to be fascinated by the minds and motives of both her killers and their pursuers—the personal, the professional and downright twisted.  As she builds the puzzle of relationships, actions, clues, lies and personal histories that haunt her protagonists, she must also confront the fear and terror faced by her victims, and the harsh and enduring truth that, in the real world, terror and madness touch far too many lives and families. 

My Review
Paranoid by Lisa Jackson is the story of Rachel Gaston, who lives in Edgewater Oregon with her son and daughter. She is divorced from Detective Cade Ryder but they do have an amicable relationship if only for the kids. 
Twenty years ago, Rachel along with some classmates was in an abandoned fish factory with pellet air guns when hers was replaced with a real gun, unbeknownst to her. When someone jumps out she panics and shoots, finds out that the person she shot was her half brother Luke. 
Despite counseling Rachel still feels that it was her fault that her brother is dead and blames herself after all of these years. A high school reunion is being planned, she feels that there are objects being moved in her house, whiffs of cologne and cigarette smoke is in the air. She is being tailed and feels that someone is watching her home.
Now that there are classmates being murdered her paranoia increases. 
Her ex knows that Rachel has issues but he is not sure whether to believe her or not as to her paranoia. Not only that, her daughter has been sneaking out at night to be with a guy whom Rachel is not fond of. So all of these things come to a horrifying conclusion that I did not see coming.
I had not read a Lisa Jackson novel in quite a few years and I am not sure why I haven't as I do remember enjoying them. This one was no exception. This book is character driven and is believable. I love the writing as it was pretty suspenseful and I did not see the ending coming but I like to think that the ending is such that there is another book coming with the same characters.
I think that if you enjoy a good psychological thriller that you can't go wrong with the novel. 
I received a copy of this book for review purposes. 

Brake Failure by Alison Brodie Blog Tour!

 Title: Brake Failure

By: Alison Brodie

Publication Date: January 9, 2017

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Brake Failure is a contemporary romance with a kick-ass heroine. The story is set in one of the most fascinating periods of America's history: the months leading up to Y2K "melt-down." "Is it too late to tell him you love him when you're looking down the barrel of his gun?" Ruby Mortimer-Smyth is an English debutante, destined for Lady’s Day at Ascot and taking tea at The Savoy. She knows the etiquette for every occasion and her soufflés NEVER collapse. She is in control of her life, tightly in control. Until fate dumps her down in … Kansas. Ruby believes that life is like a car; common-sense keeps it on the road, passion sends it into a ditch. What she doesn't know is, she's on a collision course with Sheriff Hank Gephart. Sheriff Hank Gephart can judge a person. Miss Mortimer-Smyth might act like the Duchess of England but just under the surface there's something bubbling, ready to explode. She's reckless, and she's heading for brake failure. And he's not thinking about her car. With the Millennium approaching, Ruby gets caught up in the Y2K hysteria. She joins a group of Survivalists, who give her a gun and advise her to stockpile basic essentials, such as gasoline and water-purifying tablets. So she bulk-buys Perrier, Gentleman's Relish and macaroons. Ruby, far from home, is making Unsuitable Friends and "finding herself" for the first time. She falls in with a gang of Hells Angels and falls foul of the law. At every turn, she comes up hard against Sheriff Hank Gephart, whose blue eyes seem to look deep into her soul. She desperately wants him but knows she can never have him. She's angry at the emotions he arouses in her. Pushed to her limit, she bursts from her emotional straightjacket. As the clock strikes midnight of the new Millennium, she's on a freight train with three million dollars, a bottle of Wild Turkey and a smoking gun. What happened to Miss Prim-and-Proper? And why did she shoot Mr Right? ______ Note: Alison Brodie wrote this story from first-hand experience. She lived in Kansas during this time and was stunned by the hysteria, unnerved that the US government was spending $150 billion preparing for Armageddon. As Lionel Shriver says in "We have to Talk About Kevin": '1999, a year widely mooted beforehand as the end of the world.' What Others Are Saying 5 * “OMG…I freakin’ LOVED this book…going on the list of one of my favorites of 2016.” –Star Angels Reviews 5* “Everyone needs to read this book. It’s blooming brilliant.” –The Reading Shed 5* “Hilarious.” -Lauren Sapala, Book Reviewer and Writers’ Coach. 5* “A laugh-out-tale that will keep you flipping the pages as fast as possible.” –Tome Tender 5* “Empowering…comical…refreshing.” –San Francisco Book Review

Pre Order Your Copy NOW!

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That afternoon, Ruby parked outside Shady Acres. She couldn’t wait for Gephart to ask her out on a date. Then she could tell him she was married. Ha!

He sat in reception. In full uniform. Why couldn’t he have changed into civilian clothes? Now he would make her look like an offender. Or was that his intention? Just because she’d put a few scratches in his police car.

‘Hi, Ruby.’ He stood up, crushing a plastic cup in one hand and tossing it in the bin.

She stared pointedly down at his belt. ‘Are you going to put me in handcuffs?’ she asked sarcastically.

He winked. ‘Not if you’re good.’

Ruby blushed. Why was it that every time she gazed into his eyes, she felt as if a hand was pressing down on her chest? She was only thankful that once she started reading to the old lady, Hank Gephart would go.

The receptionist was busy dealing with two elderly gentlemen, so Ruby and Hank had to wait to sign-in. Ruby felt strangely jittery in the big man’s presence. She only wished he wouldn’t stand so close. She inched further along the reception counter and, wanting to hide her nervousness, started squaring up the brochures into neat piles.

He came closer. ‘Ruby, I don’t like you mixing with Hells Angels.’

She felt his warm breath on her cheek. ‘Is there a law against that?’ Refusing to look at him, she picked up a brochure and found herself reading about incontinence.

‘No, but-’

‘Then, presumably, I have the freedom to choose with whom I associate?’

‘Yeah, but I’m warning you-’

Warning you. Angrily, she grabbed up another brochure and flicked through it at speed, false teeth and hearing-aids flashing by. ‘Why do you have to be so aggressive? Why can’t you say, “may I suggest?”’

‘Okay.’ He rested his arm along the counter and leant towards her. His eyes were blue, very blue. ‘May I suggest you keep away from them?’

‘No, you may-!’ She stopped abruptly. A matronly nurse was hovering beside them.

‘Well, Hank,’ the nurse said gaily. ‘Is this your lady friend you’ve been telling us about?’

Hank beamed down at Ruby with proprietary pride. ‘It sure is.’

‘I’m not his lady friend,’ Ruby mumbled.

‘Nice to meet you, Ruby,’ the nurse said. ‘I’m Amy.’ She beckoned with a finger as if tempting two small well-behaved children to an exciting treat. ‘If you want to come along, Mrs Amstruther is waiting.’

As they walked along the corridor, Ruby noticed two pretty nurses break off from their conversation to study her. She sensed that Hank had been gossiping about her. She caught up with Amy, determined to quash whatever rumours were flying around. ‘I am not at all familiar with Geph- I mean, Hank.’

The nurse stopped at a door and knocked. ‘I love your accent.’

Ruby persisted. ‘I have merely bumped into him on various occasions.’

‘We know.’ The nurse winked and opened the door. ‘You two go on in.’

As Ruby spluttered indignantly, Hank took her by the elbow. ‘Mrs Amstruther?’ he called. ‘I’ve brought my friend to meet you.’

‘Come in, come in,’ a quavery voice replied.

Ruby stepped across the threshold and froze.

Mrs Amstruther was blind.

The old lady was sat up in bed, dressed in a faded, flower-print bed-jacket, her eyes wrapped in bandages; her skin appeared almost translucent, the pink skull showing beneath a mop of dazzling white hair. She smiled sweetly, reaching out a tentative hand.

Ruby felt a pang. Mrs Amstruther shouldn’t be here; she should be in a cottage-garden in Devon with a wicker table laden with a cream tea and a vase of freshly cut delphiniums; and surrounded by her grandchildren.

‘Dear Hank,’ Mrs Amstruther murmured. Ruby stepped forward, and put her hand in the old woman’s. ‘Hello, I’m Ruby.’

‘Oh, how lovely to hear an English voice! You’re so kind, Ruby; volunteering to read to a boring old lady like me.’

‘It’s my pleasure.’

‘Hank didn’t bully you, I hope?’ Mrs Amstruther said in mock gravity.

With an ache of sadness, Ruby gazed down at the old woman so far from home - a home she would never again see. Ruby realised the childish bickering between her and Gephart was pathetic. The discord she had brought into the room, evaporated. ‘I didn’t need to be bullied. I was delighted with Hank for asking me.’

‘Do take a seat, Ruby, dear,’ the old woman said.

Ruby pulled an armchair closer to the bed. The room was sunny, the walls covered in framed photographs of children at the seaside. Beyond the window, at the far perimeter of a vast lawn, a freight train rumbled passed, the melancholic blast of its horn fading into the distance. Gephart, too, was watching it.

Mrs Armstruther’s hand was searching the rumpled bedding. ‘Ruby, could you possibly read a few pages of Wind in the Willows? My son loved it when he was little.’ She brought out a book from under the covers. ‘It’s so annoying not being able to see. Thankfully the bandages come off at the end of the month.’

‘So it’s not …?’

‘What, dear?’

‘Permanent?’ Ruby asked, taking the book.

‘Oh, no, it’s just cataracts; the curse of old age.’

Ruby, discovering the old woman would recover her sight, felt a lightness of spirit; felt she could embrace all her fellow beings - including Hank. He was standing, studying the photos on the wall. Catching his eye, she smiled at him, tilting her head towards the door, a silent message that he could leave.

He wrinkled his brow, evidently unable to gauge her meaning.

She tried again, running her fingers through the air towards the door.

He gave her a stupid look.

‘Are you going?’ she mouthed silently.

He nodded to signify that he understood. Then he shook his head, walked over to the armchair by the window, sat down and rested his hands squarely on his knees.

He was obviously staying.

‘Have you ever read Wind in the Willows, Ruby?’ Mrs Amstruther asked.

‘Yes, years ago.’

The old lady laughed. ‘Mole is delightful, isn’t he? Who is your favourite character?’

‘Toad. I loved it when he dressed up as a woman to escape the police.’ Ruby instantly regretted the words. ‘Of course, I don’t identify with Toad,’ she added hastily, forcing herself not to look at Gephart. ‘I just think he’s a loveable rascal.’

‘Isn’t he just!’ Mrs Amstruther settled back to enjoy the story, and Ruby began:

‘“The Mole had been working hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home …”’

Why is P.C. Plod hanging about anyway? Surely he’s not interested in riverbank creatures.

‘“First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash till he had dust in his throat and eyes and splashes of white-wash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms …”’

He’s staring at me; I know he is.

‘“Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below …’”

This was too much! Ruby glared at him. ‘Haven’t you got a murder to solve?’

‘What?’ Mrs Amstruther jerked in confusion.

Ruby was appalled by her thoughtlessness. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Amstruther, I was talking to Hank. You see, I don’t want to keep him from his work.’

He folded his arms across his chest and grinned. He was obviously taking delight in her embarrassment. ‘I’m off-duty,’ he said.

For the sake of the old lady, Ruby had to speak sweetly, but there was nothing stopping her from raking the man from head to foot with hostile eyes. ‘Do you always wear uniform when you’re off-duty?’

‘I do when I haven’t had time to get to my locker and change.’

She couldn’t bear to look at that smug face a second longer. She snatched up the book and continued to read. ‘“Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below-’” She stopped in confusion, her cheeks a fiery red.

‘Oh, I’ve read that bit already.’

She could sense him laughing at her. And he was!

He stood up, his eyes dancing mischievously. ‘I’ve got a feeling Ruby can’t concentrate with me here. I’m flustering her pretty little head.’

Her relief that he was going was rapidly replaced by horror. That awful man was insinuating she fancied him! As he passed by, he bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby … Sweet Cheeks,’ he said softly, squeezing her shoulder.

Wide-eyed and apoplectic, she watched him walk to the door.

‘He’s such a lovely man,’ Mrs Amstruther said after he had gone.

Ruby couldn’t trust herself to speak.

‘The nurses say he’s very handsome. Is he?’

Ruby was still pinning the door with a look of fury. ‘O-h-h, you don’t want to know what I think.’

She picked up the book, her decision made.

She was no longer angry; in fact, she was rather jubilant. Like any institution, this building would have a goods delivery entrance. Well, Gephart, she thought complacently. You’re about to have a long wait because Sweet Cheeks, here, is going out the back.

Alison Brodie is a Scot, with French Huguenot ancestors on her mother’s side of the family.  Alison was a photographic model, modelling for a wide range of products, including Ducatti motorbikes and 7Up.  She was also the vampire in the Schweppes commercial. 

A disastrous modelling assignment in the Scottish Highlands gave Alison an idea for a story, which was to become Face to Face.  She wrote Face to Face as a hobby and then decided to send it off to see what would happen.  It was snapped up by Dinah Wiener, the first agent Alison sent it to.  Three weeks later, Alison signed a two-book deal with Hodder & Stoughton.  Subsequently, Face to Face was published in Germany and Holland.  It was widely reviewed, ie:  “Vain, but wildly funny leading lady.” -Scottish Daily Mail.  It was also chosen as Good Housekeeping’s “Pick of the Paperbacks.” 

Unfortunately, Alison then suffered from Second-Book Syndrome.  The publisher’s deadline loomed and she was terrified because she didn’t have an idea for a story!  She found the whole experience a nightmare; and this is why she cautions first-time authors to write more than one book before approaching an agent.  She managed to finish the book – Sweet Talk – but it bombed.

While writing Sweet Talk, she moved to Kansas and lived there for two years.  She loved the people, their friendliness, their free-and-easy way of life, the history and the BBQs!  Sadly, her visa ran out and she had to come back to the UK – although her dream is to one day live permanently in America.  Now, Alison lives in Biarritz, France.

Blood Relations by J. Woollcott Book Tour!

 

September 18 - October 13, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Belfast, Northern Ireland: early spring 2017. Retired Chief Inspector Patrick Mullan is found brutally murdered in his bed. Detective Sergeant Ryan McBride and his partner Detective Sergeant Billy Lamont are called to his desolate country home to investigate. In their inquiry, they discover a man whose career with the Police Service of Northern Ireland was overshadowed by violence and corruption. Is the killer someone from Mullan’s past, or his present?

And who hated the man enough to kill him twice?

Is it one of Patrick Mullan’s own family, all of them hiding a history of abuse and lies? Or a vengeful crime boss and his psychopathic new employee? Or could it be a recently released prisoner desperate to protect his family and flee the country?
Ryan and Billy once again face a complex investigation with wit and intelligence, all set in Belfast and the richly atmospheric countryside around it.

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: August 2023
Number of Pages: 327
Series: The Belfast Murder Series, 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

1

Monday, APRIL 24, 2017
Ryan

Detective Sergeant Ryan McBride stared into Mullan’s bedroom, the metallic smell of old blood stronger here. Prisha Hill, the supervising crime scene investigator, laid her hand on his arm.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Prisha said. “Have you?”

“No,” Ryan said. “No, I haven’t.”

Fifteen minutes earlier, arriving at the scene, Ryan roared past several patrol cars cluttering up the grass verge in front of Hungry Hall, a decaying country house outside Antrim. A few constables stood talking by their vehicles. He jammed on the breaks, pulled into the driveway then backed up. Saw them glance over; a bit edgy now. A stocky woman officer, with short dark hair curling under her cap, leaned against a car beside two male constables, both tall and pale. Ryan lowered his window, getting a whiff of country air, manure, cut grass, and peat.

“Word to the wise.” He flashed his warrant card. “I’m Detective Sergeant McBride, Senior Investigating Officer.” He nodded towards the house. “That’s a crime scene. You’re supposed to be protecting it, not standing around chatting like a bunch of schoolgirls. Next time anyone tries to enter this driveway ask for ID, unless you fully know who it is.”

Their faces closed up with anger and embarrassment.

Ryan held up his hand. “That’s one of ours lying dead up there, a retired senior officer. If you let Chief Inspector Girvan drive past you like I did, it won’t just be a bollocking you get, it’ll be school-safety visits. Understand me?”

The woman broke from the group and walked over.

“Sorry, we just assumed, you know, by the way you hammered in. But you’re right, we should have stopped you.” She nodded over to one of the constables, shuffling his feet by the car door. “Frank there knows the son, Andrew Mullan, went to primary school with him. He’s right and upset. We didn’t see the victim but one of the other fellas up there did and was sick.”

At the house, Ryan’s partner, DS Billy Lamont, was talking to a crime-scene tech while struggling into a white Tyvek suit and trying to tuck his messy brown curls under a hood. Billy stood a little shorter than Ryan at just under six feet. He had light grey eyes in a pale, freckled face. He lifted his hand in greeting.

One of the crime-scene guys threw Ryan a suit and booties. He had his own gloves and he hopped along, trying to tug on the booties as they headed for the front of the house.

“Grim sort of a place, eh?” Billy said as they approached the door.

Hungry Hall stood four-square and solid enough on an acre of land, Ryan noticed the stonework, originally painted white, now had a grey, mossy tinge. A feeling of disuse, almost abandonment, lingered. The day didn’t help, either, overcast and sullen with low clouds.

“Who found him?”

“The cleaning lady. She’s waiting in the kitchen.”

They stopped at the door and looked in. The main hall was large, gloomy, and cold. Crime-scene officers bustled about. Even so, the place felt desolate. Ryan couldn’t put his finger on it. He shivered.

“Jesus, it’s freezing in here.”

“That’s a desperate smell.” Billy unzipped his suit a bit and pulled his hanky out, holding it to his nose.

Ryan picked up the scent of blood, along with rubbish, rotting food, and dust in the air.

“How often did this cleaning lady come?” he asked Billy. Billy, his partner of over three years, was quick to pick up all kinds of information at scenes.

“Not blooming often enough, you ask me.”

“Hello.” A slim woman in her fifties approached them. A CSI in a blue suit, she carried a metal case and had shoved a pair of plastic glasses on top of her hood. She had dark, almost black eyes, and sallow skin. In need of a bit of sun, Ryan thought. Like me.

“I’m Prisha Hill,” she said, nodding behind her as she spoke. “I oversee this bunch. I was just on the phone to my boss and he said you two were a couple of comedians. Well, I’ll tell you this for nothing, you won’t be laughing when you get upstairs.” She hesitated. “DS Calvert, the local detective sergeant here, has been called away, but he got things started before he left.”

Ryan and Billy had been pulled into this investigation by their boss, Chief Inspector Girvan. They usually worked closer to Belfast. “Okay then, Prisha, lead the way. Is Alice the pathologist?”

“No.” She shook her head and smiled as they moved on, acknowledging their Senior Pathologist, Dr. Wallace McAllister’s nickname. “He’s on holiday in Wales, so we have his deputy coming. Dr. Mervyn Wheeler. Good man, I’ve worked with him before.”

“Oh, yes,” Ryan said with a quick smile. They had almost reached the first-floor landing. “I know Mervyn.”

The scene in the bedroom was shocking. Blood everywhere, even on the ceiling. Prisha followed Ryan’s gaze.

“Arterial spray.”

“Jesus, that’s a lot of rage….”

Prisha nodded. “I know, right? And the victim being one of ours––a retired Chief Inspector for God’s sake, Dr. Wheeler understands this will be a priority. He should be here any minute.” She hesitated for a moment. “Don’t take too long, detectives, he prefers a quiet room to work in.” She turned to leave.

“Thanks,” Ryan called after her. They stood for a moment, just looking. “Mervyn’s getting as bad as Alice with all his little fussy habits,” Ryan said.

“Who has fussy habits?”

Ryan turned and nodded to the white-clad figure standing in the hall. Dr Mervyn Wheeler. Jolly, rotund, and ginger-haired, his easy-going exterior hid a sharp mind.

“Oh, hello, Mervyn, about bloody time.”

Ryan had shared a flat for a while with Mervyn when they were both at Queen’s, Ryan studying law and Mervyn medicine. They had co-existed fairly amiably, considering their differences. Or perhaps, Ryan thought, because of them.

Mervyn hesitated at the bedroom door, like the others before him.

“My God, it looks like the Red Wedding in here. Hi-ya Ryan.”

“Bit of respect, Mervyn, wouldn’t go unnoticed.”

“Fuck off, Ryan. Bit of respect my arse.”

“So,” Ryan said. “I know you like a bit of peace and quiet to work so we’re going to have a quick recce around, leave you to it…”

They left the bedroom and walked along the hall, entering a box room with a few cupboards pushed to the far wall, and a single bed with a bare mattress.

“It’s almost as if no one lived here. What a bleak house,” Billy said, shuddering a little.

“Nice to see your English ‘A’ Levels coming in handy there, Billy.”

“What?”

“Bleak House, Dickens.”

“Oh that.” Billy crossed to the window and looked out. “I never read the whole thing, too long.”

“Yet you finished Lord of the Rings.”

“Different thing, altogether.”

It was, and Ryan left it. He opened a couple of closet doors and peered in. Empty except for wire hangers jangling on a rod. The scent of mothballs wafted out.

“It looks like Mullan hardly used these rooms.” Billy said, as they continued up the hall.

Ryan stopped for a moment. “That was awful, that bedroom. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was. Really bad.”

They both stood for a moment. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it,” Ryan said.

“No, me neither.”

A white-clad technician peered out of Mullan’s bedroom, saw them there, and shouted over. “Come on back, Detectives, Dr. Wheeler wants to share.”

“Ah, there you are. Couple of things.” Mervyn stood in the blood-drenched room and beckoned them in.

Ryan looked at the body again. Mullan was dressed in boxers. He was a mess of blood. The sheets were soaked in it, all semi-dry now. Mullan’s heart had pumped arterial blood onto the nearby wall and around the room. An overturned lamp base had fallen at the side of the bed and a whiskey bottle lay in the middle of a brown stain on the carpet. The room smelled ripe, a mixture of blood and drink and other things Ryan didn’t want to think about.

“He thrashed about a lot,” Ryan said.

“Yes, indeed,” Mervyn replied. “He must have had a powerful will to live,”

He paused.

“Because he was killed twice.” 

Excerpt #2

Mervyn waited to see the effect of his words and, satisfied that he had their full attention, he continued.

“To clarify. The blow to the head could have proved deadly if a bleed had occurred, and I’ll be able to tell you more later, but that’s not what killed him.”

He pointed at the blue stoneware lamp base lying on the floor beside the bed. Its white shade, now crumpled and blood-soaked, lay in the corner.

“I’m thinking the intruder picked up that lamp and bashed our victim on the head. A nasty blow. Later, the assailant, possibly realising that he had not killed Mullan, stabbed him in the chest, all over the belly, and one shallow thrust in the side there. Then the throat, in the carotid. Bit frenzied actually, seems to me, the roughness of it, the tearing. The blood loss would have been massive and irreversible. I say that only because Mullan was older and likely had a heart condition.”

“How can you tell?”

“An educated guess. Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if we come upon some kind of blood thinners in the medicine cabinet. Warfarin, probably.” Mervyn then addressed a white-clad techie dusting for prints by the wall. “Have you found anything at all in this room? And did you check the bathroom cabinet yet?”

The man stood, removed his mask and shook his head. “No, but I found a small bloody mark on the bathroom floor in the corner under the shower curtain. It looks like a heelprint. I think the killer missed it. Everywhere else, wiped on most surfaces anyway. Used towels and took them away I assume.”

“Wiped?” Ryan did a slow three-sixty of the room.

“Not perfect, but enough to mess the scene. Didn’t care about the mess, just removal of any evidence, fingerprints etc. Anyway,” Mervyn continued. “As I said, the killer, as far as I can tell, bashed Mullan on the head, assumed he was dead, decided to check the place out. Perhaps picked up some items, went walkabout, came back a while later, realised they hadn’t quite killed him, picked up that knife there–it’s Mullan’s, his initials are on the handle, and proceeded to stab the bejesus out of him. Although at this point I can only assume it’s the murder weapon. Break-in gone wrong maybe?”

“Right then. Thanks Mervyn. And since you’re well on your way to solving the case and all, shall I just pop over later and perform the post-mortem for you?”

“Lordy, Ryan. I was just trying to help. You’re such a touchy boy.”

Ryan ignored him. “And no prints anywhere?”

“Apparently not on any surfaces we’ve checked so far. We’ll need to access family and friends, anyone who might have been normally in the room. Get some shoe prints, too, of course.” He nodded at the bathroom, “If that turns out to be a heel.”

“Okay.” Ryan had a final look around, followed Billy to the landing, and stood with him at the bannister. “Mervyn assumed the knife was just lying around, but what if he kept it by his bed for protection?”

“Protection from who?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go talk to the cleaning lady.”

“We can assume for now that the front door was the site of ingress,” Billy said.

“’Ingress?’ Really?”

“Means place of entry, Ryan. Keep up.”

“I know what it means, Billy, I’ve just never heard you use that particular word in a sentence before,” Ryan said, heading down.

“So facetious,” Billy replied, clattering behind.

Mrs. Reynolds, the Mullan’s’ cleaner, sat at a well-worn farmhouse table in the kitchen. Behind her, a picture window faced the rear garden, a large, grey-green rectangle of patchy mixed grass and weeds. A copse of thin pines quivered in a gusty wind at the back. Grey clouds huddled together and spat fat drops of rain against the glass. That same wind pushed through the windows and produced an occasional desolate, high-pitched keening. The kitchen was warm. Someone had lit the cooking range. Ryan noted scuff marks on the floor and a trace of black powder here and there. The room had been processed, things were in motion. DS Calvert had indeed started the investigation before he’d left.

Mrs. Reynolds sat with a mug of tea cooling in front of her. A formidable woman, square jawed and big boned, she wore a fraying, full-coverage linen apron, washed to a light shade of parchment. Her face matched the apron in texture and colour. She cut a dowdy figure, except for a large pink shower cap pulled down firmly over her hair.

A young policewoman washed dishes in the sink.

“Sir?” The constable looked from Billy to Ryan while she dried her hands.

“Thanks, Constable,” Ryan squinted at her badge, “Evans. No need to stay, I think.”

She hurried out, and Billy rubbed his hands together. “Finally, a bit of heat. Here, Missus, can I warm up that tea for you? Ryan, you want a cup?”

“Thanks Billy, wouldn’t say no.” Anything to shake the chill from his bones. He sat down across from Mrs. Reynolds.

“Okay, love? How’re you doing?”

“As well as––you know.” She glanced over at Billy, who was fussing with the kettle. “Aye, make a fresh pot, will you, son? And put a couple of extra teabags in it. The cup that wee lassie made was weak as water.”

“Right you are, nice strong cuppa coming up.”

Ryan smiled briefly, a woman after Billy’s heart. Mrs. Reynolds seemed to notice Ryan’s expression.

“Oh, I completely forgot about this. Won’t be needing it now I suppose.”

She pulled off the shower cap, revealing tight grey curls lined up with military precision down the middle and both sides of her head. Ryan studied her hair, impressed despite himself. Mrs. Reynolds favoured him with a coy smile.

“My daughter, Francine, does my hair.” She patted her curls. “She’s a hairdresser over in Antrim there. She’s a waiting list for appointments as long as yer arm.”

“Yes,” Ryan said. “That’s a lovely hairdo you have there. Very neat.”

She beamed. “If yer wife or yer mam want an appointment, I’m sure I could…”

She was not to be dissuaded. He eventually handed her his card and she scribbled her home number on it. “There you go, call anytime. I’ll sort you out with our Francine.”

Billy interrupted the conversation by placing a tray between them. He passed the cups around and they settled in.

Mrs. Reynolds drank her tea with relish. She didn’t seem to be suffering from any of the usual signs of stress. Billy’s colour, on the other hand, was only now returning to normal, which for Billy was the shade of curdled milk.

“Did you notice anything strange when you approached the house? Was the front door locked?” Ryan sipped his tea, strong enough to curl your toes.

“Nothing strange, just the same as always. The front door was locked, yes, I used my key to get in. I noticed the smell just after I arrived. I knew what it was. We’ve a farm, you know, we slaughter animals. I’m used to it. I went upstairs. I got to the end of the hall and saw blood on the bedroom wallpaper. Called Mr. Mullan’s name, but I didn’t go any further, didn’t look at anything else. Just came back down and called the police.”

“To clarify, you didn’t actually see the body?”

“Do you think I’d be sitting here like Lady Muck if I had?”

***

My Thoughts

Monday, April 24th 2017

"Detective Ryan McBride stared into Mullan's bedroom, the metallic smell of old blood stronger here. Prisha Hill the supervising crime scene investigator, laid her hand on his arm. "I've never seen anything like this, " Prisha said. "Have you?" "No," Ryan said. "No, I haven't."

Blood Relations by J.Wollcott is part of the DS Ryan McBride two-book series. The first is A Nice Place to Die both books take place in Belfast Northern Ireland. In Blood Relations retired Chief Inspector Patrick Mullan is found deceased in his bed. Detective Sergeant McBride and his partner Detective Sergeant Billy Lamont are tasked with investigating the murder. The question is, can a man be murdered twice?

In their investigation, they found that the deceased had a past of corruption and violence. As they question who it could be, a person from the past or present. Patrick Mullan was bashed over the head, stabbed in the torso, and throat slit. Someone must have really wanted him dead. 

Different storylines within the novel tell the story of each of the characters. Morris Sweet is the local crime boss and a man by the name of Dinger Bell who was recently released from prison, for a crime that he took the fall for. He has since disappeared.

Other characters are Dereck McGrath who is an IT expert, and young officer Maura Dunn. He has a current girlfriend Rose and an ex Bridget. I noticed that even though this book/series takes place in Northern Ireland, it is not bogged down with names and places that are hard to pronounce.

The story is very detailed in the descriptions of people and places and can be read as a stand-alone novel. I am interested in any stories that take place in Ireland. The author is very knowledgeable and tells a great story!

I give the book 5 stars.

I received a copy of the book for review purposes only.

 

Excerpt from BLOOD RELATIONS by J Woollcott. Copyright 2023 by J Woollcott. Reproduced with permission from J Woollcott. All rights reserved.

J. Woollcott is a Canadian author born in Belfast, N. Ireland. She is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers and BCAD, University of Ulster. 

Her first book, A Nice Place to Die won the Daphne du Maurier Award, was short-listed in the Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence in 2021 and was a Silver Falchion Award finalist at Killer Nashville 2023.

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Broadcast Blues by R.G Belsky Blog Tour! #BroadcastBlues #NetGalley @partnersincrimevbt

BROADCAST BLUES

by R.G. Belsky

January 1-26, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Wendy Kyle took secrets to her grave— now, Clare Carlson is digging them up

New York City has no shortage of crime, making for a busy schedule for TV newswoman Clare Carlson. But not all crimes are created equal, and when an explosive planted in a car detonates and kills a woman, Clare knows it’ll be a huge story for her.

But it’s not only about the story—Clare also wants justice for the victim, Wendy Kyle. Wendy had sparked controversy as an NYPD officer, ultimately getting kicked off the force after making sexual harassment allegations and getting into a physical altercation with her boss. Then, she started a private investigations business, catering to women who suspected their husbands of cheating. Undoubtedly, Wendy had angered many people with her work, so the list of her suspected murderers is seemingly endless.

Despite the daunting investigation, Clare dives in headfirst. As she digs deeper, she attracts the attention of many rich and powerful people who will stop at nothing to keep her from breaking the truth about the death of Wendy Kyle—and exposing their personal secrets that Wendy took to her grave.

Praise for Broadcast Blues:

"Broadcast Blues is a page-turning, meticulously plotted crime novel enriched by a terrific New York sense of place, Dick Belsky’s wicked sense of humor, and his insider’s view of the Machiavellian world that is broadcast news."
~ Jonathan Kellerman, New York Times best-selling author

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Oceanview Publishing
Publication Date: January 2, 2024
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 9781608095315 (ISBN10: 1608095312)
Series: Clare Carlson Mystery Series, 6 | All of the novels in the Clare Carlson Mystery Series stand on their own and can be read in any order
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Oceanview Publishing

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

From the Diary of Wendy Kyle….

If you’re reading this, I’m already dead.

How’s that for an attention-grabbing opening line?

I know, I know...it’s a bit melodramatic. And I’m not normally the melodramatic type. Really. No, Wendy Kyle is the kind of woman who deals in facts for a living, the kind of woman who doesn’t let emotion cloud her judgment and - maybe most importantly of all - the kind of woman who never blindly puts her trust in anyone.

Especially a man.

Hey, I’m not some man-hating bitch or anything like that, no matter what you may have heard or think about me. I like men. I love men, or at least I’ve loved a few men in my life. It’s just that I don’t trust them anymore.

So wouldn’t it be ironic - or maybe a little bit fitting, to look at it completely objectively - if trusting a man this one time was what wound up costing me my own life in the end.

Here’s the bottom line for me: If I don’t succeed in what I’m about to do in the Ronald Bannister case, well...then it is important someone knows the truth about what happened to me.

And that it was the lies - all of the damn lies men have told - that were the death of me.

----- The contents of this document were among evidence

seized by homicide detectives from the office of

Wendy Kyle Heartbreaker Investigations

218 West 42nd Street

New York City

This entry is listed as: POLICE EXHIBIT A

Opening Credits

THE RULES, ACCORDING TO CLARE

Nora O’Donnell is 50 years old. Samantha Guthrie 51. Hoda Kotb 58, Robin Roberts 62 and Gayle King 68.

The point I’m trying to make here is that TV newscasters - specifically women TV newscasters - don’t have to be cute, perky young talking heads to succeed in the media world where I work.

We’ve come a long way since the days when a respected newswoman like Jane Pauley was replaced by the younger Deborah Norville on the Today show because some network executive (a middle-aged man, of course!) decided Pauley was getting too old to appeal to a television audience.

Or when an anchorwoman named Christine Craft lost her job at a station in Kansas City after a focus group determined she was “too old, too unattractive and not deferential to men.” She was 37.

Well, 50 is the new 40 now.

Or maybe even the new 30.

And let’s get something straight right up front here. I’m not one of those women who normally gets stressed out over every birthday that passes by or every wrinkle on my face or every gray hair or two I spot in the mirror. That is not me. No way. I’m not hung up about age at all.

But I am about to turn 50 this year.

The big 5-0.

The half-century mark.

And the truth is I’m having a bit of trouble dealing with that…

My name is Clare Carlson, and I’m the news director of Channel 10 News in New York City. I’m also an on-air reporter for our Channel 10 news show, and I’ve broken some pretty big exclusives in recent years that have gotten me a lot of attention and made me kind of a media star.

But this whole business of turning 50 still seems odd to me.

When I was in my 20s, I was a star reporter at a newspaper and won a Pulitzer Prize. In my 30s, after the newspaper went out of business, I switched to TV news at Channel 10. And in my 40s, I’ve been juggling two jobs: TV executive as the station’s news director and also as an on-air personality breaking big stories.

Turning 30 and then 40 never really seemed like that big a deal for me. It was more fun than tragic. Look at me: I’m 40! But 50? I’m not so sure about that one. 50 is something completely different, at least the way I see it at the moment. I’m not sure where I go with my life after 50.

It couldn’t be happening at a worse time for me either.

Channel 10, the TV station where I work, is being sold to a new owner - and this has left everyone in our newsroom worried about what might happen next. My latest boss and I don’t get along, and I’m afraid she might be looking for a reason to fire me. My personal life situation is even worse. I’ve been married three times (all of them ending in divorce), and right now I’m not in any kind of a relationship. I have a daughter, but she didn’t even know I was her mother for the first 25 years or so of her life - so we don’t exactly have a traditional mother/daughter relationship.

The only constant in my life - the one thing that I always turn to for comfort when my life is in turmoil - is the news.

This newsroom at Channel 10 where I work is my true home.

My sanctuary.

And so each day I wrap it - along with all the people in it and the stories we cover - around me like a security blanket to protect myself from everything else that is going on around me.

All I needed now was a big story to chase.

The bigger the better.

That’s what I was looking for right now.

But as the old saying goes: Be careful what you wish for – because you just might get it.

And that’s what happened to me with the Wendy Kyle murder…

 

Part I

THE HONEY TRAP

CHAPTER 1

Susan Endicott, the executive producer of Channel 10 News, walked into my office and sat down on a chair in front of my desk.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Talking to you.”

“I mean about tonight’s newscast.”

“Oh, that.”

“Don’t be impertinent with me, Carlson.”

What I was actually doing at the moment was putting together one of those old David Letterman style Top 10 lists. I like to do that sometimes. My topic today was: TOP 10 THINGS AN ASPIRING WOMAN TV NEWSCASTER SHOULD NOT SAY DURING A JOB INTERVIEW. My list went like this.

10. What’s that red light on the camera for?
9. Yes, Mr. Lauer, I’d love to be your intern.
8. I sweat a lot on air.
7. I can name all the Presidents back to Obama.
6. If it helps, I’m willing to get pregnant as a cheap on-air ratings ploy.
5. Katie Couric? Who’s Katie Couric?
4. No makeup, please. I want to let my real beauty shine through.
3. My IQ is almost in three numbers.
2. Can I watch TikTok video during commercial breaks?
And the Number One thing an aspiring woman TV newscaster should not say during a job interview…
1. I have a personal recommendation from Harvey Weinstein!

I wondered if I should ask Susan Endicott if she had any suggestions for my Top 10 list. Probably not. She might call me impertinent again.

“Do you have a lead story yet for the 6 p.m. show?” she asked now.

“Well, yes and no.”

“What does that mean?”

“The lead story is about a controller’s audit raising new questions about the viability of the city’s budget goals.”

“That’s not a lead story for us.”

“Hence, my yes and no reply to your question.”

“Do you have a plan for getting us a good story?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Hope some big news happens before we go on the air at 6.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Uh, huh. The news gods will give us something before deadline. They always do.”

“The news gods?”

“You have to always believe in the news gods, Endicott.”

Looking out the window of my office, I could see people walking through the midtown streets of Manhattan below on a beautiful spring day. Many of them were coatless or in short sleeves. Spring was finally here in New York City after what seemed like an endless winter of snow and cold and bundling up every time you went out. But now it was spring. Yep, spring - time for hope and new beginnings. The sun shining brightly. Flowers blooming. Birds chirping. All that good stuff.

In a few weeks New Yorkers would start streaming out of the city on their way to Long Island or the Jersey Shore or maybe Cape Cod. I thought about how nice it would be to be in a place like that right now. Or maybe on a boat sailing up the New England coast. Anywhere but sitting here at Channel 10 News with this woman. Except I knew that even if I did that, I’d probably wind up sooner or later sitting in another newsroom wherever I went talking about lead stories with some other person like Susan Endicott.

Endicott and I had been at war ever since she came to Channel 10. That was after the firing – or, if you prefer, the forced resignation – of Jack Faron, the previous executive producer who had first hired me as a TV journalist from my newspaper career and had been my boss for most of my time here.

Jack was a top-notch journalist, a good friend and a truly decent human being. Susan Endicott was none of those things. She was an ambitious career climber who had stepped over a lot of people in her efforts to score big ratings at the stations where she worked before. That’s what had landed her the Channel 10 job here in New York, and she was determined to keep her star rising no matter what it took for her to do that. She had no friends that I was aware of, no hobbies or interests, no outside life of any kind. She was completely focused on the job and on her career advancement.

For whatever its worth, I didn’t like the way she looked either. She wasn’t fat or skinny, she wasn’t pretty or unattractive, she was just…well, plain. Like she didn’t care about her appearance. She wore drab clothes, hardy any jewelry, no makeup that I could see. It was like her appearance simply didn’t matter to her.

Oh, and she wore her glasses pushed back on top of her head when she wasn’t using them. I disliked people who did that. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s the way I feel. It was the perfect final trait of Susan Endicott though. I detested everything about her. And, as you can see, she wasn’t too fond of me either.

There were two things that had prevented her from getting rid of me so far.

I’ve broken some exclusive stories that got us big ratings. She did like the fact that I was an on-air media star, even if she didn’t like me. So all I had to do was keep finding exclusives.

Also, the owner of Channel 10, media mogul Brendan Kaiser, had backed me in any showdown with Endicott since she arrived here. Always good having the big boss on your side when you’re at odds with your immediate boss. But Kaiser was in the process of selling the station. We weren’t sure yet who the new owner would be. Maybe it would be some great journalist or wonderful human being that would care about more than profits. But people like that don’t generally buy big media properties like a TV station. So I was prepared for the worst once the new owner was in place.

That meant I needed to keep on breaking big stories.

And I hadn’t done that in a while.

I needed to find a big story in a damn hurry.

“You better come up with a good lead before we go on the air at 6 tonight,” Endicott said as she stood up and said over her shoulder as she started to leave my office.

“Or?” I asked.

“Or what?”

“That sort of sounds like you were giving me an ultimatum. As in ‘or you’re suspended. Or you’re fired. Or your cafeteria privileges are suspended. Or you need to get a permission slip to go to the bathroom. Or…”

Endicott turned around.

She glared at me.

Then she pushed her eyeglasses – which she’d been wearing – back on top of her head again.

A nice touch.

Perfect for the moment.

“Keep digging that hole for yourself, Carlson,” she said to me. “It will make it so much easier when the time comes to get rid of you.”

“You have a nice day too,” I said.

As things turned out, it didn’t take very long to find a news lead for the show.

After Endicott left, Maggie Lang – the assignment editor and my top assistant – burst in to tell me we had a big murder that had just happened.

“Someone blew up a woman’s car!” she said excitedly. “On a busy street in Times Square. The victim’s name is Wendy Kyle, and she’s a former New York City cop and a controversial private investigator who’s been involved in a lot of high-profile divorce cases recently. Involving rich people, important people and catching them in sex scandals. Sounds like someone was out for revenge against her. Sex, money, power. This story has everything, Clare!”

Yep, the news gods had saved us again.

***

Excerpt from BROADCAST BLUES by R.G. Belsky. Copyright 2023 by R.G. Belsky. Reproduced with permission from R.G. Belsky. All rights reserved.

 

R.G. Belsky is an award-winning author of crime fiction and a journalist in New York City. His newest mystery, BROADCAST BLUES, was published on January 2 by Oceanview. It is the sixth in a series featuring Clare Carlson, the news director for a New York City TV station. 

The first book, Yesterday’s News, was named Best Mystery of 2018 at Deadly Ink. The second, Below the Fold, won the Foreward INDIES award for Best Mystery of 2019. Belsky has published 20 novels—all set in the New York city media world where he has had a long career as a top editor at the New York Post, New York Daily News, Star magazine and NBC News. 

He also writes thrillers under the name Dana Perry. And he is a contributing writer for The Big Thrill magazine and BookTrib.

Catch Up With RG Belsky:
www.rgbelsky.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @dickbelsky
Instagram - @dickbelsky
Twitter/X - @DickBel
Facebook - @RGBelsky

My Thoughts

Warning: This book has sexual and murderer references

Broadcast News by R.G.Belsky is the 6th book featuring Clare Carlson. Clare is a TV broadcaster in New York City who will have a milestone of a birthday, the big 50. She is the news director for New York Channel 10 and hopes for lead story regarding Wendy's 

Wendy is a former NYPD officer who has made many enemies. She was let go because of some s*xual abuse and decided to become a private investigator. Wendy is not who she would have people believe. People that will do away with her without batting an eye.

Wendy in her PI business, where she explores men who cheat on their wives, significant others so it is quite possible that someone she exposed could be the murderer. 

Hoping to get a big story so she can prove to herself that she a good reporter. Clare does not like her boss but they eventually agree to disagree so Clare can find the murderer. The further she gets her investigation the more attention is paid to her, and she could be in trouble with her life.

Clare is also trying to get to know her daughter who she recently connected with after a long estrangement. So, getting to know her daughter, dealing with her upcoming birthday and trying to find the out who was behind the car bomb. She is concerned with the possible sale of the news station.

Exposing of corruption in the New York City police department, and all the other secrets that Clare hopes to expose. A myriad of characters that enhances the storyline. The author tells a great mystery that will keep the reader engrossed in the the story.

 I have only read one other book by this author and I am enjoying the series. Definitely a book that will have you reading the other five in the series, Broadcast News certainly be read as a standalone novel. I received a copy of the book for review with Partners in Crime Tours and was not monetarily compensated.

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