New Release – TRESPASS
Today my blog is the first ten
pages of my newly released suspense novel, Trespass, next in the Private Investigator TJ
Peacock & therapist Lisa Rayburn series, available now on Amazon.com.
Here is a
brief synopsis. I hope you’ll find the story intriguing.
A
deadly house explosion nearby lures investigator TJ Peacock to the site of the
fire where she meets Gemma, a woman tortured by the death of a friend who died
in the explosion.
Gemma,
struggling with the ghosts of her past, is convinced the explosion was
deliberate, and hires TJ to find out who murdered her friend. TJ takes the case
and returns to the work she loves, despite feeling guilty about the
responsibilities of motherhood and the attitude of her long-time lover,
Detective Richard Conlin.
When
a series of attacks and a murder take place in the same neighborhood, TJ
unearths a bizarre connection to a sixteen-year-old double suicide of a couple
who were partnered in a swingers’ group. A killer is trying to eliminate
everyone who had been players in the group.
Prologue
Wauwatosa, Wisconsin
11:33 p.m.
Escaping the confines of its closed
system, a heavy gas diffused into every corner of Norman Teschler’s basement
and slowly began to permeate the upper floor. Natural gas, odorless in its
original form, contains the additive mercaptan, which lends it a repugnant odor
for early leak detection.
Norman
returned from a run, proud of the distance he could still cover after turning
seventy. Night running was something he didn’t do often these days, but tonight
his head had felt foggy. Unable to focus on his writing, he had taken off into
the night for a run along the parkway to clear his head.
Invigorated
by the exercise, he stepped out of a hot shower, pulled on a pair of sweats,
and headed to the kitchen for a quick snack before getting back to the new
chapter. The refrigerator held nothing of great appeal. Since losing his sense
of smell, eating didn’t have the same enjoyment it once had. Strange how
important the scent of the food was to hunger, a fact he had never given any
thought to when he could still be tempted by the mouthwatering odors of things
like popcorn, pizza, or a steak on the grill. Most of the foods he ate tasted
bland these days. He grabbed a bag
of extra spicy Cheetos and an iced tea, and then returned to his writing.
Three
pages into the new chapter, Norman could hardly keep his eyes open; the gas had
soundlessly seeped into his study, its sulfurous warning odor useless to
Norman’s impaired olfactory sense. He thought his body was sending him a
message, telling him it was time to call it a day. He’d had a busy week at the
agency and reasoned that his late nights spent writing had taken their toll. He
turned off the computer. Tomorrow he would get an early start.
The humidor on his
desk, a rare antique of carved oak, held his favorite cigars, Cuban
Montecristos. He raised the lid, withdrew one, and then took a seat in his
well-aged leather recliner where he picked up a book he had been reading. The
smoke had become an end-of-day ritual, one he savored since giving up
cigarettes. Enjoying a cigar every night kept him cigarette-free. He reached
for his lighter. Norman pushed the recliner back to elevate his feet and
realized he barely had the energy for the movement. The chair clicked back into
its upright position as he leaned forward. It
was never a good idea to smoke in a position so conducive to sleep. Feeling
like he had done the safe thing, Norman flicked the lighter.
The gas ignited,
instantly destroying the house and all its contents. Giant clouds of brilliant
orange edged in tongues of white-hot flame leapt toward the sky.
1
Famous or not,
Mancusi was an asshole. TJ Peacock knew it was too late to back out of the gig;
she had already been well paid to protect him for three days. But if the slimy
bastard didn’t quit eyeballing her breasts, she would pop him. Arlie Mancusi,
everyone’s favorite comedian and star of a weekly sitcom that had been running
on a prime TV network for nearly ten years, wasn’t making her laugh.
Mancusi
had pumped up his personal security while he was in Milwaukee because he had a
stalker. TJ studied the photo of the stalker, Carolyn Alberty, an attractive
woman who obviously had shitty taste in men. Alberty had recently been
acquitted of a stalking charge despite the evidence against her. TJ figured the
whole thing could be a publicity stunt. If you’re a big name, any publicity is
good publicity.
Mancusi
had arrived in town for a sitcom he was guest starring in that featured a
Milwaukee locale. TJ, a local PI, had been added to the entertainer’s in-house
security staff during Mancusi’s stay. The group was gathered in his suite,
discussing the best way to protect him. The head security guy dismissed her.
“We’ll stay with Arlie. You scope out the hotel and let me know if you see the
bitch hanging around.”
As
a licensed private investigator, TJ hadn’t expected to be a token on the
coattails of Mancusi’s herd of security beef, but the money was good. There
wasn’t much she could do for him as a member of the herd, and the fact that she
was the only one designated to lobby patrol reinforced her suspicion that the
whole stalker thing was a stunt.
“I’ll
get right on it, sport,” she replied.
She
moved to the elevators, pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her that bounced in
her wake. Dressed like a tourist, she wore jeans, a tank top under a gauzy
white shirt tied at the waist, and a small shoulder bag that matched the
luggage. There was nowhere to hide her piece in the outfit she wore, not that
she would need one for this farce. She wheeled her bag into the gift shop and
bought a People magazine she carried
with her to a loveseat she found in the lobby where she could keep an eye on
the crowd.
She
hadn’t even gotten to the article on Jennifer Lopez she wanted to read when she
spotted her—Mancusi’s stalker—her dark hair in long, Lady Godiva curls and,
like TJ, pulling a small suitcase with a matching bag. She looked about five
feet nine in high, platform sandals and wore a slim, chocolate-brown dress that
reached her ankles. TJ left the sofa and caught up with Carolyn Alberty as she
was about to join the line in front of the registration desk. “Ms. Alberty,
step over here a minute. We need to talk.”
Alberty,
feigning annoyance, followed TJ to a spot off the lobby in front of a darkened
restaurant. Her eyes shifted nervously. “Who are you?”
“I
work for Mancusi. You’re in violation of a restraining order. Get arrested
again, you could do jail time.”
The
stalker studied TJ. “I can’t help it. I love him.”
TJ
scoffed. “Yeah? You know what I think? I think you’re full o’ crap.”
Alberty’s
perfectly made-up eyes widened. “You don’t have to protect him from me, I’d
never hurt him.”
TJ
looked her over. Her appearance seemed too showy for a stalker who should be
attempting to remain unnoticed. “Tell you what. I’m gonna do you a big favor. I
won’t call the cops, but you’re leavin’ town. Next flight out, your ass is back
to C-A. I’ll escort you personally and even wave good-bye as your plane lifts
off.”
Alberty
took a moment to review her options. “All right. But I have to make a call
first.” She pulled a cell phone from her purse.
TJ
snorted. “You’re a real piece o’ work. You wanna tip off the press an’ get your
face on the news tonight, right? Hand over the cell phone. Now.” TJ didn’t give
a rat’s ass if the stalker got her moment in the limelight and suspected Mancusi
wanted the press coverage. Tough. TJ had already been paid. After she and
Alberty arrived at the airport, TJ would give her the frickin’ phone. She just
didn’t want a welcoming committee waiting for them.
Pouting, Alberty jammed on
a pair of dark glasses and passed over her phone.
At home that
night, TJ relived the scene at the airport. She hated being in the spotlight,
unlike the stalker who had made the most of every second in front of the
cameras. She hated security work,
too, especially when the job felt as ridiculous as this one. Criminal
investigation is what she really wanted to do, but she’d given it up when she
became a mother. Supposedly temporarily.
Richard
Conlin was sleeping soundly in her bedroom. He and TJ had been together for
years; the only break in their relationship occurred when she had been on a
quest to prove to the Milwaukee police that too many missing women added up to
a predator on the loose. The investigation had put a strain on their
relationship, a strain that led to her becoming close to Jeff Denison, the
husband of one of the missing women. A killer who had made Jeff’s death look
like a suicide, murdered him before TJ had even known she was pregnant with
Jeff’s child. She would never know what might have happened if Jeff had lived,
whether or not their feelings for each other would have ended in a lasting
relationship.
She and Richard had gotten back together after Jeff was murdered, and
since the baby had come, Richard stayed with them nearly every night, although
he had yet to give up his own apartment. He adored one-year-old JR, Jeffrey
Richard, named after his biological father and Richard. Richard had insisted on
the sequence of the names.
TJ’s home and office were in an old two-story brick duplex off State
Street in Milwaukee’s Menomonee River Valley. It was a large building. Her
apartment on the second floor had three bedrooms, a kitchen, dining area and
living room, and the entire first floor she used as office space. The short
street the home sat on ended at a bluff crowned by a wealthy area of Wauwatosa,
its aged brick homes regal. TJ sold her condo in downtown Milwaukee after
finding out she was pregnant. A high-rise was not the place to raise a child.
So far, she was enjoying her new neighborhood.
A Milwaukee detective, Richard had come off a late shift that night and
stayed up with her only long enough to watch the ten-o’clock news. They were
starting to behave like an old married couple. He hinted around about marriage
every now and then, something TJ didn’t even want to think about yet. She loved
JR with a passion she never knew possible, but motherhood hadn’t doused her
love for investigatory work or her need for independence. Facts she had yet to
admit to Richard. Richard felt that TJ should stick to security work during
JR’s first few years.
An hour later, TJ gave up on the mundane offerings on TV and headed for
the liquor cabinet. A drink would put her to sleep.
The
blast hit just as she reached for a shot glass—a blast that felt like a bomb
had landed somewhere close by. Her ears popped and the house trembled. The
glasses inside the cabinet were still rattling as TJ ran out the front door to
see
the night sky above the bluff had turned a brilliant orange. She rushed back
inside and tried to wake Richard, who told her in a voice heavy with sleep that
they would find out about it in the morning. She should come to bed and get
some rest.
Sleep wouldn’t happen anytime soon, not with her heart racing from what
she’d seen outside. She checked on JR once more before downing a shot of
tequila and leaving the house on foot.
2
Gemma
I’m in that elusive state between drifting
off and actually being asleep. My horror mounts when, once again, unseen hands
clutch me in a deathlike grip. I’m aware of the room; I see it through a sepia
wash like an old photograph. I’m lying on my side, held tightly by an invisible
presence in my own bed. I feel him pressed tightly against my back, his raspy
breath scorching the nape of my neck.
I fight to waken, but I can’t move or make a
sound. I’m moaning, but no one can hear me.
Endless
seconds pass. I remain paralyzed. The visitor’s weight is pressing heavily
against me. I know he’s only a phantom, but his hands on my body feel all too
real. When the strength of my
frantic efforts to call out finally frees me of the paralysis, I sit up in bed,
gasping to regain control of my breathing.
The room hadn’t changed; everything is as it was. My books are lined up
on the shelves, the throw pillows on the bed are neatly stacked on a chair in
the corner, and my lovely blue Tiffany lamp sits by my bedside, its brilliant
shades of blue and teal gray in the soft light from the streetlamp outside the
window.
I
need to find a way to end these episodes. There have been too many nights when
I’ve awakened in terror, then lain awake in dreaded anticipation.
There
is a name for what happens to me. It’s called sleep paralysis and isn’t really
uncommon. It’s blamed on everything from demonology to pepperoni pizza eaten
before bedtime. I’ve never believed in demons and I seldom indulge in pizza or
other spicy foods, so why this is happening to me remains a mystery.
But I have to make
it stop.
Fear
of another episode left me pacing until I decided I had to do something—now.
Desperate, I opened my laptop to research therapists and discovered a multitude
of them in the area, some grouped together in clinics, some with stand-alone
practices. Most of them don’t list their area of specialization, and even if
they did, I didn’t think that sleep paralysis would be one of them. I should
have checked for a heading under “witch doctors” since sleep paralysis is
considered by many to be a paranormal event akin to seeing ghosts or conducting
séances.
There
were too many therapists to choose from; tomorrow I would call my doctor and
ask for a referral. Longing for some fresh non-AC-cooled air I poured myself a
glass of wine and walked out into the screened porch. The humid evening air
enveloped me like a warm cocoon. Through the trees in my backyard, I could watch
the parkway along the river. It was quiet now, after eleven. Even the runners
were home in bed.
The
wine slid down my throat, sedating me into sleepiness. I leaned back on the
rattan sofa and raised my feet onto the cushions, then curled myself into a
circle of warmth like a cat and dozed off.
I
was awakened by a sound so powerful that it shook the entire house. Alarmed, I
rose from the sofa to see the night sky muted with a brilliant light. Forgetting I was dressed in only my
sheer nightgown, I ran outside and circled to the front of the house where a
tower of flames like a giant bonfire had replaced the house across the street.
Every nerve in my body screamed out as I realized the house obliterated in the
explosion was that of my best friend—my employer, Norman Teschler.
I
walked like a zombie to the edge of the curb. I felt the intense heat of the
fire on my skin, and its acrid smell stung my nostrils. The bricks and debris
that littered my yard must have singed the soles of my feet with every step,
but I felt nothing. A crowd of neighbors was gathered at a cautious distance
from the blaze. I barely noticed them. I didn’t understand how it could have
happened—Norman had to be the most careful person I had ever met, anally fussy
about everything in and around his house and yard.
The
fire trucks arrived in minutes, the onlookers pushed back as the area of the
explosion and the next-door neighbors’ houses were roped off. Minutes later
when the police arrived, one of them made his way through the crowd, asking us
if we knew whether anyone had been in the house when it exploded. I heard a
neighbor say she thought Norman had been home. I edged farther back, not ready
to submit to their questions—it would be too painful. I kept seeing Norman as
he’d been the last time I visited his home, happily bragging about the book he
was working on and his plans for Cityscapes, the advertising agency he owned.
Despite
the heat, I suddenly became aware of the light nightgown I wore; it would be
nearly transparent in the blazing light of the fire. I must have been quite the
sight. I usually dressed to downplay a body that brought attention my way, yet
here I stood on display for the entire neighborhood.
A
woman who had been talking to the firemen approached me. Her eyes, a vivid
violet blue, twinkled in the golden haze. Dressed casually, she didn’t appear
to be with the police or the fire department. She said, “You okay?”
My
stupor must have been obvious. I nodded. Words wouldn’t form in my mouth.
“Stay
here,” she ordered. She pushed through the crowd to the paramedics’ van and
returned with a ratty but clean scrub top that I quickly pulled over my head.
My tongue loosened. “Thanks. Are you with the police?”
“Used to be. I live a few blocks over and came to see what happened, see
if I could help.” She frowned. “Maybe the paramedics should check you out.”
“I’m
fine.”
She
didn’t look convinced. “I’ll walk you back to your house. Here, put these on.”
She handed me a pair of booties, the kind doctors wear for surgery. I slipped
them over my scorched feet.
The woman appeared to be concerned about my well-being and I felt
strangely relieved I wasn’t alone. We left the scene, and she walked with me
back to the porch. I picked up my empty wineglass from the table next to the sofa
and turned to her. “I need more of this. Want one?”
“Got
any tequila?”
I
poured her tequila, neat, and we sat in a comfortable silence until I said, “My
name’s Gemma.”
She
raised her glass. “TJ.”
____________
Dear
readers,
I hope
you’ve enjoyed this sneak preview of my new book. If not, let me know why you
didn’t find it engaging so I will know what to do better the next time!
Thanks for
stopping by,
Marla
.jpg)
