Some tales don’t want to be told ➱ The Poison Dart a Debbie Bradley Crime Mysteries by Geri Dreiling Book Tour with Rafflecopter
Some tales don’t want to be told. They’re shrouded in the dark and cloaked in danger. Sensible people leave those mysteries well enough alone. But not Debbie Bradley. After all, that’s how she makes her living.
The Poison Dart
Debbie Bradley Crime Mysteries Book 2
by Geri Dreiling
Genre: Mystery, Thriller
An overdose. A drug bust. A captive of the cartel. When fates collide, who will survive?
The
ripple effects of an overdose send shock waves through a community.
A
sweeping drug bust upends lives, exposing the cartel's deep reach
into the Midwest.
A quest for a better life threatens to destroy
a family.
As Debbie Bradley digs deeper into each story,
startling connections emerge. When fates collide, who will survive?
What readers are saying:
“The narrative contains the right blend of mystery, crime scenes and action. It is one of those books that keeps one glued until the very end.“
“Dreiling relies more on intelligent conversations, on the proper and strategic use of lies, and on wordplay“
“Grab or download a copy, curl up with a blanket on the couch, and enjoy this good read and solid, accurate, crime story with interesting twists and turns.“
“With a talent for plot creation, patiently unwinding the threads of all angles, and never lacking for excitement, Dreiling is an author you will want to read time and time again.“
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Crime Beat Girl
Debbie Bradley Crime Mysteries Book 1
A girl is dead. A boy is locked up.
Can Debbie Bradley discover the truth before more lives are
lost…maybe even her own?
A series of deadly shootings.
An outbreak of stolen cars. When journalist Debbie Bradley returns
home to St. Louis, the summer crime wave has started. And she’s in
the center: A witness, a reporter, a target.
Debbie’s
reasons for leaving behind her promising career in Washington D.C.
were complicated. Her mother, a prominent lawyer, was diagnosed with
cancer. Her engagement was cooling. When she got offered a job in St.
Louis that she hadn’t been looking for, Debbie recognized an
opportunity. Or an escape.
But she didn’t expect to come
home and see a girl die. Debbie never planned to investigate a boy
behind bars. And she didn’t anticipate colliding with hostile cops
and wary politicians.
As her work gains attention, Debbie
gathers enemies. Will her assignment to cover the St. Louis crime
beat be her last?
What readers are saying:
“Intense crime story full of unexpected twists and turns” — Readers’ Favorite, 5-Star Review
“Gripping
crime story…with deep themes and highlighting very real problems” —
Readers’ Favorite, 5-Star Review
“A
page-turner, engaging the reader from the first page to the last” —
Readers’ Favorite, 5-Star Review
The Poison Dart
By Geri L. Dreiling
Chapter 1 – Reunion Excerpt
Just seeing the lighter made Caleb’s body
tingle. He’d been dreaming of this moment for sixty days. Even when he was
sitting in group, claiming he was done, he knew it wasn’t true. He’d say
whatever he had to just to get out. There were times that, yes, when his
parents came, he felt bad. His mom would cry. His dad would remain the aloof
motherfucker he always was. But his mom. That was different. Sometimes he
thought he should change for her. But his mom was just no match for heroin.
Caleb
put the brown powder in the spoon from his kit. He opened the vial of distilled
water. If you were going to get high, you might as well do it with style. Caleb
gently moved the flame under the heroin. Slowly, evenly, he applied the heat’s
gentle kisses to the drug, melting it with his slow caress.
Caleb
pulled out a syringe. He put the needle in, pulled the plunger up, then flicked
the side of the syringe to force the air bubbles up. Caleb removed the rubber
tube tied around his upper arm and pushed the needle into his arm. Since he
hadn’t shot up for two months, the purple vein in his arm had ample time to
heal.
Liquid
peace, Caleb thought as his body welcomed its old friend.
Caleb
slumped back on the couch, briefly taking in Macie as she stood on his balcony.
Her back was to them, but he could tell she was jittery by how she rubbed her
hands against her thighs.
“Good
ol’ Mace,” Caleb mumbled. His head, too heavy for his neck, lolled back onto
the couch.
Alex
picked up the spoon, ready to repeat the process with his stash. His attention
focused on prepping his dose. It wasn’t until he’d shot up that he
looked over at his motionless friend.
“Hey,
Macie,” Alex called out, “Caleb’s noddin’.”
Macie
turned around and walked back into the living room. Just in case.
She
noticed Caleb’s lips turning blue. His head was back, gurgling noises coming from his
throat.
Macie
pushed Caleb’s shoulder. “Caleb,” she said firmly. “Cut it out. This isn’t funny.”
Caleb
didn’t move.
Macie
pushed harder. “Caleb!”
She
opened his eyelids. His pupils were no bigger than the needle mark left in his
arm.
“Shit!”
Macie said. “Alex, I think Caleb OD’d.”
Alex,
his voice slurring, said, “Well, that’s why we got the Narcan.”
Macie
grabbed her purse and rummaged through it. She took out the package of nasal
spray and tore it open. She took the cap off and shoved the nozzle up his nose
until her fingers touched the bottom of Caleb’s right nostril.
“You
gotta really push that plunger,” Alex mumbled.
Macie
pushed hard. The foil seal broke with the pressure. The full dose emptied into
his nose. Macie held her breath. It should just be a couple of moments, and
Caleb would pop out of his coma.
Caleb
didn’t move.
Macie
shook Caleb’s shoulders. “Caleb!”
She
grabbed the empty Narcan spray and put it up his left nostril, trying to get
more out of the already-spent antidote.
“You
got another one?” Alex mumbled. “Sometimes it takes more than one.”
“I’ve
only got the one,” Macie said. “Call an ambulance!”
“Man,
we can’t be here,” Alex slurred.
“I’m
not leaving!” Macie said.
A
retired police officer still called captain by everyone who knew him, Cap’n Jack
looked more like an aging rock star than a cop. Wavy, shoulder-length silver
hair, a grizzled beard, and a relaxed way of speaking marked him as a
storyteller, not a police officer. He’d been a rookie during the St. Louis mob
wars of the 1980s. His nephew, Detective Daniel Flannery, had suggested Debbie
talk to the man who’d become something of an amateur crime historian and local
raconteur in his retirement.
The
recommendation had been hard won. Detective Flannery hadn’t been
Debbie’s biggest fan when they first met. It had taken time, one brush with
death, and what Debbie suspected was the detective’s crush on her clueless
mother to turn him into an ally, albeit a reluctant one.
The
twenty-eight-year-old host leaned toward the microphone. “Welcome
to Crime Beat, a River City podcast. This
week, we’re looking back at St. Louis and the mafia war in the nineteen
eighties. My guest is retired St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department Captain
Jack Flannery. Welcome, Cap’n Jack.”
“Mornin’,
Debbie. Thanks for having me,” he replied.
“So
let’s start with the mayhem that broke out after Anthony Giordano—Tony G.—died
of cancer,” Debbie said.
“Sure,”
Jack replied, his husky voice carrying the mark of the Camels he once, but no
longer, smoked. “What you’ve gotta remember, back in the seventies and early
eighties, St. Louis was controlled by three organized crime families. One was
headed by the mafia, another by a Syrian-Lebanese syndicate with roots in St.
Louis, and the third crime family was out of Illinois with ties to Chicago. All
three groups were embedded into several of the unions here in town. To keep the
peace, the three cooperated, but Tony G. was at the top of ’em all. In late
August of nineteen eighty, everything falls apart after Tony G. up and dies. I
mean, it wasn’t too long before all hell broke loose.”
“Why
was that?” Debbie probed.
“You
see, everyone thought that Horseshoe Jimmy…”
“You’re
referring to James A. Michaels Senior, right?” Debbie interjected.
“Yep,
by nineteen eighty, he was a dapper granddad, thick white hair and a cleft
chin, who had spent his life as part of the Syrian-Lebanese syndicate. He’d
gotten his start in organized crime as part of the Cuckoos, a south side gang
from the times of Prohibition. By twenty-five, he was already in prison after
holding up a railroad office in East Saint Louis. And there’s a great photo of
him from nineteen fifty-nine just before he tried to slug a photographer.”
“I know
the one you’re talking about,” Debbie said. “It appears in the story I wrote
for this month’s issue about the mob war. That picture was taken at police
headquarters after he was nabbed in a liquor raid.”
Chapter Three – Ghosts
The
truck stop had seen better days. Just off Interstate 44, the low red-brick
building looked more like a bomb shelter than a place of business. The unleaded
gas pumps for the non-trucker folks were sheltered by an awning the color of
putty. The fact that it kept the rain and snow off highway travelers was the
only luxury customers would encounter. But the big rigs and the diesel pumps
didn’t merit shielding from storms.
The
number of people pulling in to fill up had taken a dive over the past several
years. The fading establishment couldn’t compete with the modern travel plaza
on the other side of the highway. The newer place had hot showers, arcades, and
clean bathrooms with an initialed sheet on the door noting the last time the
washroom was tidied up. Parents driving minivans outfitted with DVD players
that could play Frozen preferred the selection of junk food at the big
chain travel stop. For the college kids bound for the Missouri University of
Science and Technology in Rolla, the travel plaza was bright and well-lit, even
on the darkest night.
By
comparison, the lonely truck stop from a bygone era was gloomy, even on the
brightest day. The patrons were little more than ghosts, customers who
materialized briefly and vanished into the rural countryside or were swallowed
whole by the nearby interstate.
But
for Tom, the bleak vibe was a perk, not a drawback. And he was looking forward
to his first break since leaving Wichita Falls, Texas, seven hours earlier. His
truck had rumbled through Oklahoma City, Tulsa, and Joplin before finally
reaching Lebanon. It was his first haul since the New Year’s holiday, which
he’d spent home with the missus. It’d been nice to get back on the road after
being cooped up in the house. But it was always the same thing; once he was
driving, he couldn’t wait to hunker back down in his castle, even if it was a
bit shabby on account of the fact that he never got around to working on that
fixer-up list that his wife had in her head.
Tom
turned off the engine and grabbed the faded blue-and-white flannel jacket
crumpled on the empty passenger seat. He pulled it on and patted the right-side
pocket to check for his wallet. Despite the cold outside, he left the front of
his coat open. It was too much trouble to suck in his belly to pull the zipper
up. The trucker braced himself before opening the door and tugged at the John
Deere cap covering his silver hair to ensure it wouldn’t blow off. After the
warm cocoon of the cabin, the outside air would be like the slap of a jealous
lover.
He
smiled. He was too old to remember what it was like to have a jealous lover.
Once upon a time, he’d tried having a route mistress and a home wife. Once. The
missus had caught on purty quick. You could call her lots of things, but fool
wasn’t one of ’em. She’d laid down the law. He could only have one woman. He
had to choose, she said. He chose her. He hadn’t stepped out since. No siree.
You only crossed the missus once.
Tom
eased himself down from his perch and walked toward the entrance, still
stiff-legged from his journey, his gray-stubbled face bent down to ward off the
wind. He opened the door and entered the shop.
“Howdy,”
the truck stop clerk mumbled as she looked away from the fuzzy screen of a tiny
television nestled in the corner of the counter. Her gaze was just long enough
to give her customer the once-over. She ran her chapped, ruddy hands through
the home-dyed brownish-red hair that framed her lined face. The only trace left
of her youthful good looks was her blue eyes.
“Evenin’,”
he said, his chin dipping slightly to tip the bill of his cap.
The
clerk shoved her hands into the front pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. She
hunched her shoulders against the chill the driver brought in with him, then
turned her attention back to the game show she’d been watching.
The
trucker made his way to the cooler in the back of the store, ignoring a shelf
stuffed with packages of white laces for customers whose shoes didn’t need
tying. Nope, the people who bought these laces were looking for something to
wrap around an arm to get a better vein before shooting up. The driver reached
into the refrigerated compartment and grabbed a Mountain Dew. It’d get him
through the last four hours of his trip to St. Louis to drop off furniture at a
big chain’s warehouse.
He
grabbed a Slim Jim from an aisle display and set his purchases on the counter
next to the cash register. Nearby, roses in glass tubes sat on a cardboard
display. The perfect gift for the crack addict; remove the rose, and the glass
becomes a pipe.
“Why
don’t you also give me a Mega Million?” Tom said to the clerk. “How’s it
goin’?”
The
cashier’s eyes shifted away from the television to the black-and-white monitors
that received information from the surveillance cameras around the building’s
exterior. The only vehicle seen was the semi that belonged to her sole
customer.
“Been
quiet,” she said as she rang up his purchase. “That’ll be four dollars
fifty-three cents.”
The
driver reached for his wallet, pulled out a fifty, and handed it to the clerk.
She
punched a few keys into the register, and the drawer opened with a clang. She
fished out his change. “Here you go,” she said as she handed him the coins,
holding back the wad of bills that made up the difference between the fifty and
his purchase. That stack she stuffed into the front pocket of her sweatshirt.
Chapter 8 –
Past or Present
Macie
opened her eyes. Her bedroom was dark and empty. The smartwatch alarm on her
wrist was vibrating. She tapped it and waited for the tears to flow again, only
none came. But her grief was still there, trapping her in a dark, deep well of
sadness. She was a bleak soul suspended in a black abyss.
She
felt isolated and alone—even if she wasn’t.
Macie
lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Suddenly and reflexively, she threw off
the comforter and rushed to the toilet. She clutched the seat with one hand and
held her hair back with another just before the retching began.
“Oh,
Mace. Shhh. They’re going to hear you,” Macie heard Caleb say, even though it
was a memory from long ago when they were twelve. He’d held her hair back as
she threw up in the basement bathroom of her childhood home.
That
time, long ago, it was the day after her parents’ annual pre-Christmas bash
thrown for friends and her father’s clients. The party was always a swanky,
catered affair with plenty of booze, tiny hors d’oeuvres on silver trays, and a
dining room table covered with stainless steel chafers. At the end of the
gathering, Macie’s mother instructed the caterers to store the leftover food in
the basement refrigerator. “I don’t want it smelling up our kitchen fridge,”
she explained before rushing to kiss the last guest goodbye. In addition to the
food, the catering staff bussed the remaining wine bottles to the basement, as
well as the opened and half-consumed bottles of vodka, rum, scotch, and
whiskey.
Ordinarily,
Macie’s parents kept track of the alcohol in their home. They were dedicated to
ensuring nothing got in the way of her destiny as their perfect daughter. But
parties were the exception. Her parents were more concerned with impressing
their friends and cementing the loyalty of their clients than policing Macie.
The
day after, her parents remained in their darkened bedroom nursing hangovers
even if Macie’s mom insisted, “We’re just tired from last night.” Macie’s
parents expected her to keep quiet and stay out of sight. The only problem was
that there was nothing to do. A restless Macie irritated her mother. It was
that irritation that Macie leveraged in her lobbying effort to have Connor and
Caleb over to the house.
“I
promise we’ll play video games in the basement. We’ll keep the door shut.
There’s food from last night we can eat if we’re hungry. We won’t make a mess.
There are lots of paper plates. Mrs. Webb will drop them off and pick them up,
so you don’t have to do a thing. You won’t hear a peep,” Macie had promised.
Relieved at the prospect of having her daughter entertained and too weak to
argue because of her headache, her mother simply mumbled from her darkened
bedroom, “Fine.”
But
as any enterprising twelve-year-old will tell you, it is possible to keep a
promise and still break the rules.
Chapter 15 – Pleas and Plots Excerpt
The burgundy scarf made it easier to
track the reporter. In some ways, it reminded J.R. of a bullfighter’s cape.
When he was a small boy, he dreamed of being a matador. He imagined wearing the
traje de luces, the suit of lights. It would be the color of Rioja wine,
embellished with gold thread. Gold-fringed pads would double the size of his
slender shoulders. Silk stockings would show off his bulging calf muscles.
Spectators in the stands would adore him. And the bull, proud and noble, would
put up a fight worthy of the fierce beast. Yet, he alone would emerge
victorious from the ring. “He killed it well,” the people in the stands would
proclaim.
But
those were the fantasies of a boy. As a man, J.R. no longer believed
bullfighters were heroes. He’d come to see it as a bloody sport rewarded with
applause. And the more he was forced to live in a brutal world, the more he
realized how often people confused cruelty for bravery. The truly courageous
man was the one who clung to kindness in the face of savagery.
J.R.
finally understood a simple truth: He was the bull, not the fighter, forced to
battle for his life in an arena he would never leave alive.
He’d
followed the journalist for several hours that morning, arriving at the house
before the first lights came on. Parked a half-block down the street, his car
backed into a diagonal space next to the park. He saw her as soon as she
stepped out of the house. She bounded down the steps, oblivious to the
possibility of black ice, a cup of coffee in one hand. She was wearing the same
face he’d spied the night before, the one he guessed she only displayed when
she assumed no one was looking, part sadness, part longing. Yearning for
someone or something just out of reach. J.R. recognized that face because he’d
seen that same look reflected back at him when he looked in the mirror.
Crime
Beat Girl
Geri L.
Dreiling
Excerpt
Debbie noticed that her phone had gone
quiet. Either she was going in the right direction or her app had crashed.
Again. She took one hand off the steering wheel and adjusted her glasses as she
peered at the small screen. She put the phone back down and tucked a strand of
her thick, wavy hair the color of a roasted chestnut shell back into her tight
ponytail. Maybe it's time to turn back,
she thought. But a retreat wouldn't get her to the Teen Alliance interview.
She needed to focus on the assignment. It
was easy enough--interviewing the executive director of a nonprofit. Teen
Alliance was an organization trying to give kids from families with little
means healthy ways to spend their free time. It would be a puff piece, and
although light, fluffy, positive stories weren't really her strength, Sam
thought it would be a way for Debbie to get into the groove of magazine
reporting, as well as help her grow her contact list of local movers and
shakers.
The repeated blare of a car horn shook
Debbie out of her reverie.
She turned her head toward the sound that
pierced the eerie quiet. It was coming from a blue, rust-pocked pickup truck
driven by a silver-haired man. The truck was headed toward her, traveling in
its lane, and yet the driver was pointing at Debbie and then pointing at his
rearview mirror.
Instinctively, Debbie looked into her own
rearview. That's when she spotted a red Audi convertible weaving wildly in and
out of her lane--and the truck's lane--and was not slowing down.
Debbie lurched her steering wheel abruptly
to the right. The oncoming truck veered in the opposite direction, leaving as
much room as possible for the erratic luxury car barreling down the roadway and
any driver unfortunate enough to be sharing the space.
The out-of-control Audi swerved toward the
truck, then sharply careened the opposite way, its front aimed at Debbie's car.
Debbie's heart lurched into her throat. The Audi's tires squealed. The nose of
the Audi turned sharply once again and clipped the back end of the truck before
jumping the curb.
Screams rang out. A crowd of teens who had
been gathered outside a tiny market--the sort that sells junk food, liquor, and
lottery tickets in places where chain grocery stores refuse to operate--was in
the path of the Audi that was no longer being guided by its driver.
Those on the edges of the group scattered
like birds after the loud boom of a gunshot, darting out of the car's path.
Those who were in the center, the unlucky ones, flew into the air when the car
connected with human flesh.
Debbie slammed on her brakes, threw her car
into park, and grabbed her phone to dial 911.
The Audi finally came to a stop after the
front end and hood smashed through the display window of the market. Customers
still clutching red plastic baskets and a worker wearing a green apron stumbled
out the front door, dazed and confused.
Debbie jumped out of her car. There were
people broken and bleeding on the ground. Some wailed. One teen who had been
tossed in the air and then left crumpled in a heap on the earth looked at
Debbie with a vacant gaze, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.
As Debbie ran toward the Audi, rage filled
her chest.
She flung open the car's door with all the
strength that anger fuels. The driver, slumped over a deployed airbag, moaned.
His feet barely reached the pedals, and his tear-streaked cheeks were round
with the baby fat he hadn't lost.
He was just a child.
Geri L. Dreiling is the author of Crime Beat Girl, the debut novel in the Debbie Bradley Mystery series, which received seven book awards. She is also the author of Erasing the Past. Dreiling is an award-winning journalist as well as professor and lawyer. She lives in St. Louis.
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This looks perfect. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteI like the title and cover. Sounds like an interesting story.
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