Title: Dark Side of Sunset
Pointe – a Lance Underphal Mystery
Author Name: Michael Allan
Scott
Author Bio:
Born and raised at the edge of the high
desert in Kingman, Arizona, Michael Allan Scott resides in Scottsdale
with his wife, Cynthia and their hundred-pound Doberman, Otto. In
addition to writing mysteries and speculative fiction, his interests
include music, photography, art, scuba diving and auto racing. For
the latest, please visit http://michaelallanscott.com
Author Links - The link for any or all
of the following...
Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter |
Pinterest | Linkedin | Goodreads | Amazon
Website: http://michaelallanscott.com/
Dark Side of Sunset Pointe - book
trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YbGeaIs_Kuw
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/MAllanScott
Amazon Author Central:
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00AB4ETQ6
Book Genre: Mystery,
Thriller & Suspense
Publisher: Telemachus
Press
Release Date: 11/19/12
Buy Link(s):
Goodreads –
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16233621-dark-side-of-sunset-pointe---a-lance-underphal-mystery
Book Description:
A contemporary mystery/thriller—a
paranormal mystery, to be more precise. For mystery fans, it twists
and turns like a dragon kite in a high wind. Mystery connoisseurs,
beware. The Lance Underphal Mystery series will keep you guessing .
. .
Lance Underphal was devastated by his
wife’s death, and now, the down-and-out crime-scene photographer
can’t let her go. He wakes up plagued by premonitions. The double
shooting of an Arizona real estate developer and his
mistress/bookkeeper immerse Underphal in a world of incomprehensible
phenomena.
Frank Salmon, the homicide detective on
the case, does his best to blow off Underphal’s “visions.” But
the murders keep piling up and the visions are all too real.
Salmon pursues Underphal’s clues from
a popular strip club to a failing community bank, adding a
blackmailing stripper to the body count.
Underphal struggles mightily with his
psychic curse, teetering on the brink of insanity. His only hope for
redemption is the voice in his head, the voice of his dead wife.
Stumbling through dark vortexes of murderous intrigue, he comes to
realize his visions will either kill him or lead to the capture of a
killer—maybe more than one.
Excerpt:
Excerpt:
A blazing sun still high above
Phoenix's western horizon. One hundred nine degrees in the shade.
Those with the wherewithal and accumulated vacation time have fled
north to the cool pines or west to the balmy California coast weeks
ago. Only the dregs of humanity, conscripted company workers and
hardcore entrepreneurs are left to bake in the Valley of the Sun’s
August heat. Yet beneath the surface layer of superheated atmosphere
and social veneers there is another, more subliminal furnace
raging—its fumes stoking the fires of Hell.
Just off the intersection of Greenway
and Tatum a white stucco box of an office building squats under a
clay tile roof, heat rising off the reddish tiles in shimmering
sheets. Mounted on the wrought-iron entry gate, the building
directory announces the tenants: Suite 101 – Whiting Realty &
Development. The office is closed for the day yet the overburdened
air conditioning units grind away, sheltering the last remaining
occupant from the sweltering heat.
Bloodshot eyes stare at a spreadsheet,
the monitor’s image glares with the harsh reality. Too many
negative numbers expose an ugly truth. Anxiously perched on the edge
of his high-backed leather executive chair, Gary Whiting waits with
the phone to his ear. Dreading the final ring, Whiting lets it go to
voicemail, again. He needs to talk to his partner, Rodriguez. He
loosens the knot in his power tie and hangs up. This time, without
leaving a message.
The four Excedrin have knocked his
headache down to a dull throbbing at the base of his skull, but his
eyes still ache. He’s been crunching numbers for their Sunset
Pointe development project, staring at the monitor all damn day. He
rubs at the knots in his stomach through his rumpled white dress
shirt, thinking maybe he should eat or maybe he should just shoot
himself. He taps the return key with a jittery thumb, hitting it too
many times, trying to put the numbers out of his mind. His pulse
pounds in his temples. Shit! Got to get ahold of that asshole,
Rodriguez.
Whiting runs a trembling hand through
thinning hair, his scalp hot and moist. They’ve got to do
something about these numbers. Short stubble on raw cheeks twitches
as he anxiously works his jaws. They could lose the whole damn
project. Thirty million! He can’t believe it, he’s bet
everything on this project. And with the hard-money loan, they’ve
got a bigger nut than ever. Shit! Those hard-money bastards,
they’re Rodriguez’s contacts. Of course they had to have
the money to finish—all the construction cost overruns. Fucking
Rodriguez. His fingers manically drum on the hardwood desktop,
their nails ragged, bitten to the quick. They’re in way too deep
to quit now.
Chewing his bottom lip, Whiting
redials Rodriguez’s cell.
“Damn Gary, whaddaya want?”
Rodriguez sounds out of breath, frustrated.
“Mike, we need to go over some
numbers. Ya got a minute?”
Rodriguez gives a short chuckle then
lowers his voice. “I’m kinda in the middle of somethin’.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Gary hears a
thump, then a woman’s muffled words. “Hey, are you at the
office? Who’s with you?”
“Yeah, like I said, we’re kinda in
the middle of somethin’ here.”
Whiting hears giggling in the
background.
“Stop that,” Rodriguez says to
Diane. To Gary, he says, “Diane’s never done it on the desk
before.”
Whiting can almost hear Rodriguez’s
leering grin.
In the background Diane laughs. “Do
I get overtime for this?”
Now they’re both laughing.
“Damn . . . Mike, you guys . . . in
the office?”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. It’s
almost seven, no one’s around, yard gates are locked, lights are
off. No one’s gonna know.”
Whiting hears Diane coo . . . more
giggling.
Rodriguez speaks closer into the
phone. “That is, as long as you keep your mouth shut.”
“Hey, no problem. I don’t care
what you do with Diane. She’s your bookkeeper.”
Diane lets out a short yelp. “What
was that?”
“Shit,” whispers Rodriguez.
“Shit.”
“Mike, what’s going on?”
“Hold on, I think someone’s here.”
Whiting hears grunting, rustling,
probably scrambling for clothes, the metallic snap of window blinds.
“Who’s that?” says Rodriguez
under his breath. “Get your panties on.”
Whiting hears Diane whine. “I’m
trying.”
He hears Rodriguez whispering to
himself. “Who is that? Is that . . ? I’ll get that bastard.”
“Gary, hold on, I gotta take a
picture with this thing, hold on.”
“Okay.” Whiting hears the blinds
clacking.
He hears Rodriguez talking to himself.
“Damn, it’s dark . . . but I think I got ‘em.”
“Mike . . . Mike?”
“Yeah, I’m back, hold on. Gotta
check this out.”
Whiting clutches the phone in a sweaty
hand, pressed hard against his ear. He hears a loud bang. A door
slamming the wall? Too weird. He needs a Valium.
Diane screams.
“You, you asshole!"
yells Rodriguez. "What the @@ do you want!?!”
Whiting hears POP, POP! Screeching, a
low grunt, loud thumps . . . POP, POP, POP! “Uh, uh, uh . . .”
Guttural gasps. A long wail. High-pitched keening, its otherworldly
echo raising every hair on goose flesh. Whiting drops the receiver,
horrified. The plastic handset bounces off the desktop as it sinks
in. They’ve been shot!
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