Teaser Tuesday!
Here is an excerpt from ON THE LINE by SJ Rozan, coming out next week on the 28th. This is 10th 0f 10 in series featuring Lydia Chin, a 30-something Chinese American private eye, and Bill Smith, a 40-something Army brat private eye in New York City. This is a Bill book.
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Crashing dark chords smothered the cell phone’s impertinent chirp, but the ringtone was “Ride of the Valkyries,” so it penetrated, and I stopped. I was learning a Brahms sonata. After weeks it had started to come together into something I could feel good about. So good that I was up working on it at what is, for me, early morning: half- past eight, with a mug of powerful black coffee, and a big, bright, late fall morning beyond the windows.
I hate interruptions when I’m at the piano; hate them so much, I used to turn the phone off. Now, though, I just ignore it if it rings. Except for this one number, the reason I leave it on. I leaned from the piano bench, grinning, and reached for the phone, which was still squeaking out those opening Valkyrie notes. In my world, Wagner only trumps Brahms when Wagner means Lydia Chin.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
Silence, unlike Lydia; and an odd tone to it. Then she said, “Nothing good.”
Those two words contained darkness: anger, fear, and something else. Warning? My skin went cold. “What does that mean?”
The answer didn’t come from Lydia. It came from a different voice, relaxed and mocking in rhythm, but inhuman in tone: thin, robotic. Deliberately, electronically altered. “It means, asshole, your girlfriend got jacked.”
I was on my feet, heart pounding. “What the— Who are you?”
“Come on, you don’t know me?”
“What’s going on?”
“Jesus Christ! You fucked up so many guys you can’t keep track!”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“No.” In a flash, joviality gone, the metallic voice dropped. “It’s what you want. You want your girlfriend to live. Or am I wrong?”
“You’re right, and—”
“Then find her. It’s a game, get it? You find her, she lives. You don’t, she dies. You following that?”
“Whoever the hell you are, leave her alone. You have business with me, bring it on.”
“It’s on, buddy boy. And if I were you I’d get down to it.”
“Get down to what?”
“What did I just say?”
“How am I supposed to find her?”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m going to help. Clues, evidence, all that shit. I know you like that shit. So we’ll have fun. Now get going.”
“No. This is bullshit.”
“Then your girlfriend dies.”
“How do I know she’s not dead already?”
“You just talked to her!”
“I heard two words from a woman, and you have Lydia’s phone. That’s all I know.”
“Jesus, look! The son of a bitch is in the game already! Instant offense, whoa, I like that. Okay, good, I’ll go along. Here, sweetie. Talk to him.”
“Bill?” It was Lydia, which I’d known, rock solid, from those fi rst two words.
“Are you okay?”
“So far. I don’t know what’s going on, though.”
“Stay cool. I’ll find you.”
I hate interruptions when I’m at the piano; hate them so much, I used to turn the phone off. Now, though, I just ignore it if it rings. Except for this one number, the reason I leave it on. I leaned from the piano bench, grinning, and reached for the phone, which was still squeaking out those opening Valkyrie notes. In my world, Wagner only trumps Brahms when Wagner means Lydia Chin.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
Silence, unlike Lydia; and an odd tone to it. Then she said, “Nothing good.”
Those two words contained darkness: anger, fear, and something else. Warning? My skin went cold. “What does that mean?”
The answer didn’t come from Lydia. It came from a different voice, relaxed and mocking in rhythm, but inhuman in tone: thin, robotic. Deliberately, electronically altered. “It means, asshole, your girlfriend got jacked.”
I was on my feet, heart pounding. “What the— Who are you?”
“Come on, you don’t know me?”
“What’s going on?”
“Jesus Christ! You fucked up so many guys you can’t keep track!”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“No.” In a flash, joviality gone, the metallic voice dropped. “It’s what you want. You want your girlfriend to live. Or am I wrong?”
“You’re right, and—”
“Then find her. It’s a game, get it? You find her, she lives. You don’t, she dies. You following that?”
“Whoever the hell you are, leave her alone. You have business with me, bring it on.”
“It’s on, buddy boy. And if I were you I’d get down to it.”
“Get down to what?”
“What did I just say?”
“How am I supposed to find her?”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m going to help. Clues, evidence, all that shit. I know you like that shit. So we’ll have fun. Now get going.”
“No. This is bullshit.”
“Then your girlfriend dies.”
“How do I know she’s not dead already?”
“You just talked to her!”
“I heard two words from a woman, and you have Lydia’s phone. That’s all I know.”
“Jesus, look! The son of a bitch is in the game already! Instant offense, whoa, I like that. Okay, good, I’ll go along. Here, sweetie. Talk to him.”
“Bill?” It was Lydia, which I’d known, rock solid, from those fi rst two words.
“Are you okay?”
“So far. I don’t know what’s going on, though.”
“Stay cool. I’ll find you.”
*******************************************
Tonight .... drum roll please .... is the season premiere of Glee. Woot! And after that I've got a new episode of Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock which has the worst boss ever ever. I'll be working all day tomorrow so I'll be heading to bed after that.
Very soon though I have to go shopping for new tennis shoes, new jeans, maybe some new tops. Blech.
I have so much to read but I've got Alexandra Sokoloff's Kindle book about storytelling/screenwriting that I want to read before I go to Bouchercon. I just saw that she'll be there and I totally respect her intellect and want to have knowledgeable discussion. Her fiction books? I don't know; I don't like horror and she verges on that... we'll see.
Have a lovely evening ... I know I will. Maybe I'll even have a glass of wine. Oh living on the edge. :)
Much love,
PK the Bookeemonster
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