Sherman’s troops burned it the first time. Now a serial arsonist threatens a small South Carolina town and private investigator Quint Mitchell is caught in the backdraft. When Quint follows the “Heartthrob Bandit” to the hamlet of Allendale, he finds himself in the crossfire of an ugly cultural war between an ultraconservative minister and the scientist who may have discovered proof of the oldest humans ever found in North America.
As the heat grows more intense, arson turns to murder, and Quint is embroiled in a growing firestorm that threatens to destroy Allendale for the second time. A media frenzy surrounding the clash of faith and science whips emotions to a fiery crescendo. With time running out, Quint is the only man standing between a vicious killer with nothing to lose and his plan to bring down the furies on Allendale and Quint.
Excerpt
I watched the car
door open. A tall man unfolded himself from the vehicle. Ricardo DeAngelis, who
preferred to be called Ricky, stood six feet four and a half. He was lean and
in very good shape for his age. I couldn’t see his green eyes from where I
stood, but most of the women he’d bilked described them as glowing with an
inner light. That sounded like romantic bullshit to me, but something must have
blinded them to the man’s devious intentions. The media had tagged DeAngelis
the “Heartthrob Bandit,” and he’d made a career out of separating lonely rich
women from their bank accounts. I’d been hired to find him.
The description on
his active warrant notice indicated he wore tailored suits and often affected a
blackthorn walking stick as part of his carefully cultivated image. No stick in
sight, and he didn’t look like he required the aid of one as he scanned the
parking lot, glancing in all directions, before walking briskly to his room. He
unlocked the door, swiveled to survey the lot once more, then stepped inside
and closed the door.
Running the length
of the ball field I left the pickup game behind, surely impressing the kids
with my speed. I hurried across South Main Street, and positioned myself to the
right of the motel, where several dozen aged RVs sat in diagonal rows. A sign
out front announced “Bargain Prices for Road-Ready Class A Motorhomes.”
Roberta Nesbitt
had hired me to find DeAngelis and retrieve as much of her property as I could.
She’d be excited to learn he hadn’t disposed of the Caddy, but what she really
wanted was her grandmother’s brooch. The jewelry had mostly sentimental value,
so I doubted DeAngelis had bothered to keep it.
Nesbitt was a
crusty old broad who had started out selling shrimp on the side of the road.
Her husband had been a shrimper based in Mayport, outside of Jacksonville. So
she knew shrimp, but obviously didn’t know much about men. Her husband walked
out on her, leaving her with two kids and mortgages on the house and the shrimp
boat. It took her thirty years, but now she owned one of the largest wholesale
seafood houses in the Southeast.
Unmarried since
husband number one, Nesbitt fell for Ricky’s line, hook, rod and shrimp net.
She even paid for her own two-carat engagement ring, spotted him a
twenty-thousand-dollar loan and arrived home one afternoon to find her jewelry
cleaned out and her white Caddy missing—along with DeAngelis.
In my first life I worked for the Public Broadcasting stations in NE Florida with diverse duties that included public affairs producer, director, reporter, fundraiser and producer of the Jacksonville Jazz Festival. My first three books were written using my real name. They were adventure/fantasies with a feline protagonist. The WINDRUSHER trilogy won multiple awards and attracted readers of all ages.
Parker (aka Vic) lives in NE Florida with his wife and their rescued cats who tolerate them as long as their bowls are filled and litter boxes emptied.
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