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COLD CITY: COLD CASE now available!
Inspector Fynn has been murdered and only his best friend Patrick can save him. Not an easy task. To do so he must translate the fabled Voynich Manuscripts, travel to the shores of the Aral Sea, and then to the past to solve a baffling spate of murders aboard the RMS Carpathia in 1903.

LOW CITY: MISSING PERSONS
Tractus Fynn has gone missing somewhere in time and history... It's up to his partner, intrepid reporter Patrick Jardel, to find him and save him from his torment. But Patrick has troubles of his own. He's just arrived in a parallel timeline where coffee is contraband. Things can't end well in this rollicking globe-trotting, era-hopping, history-bending saga. Published February 2106.

JUMP CITY: APPRENTICE
How does a Mongol horde help solve a bafflingcrime in Colorado and save FDR from assassination? Inspector Fynn and Patrick charge through history, past and present to save America from itself. Published March 2015.

SAND CITY: MURDERS
A summer resort town, a failing newspaper, murder, and a time traveling detective named Tractus Fynn... Published August 2013.

 


sneak peek

chapter ten
in circles

The next morning I set out bright and early. The Arbiter had left me in peace and I slept well except for the lumpy mattress. There was enough hot water to shave at least, though I had never seen such antiquated plumbing before. My first stop was the reception desk. I rang the brass bell and Clark rolled himself into view.
“Good morning. Back from your excursion already?”
“Not exactly…”
“Will you be needing housekeeping then?”
“It’s okay, I made my own bed.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Breakfast?” I asked.
“Over by an hour… I saved you a muffin though, and a cup of demitasse.” Clark reached under the desk and presented his promises.
“Quiet today…” I looked around the empty lobby. The army of backgammon players was long gone.
“Admittedly, business has dropped off somewhat since the opening of Aralsk-Seven.”
“What’s that? Another hotel?”
“No… a biological weapons facility.”
“What?” I was mildly alarmed. “Where is it?”
“Up the road a few kilometers.”
“When did it open?”
“Oh, in the Soviet-era, the nineteen fifties.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Not anymore…” Clark reassured. “They’ve put everything into big barrels.”
“Umm, exactly how far is the water?”
“The beach, you mean?”
“I guess…”
“The new beach or the old beach?”
“There are two?”
“Well, there were… One has dried up completely.” Clark pointed. “The new beach is about fifty kilometers in that direction, west of us.”
“How would I get there?”
“There’s a bus twice a week. It will pick you up at the end of our driveway.”
“Driveway? Is that what you call it?” I could feel myself getting annoyed again and took a deep breath. “How about the old beach?”
“What of it?”
“Is it close?”
“Just across the border.”
“Where?”
“In Kazakhstan.”
“Will I need my passport?”
“Doubtful, very few patrols this time of year.”
“How far is it?”
“In miles?”
I nodded.
“I can’t say, but it’s three kilometers northeast of here. Take the driveway to the road and follow the sign.”
“What sign?”
“La Plage, of course.”
“La Plage?”
“The beach… the old beach in this case. The whole place was underwater at one point, though I’m the first to admit that was quite a few years ago.”
“Is there a structure there, a circle or a temple maybe?”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? The ancient temple as you’re calling it is also three kilometers in the same direction. Sorry, we’ve run out of brochures though.”
I ate my muffin and slurped down the thick demitasse. It was lukewarm, unsweetened and bitter. Not what I would call a beverage. Shouldering my carry-all, I headed out for the desert again.
“If you’d be so kind as to leave your key,” Clark called out.
“Hmm?”
“The room key… before you go traipsing off into the wasteland. It’s a terrible bother to replace them, and quite costly.”

***