Dear Readers,
We have something fun going on this month. I’ve been working with Sonja Field on the UNLEASHED audiobook and we were talking about how to get you all involved. I’ll let Sonja take it from here…
Hey there Sydney Rye fans,
About a month from now, I’m going to begin recording UNLEASHED (A Sydney Rye Audiobook, #1). I’ve already started prepping. One of my favorite parts of prepping a book involves creating distinct voices for the major characters.
Emily & I thought it would be fun to get you guys involved!
Below are three different options for the voice of Pammy Maxim. As you may remember from UNLEASHED, Pammy’s married to Robert Maxim. She’s in her mid-twenties, tall, and blonde. She’s the type of girl who wears shorts that show her butt. She’s bubbly, insincere, and she’s not as dumb as she initially seems.
The character voice I create for Pammy needs to encompass all of those traits. Let us know what you think of the options below!
-Sonja
Thanks Sonja! Okay, readers, let us know what you think in the comments. Each comment will enter you to win a letter from me. I’ll use my brand new (to me) typewriter. And don’t forget that if you sign up for my newsletter you’ll get a copy of the UNLEASHED Audiobook for free when it’s finished. So sign up if you have not already
Thanks, Emily
May was another crazy month. Before I get into it though, I want to encourage you to head over to my website and check out the possible voices for the Pammy Maxim character in UNLEASHED (A Sydney Rye Audiobook, #1). Sonja Field, the narrator, has done a great job on all three clips but we want to hear what you all have to say. So go give a listen and leave a comment letting us know what you think. I’ll pick one winner who will get a personal letter from me written on my brand new (to me) typewriter.
I hope you’re all doing well out there in Readerland.
Signing off from my hermitage, Emily
Excerpt of UNLEASHED (A Sydney Rye Novel, #1)
If Joanne Sanders passed me on the street, she would not recognize me as the person who ate seven of her cheddar-flavored Goldfish. She wouldn’t know that Snowball, her Pomeranian, welcomed me into their home by showing me exactly where she liked to pee under the kitchen table. Joanne Sanders would not know that I worked for her because she has never met me.
Snowball, a ten-pound white puff ball with dark, almond-shaped eyes, was crated in a black cage with a leopard-print cover when I walked into apartment G5 on my first day as a dog-walker. Snowball looked like the recently imprisoned queen of a very small, safe jungle. Her subjects, in the shape of stuffed lions, tigers, and elephants littered the living room carpet.
Joanne Sanders, a broad woman in her forties, posed with friends, family, and Snowball in photographs displayed on the mantel of the fake fireplace. She had shoulder-length brown hair and bangs teased high above her brow. I could picture her behind ten inches of bulletproof glass sneering at me with gloss-encased lips for filling out my deposit slip incorrectly.
I fed Snowball half a cup of kibble and a spoonful of wet food as my envelope of information directed. She ate it quickly while making funny little squeaking noises. Once she had licked her bowl to a bright sheen, we headed out for my first walk as a dog-walker.
I steered us off of East End Avenue and onto the esplanade that runs along the river. The water reflected the sun in bright silver glints. I smelled oil and brine. We reached Carl Schurz Park and turned into the dog run for small dogs. The gate leading into the run reached only to my knees, as did the rest of the fence designed to keep small dogs in and big ones out. A sign on the gate read, “Dogs over 25 pounds not permitted.” Ten dogs under 25 pounds, and one who was probably a little over, played together in the pen. Their owners, in groups of three or four, sat on worn wooden benches and talked about dogs. Snowball ran to join a poodle growling at a puppy. They intimidated it behind its owner’s calves. Then the poodle, a miniature gray curly thing with long ears, mounted Snowball. I turned to the river and watched a giant barge inch by.
“Hi.” A woman wearing a fanny pack, pleated khaki shorts that started at her belly button and ended at her knees, black socks (pulled up), and clogs stood above me.
“Hi.” I said back, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the sun.
“You’re new.” She wasn’t asking a question.
“That’s right.”
“Taking over Charlene’s route.”
“Right again.” She sat next to me.
“How long have you been walking dogs?”
“Not long.”
“I didn’t think so.” I spotted two women on a bench on the other side of the run watching us. “You see, usually, when a dog you’re responsible for is being a bully…” She raised her eyebrows at me, and I realized I was being lectured. “…You should intervene.” I sat in silence, looking at her as she looked at me.
“OK,” I finally said. I looked over to where Snowball and the poodle were playing happily. “Not now?” I asked.
“No not now, now is too late. I’m talking about what they did to that puppy.”
“So this is for my future reference.”
She smiled, pleased with my grasp of the situation. “Exactly.”
“Okay.”
“I’m Marcia.” She held her hand out. I put mine in it. We shook. Her hand was rough and her grip strong.
“Joy.”
“Nice to meet you, Joy.”
“You’re a dog-walker.” I wanted to see if her trick of stating facts worked both ways.
“Sure am.” She didn’t seem to notice. “And that’s Elaine and Fiona.” She motioned toward the bench down the yard. They waved. I waved back.
“You’re all dog-walkers.”
“That’s right.”
“You like it?” I asked.
She smiled. “Love it. I’ve been doing this for most my life.”
“You know I didn’t even realize it was a profession until recently.” Marcia looked dumbfounded. “You know, I’d just never thought about it,” I said, trying to make up for my obvious blunder. That made two in about as many minutes. Snowball jumped up onto the bench next to me, panting. I used it as an excuse to leave. “It was nice meeting you,” I told Marcia as I stood.
“See you around,” she said.
My next charge, Snaffles, a Jack Russell terrier owned by Mr. and Mrs. Saperstein, ran up and down the length of the kitchen, which was blocked off from the rest of the apartment by a child safety gate. He inhaled the three-fourths-of-a-cup of kibble I measured into his bowl and then continued his bounding and running while I tried to get the leash on him. Once the leash was attached, he stopped running and concentrated on killing it. Snaffles shook the leash with the gusto a wolf might use when taking out a bunny.
On the street he pissed on the trees, the parking meters, the trash bags, and when he ran out of pee, he kept raising his leg nonetheless. It took us the full 45 minutes just to get around the block. I returned him to his kitchen at two exactly, and, as I left, I heard the clicking of his claws while he raced back and forth and back and forth.
I left the Sapersteins’ building and walked two doors down to walk the Maxims’ golden retriever who, according to my notes, was named Toby. I nodded at the doorman. He was wearing a hunter-green jacket with puffed riding jodhpurs and knee-high boots. At the front desk, I was directed to a bank of elevators. A key from my envelope allowed me to push the button for the penthouse. When the golden doors of the elevator opened, I was standing in an ornate foyer. An elaborate flower arrangement stood on a pier table next to a large, imposing, dark, wooden door.
His whole body wagging, Toby welcomed me into the house. A wall of windows, with a view of the glittering river below and Queens in the distance, flooded the two-story room with light. It reflected off the polished wood floor and bathed three teal couches—one of which had the imprint of Toby’s body in it—in bright, white sunlight. To the left, a spiral staircase curled up through the ceiling. Toby waited patiently, apparently used to the awe that the room inspired.
I found the kitchen when I walked through a door on the right side of the living room. The kitchen had floor-to-ceiling windows with the same view as the living room. Inside the enormous Subzero refrigerator, I found a Tupperware container labeled “Toby’s lunch.”
After he’d finished his mix of specialty frozen meats topped with several different powdered supplements, Toby pulled me through the lobby and out onto the street. He turned downtown, and I followed, hurrying to keep up. Toby pulled against the leash, tightening his collar and choking himself in the process. He coughed and made awful gagging noises until we reached a smell interesting enough to pause for. Toby sniffed intently for several seconds and then shot out to the end of the leash, hit it, and started the whole process all over again. My cell phone rang. I followed Toby to a fire hydrant, then answered it. It was James. “Hey,” I said, then lost my balance as Toby lunged down the street. I landed on my right hip with a thud. The leash flew out of my hand and my cell phone bounced against a parked car and smashed onto the sidewalk. Toby tore down an alley ten yards away.
I jumped up ignoring my throbbing hip, grabbed my phone and its disconnected battery, then gave chase. Toby’s golden butt stuck out from behind a pair of dirty green Dumpsters. “Toby!” He ignored me, intent on whatever was hiding in the deep shade of the narrow alley. I picked my way through the littered dead end. After the relentless heat and bright sunshine of the street, the alley felt almost cold.
Toby poked his head out from behind the Dumpster. There was something hairy and black in his mouth. Oh Jesus, I thought, please don’t let it be a rat. I stood in my tracks and called to him again. “Toby!” I yelled in a high-pitched, happy tone. He stood his ground and began shaking the hairy thing. A breeze blew through the alley and I smelled the putrid sweetness of garbage in June mixed with the rotten stench of decay. Toby looked at me, his eyes reflecting a shiny green in the darkness. I shivered in my thin T-shirt and wondered, for just a moment, if I could leave him here, go back to Brooklyn, take a nap, and pretend like none of this had ever happened.
Instead, I pulled my collar over my mouth and nose and took a tentative step toward him. He backed away. “Toby come.” I took another step. He took another step away from me, holding the hairy, black mess tightly in his jaws. His leash—long, red, and nylon—curled off his choke collar onto the ground. With a swift move, I stomped it. Toby couldn’t get away.
He whined through his stuffed mouth as I reached down to pick up the lead. It was in a puddle that I quickly realized I was standing in. The liquid was all over the leash, and when I looked at Toby, I saw that it covered his paws and dripped off the prize in his mouth.
“What the—” “Fuck” caught in my throat as I looked at the dark, thick, red fluid. I turned my head ever so slowly and looked at where Toby had found that black mass of wet hair. A hand—gray, limp, and lifeless—lay inches from my left foot.
Blood rushed in my ears. The hand was attached to a wrist that disappeared into a blue tracksuit jacket. Turning my head just the slightest bit more, I saw what had once been a face but was now a gaping red hole.
The top of the man’s head had survived with its few pathetic strands of black hair. But his eyes, nose, mouth, chin—they were all gone. In their place was a mass of bloody pulp. The head lay in a pool of dark, clotted blood; I stood in that puddle and screamed.
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Excerpt of DEATH IN THE DARK (A Sydney Rye Novella, #2)
At the beginning of DEATH IN THE DARK we find Joy Humbolt hiding, not only from the law, but also from her past and the mistakes she’s made. Living this isolated life doesn’t last long though when a visit from Mulberry brings Joy to accept her new identity as the Private Detective, Sydney Rye. To complete the transformation, Joy must learn to control her emotions as well as her giant aggressive dog, Blue. With the help of an expert trainer, Joy learns to fight with her mind as well as her body. However, when the daughter of a close friend is brutally murdered in the desert, Rye turns away from her mentor to seek revenge. Sydney’s quick temper and deadly intentions lead her into a trap that she will need all of her new skills to survive.
The pain preceded consciousness. Blinking my eyelids sent ripples of hurt across my face, around the back of my head, and down my neck into my shoulders. I heard myself groan.
Forcing my eyes open I tried to focus them. My chin was resting on my chest and I was looking down at my wrinkled linen shirt. Slowly I was able to make out the fabric’s grain. The splotches of blood dripping from my nose made me feel the itch of dried blood on my cheeks.
With a Herculean effort I lifted my head and tried to take in my surroundings. It appeared I was alone in a large, empty room with a high ceiling. There was a doorway in front of me pockmarked with holes and standing slightly ajar. Moonlight streamed through the opening’s landing onto a dusty, uneven wooden floor. There were two windows on either side of the door coated in dirt so thick I couldn’t see through them. I sat on a wooden chair with my wrists bound behind me.
I looked over my shoulder and saw I was wearing handcuffs. Looking down I saw that my ankles were chained to the chair legs. I took a deep breath and silently thanked Merl for all the times I’d woken up pinned to my bed. I gritted my teeth prepping for the excruciating and awkward pain. I struggled not to cry out as I slammed my thumb against the chair.
My hands free, I leaned over to inspect the chains that bound my ankles. These guys were either amateurs or had severely underestimated me. I stood up, my head spinning, and sat back down.
Reaching up, I found the source of all that blood on my shirt and the dizzy spell. A clotted mass of hair and an open wound was at the base of my skull. When I touched it I almost threw up. I took a minute and a few breaths before trying to stand again.
The chains tinkled as I attempted to rise. They were wrapped around my ankles and in-between the legs of the chair. All I had to do was pick up the chair and shake off the chains to be free. Granted, my ankles were still chained to each other but at least I wasn’t stuck with the chair.
With my new freedom, I walked over to the windows on the far wall. Peering through a broken pane, I saw another building and an alley lined with tall grass and trash. Hearing a scrape behind me, I wheeled around.
Merl was standing there, leaning casually against the decrepit wall. Blue charged toward me and after sitting at my feet, leaned against me. I crouched down and embraced him. Merl’s three dogs flanked him, their eyes reflecting green in the darkness. “One thing we didn’t go over was how to not fall into a trap,” Merl said. “Obviously, you still have some things to learn.”
I smiled at him. “I am really happy to see you.”
Merl pushed off the wall and crossed the room. He approached the window and peered through its grimy pane. “Did you really think I was going to let you get yourself killed?” he asked without looking at me.
“I’m fine. But thank you for coming.”
“You’re not fine. You’re holed up in an abandoned building hunting mass murderers. Alone.” He craned his neck to get a better look the base of my skull. “With a head wound.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d want to help.”
He turned toward me. “I don’t.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
He smiled. “You didn’t leave me any choice.”
I bit my lip. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”
Thunder, who’d stayed by the entrance, gave a low growl of warning. Merl crossed the room without a sound and looked out into the night. “The young one is getting something out of the SUV.” I heard the thunk of a car door slamming. “He’s headed back inside.”
“What did he get out of the truck,” I asked.
“A chainsaw.”
“Jesus,” I said.
Merl leaned against the wall and rested his hand on Thunder’s head. Clouds shifted and the pale light of the moon was blocked. A cool breeze blew through the open door stirring up the smell of sawdust.
“Did you have a plan?” Merl asked.
I smiled. “Plans are God’s favorite joke.”
Merl smiled. “Okay, well, what’s the joke of the evening, then?”
“Not sure. I just woke up and managed to free myself.”
Merl looked down at my ankles. “You’re not that free.”
“I don’t have a chainsaw,” I smiled.
Merl chuckled.
“What’s the deal, where are they?” I asked.
“There are three of them. They are holding Malina there.” He pointed across an expanse of cracked pavement and weeds at a large building. It appeared deserted with broken windows and patches missing from its roof. But a light burned inside, bright in the dark desert.
“They took my gun,” I said “I don’t see how we can get close enough to these guys for hand-to-hand combat.”
Merl smiled, showing off his big-gapped teeth. “I brought my throwing stars.” He opened up his trench coat to reveal a vest lined with multi-sided blades. “Quiet, accurate, deadly. More than I can say for your pistol.”
I realized my mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. “That is seriously awesome.”
Merl nodded. “I know.”
“Will you teach me-”
He held up a hand to stop me. “Let’s see how we do here. If we survive, I’ll think about it.”
“Right. If we survive.”
“I did bring you a weapon, though.” Merl reached under his coat and pulled out a long knife. A strong wind blew across the desert and whipped around the building pulling dust with it. The door banged on its hinges and Blue growled at the sudden movement. The bluster passed as quickly as it arrived and an eerie silence fell over the compound. “Now or never,” Merl said, handing me the blade. It felt heavy in my hand and I looked down at my bound ankles. “Just remember to take tiny steps,” Merl advised, following my gaze. I nodded.
Merl tapped his hip and headed out of the door. His three dogs lined up behind him. I followed them, shuffling, trying to contain the clinking I made. Blue stayed close behind me. Merl moved across the broken pavement of the parking lot barely making a sound. The whirl of a chainsaw broke the silence, followed by a woman’s scream.
Merl sped up and hunkered under one of the building’s dirty windows. He motioned me down and I crouched by his side. Sliding up the side of the building, Merl looked through the window.
“I see two of them,” he said just loud enough for me to hear over Malina’s terrified screams. Merl lowered himself back down. “Take a look.”
I rose up until I could see into the room. It was large and lit by fluorescent fixtures that stretched the length of the space. The one closest to the door flickered, casting a light of unreality onto the whole scene. Malina was tied to a chair, she had swelling around her mouth and her dress was ripped open exposing one of her breasts. Malina’s rich hazel eyes were glued to the whirling blade of the chainsaw which Adolfo held in front of her. His back was to the door but I suspected he wore the same stony expression as at the cockfight.
Benito was pacing behind Malina. He was saying something I couldn’t hear. Not far out of Benito’s reach was a small table covered in tools and I spied my pistol. Scanning the rest of the room, I didn’t see Frito.
“Here is what we are going to do,” Merl said. I tore myself away from the horrific scene inside and concentrated on Merl’s plan. “What we’ve got is the element of surprise, you, me and four dogs.”
Carlos was the one who felt my phone vibrating; it was under one of the napkins we’d used for our picnic lunch. I found it, and glancing quickly at the “UNKNOWN” on the caller ID, picked it up. While used to calls from unknown places, I was not used to calls from this guy.Excerpt of INSATIABLE (A Sydney Rye Novel, #3)
“Sydney, how are you?”
I didn’t actually recognize his voice right away. I rolled away from Carlos, sitting up. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who this is.” It was when he laughed that I recognized him. “Bobby?”
He laughed again. “I’m glad you remember me. My heart would be broken if I could be so easily forgotten.”
I stood up, Carlos looked up at me, a question in his eyes. I shook my head and stepped away from our blanket. My dog, Blue, a huge wolf-like creature with one blue eye and one brown followed me, keeping at a heel. “Forget you, Bobby Maxim? In order to do that I’d need a lobotomy.”
“With your penchant for revenge, I half expect to see you bursting through my closet doors some day, guns blazing.”
I laughed. “Who says I’m not in there right now?”
“I know exactly where you are. I’ve been keeping very good track of you.”
I looked around the park. Gentle green hills spotted with couples and groups of friends lounging on blankets dominated the landscape. On a field below me a soccer match was beginning to form. A woman ran by in a skin-tight suit, nothing on her jiggled.
“Are you here now?”
“No, no. I’m calling to ask a favor.”
“That’s rich.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I spun around and stepped back. Blue let out a growl. Carlos stood behind me, his hands out, palms forward in a sign of peace. “I just wanted to let you know I’m going to join some mates for a game of football.”
“Sorry, that’s great. I’ll see you in a bit,” I said, covering the mouth piece. Carlos smiled and jogged off down the hill.
“Does he know about you?” Bobby asked. I didn’t answer as I watched Carlos join a group of other men on the field below. “Sydney, are you there?”
“I’m not doing you any favors. I don’t know if you’re totally clear on the fact that you took something from me.”
“Sydney, I don’t understand this animosity. I was just doing you a favor.”
“A favor!” I heard myself yelling. Looking around I saw that I’d attracted the attention of several of the groups of Londoners trying to enjoy their first day of sun. “You bastard,” I hissed quietly. “I hope you rot in hell.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner, darling.”
“Call me darling again and I will make it my life’s mission to take your ball sack. Are we clear?”
“Anything you’d do with my ball sack would be very welcome.”
“I forgot what a sick fuck you are.”
“A sick fuck who did you a favor and is now looking for one in return.”
“You’re insane!” I heard myself yelling again. I took a deep breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Blue tapped his muzzle against my hip to let me know he was still there.
“Sydney, I didn’t know what you two had planned. I would have killed Kurt long before you showed up. Remember, I’m not the one who left my fingerprints behind; whose blood was spilled all over the floor. You took yourself down, it had nothing to do with me.” He said it in an off-hand way. Like I was being petty and missing the big picture.
“You killed him,” I whispered, trying to control my anger, but I could feel myself shaking. “That was my right. Kurt Jessup murdered my brother and I should have been the one to end him.”
“At the time I had no idea about that. Mulberry didn’t tell me what you were planning, just that we had a problem. I had no intention of stifling your little revenge act. If anyone should be pissed it’s me. At least you got the treasure.”
I stood on the green feeling lightheaded. It was like Bobby Maxim was taking the world and flipping it upside down. “What are you talking about? Mulberry told you that?”
“Oh Cher, you didn’t know?” Maxim’s voice rose an octave, teasing and dripping with syrup. A cold knowledge traveled from my toes right up to my brain, my best friend betrayed me, our relationship was built on a lie. I walked toward the shade of a tree, reaching out to rest a hand against the rough trunk. “Mulberry called me, told me about Kurt. About him killing Tate and Joseph,” Bobby paused, “about how he killed your brother, James.” I picked at the tree in front of me, breaking off a piece of the bark. I looked at the white underneath, the exposed inner branch. “Now don’t get all upset and quiet on me, dear. He only did it to save you.”
“Save me?”
“From becoming a killer.”
“You think someone can be saved from that?” I heard sadness in my voice and hated myself for it.
“No, I don’t. I think you are what you are, Sydney. And I think it’s amazing. I want you on my team.” He sounded upbeat and excited about our future together.
I didn’t answer.
“Aren’t you even curious about the case?” Bobby continued.
“No.”
“It’s a good friend of mine in Mexico, his daughter has disappeared. The reason I’m hoping you’ll help is she’s a fan of yours.”
“What?”
“She’s on that site about Joy.” I felt nausea creep up my throat. Mulberry told me about the website but I had yet to visit it. I couldn’t face whatever kind of madness I had spawned. The basic principle, that Joy Humbolt murdered the Mayor of New York to revenge her brother’s killing, was off by a couple of heartbeats. The member’s fanatical agreement that Joy was a hero was just sick. “You had a real effect on that Jackie,” Bobby continued. “Starting that site about you really turned her life around. She’s a serious nut bag. You should be proud.”
“Jacquelyn Saperstein is suffering under a false impression of who I was. All the people on that site are deluded. I’m not a god damn hero.”
“Come work for me.”
“No.”
“What if I could pardon you?”
I realized I should hang up the phone. This guy was so deep under my skin I practically felt like a puppet. “Ha,” I said, “you’re going to pardon me for something you did?”
“I could make the charges go away. You could be Joy Humbolt again.”
I hung up the phone. Turned it off. Sat back down on my blanket, refilled my wine glass and spent the rest of the afternoon watching Carlos play a hot game of soccer while Blue napped peacefully by my side.
Carlos was surprised when I said I wanted to spend the night at his place. He didn’t say anything but I saw the jump of his eyebrows and a sweet smile cross his lips. I felt a stab of guilt. He thought I wanted to get closer but I was just using him to avoid my place.
I woke up around 3 a.m. in Carlos’s darkened bedroom. I lay there and watched shadows cast by the curtains move across the ceiling as car’s headlights passed by. The shadows looked like opaque, transforming African masks.
When I stood, Blue raised his head and then followed me out into the living room. Wrapping myself in a blanket I found on the couch, I wandered into the kitchen. The fridge was full but I didn’t want anything.
My phone was in my bag, still turned off. A deep, sharp pain in my chest stopped me from calling Mulberry. If it was true that he had conspired with Bobby Maxim, I didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t want to lose him.
Mulberry helped me when no one else would. I never could have made it out of New York alive, let alone a millionaire, without him. If he hadn’t come to Mexico and pulled me out of my self-pitying spiral of alcoholism, I’d probably still be there. He gave me the name Sydney Rye. More than a name, he gave me a purpose. I’d always thought his help came from friendship. But now it all had a shadow over it. What did Mulberry really want from me?
Blue hopped up on the couch and rested his massive head between his paws. He watched me pace around the living room, eventually closing his eyes and snoring softly. Over the last three years, Blue had changed as much as me. When I first adopted Blue he was underweight, a chronic chewer with separation anxiety, and a penchant for trying to attack strangers on the street.
Now he was thick and strong; besides the slight limp where Kurt Jessup’s bullet ripped through him, Blue was the picture of canine health. His coat would have looked at home on a wolf; it was glossy and shone in the gentle light from the street lamps that filtered through the living room windows. Blue was gigantic, the height of a Great Dane, the long snout of a Collie, and he took up most of the couch.
The bullet that shattered Blue’s shoulder blade left a scar, thick and pink, hidden under his fur. My scars from that fight included a streak of ruined skin under my left eye that tingles with damaged nerves. Above that same eye the ghost of another wound lingers. Not as deep, it is a gentle reminder that runs above my eyebrow fading into my hairline, of what madmen will do if you don’t stop them.
I grew bangs to cover the damage I could and cut the rest of my long blonde hair into a neat bob, the ends just grazing my shoulders. Being a fugitive you’d think I would need more of a disguise but there are no pictures of me with the scars and besides, I know how to disappear. Most people don’t want to see a killer so they don’t see me.
Carlos’s computer sat in the corner of the living room on a white desk whispering to me. I pulled up the chair and woke it up.
I stared at the blank Google page for a moment and then typed in “Joy Humbolt.” Jackie’s site was the first to pop up. Amazing to think that my history was being told by a woman I barely knew. True, I’d proven her innocence and chased away the specter of incarceration. She said I’d saved her life. What had she done for me? Turned me into a goddamn folk hero.
I clicked on the link and held my breath while the page loaded. I didn’t know what to expect but I was shocked to see a scanned copy of the letter I wrote Jackie three years ago on the landing page. It was written on hotel stationery from the Excelsior where I’d exiled myself. It was written in Joy’s neat, angry, black letters. I remembered writing that letter in sudden vivid detail. I thought I knew everything that had happened and everything that would happen. I had a plan; God must have been laughing his ass off.
In the letter I explained that Jackie’s husband, Joseph Saperstein, was murdered by Kurt Jessup. I explained the reason Kurt killed Joseph was that Joseph planned on stealing a lot of money from Kurt and running off with his mistress. I didn’t mention that I was going to steal that money. The letter was full of bold sentences full of fact: “Mayor Kurt Jessup shot your husband in the face without remorse. He thought setting you up for it was appropriate because you should have kept your husband at home.”
I wondered at Jackie’s reaction to this letter. To make it public, what was she thinking?
The letter went on to describe how Kurt killed my brother, James Humbolt. I paused at the sentence that read “I clearly misunderstood my place in this game and Kurt Jessup took advantage of my ignorance. But don’t worry, Mrs. Saperstein, I’m going to kill him.”
When I wrote that letter it was like a promise to myself that I would do something right in all the wrong. I knew I couldn’t bring my brother back, but I thought I could do something meaningful. I was not afraid to run from my life and leave everything behind. However, you cannot, as most of us know, leave everything behind.
But none of that mattered. Kurt Jessup was dead when I found him. And Joy Humbolt was guilty of a crime she didn’t commit. But I was the only who knew that. Well, me and Bobby Maxim.
I pounded on the desk next to the keyboard in frustration. Blue raised his head and looked over at me, his ears alert. I shook my head at him but he slipped off the couch and came to my side just the same. I rested a hand on his head and tried to calm down.
It felt like a lifetime ago that I’d worked as a dog walker on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It was Bobby’s dog, Tobby, an out of control, spoiled Golden Retriever who ran down the alley where I found Joseph Saperstein’s body. That discovery changed my life, embroiling me in the complicated and unsavory world of Manhattan’s elite.
It was at a private club with low lighting and lush furnishings that I first met Bobby Maxim. I was on the arm of his friend but that didn’t stop Mr. Maxim from hitting on me. He wanted to do some very nasty things to me. Judging from our conversation, he still did. But I bet there wasn’t a blonde on the planet Bobby didn’t want to spank or be spanked by. His sexual proclivities aside, the fact remained that he was not to be trifled with.
Even if Maxim didn’t know Kurt Jessup was a killer he must have suspected; how could you be the head of one of the biggest P.I. agencies in the world and lack the ability to sniff out a murderer? But he still made him Mayor of New York. Nobody becomes the king puppet of that city without Bobby’s say so.
As I looked at the letter, I marveled at what a fool I’d been and how clear that was to me now, only three years later. The question was how would I look back on this moment, was I sabotaging my life again? Should I accept the pardon? End this game?
With a sigh, I read the last paragraph of Joy’s letter. “I know that Joseph and you were not at your best but at one time you did love one another. Even in the face of betrayal and loss of identity we cannot give up. Don’t let this stop you. Don’t let anything stop you. There can never be enough.”
The last paragraph’s script deteriorated until the last sentence was barely legible. It looked like the letter of an insane person. I laughed out loud. It looked like a split personality.
I scrolled past the letter to people’s comments.
Where ever you are Joy, I’m thinking of you and I hope you have found peace.
I can’t believe you are all praising this woman for murdering someone! Does no one care about the rule of law!
Joy Humbolt suffered a severe trauma and clearly needs to be treated in a secure psychiatric facility.
And then half of them were pleas for help.
I don’t know what to do. I wish I had Joy’s strength. If you’re out there please help me.
My daughter has been missing for two years. Please help me find her.
The comments went on and on. I hovered over the tab for the forum but turned away, sickened by all of their opinions and needs. Who were they to judge me? Ask me for help? Why had Jackie exposed me in this way? And then it occurred to me that they were talking about Joy Humbolt, who really didn’t exist at all anymore. I was Sydney Rye, my new identity suited me just fine. I worked for a small detective agency and lived in Central London. Joy Humbolt was gone.
But all these people didn’t know that. They thought Joy was still out there just waiting for the right invitation to come back. I didn’t want to pardon Joy Humbolt, I realized. I wanted to kill her. That would end the manhunt, end the website, and free me once and for all.
I turned my phone back on and waited for it to come back to life. Mulberry was at the top of my list of favorites and I touched his name. The phone began to ring.
“Sydney? Is something wrong?” A beat of silence passed while I wondered what to say. You bastard, you sold me out to Bobby Maxim. I thought you were my friend. You’re the only one I have left, how could you do this? “Syd?”
“I got a phone call from Bobby Maxim this afternoon.”
Mulberry sighed. “I know.”
“You know?” Of course he knew, I realized. They were in this together from the beginning right up until this moment. “I don’t even have a choice, do I?”
“You always have a choice, Sydney.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I heard Carlos move in the bedroom and retreated toward the kitchen lowering my voice. “I trusted you.”
“I know, look, I thought I was doing what was best at the time. There was no other way.”
“No other way? How about just let it happen the way I wanted.”
“You did get what you wanted. He’s dead. You killed him. Without Bobby I never could have gotten you where you are now.”
“What?”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
Mulberry didn’t know that Jessup was dead when I got there which meant that… “Do you work for Bobby Maxim? Is our agency affiliated with Fortress Global Investigations?”
“He didn’t tell you.”
“I guess he figured that was your job.”
“Sydney, I’m sorry. I wish there was some way to say I was sorry enough for you to understand.” I didn’t answer him. There was no point. “I love you, Sydney, you’re my best friend.”
“Friends don’t do this Mulberry.” I felt tears burning in my eyes. “Friends do not-” I cut myself off knowing I couldn’t make it through without crying. Deep breath in and then out.
“Sydney-”
I hung up. Holding the phone in my hand I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on what I needed to do. There was a text from Bobby Maxim with a phone number telling me to call when I was ready. I touched the number.
“Took longer than I thought,” Bobby said.
“I don’t want a pardon,” I told him. “I want Joy dead.”
“Dead?” I could hear a smile on his lips. “But why?”
“You don’t need to know anything more than what I want. If I get this girl back for you, I want Joy’s body to end up somewhere. I want the manhunt to end and I want those idiots on that site to know that she’s not coming. Joy Humbolt is dead.”
“Long live Sydney Rye.”
Excerpt of STRINGS OF GLASS (A Sydney Rye Novel, #4)
GOT TO BE STARTING SOMETHINGThe road crumbled under my feet as I ran up it. There is no road surface strong enough to resist the pull back to dirt in this climate. In Goa, Mother Nature rules.
Blue touched my thigh with his nose, a gentle tap to remind me he was there. Thick jungle lined our path. This hill had the fewest homes on our route. No neighbors to wave a hello to or children to smile at as they raced by on bikes either too large or too small for them. There was just me, Blue, the burst of vegetation, and this road of rocks. I reached the top of the hill, my thighs and calves burned. Panting, I struggled to keep my pace.
A low growl narrowed my attention onto a black and white street dog in the brush. Ears flat to her head she curled her lips and showed us her teeth. Noting the swollen teats hanging low and exposed, I kept moving. “I’m not going to bother you, mama,” I said in a steady voice. “We are just passing by.”
Blue slowed and when I patted my thigh for him to catch up he stopped. I turned to look back at him, my senses on high alert. Blue was a mutt the height of a Great Dane with the coat of a wolf and the long snout of a Collie, with one blue eye and one brown. Blue has saved my life more than once so when he stopped, so did I.
I recognized a twitch on his lip and saw the hackles raise off his shoulders and back making him appear even larger. A deep and rumbling growl left his chest. It was answered behind me. There were suddenly three dogs in our path. None as big or strong as Blue but together they looked dangerous.
I’d been warned about this pack. Growing larger by the day, it was led by an aggressive alpha male the color of dirty water. This must be him, I thought, as the largest of the three, his head wide, fur the muddy brown of an engorged river, growled at Blue. The compactness of his body spoke of strength and survival. When he barked the saliva that shot from his mouth caught a ray of sunlight streaming through the thick foliage around us.
Muddy Water stepped forward, revving his growl like a teenager on a motorbike. The bitch in the brush flanked our left side and when I turned right, two young dogs, their ears still soft from puppyhood, glowered at me.
The owner of the guest house where I lived warned me to take a stick if I planned on running. “Just in case,” she’d said with a dip of her head and a flip of her hand. Because of her advice I carried a light but solid piece of bamboo about twice the thickness of my thumb. I tapped it on the ground in front of me as I backed toward Blue, keeping my eyes forward, focused on the alpha but paying close attention to my peripheral vision, watching the dogs to my sides.
When I reached Blue he moved backwards with me, slowly and deliberately. But the dogs started to follow with us. We stopped, and raising the stick over my head, I brought it down hard onto a rock. The loud sound and sudden movement spooked the pups to my right but the alpha male just growled louder.
The two dogs flanking Muddy Waters went crazy barking, the force of their calls lifting their front paws off the ground. The mother and the young ones joined in raising a ruckus that certainly beat mine. Blue, his front paws planted on the road, exposed his teeth and growled, his pitch wavering up and down. He wanted me to tell him it was OK to attack. I could feel his energy bundling up inside him, roiling around, soon I’d have no control.
The alpha charged us, the other two with him following close behind. They weren’t coming for me I saw quickly, all they wanted was Blue. It took only an instant for them to cross the space between us. I dropped my stick hard onto the alpha’s neck but he ignored my blow, launching himself onto Blue.
Heart pounding I beat at the dogs as they swarmed. The dogs were going for his neck, for the kill. The Mother started to come out of the woods to join in the attack but a quick whack with my stick and she retreated into the trees. It only took a glare at the young ones to cow them into keeping their distance.
Blue was holding his own, but bloody streaks marked all the canines. I kicked one of the street dogs hard in the stomach. It fell on its side and then turned on me, ready to fight. I kept it at the end of my stick. It was missing part of one of its ears. A scar across its muzzle looked fresh and pink. Puncture holes in its neck showed where Blue managed a bite. I didn’t want to hurt this dog.
I heard a cry and glancing over saw Blue had the alpha on his back. The other dog backed off. The noises they made were not like anything I’d heard before, almost like a speaker that’s been turned on its side, spewing squeaks and squeals of interference. The alpha struggled, kicking his legs in the air, trying to push Blue. But he shook his head hard, knocking the dog under him into submission.
The dog at the end of my stick barked at Blue but didn’t move toward him. Blue shook his head again and the alpha male yelped. Blood pooled around Blue’s lips. “OK,” I said, clapping my hands and getting the rest of the pack’s attention. I shooed at them. “Get!” I yelled.
They shuffled away from me.
I stepped forward aggressively, my chest out. “Go!” I commanded. The dog missing part of his ear jumped out of the road and into the jungle, avoiding putting weight onto his left hindquarter. I stepped to the other who growled at me. I pushed him with my stick and he turned on it, biting through the wood. “Hey!” I yelled, pushing it into his mouth hard. He yelped and stepped back. I came at him and he quickly followed the other dog into the trees.
They watched from a safe distance. Blue wasn’t letting go of the alpha and I feared that he would kill him. “Blue,” I said. He didn’t move, just continued to snarl with his mouth full of Muddy Water’s soft neck. “Let’s go.” He flicked his eyes up to my face. A gash on his neck pumped blood onto his white coat. “Come on,” I said, making eye contact. I saw a feral animal looking back at me. There was fear in those eyes, instinct and triumph. The road, I realized, wasn’t the only thing that Mother Nature turned to dust here in Goa.
It was the end of a long journey and lightning flashed outside my window. My hand jumped to Mulberry’s forearm and squeezed. Shutting my eyes I struggled not to picture the small plane cracking in half, my body flying through the air, still seat belted to the beige leather chair; Blue, his paws grasping at empty space, disappearing into the bruise colored clouds.Excerpt of THE DEVIL’S BREATH (A Sydney Rye Novel, #5)
The small jet shook and our pilot’s voice, smooth and steady, came over the loudspeaker, “Sorry about the bumps, we’ll have you down in Miami in about twenty minutes. Just hold tight.”
Mulberry put his hand over mine. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be there soon.”
He smiled, making his crow’s feet crinkle. Mulberry’s eyes were deep emerald with ochre and flashes of gold. I tried to smile back but could tell I was just giving a grimace. Mulberry handed me his whisky and soda. I finished it off.
The ice cubes danced in my empty glass. Then we were suddenly out of the clouds. Below us the ocean was close, steel blue with white caps cresting each wave. The city’s skyscrapers looked like towers of mercury in the storm’s eerie light. Rain drops clung to my window, streaking across it as our speed pushed them aside.
Hugh was somewhere down there in that city. A flat landscape made multi-dimensional through the efforts of man. My stomach lurched as we dropped through the air, my seat belt pressing against my stomach. Blue whined softly and flattened himself even further onto the floor of the plane.
A giant of a dog, Blue has the coat of a wolf, the snout of a Collie, with one brown eye and one blue. Both of which were trained on me at that moment. My fear was freaking him out. Closing my eyes I tried to imagine the turbulence as a gentle rocking but it didn’t work. An ice cube jumped out of my glass landing on the carpeting. Blue, his belly still flat on the ground, inched his way toward it then his tongue stretched out and pulled the cube into his mouth. He crunched twice before looking back up at me, now hoping for more whisky flavored ice. I couldn’t help but smile at the expectant look on his fuzzy face.
We touched down with a jerk that sent my heart racing one more time. But as we slowly taxied toward our hangar the storm seemed suddenly minor. Just a breath of wind fluttered across the puddles, turning them into shimmering mirrors framed by the dark tarmac.
“Alright Ms. Rye,” our captain’s voice came back on over the loudspeaker. “Sorry about that descent but we got you here safe. Thanks for flying with us, I hope we’ll have you back real soon.”
As soon as humanly possible I thought to myself. I didn’t want to be here but Hugh was in trouble and if there was one person I cared about in this world it was him. He was a tie to my murdered brother, a shared memory bank. I wondered what his reaction would be when he saw me. The world thought I was dead. Somehow I felt that Hugh would know I wasn’t. It was possible, I recognized, that the guilt of not letting him know I was alive gave me unrealistic hopes.
Robert Maxim was waiting in the hangar. I stopped at the top of the steps and looked down at him. He smiled, his eyes brightening. Maxim was taller than Mulberry but not as broad, more lean and fluid. Robert’s rich brown hair was turning a brilliant silver at the temples. “You’re looking a little green,” he said as I made my way down the steps, his hazel eyes picking up the blue in his tie and twinkling at me. Like we were friends. Like he never tried to kill me.
“And you’re looking a little orange,” I answered, referring to the man’s tan.
He laughed deeply, the sound bouncing around in the large hangar. Behind Robert, a tall man dressed in a dark suit and wearing a driver’s cap stood in front of a sleek black limo. Robert turned to him. “Claude,” he waved the man over. Claude looked like a Claude, like a character from a kickboxing movie. The one with the scar across his chest and mammoth reach. But, who, of course, is bested by our plucky hero, or heroine as the case may be. “He can take your luggage,” Robert said.
I held up my small duffel. “This is all I’ve got.”
Robert raised an eyebrow. “I love a woman who travels light.”
“Bobby,” Mulberry said, reaching out his hand.
Maxim took it and shook, smiling at Mulberry. “You got our girl back,” he said.
I bristled at both the “girl” and “back” in that sentence but bit my tongue. Without Maxim’s intervention I wouldn’t know Hugh was in trouble. But that didn’t mean I was his “girl” or that I was “back”.
After Claude took my bag he opened the door for me and I climbed in, scooting to the far bench so that I could face forward. Blue followed me climbing onto the seat by my side, his head grazing the ceiling. Mulberry came next, his broad shoulders made it hard for him to maneuver in the narrow space. I flashed back to last night, his thick arms and rough hands holding my hips, and felt a blush creep up my neck. He smiled at me and I turned to the bar, busying myself making another whisky and soda. Bobby sat closest to the door facing me across the long expanse of space.
A fresh drink in my hand I sat back into the soft black leather as the car rolled out of the private airport. “Does Hugh know I’m alive?” I asked.
Bobby shrugged. “I didn’t tell him.”
“Where is he?”
“At his apartment. We can go there now if you want.”
“Yes,” I said and then turned away from him, looking through the tinted windows at the city beyond. Puddles swelled around sewer drains. As we passed through them, our car pushed waves onto the sidewalks as high as people’s calfs. Pedestrians hurried through the mess, raising their knees high and clutching umbrellas with white knuckles. We stopped at a light and I watched one man who stood on the corner, his face tilted toward the receding clouds, arms loose at his sides, ignoring the foaming grey-green water that swirled around his ankles.
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