Circling the Runway
by J.L. Abramo
on Tour April 20th - May 31st, 2015
Synopsis:
Private Investigator Jacob Diamond and San Francisco Detective Sergeant Roxton Johnson are famous for not getting along. Cats and dogs. Oil and water. Liston and Ali. Jake and Rocky.
When an assistant district attorney is murdered in his high-rise apartment building, and Johnson suspects his lieutenant may have something to do with it, he can think of no one else to turn to for help—no one he can trust except Jake Diamond.
If the mismatched duo can avoid stepping on each other’s toes long enough—they may be able to stop circling the runway and land on the villain’s doorstep. Lieutenant Laura Lopez, Detective Ray Boyle, Joey Clams, Vinnie Strings and Darlene Roman are all back in the first new Jake Diamond escapade since Counting to Infinity.
Book Details:
Genre: Mystery PI
Published by: Down & Out Books
Publication Date: April 19, 2015
Number of Pages: 260
ISBN: 978-1937495879
Series: Jake Diamond Mysteries, Book 4
Purchase Links:
Read an excerpt:
ONE
James Bingham stood at the curb in front of the high-rise residence, talking with the taxi driver who had dropped off the occupant of apartment 3501 a few minutes earlier. Bingham was inquiring into the availability of deeply discounted cartons of cigarettes. The cab driver assured Bingham he would hook him up that weekend.
Bingham walked back into the lobby as the cab pulled away.
As James Bingham approached the security desk he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Before Bingham could turn to the sound, his head was clamped between two large hands and with the twist of two powerful wrists Bingham was dead.
The woman opened the door leading from the stairwell to the thirty-fifth floor apartments only wide enough to see the hallway in both directions. Finding the hallway deserted, she pushed the door open just enough to slip through. She moved down the hall to the right and stopped in front of the door marked 3501. She pulled a plain white letter-sized envelope from the pocket of her coat and slipped it under the door. She returned to the stairwell doorway, passed through it and started down the stairs. She looked at her wristwatch—it was twenty-six minutes after midnight. She walked down to the thirty-second floor and took the elevator to the lobby. She glanced out of the elevator door. The security guard station was still unoccupied. She quickly exited, nearly colliding with a man walking a dog in front of the building.
The dog walker, Ethan Lloyd, would later say he saw a woman wearing a long blue coat at nearly half-past twelve, alone, sporting sunglasses. A blue scarf wrapped around her head. Ethan considered the coat unnecessarily heavy for such a mild evening, thought the dark glasses were oddly inappropriate for the time of night, and added that the scarf did a very good job of hiding her face and hair. He watched the woman as she moved away from the building along Third Street. Lloyd lost sight of her heading north toward Market Street.
Ethan Lloyd entered the building wondering, as he had wondered going out less than twenty minutes earlier, why James Bingham, the lobby doorman, was not at his post.
Bingham was actually there, but Ethan Lloyd could not see him. James was on the floor, hidden behind the large desk with a broken neck.
The man who had unceremoniously snapped James Bingham’s neck moved to the door of apartment 3501 and he used a key to enter. Less than three minutes later he was about to open the apartment door to leave when he saw a white envelope slide under the door. He stood perfectly still. He heard footsteps moving away from the door and he heard the stairwell door close. He waited a full fifteen minutes before leaving and, as instructed, used a shoe found in a hall closet to keep the door from shutting completely.
The man left the building through the parking garage and he walked calmly down Third Street to Howard Street. Before reaching the intersection of Third and Hawthorne, just beyond the Thirsty Bear Brewing Company, the passenger door of a parked Cadillac opened to the sidewalk and he was invited by the driver to get in.
“Well?” the driver asked.
“Done deal,” Sal DiMarco answered.
“Did you ditch the key?”
“I did.”
Fuck me, Sal thought—remembering he had forgotten to ditch the key.
He carefully slipped the apartment key from his pocket and dropped it under the seat of the Cadillac while the driver was occupied watching for an opening in the busy street traffic.
“Any problems?”
“A bit of collateral damage, no worries.”
“Tell me about it,” the driver said as he pulled away from the curb.
The woman in blue continued walking up Third Street to Market Street, crossed Market to O’Farrell Street, went west to Powell Street and circled back down to Market.
The woman disappeared down into the Powell Street BART Station.
At half-past midnight the raucous crowd at Johnny Foley’s Irish Pub and Restaurant was so deafening that Tom Romano, Ira Fennessy and Jake Diamond had to escape. They clawed their way out onto O’Farrell Street heading for the Powell Street BART Station one block away to grab a taxi.
“Did you see that woman?” asked Ira, as they crawled into a cab.
“What woman?” Tom asked.
“Going down into the station. Did you see her, Jake?”
“I can’t see anything, Ira. What about her?”
“She was all in blue.”
“And...”
“Should have been green, don’t you think.”
“I can’t think,” Diamond said.
“Where to?” asked the cabbie.
“O’Reilly’s Bar, Green Street, North Beach,” Ira answered.
“Jesus, Ira, have a heart,” Jake pleaded. “Let’s end this nightmare.”
“Not until the fat lady sings Danny Boy.”
“God forgive us,” said Diamond. “We should have played pinochle.”
“Anyone in the market for cheap cigarettes?” the taxi driver asked as he pointed the cab toward Broadway.
Benny Carlucci stumbled out of The Chieftain Irish Pub on Third and Howard Streets. Carlucci was asked to leave—not very politely. He found himself out on the street alone. He tried to remember if he had arrived with anyone, but soon gave up trying.
He walked west on Howard Street toward Fourth, passing the Moscone Center on his left and the Metreon to his right. Benny walked down Fourth toward the train station at King Street. He spotted a black Cadillac parked halfway up on the sidewalk between Harrison and Bryant under the Highway 80 overpass.
There was definitely something not right about that car in that place at that time.
Benny was a curious kid. The vehicle stimulated his interest.
Carlucci casually approached the Cadillac, looking up and down Fourth Street as he moved. Other than what appeared to be three teenage boys horsing around a few streets down toward the train station, the area was deserted.
James Bingham stood at the curb in front of the high-rise residence, talking with the taxi driver who had dropped off the occupant of apartment 3501 a few minutes earlier. Bingham was inquiring into the availability of deeply discounted cartons of cigarettes. The cab driver assured Bingham he would hook him up that weekend.
Bingham walked back into the lobby as the cab pulled away.
As James Bingham approached the security desk he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Before Bingham could turn to the sound, his head was clamped between two large hands and with the twist of two powerful wrists Bingham was dead.
The woman opened the door leading from the stairwell to the thirty-fifth floor apartments only wide enough to see the hallway in both directions. Finding the hallway deserted, she pushed the door open just enough to slip through. She moved down the hall to the right and stopped in front of the door marked 3501. She pulled a plain white letter-sized envelope from the pocket of her coat and slipped it under the door. She returned to the stairwell doorway, passed through it and started down the stairs. She looked at her wristwatch—it was twenty-six minutes after midnight. She walked down to the thirty-second floor and took the elevator to the lobby. She glanced out of the elevator door. The security guard station was still unoccupied. She quickly exited, nearly colliding with a man walking a dog in front of the building.
The dog walker, Ethan Lloyd, would later say he saw a woman wearing a long blue coat at nearly half-past twelve, alone, sporting sunglasses. A blue scarf wrapped around her head. Ethan considered the coat unnecessarily heavy for such a mild evening, thought the dark glasses were oddly inappropriate for the time of night, and added that the scarf did a very good job of hiding her face and hair. He watched the woman as she moved away from the building along Third Street. Lloyd lost sight of her heading north toward Market Street.
Ethan Lloyd entered the building wondering, as he had wondered going out less than twenty minutes earlier, why James Bingham, the lobby doorman, was not at his post.
Bingham was actually there, but Ethan Lloyd could not see him. James was on the floor, hidden behind the large desk with a broken neck.
The man who had unceremoniously snapped James Bingham’s neck moved to the door of apartment 3501 and he used a key to enter. Less than three minutes later he was about to open the apartment door to leave when he saw a white envelope slide under the door. He stood perfectly still. He heard footsteps moving away from the door and he heard the stairwell door close. He waited a full fifteen minutes before leaving and, as instructed, used a shoe found in a hall closet to keep the door from shutting completely.
The man left the building through the parking garage and he walked calmly down Third Street to Howard Street. Before reaching the intersection of Third and Hawthorne, just beyond the Thirsty Bear Brewing Company, the passenger door of a parked Cadillac opened to the sidewalk and he was invited by the driver to get in.
“Well?” the driver asked.
“Done deal,” Sal DiMarco answered.
“Did you ditch the key?”
“I did.”
Fuck me, Sal thought—remembering he had forgotten to ditch the key.
He carefully slipped the apartment key from his pocket and dropped it under the seat of the Cadillac while the driver was occupied watching for an opening in the busy street traffic.
“Any problems?”
“A bit of collateral damage, no worries.”
“Tell me about it,” the driver said as he pulled away from the curb.
The woman in blue continued walking up Third Street to Market Street, crossed Market to O’Farrell Street, went west to Powell Street and circled back down to Market.
The woman disappeared down into the Powell Street BART Station.
At half-past midnight the raucous crowd at Johnny Foley’s Irish Pub and Restaurant was so deafening that Tom Romano, Ira Fennessy and Jake Diamond had to escape. They clawed their way out onto O’Farrell Street heading for the Powell Street BART Station one block away to grab a taxi.
“Did you see that woman?” asked Ira, as they crawled into a cab.
“What woman?” Tom asked.
“Going down into the station. Did you see her, Jake?”
“I can’t see anything, Ira. What about her?”
“She was all in blue.”
“And...”
“Should have been green, don’t you think.”
“I can’t think,” Diamond said.
“Where to?” asked the cabbie.
“O’Reilly’s Bar, Green Street, North Beach,” Ira answered.
“Jesus, Ira, have a heart,” Jake pleaded. “Let’s end this nightmare.”
“Not until the fat lady sings Danny Boy.”
“God forgive us,” said Diamond. “We should have played pinochle.”
“Anyone in the market for cheap cigarettes?” the taxi driver asked as he pointed the cab toward Broadway.
Benny Carlucci stumbled out of The Chieftain Irish Pub on Third and Howard Streets. Carlucci was asked to leave—not very politely. He found himself out on the street alone. He tried to remember if he had arrived with anyone, but soon gave up trying.
He walked west on Howard Street toward Fourth, passing the Moscone Center on his left and the Metreon to his right. Benny walked down Fourth toward the train station at King Street. He spotted a black Cadillac parked halfway up on the sidewalk between Harrison and Bryant under the Highway 80 overpass.
There was definitely something not right about that car in that place at that time.
Benny was a curious kid. The vehicle stimulated his interest.
Carlucci casually approached the Cadillac, looking up and down Fourth Street as he moved. Other than what appeared to be three teenage boys horsing around a few streets down toward the train station, the area was deserted.
Author Bio:
J. L. ABRAMO was born in the seaside paradise of Brooklyn, New York on Raymond Chandler’s fifty-ninth birthday. A long-time educator, journalist, theatre and film actor and director, he received a BA in Sociology at the City College of New York and an MA in Social Psychology at the University of Cincinnati.
Abramo is the author of the Jake Diamond mystery series including Catching Water in a Net (recipient of the MWA/PWA Award for Best First Private Eye Novel), Clutching at Straws, Counting to Infinity, and the prequel Chasing Charlie Chan—as well as the stand-alone crime thriller, Gravesend.
Abramo is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Private Eye Writers of America and Screen Actors Guild.
The author lives in Denver, Colorado.
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My review;
"Circling the Runway" is about a crime to solve and 2 men trying to solve it even if they cannot see eye to eye. Author J. L. Abramo has written this book which is part of "A Jake Diamond Mystery" series. I really like the storyline and the characters. Investigator Jake Diamond is the one who can be trusted and who is called by Detective Sergeant Roxton Johnson to help him solve a murder. They have to work together and fast so that no one else gets killed. I give this book a 4/5. I was given this book for the purpose of a review and all opinions are my own.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts on this new Jake Diamond mystery. Glad to see the character return after a long absence!
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