J. C. Nicholson
Liberty Blair lives in Southern California and is about to write a novel when she learns her daughter, an only child, is missing. After filing a Missing Persons Report, she receives a call from a detective in a town just outside of Las Vegas, asking her to identify the body of a woman recently found in his jurisdiction. Detective John Hatchet has always been known for his backbone and determination. He's also known for having had more than his share of women. On the other hand, Liberty has a few problems of her own, like a bad case of misplaced emotions, sexuality, and lack of direction. This just might hinder Hatchet's resolve in unraveling the mystery. After all he's a detective, not a therapist.
Liberty searches her daughter Kirsten's condo in Las Vegas for possible clues, and finds the names of three men scribbled on a piece of paper, with no idea as to who they are, or where they fit into Kirsten's life. That is, until Brad Sullivan walks into the police station with enough information to launch a manhunt. But, why didn't Brad come forward sooner, knowing Kirsten has been missing for more than a month? And what does Tom Hill, Kirsten's lover since high school, have to do with her vanishing? One of these two men is related to a drug runner, but what does a drug runner have to do with Kirsten's disappearance?
Author J. C. Nicholson, is from Western Massachusetts. Her early years were spent focusing on raising a family, writing and publishing poetry. When her children left the nest, she moved to California to pen her first, second, and third novel. The third book is a mystery, titled The Bastard's Mother, and is a crisp suspense novel published by AuthorHouse. Visit her website: www.jcnicholsonauthor.com or www.thebastardsmother.com or www.geocities.com/jcnicholsonauthor/index.html
"Would you like more coffee?" Liberty asked waddling to the coffee pot with an oversized jelly donut tucked inside the pocket of her housecoat.
"No thanks, sweetie, I haven't got time." Lauren grabbed her purse and smiled.
"Can you believe it? Just two weeks left," Liberty said, pointing to her pregnant belly.
"I suppose that's one way of looking at it, but it's too far off for the way you look. You look ready to pop.
"Uh-uh. No way. It can't happen until the rain stops!"
"Tell me that when you're on a gurney pushing seven pounds of flesh and bone through a knothole," Lauren laughed nervously.
"Later, Gator. Got to run."
"Be careful of the roads. They're pretty slick, especially if you're not used to them. People like you don't know how crazy we are out here. Most people drive like they do when the roads are dry.
"Okay. Will do."
It was exactly eight o'clock when Lauren Simms left the apartment. Normally Lauren left at eight-thirty, but today with the rain gushing pools of water onto the black top, dodging puddles made for wasted time and energy, particularly when she had no idea where she'd left the car last night. Once she located it, Lauren got in, opened the window, adjusted the mirror and began to comb her hair. Seconds later
something sharp pierced her neck, and a second after that her head fell to the steering wheel, forcing a solitary tear to trickle down her face.
At noon, people driving in and out of the complex drove past the lifeless brunette slumped over the wheel with what appeared to be an ice pick in her neck. Alarmed by the grizzly scene, someone called the police. Ten minutes later, an ambulance and two police cars blocked the entrance to the complex, first to check out the report, and second, to take Lauren Simms to the hospital where she would be pronounced dead and later taken to the morgue. The two officers at the scene inquired where they might get additional information about Lauren Simms. The answer was from her roommate at 116.
