Way Past Dead by Steven Womack

By Steven Womack

Along with his money move right down to a sluggish drip, instances are tight for Nashville gumshoe Harry James Denton. issues are tricky far and wide track urban, U.S.A. And in a few cases, they're homicide, as Harry reveals out the tough approach while he lands a case he'd relatively now not touch.When emerging state singer Rebecca Gibson is located viciously overwhelmed to loss of life in her domestic, a heap of damning facts issues instantly to her ex-husband, slender Gibson -- 1/2 the suffering songwriting workforce with whom Harry stocks workplace area and an occasional beer. narrow and Rebecca have been final obvious making attractive tune at an area membership simply hours sooner than the killing. but whereas probing underneath the candy concord, Harry discovers the darkish heritage of a wedding made someplace south of heaven -- and delves into the cutthroat international of the C&W song enterprise, the place deceit, betrayal, ardour, and vengeance are sung approximately . . . and ruthlessly performed."A emerging superstar one of the present crop of yank novelists." -- Nashville BannerFrom the Paperback variation.

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The cops didn’t have a search warrant or anything, and there wasn’t enough probable cause for them to think a crime had been committed, so they very politely waited outside the compound. They followed the orange-and-white ambulance to General Hospital. When Sister Evangeline was pronounced DOA and a probable suicide, the officers simply escorted the ambulance next door to the morgue before Brother Woodrow had a chance to claim the body, which he wouldn’t have been allowed to do anyway. In this state, the law requires an investigation into possible suicides—including an autopsy.

The Mazda came to life with a pull of the choke and a twist of the key. A small puff of blue-black smoke appeared in the rearview mirror, then drifted away across the neighbor’s front yard. Sunday evening is possibly the only time of the entire week when this city isn’t plagued by a swarm of traffic. I cut over to I-65 by way of the Ellington Parkway and took the north loop across the river to the Four-Forty Parkway. In twenty minutes, I was driving down a winding four-lane road toward Green Hills, the upper-middle-class-to-snazzy part of town I used to live in, back when I still had my job at the newspaper and was married to the Executive Vice-President of the advertising agency.

The wrecked automobile hulks that filled Lonnie’s junkyard jutted into the night sky at twisted, bizarre angles. I stood at the gate waiting for Shadow, Lonnie’s timber shepherd, who was absolute queen of everything inside that chain-link fence. I knew better than to go through the unlocked gate without getting her permission first. No Shadow, though. Where was she? I rattled the chain-link fence again and whistled, then backed away and looked up. I knew there were security cameras mounted on the utility poles, some with night-vision capability.

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