Nagler 5: Lauren Fox, the dragon and Brad Pitt

“Damn it!”

Heads in the bank lobby rose and then quickly fell eyes nailed to the floor as Lauren Fox chose not to kick the piles of paper at her feet across the room.

Instead, she fell to her knees, grabbed her head and muttered, “Fuck.”

Not a fuck of anger, not a fuck of disappointment or defeat.  But a fuck of tired recognition.

It had been there all along, the trail. The money, the properties, the players, one by one, year by year, deal by deal.

“And we couldn’t connect it.”

She scooped up a handful of papers, stood, and crossed to the white board at the rear of the office. Until now.

Just as she began, Frank Nagler entered the office and she nodded him to wait off to the side.

On the board she wrote DRAGON.

“This is them, guys.” She tapped the board. “And this is also them.”

She began to write: DRAG.ON, DRAG, DRAG-ON, DRAGN, D.RAGON, D.R.AGON, DRA-GOON, DGN, DRA.N,  and then a dozen more.

“Then add  associates, institute, company, corporation, LLC, any version of a corporate name. Danny, run a program to determine how many anagrams can be made from Dragon. Then we search. They are in those boxes of paper files, in hidden corners of electronic files, on agendas, resolutions, bank statements. They’ve been coming before the city with plans for decades. Let’s find them.”

“Who are they,” Danny asked.

“The owners of the block that went blooey,” Lauren replied.

“I thought they were called Leviton, Inc.,” Danny said. “That what tax record indicated.”

“That’s right. Leviton. Leviathan. Dragon,” Lauren said. “They own nearly twenty percent of Ironton right now, and over the years have owned almost sixty percent of the real estate in this city through dummy corporations. They’re clever, so we need to be.”

“So someone targeted their holdings,” Danny said.

“No.” Lauren took a  breath and shook her head several times. “They did it to themselves. What we don’t know is why.” She turned to face her staff. “It’s a desperate act to blow up you own property. We need to find out how desperate so we can anticipate what they will do next. Let’s go.”

Nagler greeted her with a smile.

“So why?”

Lauren used her foot to pull out a chair from under the adjacent desk, sat and dropped the papers in a messy pile. “Pick one: Taxes, bad investments, loss of tenants, death of a company principal. Those would be normal. But this is fraud, just like we thought. Remember all those empty apartments?  It has taken tremendous skill and luck to hold all this together. Did their luck run out? Stuff you wouldn’t have to worry about now that you’re a YouTube star.”

“You saw it?”

“Hard to avoid.”

“Convincing enough?”

Lauren just smiled.

“Anyway,” Nagler said, “I remember you on your hands and knees yelling at a map of downtown Ironton.”

“Well, it’s worse that than,” she said. “I ran into Jack Williams, a gas company VP. He was on a commission a few years back that set up new rules for apartment inspections and occupancy. Each vacancy  triggered an inspection. Jack said there had been  a lot of paperwork filed for new tenants in those buildings in the past couple years, so a lot of inspections.”

“Would the new tenants be there?”

“No. Just the property owner or a representative.”

“I get it. They can fake their way through it.”

“But who’s paying the taxes and if the apartments are empty where does the money come from? Not from empty apartments That’s what we don’t know. But worse? I don’t know who among all these fine people will tip them off. You recall our conversation about leaks. Well, I’m just waiting, ”

“I know. Me, too.” Nagler stared at the white board with all the DRAGON names.

“Hey, isn’t the owner of that workers ghetto housing complex called Dragon Associates, Dragon something?”

She laid back in the chair and propped her feet on the desk and rolled her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Yeah, now that you mention it. God, I’ll have to find that paperwork. One more thing. We’ll figure it out, Frank. What brings you here, Unless you’re wondering why I’m stretched out like this before you.”

They shared a long, deep stare.

“We’ve answered that question before,” he said, and then smiled. “Been looking for Tony, the cook, and stopped by to tell you that McCarroll is in town.”

Lauren slipped her feet to the floor and rocked forward. “And he’s…?”

“The hit man from that old Carlton Dixon case.  If he didn’t  take those shots at Dawson, he knows who did, same for the explosion. I think Tony disappeared because he saw the bomber. I’ve got to find him and get him safe. And you, don’t run around town without an escort and text where you are. McCarroll is ruthless.

“So this is all connected.”

“Seems to be.” Nagler scanned the room. “Where’s Dan Yang? Had a question  for him.”

Lauren stepped over and leaned her head in his chest. “He went back to the college for a couple of days. Said he had to set up the new semester.” She frowned comically, but her eyes held the worry. “So okay, I’ll become friend with my babysitter. Can I ask a favor? One of the young guys, a workout freak who looks like  a young  Brad Pitt would be cool. Can you arrange that?”  She reached up and touched his face, grinning.  “Never mind. You’ll do.”

“We’ll discuss that later,” he laughed.

“You do know where to find me, don’t you?”

“Yup. And I’ll bring the body lotion.” He kissed her hair. “Gotta run.”

“Hey, you. Wouldn’t McCarroll be after you, too?”

He wanted to reassure her, to say it would be okay. Instead, “Probably.”

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The thing about light

The thing about light.

It bents, fades, hides.

It darkens, shades, dims.

But never leaves.

It is always light somewhere.

Even in sorrowing hearts.

It shines in your eyes,

Brushes your skin,

Glistens in your hair

Floats in your voice,

even when it is torn,

even under the darkest weight.

The thing about light.

It calls for freedom,

Calls for love.

Cries for justice

Leads through shadow

Fills hearts.

The thing about light.

It clings

It opens

The thing about light.

Changes

Changes me

It is.

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Nagler 5: What’s with the white van?

The story so far: An explosion destroyed a couple blocks of Downtown Ironton, N.J. Detective Frank Nagler, newly reinstated, checks in with Lt. Maria Ramirez. Then they find a white van.  

“For weeks downtown had been filled with the clanking, metallic crashing and thumping of heavy machinery and debris being moved and dumped, a clatter so persistent it left no space for other sounds, or silence.

And now all the noise was gone; the eerie quiet was not soothing, Nagler thought, but dangerous.

Thick clouds draped the surrounding hills, announcing the arrival of the

promised  storm.

Fat drops opened craters of dust on empty sidewalks and a wash of water wiped across windows and walls, a crescendo of drumming rain that blurred the horizon.

Inside his car, Nagler swiped his hand across his head a couple times and shook off the wetness. The car vibrated with the pounding  rain. He leaned back in the seat, glanced at the rearview mirror and wondered why his eyes seemed so tired. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, for a moment content to be inside the car in an empty parking lot, hoping the heavy rain would give him a few moments of peace.

That wish was dismissed by the ping of his phone, a text from Ramirez: “Where U? Must C this.”

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is 89fordvan-2.jpg

He exhaled deeply and glanced through the rain smeared side window before shouldering the door open and stepping into a face full of rain. Halfway across the lot his left foot slipped on a puddle and the pain doubled him over. “Oh, fuck,” he gritted his teeth and limped to the rear door of the police department where he leaned against a wall and slowed his breathing to dispel the pain in his throbbing left foot. “One of these days,” he shook his head and opened the inner door.

“Why are you limping” Ramirez asked Nagler without turning to face him. “Never mind, look at this.”

On the center computer screen was a blurry image of a light-colored van.

“Two days before the explosion,” she said.

“Where?

“Bassett.” She opened another screen. “Then here.” She opened a third screen. “And here. Two days, A week before, two weeks before.”

Nagler dragged over a chair and squinted at the images. They were recorded on cameras some distance from where the van was parked. “Any sign of a driver?”

Ramirez opened a new camera view of Blackwell, east of the explosion site. “Hold on. Here’s the van again, about four o’clock, day before. Look at the side panel. That’s where a company would have a name and logo. Seems to have been scraped off.”

“What year you think that is?”

“Best guess, late 80s Ford Econoline.”
          Nagler chuckled. “So, one of several thousand.”

“Ah, Frank. Such a pessimist. One of sixty-two in Morris County. I’ve sent out an alert including the photo.”

“What does that tell us? One of the seventeen business in that strip got deliveries  from a company with an old Ford van.”

Ramirez patted Nagler’s cheek twice. 

“Tells us more than that.” She reached for a file on the desk and pulled out a photograph of what appeared to be the same van parked on an alley near old industrial buildings.

“Six months ago, east side. Remember that fire?”

“Shit, yes. Duval was just telling me what they found there. Gas cans and fertilizer. What the hell.”

In a mock seductive voice Ramirez said, “Oh my man, there is more.”

She extracted two more photos of the van from the folder.

“Traffic was doing parking enforcement in that area – for the life of me I can’t figure out why. Probably a cover operation for something else. It’s mostly empty buildings – and saw this van at least twice more.  “Guess who it is registered to?”

Nagler laughing. “Oh, come on. Why are you dragging this out?”

Ramirez shared the laugh “What fun would it be if I just flat out told you?” 

Then seriously, “Carlton Dixon.”

“The cop, who’s in jail.”

“Yeah, look. Here’s the reg,” and she showed him a print out of a vehicle registration.

He closed his eyes, scrunched up his forehead and shook his head.
“That was fifteen years ago and he’s been in jail that long. The files said they used empty warehouses as drug stashes and transfer sites.  Didn’t  we close it down?”

“Loose ends, maybe?”

“That’s some loose end. Who’s driving it?”

Ramirez shrugged. “No clue. Doesn’t his daughter live in Boonton?  Maybe they’ve seen it.”

          “That’s all we need.” He stretched out his left foot to fight off a cramp and grimaced.

“What’d you do?” Ramirez asked.

“Slipped on the wet parking lot.  Jammed my foot. Anyway, did those bomb scene cameras catch anything that looks like a driver of the van or a suspect, or is that asking too much?”

“We got a couple somebodies.” Ramirez opened two new views on the screen. “This one is on Blackwell at the Cuban place.  Night before. Skinny kid, probably that kid who was killed.”

“You know he was murdered, right?  Mulligan says stabbed.” Nagler tapped the screen. “With a bread knife.”

Ramirez scratched her forehead. “So I need to be looking for someone else.”

“I guess,” Nagler said. “What time was that camera shot?”

Ramirez strained to read the time stamp. “Looks like nine-thirty, nine twenty.”

“Mulligan said he was killed about ten. So if the timing is right, he was walking into his death and the killer might have been waiting for him? Jesus. What else?”

“Sorry to add on, but there’s this guy?” The screen displayed a figure of a hefty male leaving the alley. He was wearing ball cap and a shirt with wide vertical stripes. “Three a.m. the day of. On Bassett near the service alley.” Ramirez opened another file. “So, the restaurant kid was killed at ten, the place blew up at five the next morning, and this guy is leaving at three.”

“Can you print that out for me? Mulligan said the kid’s body was moved after he was killed.  We’ve got  no one else to look at.  Who the hell are you?”

When Ramirez handed Nagler the photo of the second person, he did a double take.  “I know that shirt. God damn it.”

“Who?”

“Tony. Barry’s  cook.  He’s been missing since the explosion.”

The award winning Frank Nagler Mysteries are available in ebook, paperback and audible book formats HERE: https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Stephen-Daigle/e/B00P5WBOQC

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-red-hand-michael-stephen-daigle/1132368097

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A review: “My Pilot: A story of war, love and ALS” by Sarajane Giere

We want to live meaningful lives, times filled with love, joy and fulfillment.

But a meaningful life does not mean that it’s a life without sorrow, trouble or pain.

Such is the life presented by author Sarajane Giere in her memoir, “My Pilot: A story of War, Love and ALS.”

Giere relates the deep, important, nearly impossible and full life she shared with her husband of 52 years, Bernard Giere.

College sweethearts, they  became a military family during the Vietnam War, in which Bernard flew 214 combat missions. He was shot down and survived a harrowing rescue. Later, his  skill landed him a job as a commercial pilot, and eventually as a commander of a National Guard air rescue team.

This is simply told tale, but with deceptive depth. A grand and flowery telling would have diminished its meaning and impact.

The story is not just about Bernard.

It is about a national at war and the lasting  changes generated by the decades of conflict.

It is also Sarajane’s story as she transforms from an uncertain military wife with two young children whose father is thousands of miles away at war, the terrible fear that he might not return exampled in the lives of friends and neighbors lost.

Her resolve that emerges  become central to the last stage of their lives together as Bernard is diagnosed with ALS,  Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (Lou Gehrig Disease), a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and the spinal cord. There is no cure.

There are heroes in this story.

Bernard’s military service and his support of comrades after the war, his bravery and leadership, his love for Sarajane is ageless, to be sure.

There are also quiet heroes, family members and friends upon whom both Bernard and Sarajane rely.

But the central hero is Sarajane herself. From her time as a girl in love she pushed through obstacles, both social, military and personal, to emerge face-to-face with herself to tell the tale of her love, her pilot, hero and husband.

She would probably  not agree with this assessment, seeing herself as a companion and lover of a meaningful man.

But to call her a hero is not to diminish Bernard’s life, but to celebrate and understand it.

The title is the key: “My Pilot.”

My pilot: my hero, my guiding light, my teacher. Sarajane’s life reflects and celebrates what she learned.

The result is a life worth living and a story worth telling.

A note of transparency: This book was published by Imzadi Publishing, which is also my publisher. The cover was designed by Anita-Dugan-Moore, who has also designed my book covers, and I am a former newspaper colleague of Lorraine Ash, the editor of this book.

“My Pilot” is available at AMAZON – BARNES & NOBLE – KOBO

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Nagler 5: Lauren, Maria, Destiny and the Dragon Associates

Some of the plot issues in the new Frank Nagler story come together.

It was always gray, the ghetto was; dim, shadowed by the rocky face of Swedes Hill whose eastern ridge marked the spot in Ironton where the coal smoke from the stoveworks  slammed into the eastern sunlight and then filtered down to coat the roofs of the workers’ shacks, the dusty, cobbled streets, and the dreams of kids like Frank Nagler.

That was the life he saw as he examined the mural being painted by Destiny

Wonder on the expansive wall that filled one side of the lobby of the public housing complex.  Nagler’s soft, “Wow” caught her attention, and she stopped painting.

“You’re Frank, right?”

He turned to greet the voice. Destiny was a short, thin woman with blonde hair spangled with streaks of blue and green. One strap of her black bib coveralls slipped from her bare, muscular  shoulder.

Dragon Associates

“I’m Destiny. LT said you were coming.”

“I’m supposed to meet Lauren and…LT?”

“Yeah, Maria. You know, Lieutenant Maria Ramirez. LT. I’m her partner.”

Nagler tipped his head trying not be embarrassed. “I’m, I’m, sorry.. all the time we have worked together… I never asked or even thought…”

“Hey, Okay. She has to be cool about it. She wants to be chief, and this place ain’t ready for a queer police chief.” Destiny’s voice took on a  dismissive tone.

“Wait, that’s not what I meant,” Nagler said. “Maria should have been named captain while I was out. I’m going to take that up after we get this bombing settled.  She’s qualified. That’s all that matters. It’s not a question I ask, not because I don’t care or understand the implications, but because it doesn’t matter to me.” His glance softened. “Do your job. That’s all I care about.”

A half smile. Destiny said, “She said you’d say that.”

Nagler touched the mural.

“I grew up here.” His voice was suddenly heavy and moist.  He reached for  a shadowed face, squared jawed with dark, brooding eyes. “That could be my grandfather.  His face was always hard, except when he looked at my grandmother. Eyes between anger and sadness.”

“It could be,” Destiny said, as she tapped another face with the wooden bush handle. “This one my grandfather, and this one his brother.” She tapped another, incomplete face. “I’m basing the faces and scenes on photos from the historical society.”

“Why here?”

Destiny smiled. “That partner of yours, Lauren  Fox, is one smart lady. She knew when this complex was proposed, she could not stop it for a bunch of governmental reasons, but she fought for some changes, more efficient heating and cooling systems, better sound proofing,  a neighborhood playground, and this, to mark the history of the ghetto which was being  plowed under. The developer was not pleased.”

“Sounds  like her. Who’s the developer?”

“Over here.” Destiny stepped over to a pencil drawing that looked like a dragon.  “It’s not done yet. I think I’ll do it in red, for the dragon, and for the blood that was spilled by the workers that made the company all that money.”

“Why a dragon?”
“That’s the company’s  name, Dragon Associates. Why?”

Nagler squinted at the drawing and then at the floor. “I’ve heard that name before, or something like it.” He waved hand at the mural. “Wonderful work. It’ll come to me.”

“You know what they will never get?” Destiny asked with a smirk. “How subversive this mural will be. Their corporate dragon logo is benign, almost cartoonish, symbolizing tradition and leadership. Mine will be angry, domineering with a trace of evil in its eyes. The company men will see it as a symbol of power, but the power I will draw will be in the faces of the workers. Their eyes will be both hard  and yearning, fists clenched around tools, not symbols of progress, but of defiance, the torches they carry not signs of  safety, but a rising.”

Nagler smiled with appreciation. “That’s a big goal.”

“The trick,” she said, “Is that on the face, it will seem a work celebrating the company that built this center, because we like simple stories and want to believe that all is good. But in detail it will be anti-establishment, celebrating not the masters, but those they thought they mastered.” She stepped along the wall,  brushing her fingers across painted faces and pencil sketches of  others.    “Celebrating not the end, because there is no end, but the struggle for what continues, for dignity, family and love. It will celebrate you and your family and that of Del Williams…” she touched a dark face that Nagler recognized in that instant as that of his old friend. “And my family and Maria’s, and everyone who came before to build this city and fill these unnumbered streets with life.”
          Destiny leaned her back against the wall, tipped her head back, her face composed. “And if they miss the point, which they will,” she twirled and slapped her hand at a spot on the wall, “Right there will be me and Maria, arms enwrapped, lips pressed together, wearing brightest rainbow t-shirts I can create.” She turned to face Nagler, her left shoulder pressed against the wall. “Because we all belong.”

“Bravo!”

The cheering voices of Maria Ramirez and Lauren Fox echoed across the vacant space, their heels slapping on the bare concrete floor.

“She gave you the nickel tour, I guess,” Ramirez said as she hugged Destiny. “Ain’t she something?”

Lauren wrapped an arm around Nagler as he asked. “How did you pull this off?”

“The builder had a deadline to tap into a federal loan program.  I had a choice. I could have dragged out the approval for months, which would have forced them to pull out of the development, or I could have handed them a list of, shall we say, needs, including this mural.”

“Of course you did,” he said. “Did they approve the artist?”

“I gave them no choice. I did offer a theme, ‘the triumph of progress,’ or some  horseshit. I gave the project to Destiny, and look what we got.”

Nagler kissed her hair. “Yeah, but I don’t think you wanted to meet me here for an art appreciation class.”

“Yeah, we got a problem, Frank,” Ramirez said, tipping her head toward a distant corner of the room. “That’s why we’re here. No prying eyes or ears.”

Once there, Nagler said, “I know. We have a leak in the department. Remember that kid, Mahala Dixon? She said someone in Boonton was talking about that white van. I told her she needed to stop talking about it. How the hell would they know?

The two women  shared a look. “More than one, Frank,” Lauren said.

“How…”

“We set a trap,” Ramirez said, and pointed to Lauren to continue.

“After the flood five years ago we got a federal grant to replace the computers in all city departments. We got new computers and a load of new software, especially for system security and intrusion defense. We announced that. What we didn’t say is that we also installed in some of the most advanced anti-hacking software available from an unknown source as a pilot program. Stuff that was not available on the common marketplace. What no one knows is that our source upgrades the software constantly. A little trade-off.”

“I never knew that,” he said with appreciation. Then he chuckled. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets.”

Lauren patted his chest. “If I told you who gave it to use, I’d have to kill you.” She smiled, teasing. “Actually, now that you know this, they may kill you anyway.”

“Oh, good. I’ll just go step in front of a truck to save them the trouble. Do we know who the spies are?”

“Not yet,” Maria said. “They’ve used multiple names and hotspots. “But we know that they  are looking at the financial files that Lauren has gathered, and this is odd, the files from the old Carlton Dixon case,  like photos of the white truck.”

Nagler  held up a hand to stop her. “This is beyond me. I can barely answer my phone, which you both know. “

Lauren shared a wink with Maria.

“Told you he’d say that,” she said. “We’re counting  that our opponents also know that,” she said to Nagler. “So we set up a dummy Frank Nagler online.”

“What’s that mean?”

“In the real world not a thing,” Ramirez said.  “Virtually, online that is, and there is no way to say this politely, you are bait.”

Book links:

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G

Greet the day with a song,

Your face in the mirror with a smile

Run off your blues

It’s not about winning, but being.

There is silence for those missing,

Your heart carries them for you.

Hear them laugh and sing,

feel them take your hand in comfort

and kiss your cheek,

trade their wisdom for tears.

They want you to thrive

They want you to love

They want you to be.

Lose that argument with your sorrow; deserve yourself.

Emptiness is space that need filling;

Make room for yourself.

Cheer the endless good,

Wrap yourself in hope

And know that your life brings light and love.

Shine.

Posted in Hot in Hunterdon; Georjean Trinkle, Michael Stephen Daigle, www.michaelstephendaigle.com | Leave a comment

Nagler 5 title: ‘Dwell in the places of our horrors.’ From this scene

The gray edge of dusk chased the sunlight across the grassy expanse of the Locust Street Cemetery, a burning streak of light between. Silence, windless, settled.

Frank Nagler knelt to adjust the flower vase at his wife’s grave, his shoulders slumping in the renewed sorrow. He reached to brush imaginary dust from the top of her red granite marker, his hand seemingly powerless to move. Finally,  he stood and touched the front of Del Williams’ nearby marker. Peace, he thought, peace for both of you. He closed his eyes and felt again that last ambulance trip as the cancer  claimed Martha, the pain that had edged her fine face finally gone. And Del, gunned down.

“All of this, here.”

The flicker of an occasional eternal flame candle caught his eye, the tiniest lights in growing darkness. Are they enough?

He bowed his head and tried to still the turmoil.

When his left ankle cramped  from standing, he turned  to climb the  hill back to the road. Parked behind his own car was a black SUV.

“Jerome,” Nagler said to the smiling driver who held open the rear door.

“Frank.” Jerome raised his eyebrows and grinned.

In the car, Sister Katherine adjusted the nose piece to her oxygen unit.

“Come sit, Frank. It’s been too long.”

It had been weeks since the announcement of her illness. She seemed smaller than usual, shrunken into withered, blue-veined skin. Light from the open window infused her thinning hair with a translucent glow. Nagler felt his heart clutch at her appearance. “Sister, I…”

“No, Francis, not yet.  Not now.” She reached for his hand. “I have arranged with Father Alonzo to hold a simple ceremony,” she said, her voice thin. “I do not want the church leaders to stand before a congregation and  praise my work when they schemed so hard to end or discredit it.” She turned her head to gaze out the window and then looked back with a smile. “I would not want them to blaspheme.”

“The work you did mattered to so many.  I, well Martha and I…”

“I have watched you grow from a scrawny, poor worker’s ghetto child  into a man, a leader. I saw you and Martha face those challenges with love and bravery. That was my life. And now this is my life.”

She reached to her side and handled Nagler a manila envelope.

“I understand you have crossed paths with Mahala Dixon. She is not what she seems, which you will see as you read this.”

“How do you…?”

He had seen that smile before. “I might have chosen a way outside the main flow of life, but I not totally apart. Besides, an old nun sitting at a table during a festival will not turn down the offer of a cup of tea and conversation.” She coughed out a soft laugh. “It’s something, I believe, about the garb. Anyway I met Mahala and her mother Janelle during the time Carlton Dixon, Mahala’s father, was involved in that case  of which you have become familiar.”

“She seems like an angry kid.”

Sister Katherine nodded to the envelope. “It is more than anger. Read this.” After a silence, she said. “This is not a place of just peace. And, no, I don’t  come here to examine which plot will be mine.  It is already chosen, next to my sister. This is where we face the conflicts and trials, ask the hard questions of our lives. All these souls writhing, questions never answered. No, I don’t come here to sample the supposed peace of life, but to confront again its inequities, its pains and injustices. My sister was murdered for greed and depravity. Del, much the same. I come here to battle for the lives who were tarnished, diminished and forgotten. Before we pass, we must revisit the places of our horrors.  Mine are here.”

Nagler wanted to respond, but she cut him off.

“My horrors are here. Yours are not. Walk again the streets of the ghetto, the damaged, dirty streets of industry. Those are your places of sadness.That’s where you are, Francis, where you have always been. Ask why. And as you ask, you may see why Mahala Dixon has done the things she has done.”

She reached for his hand and kissed it with dry lips. “I must go.”

From the roadside as the SUV pulled away, Nagler wondered if he might ever see the sister again.  Before he could open the envelope, his phone rang. It was Mulligan, the medical examiner. “Got it, on my way.”

The Red Hand: A Frank Nagler Mystery by Michael Stephen Daigle, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

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New 5-star review for ‘The Red Hand’: ‘When you read this book you will see it play on a TV screen in your head’

5 Stars

You should buy this book. Even though it’s the fourth in the series, it’s the first in the chronology of the story, so it’s a good place to start.
The texture in Daigle’s writing is quite unusual. When they find a victim’s bracelet, you learn about the entire family of the jeweler who made it. When the detective walks down the street you see every leaf, every puddle, every paper blown against a chain-link fence. Pure imagery. When you read this book you will see it play on a TV screen in your head.
There’s a level of dramatic tension that’s maintained throughout the book. But it’s not the same throughout. Each sub-plot or sub-story has its own feeling of wtf is about to happen? When Nagler leaves a crime scene to go to this wife, the tension is different and maybe greater.
The detective is not a super smart, super sleuth. He’s an ordinary guy who could have ended up in a homeless shelter except for a wife that fell in love with him when they were seven years old. He’s new on the job, slightly over his head, and consumed by the crimes.
I often read mysteries in a single sitting. I couldn’t do that with this book. There’s too much going on. And that’s a good thing.

Previous Frank Nagler Mysteries:

THE SWAMPS OF JERSEY:

A GAME CALLED DEAD: . A Runner-Up in the Shelf Unbound 2016 Best Indie Book contest.

THE WEIGHT OF LIVING: First Place for Mysteries  in the 2017 Royal Dragonfly Book Award contest;  Notable 100 Book, Shelf Unbound 2018 Indie Book Awards; Named a Distinguished Favorite, 2018  Independent Press Awards; Distinguished Favorite in the 2018 Big NYC Book Contest; Finalist in the 2019 Book Excellence Awards. Gold Award Winner, 2020 Elite Choice Awards.

THE RED HAND: Distinguished Favorite in the 2019 Big NYC Book Contest; Second Place winner for mysteries in the 2019 Royal Dragonfly Book Awards;  Notable 100 Book in the 2019 Shelf Unbound Indie Book Awards;  Distinguished Favorite  in the 2020 Independent Press Awards; Nominee in the 2020 TopShelf Book Award; Gold Award Winner, 2020 Elite Choice Awards.

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Posted in Bergen County Cooperative Library System, Fiction, Greater Lehigh Valley Writer's Group, Hackettstown Public Library, Hot in Hunterdon; Georjean Trinkle, http://www.sallyember.com, Imzadi Publishing LLC, Michael Stephen Daigle, Paramus Public Library, www.michaelstephendaigle.com | 2 Comments

My Easton Book Festival interview launches at 5 p.m. Nov. 11

https://fb.me/e/d0AH5Xpu3

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NAGLER 5: Leonard, past and present

Leonard is Detective Frank Nagler oldest friend, a blind man who runs a bookstore. He has been central to three of the previous Frank Nagler Mysteries.

In the quiet times sitting alone near the  front window, Leonard would see them in his mind – Bobby,  Del Williams, Dominique – unpacking the boxes of used books, shaking off dust,  laughing at the titles and the old stylized drawings on the covers, occasionally finding  a Braille text in a box  from a school, and Dom asking him to teach the system to him. “I can learn this, boss. Be more use to you,” Dom would say, his voice so full of enthusiasm and hope, Leonard could feel the boy’s beaming smile. Leonard would run his fingers across the Braille text.  Sometimes Shakespeare, sometimes  a math text, once a Bible, and Leonard would call after Dom’s retreating steps, “Don’t call me boss.”

Dom’s laughing reply every time was, “Yes, boss.”

          And then they were gone.  That day. Killed in the hail of bullets that also put Leonard in the hospital for surgeries that tried to save his mobility and his sense of feeling, but did little to fill the hollow of isolation that surrounded him. There were days since when not even the friendly arrival of Frank Nagler’s familiar tapping foot steps could pull Leonard from the darkness.

And now the clatter of dishes at Barry’s diner counter in the far corner of the bookstore, the hum of voices, the fat aroma of bacon, fried potatoes, the sharp coffee smell, softly bitter, pushed Leonard deeper into his isolated opposite corner. The first time it happened, Leonard felt he was trapped inside a growing clear bubble that resisted his finger’s soft touch, a sensation that had not faded even when Barry’s steady, heavy footsteps would cross the wooden floor from the counter to Leonard’s wheelchair bringing lunch or a beverage, or just conversation.

Why today? he wondered as he felt the bubble thicken, the voices soften to a blur of sound like an unfocused light on a white screen. Why today, of all days, had the gloom resettled?

There had been good news from Lauren Fox. Her office had secured approval from the governor for a grant and loan package.   They could renovate the two empty warehouses  he owned for housing, and remodel the adjacent factory where his used book business was located into a street-level space for a new Barry’s, a additional  second-floor space for the used books and offices on the third floor.

Maybe it was the change in the weather. The summer had been cooler, but dry, and walking with Calista, even if he had to use the wheelchair, were days of freedom. September arrived wet and angry. Drenching storms followed by sluggish, gray days of northeast winds that often pinned him, like now,  at a front window in that damned chair.

Sighing, he reached over and touched the glass, hoping to feel its smooth coolness, hoping, really, to feel anything.

The motorized wheelchair had been dragged out of storage and the battery replaced; he had hoped that after two years of walking and the loss of all that weight, he would never need it again.

Leonard shifted and wiggled his hips as the mesh of the chair’s sides chafed against his fat and useless thighs. I want to move, he thought,  to cross the park and find a cold seat on a bench and feel the wind and hear the pigeons cooing, to feel the brush of their wings as they rested briefly at my feet, pecking at broken peanut shells, to feel the rumble of truck traffic through the cement, the scolding of a jay, the scuffle of kids fresh from school, yelling to one another as they passed. To dwell again in the swirl of life.

 He shifted away from the window and the view of the park and bitterly knew again that the space would never remind him of cheerful times. Each time he closed his eyes he would see the strike of the first  bullet into the wooden podium, hear the shouted instructions to run and duck and above that, the urgent cry from Del. “Take my arm,” and then the  grunt as Del  was struck by a bullet and the pain and blackness that followed as he, too, was struck; then falling. Then the silence.

The door near him swished open.,

“Hey, Barry, gimme a lunch special, and coffee, black,” the unseen customer  yelled even before the front door closed. Then a firm hand on his arm, “Hey, Len. “How ya doing?”

The touch and the voice, shocked Leonard from his reverie. “Good. I’m, I’m  good. Thanks.”

“No problem,” said the happy voice. “Glad to see ya up and about.”

Leonard smiled and blinked away a sudden tear.

That had been part of the adjustment, Leonard knew. His own customers were reserved, almost meek, in comparison to Barry’s, who blustered into the shop, shouting life into the staid, dry air of the bookstore.

In that instant, through that voice, by that touch, the world returned.

Find the Nagler Mysteries online here:

https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Stephen-Daigle/e/B00P5WBOQC

Posted in Bergen County Cooperative Library System, Fiction, Greater Lehigh Valley Writer's Group, Hackettstown Public Library, Hot in Hunterdon; Georjean Trinkle, Imzadi Publishing LLC, Michael Stephen Daigle, Paramus Public Library, Parsippany Public Library, Sally Ember, www.michaelstephendaigle.com | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment