My frequent guests will know by now how much I LOVE Oceanview Publishing. They are an independent mystery/thriller house located in Florida whose notoriety has grown and are now recognized as one of the preeminent independent publishers of mystery, thriller, and suspense. They put out some fantastic novels and I'm proud to bring yet another one.
Welcome Mike Pace to the blog who is here today to talk about his latest thriller, One To Go.
Mike the floor is yours!!
- ISBN-13: 9781608091355
- Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
- Publication date: 12/2/2014
- Pages: 365
Overview
Tom Booker is a new attorney at a powerful Washington law firm. Texting while driving across Memorial Bridge, he loses control and crashes into an oncoming minivan carrying his own daughter and three of her friends. The minivan tips up on two wheels, about to flip over into the Potomac. Time freezes, he’s alone on the bridge. A young couple approaches and offers him a re-wind. The crash would be averted, the children saved. All he must do is kill someone every two weeks—anyone—a “soul exchange.”
Oceanview has generously sponsored this giveaway
of One Print copy of
One To Go
US ONLY
Thanks Oceanview!
Good Luck!
Read an excerpt:
Chapter
One
Tom Booker watched the numbers descend, his confidence growing with each
passing floor that no one else would get on before he reached the garage. 8 ¼ 7
¼ He tugged the collar of his green polo under his blazer, and used his fingers
to smooth down his unruly brown hair. He wanted to look good for Janie. ¼ 6 ¼ 5
¼Ding.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened and Robert “Bat” Masterson entered.
Tom’s heart leapt to his throat. Masterson was the third named partner in
Smith, Hale and Masterson, one of the most prestigious law firms in the
nation’s capital and, at over 500 lawyers, one of the largest.
Approaching sixty, Masterson looked at least ten years younger. Tall, tan, with
patrician features. Except for silver tinges over each temple his thick hair
remained as black as seen in publicity head-shots from twenty years earlier.
Masterson’s nickname derived from the renowned Dodge City gunfighter who at one
point served as Wyatt Earp’s deputy, and was popularized by a fifties TV show.
Masterson, who claimed Bat was his ancestor, loved the image of the tough
lawman and didn’t discourage the press from referring to him as a gunslinger
when defending his white-collar clients. His massive corner office was covered
with sepia photos of the old west, including a three by five foot photo of Bat
Masterson himself. Since Smith had died decades earlier and Hale recently
retired, Masterson was the most senior of senior partners.
“Good morning,” said Masterson. “Mr. Hooker, is it not?”
“It’s Booker, sir.” He’d only spoken to the man once before during the
reception for new associates held shortly after he’d joined the firm.
He saw Masterson was wearing the official SHM Saturday casual uniform: tan
slacks, loafers, polo shirt, and navy blue blazer. When Tom dressed that
morning, he’d briefly considered foregoing the uniform for more comfortable
jeans, but thankfully had succumbed.
“Yes, of course,” said Masterson. “And in which department do you now find
yourself, Mr. Booker?”
“Corporate, sir.” The firm’s policy required new associates to rotate through
four or five legal specialties during the first two years, the theory being the
rotation would allow both the new lawyer and the firm to find the best fit. The
newbies also had to do a pro bono stint so the firm could meet its bar
obligations to the poor and downtrodden without pulling time away from
attorneys billing at much higher rates.
“Katherine’s not only a fine lawyer, but a good teacher. Maybe we’ll see you in
WC soon.”
WC was shorthand for white-collar litigation. Most in Washington considered
Masterson, a former U.S. Attorney General and Texas governor, the best white
collar defense counsel in town, if not the whole country. The country’s voters
had booted Bat’s former boss out of the Oval Office two years earlier, and
Bat’s name was on the shortlist of potential challengers for his party’s
presidential nomination to take on the new incumbent two years hence.
“Heading for the library?” asked Masterson. He was about to touch the button
for the second floor.
Tom could easily lie—the chances of Masterson missing a lowly associate over
the next several hours were virtually nil. But the key word was “virtually.”
“No sir. Got to pick up my daughter for a short field trip.” He added quickly,
“But I’ll be back in a couple of hours to make up the time.”
“Family’s important, of course.” His expression left no doubt that Masterson
believed time spent by an associate on a Saturday morning doing anything other
than cranking out billable hours cost the most senior partner money, and
therefore was by definition not important.
The elevator reached the lobby and Masterson exited. “See you this afternoon,
Mr. Booker.”
“Of course, sir.”
The doors closed. Tom took a deep breath, then punched the already-lit “G”
button, willing the elevator to drop the last two floors before anyone else
came aboard.
Once in the garage, he jogged to the silver Lexus GS430. Almost five years old,
it had been his one extravagant purchase when he’d been hired by SHM out of
Georgetown Law.
He started the engine and drove quickly up the ramp and out of the garage,
almost hitting two young men in suits and ties. Both gave him the finger.
Lobbyists, thought Tom. They still wore ties on Saturdays.
He turned onto M street when the annoying warning chime began, and he buckled
his seatbelt with one hand as he turned south onto New Hampshire. He glanced at
the dashboard clock. Shit. Gayle was going to kill him.
After catching the fourth red light, he reluctantly pulled out his phone.
Talking on a cell while driving was technically against the law in the
District, but everyone knew if the law were strictly enforced, the federal
government and the businesses of all those who made a living off it would screech
to a halt. Besides, he was stopped at a light so he wasn’t technically driving.
When he heard the connection, he grimaced, knowing what was coming next. With
caller ID, he didn’t expect the courtesy of a hello. He was right.
“Where the hell are you? Janie, Angie, and two other seven-year-olds are
standing here in my kitchen, waiting for you.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Just how do you expect to drive here, pick them up and get them back to the
Air and Space Museum in less than forty-five minutes?”
“O’Neal needed the buy-sell agreement before—”
“I don’t care! It’s always something. Always putting your work and yourself
before family.”
The response shot from his mouth before he could stop it. “One might consider
sleeping with our daughter’s pediatrician putting yourself before family.”
Damn. Remember, pause, then speak. Pause, then speak.
“You son of a bitch.”
Tom took a deep breath. Excellent chance Janie was within earshot, and the last
thing she needed now after seven months of dealing with her parents’ break-up
was another fight. He lowered his voice. “Look, I’m almost to the Roosevelt
Bridge. Can you take her? I can meet you at the museum entrance, and take the
hand-off.”
“My daughter’s not a football. Besides, David and I have plans. If you’re not
here in fifteen minutes, maybe I can persuade Rosie to take them.” She ended
the call.
My daughter. The change from our daughter to my daughter several months earlier
had not gone unnoticed. Gayle, Janie, and Dr. Dave—he insisted his patients and
their moms call him Dr. Dave—lived in Tom’s former house in Arlington, while
Tom called a cramped, one bedroom apartment in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood of
the city home. Adams-Morgan was known for its eclectic charm, a string of the
best Latino restaurants in the city, and the violent drug culture along its
borders.
Rosie was Rose Battaglia, Gayle’s sister. She, her husband, Gino, and their
young daughter, Angie, lived east of Connecticut Avenue in upper Northwest DC
near the Maryland line, the fancy-schmantzy part of the city.
Angie was the same age as Janie and the two cousins were inseparable. The
previous evening, Janie had invited Angie for a sleepover, a common event ever
since the girls were old enough to have their own room. Tom wished the
sleepover had occurred at Angie’s; it would’ve made his trip from downtown much
shorter.
The last light before the bridge. One car in front of him, an ancient beige
Buick with Ohio plates. The light turned yellow.
“Go, go ¼” But instead of speeding up, the sedan slowed down, then stopped at
the intersection. Tom pounded the steering wheel with his fist. He checked the
dashboard clock again. No way was he going to make it to his house in time.
He could feel his face flush as his frustration escalated. He glanced at the
glove compartment. Just a sip to take the edge off?
He still considered it his house. As part of the divorce settlement he’d agreed
to continue paying the mortgage until Janie graduated from high school. His
attorney had advised him he was being too generous, especially since Gayle was
the one who broke the marriage vows by slow dancing with Dr. Dave. But he
wanted his daughter to remain in the same house where she’d known him since
birth—moving to a new place with Dr. Dave would’ve made handling her parents split
even harder. Or at least that’s what he’d thought at the time. Now, sometimes
when he was moping around inside his cramped Adams-Morgan one-bedroom apartment
feeling sorry for himself, he’d wonder if the divorce attorney had been right.
The light changed. He hit the gas, tailgating the Buick, barely avoiding
knocking up against its bumper.
When he rounded the curve, he saw flashing lights on the bridge, an accident
backing up traffic to a stand-still. Shit. His deadline only a few minutes off,
he considered abandoning the drive to Arlington, calling back and begging Rosie
to take the girls. He could intercept them at the museum.
Or, he could try the Memorial. What the hell? Maybe Gayle would give him a
grace period. He pulled around the Buick and drove south along the river. As he
approached the entrance to the Memorial Bridge, he could see the usual tourist
busses circling the Lincoln Memorial on the eastern side of the span, but
fortunately the traffic appeared relatively light on the bridge itself. He made
the turnonto the bridge and headed west across the Potomac.
Tom slid into the passing lane where a single yellow line separated him from
oncoming east-bound traffic.
In the far distance, he saw a green Dodge minivan heading toward him from the
western entrance to the bridge. Rosie had a green minivan. Could Gayle have
sent the kids off with Rosie early? Why didn’t she call him?
He dug out his cell, glanced down, and scrolled to her number. He knew texting
while driving could be dangerous, but he considered himself an excellent
driver, and he’d developed a system where he held the phone up at eye level
with his right hand so he could still keep his eyes on the road.
He punched in the text: on Mem bridge. Did they leave? He hit, “Send.”
The minivan was getting closer. He remembered Rosie had tied an orange ribbon
on her antenna so she could spot her car in a parking lot. A red Ford pickup
truck in front of the minivan wove back and forth in its lane, making it
difficult for Tom to see the Dodge’s aerial.
He heard the chime, and glanced down to read Gayle’s message.
Yes. Couldn’t wait. R not happy. Meet at A & S.
Great. What could she —?
Suddenly his ears were barraged by the sound of car horns blasting and tires
screeching. He looked up to see he’d drifted into the on-coming lane, heading
straight for the green minivan. A split-second image of a dirty orange ribbon
flying from the antenna filled his brain.
He jammed his foot on the brakes and cut hard right. Instead of responding, the
Lexus spun like a Frisbee across the pavement, first crashing head-on into the
front of the minivan, then ricocheting into the rear of the red truck. The
force of the collision sent both the truck and the minivan hurtling toward the
bridge rail. The truck hit the curb hard at an odd angle. It flipped up into
the air, appearing to hover for a long moment.
The minivan glanced off a light-pole hard and rolled up onto its two right
tires. Teetering next to the bridge rail, it was about to flip into the
Potomac. A split second later, he thought he saw Janie’s face pressed up
against the back window.
In a flash he sawa blur of red as the pickup dropped down toward the hood of
his car.
He saw the blue and white Ford logo.
Then he saw nothing.
Chapter
One
Tom Booker watched the numbers descend, his confidence growing with each passing floor that no one else would get on before he reached the garage. 8 ¼ 7 ¼ He tugged the collar of his green polo under his blazer, and used his fingers to smooth down his unruly brown hair. He wanted to look good for Janie. ¼ 6 ¼ 5 ¼Ding.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened and Robert “Bat” Masterson entered. Tom’s heart leapt to his throat. Masterson was the third named partner in Smith, Hale and Masterson, one of the most prestigious law firms in the nation’s capital and, at over 500 lawyers, one of the largest.
Approaching sixty, Masterson looked at least ten years younger. Tall, tan, with patrician features. Except for silver tinges over each temple his thick hair remained as black as seen in publicity head-shots from twenty years earlier. Masterson’s nickname derived from the renowned Dodge City gunfighter who at one point served as Wyatt Earp’s deputy, and was popularized by a fifties TV show. Masterson, who claimed Bat was his ancestor, loved the image of the tough lawman and didn’t discourage the press from referring to him as a gunslinger when defending his white-collar clients. His massive corner office was covered with sepia photos of the old west, including a three by five foot photo of Bat Masterson himself. Since Smith had died decades earlier and Hale recently retired, Masterson was the most senior of senior partners.
“Good morning,” said Masterson. “Mr. Hooker, is it not?”
“It’s Booker, sir.” He’d only spoken to the man once before during the reception for new associates held shortly after he’d joined the firm.
He saw Masterson was wearing the official SHM Saturday casual uniform: tan slacks, loafers, polo shirt, and navy blue blazer. When Tom dressed that morning, he’d briefly considered foregoing the uniform for more comfortable jeans, but thankfully had succumbed.
“Yes, of course,” said Masterson. “And in which department do you now find yourself, Mr. Booker?”
“Corporate, sir.” The firm’s policy required new associates to rotate through four or five legal specialties during the first two years, the theory being the rotation would allow both the new lawyer and the firm to find the best fit. The newbies also had to do a pro bono stint so the firm could meet its bar obligations to the poor and downtrodden without pulling time away from attorneys billing at much higher rates.
“Katherine’s not only a fine lawyer, but a good teacher. Maybe we’ll see you in WC soon.”
WC was shorthand for white-collar litigation. Most in Washington considered Masterson, a former U.S. Attorney General and Texas governor, the best white collar defense counsel in town, if not the whole country. The country’s voters had booted Bat’s former boss out of the Oval Office two years earlier, and Bat’s name was on the shortlist of potential challengers for his party’s presidential nomination to take on the new incumbent two years hence.
“Heading for the library?” asked Masterson. He was about to touch the button for the second floor.
Tom could easily lie—the chances of Masterson missing a lowly associate over the next several hours were virtually nil. But the key word was “virtually.” “No sir. Got to pick up my daughter for a short field trip.” He added quickly, “But I’ll be back in a couple of hours to make up the time.”
“Family’s important, of course.” His expression left no doubt that Masterson believed time spent by an associate on a Saturday morning doing anything other than cranking out billable hours cost the most senior partner money, and therefore was by definition not important.
The elevator reached the lobby and Masterson exited. “See you this afternoon, Mr. Booker.”
“Of course, sir.”
The doors closed. Tom took a deep breath, then punched the already-lit “G” button, willing the elevator to drop the last two floors before anyone else came aboard.
Once in the garage, he jogged to the silver Lexus GS430. Almost five years old, it had been his one extravagant purchase when he’d been hired by SHM out of Georgetown Law.
He started the engine and drove quickly up the ramp and out of the garage, almost hitting two young men in suits and ties. Both gave him the finger. Lobbyists, thought Tom. They still wore ties on Saturdays.
He turned onto M street when the annoying warning chime began, and he buckled his seatbelt with one hand as he turned south onto New Hampshire. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Shit. Gayle was going to kill him.
After catching the fourth red light, he reluctantly pulled out his phone. Talking on a cell while driving was technically against the law in the District, but everyone knew if the law were strictly enforced, the federal government and the businesses of all those who made a living off it would screech to a halt. Besides, he was stopped at a light so he wasn’t technically driving.
When he heard the connection, he grimaced, knowing what was coming next. With caller ID, he didn’t expect the courtesy of a hello. He was right.
“Where the hell are you? Janie, Angie, and two other seven-year-olds are standing here in my kitchen, waiting for you.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Just how do you expect to drive here, pick them up and get them back to the Air and Space Museum in less than forty-five minutes?”
“O’Neal needed the buy-sell agreement before—”
“I don’t care! It’s always something. Always putting your work and yourself before family.”
The response shot from his mouth before he could stop it. “One might consider sleeping with our daughter’s pediatrician putting yourself before family.” Damn. Remember, pause, then speak. Pause, then speak.
“You son of a bitch.”
Tom took a deep breath. Excellent chance Janie was within earshot, and the last thing she needed now after seven months of dealing with her parents’ break-up was another fight. He lowered his voice. “Look, I’m almost to the Roosevelt Bridge. Can you take her? I can meet you at the museum entrance, and take the hand-off.”
“My daughter’s not a football. Besides, David and I have plans. If you’re not here in fifteen minutes, maybe I can persuade Rosie to take them.” She ended the call.
My daughter. The change from our daughter to my daughter several months earlier had not gone unnoticed. Gayle, Janie, and Dr. Dave—he insisted his patients and their moms call him Dr. Dave—lived in Tom’s former house in Arlington, while Tom called a cramped, one bedroom apartment in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood of the city home. Adams-Morgan was known for its eclectic charm, a string of the best Latino restaurants in the city, and the violent drug culture along its borders.
Rosie was Rose Battaglia, Gayle’s sister. She, her husband, Gino, and their young daughter, Angie, lived east of Connecticut Avenue in upper Northwest DC near the Maryland line, the fancy-schmantzy part of the city.
Angie was the same age as Janie and the two cousins were inseparable. The previous evening, Janie had invited Angie for a sleepover, a common event ever since the girls were old enough to have their own room. Tom wished the sleepover had occurred at Angie’s; it would’ve made his trip from downtown much shorter.
The last light before the bridge. One car in front of him, an ancient beige Buick with Ohio plates. The light turned yellow.
“Go, go ¼” But instead of speeding up, the sedan slowed down, then stopped at the intersection. Tom pounded the steering wheel with his fist. He checked the dashboard clock again. No way was he going to make it to his house in time.
He could feel his face flush as his frustration escalated. He glanced at the glove compartment. Just a sip to take the edge off?
He still considered it his house. As part of the divorce settlement he’d agreed to continue paying the mortgage until Janie graduated from high school. His attorney had advised him he was being too generous, especially since Gayle was the one who broke the marriage vows by slow dancing with Dr. Dave. But he wanted his daughter to remain in the same house where she’d known him since birth—moving to a new place with Dr. Dave would’ve made handling her parents split even harder. Or at least that’s what he’d thought at the time. Now, sometimes when he was moping around inside his cramped Adams-Morgan one-bedroom apartment feeling sorry for himself, he’d wonder if the divorce attorney had been right.
The light changed. He hit the gas, tailgating the Buick, barely avoiding knocking up against its bumper.
When he rounded the curve, he saw flashing lights on the bridge, an accident backing up traffic to a stand-still. Shit. His deadline only a few minutes off, he considered abandoning the drive to Arlington, calling back and begging Rosie to take the girls. He could intercept them at the museum.
Or, he could try the Memorial. What the hell? Maybe Gayle would give him a grace period. He pulled around the Buick and drove south along the river. As he approached the entrance to the Memorial Bridge, he could see the usual tourist busses circling the Lincoln Memorial on the eastern side of the span, but fortunately the traffic appeared relatively light on the bridge itself. He made the turnonto the bridge and headed west across the Potomac.
Tom slid into the passing lane where a single yellow line separated him from oncoming east-bound traffic.
In the far distance, he saw a green Dodge minivan heading toward him from the western entrance to the bridge. Rosie had a green minivan. Could Gayle have sent the kids off with Rosie early? Why didn’t she call him?
He dug out his cell, glanced down, and scrolled to her number. He knew texting while driving could be dangerous, but he considered himself an excellent driver, and he’d developed a system where he held the phone up at eye level with his right hand so he could still keep his eyes on the road.
He punched in the text: on Mem bridge. Did they leave? He hit, “Send.”
The minivan was getting closer. He remembered Rosie had tied an orange ribbon on her antenna so she could spot her car in a parking lot. A red Ford pickup truck in front of the minivan wove back and forth in its lane, making it difficult for Tom to see the Dodge’s aerial.
He heard the chime, and glanced down to read Gayle’s message.
Yes. Couldn’t wait. R not happy. Meet at A & S.
Great. What could she —?
Suddenly his ears were barraged by the sound of car horns blasting and tires screeching. He looked up to see he’d drifted into the on-coming lane, heading straight for the green minivan. A split-second image of a dirty orange ribbon flying from the antenna filled his brain.
He jammed his foot on the brakes and cut hard right. Instead of responding, the Lexus spun like a Frisbee across the pavement, first crashing head-on into the front of the minivan, then ricocheting into the rear of the red truck. The force of the collision sent both the truck and the minivan hurtling toward the bridge rail. The truck hit the curb hard at an odd angle. It flipped up into the air, appearing to hover for a long moment.
The minivan glanced off a light-pole hard and rolled up onto its two right tires. Teetering next to the bridge rail, it was about to flip into the Potomac. A split second later, he thought he saw Janie’s face pressed up against the back window.
In a flash he sawa blur of red as the pickup dropped down toward the hood of his car.
He saw the blue and white Ford logo.
Then he saw nothing.
Tom Booker watched the numbers descend, his confidence growing with each passing floor that no one else would get on before he reached the garage. 8 ¼ 7 ¼ He tugged the collar of his green polo under his blazer, and used his fingers to smooth down his unruly brown hair. He wanted to look good for Janie. ¼ 6 ¼ 5 ¼Ding.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened and Robert “Bat” Masterson entered. Tom’s heart leapt to his throat. Masterson was the third named partner in Smith, Hale and Masterson, one of the most prestigious law firms in the nation’s capital and, at over 500 lawyers, one of the largest.
Approaching sixty, Masterson looked at least ten years younger. Tall, tan, with patrician features. Except for silver tinges over each temple his thick hair remained as black as seen in publicity head-shots from twenty years earlier. Masterson’s nickname derived from the renowned Dodge City gunfighter who at one point served as Wyatt Earp’s deputy, and was popularized by a fifties TV show. Masterson, who claimed Bat was his ancestor, loved the image of the tough lawman and didn’t discourage the press from referring to him as a gunslinger when defending his white-collar clients. His massive corner office was covered with sepia photos of the old west, including a three by five foot photo of Bat Masterson himself. Since Smith had died decades earlier and Hale recently retired, Masterson was the most senior of senior partners.
“Good morning,” said Masterson. “Mr. Hooker, is it not?”
“It’s Booker, sir.” He’d only spoken to the man once before during the reception for new associates held shortly after he’d joined the firm.
He saw Masterson was wearing the official SHM Saturday casual uniform: tan slacks, loafers, polo shirt, and navy blue blazer. When Tom dressed that morning, he’d briefly considered foregoing the uniform for more comfortable jeans, but thankfully had succumbed.
“Yes, of course,” said Masterson. “And in which department do you now find yourself, Mr. Booker?”
“Corporate, sir.” The firm’s policy required new associates to rotate through four or five legal specialties during the first two years, the theory being the rotation would allow both the new lawyer and the firm to find the best fit. The newbies also had to do a pro bono stint so the firm could meet its bar obligations to the poor and downtrodden without pulling time away from attorneys billing at much higher rates.
“Katherine’s not only a fine lawyer, but a good teacher. Maybe we’ll see you in WC soon.”
WC was shorthand for white-collar litigation. Most in Washington considered Masterson, a former U.S. Attorney General and Texas governor, the best white collar defense counsel in town, if not the whole country. The country’s voters had booted Bat’s former boss out of the Oval Office two years earlier, and Bat’s name was on the shortlist of potential challengers for his party’s presidential nomination to take on the new incumbent two years hence.
“Heading for the library?” asked Masterson. He was about to touch the button for the second floor.
Tom could easily lie—the chances of Masterson missing a lowly associate over the next several hours were virtually nil. But the key word was “virtually.” “No sir. Got to pick up my daughter for a short field trip.” He added quickly, “But I’ll be back in a couple of hours to make up the time.”
“Family’s important, of course.” His expression left no doubt that Masterson believed time spent by an associate on a Saturday morning doing anything other than cranking out billable hours cost the most senior partner money, and therefore was by definition not important.
The elevator reached the lobby and Masterson exited. “See you this afternoon, Mr. Booker.”
“Of course, sir.”
The doors closed. Tom took a deep breath, then punched the already-lit “G” button, willing the elevator to drop the last two floors before anyone else came aboard.
Once in the garage, he jogged to the silver Lexus GS430. Almost five years old, it had been his one extravagant purchase when he’d been hired by SHM out of Georgetown Law.
He started the engine and drove quickly up the ramp and out of the garage, almost hitting two young men in suits and ties. Both gave him the finger. Lobbyists, thought Tom. They still wore ties on Saturdays.
He turned onto M street when the annoying warning chime began, and he buckled his seatbelt with one hand as he turned south onto New Hampshire. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Shit. Gayle was going to kill him.
After catching the fourth red light, he reluctantly pulled out his phone. Talking on a cell while driving was technically against the law in the District, but everyone knew if the law were strictly enforced, the federal government and the businesses of all those who made a living off it would screech to a halt. Besides, he was stopped at a light so he wasn’t technically driving.
When he heard the connection, he grimaced, knowing what was coming next. With caller ID, he didn’t expect the courtesy of a hello. He was right.
“Where the hell are you? Janie, Angie, and two other seven-year-olds are standing here in my kitchen, waiting for you.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Just how do you expect to drive here, pick them up and get them back to the Air and Space Museum in less than forty-five minutes?”
“O’Neal needed the buy-sell agreement before—”
“I don’t care! It’s always something. Always putting your work and yourself before family.”
The response shot from his mouth before he could stop it. “One might consider sleeping with our daughter’s pediatrician putting yourself before family.” Damn. Remember, pause, then speak. Pause, then speak.
“You son of a bitch.”
Tom took a deep breath. Excellent chance Janie was within earshot, and the last thing she needed now after seven months of dealing with her parents’ break-up was another fight. He lowered his voice. “Look, I’m almost to the Roosevelt Bridge. Can you take her? I can meet you at the museum entrance, and take the hand-off.”
“My daughter’s not a football. Besides, David and I have plans. If you’re not here in fifteen minutes, maybe I can persuade Rosie to take them.” She ended the call.
My daughter. The change from our daughter to my daughter several months earlier had not gone unnoticed. Gayle, Janie, and Dr. Dave—he insisted his patients and their moms call him Dr. Dave—lived in Tom’s former house in Arlington, while Tom called a cramped, one bedroom apartment in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood of the city home. Adams-Morgan was known for its eclectic charm, a string of the best Latino restaurants in the city, and the violent drug culture along its borders.
Rosie was Rose Battaglia, Gayle’s sister. She, her husband, Gino, and their young daughter, Angie, lived east of Connecticut Avenue in upper Northwest DC near the Maryland line, the fancy-schmantzy part of the city.
Angie was the same age as Janie and the two cousins were inseparable. The previous evening, Janie had invited Angie for a sleepover, a common event ever since the girls were old enough to have their own room. Tom wished the sleepover had occurred at Angie’s; it would’ve made his trip from downtown much shorter.
The last light before the bridge. One car in front of him, an ancient beige Buick with Ohio plates. The light turned yellow.
“Go, go ¼” But instead of speeding up, the sedan slowed down, then stopped at the intersection. Tom pounded the steering wheel with his fist. He checked the dashboard clock again. No way was he going to make it to his house in time.
He could feel his face flush as his frustration escalated. He glanced at the glove compartment. Just a sip to take the edge off?
He still considered it his house. As part of the divorce settlement he’d agreed to continue paying the mortgage until Janie graduated from high school. His attorney had advised him he was being too generous, especially since Gayle was the one who broke the marriage vows by slow dancing with Dr. Dave. But he wanted his daughter to remain in the same house where she’d known him since birth—moving to a new place with Dr. Dave would’ve made handling her parents split even harder. Or at least that’s what he’d thought at the time. Now, sometimes when he was moping around inside his cramped Adams-Morgan one-bedroom apartment feeling sorry for himself, he’d wonder if the divorce attorney had been right.
The light changed. He hit the gas, tailgating the Buick, barely avoiding knocking up against its bumper.
When he rounded the curve, he saw flashing lights on the bridge, an accident backing up traffic to a stand-still. Shit. His deadline only a few minutes off, he considered abandoning the drive to Arlington, calling back and begging Rosie to take the girls. He could intercept them at the museum.
Or, he could try the Memorial. What the hell? Maybe Gayle would give him a grace period. He pulled around the Buick and drove south along the river. As he approached the entrance to the Memorial Bridge, he could see the usual tourist busses circling the Lincoln Memorial on the eastern side of the span, but fortunately the traffic appeared relatively light on the bridge itself. He made the turnonto the bridge and headed west across the Potomac.
Tom slid into the passing lane where a single yellow line separated him from oncoming east-bound traffic.
In the far distance, he saw a green Dodge minivan heading toward him from the western entrance to the bridge. Rosie had a green minivan. Could Gayle have sent the kids off with Rosie early? Why didn’t she call him?
He dug out his cell, glanced down, and scrolled to her number. He knew texting while driving could be dangerous, but he considered himself an excellent driver, and he’d developed a system where he held the phone up at eye level with his right hand so he could still keep his eyes on the road.
He punched in the text: on Mem bridge. Did they leave? He hit, “Send.”
The minivan was getting closer. He remembered Rosie had tied an orange ribbon on her antenna so she could spot her car in a parking lot. A red Ford pickup truck in front of the minivan wove back and forth in its lane, making it difficult for Tom to see the Dodge’s aerial.
He heard the chime, and glanced down to read Gayle’s message.
Yes. Couldn’t wait. R not happy. Meet at A & S.
Great. What could she —?
Suddenly his ears were barraged by the sound of car horns blasting and tires screeching. He looked up to see he’d drifted into the on-coming lane, heading straight for the green minivan. A split-second image of a dirty orange ribbon flying from the antenna filled his brain.
He jammed his foot on the brakes and cut hard right. Instead of responding, the Lexus spun like a Frisbee across the pavement, first crashing head-on into the front of the minivan, then ricocheting into the rear of the red truck. The force of the collision sent both the truck and the minivan hurtling toward the bridge rail. The truck hit the curb hard at an odd angle. It flipped up into the air, appearing to hover for a long moment.
The minivan glanced off a light-pole hard and rolled up onto its two right tires. Teetering next to the bridge rail, it was about to flip into the Potomac. A split second later, he thought he saw Janie’s face pressed up against the back window.
In a flash he sawa blur of red as the pickup dropped down toward the hood of his car.
He saw the blue and white Ford logo.
Then he saw nothing.
Mike, Hi, welcome to
The Reading Frenzy
Tell my readers and me about One To Go.
Tell my readers and me about One To Go.
The book is a
legal-political thriller with just a touch of the supernatural.
When a young lawyer
accidentally causes an accident resulting in the deaths of five innocents,
including his own daughter, he’s given a chance for a “rewind.” All he has to
do is kill five random strangers instead.
Mike, what an
intriguing premise. Where did you get the idea?
The original idea
arose because I heard parents say all the time they’d do anything to save their
child. As a parent myself I’ve said the same thing. I wondered, is there any
line a parent wouldn’t cross? Would a parent become a serial killer? I thought
about the near indescribable internal anguish I would suffer under such
circumstances and hopefully reflected those conflicting emotions in the book.
Mike you are not the
first attorney to become an author. What made you take this fork in your road?
Lawyers, especially
litigators, are showmen at heart. We love to strut in front of a jury and try
to persuade twelve strangers to agree on a particular point of view, so the
fork in the road is not very pronounced. I remember writing skits for
elementary school Christmas programs and have been engaging in creative writing
of some sort ever since. The commute from Annapolis to my law office in
Washington every day lasted about forty-five minutes, and I’d use the time to
dictate scenes in stage and screen plays while I drove. I’ve been involved in
local community theater, I sit on the board of the Annapolis Film Festival, and
one of my screenplays was just optioned by a major producer, so I remain as
active as I can.
Mike according to
your bio you taught school in inner city DC while going to Law school. Do you
miss the classroom?
I miss the kids. The
elementary school was located in one of the roughest parts of the city, and
virtually all of the students came from at-risk environments. They were
wonderful, loved to learn and no different in their exuberance from students in
any suburban elementary school. It was heartbreaking to know that so many of
them as they got older and entered junior and senior high school wouldn’t be
able to overcome the daunting odds facing them as a result of their
environment. As a result of that experience, I’ve become a big believer in
early childhood education. Maybe if we can reach these kids earlier we’d have a
better chance of engraving a positive impression that would help them survive
their teen years. (I’ve referenced some
of my teaching experiences in the book.)
Mike, are you still a
practicing attorney or do you write full time?
I have a couple of
clients left but most of my time is spent writing.
What is your favorite
time and place to write?
I’m a morning person
so I try to get to my desk as soon as possible. After about two o’clock I’m
usually done. I write in my office where I can look out the window at the West
River. The problem is the wonderful view—sailboats, waterfowl, amazing
sunrises—offers an easy diversion when I’m tempted to procrastinate.
Mike tell us about
when you sold your first novel?
Very exciting, of
course. What made it particularly special was that Oceanview, the publisher, is
made up of such an amazing group of people. They’ve been very welcoming and I
couldn’t recommend them more highly.
So you’ve just sent
in the final edits, what’s the first fun thing you do when you put a book to
bed?
Share a special bottle of
Valpolicella with my wife, Anne.
Mike your first novel
is also a supernatural thriller. Is your next work going in this direction too?
The next book, Red
Island, is an escape thriller. Hopefully readers will find the same “can’t wait
to turn the page” quality as One To Go.
Mike thanks for
taking the time to answer some questions. Good luck with the new novel!
My pleasure. And
thanks.
Connect with Mike- Website - Facebook - Twitter
MEET MIKE:
Mike Pace was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and received an art degree from the University of Illinois. After teaching school in Washington’s inner city, he earned a law degree from Georgetown University and was appointed Assistant U.S. Attorney for Washington. He was a commercial litigator and he served as General Counsel to an environmental services company. He now writes and practices law part time. Mike lives on the Chesapeake Bay with his wife and two dogs.
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Okay I liked his description of lawyers LOL! I can totally see it.
ReplyDeleteLOL indeed ;)
Deletethanks Kindlemom
Oh wow..what a premise. I am not sure I could do it. Fantastic and informative interview Debbie.I need to try this one :)
ReplyDeleteThis is on my pile Kim, can't wait to dig into it!
DeleteI second Kimba's emotion! What interesting premise, we all have wanted a do-over at one time in our lives, this doesn't sound like a choice I'd want to make.
ReplyDeleteI love your interviews, they are always very insightful and always make me want to read the books :)
Thanks Debbie!
Thanks Loupe, hope it's in audible for you :)
DeleteI have not read Mike...but the excerpt has definitely got my attention, and I look forward to picking up one of his books to read!
ReplyDeleteDoesn't this sound fabulous Kimberly?
Delete