Showcase: The Final Deception by Heather Graham

I love Heather Graham's novels so I don't know how I missed this series, looks like I've got some catching up to do.
Enjoy!

ISBN-13:
 9780778309437

Publisher: Mira


Release Date: 3-31-2020


Length:
 304pp

New York Confidential #5

Buy It: Amazon/B&N/IndieBound

ADD TO: GOODREADS

Overview:

How do you confront a threat that is hiding in plain sight? FBI agent Craig Frasier and psychologist Kieran Finnegan hunt an escaped serial killer in the latest explosive thriller in the New York Confidential series.

It was one of Kieran’s most chilling cases: her assessment of a murderer known as the Fireman. There was no doubt that the man needed to be locked away. Now Craig is called to a gruesome crime scene that matches the killer’s methods, and news breaks that the Fireman has escaped prison.

Amid a citywide manhunt, Kieran and Craig need to untangle a web of deceit, privilege and greed. They suspect that those closest to the killer have been drawn into his evil, or else someone is using another man’s madness and cruelty to disguise their crimes.

When their investigation brings the danger right to the doorstep of Finnegan’s Pub, Kieran and Craig will have to be smarter and bolder than ever before, because this time it’s personal, and they have everything to lose.

Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Two months later

“‘THOU SHALL NOT suffer a witch to live’!” Raoul Nicholson said. His voice was low, but passionate. He stared at Kieran Finnegan with eyes that pleaded for understanding.

Kieran sat in a chair across from Nicholson, her hands folded on the simple metal desk between them.

Nicholson was handcuffed, and chained to pegs in the concrete floor at the foot of his side of the table. Nicholson was forty-eight years old, a thin man, but lean-muscled, wearing a full beard and mustache and long, unkempt brown hair.

The man’s attorney, Cliff Watkins, stood behind Nicholson, hands folded behind his back, having declined to sit. He’d assured Kieran he would be there just to protect his client, though protecting him seemed a futile effort at times.

Kieran liked Watkins. He was clean-shaven and bald, somewhere in his early to mid-forties, wiry in build and calm in demeanor. De

spite his client, he wasn’t a grandstander; his firm had taken on the case pro bono, but he was doing his best to see that the man was treated fairly.

Trying for an innocent plea of any kind didn’t seem to be his game.

Nicholson could never be deemed innocent.

Watkins didn’t seem to be concerned with safety issues. He’d shrugged when they’d chained Nicholson down. He’d known a protest would be foolhardy, and for the record alone.

Kieran wasn’t sure the security measures were necessary. She didn’t believe Nicholson was a threat to her because he didn’t believe that she was a witch.

Or was it all a ruse for an insanity plea?

She started to speak, but, before she could, he was imploring her again. “Don’t you understand? The world is a disaster, because no one adheres to the commandments. Those I executed, they weren’t men and women. You must believe me. I killed witches. I helped rid the world of monsters. You must obey the commandments. ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live’!”

“What about, ‘Thou shall not murder’?” Kieran asked quietly.

“It refers to people!” Nicholson told her, distressed and shaking his head. “You don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you. They were witches. Satan’s minions.”

Nicholson had brutally murdered five people: two sex workers, a senior at NYU, a fashion designer, and an accountant. Before they had been murdered,the investigations into their deaths had proved he had delivered each one of them a simple message: I know what you are; you are going to die.

The bodies had been found across the city—one downtown, one in the West Village, one in Hell’s Kitchen, and two Midtown.

They had been burned, leaving very little to be discovered by the medical examiner. But even with the use of an accelerant, there had been enough left behind for the ME to report that, in each case, the eyes and tongue had been removed. That information, however, had been kept from the public.

The press had given him the moniker the Fireman. Once in captivity, Nicholson had never denied his guilt. He had been on a mission—and in the eyes of his Maker, he had done what needed to be done. He was happy to be a martyr; his reward would come to him, and he would be judged by “He Who Mattered,” or his “higher power.” What happened in earthly courts didn’t matter to him. They had wondered, naturally, if anyone else had been involved—his family, friends, members of his church. But Nicholson had told them time and again that no one else had been involved. They didn’t understand. The mission—and it had been a mission—was 

his, and no one else was part of it, nor did they know about it. Word had come to him alone, and he had acted on his own.

Nicholson owned a furniture repair shop in the village and had a rent-controlled apartment. He had a wife, Amy, and two children, Thomas and John; the elder had graduated from NYU, and John was now studying at Princeton.

His wife was devastated... She couldn’t stop crying 24/7. They had been a religious family, but she’d had no idea of her husband’s homicidal desire to cure the world of witchcraft. Or so she claimed.

His pastor, Reverend Axel Cunningham, had been similarly stunned, or so he claimed, as well. As had Nicholson’s employees at the furniture shop. And according to everyone at Annie’s Sunrise, the café where he stopped every morning for a doughnut and a latte, he was always kind and courteous and polite. Annie Sullivan, who owned the place, claimed that he was one of the nicest customers who came in, courteous to everyone around him, making people smile as they started out their day.

To everyone he regularly interacted with, he was just a wonderful person. If he hadn’t admitted his guilt, they would have all said he wasn’t capable of such violence. Even his attorney had said he’d never met such a sincere man.

“I’m sorry to press, Mr. Nicholson, but I’m trying to understand why you thought those young men and women were witches, and wh

why that allowed you to kill. I’m not making fun of you or doubting you, I’m trying to see it from your perspective.”

And determine if you’re lying, she thought.

He leaned forward, as if he felt he had found a friend, one who really might not just understand him, but also agree that witches needed to die.

“You must listen to me.” He paused to sniff suddenly. “They’re not even silly people who practice sanctioned ‘Wicca’ religions. Witches don’t dance beneath the moon in the forest, naked, bowing to their horned god there. Real witches are devious. They wear beautiful shells, and that’s how they manipulate men—and women—and cause them to do hurtful things. I heard the voice that told me who they were—and what must be done.”

“A voice? God’s voice?”

“Perhaps it was God’s voice. Perhaps He sent Gabriel or another angel. We all see God differently, but, yes, if you like, it was God’s voice. But the point is, I knew what must be done, and as hard as it was, I did it. I was told to be merciful—one does not retrieve a soul by cruelty. I offered them a chance to repent, and I strangled them, as quickly as I could. Then I cut out their eyes and tongues so they would no longer see the devil as they made their way to purgatory, no longer be able to answer his call. And if I am to die for the good 

I’ve attempted to bestow upon the world, so be it. I have done as I was commanded.”

Watkins spoke up. “You’re not going to die, Raoul.”

“If there are federal charges, I could be sentenced to death,” Nicholson said.

“No, Mr. Nicholson, what we’re trying to determine here is just what charges they wish to pursue,” Kieran told him quietly. She looked over at the man’s attorney. Watkins met her gaze with steady brown eyes.

“The laws of man must be used as man chooses,” Nicholson said. “I will answer in the flesh, as such laws command. I only killed witches. I killed nothing but evil.”

“You killed people with families and friends and long lives ahead of them,” Kieran said.

“The voice was very clear on who must be killed and when. You can’t imagine what havoc they might have done to the world. There are more out there, of course. They are the devil’s disciples—and you must be afraid, Miss Finnegan, you must be very afraid.”

“Mr. Nicholson, I beg you, watch your words!” Watkins warned.

Kieran was startled. She hadn’t expected to be on Nicholson’s list—in fact, she hadn’t even expected to be here.

In a case this serious, her employers, Drs. Fuller and Miro, usually did the interviews, and several of them, for the police or the FBI. They

 were psychiatrists. Kieran was on their staff as a psychologist, and most often worked when therapy was ordered by the court or the effect of that therapy was to be determined.

But because of the circumstances of this case, they had both already spoken with the accused. And they wanted Kieran’s opinion of his mental state, as well. “I’m in danger?” she asked, keeping her voice even and low. Was he a threat to her?

She thought maybe, if he were ever free again. “Witches—slaves of Satan! I fear for you greatly. You don’t know the danger they present. You can’t imagine what they might do to you! You are in no danger from me—you’re a good person. Anyone can see that. But you also must believe that evil is out there. I barely began to rid the world of a tiny portion of the evil.”

“Mr. Nicholson, I really want to see all this, see what you’re seeing. But your victims—I just can’t see what harm they caused anyone.”

Nicholson sighed softly. “You don’t see, but you will. The young woman I last freed...if they haven’t discovered it yet, she was spreading a deadly disease. Satan commanded her to spread it as far as she could. The man...second, third... I don’t remember. He killed his father. Satan told him to do so. They were all obeying theirhigher power, Satan. I was charged to stop them!”

Kieran sat back. She didn’t know if it was true or not. Could the medical examiner test a burned body for infectious diseases? If that had been the case, she didn’t know about it.

“How did you know these things?” she asked.

“The voice told me, of course.” He leaned forward again. “You must watch out for evil people—the true murderers, true spawns of Satan. You see, I am afraid. Afraid for you. Not from the voice I hear. The voice likes you. It commanded me to be honest with you—but danger lurks from Satan. His minions foster evil.”

Well, at least he thought she was good. And he was talking to her; more even than when he had been interviewed by her bosses.

Back against the wall, Cliff Watkins sighed as if with great patience.

“Mr. Nicholson, how did the voice, telling you to kill, come to you?”

“Different ways. Sometimes in a crowd. I’d hear the whisper, but no one near was talking to me. Once, through my cell phone. Once, I saw the name in the paper, and I knew. And when I dreamed that night, the voice came to me in the dream, showing me what I must do.”

He seemed so positive; so certain.

She jotted down some notes. There were fine lines to be drawn between someone who was incompetent to stand trial, and someone 

who was legally insane.

She was glad all she had to do was report on her findings, give her opinion on his mental state. “Thank you for talking to me, Mr. Nicholson,” she told him, and stood, nodding to the guard who stood by the cell door. He opened it for her; another guard waited to escort her out.

Cliff Watkins followed. “He’s sick, can’t you see? We can take a deal on this and get him into a facility from which he can’t escape, where he’ll be given the help he needs. Please, I hope you see the truth of the man.”

She smiled; she wasn’t sure what she saw yet. There was a lot of precedent for this kind of delusion.

David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam killer, had heard voices ordering him to kill.

And, in the 1970s, in Southern California, Herbert Mullin had killed because a voice told him that an earthquake was imminent if he didn’t offer blood sacrifices to the earth. Anthony Sowell, the Cleveland Strangler, had killed because a ghost had ordered him to do so. And there were so many more killers who had somehow justified their actions. Nicholson wanted her to see the truth.

What was the truth?

One way or the other, Nicholson would be locked up for a very long time.

She exited the prison. Dr. Fuller was waiting for her, ready to head from Riker’s Island back to the mainland. They would have plenty of time to discuss their thoughts and findings as he drove over the Francis R. Buono Memorial Bridge to Queens, and from there, down to Lower Manhattan. It was a long trip in heavy traffic. At least it was spring, and there would be an occasional pretty sight on the way. People who lived in concrete jungles, as Kieran did, tended to care for every burst of green tree or bright flower.

“I don’t think he’s lying. I think he believes every word he says,” Kieran told Dr. Fuller. “It’s hard to judge, but...” She pulled out her phone and the notes she had written after studying all she could about the man’s life. “He was an avid churchgoer, and his church, Unitarian, is truly fundamentalist. He never danced, celebrated a birthday, or did anything that was slightly fun—from what I can tell—much less indulge in drugs or alcohol or any other vices.”

Kieran relayed all the details of her interview with the accused. They continued to talk, and the drive went more quickly than Kieran had imagined it might.

“I just wish I could be sure,” Kieran said.

Fuller cast a sideways glance and smiled. “Don’t we all? Why do you think Dr. Miro and I had you talk to him as well?” Fuller was an older man with classic Hollywood movie-star good looks, though he was one of the most humble people Kieran had ever met.

They had made it all the way down to Lower Manhattan, Kieran realized. Dr. Fuller was going to pull over for her to get out soon, and they couldn’t tarry long on Broadway.

“Write it all up for me, and we’ll give it to the prosecutors. They’ll have to make the decision on just how to proceed,” he told her. He stopped the car.

“Did you want to park somewhere, grab something to eat?” she asked him. Her family owned Finnegan’s on Broadway, the pub where they had stopped.

It was barely 4:00 p.m., early for dinner, but it was Friday evening, and the pub would soon be entering cocktail hour, a wildly busy time.

“Thanks, but I have a romantic dinner tonight with the wife!” he told her, smiling. And then he frowned. “Oh, you should see the look you’re giving me!” he told her. “Kieran, shake it off. It’s the weekend. We deal with horrible things all the time. You’ll have to quit thinking about it. Nicholson is off the streets—that’s what is most important. Get in there. And enjoy your family, your beau, and your life!”

She saluted him. “Yes, sir!” He grinned as she slid out of the car. She did have to shake off her time with Nicholson, and she knew it.

Her “beau,” as Dr. Fuller had called him, was stepping out onto the sidewalk, obviously looking for her, just as she started for the

door of Finnegan’s.

“Hey!” she said cheerfully. Maybe too cheerfully.

Craig took a stride toward her and pulled her firmly into his arms. It was good; the warmth of him, the strength of him, wrapping all around her.

“Craig, I...” Her voice trailed off.

“I know,” he said softly. “Don’t forget,” he added, his voice husky, “I was on the task force that brought him down.”

For a moment they stood there, taking strength and comfort from each other, and then they went in.

Kieran’s oldest brother, Declan Finnegan, had brought in a great Irish band, the Boys of Shannon. They were playing and the pub was in full swing. From behind the bar, Declan waved her way. There was a little concern in her brother’s eyes. She smiled and waved in turn.

Then she saw that her other brothers, Danny and Kevin, were running around helping. They were apparently short on staff this night.

“Looks like I’d better pitch in for a few minutes,” she told Craig.

“Sure.”

She served Guinness and Smithwick’s and all the pub’s specialties: shepherd’s pies, corned beef and cabbage, pot pies, and more. And the music touched her—guitars, drums, violin, and keyboard. 

The night went on. She chatted and laughed. Danny and Kevin wound up sitting with Craig while she ran a bit ragged. Then she announced they were leaving. It wasn’t even eight, but her brothers could take over; she’d done her bit.

“You’re going to miss the band coming back on,” her brother Danny—one time bad boy, petty-thief-turned-historian and New York City tour guide—called to her, grinning.

“Maybe we’ll come back. I need a breather after work. And more work!” she said, reminding him she’d been the one waiting tables.

“Hey, I have a tour first thing in the morning!” Danny cried.

She shrugged, taking Craig’s arm and leading him out.

Grimacing, Danny stood, assuring one of their regulars he’d be happy to get him another soda with lime.

“Do come back later!” her twin, Kevin, called. “Be social!”

“Sure!”

The pub would still be open for hours—until 2:00 a.m. on a Friday night—but she wanted time with Craig. Though her fiancé had a Bureau car, they walked from the pub. It was merely six blocks to their newest home. They’d moved a lot in the last few years—his place, her place, a place together—but now they were in a new condo and she loved it. Loved that it was theirs and they had chosen it together.

Upstairs, she showered quickly, loving as well that while the previous owner had kept the architectural integrity of the place, he’d installed a new master bathroom with a seriously fine shower nozzle. It seemed to wash the feeling of the day away. Maybe she made it do so in her mind. She stepped out of the bathroom in a thick terry robe, walked over to the windows, and peeked out into the night. The apartment stretched from side to side of the building, so from the living area with its high ceilings they could look out at the skyline, just as they could from their bedroom, which was in an open loft space up a flight of stairs.

Stars were visible, and they were beautiful in the night sky. She heard Craig come in, and she smiled. It was Friday night; it was early. They had hours together here in the new home they loved like a pair of children excited over a new tree house.

She nearly said something about Nicholson but she didn’t.

Until he touched her, she hadn’t realized Craig was right behind her.

She didn’t speak. He lifted her hair, kissing the nape of her neck. She turned to him and the kiss came to her lips, and his hands were on her, teasing on the tie of the terry robe.

Soon it was gone, and his clothing was strewn everywhere. His lips were liquid and afire on her flesh, they became a tangle of limbs on the bed, and they made love.

They lay comfortably together. And for a very long time, they still didn’t speak. But then the day began to gnaw at the back of her mind. She was hesitant; she knew Craig had been on the case and he’d seen the results of the killer’s work.

“What?” he asked her. “Come on—something is weighing on your mind.”

“Talking to Raoul Nicholson today,” she said.

She felt him stiffen. “I don’t understand why Fuller and Miro asked you to interview someone like Nicholson.”

“They both spoke with him. Then they asked me to, as well.”

“He has to be a madman.”

“Or speaking the truth—just as he sees it. Or he’s creating an unbelievably good con.”

He rose on an elbow and looked down at her. “And?”

She shivered slightly; he held her closer. “I don’t know—there’s something about him. I’ve heard no one had any idea he was a killer, no one believed the Fireman might have been him—not his wife, coworkers...casual friends at the coffee shop he stopped by each morning. And yet...”

“And yet?”

“There’s something about him. He doesn’t seem delusional on the surface. But the way he speaks is...too passionate. The voice made him do it. The voice of God, in his mind. And those he killed 

were diseased—or about to kill the innocent. Well, you know his story. I guess the world knows his story. He’s been written up in every major media outlet in the country, if not the world. The Fireman—apprehended.” She grimaced at him. “At least you made the Bureau look great.”

“Yeah—because he immediately admitted his guilt, and they finally managed to match a fingerprint at a crime scene,” Craig said. “Otherwise... I’m not sure how my opening the door to his home would stand up.”

“You said the door was open.”

“It was,” Craig said with a shrug. “Anyway, what will you say at trial?”

“That he needs to be locked up—and never let out.”

“But is he competent to sit at trial?”

“Yes, I believe he’s cognizant to what’s going on around him. He’s just living in an alternate world, or as I said, it’s possible he’s creating the best crazed persona possible to get into a hospital rather than a maximum-security prison, where he would be held without a chance for parole.”

“It will be a while before we get to it,” Craig said. He remained on his elbow, observing her carefully. He added quietly, “Life—and crime—will go on. But, aside from all that, we’ve got to...”

“To what?” she asked. They were personally involved with several cases. She knew people led normal lives by stepping back when they weren’t working, but she and Craig had met because of a string of diamond heists in the city when they’d both wound up a little too personally involved. They didn’t ask each other to forget friends, family—or even the problems of those who frequented Finnegan’s on Broadway.

This one though...

“Step back,” he told her.

Yeah, she needed to step back.

She couldn’t help but wonder, though, if his thought hadn’t been for them both. She’d seen pictures of the victims. He’d seen the real deal.

“We have a wedding we keep putting off planning. People to see, places to go,” he reminded her. He was right. “We’ve been together years. Your brothers are starting to look at me as if they question my intentions.”

Kieran grinned and ran a teasing finger down his chest. “I’m sure many a night when we leave the pub, they’re well aware of our intentions.”

He smiled at that, drawing her closer. “So, the wedding.”

“Want to run away to Vegas?”

“I’m not into being hated the rest of my life.”

“Well, your intentions will have been honorable at the very least!”

“Seriously, it is absolutely foolish to even consider having the reception anywhere but the pub,” Craig said, rolling on an elbow to smile at Kieran. “You would break your brothers’ hearts—not to mention those of your regulars, who must, of course, be invited.” He grinned. “We should head back over tonight, let them know we still haven’t figured out a date, but there’s no question about the reception. Make them happy. And Danny can give us his latest historical discovery, and we can see what Kevin is up to—it is a Friday night, and it’s still early. We should be free and clear.”

“Sounds good. Maybe. Maybe not—let me mull on that.”

Kieran stretched and rose and walked to the window, just slightly opening the drapes. Their loft was on Reed Street, once part of an industrial complex, a massive tailoring shop, converted to apartments, and now apartment/condos. There were large plate-glass windows that looked over the street. Downstairs, the living area offered high ceilings and more intricate little architectural details. The apartment was perfect. She liked their neighbors. New York was amazing, and while she had traveled to many places, she still found her native city to be one of the most diverse, historical, and fascinating places she had ever seen. The view out the window was al

ways intriguing. They had something of a neighborhood; she saw the same people in the little deli down the street all the time.

Life is good. Forget Nicholson.

She was determined to do so. The night itself commanded she do so—it was beautiful. She turned to look back at Craig, and a real smile came to her lips.

Even after several years and many a strange adventure along the way, she still adored Craig. Her smile became a grin as she observed him with a trace of amusement as he lay stretched out on the bed.

“What?” he demanded, brows becoming an arch.

“You look like a pullout poster.”

“What?” he demanded indignantly, starting to rise.

“Not an insult, you look...great,” she said, and her smile became a laugh. “You just look like a pullout, a pinup, you know? All you need is a come-hither look on your face.”

He was long and wire-muscled and bronze against the sheets—and still naked. Of course, part of his physique was demanded by his job. She knew enough of his friends and coworkers to know that FBI agents did tend to come in athletic and fit—very fit. Naturally, they had to go through the Academy and keep up for their work.

“You want a come-hither look?” he teased. He wiggled his eyebrows. She wasn’t sure the look was really all that come-hither, but, then again, the way he was stretched out...

Come-hither enough.

She paused to adjust the drapes, and as she did so, she noticed that in seconds, the weather had changed. Dark clouds covered what had been a striking starlit sky. She shivered suddenly; it felt ridiculously like an omen or a foreboding.

It was just rain.

She made sure the drapes were back in place and turned toward the bed. She flew at it, flinging herself on his naked body.

He gasped, groaned, caught her, held her above himself, and laughed.

“My come-hither was okay then?”

“No, it sucked!”

“Ah, I see. But you’re coming to me anyway, right?”

“As you pointed out, it’s Friday night, and neither of us have work, and I already helped out at the pub, so we can head over when we feel like it—or not—and so we have a chance here for sex, which since we live together we should be having far more often, while we’re both physically here and awake. The come-hither look we’ll have to work on.”

“I’m crushed.”

“You are not. You’re overconfident, if anything. You’re certain your look is completely seductive and compelling.”

“I don’t know about that. Crushed. I am crushed. You’re lying on top of me, crushing me.”

She grinned and didn’t budge for a minute, then she pushed up against his chest and straddled him. “The big, bad agent-guy can’t handle it, huh?”

“Oh, he can handle it, all right.” Calmly he folded his arms behind his head. “Part of any investigation is to see just how far and where the other party is willing to go.”

“Far!” she warned. She eased herself around in a slow and sinuous motion, and then eased slowly back down on his arousal, drawing a groan and tremor from him.

She began to move.

He caught her arms, pulling her down to him, not losing a beat. “Big, bad agent, eh?” And, with a fluid motion, he rolled the two of them together, drawing her beneath him, and then their eyes locked, and their bodies moved.

They lost themselves in each other for a while.

Replete at last, they lay together, damp and shimmering, holding each other still.

Craig’s phone rang.

Kieran groaned softly.

Craig hesitated; on the fourth ring, he rolled over, found his phone on the bedside table, and answered it.

He listened; she watched the tension come into his face.

“What is it?” Kieran asked.

“Um, not sure yet. Just a crime scene that I must get to. Kieran, I’m sorry—”

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she told him, and reminded him, “Sometimes it’s me. You put up with my crazy family and an entire Irish pub. And still...”

“And we wake up together,” he said.

“And go to bed at night together. Sometimes.” She laughed softly. “It’s okay. Go—go! Get to your crime scene.”

He gave her a grim smile and rolled to the edge of the bed to rise, and then padded into the bathroom. “I’ll see you at the pub. I’m just not sure how late.”

“It’s open late. Especially on a Friday night. Oh, and I’m tight with the owners. It will be fine.”

She lay back down, thinking she could just go to sleep, relax for the night, if she wanted.

But she didn’t want to be alone right now, though she would never say so to Craig.

She wasn’t usually so unnerved. She’d spoken to murderers before, along with rapists, child abusers, and then occasionally those who really might find a way to go straight.

She’d get up and first go over her notes, because it was necessary. Then she’d head to the pub. She might not be needed to wait on any of the tables, but Declan was always there when she needed him. While she and Danny and Kevin had “day” jobs, they all headed to the pub when they were off, or when they wanted to be with the family, or when they were simply at loose ends.

Craig emerged after what must have been a two-minute shower; he was buttoning his tailored shirt as he emerged. His Glock and holster were already at the small of his back.

He barely finished buttoning his shirt before he reached for his jacket.

He strode to the bed and hesitated, unusually tense. He was accustomed to his work; he dealt with it well.

“I’ll keep in touch,” he promised. “And I’ll see you as soon as I can get there.”

Then he was gone. She lay back down, contemplating the darkened sky. To her, it seemed there was something else about it.

A whisper of warning.

She shook off the thought, rose, showered, and dressed. Later, she would realize just how dark and foreboding the night and the coming days would prove to be.

Praise:

Praise for the NEW YORK CONFIDENTIAL series by New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“A great read that will keep you on your toes…[with] family dynamics, danger and intrigue with a lot of sneaky twists and turns.” —Fresh Fiction on A Lethal Legacy

“This intricately plotted mystery…[is] especially enjoyable.” —AudioFile Magazine on A Lethal Legacy

"Immediately entertaining and engrossing... Graham provides plenty of face time and intimate connection, all lightened with humor, to reassure and satisfy romance readers. Though part of a series, this installment stands well alone." —Publisher's Weekly on A Dangerous Game

“Action packed, frightening and with a number of twists that only author Heather Graham can come up with. This is a storyline right out of the newspapers of today where evil takes advantage of the innocent for profit.” —Fresh Fiction on A Dangerous Game

"A thrilling, suspenseful plot that starts on the very first page and keeps you guessing until the very end! Kieran and Craig are an amazing crime-solving couple written with keen intelligence and sharp instincts. They demonstrate what a romantic partnership should be." —RT Book Reviews on A Dangerous Game

"A Perfect Obsession is an intriguing mix of mystery, romance and history. You will find yourself drawn into the characters and atmosphere from the first word and [will] want to find that pub and soak it all up.... Solid history background to get the flavor and feel of [this] particular world." —Fresh Fiction

"Intricate, fast-paced, and intense, this riveting thriller blends romance and suspense in perfect combination and keeps readers guessing and the tension taut until the very end." —Library Journal on Flawless

"Graham is the queen of romantic suspense, and her latest is proof that she deserves the title. What makes this story more fun than most is the relationship between Kieran Finnegan, who wants nothing more than family harmony and a functioning restaurant, and FBI agent Craig Fraiser, who wants justice. Sparks fly, and it's electric." —RT Book Reviews on Flawless

The Series

About the Author:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She's a winner of the RWA's Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers' Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, eHeatherGraham.com, and HeatherGraham.tv. You can also find Heather on Facebook.