Free Read — New Mystery Novella

The Story Takes Place in San Francisco's Chinatown

This is an experiment in publishing in which you have free access to a complete mystery novella (about 20,000 words) without having to have a special e-reading device or a special program.  It can be read on a laptop, desktop, pad or smart phone. As long as you can log into a website, you can do this.

I’ve posted this short novel for a couple of reasons.  The first is to introduce readers unfamiliar with my work to my writing. The second is to encourage all readers to explore the idea of short novels or novellas.  It is an interesting form and especially appropriate for reading on-line, especially in smaller time windows — on the plane, in the waiting room, or right before sleep.

Simply start at chapter one and scroll down for as long as you enjoy the story.  All the way, I hope.

The Dangerous Secrets of Ted Zheng is a traditional mystery about a young, Chinese American forensic accountant from Arizona who reluctantly gets tangled up in a Chinatown murder case.  There is something more than a murder, or murders, to solve. The investigation leads to a larger and more personal discovery.

At the end of each chapter, there is a comment section. Please feel free to express yourself as you go along or at the end.

If you enjoy this mystery, perhaps you’ll check out some of my other mysteries, many of them available for less than $4 in various e-book formats and some in trade paperback as well.  If you want to explore this kind of short fiction, check out Death in the Haight and Mascara: Death in the Tenderloin.

Click here for the free novella. That’s all you have to do.

Blatant Promotion — The Last Self Promo (For Now)

Excerpt: San Francisco’s North Beach isn’t a beach. It once was. But a portion of the Bay was filled in to make room for more buildings. Now it is a low-rise village tucked in between Chinatown, the Financial District, Jackson Square, and the lofty neighborhoods of Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill.

North Beach is half-tourist and half authentic San Francisco. The neighborhood wasn’t made to look like an old Italian neighborhood. It is an old Italian neighborhood. True, modernity crept in as families died off. A hardware is gone. So are a few family-style restaurants. But the chain stores were kept at bay. There are no Olive Gardens or Starbucks. No Borders. No Banana Republics. No skyscraping office buildings or condominiums.

The Beat Generation was born here and so, perhaps, was the idea of Americans hanging around in coffee houses. It was and still is, in a sadly decreasing way, the neighborhood of poets, artists, writers, philosophers and strippers. Most of the Beats are very old or very dead now.

One of them, old and very recently dead, floats in a shallow pond on a small triangular island at the intersection of three streets. A few feet away from the pond, across one of those streets, was the victim’s favorite watering hole, the Washington Square Bar and Grill. Lovingly called the ‘Washbag’ by its colorful and often celebrity clientele, the landmark has died and been reborn a few times. The cosmic jury is still out on Whitney Warfield.

Synopsis: Sweet William, a handsome, charming and discreet professional companion to the wealthy, needs help. A famous, but not beloved, novelist is found dead. William is the prime suspect. His only salvation is to uncover the real murderer. He can’t do it himself and he can’t go to the police. But, he can provide a list of suspects — prominent figures connected to San Francisco's legendary North Beach — whose secrets may be revealed in the victim's soon-to-be published tell-all.

Private investigator Carly Paladino agrees to take him on as a client. But the question remains: Was the devilish gigolo telling the truth or did she fall under his spell?

Whatever the case, Carly and her streetwise and skeptical partner, Noah Lang, stir up serious trouble when they try to find the manuscript — and the murderer. Much like North Beach itself, the suspects are trying to preserve the image they want the world to see. And it seems one death is not enough to conceal some very inconvenient truths.

Not quite a cozy, but this second in the San Francisco mystery series is a light-hearted tale. Death in North Beach is a “round up all the suspects at the end” kind of mystery and an exciting tour of the City by the Bay.

What The Critics Said:

This is a witty, very engaging entry in what promises to be a thoroughly entertaining new series. — Booklist

The interplay between Carly and Noah is delightful – talk about opposites! — George Easter, Deadly Pleasures

This is a perfect rainy day book! — Ruta Arellano, Sacramento Book Review

Good, dirty fun – with a delightful icing of San Francisco details. — Rap Sheet

The Carly Paladino and Noah Lang Mysteries have “the makings of a superior series. Tierney, author of the Deets Shanahan series, has a winner here.” — Library Journal

Death in North Beach is available in hardback, paperback and e-book at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Blatant Promotion — Tease From My Lastest Thriller

Excerpt from Good To The Last Kiss

The kid knew it would be tonight. He could feel it taking over, wrestling with his numb soul – a force out of nowhere, taking him to a place he didn’t want to go.

Not a whole lot he could do about it. He knew that too. He had tried to fight it before. But this was the feeling. The beginning. He knew it. And it would only get worse.

She had already flipped most of the contents of a childproof bottle of Tylenol into the toilet during the act of getting it open. Before that she discovered the dry cleaners had failed to replace an essential clasp on her black evening dress.

Julia Bateman took a couple of deep breaths and – having convinced herself that she had brought on a period of calm – looked around her studio apartment for a couple of stray aspirins. Nothing. Calm, she went back into the bathroom. Once her feet touched the wet tile, they struck out on their own and her body slapped against the floor. She got up slowly, checking to make sure everything was still working.

Everything worked. ‘See,’ she said with a phony brightness. ‘Every fucking thing is just delightful, isn’t it?’

She couldn’t find her face in the mirror. The old apartment building had no bathroom exhausts. Steam still coated her reflection. When she took off her towel to clean the mirror it snapped the bottle of Chanel No.19, shattering it in the tub, exploding like radiation waves from the detonation of an atom bomb and sending a cloying scent into her bathroom.

She cut a finger trying to pick up the little granules of glass from the porcelain. As soon as she was convinced the visible pieces of glass were retrieved, she ran the water forcefully to draw the rest of the glass and the dregs of Chanel down the drain. Afraid the smell would hang in her small studio, she ran to the windows to open them, again to discover a small movement in the drapery across the alley.

What was it? Had there been someone there? She decided not to care. She went back to the bathroom, pulled out a tube of Ben Gay and applied it to the bristles of her toothbrush.

Inspector Vincente Gratelli was off duty, shoes off, a glass of Chianti in his hand, watching television.

He was not a pretty sight, even when he wasn’t exhausted. He looked older than his fifty-five years and no one would mistake him for a retired fashion model even if his tie were tied and his shirt buttoned, and his hair combed.

This was the only TV he allowed himself – that and 60 Minutes. The news. The national news ended. It was the local news now. The stylish mayor was talking about the murders. Gratelli switched off the set, went to the window. Darkness was overtaking the light. There was a pinkness down on the busy street. The color of the sunset, the influence of the neon. He heard a siren. It was beginning. He felt a little guilty. He should be doing something about the murders. When you know it’s going to happen again, it seemed like you ought to just keep working – all day, all night. But there was nothing to go on. Absolutely nothing. So he finally gave up. Finally took a night. He’d eat. Go to bed early. Try to get some sleep. Get some energy so he could pile back in with a fresh mind and at least a mildly cooperating body.

None of them were easy. The homicides. These were particularly nasty. Some strange twists. The girls were young, too. The way they were left – that too was strange and sad and smarmy. Wasn’t messy. Not bloody or anything. It was something more indefinable. Something less visceral, more unsettling in its sickness.