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Author's Note
If you're reading this, it means you bought or library-borrowed a copy of Betrayals at release. That's the only way you can get this mini-collection--my thank you to the readers who've jumped on board Cainsville.
Starting a new series after finishing a successful one isn't easy. As business people, we know the smart move is to stick with the tried-and-true. As creative people, though, we know when it's time to move on to new worlds. For me, the creative part always comes first.
Readers made the switch to Cainsville easy. Not everyone moved into my new world, but I expect that--the new place can't have all the elements every reader loved about the old one. But Cainsville gained me new readers, too, and I've watched as the series grew to that wonderful stage where readers hotly anticipate the next installment. There are few things more gratifying for an author than that. So to everyone who was awaiting this next voyage into Cainsville? Let me say thank you in the best way I can: with stories.
In this mini-collection, you'll find three tales of Cainsville. The Orange Cat is a Gabriel prequel, based on Poe's The Black Cat, and originally published in Nevermore. Bad Publicity is a Patrick prequel and is brand new. Lady of the Lake is a novella, also new for this collection. Lady of the Lake is set just after Deceptions, when Liv and Ricky take off for a much-needed vacation in Cape Breton. The art here is all original, and provides the first glimpse of my Cainsville crew. All art is by Xaviere Daumarie, who has brought my characters to life for about ten years now. At the back, you'll find the opening scenes for Rituals, the final Cainsville novel, coming August 2017. Don't read it until you're done Betrayals, though!
If you enjoyed this collection, let me know. Maybe I'll do it again next year
THE ORANGE CAT
"The killing of the cat was unimportant, though not inconsequential," Gabriel said as his aunt walked into the parlor with a pot of tea in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other.
"You'd better not say that in front of a jury."
"That I believe the cat's death played a role in the later crime?" He took a cookie. "Yes, I'm still deciding how to frame that in the defense. It is an important factor, yet it may be difficult to explain."
"I meant calling the death of a cat unimportant."
"My client is hardly on trial for killing an animal. I could bargain that down to a misdemeanor. This is felony murder. But it started with the cat."
"Such things often do."
Gabriel sipped his tea. "It's not that sort of crime, where one begins with small animals, and moves up the food chain. That's a natural progression. The cat? Nothing about the beast was natural."
When she waited for him to continue, he took his time eating his cookie. She glowered. Then he said, "It began two weeks ago . . ."
#
As Gabriel walked into the office at eight Tuesday morning, he hung out his shingle. That was the common phrase for it, derived from the Old West, when lawyers and doctors would use shingles as business signs. Of course, in 2007 one didn't hang out a real shingle. One put a brass plate on the door or a discreet sign in the lobby. Unless one was a new lawyer who time-shared the space and literally had to hang out his sign when he started work for the day.
Gabriel Walsh had passed the bar two years ago. To have his own office already did not speak of a brilliant career. It spoke of failure, of being unable to find a position in a law firm and hanging out a shingle in hopes of bringing in clients foolish enough to hire a twenty-five-year-old barrister. Or it did if one actually wanted a position in a firm. Gabriel did not. When he'd finished interning for Mike Quinlan, the lawyer had offered him a job. And had breathed an undisguised sigh of relief when Gabriel refused.
"I had to ask," Quinlan said. "You're fucking brilliant, and I'd be a fool not to try. But . . ."
He didn't need to finish that sentence. Gabriel knew what he was. Cold, ruthless and unscrupulous. Also driven, tireless and ambitious. That made him an exemplary defense attorney. It did not make him someone even Mike Quinlan wanted on staff. What Gabriel wanted was Quinlan's title: Most Notorious Defense Attorney in Chicago. And most successful.
Step one toward achieving that goal was hanging out his shingle in this rented office. Step two would be getting his own office. He could afford one. He'd put himself through law school running a gambling ring, where he'd played all the roles, from bookie to loan shark to enforcer--Gabriel did not work well with others. It'd been far more profitable than law, meaning he could easily find the money to rent an office. Yet he'd set his sights on purchasing one of the historic greystones on this very street. The neighborhood was safe and quiet and within a short walk of the Cook County Jail. Until he could justify such a purchase to the IRS, he would share this office. The rent was cheap, which could be explained primarily by the faint chemical smell wafting up from the basement. Gabriel pretended not to notice, promised he would never be in the office between sundown and sunrise, and offered pro bono legal advice to the owner, all of which resulted in a very low monthly rent.
