Nov 082023
 
Just in time for gift-giving! Special limited offer on all four books, signed, and bound into a set.

Cost is $48.00 plus shipping. This offer is only available by emailing nikki@nikkistern.com.

Oct 042023
 

 

His name was John, aka Jack Frost. He would become the first victim in a multi-state killing spree that put law enforcement on high alert, involved multiple agencies, and placed Sam Tate in the center of the most dangerous case of her career.

Frost never had a clue.

On his last day on earth, the Sacramento homicide detective reported to his precinct as usual. It was a beautiful April morning. He had little on his plate, just one open case. Six months from retirement, he wasn’t choosing to rest on his laurels, but if work slowed from time to time, he wasn’t about to argue.

Spring fever had taken hold of most of the officers on duty and no wonder. People were finally rid of their pandemic masks and only the surliest naysayers grumbled, “until the next one.” Sacramento had a lot going for it—the mountains on one side, the ocean on the other, plenty of entertainment, strong sports teams, and a growing economy. The weeks between late March and mid-June, though, were in a class by themselves, with mild temperatures, plenty of sunshine, and wildflowers in abundance.

Frost stood outside the precinct at midday, indulging in a cigarette and considering his good fortune. He felt content, a state of grace he never expected to reach. Yes, he missed his Ellen. They’d been married twenty years and she’d been gone ten. Memories consoled him, as did the presence in his life of his daughter and her husband, a good man, and their two well-adjusted children.
His professional life had been likewise satisfactory. He loved his work. Fairly routine, except for one case twenty-two years earlier that had briefly made him a statewide celebrity. A perp (Frost still thought of assailants that way) who the media dubbed the Back-To-School Killer had murdered five teachers, two in September, two in January after the winter break, and another following spring break. The women were stabbed in the eye and left in front of three different middle schools, along with black and white notebooks. Some of the bodies were discovered by students arriving early. The community was afraid and outraged.

After the first death, Frost and his partner, Lonnie DeMarco, looked for a connection between the victim and the killer. Maybe he was an ex-boyfriend or husband. Maybe he’d been her student, someone who felt unfairly singled out or ignored in class. Maybe she’d expelled his son.

When the second body dropped ten days later, Frost began to consider the bigger picture. The murderer had a problem with teachers in general. Was he a serial killer? Bodies three and four confirmed it. The California Bureau of Investigation came on to help. Still, no break in the case.

By that time, most of the state knew about the Back-To-School Killer. Officials considered canceling the annual state educators conference, scheduled for downtown. When CBI and local police promised both visible and undercover protection, they relented.
Frost posed as an elementary-school history teacher. He made friends, attended a few lectures, and kept an eye out for anyone out of place.

The second day, he noticed a small man with a large briefcase skulking through the crowded hallways. When the man reached inside to retrieve a piece of paper, Frost contrived to bump into him.

As he’d expected, the contents of the briefcase spilled onto the carpet: a dozen notebooks, a small bottle of chloroform, and a lethal-looking stiletto. The piece of paper contained the names of twelve attendees, all women.

The suspect turned out to be a long-ago student traumatized by a grade-school teacher. He kept his phobia repressed until his daughter became engaged to a professor. The killer confessed on the spot and pleaded guilty in a packed courthouse some months later.

Frost and DeMarco were feted and offered promotions. Each declined, but they agreed to represent the department (along with the chief, naturally) to the media. There was a trip to the Governor’s Mansion, a couple of national interviews, and a ceremony where the mayor gave them keys to the city as Frost’s proud family looked on.

Nothing remotely as exciting ever happened again. Cancer took both his partner and his wife. His daughter married and moved to Los Angeles. He spent the holidays with his grandkids and tried to imagine a life of retirement. The daughter had it on good authority that security jobs in LA were plentiful, especially for a one-time cop with a headline-making case on his resume.

Frost clocked out at five, picked up Chinese, and headed to his one-story, three-bedroom house. It had always felt a little cramped. Now he rattled around in it. If he sold while the market was hot, he might be able to afford a tiny condo in Los Angeles.

At the edge of nightfall, he heard a knock. He opened the door to a smiling face. “Hi,” the visitor said, handing him a black and white notebook.

Frost looked down. Rookie mistake. He jerked his head up in time to see the sharp object pierce his cornea and make its way into his brain.

Nov 102021
 

Freeze Before Burning: A Sam Tate Mystery is the third book in the Sam Tate Mystery Series and will be released December 8th.


Ed Rizzo slid his ample body into the ornate confessional, crossed himself, and pushed a strand of thinning hair off his forehead. “Forgive me, Father,” he intoned, “for I have sinned, although I’m pretty sure God will cut me some slack even if my wife won’t, if you take my meaning.”

At ten in the morning, the sanctuary was deserted. Good. He didn’t need anyone listening to his confession, which he unloaded to the figure who sat beside him in the confessional over the next ten minutes.

Even as he talked, he considered who might be on the other side of the grate. Rizzo couldn’t make out the features of the man. He wondered if he’d landed the new priest. Maybe a younger person would make light of his transgressions, which mostly related to his perfectly legitimate reaction to his obnoxious neighbor, Frank Pagonis.

Rizzo had his justifications lined up. He hadn’t survived more than a year of enforced quarantine with three kids and a demanding wife, never mind the missing paycheck for a while, only to put up with the stolen newspapers, a lawn mower returned with a bent blade, and a television loud enough to wake the dead.

“But when his dog, which, by the way, he refuses to leash and that’s against the law, went and dug up my tomato plants, yeah, I sprayed some stuff on whatever the mutt left. Not enough to kill the animal, you understand. He can’t help it if he has a jerk for an owner. I would have sprayed his owner’s food if I could have. The point I’m making is, the dog got sick, but it didn’t die, okay?”

Rizzo cocked his head, thinking he might have heard a faint sigh.

“Now he’s coming around with a pile of vet bills and talking about suing me. I told him to take his threats and shove them. I tell you, Padre, I am this close to beating that smug face or maybe twisting that scrawny neck of his. My wife claims that kind of thinking is sinful. I don’t think it’s as bad as doing the deed. I haven’t told her about poisoning the dog, but sparing her the details isn’t the same as lying, is it?”

Nothing. The guy had probably fallen asleep. The confessional was stuffy, and Rizzo experienced a touch of claustrophobia. Time to move things along.

“If you can just suggest a penance to perform, I’ll get it covered. Then I can be on my way.”
He stopped talking, suddenly aware of the silence, how absolute and enveloping it was. The noises of the city street outside had receded. He could hear himself breathing.

“Hey, Father? You all right in there?” Rizzo scratched the grill dividing the two sides of the confessional. His head was pounding now, and he felt vaguely dizzy.

“I know I’ve been yakking a lot. How about we wrap this up, okay?” Again, no response. It occurred to Rizzo that the other man hadn’t said a word the entire time. What if the good father had suffered a heart attack?

He hoisted his bulk off the narrow bench and pushed himself out of the tiny space. The other side of the confessional had its own entrance. He rapped on the door, then tried the handle, more out of instinct than anything else. It turned in his hand, and he pulled.

The black-garbed figure sat with head bowed, hands folded in his lap as if in prayer or contemplation. Or asleep. Rizzo put a tentative hand on the man’s shoulder. With a sigh like a punctured balloon, the black-robed figure tipped sideways off the bench, fell to the floor, and rolled like a blow-up toy.

Startled, Rizzo jumped back. Stay cool, he told himself.

He bent over with an umph and put two fingers to the priest’s throat to search for a pulse. He expected to feel cold, not the scalding heat that burned his skin.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled, forgetting for a moment where he was. He waved his blistered hand in the air and hopped around until a wave of nausea stopped.

With his foot, he nudged the body so that it rolled onto its back. He stared, speechless for once, at the face of the priest. Then he stepped farther back, pulled out his cell phone, punched in 9-1-1, and gave his report to the dispatcher in a calm, measured tone.

He agreed to wait for the police and medical authorities just outside the church. He even accepted the suggestion that he might dissuade others from entering until help arrived.

Without looking again at the body of the priest, Ed Rizzo crossed himself. He walked slowly to the front door, stepped into the fresh air, and threw up.


Information on the Sam Tate Mystery Series can be found here.

To pre-order this book, click here.