| Copyright © 2006, Kathleen
O'Connor Reviews For NO DOUBT by Kathleen O'Connor All in all No Doubt leaves little doubt
as a well done story.
This
book left me utterly awestruck at the brilliant way the author wrote
such pained, vulnerable characters. Each page made me ache over their
broken spirits and hope they find some measure of peace in the end.
The murder investigation is simply the catalyst for an emotional ride
that takes the reader through their trials and tribulations and their
healing is a soothing balm for both the characters and the reader in
the end. Sunny
and Joanne are great character that are brought to life in NO DOUBT.
Their personalities are honest and well drawn out, they are both show
realistic emotions and their actions are mature and full of strength.
Kathleen O’Connor has given them hard past lives, and manages
to bring them around to where they are accepting their position in life,
and enjoying where they are today.
Ms. O’Connor generates a vibrant read that captures everything in her characters, then paints them on the pages as if she were sketching a lovely portrait. With the on-going investigation of a murder case, the two (lead characters) are thrown into a world that is full of emotions and sensations that carried this reader right along with them. This poignant story brings two heart-tugging characters together and shows them how loving hearts can heal all wounds. This is definitely a keeper. Reviewed by: Linda L. FAR Reviews. 5 Angels Lots of well-drawn characters in a well-told tale by talented author Kathleen O'Connor. I wouldn't hesitate to recommend this book to any mystery reader who likes a bit of the unexpected and romance in their reading. A story I'm sure you will enjoy. I did. Reviewed by Anne K. Edwards, New Mystery Reader. Rating 4 bolts Sample Chapter For
NO DOUBT by Kathleen O'Connor
March 26, 2005 Detective Sergeant Royal Sun (Sunny) Cloud woke in the crowded recovery room and wondered why his throat was so sore. There was no one to ask so he drifted back into a drug-induced sleep. When he woke again, he was in a private room and his best friend and former college roommate was looking at him with obvious concern. “I’ll be all right,” he rasped. “Of course you will,” Nick Mancuso answered too heartily. Sunny gestured to this throat. “Think they took my tonsils out too.” “They used a breathing tube during surgery.” “Intubated me?” “Had to. Shoulder injury was close to the lungs.” Sunny had taken two bullets while delivering Easter candy to the city’s largest housing project. “Did they catch them?” “Yeah. Two fourteen-year-olds. They were crouched behind that low brick wall just waiting for you guys to come.” Mancuso was the Chief of Police in a small Connecticut town that averaged one annual murder and had no housing projects. Only an hour’s drive by car—but worlds away from the inner city where Sunny worked. “Anybody else hurt?” “No. Just you. You were the sponge.” Sunny looked at the oversized clock on the pea-soup green wall. It was almost seven. “Go on home. It’s getting late.” “I’ve got a hotel room across the street.” That was when Sunny realized it wasn’t going to be totally all right. Though highly drugged and foggy brained, he was still able to acknowledge that at approximately ten o’clock that morning, Holy Saturday had deteriorated into holy shit, and nothing in his life would ever be the same. “Did you talk to the doctor?” “Yeah. It was good news and bad news.” Sunny knew Mancuso wouldn’t sugar coat. “Just give me the bad news.” “You’re going to have some degree of permanent numbness in your right hand because of nerve damage. Your knee was also pretty messed up. You might need to walk with a cane—for awhile anyway.” Then Nick asked, “Where’s Mia?” “We’ve split.” Nick didn’t ask why. It was kind of obvious. At thirty-eight, Sunny married a twenty-year-old model and the inevitable happened—eight years passed, she didn’t mature but he aged. “Tough.” Actually it wasn’t so tough. He was tired of Mia’s narcissism and childish outbursts. For awhile he had enjoyed the glamour, excitement, and acquisitiveness that defined their relationship. But lately the marriage had felt as hollow as those chocolate rabbits he intended to distribute. And maybe that was why he always listed Mancuso as his next of kin. The two men were closer than brothers and even kind of looked alike—as much as a Sicilian and Mohawk could. “You’ll get through this,” Nick reassured. Sunny didn’t think so. Both men understood the emotional passages a gunshot victim navigated. There was that initial euphoric stage after having survived both the shooting and the surgery to be followed by denial, despair and chronic depression. Sunny felt himself fast forwarding into despair. His grueling job in Bridgeport’s Major Crime Unit was going to be just a memory. Though tired of his law-breaking clients—drugged up, dead-eyed people with cracked lips and flawed reasoning—he would miss his buddies. Women had always found him attractive, he would miss their attention. But what pained him the most was the loss of his youth. In mere seconds he had turned from a guy with limitless possibilities into a gimpy old geezer. “It’s over.” Nick whipped around and shook his head vigorously. “Don’t think like that. Your career isn’t over. You’ll do some therapy and then you’ll come work for me. There’s money in the budget. I’ll hire you as a special investigator. We need someone like you. Crime scenes get contaminated. Evidence gets lost. The new technologies aren’t always used.” Mancuso’s voice was belligerent and his eyes were becoming alarmingly moist. Sticking out his hand, he said, “Promise me you’ll come to Ridgely.” Sunny’s numb right arm was encased in a polyester sling; his left tethered to an IV unit so he clumsily extended two of his left fingers and grasped the outreached hand. He had no intention of ever coming to Ridgely but what was the harm in briefly pretending that there would be a second act—a professional resurrection. January 12, 2006 Joanne Gallagher lugged in the last carton of Coke from the car, and shoved the final microwave dinner into the freezer. “I can’t go out again,” she told her empty kitchen. But she had to. There was a Friends of the Library meeting scheduled for seven. She would much rather be going to AA where she actually had friends—she had no friends at the Friends. Still, she believed in keeping commitments. And as a new member, it was especially important to not be late. She brushed off her Kate Spade suede
flats, re-buttoned the navy wool pea coat her son had worn in high school,
ran her fingers through her long brown hair, and rushed to the car. Joanne sat down in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs, fanned out her notebook on the table in front of her then thanked Sue Brickwell, the library director’s secretary, for passing her the evening’s agenda. Sue was wearing an expensive coral silk jacket highlighted by a black onyx pin large as a demitasse saucer. Libraries were funny work places. The employees were either like the privileged Sue, who wanted to work in a cultured environment, or else they were struggling souls who worked several underpaid jobs and probably qualified for food stamps. Joanne had always thought the first round in a class war would occur in a library. She used to think such a clash inevitable and imminent. But terrorism had united the country and changed her belief. Hundreds of ‘God Bless America’ placards decorated windows throughout town. One had even appeared on the library door. Yet the Friends of the Library had grown no warmer. Ian Fisher, the Director, hadn’t yet made his entrance. So it was a small group with just three other ‘Friends’ at the table. Richard Elmway, a retired accountant, was probably welcomed because he possessed even less hair than the library’s director. The women, Hillary Field and Louise Curtin, were seventy-year-old widows in sensible fur trimmed boots. Joanne was well aware that the two were studying her and had come to a silent consensus that her outfit, belted stretch sage slacks with a tailored blue Fendi blouse, was wrong. She could just feel their disapproval. They must think a former alcoholic should not look perky and youthful. Joanne began to nervously chip off her nail polish, hoping that this flaw would make her more likeable, though she suspected only something as extreme as acute liver failure would really satisfy them. Ian Fisher sailed in, pumped Richard Elmway’s right hand, nodded at Hillary and inquired after Louise’s ailing schnauzer. Joanne waited to be acknowledged. When it didn’t happen, she comforted herself by noting that the Director’s brown tweed jacket was a little short in the sleeves and sported self-conscious suede elbow patches. Still, being overlooked hurt and her cheeks began to sting with shame. I don’t admire him, she reminded herself. To regain composure she thought of some people she did admire. There was Eleanor Roosevelt, who worked hard to right the wrongs in the world. Joanne’s son was a dedicated civil servant, and her friend Patti was a woman you could call at three a.m. and know she would be there for you. An alcoholic at fourteen, Patti had turned her life around at thirty and somehow managed to not only retain a refreshing zest for life but have the ability to reconnect with her lost teenage self. Sometimes she could be downright silly. Patti was currently infatuated with the male underwear model for Balencia Briefs and gave Joanne the current copy of Up Town Magazine so she too could enjoy looking at him. And enjoy him she did. In the first ad he was suspended four inches from a concrete floor by the pure power of his left hand. His bikini briefs were blue and one shoulder was deeply scarred. On page forty-one he rested a raw-looking knee on a worn wooden chair and leaned forward in a thinker’s pose. He wore paisley silk boxers, an aura of nobility, and appeared to be staring right at you as he bit into a Macintosh apple. Patti saw a ‘come hither’ look in his Native American eyes: Joanne saw only regret in them and felt an instant kinship with this man she would never meet. Ian’s bald spot brought her back to reality. He shifted, causing it to positively gleam under the overhead lighting. The little bit of hair he still possessed looked halo like. She wondered whether Ian was his true name. More likely he had been christened Fred or Frank and later created a literary image for himself. She folded her hands and tried to look polite as he droned on about the spring book sale. It was another hour before he reached the last agenda item. “We should consider installing a coffee bar in this basement area. Writers and poets could meet…” Joanne thought it was time to add some value to the meeting. Despite her years of near unconsciousness, she had always had a good head for business. Gene’s concrete venture, the Gallagher’s family business, would not be grossing millions now if she hadn’t helped him every step of the way. She and Gene didn’t live together anymore, but he still consulted her. And for the sake of her three children, who would someday inherit Gallagher Concrete, she helped him. “Have you completed a business plan?” she asked Ian. “Borders Books already offers such a forum just a mile away. You are also competing against Starbucks. And there’s a bit of a conflict between beverages and library books.” He was looking at her with disgust and maybe rage. Joanne realized he did not want her to speak up or add value. She was just the former lush with the plump checkbook. “Joanne, stay after and I’ll give you a copy of our strategic plan. You are too new to the group to have received it. But it will give you insight into my rationale.” His tone was scathing and her gut instinct
was to leave with the others. Instead she followed Ian upstairs to his
closet-sized office for the copy of his plan. One must be polite. She wondered what community had decided to reward the old fraud. Joanne carefully set the heavy crystal symbol of appreciation back on the desk, realizing she was jealous. She desperately needed recognition. If her husband had just once bought her a balloon with stars on it, it would have made her years of struggling with depression easier. But he never noticed her unless he was missing something. Then he would scream, “Jo, where are the new price lists,” or whatever else was missing. She had always been able to function at the business. Parenting was where she had failed. Her two daughters had forgiven her. Her son never would. Ian turned and she reached out to receive the plan, but his freckled, reptilian hands were empty. After a moment of regarding her with an angry, sneering expression, he grabbed for her breasts. Her whole body went on red alert. She shrugged him off screaming, “You’re disgusting.” When he grabbed for her again, she gouged his face with her chipped pink nails and pushed him backward. She ran to the car, gasping for air, dragging her coat behind her and knowing he would not follow. He had made his point. He didn’t want her challenging him at any future meetings. And she could never accuse him of this sexual attack either—who would believe her? She was the former drunk whose husband lived across town with another woman and Ian was the library Director. |