Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

J. A. Jance is the New York Times bestselling author of the J. P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, the Ali Reynolds series, six thrillers about the Walker Family, and one volume of poetry. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, she lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

Now for the first time in one captivating volume, here are the first three mysteries featuring J. A. Jance's most popular and enduring character, Seattle homicide detective Jonas Piedmont Beaumont. It's a trio of tales steeped in the atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest that is sure to remind everyone that Jance is a master of modern suspense fiction.

In Until Proven Guilty Beaumont finds himself investigating the murder of a five-year-old girl. But his own obsessions and demons could prove dangerous companions in a murky world of blind faith and religious fanaticism as he discovers that he himself is the target of a twisted passion ... and a love that can kill. In Injustice for All Beaumont's well-earned vacation becomes a waking nightmare as he's forced to comfort a beautiful blonde after she discovers a dead body on a Washington beach. Suddenly a lethal brew of lust, madness, and politics threatens to drag the dedicated Seattle cop into the path of a killer whose dark hunger is rapidly becoming an obsession. And in Trial by Fury a naked, dead body is found lying in a Dumpster. What's most shocking is the manner in which the man died -- he was lynched. The victim, a high school coach, has left behind a very pregnant wife with a very dangerous secret. And a sixth sense developed over twenty years on the job tells Beaumont that this investigation is going to the lethal extremes of passion, lies, and hatred.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Sentenced to Die

William Morrow & Company

Chapter One

She was probably a cute kid once, four maybe five years old. It was hard to tell that now. She was dead. The murder weapon was a pink Holly Hobbie gown. What little was left of it was still twisted around her neck. It wasn't pretty, but murder never is.

Her body had rolled thirty feet down a steep embankment from the roadway, tossed out like so much garbage. She was still tangled in a dump ofblackberry bushes when we got there. As far as I could see, there was no signof a struggle. It looked to me as though she had been dead several hours, buta final determination on that would have to wait for the experts.

My name is Beaumont. I've been around homicide for fifteen years, butthat doesn't mean I didn't want to puke. I was careful not to think about myown kids right then. You can't afford to. If you do, you crack up.

My partner, Ron Peters, was the new man on the squad. He had only been up from burglary a couple of months. He was still at the stage where he was long on homicide theory and short on homicide practice. This was his first dead kid, and he wasn't taking it too well. He hadn't come to terms with the idea of a dead child as evidence. That takes time and experience. His face was a pasty shade of gray. I sent him up to the road to talk to the truck driver who had called 911, while I prowled the crime scene along with a small army of arriving officers. After the pictures, after the measurements, it took the boys from the medical examiner's office a good little while to drag her loose from the black-berry bushes. If you've ever tried picking blackberries, you know it's easy enough to get in but hell on wheels to get back out. By the time they brought out the body bag, I was convinced we weren't going to find anything. We slipped and slid on the steep hillside, without finding so much as a gum wrapper or an old beer can.

I climbed back up and found to my relief that I had waited long enough.The swarm of killer bees that calls itself Seattle's press corps had disappearedwith the coroner's wagon. I like reporters almost as much as I like killers, andthe less I have to do with them, the better off I am.

Peters' color was a little better than it had been. He was talking with a man named Otis Walker, who was built like an Alaskan grizzly. In the old dayspeople would have said Walker drove a sewage truck. These are the days ofsanitary engineers and environmentalists, so Walker told us he drove a sludgetruck for the Westside Treatment Center. That may sound like a high-classdetox joint, but it isn't. A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but if it looks like a sewage plant and smells like a sewage plant, that's what I call it.

However, Otis Walker had a heavy, square jaw and a nose that showedsigns of more than one serious break. His biceps resembled half-grown trees.I chose not to debate his job title. Despite his fearsome appearance, he washaving a tough time talking to Peters. The words stuck in his throat, threatening to choke him.

"You gonna catch that SOB?" he asked me when I appeared over Peters'shoulder. I nodded. "I got a kid of my own at home, you know," he continued, "almost her age. Wears the same kind of gown. Shit!" He stopped and swiped at his face with the back of one meaty paw.

"That's our job," I told him. I wondered what kind of murder this was.The easiest ones to solve are the hardest ones to understand, the husbandsand lovers and wives and parents who murder people they ought to cherishinstead of kill. The random killers, the ones who pick out a victim at a footballgame or a grocery store, are easier to comprehend and harder to catch.That's the problem with homicide.

I turned to Peters. "You about done here?"

He nodded. "Pretty much."

Walker pulled himself together. "You guys through with me?"

"For right now," Peters told him, "but don't go out of town without letting us know where to find you. With all this timely-trial crap from theSupreme Court, we may need to get ahold of you in a hurry."

Walker looked dolefully at the blackberry clump halfway down the hill.He shook his head. "I wish I never saw her," he said. "I wish I'da just drivenpast and never knew she was down there, know what I mean?" He climbedback into the huge blue tractor-trailer and started it, waving halfheartedly ashe eased past where Peters and I were standing.

"What now?" Peters asked.

"Not much doing here as far as I can tell. Let's go get something to eatand come back for another look later." The call had come in about eleven inthe morning. It was now well after three. I'm one of those guys who has tohave breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or I begin to foam at the mouth. I was getting close.

Peters gave me a reproachful look. "How can you think about food?Where are her parents? The medical examiner says she died sometimearound nine or nine-thirty. Someone should have come looking for her bynow."

"Somebody will come," I assured him. "With any kind of luck it will beafter we finish eating." As it turned out, they found us before we even got out of the car in the parking lot at G.G.'s. A marked patrol car pulled up besideours. The officer rolled down his window. His name was Sanders. I had seenhim around the Public Safety Building on occasion ...

Excerpted from Sentenced to Dieby Jance, J. A. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.