A Game of Kill

Book 2: Rockford Security Series

by L.A. Dobbs

Genres: Suspense; Private Investigators; Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

(Formerly Fatal Games)

A series of murders that mimic a popular video game pits an ambitious journalist against a devious killer in this gripping mystery that will keep you on the edge of your seat.

When budding journalist Laura Rockford stumbles across a bizarre murder scene in downtown Vegas she finally gets her chance to advance her journalism career from fluff pieces to serious news. Laura has a lead that even the police don’t know about and she flings herself head-first into digging up everything she can to break the case, including confronting her number one suspect the reclusive computer nerd who invented the video game that the murders are staged to mimic.

But Laura gets more than she expected in computer genius Mike McQuade. As a bond forms between them Laura doesn’t realize there’s a reason Mike is so reclusive - he has a deep, dark secret and he can’t let anyone get close enough to discover it.

With the body count rising, Laura soon discovers that some secrets should stay buried and trusting the wrong person could have deadly consequences.

NOTE: This book was previous published with the same title under my pen name Lee Anne Jones.

Release date: June 20, 2019

Print pages: 250

Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) escapist/easy read (1) high stakes (1) profanity-laced (1)

Sample

Chapter 1

 

 

Death is never pretty.

 

Mike McQuade stared into the bright turquoise waters of the El Cortez swimming pool and would have chuckled, would have shaken his head ruefully and shrugged his shoulders at the absurdity of his situation. Would have, except for the body in front of him—a single, jagged stab wound straight through the heart. The air around him smelled of copper and chlorine and condemnation.

 

Using his foot, he carefully rolled her over onto her back. The tiled floor around her was wet, but she was bone dry. He was careful not to disturb any of the fine details that had been staged so precisely or the blood pooled around her chest. He already knew what he’d see, already knew exactly the face that would stare back at him, already regretted his decision, his actions.

 

Still, when her face came into view, her kohl-rimmed, glassy blue eyes locked on him—forever shocked, forever damning. They reminded him of another set of eyes, just as dazed and accusing, just as familiar, just as dead. That one had been his fault too. Another check for his should-have-seen-it-coming column. Another mark against him.

 

A sound echoed from somewhere in the distance and Mike glanced up quick before refocusing his attention back to the woman. He didn’t have much time. Someone would discover this gruesome scene soon enough, and he wanted to make sure he was long gone by then. But first he wanted to retain as much detail about her as possible. It would help him later.

 

My redemption rests in those details.

 

She was dressed in 1940s finery, her dark hair had been meticulously wound into Victory rolls, and her lips were painted bright red. The woman looked like she belonged on a Vargas calendar or a Hollywood noir film set. Her outfit had been planned down to the last detail—crimson polka-dot calf-length cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline to accentuate her curves, fishnet hose with the seams up the back and black, high-heeled Mary Janes. Even the black feather barrette decorating her elaborate coiffure was all done to perfection and all designed to send a message.

 

A message Mike had seen before.

 

After all, he’d created it.

 

He glanced at the cryptic text still highlighting the screen of his disposable cell phone, the words a jumble of 1940s slang—Dumb Dora Framed a Fall. Oops. She’s All Wet Now—then back to the corpse once more. Even distorted by death, her pretty face still had him recalling happier times, times before he’d become the privacy hoarding hermit he was today.

 

Voices echoed down the quiet hall leading toward the pool, and Mike knew his quiet interlude had ended. Wouldn’t be long now until this place swarmed with cops and investigators and the press.

 

God, the press.

 

Always hounding him, always chasing him. Never satisfied, never truthful.

 

After one final nod to the woman sprawled poolside, Mike pushed to his feet and hurried over to a trash can along the far wall near the exit, his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His hard-won privacy was far too precious to risk it all now, no matter how tempting.

 

Nothing more I can do here.

 

He repeated the phrase over and over in his head, like maybe if he said it enough he’d actually believe it someday. Not now. Not really. But someday. If he was lucky.

 

Once he performed a factory reset on the phone to erase his information, Mike wiped it down to remove any traceable fingerprints. All those crazy fans and hackers who stalked him day and night would have a field day if they saw him now. One more reason he used disposable phones. New number, new identity, new chance to escape the ghosts that haunted him. At least for those few brief days before it was time to switch again.

 

Before tossing the device into the trash, he performed one last service for the woman. One last noble act in a string of actions that had been anything but chivalrous. He dialed 9-1-1 then dumped the phone in the garbage and slipped out the shadowed side exit just as two female hotel employees walked in.

 

Their horrified screams chased him into the darkness outside.