Saturday, November 05, 2016
Illegal Alien By Carrie Harris
By Carrie Harris
Genre: Sci-fi, thriller, comedy
Toledo police detective Audrey Vorkink has a reputation for getting things done. She might look like a middle-aged soccer mom (complete with bobbed hair), but she works hard and unwinds even harder. One night, as she’s meeting with her edgier-than-it-sounds knitting group, a hit-and-run accident turns deadly right outside the building. But something’s fishy about the missing driver, something positively…inhuman.
Audrey can run down any criminal, but what if this one’s from another planet? Can she bring this bad guy to justice? Is she losing her mind? Will she ever manage to get a decent haircut?
Find out in this snarky police thriller meets extraterrestrials (maybe) by Carrie Harris, author of BAD TASTE IN BOYS and DEMON DERBY.
About the author
Carrie Harris is an author and game designer by day and wannabe superhero by night. When there are no words to write or villains to defeat, she bakes monster themed cupcakes and mainlines caffeine like whoa. Carrie lives in Utah with her husband and three children, where they are secretly a super-team.
Learn more about Carrie’s books for teens, tweens, and adults at carrieharrisbooks.com.
“Get your hands off me, soccer mom!” Demetrious White yelled as I closed the handcuffs over his wrists.
My partner, Detective Ronda Ross, let out a snort of amusement without moving from her spot flanking my left shoulder. Her gun remained steady, trained on the grimy floor of the porch just shy of the perp’s feet. I muffled a snicker. Out of all the insults I’d heard in my almost twenty years on the force, “soccer mom” was my favorite so far.
“You have the right to remain silent,” I said, my voice wavering only slightly with restrained laughter.
I ran through the rest of Miranda at top speed. It wasn’t like White hadn’t heard it before, and he wasn’t listening anyway. He was too busy trying to get a rise out of me while I droned on about his rights.
“Man, you got nothin’. Why you gotta do me wrong, soccer mom?” he said. When he got no reaction from that, he took a different tack. “I bet you’re a killer in the sack. Maybe you and I could take a little time in the backseat of the squad car. I got an anaconda I’d like you to meet. Give you a little sump’n-sump’n, you get me?”
I got him all right, but this wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. By this time, I’d finished with the pleasantries and started moving him toward our police issue sedan. I hated that car—it looked like it should belong to a washed up G-man—but I was looking forward to stashing White in the backseat so I could relax. The walk of shame to the car was always a tense moment. Ronda was a fairly solid woman, and I wasn’t exactly a waif, but most of the lowlifes we arrested had us on size. White was no exception. If he was going to make a break for it, this was the time.
As if on cue, he lurched forward, trying to pull his arms out of my grip.
“Let me go, bitch!” he shouted. “Fucking lesbian cop. Suck my dick!”
Strong-arming him wasn’t going to work when he had about a hundred pounds on me, so I didn’t try to wrestle him back into line. Instead, I gave the chain between his wrists a sharp yank as he pulled away. End result: he nearly yanked his own shoulders out of the sockets. Skinned his wrists something fierce on the sharp metal too. He let out a yelp of pain as all the fight went out of him. I shoved him the last few steps to the car while he yowled about police brutality. It was a relief to close the door behind him, although that only made him shout louder.
“Well, that escalated quickly,” observed Ronda, relaxing from her ready stance. “Soccer mom.”
“Don’t you start too,” I warned. “I’ll put you down.”
She rolled her eyes. “You couldn’t take me if you invited the entire nursing home as backup.”
“So first I’m a soccer mom, and now I’m the leader of a geriatric street gang?”
“What can I say? You’re a woman of many talents, Audrey.”
“Now you’re laying it on thiiiick.”
We paused for a moment to grin at each other. It wasn’t so much about the banter—that was fun and all—but more about the fact that we felt good about this case. We’d built it up together, brick-by-brick. We had physical evidence up the ying yang, all fully documented and quintuple-checked. We had the murder weapon, fingerprints, and DNA results. We had witnesses with statements that almost agreed for once. No case was ever open and shut, but if Demetrious White didn’t go down for the murder of Ronald Montrose, I was going to eat my shoes. It felt good. Almost good enough to distract me from the cracks about my appearance. I’d just gotten my hair cut, and so far, reactions hadn’t been what I’d hoped for.
As we got into the car, I said, “And by the way, this is not soccer mom hair at all.”