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Isadora DayStar
When drug addled assassin Isadora DayStar finally snags a major interplanetary killing job she thinks it will both support her habit and reviswe her status as the laughingstock of her profession.
Instead, she embarks on a journey that brings her face-to-face with her tortured past.

Available now on Kindle.

Excerpt:
His name was Rafe Tucker, full-time flight controller and part-time connection for the rogue assassins of the galaxies’ underworld, most of whom congregated in Rho Nexus’ capitol city, Nova Cheiros. None of that information had been in the search categories she'd scanned before arriving.

Isadora wanted to ask him for payment in the morning but found it too humiliating and decided to settle for the dinner and bed for the night as payment. It was better than anything she could afford and that was nothing in any case. She gratefully stayed a second night but he asked her to leave the next morning.

"I have to get to work," he told her, shoving her out the door. She dared not insist on staying while he was gone though it hurt that he thought she might steal something. Isadora consoled herself with the fact that Rafe didn’t actually know her and distrusting a virtual stranger was to be expected.

She wandered the streets of Nova Cheiros the next four days, sleeping in doorways and alleys too intimidated to approach potential customers and too embarrassed to beg for money or food outright. She came close a few times but managed to avoid it until a strange phenomenon occurred at sundown one day as she huddled against a wall on the main street of the city. The clouds darkened with astonishing speed and people looked up and then rushed toward doors flinging themselves inside and slamming them shut. Isadora managed to grasp the coat of a woman running past her.

"What’s going on? Why is everyone running?" She asked the woman who looked at her wild-eyed.

"Hail!" The woman said. "The hail is coming!"

"Hail? What does that mean?"

"I have to get inside! The hail is acid and I don’t want to get burned. Now get out of my way!"

The woman tore herself from Isadora’s grasp and ran into a shop selling clothing of some sort. She slammed the door in Isadora’s face, locked it and sealed it. Isadora turned and looked about the now entirely deserted street; evacuated with astonishing speed and no one even looked through a window for her to call to for help. She banged on a few doors to no avail and then panicked as icy sharp sleet began to slash down on her. She realized Rafe’s apartment was a half meter away and she sprinted toward it at top speed. She stopped outside the building and dropped her last credit on the flash drive into the video COM, keying in his number.

"Rafe?" she said breathlessly when he appeared on the screen.

"Isadora!" He hissed at her. "What do you want? I’m….busy."

"Rafe, can I come up please?"

"I can’t do that Isadora."

"Please? I don’t have anywhere to go."

"Isadora, I have someone here. I can’t help you." He glanced over his shoulder.

"But it’s hailing! Look, I’ll sleep on the floor—I don’t care—"

"Isadora—"

"I’ll—I’ll sleep on the floor in the hall then. Just please let me in, Rafe!"

"Isadora, I can’t. Go ask somebody else."

"There isn’t anybody else! Please Rafe, please—"

He turned away and she saw a figure move past the screen’s edge. She heard a muffled question and Rafe turned back to her.

"It’s no one," he threw over his shoulder. "A beggar on the street," Rafe turned and looked directly at her. "No one."

The screen went black.

"Rafe? Rafe, wait please! Please…" Her voice faded away and she pounded a weak fist against the video COM. At last she turned and ran back the way she’d come, at length finding partial shelter in a doorway, curled into fetal position, arms covering her face and head against the hateful, burning rocks of hail raining down upon her.

Miraculous Deception, book two of Future Imperfect available now from Desert Breeze Publishing!

Excerpt: Gavin and Nick sat in Charlie's office, silent, shamefaced, bruised and most definitely hostile. The chief of police paced back and forth around his desk, beyond angry.
"Look at you - both of you. You're like a couple of bruised up kindergarteners. I don't know what to say. I have never - never - had two detectives fighting each other like two drunks outside a bar. What the hell is the matter with you?"
Neither man answered.
"Nick?" Charlie waited.
"It's this asshole. He moves into Payce's house and immediately starts boinking Amy Strand from Channel Eight."
Gavin opened his mouth to respond but never got the chance.
"You brought the press into this?" Charlie stared at Gavin, round-eyed.
"Well, not in so many words..." Gavin pressed two fingers against his black eye. "It was just, sort of...bad judgment. Besides that, nothing ha-"
"Bad judgment? I'll tell you what bad judgment is, McAllister. Bad judgment was the damned day I hired you."
Gavin said nothing. What could he say?
"That's putting it mildly," Nick snorted. "Payce-"
"Whoa." Charlie held up an open palm. "I don't want to know what weird triangle you three have going here, though it's a safe bet Payce has no idea what's going on-"
"She doesn't," Gavin said in a tired voice. His eye began to ache.
"You made damn sure of that you British fu-"
"Nick!" Charlie said. "Enough already. Now because of the scarcity of budget and personnel, I am going to let you both off, each with a written warning." Charlie sat down behind his desk. "You two are going t ohave to work this out or I will fire you both and I'll make damn sure you won't be able to get a job as a security guard in a parking lot. Do you understand me?"
"We're still partners?" Nick deflated a little. Gavin understood the feeling.
"Yes. I can't think of a better punishment for the both of you. You can work it out or resign. That's your choice now boys. You are dismissed. Get out of my office." Charlie ignored them swiveling his chair around to gaze out his window at the rapidly rotting city of Las Vegas.

Button Hollow Chronicles # 1: The Leaf Peeper Murders available August 2010 from Mainly Murder Press

Excerpt: If there were two things in Mrs. Ann Jolie Watson's life that she was simply incapable of doing they were these: obviously due to some childhood trauma, she simply could not accept that she could ever be wrong about anything, and obviously as a resulting quirk in her personality due to the afroe-mentioned trauma, she could not keep a secret. Not under any circumstances. Not even to save her life.
She sent Bert down Aisle 8 in search of coffee and perused Aisle 4 searching for something sweet and sticky to feed her insatiable sweet tooth, comparing the attributes of coffee cake and cinnamon rolls. Knowing that Bert would require actual food, Anne Jolie made her way around the corner toward the deli section. There stood her dream come true.
Standing with a pork roast in her left hand, was Anne Jolie's favorite gossipmonger and ever-so-slightly competitive friend, Miss Kathryn Eberly. Anne Jolie could feel the truth rising up all the way into her throat. Her eyes took on a sparkling glint. She bee lined at Miss Eberly.
"Why, Anne Jolie! What are you doing here?" Kathryn asked. "Isn't it a little late for shopping? You're usually here earlier!" The moment of climax arrived.
"Well, we have to have something to eat if we're going on a stake-out!" Anne Jolie could no more have held that bit of information than she could a piece of molten lava thrust up from Krakatoa. Anne Jolie also had one other quirk. She refused to believe that she was a bit hard of hearing as well and could not judge the volume of her own speaking voice. Not that she would have even wanted to with this last tidbit of information. She was subconsciouly counting on Kathryn to spread this morsel like butter on a steaming corn cob.
"Stake-out?" Kathryn nearly squealed. Anne Jolie could literally see the envy welling up in Miss Eberly's eyes. "What are you talking about Anne Jolie?" And who is we?"
"Bert and I," Anne Jolie answered casually. She played it like a violin virtuoso. Of course she'd deny it to high heaven should anyone accuse her of such behavior. She continued in a loud whisper, "Haven't you heard, Kathryn? There have been two murders here in the last 24 hours and I know who's doing it!!"
Kathryn stood gaping for a moment. Anne Jolie's friend-competitor first tried to comprehend what Anne Jolie was telling her before she could even begin to comprehend that Anne Jolie had any clue as to what, why and how it had happened. But she was not alone. On the other side of Aisle 3, someone else was also trying to comprehend what Anne Jolie said.
"But, but, Anne Jolie," Kathryn sputtered. "Who? Who was murdered? And why? And who would do such a crazy thing?"
"Hold on to your hat, Kathryn," Anne Jolie said. "Eugene Sweeney and Rhonda Smith."
"Oh Anne Jolie!" Kathryn wailed, putting a hand to her breast. "But...why? I mean, I know they were...well, you know. But why and who would do such a thing?"
"Well, I know who. And I know why. But I don't have any proof. And without hard evidence, I cannot get the Sheriff to listen to me!" Anne Jolie said way too loudly but not realizing it. "That's why we're going on this little stake-out tonight. I'm going to get proof if it's the last thing I do!" And with that, Anne Jolie dismissed her friend by looking vaguely toward the coffee aisle, pushing her cart and muttering, "Now, where is that Bert?" She left Kathryn in a small tizzy, still a bit taken aback by the incredible bombshell Anne Jolie just dropped upon her.
When Anne Jolie finally found Bert, he was carrying two super tall paper coffee cups filled with hot coffee and a wad of sweeteners and stir-sticks in his shirt pocket. She allowed him several ready-to-eat meals and he gave her his approval by nodding. He indicated the express checkout lane as his choice and they both got in line. Although Anne Jolie knew full well that Kathryn would be spreading the word, maybe even now, as they waited in line, yet there was something even she couldn't have known.
Four pairs of eyes silently focused on them, watching for any further tip-off as to who knew what. Two pair of eyes met each other and gave one another wordless instructions. The two other pair simply watched individually, one unaware of the other. But all looked at Anne Jolie and Bert as they walked across the tiny parking lot and got into the Mini. And then they all rushed to follow the two members of the Citizens' Brigade to their secret stake-out destination. One pair of eyes looked down into his jacket and checked the large semi-automatic handgun hidden there.

Crucifying Angel by P.I. Barrington available Nov 2009

In the desolate remains of Las Vegas, Detective Payce Halligan and her new partner Gavin McAllister must stop a serial killer who may be hiding an even greater evil. Available at www.desertbreezepublishing.com and Amazon.com
Excerpt:
    The movie played in his sleeping head, complete with sound and color. He could even feel the cool mist that threatened to morph into real rain at any moment. A small boy threw back his head and laughed as his father whirled him around and around and around.
    "More!" he squealed when the spinning stopped. "More! More!"
    In response, his father tossed him into the air and caught him, crushing him tight against his chest. They looked alike, dark-haired, with the same eyes and smile. I never thought I could love someone so much.
    "I love you, little man," he told his son out loud.
    "Loves you, too." Timothy planted a mushy kiss on Gavin's cheek, wrenching his heart into knots. The rain started with soft drops that grew steadily into slashes, half blinding them both, making the English countryside blur as Gavin carried his son back toward home.
    "Walk!" Timothy pointed to the ground.
    "No, it's too wet."
    "Walk!" The child insisted, wiggling to emphasize his desires.
    Gavin sighed and set the boy down grasping his hand as they continued down the gravel lane. How could someone so small and helpless twist your priorities and plans into nothingness and then unwind them again with a whole new set? They walked in the rain, Timothy gurgling and laughing all the way to their front door and stamping his shoes on the small rug in the entry to shake the muddy water off. The movie faded to black. Another reel flashed on the screen of his mind, this time a few years later, Timothy again outside, in the front garden waving his hand in large gestures and then staring at some gadget in his palm. The boy, eleven years old now, obsessed with every type of new technology that sprang forth from the minds of think tank occupants, every new item outdoing itself in months, weeks, sometimes days. As fast as the speed of thought.
    "Bloody hell, Dad. You've gotta try this!" Timothy ran toward the house where Gavin stood watching his boy.
    "Where did you learn that language? What do you think you are, some hooligan?"
    "Mum," Timothy said, unconcerned. "But you've gotta try this, Dad. It's bloody great!" He held out the tiny machine to Gavin.
    Gavin sighed again and shook his head. Leave it to Amanda to overlook Timothy's penchant for picking up anything inappropriate.
    "He'll grow out it," she laughed every time Gavin tried to intervene with discipline. "If you make an issue of it, he'll do it even more. Besides, I'm sure he learns worse things than that at school."
    Gavin hoped not. He paid through the nose for the private school Timothy attended, and not just for the education but for the safety factor as well. Cops' families were always in danger, but being the son of a Detective Chief Inspector made the threat that much more real. It did not matter that Britain had ages ago installed cameras on nearly every street and intersection in the country. Gavin knew that criminals could evade detection no matter what the technological advances created to deter them. Like everyother person in the world, he wished they would spend a fraction of their energy on something positive. But human nature dictated something else. If everyone did as they should, he would be out of a job.
    That might not be so bad. More time with the family, less time worrying about them. Not to mention being there when it counts, when they need me to be there. Get a real job. Gavin shrugged and held out his hand to take the silly little piece of machinery that thrilled his son so much. The final reel played out for perhaps the millionth time, and still he prayed it would end differently this time.
    Gavin fought the evening London traffic, heading toward home in Windsor . It had not been a particularly good day at the Yard. In fact, the word aggravating could be viewed as an understatement. Dealing with mistakes, attitudes, and communications breakdown made his head throb and his eyes hurt. His one consolation was dinner and a drink and maybe an early bed. He wanted only to check on his family and prepare for the next rerun of today's workday.There was no one to check on. The house was empty. Amanda's car sat in the garage and Timothy's school books sat on the table, an eerie silence pervading the house. Gavin checked every room, the answering machine, the recorder in case his wife had left a message for him saying they'd walked to the market. There was nothing. He stood in the middle of the living room, blinking in confusion, trying to figure where they'd gone, forcing the fears and panic to the back of his head where a small itch had begun to move around. The flashing lights of a patrol car outside stopped all thought and Gavin took five stiff steps to the door. The rookie, Gavin could not recall his name, stood at half-attention on the doorstep, unsmiling.
    "Sir, if you'll come with me back to headquarters—"
    He got no further. Gavin caught him by the collar in a death grip, lifting him off his feet and making the young officer's face drain white in shock.
    "Where are they?" he whispered hoarsely into the young man's face.
    "Sir, if you'll just—"
    "I said where — are — they?"
    "Sir, I can't — please sir, just come with me."
    Gavin tossed the rookie aside, leaped into his vehicle and slammed on the accelerator, fishtailing out of his driveway and out onto the M4. He made the fifty-kilometer trip in sixteen minutes and ran up the stairs into the station building. The last images he remembered clearly were the horrified faces of his staff.

SellingBooks.com article excerpts

Why An Author Should Embrace Deadlines by Loni Emmert
This week, with my busy day job (in a career that I love) and my hobby-morphing-into-second-job writing, I have so many deadlines that thinking about them became overwhelming. Looking at my schedule from a distance I realized that those dates marked in blood-red bold print—deadlines—are a blessing rather than a bother. To ensure that my attitude remained positive I decided to make a list of the reasons that I, as a writer, should appreciate deadlines rather than fear them.
Character Building Blocks by Loni Emmert
While going over a manuscript this past month my writing partner and I have had some serious discussions regarding characters and what drives them to do what they do. As writers, we all know that our characters can develop their own quirks and do things that we, the author, certainly did not intend for them to do. But that’s why we grow to love them, because at some point they become an actual person to us and, optimistically, to our readers. However, in the early days of their creation we need to fill the empty, plastic mold with the silly putty that will begin to shape them. It’s easy to describe hair and eye color, height, weight, scars or tattoos and any other physical attributes that we can imagine. What is not always easy is to delve deep into their psyche and find those childhood traumas or life-altering adult decisions that are the building blocks of our characters’ personality—quirks and all.
Meet Me at Inspiration Point by Loni Emmert
I love to peruse the websites of police and sheriff offices to research crimes, suspects and victims. There are often press releases with details about crimes they are investigating. Other useful websites that provide information on missing persons, cold cases and unidentified remains are The Charley Project (www.charleyproject.org) and The Doe Network (www.doenetwork.org). One warning: the photos on the site are not graphic, but the details and descriptions of the found remains can be. I’ve spent time wandering through cemeteries in places like England and Massachusetts reading headstones and wondering about the lives of their namesakes. Any cemetery will do when searching for story ideas. Take your time, wander around and read the grave markers: each grave is itself a profusion of life and death from which to draw. These visits can also help to inspire adding paranormal touches to a story.

Suspense Magazine