Hello lovelies and welcome to my stop on the blog tour for Death before coffee, today I’ll be bringing you an exclusive excerpt, but first a little about the book:
Title: Death Before Coffee (Mike O’Shea 2) by Desmond P. Ryan
Date Published: 8th February 2019
Genre: Police Procedural
By 2:27 on a Thursday afternoon, the one-legged man from Room 8 at 147 Loxitor Avenue has been beaten to death with a lead pipe. Twenty-eight minutes later, Detective Mike O’Shea is testifying in a stuffy courtroom, unaware that, within an hour, he will be standing in an alleyway littered with beer cans and condoms while his new partner—the man who saved his life thirteen years ago—flicks bugs off of a battered corpse with a ballpoint pen. When a rogue undercover copper prematurely hauls in the prime suspect, Mike blows a fuse, resulting in an unlikely rapport developing between him and the lead homicide detective sergeant, a woman known for her stilettos and razor sharp investigative skills. At the end of his seventy-two-hour shift, three men are dead and Mike O’Shea is floating in and out of consciousness in an emergency room hallway, two women by his side.
Death Before Coffee, the second book in the Mike O’Shea Crime Fiction Series, weaves a homicide investigation through the life of an inner-city police detective intent on balancing his responsibilities as a son, brother, and newly single father with his sworn oath of duty. When faced with death, Mike is forced to make decisions that stir up old memories, compelling him to confront his demons while fighting the good fight.
You can buy your copy here:
But for the screeching of the tires as Amanda wove in and out of traffic, the car was silent again.
“Michael!” Amanda yelled. “Fucking talk to me, Michael!”
“Your son, Mike. Tell me about your son. Yeah, I know. Go fuck yourself!” Amanda yelled out the window as she narrowly escaped being T-boned by a car that had the right-of-way as she raced through yet another red light. “Where the hell is a cop when you need one? An escort would be nice about now,” she muttered to herself. Then, “Tell me about your son, Mike. What’s his name?”
“Max, zizz namez Max,” Mike slurred.
“Okay. Tell me about Max.”
“Don’t you fucking die on me, Mike! Stay with me! Max? How old is he?” Amanda was practically screaming at Mike.
“What colour is his hair?”
“His eyes. What colour are your son’s eyes, Mike!”
“How tall is he?”
“Mike! Tall. How tall is Max?”
Mike was losing consciousness fast. Amanda shoved his slumping body off her in a last-ditch attempt to find that goddamn police light that she knew must be somewhere in this car. She reached behind her but found nothing.
“How fucking tall is Max, Michael? Michael, wake up!”
With the next turn, Mike’s body fell back onto Amanda’s right side. He wasn’t answering any of her questions now.
“Holy fuck, Mike! Talk to me!!”
Amanda’s foot was as far down on the accelerator as she dared press it. With both hands on the wheel, she maneuvered the car through the streets, over sidewalks, through red lights.
“Holy fuck! How far away is this goddamned hospital? Fuck. Don’t die, Mike! You can’t die. None of us signed up for that. Don’t let those bastards win. We’re the good guys. We win. We gotta win. You gotta live. I cannot bury you. I will not bury you. I will not let them bury you. Fuck you, Mike O’Shea. Fuck you!”
Amanda could hear sirens. Lots of sirens. The road seemed to clear ahead of her. She raced through red lights, marked scout cars now blocking on-coming traffic. She was going too fast for a marked car to get in front of her as an escort, but she could see officers in the distance on foot, waving cars and pedestrians out of the way as she approached. As she got closer to the hospital, every intersection was closed so that she could get through. It was officially another emergency run.
“Don’t you die on me, mister,” Amanda whispered, releasing one hand from the steering wheel to gently rub Mike’s head, leaving the other glued to the wheel as she sped through traffic towards the hospital. “We’re all out here for you, buddy. You gotta live, okay? You gotta make it. You’re too good a cop to go out like this. Not now. Please, not now.”
The car screeched around the final corner before Amanda fishtailed into the ambulance bay. A group of scrubs surrounded the waiting gurney. The team quickly removed Mike from the car and whisked him inside, leaving Amanda alone, sitting behind the wheel of the car, shaking, tears streaming down her face.
“Don’t die, Mike. Please don’t die,” she whispered through her tears. “Every time one of us dies, a piece of each of us dies. And I’m running out of pieces.”
About Desmond P. Ryan:
For almost thirty years, Desmond P. Ryan worked as a cop in the back alleys, poorly-lit laneways, and forgotten neighbourhoods in Toronto, the city where he grew up. Murder often most unkind, assaults on a level that defied humanity, and sexual violations intended to demean, shame, and haunt the victims were all in a day’s work. Days, evenings, midnights–all the same. Crime knows no time.
Whether as a beat cop or a plainclothes detective, Desmond dealt with good people who did bad things and bad people who followed their instincts. And now, as a retired detective, he writes crime fiction.
Real Detective. Real Crime. Fiction.