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-Shore Magazine on Red, White and Dead
"Chock full of suspense, Red, White, & Dead is a riveting mystery of crime, love, and adventure at its best."
-New York Times bestselling author Gayle Lynds
"Smart dialogue, captivating images, realistic settings and sexy characters...The pieces of the puzzle come together to reveal the secrets between the sheets that lead Izzy to realize who the killer is."
-BookReporter.com on Red Blooded Murder
"Red Blooded Murder aims for the sweet spot between tough and tender, between thrills and thought-and hits the bull's-eye. A terrific novel."
-#1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child
"Izzy is the whole package: feminine and sexy, but also smart, tough and resourceful. She's no damsel-in-distress from a tawdry bodice ripper; she's more than a fitting match for any bad guys foolish enough to take her on."
-Chicago Sun-Times on Red Blooded Murder
"Caldwell's stylish, fast-paced writing grips you and won't let you go."
-Edgar Award–winning author David Ellis
"Told mainly from the heroine's first-person point of view, this beautifully crafted and tightly written story is a fabulous read. It's very difficult to put down-and the ending is terrific."
-RT Book Reviews on Red Hot Lies
"Former trial lawyer Caldwell launches a mystery series that weaves the emotional appeal of her chick-lit titles with the blinding speed of her thrillers... Readers will be left looking forward to another heart-pounding ride on Izzy's silver Vespa."
-Publishers Weekly on Red Hot Lies
"A fresh, intelligent and emotional thriller served up with snappy repartee and sassy dialogue." New York Times bestselling author Steve Berry on Red, White and Dead
"Chicago author Laura Caldwell will quench your thirst for mystery and suspense this summer with the release of her new trilogy. Red Hot Lies, Red Blooded Murder and Red, White & Dead follow the sexy, red-headed attorney Izzy McNeil as she attempts to uncover murder and lies. Luckily, she works well under pressure and she begins to push past not only the authorities, but her own limits.- Today's Chicago Woman on Red White and Dead
"What?" I shifted my cell phone to my other ear, not sure I'd heard her right. I had never tried a criminal case before—not even a parking ticket, much less a murder trial.
"Yeah," she said. "Right now."
It was a hot August Thursday in Chicago, and I had just left the civil courthouse. I had taken three steps into the Daley Center Plaza, looked up at the massive Picasso sculpture—an odd copper thing that looked half bird, half dog—and I actually said to it, "I'm back."
I'd argued against a Motion to Dismiss for Maggie. She normally wouldn't have filed a civil case, but she'd done so as a favor to a relative. I lost the motion, something that would have burned me in days of yore, but instead I was triumphant. Having been out of the law for nearly a year, I'd wondered if I had lost it—lost the ability to argue, to analyze information secondtosecond, to change course and make it look like you'd planned it all along. I had worried that perhaps not going to court was like not having sex for a while. At first, you missed it deeply but then it became more difficult to remember what it was like with each passing day. Not that I was having that particular problem.
But really, when I'd seen the burning sun glinting off the Picasso and I stated boldly that I was back in action, I meant it figuratively. I was riding off the fact that although Maggie's opponent had won the motion, and the complaint temporarily dismissed, Judge Maddux had said, "Nice argument, counsel" to me, his wise, blue eyes sparkling.
Judge Maddux had seen every kind of case in his decades of practice and every kind of lawyer. His job involved watching people duke it out, day after day after day. For him to say "Nice argument" was a victory. It meant I still had it.
As I walked through the plaza, the heat curling my red hair into coils, I had called Maggie. She was about to pick a jury at 26th and Cal on a murder case, so her voice was rushed. "Jesus, I'm glad you called," she said.
Normally, Maggie Bristol would not have answered her phone right before the start of a criminal trial, even if she was curious about the motion I'd handled for her. But she knew I was nervous to appear in court—something I used to do with such regularity the experience would have barely registered. She was answering, I thought, to see how I was doing.
"It went great!" I said.
I told her then that I was a "lawyer for hire." Civil or criminal, I said, it didn't matter. And though I'd only practiced civil before, I was willing to learn anything.
Since leaving the legal world a year ago, I'd tried many things—parttime assignments from a private investigator named John Mayburn and being a reporter for Trial TV, a legal network. I liked the TV gig until the lead newscaster, my friend Jane Augustine, was killed and I was suspected in her murder. By the time my name was cleared, I wasn't interested in the spotlight anymore.
So the reporter thing hadn't worked out, and the work with Mayburn was streaky. Plus, lately it was all surveillance, which was a complete snooze. "I miss the law," I told Maggie from the plaza. "I want back in."
Which was when she spoke those words—I need you to try this murder case with me. Now.
I glanced up at the Picasso once more, and I knew my world was about to change. Again.
Over the years, it became disquieting—how easy the killing was, how clean.
He had always lived and worked in an antiseptic environment, distanced from the actual act of ending a life. They were usually killed in the middle of the night. But he never slept on those nights anyway, even though he wasn't there. He twisted in his bed. The only way he knew when they were dead was when he got the phone call. The person on the line would state simply, "He's gone."
He would thank them, hang up and then he would go on, as if he hadn't just killed someone.
But then he'd reached a point when he wanted to make it real. He wanted to see it.
And so he went to watch. He remembered that he had walked across the yard, toward the house. In the eerie, moonless night it seemed as if he heard a chorus of voices—formless cries, no words, just shouts and calls, echoes that sounded like pain itself.
He had stopped walking then. He listened. Was he really hearing that? Something rose up inside him, choked him. But he gulped it down. And then he kept moving toward the house.Ah , 26th and Cal. You could almost smell the place as you neared it—a scent of desperation, of seediness, of excitement.
Other parts of the city now boasted an endofthesummer lushness—bushes full and vividly green, flowers bright and bursting from boxes, tree branches draping languidly over the streets. But out here at 26th and Cal, cigarette butts, old newspapers and crushed cans littered the sidewalks, all of them leading to one place.
Chicago's Criminal Courts Building was actually two buildings mashed together—one old, stately and slightly decrepit, the other a boxy, unimaginative, brownish structure better suited to an office park in the burbs.
The last time I'd been here was as a reporter for Trial TV, covering my first story. Now I flashed my attorney ID to the sheriff and headed toward the elevators, thinking that I liked this feeling better—that of being a lawyer, a participant, not just an observer.
I passed through the utilitarian part of the building into the old section with its black marble columns and brass lamps, the ceiling frescoed in skyblue and orange. As I neared the elevator banks, my phone vibrated in my bag, and I pulled it out, thinking it was Maggie.
But it was Sam. Sam, who I nearly married a year ago. Sam, the guy I'd happily thought I'd spend the rest of my life with. Sam, who had disappeared when we were engaged. Although I eventually understood his reasons, I hadn't been able to catch up in the aftermath of it all. I wanted more time. He wanted things to be the way they'd been before. We'd finally realized that the pieces of Sam and Izzy, Izzy and Sam no longer fit together.
I looked at the display of the phone, announcing his name. I knew I had to get upstairs. I knew I was involved with someone else now. But I hadn't talked to Sam in a while. And the fact was, his pull was hard to avoid.
I took a step toward a marble wall and leaned my back on it, answering the phone. "Hey. How are you?"
"Hi, Red Hot." His nickname for me twinged something inside, some mix of fond longing and gently nagging regrets. We had a minute or two of light, meaningless banter—How are you? Great. Yeah, me, too. Good. Good. Then Sam said, "Can I talk to you about something?"
"Sure, but I'm in the courthouse. About to try a case with Maggie." I told him quickly about Maggie's phone call. I told him that Maggie's grandfather, who was also her law partner, had been working extra hard on the murder case. Martin Bristol, a prosecutorturnedcriminallawyer, was in his seventies, but he'd always been the picture of vigor, his white hair full, his skin healthy, still wearing his expensive suits with a confident posture. But that day, Maggie said he'd not only seemed weak but he'd almost fainted. He'd denied anything was wrong, but Maggie sensed differently. And now here I was at 26th and Cal.
"You're kidding?" Sam had always been excited for me when I was doing anything interesting in the legal realm. It was Sam who had reminded me on more than one occasion over the last year that I was a lawyer—that I should make my way back to the law. "This is incredible, Iz," Sam said. "How do you feel?"
And then, right then, we were back to Sam and Izzy, Izzy and Sam. I told him the thought of being back in a courtroom was making my skin prickle with nerves but how that anxiety was also battling something that felt like pure adrenaline. I told him that adrenaline was something I had feared a little, back in the days when I was representing Pickett Enterprises, a Midwest media conglomeration.
"You've always been a thrill seeker," Sam said. "You jumped in with both feet when Forester starting giving you cases to handle."
We were silent for a second, and I knew we were remembering Forester Pickett, whom we had both worked for, whom we had both loved and who had been dead almost a year now.
"You didn't even know what you were doing," Sam continued, "yet you just charged in there and took on everything."
"But when I was on trial or negotiating some big contract and the adrenaline would start surging, sometimes it felt like too much. And now " I thought about trying a case again and I let the adrenaline wash over me. "I like it."
"You're using it to fuel you."
This was not a conversation I would have had with Theo, my boyfriend. It was not a conversation I would have had even with Maggie. It felt damned good.
I looked at my watch. "I need to go."
A pause. "Call me later? I kind of well, I have some news."
I felt a sinking in my stomach, for which I didn't know the reason. "What is it?"
"You've got to go. I'll tell you later."
"No, now." Another pause.
"Seriously," I said. "You know I hate when people say they want to talk and then don't tell you what they want to talk about."
He exhaled loud. I'd heard that exhale many times. I could imagine him closing his green, green eyes as he breathed, maybe running his hands through his blond hair, which would be whitegold now from the summer sun.
"Okay, Iz," he said. "I know this isn't the right time for this, but I'm probably moving out of Chicago."
"Where? And why?" But then I knew.
"It's for Alyssa," I said, no question mark at the end of that statement. I suddenly knew for certain that this news of his had everything to do with Alyssa, his tiny, blonde, highschool sweetheart. His girlfriend since we'd called off our engagement.
And with that thought, I knew something else, too. "You're engaged."
His silence told me I was right.
"Well, congratulations," I said, as though it didn't matter, but my stomach felt crimped with pain. "So when is the big date?"
He didn't say anything for second. Then, "That's why I had to call you. There's not going to be a date."
I felt my forehead crease with confusion. Across the foyer, I saw a sheriff walking toward me with a stern expression. I knew he would tell me to move along. They didn't like people standing in one place for too long at 26th and Cal.
"There's not going to be a date," Sam repeated. "Not if you don't want there to be."
I got in the elevator with two sullenlooking teenagers. I needed to focus on Maggie's case and put my game face on. I couldn't think about my conversation with Sam right now, so I tuned in to the teenagers' conversation. "What you got?" one said.
The other shrugged. "Armed robbery. My PD says take the plea."
"Why you got a public defender if you out on bail?" The first kid sounded indignant. "If you can get bail, you can get a real lawyer."
The other shook his head. "Nah. My auntie says she won't pay no more."
"Damn." He shook his head.
They both looked at me then. I tried to give a heythere, howdy kind of look, but they weren't really heythere, howdy kind of guys. One of the teenagers stared at my hair, the other my breasts. I was wearing a crisp, white suit that I'd thought perfect for a summer day in court, but when I looked down, I realized that one of the buttons of my navy blue blouse had popped open and I was showing cleavage. I grasped the sides of the blouse together with my hand, and when the elevator reached my floor, I dodged out.
Although I was still in the old section of the courthouse, that floor must have been remodeled a few decades ago, and its hallways now bore a staid, uninspired, almost hospitalish look with yellow walls and tan linoleum floors. I searched for Maggie's courtroom. When I found it and stepped inside, I felt a little deflated. Last year, when I'd been here for Trial TV, the case was on the sixth floor in one of the huge, twostory, oakclad courtrooms with soaring windows. This courtroom was beige—from the spectators' benches, which were separated from the rest of the courtroom by a curved wall of beige Plexiglas, to the beigegray industrial carpet to the beigeish fabric on the walls to the beigeyellow glow emanating with a faint high pitch from the fluorescent lights. A few small windows at the far side of the benches let in the only other light, which bounced off the Plexiglas, causing the few people sitting there to have to shift around to avoid it.
Maggie was in the front of the courtroom on the other side of the Plexiglas at one of the counsel's tables. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, and with her curly, chinlength hair, she almost looked like a kid swimming in her tooloose, pinstriped suit. But Maggie certainly didn't act like a kid in the courtroom. Anyone who thought she did or underestimated her in any way ended up on the losing end of that scuffle.
No one was behind the high, elongated judge's bench. At another counsel's table were two women who must have been assistant state's attorneys—you could tell by the carts next to their tables, which were laden with accordion folders marked First Degree Murder, as if the verdict had already been rendered. The state's attorneys were talking, but I couldn't hear them. The room, I realized, was soundproof. The judge probably had to turn on the audio in order for anything to be heard by the viewers.
I walked past the spectator pews and pushed one of the glass doubledoors to greet Maggie. The door screeched opened half an inch, then stopped abruptly.
Maggie looked up, then pointed at the other door. I suddenly remembered a law professor Maggie and I had at Loyola Chicago. The professor had stood in front of an Advanced Litigation class and said the most important thing she could teach us, if we planned to practice in Cook County, was Always push the door with the lock. I'd found she was right. At the Daley Center, where most of the larger civil cases were held, there were always double doors. One of them always had a lock on it, and that one was always unlocked. If you pushed the other, you inevitably banged into it and looked like an ass, and in the world of litigation, where confidence was not only prized but required, you didn't want that.
Posted January 2, 2012
I sort of jumped the gun on this one after seeing Laura Caldwell's name as the author. I must sheepishly admit I haven't read the previous Izzy McNeil books, so I was more than a little lost at any references to past events and developments. But the suspense and mystery more than made up for my confusion.
Once you think you've got it all figured out, Laura Caldwell comes with a new turn events that upsets everything you thought you knew and has you starting all over again. There are so many characters, it just adds to the spice of the story and keeps you turning pages. A new Izzy book is due to be released soon, and you can be sure that I'll be reading the back list before I pick up the next one!
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Posted August 5, 2011
In Chicago, attorney Maggie Bristol asks her friend lawyer Izzy McNeil to help the defense defend Valerie Solara against a murder charger. Valerie is accused of poisoning her BFF Amanda Miller in a crime of passion; the prosecution contends Valerie loves Amanda's husband Xavier known as Zavy, but the defendant denies such feelings. Izzy retains private investigator John Mayburn to look into the homicide.
Izzy works the trial but also has personal issues. Her former fiancé Sam wants a second chance; she considers it in spite of her wonderful caring younger boyfriend Theo. Her assumed dead father Christopher wants back in her life too and is willing to investigate the Miller murder; while her mother Victoria is acting strangely out of character.
The fourth Izzy thriller (See RED, WHITE AND DEAD; RED HOT LIES and RED BLOOD MURDER) is an engaging balance between a strong legal thriller and a fascinating relationship family drama. Izzy is the hub of both subplots as she focuses on defending her client while also dealing with the men who want into her life and her mom. Fans will enjoy the first non-"Red" McNeil twisting thriller.
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Posted October 12, 2011
A good story, "Claim of Innocence" was that, a very well-told tale of a courtroom murder trial and a lawyer rediscovering herself on many professional and personal levels. It had all of the layers: an edgy job, deep friendships, complicated family matters, and messy romances. Along with all of that, it had those few tidbits, more strings I would say, thrown continually at the reader, the hints of what is tying all of the plot lines together, what was really going on. All of these elements together created the solid suspense that moved the story forward.
This novel had a lot of characters, and while told mainly in first person point of view of the main character, Izzy MacNeil, there was a great depth to each of them. As a reader, I felt involved with each personality surrounding Izzy to some degree, invested in each of them, even if it was to finally see them get what they had coming. As well, there were a few characters that the author made me really think about, whether to feel sorry for them or hate them, as Izzy was tugged by the same feelings. I became more and more aware of what a volatile and slippery thing justice can be.
There were times, given the frequent changes in settings and brief changes in point of view, when the questions seemed to outweigh the answers. But, it only made me want to read faster.made the story that much better. With many twists and turns and a few surprises waiting at the end, this story is especially worth the read for court case, suspense fans.
Posted August 29, 2011
A mixture of a trial in criminal court and the trials in Izzy O'Neil's personal life creates a feeling of "Is anyone really innocent?".
Izzy, a lawyer once again working, finds criminal court different from civil court where she had worked before. Like her personal life, her professional life has taken a new road. She likes the change and the challenge, yet, she is reluctant to turn loose the past connections. As the reader travels the bumpy, uncertain, and often unsettling road with Izzy, expecting the unexpected becomes the norm.
A bevy of characters play important roles. Some are red herrings but they help add a touch of mystery to the plot, while others range from not-very-nice to the super yummy Theo.
The reticent Valerie Solara, accused of murdering her best friend Amanda Miller, is a mystery woman doing little to help her own defense.
Izzy, with her need-to-know attitude, soon uncovers subplots galore that keep the reader hopping from Amanda's husband Zavy's unknown past to Valerie's daughter Layla's secret life, to Amanda's twelve and nine year old girls, and even to the back story of Valerie. Then there is the nanny Sylvia Zowinski, with a rap sheet, and the disgruntled neighbor Dr. St. John who had yelling matches with Amanda. My goodness, they do keep the reader guessing. Izzy's searching for something to create reasonable doubt stirred up a hornets' nest.
Martin and Maggie Bristol, criminal defense lawyer who asked Izzy to work with them have stories of their own, but nothing like the "life and times" of Izzy. She has a sexy, smart boyfriend Theo, ten years her junior, who revs up the heartbeat on a regular bases, while the reentrance of her old lover Sam creates conflicts that keep Izzy off-kilter much of the time. She sometimes wonders if she really knows either one of the men. Her ever-changing world is forcing her to do some tough growing up.
The humor seen in Izzy's friend Lucy's venture into the world of younger men dates is fun and enlightening, while the patience and love seen in the once renegade private investigator Mayburn is an affirmation of true love.
Izzy's mother, step-father and her father (long-believed dead) create a unique subplot and add to the theme that life is ever-changing.
Laura Caldwell weaves together a kaleidoscope of a tale that shows that many areas of life must be dealt with as profession and personal needs overlap and intermingle. Her chapters associated with killing confused and distracted from the otherwise fast-paced story. However, they faded in the background as the many characters propelled events along to a somewhat unusual, but satisfying happy-ever-after-not just for Izzy but for many others also.
A Claim of Innocence captivates-good entertainment!
Originally posted at The Long and Short of It Romance Reviews