The Edge of Night

( 14 )

Overview

 
To support her small daughter, April Ortiz does what she has to do—which means waiting tables in a skimpy outfit at a popular nightclub in the gang-infested area of Chula Vista. When one of her co-workers is found raped and murdered, April does what she knows she shouldn’t—she defies the neighborhood code by giving the police a hardcore gang member’s name.

Clean-cut cop Noah Young wants a shot at breaking this case more than anything in the world—that is, until he meets ...

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Overview

 
To support her small daughter, April Ortiz does what she has to do—which means waiting tables in a skimpy outfit at a popular nightclub in the gang-infested area of Chula Vista. When one of her co-workers is found raped and murdered, April does what she knows she shouldn’t—she defies the neighborhood code by giving the police a hardcore gang member’s name.

Clean-cut cop Noah Young wants a shot at breaking this case more than anything in the world—that is, until he meets the unforgettable April Ortiz. When April gives Noah the tip, a spark ignites. As the fire between them threatens to blaze out of control, the two are dragged down further into the dark mysteries of the graffiti-lined streets, taunted by a crazed killer who could strike again at any time. 

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Police officer Noah Young handles gang-related crime in Chula Vista, Calif. (just across the border from Tijuana), and dreams of being a homicide investigator. His chance comes with the rape and murder of a young cocktail waitress. Noah knows he shouldn't get involved with someone associated with the case, but he falls hard for April Ortiz, a single mom who worked with the victim. Carnal scenes that wouldn't be out of place in Penthouse Forum litter the pages as the chase harkens back to an eight-year-old cold case and draws in Noah's naïve sister. Sorenson paints the graffiti-lined streets and the gang scene with broad strokes, and makes her characters realistic, flawed, and appealing. Deftly handled violent action and red herrings rush this thriller to a believable ending. (Apr.)
From the Publisher
“Sorenson’s sleek sensuality and fresh new voice are sure to score big with readers.”—New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard

“With Jill Sorenson, you are guaranteed a dangerously addictive, gut-wrenchingly fast-paced read.”—Stephanie Tyler, author of Promises in the Dark

The Barnes & Noble Review

From Eloisa James's "READING ROMANCE" column on The Barnes & Noble Review


I write about dukes. If one of my heroes was around today, he'd be wearing a Rolex, using imported dental floss, and instructing his driver to drop by Tiffany's. In short, I'm a hopeless snob, at least when it comes to fantasy. According to recent news stories, I'm not alone; apparently American girls are stalking British bars hoping to snag Prince Harry. It could be said that as a country, we have a fascination with the wealthy titled class. However, four terrific romances just convinced me that every author doesn't think a coronet is the equivalent of a halo. In these novels, characters do not draw their appeal from their other-worldliness, their dissimilarity from you and me, but from their down-to-earth normality.

Eileen Dreyer's Never a Gentleman looks squarely at the problem I lay out above. If we Americans think that high birth is sexy, what do we think of the middle class? Are regular people sexy? What if -- as in the premise of Dreyer's book -- a gentleman is forced to marry a plain soldier's daughter with callused hands and no knowledge of the ton? And what if his physical beauty matches his birth and wealth? Diccan Hilliard is appalled when he ends up married to an awkward, aging virgin. But Grace Fairchild is an utterly fascinating heroine: honest, strong, forthright, and deeply loving. Even when Diccan breaks her heart (in one of the most wrenching scenes of betrayal I've ever read), she doesn't run away. Grace astonished me, and she constantly did the same for Diccan. You'll find yourself rooting for Diccan to escape his "prison of perfection," as he labels it, and become Grace's lover, rather than just her husband.

Jodi Thomas's Texas Blue is also a historical, set in 1875, but being a western, it has no truck with titles. Even so, the novel circles around notions of class and hierarchy. Lewton Paterson is a gambling man whose lifelong dream is to marry "up," which in this case means finds his way into middle-class respectability. So he scrams a ride to Texas, and sets out to seduce his way into the McMurray ranching family. Lewton is the ultimate anti-hero: "in twenty-eight years he'd seen nothing worth risking his life for, nothing he loved worth dying to protect…life was a game and the man leaving the table with the most chips won." As it turns out, his targeted bride, Emily McMurray, is determined never to marry, so when Lewton arrives on his courting mission, he actually meets her friend Tamela disguised as Emily. Lewton hires the real Emily (for $5/hour) to teach him about ranching, and finds himself falling for a girl who cannot give him the respectable life he wants so badly -- or so he thinks. Texas Blue is a story of a very dear, big-hearted if bumbling, gambler and an exasperated woman who reluctantly teaches him all about ranching and falls in love at the same time. You'll finish this book with a big sigh. Lewton is brave, handsome, hairy (to Emily's mind) -- anything but a gentleman, but as he says in the end, he's also the "luckiest man alive."

As a romance writer, it's a bit hard to write about Nora Roberts. How can someone as prolific as Nora (as with royalty, a single name suffices) write one of the best novels I read all month? It doesn't seem fair! Chasing Fire is a terrific romance, one of her very best, in my opinion. Nora's heroine, Rowan Tripp, is the kind of firefighter who leaps out of a plane to put out forest wildfires. When she's not chasing fires, she trains the rookies -- one of whom is Gulliver Curry. This novel takes the question of class and compounds it: Rowan is, practically speaking, Gulliver's boss. And as she tells him, she doesn't hook up with "rookies, snookies or other smoke jumpers." Nora doesn't always choose to write heart-pounding books about gritty, brave characters (her bridal books feature charming, rich characters). But there is no one who does rough-and-tumble suspense better than she does. Rowan is the kind of woman who can hold her own with high-testosterone firefighters: she can knock a man on his ass, knock back six shots of tequila, and turn down the sexiest man on the team because, as she says, "once you mix sex into it, even smart people can get stupid." Gull is a match for her, though: persistent, charming, and downright heroic once it becomes clear that a murderer lurks in the ranks of the smoke jumpers. I challenge you not to stay up late reading Chasing Fire: it kept me turning pages until 3 AM.

Jill Sorenson's The Edge of Night takes class and compounds it with race. April Ortiz is a Hispanic single mom who works at a strip joint and lives in Chula Vista, a city near San Diego that is exploding with heat and poverty. Noah Young is a white officer assigned to a patrol car in Chula Vista. He's not an undercover FBI agent, demon hunter or werewolf; she isn't an heiress in disguise. They are exactly what they appear to be: hard-working, struggling, regular people. The Edge of Night is an absolutely riveting depiction of life in Chula Vista. I loved this novel -- the heat of the city, the pure decency of Noah and April, the slow way they came together and fell in love in the face of their differences. There is nothing ducal about Noah. But Sorenson taught me to love a man who mutters "screw it," and then gets up his courage to fall on his knees and pull a black velvet box from his pocket. There aren't any Rolexes or limousines in this novel -- unless they belong to drug dealers -- but there's a flash-fire kind of love and passion that is pure romance.

Of course, there's a place for fantasy in the romance genre -- whether the fantastic element involves vampire teeth or a gilded carriage. But we should always keep a corner of our bookcase for novels like these: ones that reaffirm that romance isn't confined to the landed gentry, and that money doesn't make people happy -- love does. When Rowan and Gull are running through a fire and she thinks about his eyes -- "Eyes that didn't lie…Eyes she could trust" -- it strips glittering decoration from the genre and speaks to its heart. In the end, we all want someone to love, someone to trust. These novels speak to the joy of finding it, no matter what your race, gender, or class may be.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780553592634
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 4/5/2011
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 432
  • Sales rank: 641,445
  • Product dimensions: 6.70 (w) x 4.20 (h) x 1.08 (d)

Meet the Author

Jill Sorenson is the author of Crash into Me and Set the Dark on Fire. After earning a degree in literature and a bilingual teaching credential from California State University, she decided that teaching wasn’t her cup of tea. She started writing one day while her firstborn was taking a nap and hasn’t stopped since. She lives with her husband and two young daughters in San Diego.
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Read an Excerpt

9780553592634|excerpt

Sorenson: THE EDGE OF NIGHT

1

TIn the city of Chula Vista, freshly tagged walls were a common sight.

The densely populated area, sandwiched between downtown San Diego and uptown Tijuana, was so close to the border it was practically in Mexico. Half of the billboard ads that sprawled above the crowded streets were in Spanish. Although the city’s name translated literally as “beautiful view,” most of its neighborhoods boasted quite the opposite. On a sweltering Saturday afternoon, the air shimmered with heat and exhaust fumes. A thin layer of grime coated every road sign.

From where Officer Noah Young sat, in the passenger side of a patrol car, the only view was of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

And wall-to-wall graffiti.

Noah deciphered the newly painted messages with an almost subconscious ease, drumming his fingertips against his thigh. It was only his second year on the gang unit and his fifth as a patrol officer, but already he understood the symbols better than his partner, Senior Officer Patrick Shanley, did. Patrick had spent almost three decades on the Chula Vista Police Department and still hadn’t bothered to learn Spanish, either.

While they waited for the light to change, Noah moved his gaze to the sidewalk, scanning pedestrians for illegal activity.

About a hundred feet ahead, two dark-haired boys climbed over the top of a chain-link fence and dropped down to the pavement below. The fence surrounded an old elementary school, long closed. It was now an active gang hideout.

The boys noticed the patrol car at the same time. Exchanging a worried glance, they started to walk in the opposite direction, shoulders together, heads down.

Noah guessed they were about eight or nine. Too young to be unsupervised, old enough to get in trouble. “Pull over.”

Patrick shot him an impatient look. “For a couple of taggers?”

“They aren’t taggers.” It wouldn’t have surprised him if they were, because he’d seen kindergartners with spray cans, but neither of these boys had a backpack. Their attitudes didn’t necessarily imply guilt, either. There were plenty of other reasons to be wary of cops in this area. Legal status, cultural attitudes, general distrust.

“Just give me a minute,” he said anyway.

With a show of reluctance, Patrick sounded the siren and jerked the car to a halt at the curb. Noah expected the kids to bolt, so he didn’t waste time. He hopped out and caught up with them in three long strides, giving them no opportunity to run.

“Esperanse, por favor,” he said, holding his palm up.

The boys stopped and looked at him, feet shuffling on the hot sidewalk. Twin sets of brown eyes darted toward the squad car, the busy street, the chain-link fence. Their features were so similar, they had to be brothers.

“Adónde van?” Noah asked.

“To the market,” the older boy said, his tone full of pride and contempt. I speak English, asshole.

Noah smiled in understanding. His Spanish was good and getting better every day, but it would never be perfect. He preferred to do interviews in English. “Why did you cut through the old schoolyard?”

“To save time.”

He directed his next question to the younger boy, because he looked more frightened and less inclined to lie. “What did you see back there?”

The boy didn’t answer.

“Nothing,” his brother prompted, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Nada,” he mumbled, shifting from one foot to the other.

At six foot two, Noah was too tall to look this little kid in the eye. So he braced his hands on his knees and crouched down, level with him. The boy’s gaze was filled with trepidation. “What did you see?”

“A woman,” he whispered.

A chill traveled along Noah’s spine. “Was she pretty?”

The kid’s face paled. He made a gurgling sound, low in his throat. Noah jumped back in just enough time to avoid having his shoes splattered by what appeared to be a regurgitated orange Popsicle.

“Where is she?” Noah asked the older brother, feeling his own stomach lurch.

“By the stairs.”

Patrick must have decided the impromptu shakedown had merit, because he left the comfort of the air-conditioned cruiser. Noah didn’t agree with all of his partner’s personal philosophies, but he appreciated his professional support.

On the street, they had each other’s back.

Noah gestured for Patrick to keep an eye on the boys as he passed by. He climbed the fence quickly, taking care not to snag his gun belt on the chain link, and dropped down to the other side. He’d patrolled the area before, so he was familiar with its basic layout. The classrooms were housed in individual one-story buildings, low to the ground and evenly spaced. This kind of design was typical for schools in Southern California.

Right now, in early August, it was a blazing ninety-five degrees. Sweat trickled between Noah’s shoulder blades, dampening his undershirt. His CVPD uniform was dark blue, and the heavy fabric seemed to suck up sun and hold in heat.

A slight breeze ruffled the short hair at the nape of his neck as he stepped into the shaded walkway and waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the light.

The stairs were at the end of the walkway, between two administrative buildings. A fenced-in parking lot on the other side of the buildings was most likely the juveniles’ point of entry. His rubber-soled shoes made very little sound as he advanced.

Every wall he passed was covered with graffiti. Because the area was so private and the artists had all the time in the world, many of the images were painstakingly detailed. Noah recognized some of the work by style alone. One prolific tagger, who signed all of his pieces with a cryptic lowercase e, could have made a decent living by painting murals or designing graphics for T-shirts.

Instead, he used his talent to destroy county property.

Noah ignored the colorful designs and focused on the shadowed walkway, making steady progress. The uneasy feeling he’d had since catching a glimpse of those scared-eyed juveniles dogged his every step.

What was waiting for him at the end of the staircase?

Noah unsnapped his gun holster and flexed his fingers, letting his right hand hover above his Glock. Judging by the kids’ reactions and the vomit on the sidewalk, he was about to encounter a dead body.

As he reached the top of the stairs, a pair of shoes came into view. Black canvas flats. Size six or seven, women’s.

Noah’s gut twisted at the sight. His little sister wore shoes like that.

The rest of the body was blocked by the side of the building, but he could tell she was lying on her back, motionless.

He kept his hand near his gun. “Ma’am?”

No response. Not even a twitch.

Noah descended the steps, his pulse racing. After taking a quick survey of the surroundings to make sure he was alone, he returned his gaze to the fallen woman. And sucked in a sharp, painful breath.

Her legs were bare, her denim skirt shoved up to her waist. She was brutally exposed. A torn flannel shirt hung from her slim torso, and strands of long black hair snaked across her neck. A clear plastic bag, the implement of her death, covered her face. Her mouth was open, frozen in a silent scream.

The killer had watched her suffocate while he raped her.

Noah turned away from the gruesome sight, swallowing hard. His eyes watered and his hands clenched into fists.

Most of the dead bodies he’d seen weren’t homicide victims. He’d stumbled across a few homeless guys lying in their own waste. Drunk drivers sandwiched inside wrecked vehicles. He’d encountered bloated corpses and burned flesh.

As a gang unit cop, he’d also assisted in a number of murder investigations, of course. Gang members killed other gang members on a regular basis. It was tragic but not unexpected. Violent men met violent ends.

This was different. More twisted, more disturbing.

Killing a rival gang member was wrong. Raping and strangling an innocent young woman was . . . evil.

The radio at Noah’s waist signaled, startling him. “Officer Young, Code Four,” Patrick said. It was a basic status inquiry.

“Code Five,” he replied, his voice hoarse with emotion. He glanced at the victim and cleared his throat, trying to toughen up. “We have a DB, Hispanic female, teens or twenties.” There was a small purse lying on the concrete beside her, but Noah didn’t touch it. “This one is for Santiago; over.”

Victor Santiago was the lead homicide detective in the department. Patrick’s former partner and current nemesis.

“We’ve got a 187?” Patrick asked.

“And 261,” Noah replied.

Patrick was silent for a moment. There was no more heinous crime than rape/murder, unless it also involved a child. Noah wasn’t sure it didn’t, in this case. The plastic bag partially obscured the girl’s face, and he could only guess her age.

“Copy that,” Patrick said, signing off to call dispatch.

For an indeterminable period, Noah stood guard over the body. He knew he should try to analyze clues and search for motives, but his mind was reeling. He also felt unsteady on his feet. The best he could manage was to stay put and not compromise the scene.

After a couple of slow, deep breaths, he pulled himself together enough to study his surroundings. The abandoned buildings were a perfect meeting place for petty criminals, and Noah knew that gang members frequented the location. There were several easy lookouts and even more dark corners to hide in.

A crouching assailant could wait in the shadows, unseen.

The wall behind the victim was marked CVL #1, a common tag in this neighborhood. The Chula Vista Locos had claimed the schoolyard, and many nearby locations, as their turf. They were the most prominent gang in the city.

Noah returned his gaze to the body, forcing himself to evaluate any visible evidence. Her face was contorted, her hair tangled and dark. She was slim but not undeveloped. Her frame was slender, like a teenager’s. Her clothes looked cheap.

Poorly made, easily torn.

She didn’t have any defensive wounds, from what he could tell, but her arms and legs were riddled with tiny red sores. They appeared to be self-inflicted, possibly from compulsive scratching. It was an ugly side effect of several different street narcotics, including rock cocaine and crystal meth.

The signs of addiction—and adulthood—didn’t ease the tension in Noah’s stomach. Drug abuse was a risky behavior, like prostitution, and perhaps it had made this particular victim vulnerable to attack. But there was nothing she could have done to justify her killing. No one deserved to die like this.

Within moments, a county medical examiner, a crime scene photographer, and evidence technicians descended on the scene. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Noah continued to stand watch, partly because he was like a sponge, absorbing different procedures and techniques, but also because he felt protective of the victim. Through no fault of her own, she’d been violated and left like trash, her young life taken too soon.

He wanted her to be treated with the utmost respect.

When one of the homicide detectives zipped up the body bag carefully, Noah felt his shoulders relax. Detective Victor Santiago appeared before him. “A couple of juveniles reported her?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Noah said, giving Santiago his full attention. “I saw them climbing over the fence and pursued.”

Santiago was about Patrick’s age—and his polar opposite. Patrick’s blond hair was so short and sparse it looked white. Of sturdy Irish stock, Shanley was florid, heavyset, and outspoken. A big man with a big mouth.

In contrast, Santiago had a quiet strength that Noah admired more. He was dark-haired and olive-skinned. Although his clunky glasses made him look like an academic and he stood several inches shorter than Noah, he exuded a strong presence. He didn’t use words or gestures to excess, nor did he carry an extra ounce of weight.

He also ran a crack team, and Noah wanted to be on it.

Patrick, who had assisted in securing the scene, eased up beside Noah.

Santiago looked back and forth between them. “Is that what you do on GU these days? Chase down little boys?”

“At least we chase down somebody,” Patrick replied, tugging on his gun belt. With his considerable bulk, he couldn’t catch a toddler. “Hard to do that from behind a desk.”

Santiago ignored the gibe. Homicide detectives spent a lot of time in the office, but they also held the most demanding, most prestigious positions in the department. “Why’d you stop them?” he asked Noah.

Noah frowned, trying to pinpoint a particular reason. “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “They just looked scared.”

Santiago’s dark eyes were cool, assessing. Noah wished he’d thought of something more specific to say. “Victim is Lola Sanchez, age twenty-three,” Santiago said, handing him a driver’s license in a plastic bag. “Seen her around?”

Noah studied the pretty face in the photo. “No,” he said, passing it to Patrick.

“She had some paraphernalia in her purse,” Santiago continued. “You know a dealer who hangs out here?”

“No one comes here but CVL,” Patrick asserted, returning the license to Santiago. “And kids too stupid to know better.”

“I’m going to need your unit to assist,” Santiago said. “We found a card in her wallet for Club Suave. The manager says she worked there. Had a shift last night.”

Noah blinked a few times in surprise. He couldn’t believe Santiago would let them in on such a high-profile investigation. This was, by far, the most vicious crime he’d ever seen. His pulse quickened at the thought of catching the sick bastard who did it. He’d never been more eager to be a part of a case.

Patrick merely waited for instructions, unmoved.

“Interview her coworkers. Get surveillance tapes. I want to know what her gang connections are, who she was dating, and if she left with someone last night.”

“Yes, sir,” Noah said, his shoulders straight.

Santiago waved them away.

After a final glance at the small figure in the zippered bag, Noah walked toward the chain-link fence with Patrick. It had been clipped for easier access. They passed through the opening, made their way down the street, and climbed into the patrol car.

“Do you have to kiss his ass?” Patrick asked.

“Do you have to piss him off?” Noah shot back.

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Noah understood that Patrick felt threatened by Santiago and chalked it up to professional rivalry. Patrick’s career had stalled, while Santiago had moved up—way up—in the ranks.

Noah wanted to take the same direction in the department, and he wasn’t going to let Patrick, or anything else, get in his way. The gang unit saw a lot of action, and he was in good shape. Unlike Patrick, he could win a footrace with any criminal on the street. He also enjoyed interacting with juveniles, having a visible presence in the community, and keeping the neighborhoods safe.

But what Noah loved most was solving puzzles. He’d excelled in Spanish and deciphering tag signs, perhaps because both languages had a discrete set of rules and symbols, pieces that fit together to create meaning.

He hoped these strengths would translate well to homicide. Noah planned to apply to that unit in a few short months, after completing the required five years on patrol.

And Patrick knew it.

“Well,” his disgruntled partner said at last, “I guess it’s no hardship to interview the girls at Suave.”

Noah smiled wryly. Club Suave used to be a strip joint. Now, due to licensing issues and zoning laws, it was just a popular singles bar. From what he’d heard, the music was loud, the drinks were cheap, and the waitresses wore very little.

“No hardship at all,” he murmured, staring out the passenger window. During the past few minutes, darkness had settled over the city.

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Customer Reviews

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 16, 2013

    I Also Recommend:

    Great read, Also love Too Crazy To Live Too Beautiful Too Die i

    Great read, Also love Too Crazy To Live Too Beautiful Too Die
    insane

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 17, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    a deep dark drama

    California border town Chula Vista police officer Noah Young works gang-related crime. He aspires to one day switch to the homicide division as an investigator. His first opportunity to investigate a rape and murder occurs when someone assaulted and killed a cocktail waitress.

    He goes to the popular club where the victim worked and meets single mom April Ortiz, who is also a cocktail waitress struggling to support her daughter. Noah knows he must keep away from someone associated with the case, but is attracted to April. She feels the same way, but when she breaks the law of the street by giving him the tip of a gangbanger's name, April places herself and her child in jeopardy.

    No one will feel safe walking the mean streets of the town that borders on Tijuana after reading Jill Sorensen' vividly violent scenes; even the sex is hot but rough. The investigation is cleverly devised with a link to a cold case and Noah's sister, but the tale belongs to the gangbangers who "patrol" their fiefdom like rulers in which no one breaks their law and lives. The edge of Night is a deep dark drama.

    Harriet Klausner

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 10, 2013

    I loved this book.  I got into the story and lives of the charac

    I loved this book.  I got into the story and lives of the characters and didn't want it to end.  Which was the only bad thing about this book in my opinion, the ending.  It was a quick summary wrap up that left me feeling unfinished.  

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  • Posted April 8, 2011

    Have you been to CV???

    I live in Chula Vista! Really...gang ridden...
    Maybe you should have set it in the neighboring city of Imperial Beach, Otay Mesa, or National City!

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