“A fascinating look at the bizarre bond between a serial killer and one of his intended victims.”—Oak Ridge Observer
“Pulse-pounding prose and unexpected plot twists.”—Tuscon Citizen
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Back from the dead. That’s how it feels for Nan Vining, a Pasadena homicide cop determined to find the brutal madman who attacked her a year ago. Nan’s daughter calls the unknown assailant T. B. Mann—The Bad Man. On the job, Nan breaks rules and steals evidence, building a case file based on the certainty that T. B. Mann is obsessed with
Back from the dead. That’s how it feels for Nan Vining, a Pasadena homicide cop determined to find the brutal madman who attacked her a year ago. Nan’s daughter calls the unknown assailant T. B. Mann—The Bad Man. On the job, Nan breaks rules and steals evidence, building a case file based on the certainty that T. B. Mann is obsessed with women who wear uniforms, that he hunts them, kills them, then adorns them with a pearl necklace.
At the crime scene of her official assignment, the murder of an ex-con, Nan spots a graffiti tag and is sure, against all reason, that T. B. Mann was there, too. Further complicating matters is Nan’s developing relationship with Detective Jim Kissick, but she knows that opening her heart means losing control. Then T. B. Mann reemerges from the shadows for a final confrontation, bringing Nan to the sudden, horrifying realization that her killer has baited the perfect trap.
Pasadena police detective Nan Vining once again confronts her "personal bad man," the serial killer known as T.B. Mann, who's been stalking her and murdering California policewomen for years, in the sharp conclusion to Emley's romantic suspense trilogy (after Cut to the Quick). Encouraged by her lover and Pasadena PD partner, Det. Jim Kissick, Nan's determined to catch T.B., though she's barely recovered from being stabbed by the psycho a year earlier. An alarming new twist-a cryptic message T.B. leaves at a crime scene where a former NLK (Northside Latin Kings) gang member, Scrappy Espinoza, was fatally shot-leads Nan to pursue an Asian gang connection. The stress builds as Emily's budding relationship with Ken Zhang, the 17-year-old son of the owner of the building where Scrappy was killed, complicates the investigation. Lucid prose and an ending that leaves the door open for further Vining exploits more than make up for the familiar serial-killer plot line. (Feb.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
In this conclusion to a trilogy (after The First Cut and Cut to the Quick), Det. Nan Vining is still dealing with the frustration of knowing that T.B. Mann remains free. Dubbed The Bad Man by Nan and her daughter, this unknown assailant had attacked Nan two years ago and left her for dead. Just when new evidence regarding T.B. Mann appears, Nan is tasked with heading the investigation into the murder of gangbanger Abel "Scrappy" Espinoza, while her partner, Jim Kissick, is assigned to follow up on T.B. Mann. What initially seems like just another gang killing is clearly something more; Scrappy's death is connected to a powerful local businesswoman and a gangster-turned-philanthropist. The tone and pacing is just right in this dark novel, and Nan's journey from victim to victor is nicely orchestrated. For most crime collections.
Montaña de Oro State Park
Central California Coast
Eight years ago
This was his chance to get it right. he was nervous but confident. This was good. No . . . great. Perfect. A fresh start. A new day. The first time had been a bloody mess. Of course, it counted. It had been everything—which was part of the problem. He’d been careless. He wouldn’t do that again. Because he’d learned that killing is never as easy as you hope, but it’s sooo worth taking the time and trouble to do it with style. Practice makes perfect. Here he was and here she was. Take two.
Looking up at California State Park Ranger Marilu Feathers, he let a smile tickle his lips and said, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
He pulled one corner of his mouth higher than the other, crafting what was intended to be a rakish grin. She’d know that he knew it was a corny old saying, and that would show his mastery of the situation. While he was at it, he arched an eyebrow, aiming to look clever, disarming, maybe even handsome. He was rewarded. She smiled. She was flirting with him.
In no mood, Feathers smirked. It was Christmas Eve and this clown was about to make her late to dinner at her parents’ house with her brother and his family. Her young niece and nephew wouldn’t care, but her sister-in-law would find it an opportunity to remind single, childless, thirty-something Feathers about the importance of schedules for children.
She’d taken her horse instead of the Jeep to do one last patrol of the nearly deserted sandspit, ringing in the holiday and a well-earned break with a sunset gallop. And now this.
The stranger looked Feathers over with a measure of scrutiny and delight, as if examining a long-sought-after rare book found by chance at a yard sale. He had watched in awe from the moment she’d appeared with Gypsy, her big roan mare, from the pass-through between the dunes and had begun galloping across the sand. She scattered spindly-legged sandpipers and inky black cormorants feeding in the surf while brown pelicans and Western gulls circled above, the gulls calling, “Kuk, kuk, kuk.”
He had known she’d take Gypsy from the stable behind the dunes, would go down the Jeep path onto the spit, and would turn right, toward the Rock. He had known exactly where to position himself. She often rode at sunset, when the sandspit was quiet, but not always. He’d spent disappointing hours, primed, waiting, only to return home unfulfilled. While frustrating, waiting taught him discipline, which he knew he sorely needed. Now, at last, his reward. His heart had thrilled with each beat of the horse’s hooves upon the sand.
He felt his emotions running away with him and—just as Feathers had reined in her horse—he seized command of himself. His reward was near. His memories of this moment would keep it alive and fresh forever. All he had to do was hold on. Hold on.
Feathers pulled up her horse beside the makeshift barrier and managed an insincere “Good evening, sir,” and then the admonishment. “You’re in the snowy plover restricted habitat. You can’t be here, let alone have a campfire.”
He knew that. Who could miss the miles of yellow nylon rope on four-foot metal stakes marked with signs, some drawn by schoolchildren, “Share the beach!” “We love the snowy plover!” He thought the stupid bird deserved to go extinct, but he knew that if she could Ranger Feathers would sit on their nests—mere shallows in the sand, the lazy birds. He’d not only purposefully gone into the restricted habitat, he’d built a fire with driftwood. Brilliant. Did he know how to push her buttons, or what?
Standing near him now, she was a sight to behold, tall in the saddle, her dun-colored uniform fitting loosely on her big-boned, lean frame. He was beguiled by her uniform, her round, flat-brimmed Ranger Stetson hat, her gun, and her badge. Her plain face so easily adopted that no-nonsense bearing. He’d seen her laugh, but soon after, her face would reassume that stern countenance, that command presence coveted by cops. It came naturally to Feathers. She had been born for the job.
He’d told her, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Rakish grin. Arched eyebrow.
He returned his attention to the marshmallow he was roasting on the end of an opened wire hanger. The next move was hers. He was so excited, he could hardly stand it. Get a grip, buddy!
Feathers thought, What’s he doing? Trying to flirt with me? She guessed he was one of the college kids that abounded in Morro Bay and Los Osos, the relaxed beach cities adjacent to the sprawling state park. A state university was nearby, and students frequented the park to hike in the jagged coastal mountains or to surf and raise hell on the long stretch of secluded sandy beach reached by foot or horseback via twisting, steep trails that traversed the dunes. Only rangers were allowed to drive there.
She had invested a lot of time over her years at the park reprimanding, citing, and sometimes arresting the drunken, the loaded, and the pugnacious of all ages. In addition to providing the public information about hiking trails, campsites, local flora and fauna, and the locations of public restrooms, her job was to enforce the law in the park. Those who did not revere this sacred space would feel her iron hand. She was protective of these eight thousand acres. Her corner of paradise. Her mountain of gold.
The young adult visitors were usually in packs, or at least pairs. This jackass was alone, sitting on a cheap, webbed-nylon folding chair. He wore a heavy plaid wool jacket, buttoned to the top, blue jeans, and sand-caked athletic shoes. A wool watchman’s cap was pulled low over his ears. She saw no other belongings other than the chair, the open bag of marshmallows on the sand near his feet, and the wire hanger. The jacket, though, had deep pockets.
The park was nearly empty. Only a few campsites were occupied. The sandspit was deserted except for this guy. He was burning driftwood, an additional insult to the park. Her park.
“Sir, you’re going to have to put out that fire and move out of the restricted area. Now.”
“I know, Ranger Feathers.” He pulled the golden, softly melting marshmallow from the flames and swung the wire toward Feathers. “Toasted marshmallow?”
The sudden motion startled the horse, and she pranced backward. Gypsy was Feathers’s personal horse and unaccustomed to aggressive movements.
“Watch it, pal.” Feathers steadied Gypsy, the horse moving so that Morro Rock was behind them. The giant, crown-shaped, long-extinct volcano at the mouth of the bay was silhouetted by the fading winter sun.
She was wearing a brass name tag, but his vision had to be extraordinary if he could read it at that distance in the fading light. She leaned forward and gave the horse a couple of firm pats while eyeballing the stranger.
The watch cap covered his hair and part of his eyebrows. He was seated, but his legs and arms were long. She guessed that standing he would be at least six feet. His clothes were bulky, but his build looked average. His face was ordinary. Not handsome or ugly. No distinguishing scars or marks. It was a blank canvas, brightened only by the way he looked at her: adoring and consuming. It put her in mind of the way her brother played with her infant niece, slobbering kisses over the baby while taunting, “I’m gonna eat you up. Eat you up.”
“Didn’t mean to scare Gypsy.” Tossing off the horse’s name was good. He was golden. He could almost see the wheels turning as she sized him up, wondering, “Do I know this guy?” It was all this nondescript, young Caucasian male could do to keep from grinning. He knew how the world saw him. He had learned to use it to his advantage.
His adoring gaze made her wary. It aroused her instincts of danger. He hoped it also appealed to another part of her. She would be unaccustomed to such attention from men. She was a rawboned woman with a lantern jaw, a squat nose, and thin lips framing a gash of a mouth. Calling her handsome would be generous. She wasn’t the type of woman who inspired sonnets. But he loved her. He could hardly wait to show her how much. He caught his breath, feeling overwhelmed.
Control, he told himself. Control.
Christmas always made him emotional.
She asked, “Do I know you?” She searched her mind, grabbing at a memory that stubbornly slipped back into the shadows. “Where have I seen you?”
He pulled the sticky marshmallow from the end of the hanger with his fingers and blew on it before tossing it into his mouth. He chewed with obvious pleasure, letting out a little moan. He stood and stabbed the wire into the sand, where it wobbled back and forth.
He struggled to calm his breath. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”
“What’s your name?”
He retrieved the wire hanger and intentionally held it by his side in his left hand, farthest from her, in a nonthreatening manner. He ducked beneath the yellow rope and walked a few feet toward the surf. He wrote in the wet, smooth sand.
Feathers cocked her head and squinted at the scrawling. “What does that say?”
He shrugged, chucking the wire away. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, pal . . .” Feathers reached behind her and pulled a small spade from a loop on the saddle bag. “You’re gonna put out that fire and I’m gonna escort you out of the park. Being Christmas Eve, if you cooperate, I won’t cite you. If you don’t, I’ll arrest you and you’ll spend the night in jail. Got it?”
“Ranger Feathers, you know about death.”
He was standing a few feet away from her and the horse, his hands by his sides. He didn’t want to breathe through his mouth, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never been more rock hard. He was afraid that the slightest movement would make him explode, which would be awkward.
“Tell me what you know about death, Ranger Feathers. I want to know. I want to know everything.”
She shifted the spade to her left hand and pulled out her two-way.
The call would go to Ranger Dispatch. Budget cuts had made staffing thin. They would probably reach out to the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department. Backup would arrive, but not in enough time.
“Do you wear the pearl necklace?”
The question caught her off guard. She released the radio button.
“Yes, Marilu. That necklace. Do you like it?”
“So you’re the one who gave it to me.”
“You earned it. The heroism you showed the day you brought down Bud Lilly . . . You were judge, jury, and executioner, ridding the world of a worthless creep. That should be honored in a special way.”
Finally, she raised Dispatch.
He detected relief in her eyes. A crack in the armor.
She announced her location into the two-way and asked for an assist with a 'nine-eighteen—'a psycho/insane person.
In a flash, his hand was in and out of his pocket. He aimed the snub-nose .38 at a spot between her eyes as if it were something he did every day, even though it was the first time he’d aimed a gun at a human being, other than at his own reflection in the mirror.
She reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. He fired.
He couldn’t believe he’d missed. He looked at his gun as if it had betrayed him.
At the sound of the gun blast, the horse had reared. With one hand, Feathers tried to rein in Gypsy while pulling out her gun with the other. Struggling with the frantic horse, she got off a shot. The horse reeled.
His hand flew to his neck, which stung like crazy. He drew back bloody fingers. He stared at the blood. She’d grazed him. He started to giggle. She’d only grazed him. But the blood . . . And the heat radiating from the long fissure across his skin. It thrilled and calmed him. His hand was steady. It was like magic. He aimed again.
Feathers did too, but this time, his aim was true.
Gypsy took off at full gallop. After fifty yards, mortally wounded Feathers fell from the horse into the surf, scattering the sandpipers and cormorants. The calls from the soaring birds grew more frantic.
Overwhelmed, he dropped to his knees. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the pleasure of release was so sublime, he had to close them as he cried out, his hands clutching the sand.
Still panting and fuzzy-headed with bliss, he pulled himself together to finish his mission. He picked up his beach chair and bag of marshmallows and walked to retrieve Feathers’ Ranger Stetson from where it had fallen just within reach of the foamy fingers of the surf. The mare Gypsy, hovering near her fallen master, galloped off at his approach.
He took a long, final look at his prize, Ranger Marilu Feathers, bleeding into the sand. The young man—whom years later Detective Nan Vining would give the nickname T. B. Mann—then turned and walked into the lengthening shadows. The next phase of his life had begun.
A wave washed away his handwriting in the sand.
Dianne Emley gained critical acclaim for the previous books in the Nan Vining series, The First Cut, a Los Angeles Times bestseller, and Cut to the Quick. Her newest novel featuring Nan Vining is Love Kills. She lives in Pasadena, California, with her husband, Charlie.
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In The Deepest Cut, Nan Vining uncovers new gang activity in Pasadena, puzzles over signs from the ghost of Frankie Lynde (found murdered in The First Cut) while continuing her search for her attacker, T.B. Mann. Dianne Emley has given us a suspenseful police procedural filled with memorable characters, shocking violence, and a plot filled with surprising twists until the stunning climax. All this set against vividly drawn California locales, from the central coastline to the San Gabriel Mountains. How will Nan uncover T.B. Mann's true identity while keeping her daughter and herself safe? Once you start this book, you won't be able to put it down, let alone exhale, until the last page.
Some time ago I read an article about an author in which the writer criticized the author for not creating likable characters. I found myself remembering that comment with The Deepest Cut, the final entry in Dianne Emley's trilogy. Some of you may be thinking "How can you possibly not feel sympathy for Nan Vining when she was almost killed, left with major scars by a sadist?" Certainly, I felt sympathy but as for liking, feeling kinship for - no. That was primarily because of her obsession with finding her attacker almost to the exclusion of then-and-now lover Detective Jim Kissick and her 14-year-old daughter, Emily. She's tough, yes, but also tough on those who befriend her. Nonetheless, The Deepest Cut is a chilling read. As Nan investigates the murder of a snitch, Scrappy, she determines that his death is somehow tied to her attack two years earlier. Her superior, Sgt. Early, is concerned about the emotional toll the attack may have taken on Nan, feels she may be seeing what isn't there in order to hunt down the man who almost killed her. Nan and Emily have named him T. B. Mann - the bad man; he haunts Nan both day and night. She is convinced that he is a serial killer who finds pleasure in gruesomely killing police women. This intense preoccupation leads Nan to disobeying orders, stealing evidence, breaking her oath, and almost alienating Kissick and Emily. She follows a tortuous path along which she meets the sinister Marvin Li, the mysterious Pearl Zhang, and other assorted offbeat characters. This path will eventually lead to a face-to-face with the maniacal T. B. Mann. Emley has embellished her narrative with detailed descriptions of Pasadena streets, and the bloody work of a psychopath. This reader would have preferred fewer GPS-like details which seemed to impede the story's flow and less gore, - Gail Cooke
Dianne Emely weaves a suspenseful portrayal of a policewoman who is trying to manage all the elements of her life while dealing with the hauntingly psychological overlay brought about by the pursuit of a very bad man. The reader has an opportunity to travel with Nan Vining through well known California landmarks, while simultaneously living the drama of an ace police officer, mother, lover, and target of the determined T.B. Mann. Super read!
In Pasadena, California, Police Detective Jim Kissick heads the investigation into the murder of former gangbanger Abel ¿Scrappy¿ Espinoza inside a facility owned by first generation Chinese-American Mrs. Zhang. Assisting him on the inquiry is his lover, Nan Vining, a single mom of fourteen year old Emily. On a valuable mural, the culprit paints China Dog 187. Whereas Nan believes the killer is T.B, Mann as she calls the Bad Man who almost killed her (see THE FIRST CUT), Jim assumes it is gang warfare.
Their boss Sergeant Early reassigns Jim to follow up on the near deadly assault of Nan as new clues have surfaced; Nan will work the Sparky homicide as the lead. Nan informs Jim how she broke the law to learn more about her attacker and her theory he is a female police serial killer; he scoffs at her belief. As T.B. Mann continues to operate under the radar screen, the sole connection remains a deranged artist Nitro who vanished. Soon Mann will attempt to complete the killing of the only one to survive with her daughter as the lure.
Although it seems obvious that Nan is obsessed with capturing TBM and would fail a psychological screening unless she was Oscar level performer, readers will enjoy this entertaining California police procedural that goes down two paths before converging. The story line is filled with action even when the lead couple stops for lunch to talk about the cases or when the ghostly elements limited to not much more than a butterfly alit on Nan¿s shoulder. Fans will enjoy this fine sequel that stands alone as an exhilarating investigative thriller.
This isn't the final installment of the series, but it does bring to an electrifying conclusion the storyline running through the first three books that began when Pasadena homicide detective Nan Vining was knifed nearly to death by an extremely twisted serial killer. Don't worry, this isn't just another serial-killer story. The high quality of the writing, the compelling characterization, the vivid portrayal of the Pasadena setting, the fast pace and unrelenting suspense, the psychological depth and subtlety, and the shocking, unexpected revelations in the final confrontation between Nan and the psychopathic killer make for an outstanding and most satisfying read.
Whew. What a finger-nail-biting read to the end! In "The Deepest Cut" Pasadena Detective Nan Vining continues her personal hunt for T.B. Mann, who nearly killed her in "The First Cut". While working on her latest assignment, HE continue to taunt Nan and, in her gut, she knows he is somehow behind these latest murders. As her relationship with fellow detective, Jim Kissick, heats up, Nan fears he will try to stop her from pursuing her obsession. The parallel murder investigations keep us wondering . . .we just KNOW he (T.B. Mann) is behind them. We are kept on edge wondering if they will be connected and if Nan or her loved ones--daughter Em and Jim--will be hurt along the way. Dianne Emley is a superb writer with an amazing ability to weave words, create visuals and well-defined characters. And her wry wit adds some relief until the next wave of anexity grabs you. Drawing on the Asian culture in Pasadena adds a great dimension--from the gang element to the para-normal moments with twinkling chimes and butterflies linked to Chinese customs. WHERE did she come up with the idea for those human directionals? What a clever way to use them. And the character, Li, is so well defined and strong--what a great movie role! "The Deepest Cut" will keep you flipping pages to find out if Nan survives and if T.B. Mann is finally exposed and captured. And just WHO is he anyway? You'll be surprised.
Diane is an amazing writer. The plots of all three books in this series were great, but I find the characters lacking. I wish there was more depth into Nan and Jim's relationship. I would recommend this to anyone who wants to read a good suspense novel by a great writer.
Being a voracious reader of nearly 10,000 books, I can spot talent when I see it. What can I say about Dianne Emley's three (3) "Cut" novels....WOW!!! Great stories, wonderful characters, very captivating with lots of twists and turns, tons of suspense and each book was a great read. I have followed dozens of authors over the years and read all their books. I have added Ms. Emley to my favorites and will look forward to her 4th book with Nan/Jim and Em in early 2010. Ronnie M ~ Newfoundland Canada