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Hot Lights, Cold Steel

Hot Lights, Cold Steel

by D. P. Lyle


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Forensic criminalist Dub Walker is once again called upon when an old friend enlists his help in finding her 19-year-old daughter. When the bodies of two young women show up in a shallow grave, one of whom is the daughter, Dub is back to work and hard at it. Soon other bodies start turning up in similar graves, and each victim has undergone multiple, highly technical surgical procedures requiring extremely sophisticated equipment. Who would have access to such state-of-the-art instruments and the skill to perform the complex surgeries? The ensuing trail of terror and bodies that leads Dub to Talbert Biomedical—a surgical instrument manufacturing company operated by a business tycoon and a surgeon—is a horrifying breech of ethics and human decency. It's too gruesome to even contemplate what was done to the victims before they died. To catch a killer, Dub has to put himself in their place.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781605421810
Publisher: Medallion Media Group
Publication date: 06/01/2011
Series: Dub Walker Series , #2
Pages: 448
Product dimensions: 6.20(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.60(d)

About the Author

D. P. Lyle is a cardiologist, a writer, and a story and technical consultant for several popular television shows, including 1-800-Missing, Cold Case, CSI: Miami, Diagnosis Murder, House, Judging Amy, Law & Order, Medium, Monk, and Peacemakers. He is the author of Devil’s Playground, Double Blind, and Stress Fracture as well as the Edgar Award–nominated Forensics for Dummies and the Macavity Award–winning Murder and Mayhem. He lives in Lake Forest, California.

Read an Excerpt

Hot Lights, Cold Steel

By D. P. Lyle

Medallion Press, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 D. P. Lyle
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-60542-181-0

Chapter One

Wednesday 7:32 p.m.

It had been a nearly perfect day.

Got a lot done. Finished the final edits on my next book. This one about how evidence in criminal cases linked up, formed a chain, or maybe a noose for the bad guys. I titled it Linkage: How Evidence Makes the Case. With a keystroke I had fired it back to my editor. Few things felt better than final edits.

Time to relax.

Now, I lounged in a redwood Adirondack chair and worked the fret board of my Martin D-18. I bent out a few riffs and a couple of new turnarounds to "Red House," the original John Lee Hooker version, not the Hendrix electrified one. I added a backbeat with my bare heel against the wooden deck.

I'm Dub Walker, and I own a small cottage on the western slope of Monte Sano Mountain, one of the final remnants of the Appalachian chain. From the deck, I had a 180-degree view over Huntsville. The sun had settled beneath the horizon, and the city's lights were rapidly winking on. A warm breeze came up from the valley.

Earlier, around noon, an electrical storm had blown through. A real thunder-boomer. The kind that rattled windows and fractured the sky with pulse after pulse of lightning, some seemingly reluctant to let go. The kind that all too often spun off a tornado or two. But this one quickly moved eastward, leaving behind clean air, crystal blue skies, and now a perfect Southern spring night. The kind you wanted to go on forever.

Wasn't going to happen, though.

I leaned the Martin against the chair, went inside, poured a hefty glass of Blanton's bourbon, and flipped on the stereo. Buddy Guy churned out "Feels Like Rain." Back outside, I eased into the chair and closed my eyes. Buddy hit his stride, and I fell into the music.

I'm not sure whether I dozed or merely drifted with the music, but I sat up when I heard footsteps coming around the house. A woman stepped onto the deck and walked toward me.

A woman I hadn't seen in ten years. Still beautiful. Still unforgettable.

I stood. "Miranda?"

"Dub, you haven't changed a bit," she said.

"And you're as gorgeous as ever. What brings you here?"

"Sorry to barge in. I was going to ring the doorbell but then heard the music and guessed you were back this way."

I hugged her. When I broke the embrace, I noticed her eyes were red and her face drawn. "What's wrong?"

"I was going to call." Miranda sighed. "Truth is, I wasn't sure I would come here. I put it off. I sat out front for half an hour, trying to decide."

"What's wrong?" I asked again.

"Everything." She looked around as if uncertain what to do.

"Sit down." We moved to the redwood dining table, and I pulled a chair out for her. She sat. "Some wine?"

"What are you drinking?"


"Maybe that'd be better."

I retrieved a glass and the Blanton's from the kitchen and poured her a couple of fingers.

She took the drink with both hands, cradling it as if she feared she might drop it. I noticed her fingers trembled. She took a healthy gulp.

I sat across from her. "Tell me what's wrong. Something happen to Richard?"

Miranda shook her head. Tears collected in her eyes. "He died three years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"It's Noel." She sniffed.

I handed her a napkin, and she wiped her eyes.

"She's missing."


Excerpted from Hot Lights, Cold Steel by D. P. Lyle Copyright © 2011 by D. P. Lyle. Excerpted by permission of Medallion Press, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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