New Hard-Boiled Detective Series Uncovers Bones, Bodies and Murder.
Paleontologist turned private investigator, Harry Przewalski, excavates the dirty underbelly of people’s lives, unearthing sexual betrayals, treachery, fraud and murder buried beneath the science of petrified shards, skin and bones. Ultimately, he must face a brutal killing in his own past, when he fled to a desert war and came back with a gun and a license to detect.
In his first case, The Bone Field, Przewalski chases a missing paleontologist across 80 million years of intrigue and death, from a Wyoming bone field of petrified skeletons to the bone rooms of the museum.
World-renowned museum paleontologist, Peter Marchand, goes missing while leading a dinosaur dig in the sweltering, desert badlands of Wyoming. He has made enemies from his serial womanizing, ruthless dealings, religious blasphemy, and unorthodox theories. Hired to find him, Pittsburgh private detective Harry Przewalski uncovers a tangle of sexual deceit, betrayal, and scientific fraud. Ultimately, he must excavate the nightmares in his own extinct past to keep from being killed.
The first installment in the Harry Przewalski series. The second book in the series is Death Spoke.
About the Author
In his Przewalski mystery series, beginning with The Bone Field, Pittsburgh private detective Harry Przewalski unearths sex, treachery, and murder buried beneath the science of petrified shards, skin, and bones. The third novel in the series is The Camel Driver, due summer 2020. Coming soon: The Body on the Bed, a historical murder mystery.
Read an Excerpt
WHEN THE PHONE rang, Harry Przewalski was stapled to the wall. He'd been putting up a large street map of Pittsburgh to cover the crack that spidered across the wall behind his desk. He'd aimed the staple gun, squeezed the trigger, and missed badly. The staple shot into his thumb, through the map and into the sheetrock. Cursing, he yanked his hand from the wall and grabbed the phone.
"Detective Parswitski, please?" A good voice. Professional. Not good with names.
"It's Przewalski. You got him." He cradled the receiver on his shoulder, worked the staple out of his thumb and sucked on the two points of blood welling up through the skin.
"Yes ... of course. This is the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. I'm calling for Director Mayer. She said you would remember her. She would like you to meet with her today at the museum, if at all possible. She apologizes for the short notice. It's an urgent matter. She said to tell you that Peter Marchand has disappeared, that you would understand. Is eleven o'clock convenient?"
That gave him thirty minutes. Harry glanced over at his blank appointment book. "That works."
"Excellent. Thank you. Please come to the main office on the first —"
"Thanks. I know where it is."
He hung up, still sucking his wound. Mayer knew him. He knew her. He also knew Marchand, their star paleontologist. He'd worked with him, digging up the past, excavating the intrigues left by a vanished world imperfectly preserved.
None of it mattered after Nicole, his exile into nightmare. He escaped to a war, came back with a gun and got a license to detect. The dirt he excavated now was recent, loose, uncompacted. If there was a corpse buried, it was fresh, not fossil.
Harry opened the can of Drum tobacco on his desk, pulled out a gummed Zig-Zag paper, rolled a thin cigarette, and lit it. The ashtray already held six mashed butts. His mouth felt like a smokestack. His only rule was to lay off the smokes when a client was in the office. He needed to quit cold or get more clients. Cigarettes rotted the body like death, from the inside first. Even he could smell it.
Outside it was raining as hard as it had yesterday, and probably as hard as it would tomorrow. This was Pittsburgh in early August. Oppressive, thick heat alternated with bouts of rain, the moisture above the river valleys holding the city a humid hostage. Occasionally, a brisk west wind along the Ohio River would blow the sky clear. Not today. He owned a raincoat but had no idea where it was. He turned up the collar of his jacket and lowered his head, as if ducking through the rain would make him any less wet. By the time he reached his car two blocks away, he was drenched.(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Bone Field"
Copyright © 2018 Leonard Krishtalka.
Excerpted by permission of Gatekeeper Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.