A twisted killer preys on young women in New Orleans, where everyone has something to hide. Some of the darkest secrets reside in a parish church. NOPD Detective Frank Renzi must battle racial tension and religious controversy to catch the killer before he murders another woman and gives her his twisted version of ABSOLUTION.

Best Mystery-Suspense-Thriller, 2009 -- Premier Book Awards

“Relentless tempo . . . sharp writing.” -- Kirkus Discoveries

“Creole-flavored suspense!” -- The Sun Chronicle

REVIEW

Intertwining relevant 21st century issues with captivating character development, suspenseful action and a little twist of humor now and then, Susan Fleet has created a crime drama that stands in a league of its own, far above the ordinary whodunit murder mystery. Fleet's pre-Katrina New Orleans 2005 has a serial killer on the loose, targeting vulnerable women; nerves are tighter than the strings on a jazz piano, while racial tensions and religious controversy play into the frantic efforts of rogue detective Frank Renzi to find the killer before he claims his next victim.

Fleet is well known in the music world as a trumpeter, music historian and champion of women's pioneering contributions to jazz and classical music. This is her first foray into fiction. This reader gives her newest endeavor a wholehearted "Bravo!"

Reviewed by: K.G. Hunt, Florida Times-Union
www.artsjournal.com

EXCERPT

Thursday July 9, 2005 Sundown

Humming tunelessly, Dawn Andrews pulled on her low-cut lavender jersey, the one that showed off her cleavage, and aimed a seductive smile at the mirror above her dresser. She was no Britney Spears, that’s for sure, frizzy hair, crooked teeth, and a face guys didn’t look at twice. They liked her boobs though. The last time she’d worn this outfit was six months ago. Her last date. That one hadn’t panned out, but maybe tonight would be different.

Mario. Just thinking about him made her tingle in all the right places. Her job at Hollywood Video paid shit, but she loved watching movies, imagining herself as the fearless heroine. Some of the customers were cute, too. Mario was more than cute. He was a hunk, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark chest hair curling in the V of his shirt. Flirting with her, telling raunchy jokes, eyes fixed on her boobs. He worked at a Shell Service Center and drove a Dodge Ram pickup with twin exhausts.

This afternoon Mario had finally asked her out.

Her gaze drifted to the velvet painting above her bed, a tan cocker spaniel with liquid brown eyes, a gift from Paul when she was fifteen, the night she lost her cherry in the back seat of his car. A week later Paul moved on to another girl. The story of her life.

She checked the digital alarm clock on her bedside table: 6:35.

Damn! The priest was late. She clumped down the hall to her living room. She hated her orthopedic shoes, but without the two-inch wedge her limp was worse. What would Mario think? He’d only seen her from the waist up, across the counter. Maybe he’d be sympathetic like the priest, asking if she’d sprained her ankle after she found him a copy of Tootsie this morning. When she said it was a birth defect, he told her God had given her a beautiful smile to make up for it.

What a crock. If he liked her smile so much, why was he staring at her boobs? He was nice, though, young and good-looking in his Roman collar. He’d insisted on coming over to give her a pep talk about going to college. She hadn’t dared refuse. The nuns at St. Mary’s had drilled it into them: Disobey a priest and you’d go to straight to hell.

But that was before Mario asked her out.

Gnawing her lip, she went to the window, parted the curtain and looked down at the shadowy parking lot. Where the hell was the priest? She didn’t give a shit about college. She wanted to get married and have babies. Mario was coming over after work, and she couldn’t wait to feel his arms around her. She pictured his eyes, dark and sexy and full of passion.

Mario had promised to call her before he left work. If the priest was still here, that would be the perfect excuse to get rid of him.

___________


Cloaked in the darkness of his car, the sinner gazed at the light in Dawn’s third floor window, rapt with anticipation. Not many people knew he was a sinner. The rest he easily deceived. He had repented his youthful transgressions, but the path to salvation had eluded him until God sent him a sign. God had delivered him unto a city of decadence: New Orleans.

City of temptations you couldn’t resist, said the annoying voice that intruded on his thoughts far too often these days.

He dislodged a peanut from a back molar—part of the Mr. Goodbar he’d eaten after dinner—and crushed it between his teeth. Through the open car window he heard the distant hum of traffic on the Interstate. Sundown had brought no relief from the July heat wave, and his shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat. But his gaze remained on Dawn’s window, aglow with light, calling him to complete his mission and atone for his sins.

Judging by her low forehead and vapid expression, Dawn wasn’t too bright, and she was a sinner, no doubt about that, teasing him with her seductive smile, flaunting her breasts. That was about to change. Tonight he would make her confess and repent her sins, as he had.

Dawn would be his fourth Absolution in New Orleans. The others had garnered massive publicity, publicity that sent a powerful message to other sinful women. It also made things difficult. United against him, the police and FBI agents had vowed to stop him. But they couldn’t. No one could. With God on his side, how could he fail?

His plan was brilliant, his mission righteous. All that remained was the execution.