Fans of Harlan Coben and James Patterson will enjoy this book. Val Bosanquet, a former New Orleans detective, is offered a job as Chief of a campus PD. A Haitian child killer he helped convict for the murder of her mother has just been enrolled at the university. Val stumbles across new evidence. Corporate corruption and Voodoo make for a volatile mix in the Deep South.

REVIEW

The opening chapter sets the scene and pace of An Evil Shadow: the reader is brought in to the bathroom apartment of a mysterious individual who rarely uses his own apartment. Suddenly, another mysterious man attacks. From the moment of the first scene, An Evil Shadow draws the reader into a complex story of corporate and personal greed.

The central character of the book is Val Bosanquet, a former police detective who quit the force for unknown reasons. However, he is offered a second chance at police work when his twin brother proposes that Val become the Chief of the University of New Orleans Police Department. Val joins, but not out of a sense of renewed public duty, but because of a connection in his new job with an old, and personal, case from his days on the NOPD. As Val investigates the mysterious connection between his first post-marriage murder case and his current job in order to protect the murderer of that very same case, he is brought into a dark world of scams and cons committed in Haiti, and the political result of those scams.

AJ Davidson does a great job developing Val as the central character: by the end of the book the reader truly fees as if he knows Val. The author also did a good job developing the minor characters in the story. There is Val’s shallow ex-wife, his equally vain twin brother, and a cast of villans that constantly let you think you have guessed the ending, when you are far from the truth. There is a large cast of characters, which can be a bit confusing at times. A couple of the characters were not distinguishable enough from each other to always keep straight in the plot-line, even if they played a major role.

Davidson clearly knows a lot about the history of Haiti, New Orleans, and the impact of Voodoo culture on both. This knowledge helps make the plot move more quickly in areas that might be traditionally slow, and helps to provide some truly original explanations for events.

Davidson’s tone, story structure, and plot devices are very similar to a novel by James Patterson. While perhaps not quite as polished, equally entertaining and fun to read. Anyone who enjoys reading thrillers, action-adventure, or mysteries will likely enjoy this novel.

Note: there is some graphic language and scene descriptions. They are not gratuitous or obnoxious, but the reader should be aware if they would prefer to avoid such language or scenes.

Reviewed by: Robert Brooks - August 26, 2010 - Indie Books Unbound
Indie Books Unbound

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE
New Orleans 2003

Donny Jackson turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door and entered the apartment, then used his foot to hook the door shut behind him. His hands were full. In one he carried a medium-sized Samsonite case and a plastic bag containing a box of duty-free Cuban cigars, in the other his keys and a bunch of mail that had accumulated during his latest trip to Vietnam.

The temperature inside was just a few degrees from being chilly and he could hear the ceiling fan rotating slowly. For once the building's super had remembered to turn the power back on for his return. He used an elbow to flick on the lights.

It felt good to be home. If you could call an apartment he saw for less than two months out of every twelve home. There had been times when he felt it was nothing more than a five-room closet; a place to store his clothes and his MP3 player. Still, it wouldn’t be for much longer. If all went to plan then he had only three more weeks before he had his hands on more money than he had dreamed possible in his wildest fantasy. He would never have to work another day in his life. No more long-haul flights in cramped, tourist class seats. No more cheap, flea-ridden hotels in fourth-world countries. No more having to take orders from a bunch of pricks.

Setting down the case and the cigars, he quickly sorted through his mail. Predictably, all were circulars addressed to the occupier of apartment 36. Donny was meticulous about keeping his name off mailing lists, and the apartment was leased under a corporate name, by the firm that employed him. But it took more than that to defeat the marketing men.

He had expected to receive a card from his mother. It had been his birthday the previous day. Celebrated by the devouring of a Big Mac and a strawberry shake in a Hanoi McDonalds. His forty-second birthday and she hadn’t missed one yet. He went through the envelopes again in case he had overlooked it. Nope, nothing there. A little disillusioned, he threw the mail on the chrome and smoked-glass coffee table. He would trash them later.

Shaking off his jacket, he draped it over the back of a chair and slipped his feet out of his penny loafers. He sniffed at an armpit and screwed up his face. Boy, could he use a shower. He moved across the room to his MP3 player and selected a Garth Brooks album, turning up the volume. The music would help him unwind while he showered. Installing a remote speaker on the bathroom wall was his only contribution to the apartment’s fixtures and fittings.

Jackson walked into the bedroom and through to the bathroom. He swung open the glass door of the stall and turned on the water. It would take a few moments to reach the temperature he liked. Studying his face in the mirror, he considered shaving, but since he would need another shave in the morning, what was the point? He screwed the top off a bottle of mouthwash, took a hefty swig, and started to gargle away the taste of airline food.

As he lowered his head to spit in the sink, he caught a face reflected in the mirror. A mountain of a man with skin as shiny and black as an eggplant, his long hair hanging down in braids tied off with red and blue ribbon. Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe adorned the front of his short-sleeved shirt. The man grinned wickedly, displaying a solid gold bicuspid.

Jackson knew the dental work only too well. Gilett and he had worked together on countless occasions and Jackson had considered him an ally. The man’s unannounced manifestation in his bathroom suggested that he had been wrong.

The stiletto blade in his hand confirmed it.
Jackson twisted around and spat a stream of mouthwash straight into the man’s eyes. Momentarily blinded, Gilett’s stabbing thrust veered off course slightly and deflected against a collarbone instead of severing Jackson’s spine as intended. Locking his hands together, Jackson clubbed his attacker, catching him off balance. He followed up by grabbing a handful of hair and slamming the man’s head against the Spanish tiles on the bathroom wall.

He seized hold of Gilett’s right wrist. It felt as hard and rigid as a baseball bat. There was no way he could match Gilett for strength. He made a claw of his other hand and raked his eyes. Gilett caught his arm and pushed it away before he had inflicted any real damage.
They wrestled for dominance, grunting with effort, their feet slipping on the marble floor. A cloud of steam enveloped them as Garth Brooks started into Friends in Low Places.
Gilett’s cannonball of a head was inches from Jackson’s. Close enough for him to catch the heavy sour stench of rum on his breath. Jackson tried to sink his teeth into a cheek. Gilett pulled away and butted him.

His nose bone cracked and blinded him with pain. Blood poured into his mouth and resistance started to drain from him. With only seconds to live, all he could think about was how he should have anticipated something like this. Jackson, how dumb can you be?
Drawing on the last of his reserves, he brought his knee up into the black man’s groin and was rewarded with a grunt and a slight loosening of the grip on his arm.

It was enough. He grabbed another handful of hair, jerking Gilett’s head backward to expose his throat.
Jackson rose on his toes and sank his teeth into the vulnerable larynx. He felt the crack as a bridge of bone and cartilage gave way.
The two men twisted around and stumbled. Gilett’s head cracked against the toilet. The stiletto went skidding across the floor. Jackson stretched for it.

Gilett’s hand reached it first and he turned and sank the blade into the fleshy part of Jackson’s thigh. His body went rigid and he screamed in agony, but the pain brought renewed strength and he drove a fist into Gilett’s damaged throat. Gilett let go the knife to protect his damaged larynx.
Jackson used the rim of the sink to haul himself off the floor, the knife protruding from his leg like some evil, black leech. He limped into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed.

Above the music Jackson caught the gagging sounds of his former ally fighting for breath. A cold fury exploded deep inside him. Fuck them and their treachery! Damned if he was going to make it easy for those cocksuckers.

Jackson gingerly touched the hilt of the knife and a wave of dizzy pain swept through him. He had seconds before Gilett would recover and come at him again.

Removing the knife would give him a weapon, but he was already in poor shape and could pass out from the effort. Even if he remained conscious, he was far from certain that a knife would be enough of an advantage.

He could make a run for it, but how far could he get with a knife in his leg, blood pouring from his nose and a gash in his shoulder?
His living room? The door of his apartment? If he could get that far, he could make the elevator. He might make even make it to his car. At least then he would have a chance.
He ran.