Poisoned Pen Press
MORE PRAISE FOR TRIPLE CROSS . . .
"Just as a horse recognizes when sure hands gather the reins, from the first page of Triple Cross, I found myself on the bit and ready to go wherever Kit Ehrman led. Set in Louisville as Derby excitement builds ... the mystery unfolds with a clocker's precision while deftly capturing the city, the track, and its thoroughbred stars."
~Robbee Huseth, bookseller
"Ehrman's best mystery novel yet. The plot is gripping, words seem to flow off the page and into your imagination . . ."
~The Strand Magazine
"Ehrman dishes up the delectable young sleuth Steve Cline in an action-packed mystery [where] he also faces his own issues about life, love and temptation -- put your betting money on another Ehrman winner."
~In & Around Horse Country
"The story progresses with the customary flavor of previous novels, excellent descriptions of caring for horses and the racing world especially the flavor of Derby fever . . . another great read, right down to the finish line."~Midwest Book Review
" . . . well-told and well-plotted, providing the reader with thrills aplenty in the buildup to the Kentucky Derby."
FUN STUFF . . .
TAKE THE TOUR . . .
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Louisville Skyline photo by Fleur-Design.net
The new overpass, with its wide lanes and grassy median, arched gracefully above the train tracks. A long line of white-roofed boxcars swayed gently as a CSX locomotive rounded a stretch of track that curved past the stadium. The wheels’ hypnotic clacking competed with the Doppler effect of cars zipping past on my right and the blast of an air horn from another train approaching from the south. Beyond the stadium, Louisville’s skyscrapers were visible on the horizon.
A black Jeep crested the rise and picked up speed.
Tires squealed as sidewall scraped the curb, then both right wheels thumped onto the sidewalk.
In the next instant, the Jeep lurched onto the sidewalk and accelerated. The mirror snapped, then spun off, tumbled through the air like a black bird. Metal screamed on concrete, creating a fountain of sparks as the Jeep bore down on me.
Traffic streamed over the rise. No way I’d get to the median without being hit. Only one option.
I’d had two weeks to notice the bridge’s intricacies: the flimsy decorative rail that topped the barrier, the heavy pipe sculptures spaced every forty-feet.
Spinning on my heel, I lunged toward the bulky sculpture I’d just passed. The cell phone flew out of my hand as I gripped the cold steel. Don’t look down . . . don’t fucking look down. Just do it.
I looked over the rail.
Forty feet of empty space, maybe fifty, between the bridge’s underpinnings and the gravel roadbed. The CSX engine thudded under the bridge. Heat blasted upward and rolled from beneath the girders. I yanked my head around, watched the Jeep’s grille mushroom before me, close enough now that I could make out the pattern etched in the glass covering the fog lamps. Gritting my teeth, I tightened my hold on the pipe and swung over the rail. Felt myself swing out into space like a pendulum.