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
When twilight gave way to night, a white haze bled into the eastern sky as a full moon inched above the curve of the earth. Its light cut a shimmering path down the Ohio. I crossed over to the south-facing wall. Louisville stretched out before me, an array of twinkling lights that terminated abruptly where earth met sky. We were on the thirty-ninth floor, so I figured that put us, at a minimum, around 450 feet. If I’d thought about it earlier, when it was still light, I probably could have seen Churchill’s grandstand or, at the very least, Six Flag’s steel coasters.
I wandered past the only wall in the room that wasn’t constructed of glass. A large grid map of the coast of Louisiana hung above the dessert table. Whiskey Island caught my eye, and I wondered how it had come by its name. South of Whiskey Island, in the coastal waters of the Gulf, numbered markers were scattered across two areas labeled Ship Shoal and South Timbalier.
Beyond the map, portraits of company directors and photographs of onshore rigs and oil platforms were arranged in groupings. I regarded the multiple views of the oil platforms with a peculiar blend of interest and sick fascination. Large hulking monsters of steel on coarse legs rose from the seabed with nothing on the horizon except an endless expanse of choppy waves. They’d been photographed at midday and when the sun lay beneath the horizon, and the sea had turned to pewter. And they had been photographed after dark when their shimmering lights stood out against an emptiness that seemed eternal. I couldn’t imagine working on that tiny speck of artificial land for a day let alone months on end.