Harry Starke (The Harry Starke Novels Book 1)

It was just after midnight. The wind howled through the ironwork, snow flying almost horizontal off the river. I was freezing, leaning on the parapet of the Walnut Street Bridge, and I couldn't tell you why. There was something in the air that night. Something I couldn't put my finger on. It made my skin crawl.

Then I heard her. Heels on the sidewalk, running. A classy woman in a little black dress and a white cashmere parka, red hair, four-inch heels, running through a blizzard like the devil was behind her.

I'd seen her earlier at the Sorbonne, sitting with two men who were a mile out of her league. Now here she was, looking back over her shoulder, terrified.
She saw me. She stopped. Put her hands to her mouth. Then she turned, ran to the rail, and started to climb.

“No!” I shouted, and sprinted.

Too late. She was over before I reached her. I dove, got both hands on the collar of that fancy parka, slammed into the rail. Man, she was heavy. I hauled with everything I had.
She threw her arms over her head, slipped out of the coat, and fell.

I barely heard the splash over the wind. Eighty feet down, nothing but whitecaps.
I'm Harry Starke. I catch bad guys. That night, I came up holding an empty coat.

“A modern-day Mike Hammer!” – USA Today Best-selling Author Margaret A. Daly

“Howard has written a fine detective-action novel, with a likeable and admirable mature private detective hero, Harry Starke . . . I've become a Starke fan.” – D. Cooper