Forty-seven years ago today, Jimi Hendrix died. If you want to find out who killed him, you can read the below sample chapter from my novel Wannabes, available for much cheapness at the Amazons.
12
The 1960s
At Murmur’s leaving party, his drinking buddies from Souls Receiving filled him so full of harpy piss that when he teleported to an unoccupied toilet cubicle in New York’s Biltmore Hotel the next morning, his first act as a field agent was to vomit into the bowl. He stayed there for thirty minutes, groaning and listening to his acidic bile sizzle through the porcelain, before he managed to get his feet under him and stagger out into the lobby. He checked in under the name of Brad Pine—identity and reservations provided by the travel office—and flopped into bed to sleep it off.
In the chaos of the ER, functioning without sleep is a prized skill. But even Dr. Angela Rossi will admit that five months is far too long. Then a dead nun speaks directly into Angela’s brain while Angela is holding the nun’s heart in her hand. “Find the girl,” the nun commands. “Save the girl.”
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me…or can they?
Veteran major crimes detective Kate Messenger has a problem on her hands: a family, slaughtered in their own home, with not a single clue or a shred of DNA that points to the butcher who killed them.
“Something is murdering my men.”
Celebrities are mobbing London’s laser clinics as a deranged wannabe bumps off A-listers, believing he can absorb their powers and become famous by taping their tattoos to his body.
Jill Ellington’s twin sister hasn’t spoken a word since she allegedly murdered her husband, and her three-year-old son is missing. No one in the small, idyllic town of Paradise saw or heard a single thing. Jill is going to need a miracle to uncover the truth.