Crosshairs (Lee Henry Oswald Mystery Series #3)

From Publishers Weekly Texas author Hunsicker's strong third Lee Henry Oswald contemporary hard-boiled mystery, like its two predecessors, Still River and The Next Time You Die , does for Dallas what Loren Estleman's Amos Walker novels have done for Detroit. Lee Henry Hank Oswald (whose deliberately distracting name is the series' only false note, doing nothing to build either character or plot) has retired from the PI trade, and is passing the time and paying the bills by working as a bartender at a chain restaurant when Mike Baxter, a colleague from the first Gulf War, calls in a marker, hoping the gumshoe can track down his daughter before he dies. That request places Oswald in the path of Iranian doctor Anita Nazari, who hires him to find the person behind a campaign of psychological terror that soon escalates to violence. Hunsicker has a flair for turning phrases, and his broken, wounded characters could have stepped straight from the pages of Cornell Woolrich's despairing stories. (Aug.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Lee Henry Oswald's third time out won't charm any but die-hard fans of the Dallas detective. Hunsicker still does a good job with pacing and scene setting (The Texas of myth and legend lay spread before us, a vast sheet of undulating earth reaching westward to a horizon so all-encompassing it threatened to overwhelm the senses . . .). But he stumbles with a convoluted plot that's never adequately explained. Oswald, whose attempt to give up investigating for chain-restaurant bartending is mercifully short-lived, seems equally off his game. His reactions to everyone from a difficult client to his old partner's husband bristle with PI toughness that comes off as a photocopy of a mimeograph of the real thing. And the villain, a neurotic hit man obsessed with organic living, veers into camp while the rest of the players stay down and dirty. Saving graces include exciting action sequences and an interesting glimpse into the lives of the itinerant Traveler subculture. Hunsicker's debut (Still River, 2005) made him a Shamus Award finalist. Let's hope he finds his touch again soon. Sennett, Frank " Still River was marvelous. A writer who takes the massive risk of naming his character Lee Henry Oswald has to have a hell of a book to back it up and Harry Hunsicker certainly does. Crosshairs is even better, a tremendous step up in every sense. Crosshairs has one gem of a plot and has a thread of compassion that is truly moving and rarely found in mystery. The last fifty pages have all the elements of a first rate thriller, and the ending is as blunt as it is unexpected. The terrific joy of Crosshairs is the dialogue--crisp, in your face and as raw and as mean as the east streets of Dallas, but with a fine line of humor shot through. This is already one of the best series and has a confidence and assuredness that doesn't usually occur til book six or seven. I'm already impatient for the next installment."xa0--Ken Bruen, author of The Dramatist "A triumph." - Kirkus Reviews Harry Hunsicker lives in Dallas, the fourth generation of his family to call the city home. His debut book, Still River , was nominated for a Shamus Award for Best First Novel. This is his third novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER ONExa0The man in the sunglasses couldn't decide whether to kill or only maim. The many options available left a pleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach, not unlike the initial stages of sexual arousal.xa0He smiled and slid a bullet into the chamber of the sniper rifle, the brass cartridge clinking when it hit the hardened steel. The forearm of the customized Remington 700 rested on a sandbag, which in turn sat on a makeshift table assembled from pieces of scrap lumber he'd found downstairs. The table was set a few feet back from a square opening where a window would eventually be placed in the unfinished second-story bedroom.xa0The man shifted his rifle to the left, toward a large stucco residence across the street and down three lots. Like most houses on this block, it had been built in the past year, a gargantuan Mediterranean design on a too small, featureless lot, ostentatious and pathetic at the same time, jutting up from the flat Texas prairie.xa0He pushed the sunglasses up onto his forehead and squinted into the eyepiece of the Leopold scope. The details of the suburban yard sprang to life: the deep green of the chemically treated grass; the black mulch in the beds lining the front of the house; the yellow and red and blue of the flowers bursting from the plastic garden-center trays resting haphazardly on the lawn, waiting to be planted.xa0He eased his sunglasses back down and from a black duffel bag at his feet pulled out a handheld radio scanner. The device had been programmed with the frequencies for police and city services for Plano, Texas, the location of the house and this street. His employer was not without influence in certain government agencies and had made sure the frequencies were accurate. He turned on the scanner, set the volume to low, and placed a wireless earpiece in one ear.xa0Next, he removed a black plastic device about the size of a deck of cards. He extended a stubby antenna and switched on the power, making sure the LED indicator was lit.xa0The electronic instrument operated an extremely small and carefully placed explosive charge, designed to succeed if for some reason he chose not to use the rifle.xa0He ignored the smell of raw lumber and fresh plywood tickling his throat. He didn't know how long the wait would be, so he removed a small bag of organic cashews and ate a handful, keeping his attention focused on the house.xa0Fifteen minutes later, a figure appeared in the front yard.xa0The man removed his shades and peered through the scope. The optics brought the image into plain view: a tall, thin woman, olive-skinned, attractive, in her late thirties. She wore a pair of dirty khaki shorts and a faded, oversized red sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off.xa0The owner of the house.xa0The man nestled the butt of the Remington against his shoulder and placed his index finger on the trigger.xa0CHAPTER TWOxa0Dr. Anita Nazari wiped the perspiration from her face with the bottom of her red sweatshirt. She tried not to think about the e-mail and its implications, telling herself she was sweating from the heat of a Texas springtime, too intense after the past three years in Denver.xa0She grabbed a tray of petunias and began to work, placing each tiny container exactly an equal distance from its siblings, forming two perfectly parallel rows in the bed in front of her new house. The symmetry reminded her of test tubes in a rack.xa0Ordered and precise. Safe.xa0Anita picked up Container One, Row One and--with more force than intended--plunged the trowel into the moist earth, making a deep wedge-shaped hole. She squeezed the container until the roots slipped free from the sides, dropped the plant into the hole, and patted the dirt around the tiny stem. With a steady rhythm, she planted five more flowers and then stopped to wipe the sweat out of her eyes again.xa0Her heart was racing, her face slick and beaded. She could no longer pretend it was from the exertion. She had hoped the mindless activity would take her mind off the e-mail, but it hadn't.xa0She jumped at the sound of a throaty exhaust rumbling down the street.xa0Anita turned as the yellow Porsche Boxster belonging to Tom Maguire, her boyfriend of the past two months, stopped in front of her mailbox.xa0He got out, waved once, and approached.xa0Anita sat back on the grass and hugged herself.xa0"How's it goin--" Tom stopped, the smile slowly disappearing from his face. "What's wrong?"xa0"Nothing." Anita's voice was barely a whisper.xa0"Mira okay?" Tom looked toward the house. Mira was Anita's ten-year-old daughter.xa0"Yes." Anita nodded. "She's inside, doing her homework."xa0As if on cue, the front door opened and a gangly girl in jeans and a Britney Spears T-shirt stepped outside.xa0"Hey, Tom." The girl grinned, teeth too big for her head.xa0Tom smiled back. "Hey, kiddo."xa0"Your homework." Anita stood and tossed the trowel into the dirt as if it were a dagger. "Are you finished yet?"xa0"Almost." Her daughter sat down on the steps and yawned. "Long division sucks."xa0"Please go back inside and finish." Anita looked up and down the street. No cars that didn't belong were visible. "And don't use that kind of language."xa0"Wait till you get to algebra." Tom winked. "That really sucks."xa0They both laughed. Anita bit her lip and closed her eyes, trying xa0to control the feeling of anger masking the helplessness rising like a bubble from her stomach.xa0"Mira." Anita's voice was tight and low. "Go inside. And finish your homework."xa0"C'mon, let her stay out here for a while," Tom said. "It's a gorgeous day."xa0Anita turned to her boyfriend, a happy-go-lucky former college football player who sometimes acted like he might have played one too many games without a helmet. She wondered if he had ever known true fear, the kind that makes your bowels watery and forces you to question the existence of anything but the evil humans do to each other. She wondered what it would be like to not know fear, to simply enjoy life and a sunny afternoon.xa0She tried to remember what things were like before the first e-mail.xa0She couldn't.xa0Copyright © 2007 by Harry Hunsicker. All rights reserved. Read more