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    Ring In the Dead: A J. P. Beaumont Novella
    Ring In the Dead: A J. P. Beaumont Novella
    Ring In the Dead: A J. P. Beaumont Novella
    Ebook101 pages1 hour

    Ring In the Dead: A J. P. Beaumont Novella

    By J.A. Jance

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    J. P. Beaumont may be an old homicide hand now, but back when he was a rookie working with his first partner, Milton Gurkey—a.k.a. Pickles—things took a turn for the worse . . .

    One day, at the end of Beaumont and Pickles's shift, a stop at the Doghouse restaurant quickly turns deadly. Not feeling well, Pickles steps out into the parking lot for a breath of fresh air and stumbles into a crime in progress. Suffering from a heart attack, he is found unconscious, with a dead woman on the ground nearby and the murder weapon in his hand.

    With Pickles under investigation from Internal Affairs, it's up to the new kid on the block, J. P. Beaumont, and his friends on the force to find out the truth.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateJul 2, 2013
    ISBN9780062291097
    Author

    J.A. Jance

    J.A. Jance is the New York Times bestselling author of the Ali Reynolds series, the J.P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, and the Walker Family series. Born in South Dakota and raised in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington. Visit her online at JAJance.com. 

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    Reviews for Ring In the Dead

    4/5

    53 ratings5 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Jance in a minor key. A little J P Beaumont motet but definitely in tune with the time and character.
    • 5/5
      This novella takes readers back to when Beau was a rookie. Told mostly through the writings of Beau’s first partner, readers get to see how Beau unofficially handled a case when his partner is wrongly accused of murder. It’s a quick read, but still very well done and quite gripping.
    • 4/5
      A novella means a quick and easy read! Read it in one evening.
      In this one JP Beaumont ("Beau"), no longer a police detective, recalls an old case from his rookie days when his partner "Pickles" stumbled into a crime in progress, while simultaneously suffering a heart attack. A woman ends up dead, with Pickles is unconscious, holding his gun, which is also the murder weapon. Although warned by Internal Affairs to stay away from the investigation, rookie Beau and his cop friends solve the case. (Beau always solves the case!)
      Typical Jance fare, interesting characters, set in Seattle's neighborhoods.
    • 4/5
      (mystery/Crime Fiction, Police Detective, Novella, Epilogue)
      This was a Kindle novella that I received free as part of a promotion for Vance’s work. It’s also available in paperback.

      The protagonist, J.P. Beaumont, is retired from policing when some papers belonging to his deceased ex-partner surface and raise perplexing questions. J.P. reminisces about a particular case with said partner and does some current sleuthing to find the answers.

      I thought the whole package—J. P., the mystery, the writing—quite classy. This is my first Vance and it did the job it was intended to do: I’m starting at the beginning of this series of 21 books and if the first couple live up to the promise displayed in the novella, I will happily read the series through, and meet up with J.P. in retirement again.

      Read this if: you’ve never read Vance’s Beaumont series and want the perfect intro; or if you’ve read the series through and mourned when J.P. hung up his gun – here’s a tidbit more for you. 4 stars
    • 4/5
      Something different for you this morning, an e-book novella. If you follow my reviews, you know I'm a big fan of J. A. Jance. I especially enjoy her series featuring Sheriff Joanna Brady set in Arizona, and another featuring J. P. Beaumont set in Seattle. Jance has a home in each of these areas.

      J. P. Beaumont was a Seattle cop and alcoholic who finally went to A.A. to sober up. Along the way he inherited a zillion dollars and lives with his wife Mel in the penthouse of a luxurious highrise.

      In this novella Beaumont is taken back in memory to the beginning when he first made detective. His first partner was called Pickles because his last name was Gurkey and that reminded everyone of gherkin. Now Beaumont gets a call from Pickles' daughter saying she wants to bring him something. She and her mother had always blamed Beaumont for her father's death, but in going through the house after her mother died she found something her father had typed about his partnership with Beaumont. Now his daughter understands, and she gives the typed sheets to Beau.

      I loved this story and I was struck by how easily Jance slips from one character to another, writing first as Beaumont, then as Pickles. Both ring so true. The story is funny as the two get used to each other, and sad too. We discover Beau as a rookie detective and Pickles as the cynical old-timer afraid the department is planning to send him into retirement so he takes out his frustration on his new partner. The crime and the criminals are also believable.

      Ring in the Dead is a short read, but then there is a sneaky little trick afterward - a look at the beginning of the next full-length hardcover J. P. Beaumont called Second Watch. Now of course I can't wait until that one comes out.

      Highly recommended e-book
      Source: William Morrow Imprint, Harper Collins

    Book preview

    Ring In the Dead - J.A. Jance

    RING IN THE DEAD

    A

    J

    .

    P

    .

    B

    EAUMONT

    N

    OVELLA

    J. A. JANCE

    29240.png

    DEDICATION

    To John Douglas

    for taking a chance on a guy named J.P. Beaumont

    all those years ago.

    CONTENTS

    Dedication

    RING IN THE DEAD

    An Excerpt from Second Watch

    Prologue

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    About the Author

    Books by J. A. Jance

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    RING IN THE DEAD

    IT WAS NEW YEAR’S EVE. Back when I was drinking, New Year’s Eve was always a good excuse to tie one on, but now those bad old days were far in the past. Mel was out getting a late-­breaking mani-­pedi in advance of our surprise (to her) date to walk three blocks up First Avenue for an intimate dinner for two at El Gaucho. Our penthouse condo allows a great view of the Space Needle, three blocks away. That means, at midnight, we’d have ringside seats from the shelter of our bedroom balcony for the Needle’s New Year’s fireworks display. The weather still hadn’t made up its mind if midnight revelers would be greeted by a light sprinkle or pouring rain. It was certain, however, that at least it wouldn’t be snowing.

    My wife, Mel Soames, and I both work for the Attorney General’s Special Homicide Investigation Team, affectionately dubbed S.H.I.T. Yes, I know. The name is a running joke and has been for a very long time, but we’ve grown to like it over the years. In the brave new world of no-­overtime, we both had plenty of comp time available to us, and we had chosen to take it over the holidays, including before and after Christmas. Use it or lose it, as they say.

    So I was sitting in my den in solitary splendor, reviewing my life and times and considering a possible list of New Year’s resolutions, when the phone rang—­the landline, not my cell. Not only do we have a landline, we still have a listed number for it, although it’s not one that comes readily to mind since that phone isn’t the one I use on a daily basis.

    The idea behind keeping a listed number is simple. Being in the directory makes it possible for the ­people I want to find me—­fellow Beaver alums from Ballard High School, for example—­to find me. As for the ­people I don’t want finding me? For those—­for the ones who want to sell me aluminum siding for my high-­rise condo, I answer the phone with an icy, salesman-­repelling voice that works equally as well on them and on others, like ­people making political robo-­dials for their favorite candidates and the guys trying to convince me to sign up for the policemen’s ball—­which is a scam, by the way. For the most part, the spam-­type calls come through with the originating number blocked. Those always go unanswered, and if they leave a message, those don’t get picked up, either.

    This particular call came with a caller ID name: Richard Nolan, and a 503 phone number that meant it was from somewhere in Oregon. Even so, I answered using my pissed-­off, ditch-­the-­sales-­pitch voice.

    Detective Beaumont? a woman’s voice asked.

    I haven’t been Detective Beaumont for years now—­ever since I left Seattle PD. It doesn’t mean, however, that I’m no longer that other person.

    I used to be, I said. Who’s asking?

    My name’s Anne Marie Nolan, she said. I live in Portland, Oregon. Milton Gurkey was my father.

    That took my breath away, and it also took me back. When I got promoted to Homicide from Patrol, Milton Gurkey, aka Pickles, was my first partner. We worked together for five years, starting in the spring of 1973. In fact, only months earlier, I had spent time dealing with our first case, which, prior to that, had gone unresolved for almost four decades. Pickles died in 1978. I had long since lost track of his widow, Anna.

    Pickles’s daughter? I replied. Great to hear from you.

    There was a distinct pause on the phone. No matter how many times I hear it, I can never get used to the idea that that’s what you guys all called my dad—­Pickles. It seems disrespectful, somehow.

    Sorry, I mumbled. I didn’t mean any disrespect. For the guys who called him that, it was almost a term of endearment. How’s your mother, by the way?

    Anne Marie sighed. Mother passed away a month ago. She was in hospice up here in Seattle when news about that old Wellington case was in the papers. I read the articles to her. She was glad to know that somebody finally solved it. She said that was a case that haunted Daddy until the day he died.

    I’m sorry to hear about your mother, I said. I wish I had known.

    You and my dad were partners a long time ago, Anne Marie said. Mom remarried twice after Daddy died. The first guy was a loser who didn’t hang around long. The second one, Dan, was great. He died two years ago. Mom took his name, Lawson, when they married, so it’s not surprising that you wouldn’t have gotten word about her death.

    Anne Marie had given me a graceful out. Still, I couldn’t help feeling remiss, as if I had been deliberately neglectful. A part of me was glad Anna Gurkey—­clearly Anne Marie was her mother’s namesake—­had known about our finally solving the long cold Monica Wellington case before she died. That case was a loose end left hanging that Pickles and I had dragged around between us the whole time we worked together. Obviously, in the intervening years since Pickles’s funeral, Anna Gurkey’s life had continued just as mine had, with some good and some bad. Hers was over now, and I regretted that I hadn’t made any effort to see her before she died.

    Anyway, Anne Marie continued, resuming her story, I was here for several weeks while Mom was in hospice. Once she was gone, I had to go home and get caught up on things in Portland. That’s where we . . . She paused, seemed to catch herself, before going on with the story. That’s where I live now, she corrected. "I just left everything in Mother’s house as is because I was at the end of my rope. I had expended every bit of energy I could muster, and I simply couldn’t face sorting through all that crap by myself. I’m an only child, you see. At the time she died, Mom was still living in the house she and Daddy bought when they first got married, the one I was raised in.

    My mother wasn’t a hoarder by any means, Anne Marie said, rushing on, but she didn’t throw much away. So I’ve spent all of Christmas vacation up here sorting through the house, getting ready for an estate sale that I’m planning on holding when the weather clears up in the spring. I’m on my way back to Portland now. I want to be back home before all the drunks hit the streets. The thing is, I found something down in the basement in a cedar chest that I thought you might want to see. I don’t know where you are in the city, but I’d be happy to drop it off on my way south.

    Pickles and Anna had lived at the north end of Ballard in an area called Blue Ridge. Depending on which route Anne Marie was going to take, she’d be within blocks of my Belltown Terrace condo on her way to I-­5 and back out of town.

    I’m at Second and Broad, I said. In downtown Seattle. You’re welcome to stop by to visit.

    I was going to head out right away, she said. I really don’t have much time.

    How about at least stopping long enough for a cup of coffee, then? I suggested.

    "You’re

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