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A middle-aged, African-American gentleman with a kindly face and mellow voice sat behind the wheel of his trolley and collected tickets from that evening’s passengers. A family of four—father, mother, and two teenage daughters—came aboard. The father, who’d been cajoled by his daughters to take the Savannah, Georgia, ghost tour, handed the driver their tickets and asked, “So what’s this Skippy Walker thing all about?”

I ain’t been the same since that brawl. The paramedic said my palpitations would go away, but they got worse. It felt like my heart was fixin’ to jump right outta my throat. I knew this dude was gonna kill again. It made me sick worryin’ about it. I went to the clinic at the college and they sent me to a shrink. Not a real one, but one of them psych majors who’s gettin’ class credit workin’ in the office. I’m only janitorial services.

An old man crawled down the Ozarks from Elsinore to Gideon. He was dying and wanted to find his son. Six-year-old Sybil sat braiding the hair of a doll while the old man yelled his sad story through her window. Spit shot through the gaps of his missing teeth and splattered against the glass. But in rural Missouri, that was no excuse for a lack of hospitality.

Jenny McAllister might not have been the most beautiful woman in the great hall, but she was certainly the most memorable. Even in the London high society of Wallis Simpson’s circle, the passion in her face drew attention, as if there were a flame inside her that no pain or fear could quench. The Great War had been over for eighteen years, but the horror of it still permeated everything. The remnants of a lost generation danced too wildly and laughed with too much ease.

Allan Pinkerton sat in the reception area of the Executive Mansion, wondering if he had made a mistake by coming. Many men would have been intimidated by the prospect of meeting with the President of the United States of America, but that wasn’t what was bothering Pinkerton. In fact, he had sat in the same chair in that outer office many times before, waiting to see the current president’s predecessor.

“If you have to puke, don’t puke on the bones,” I said. Laughter—bravado on the surface, nervousness underneath—skittered through the group of students. Most of the thirty bleary-eyed undergraduates milling outside the wooden gate of the Body Farm would be fine, but judging from my experience in prior years—and my assessment of several queasy-looking faces today—a couple of these kids would lose their breakfast.

Murder is not a one-size-fits-all crime. People kill for many reasons. Revenge. Jealously. Hate. Even love. Officer Georgia Morgan with the Nashville Police Department Forensics Unit didn’t generally care about motivation behind a killing. That was big picture. She cared about the micro picture: hair fibers, fingerprints, DNA, and all the other minute details that proved guilt or innocence. Homicide Detective Jake Bishop was her opposite.

Harlowe Franklin blew out a tired, scotch-laced breath. It was May, yet he’d had Stevens light a fire before the personal concierge turned in around 10 p.m. He craved a sense of cozy, but would settle for any feeling other than the frustration that had taken up residence in his bones. The defense attorney sighed and sank deeper into the tufted leather chair, still missing the wallowed out one his wife donated to Goodwill months ago.

Thirty-five years now. Through American invasions and wars, and famines and genocides, and tsunamis and earthquakes and volcanoes, George Waite’s red, white, and blue mail truck has lurched from mailbox to mailbox with the utter predictability of a brightly painted figure on a cuckoo clock.

The tip of the needle is as sharp as a thorn, but it makes only a slight indentation as it touches the bulging, blue-black surface of the vein. George Hartley marvels that something as fine and sharp as that tip—created by slicing a hollow tube at a low angle—can even graze the delicate skin without piercing it. The flesh on the inside of the elbow is thin, pale, and dusted with freckles; the vein is engorged from the elastic tourniquet on the upper arm; the machined needle is precise, purposeful, and perfect .

She looked familiar, but when he had known her before, her chest had been no bigger than his then-skinny pecs. Now, she could float a platoon of capsized Marines. “Mary!” he exclaimed raising his eyes from her…nametag. “So good to see you again.” Thank goodness she had not accidentally pinned herself, the explosion would have blown out the windows. She was still as ugly as sin. No implant could fix that..p>

It is said that bad things come in threes. If there’s any truth to that, the first two were sure as hell about to show up at my front door. I hadn’t been home long, maybe a half hour or so spent watching the lingering remnants of the Kona sunset leach from the sky while I tipped a cold bottle of Asahi to my lips. I had skipped my regular visit to Snyder’s bar, and had dropped in at Lola’s instead, in order to catch a little face time with Lani, who bartended there.

Long ago, Andrew made a childhood wish and kept it in a silver box. When it finally comes true, he wishes he hadn’t.... Long ago, Ben made a promise, and he had a dream: to travel to Africa to volunteer at a lion reserve. When he finally makes it, it isn’t for the reasons he imagined.... Ben and Andrew keep meeting in unexpected places, and the intense relationship that develops seems to be guided by fate. Or is it? What if the very thing that draws them together is tainted by past secrets that threaten everything?

Akashic Books continues its award-winning series of original noir anthologies, launched in 2004 with Brooklyn Noir. Each book comprises all new stories, each one set in a distinct neighborhood or location within the respective city. Now, West Africa enters the Noir Series arena, meticulously edited by one of Nigeria's best-known authors. The 13 stories that comprise this volume stretch the boundaries of "noir" fiction, but each one of them fully captures the essence of noir, the unsettled darkness that continues to lurk in the city's streets, alleys, and waterways.

Al Sentier, un quartiere parigino di immigrazione turca, è in corso uno sciopero dei lavoratori stranieri: chiedono il permesso di soggiorno e il libretto di lavoro. In un laboratorio clandestino di confezioni, viene rinvenuto il cadavere di una baby prostituta thailandese. Durante il sopralluogo, i due poliziotti che s'incaricano dell'inchiesta scoprono tracce di eroina. Questo connette l'omicidio al lavoro della squadra speciale del commissario Daquin, che indaga su una "rete turca" in seguito alla soffiata della polizia tedesca.

Nelle proprietà di Francesco Cenci, ucciso dalla figlia Beatrice, un antiquario rinviene un teschio deforme. L'uomo lo sottopone subito a Leonia e Grifo, emissari di Rodolfo II, il folle imperatore noto per la sua passione per gli oggetti bizzarri. Ma davanti a quei resti così inquietanti, Leonia non ha alcun dubbio: è il cranio del famoso e temibile Maestro del Monogramma, il pittore romano condannato dall'Inquisizione, autore dell'"Alfabeto di Erode", il libro che conteneva incisioni raccapriccianti e sacrileghe.

Nel suo ambiente di scrittori e giornalisti lo chiamavano "macchina per scrivere storie". Infatti, nella sua vita non lunga, Scerbanenco ne scrisse qualche migliaio, disparati e dispersi per genere e formato, dal rosa al poliziesco, dal racconto per il rotocalco al volume romanzesco.

Ethan Jones sa che Tori Connors è la donna che vuole accanto, eppure, quando il programma Fenice è minacciato, non può far altro che mollare tutto e sparire. Tempo dopo, il destino li mette di nuovo di fronte, ma questa volta a minacciare il desiderio che continua a unirli è un misterioso assassino assoldato dai nemici della Fenice venuti a regolare i conti con il passato. Scott Thompson, un anonimo meccanico di motociclette, è in realtà un ex agente della CIA con il dono della premonizione.

Un tempo Marco Tanzi era considerato il miglior poliziotto di Milano. Poi la galera, gli anni da clochard, l'esilio volontario, fino alla riabilitazione e al ritorno. La sua vita ora scorre su binari tranquilli, finché non gli viene chiesto di collaborare a un'indagine non autorizzata. La sua missione: infiltrarsi nel peggior carcere d'Italia per ottenere informazioni da un contabile della malavita e infliggere così un duro colpo alla 'ndrangheta, che controlla il traffico di cocaina a Milano.

Chiara Palmucci è una ragazza di grande talento: eccelle negli studi come nella danza. Trascorre le sue giornate tra lezioni, allenamenti, prove in teatro e qualche uscita con le amiche. A una settimana dal suo debutto nel "Nabucco", attesa prima che inaugura il Macerata Opera Festival, il suo cadavere viene rinvenuto in un cassonetto della spazzatura. Ma chi avrebbe potuto volere la sua morte? A investigare sulla tragica fine di Chiara è il commissario Luca Bonaventura, uomo burbero e schivo, pronto a tutto per arrivare alla verità.