Street Song
The Declan Shaw Series
For Houston PD Sergeant Steve Robledo, the murder of jazz singer April Easton is just another equation on his crowded slate—only more complex than usual. The singer was targeted with no apparent motive.
For PI Declan Shaw, April’s death is personal, and not only because he was an early suspect. When he left her apartment at dawn, she was still asleep. If he had stayed, she might still be alive.
Steve and Declan are good at connecting dots, but to make the link between a singer and sixteen immigrants left to die in the back of a locked truck, they will need more than logic and imagination.
Sample
In this scene, Steve Robledo visits the parents of the victim, April Easton….
April’s parents’ residence in Katy was in a new neighborhood of winding streets all named after a species of tree. The Eastons were on Patula Pine Lane. Robledo kept misreading it at every turn as Petulia. The houses were that cookie-cutter two-story mansion style that spread and replicated like kudzu—that was a good street name—all over the Houston suburbs.
The bell was an intricate carillon. No plain ding-dong at the Eastons. You shouldn’t profile people based on their choice of ringtone but combined with the house style and Petulia-Patula, it gave off a snooty vibe. The moment Vicky Easton opened the door, Robledo knew his instincts were spot on. April’s mother wore a long-sleeved, ankle-length, blue silk tunic with elaborate embroidery on the front. Something from Morocco, maybe. She was in full make-up and her blonde hair was freshly done. Not a lock out of the arrangement. She was picture-ready for a cocktail pool party circa 1960s Palm Springs. Unless Robledo had accidentally stumbled into a time warp, she was one generation off. He pinned her at a well-preserved and spa-pampered sixty.
“Ms. Easton? I’m Sergeant Robledo from the Houston Police Department.” He held out his badge that she glanced at, one penciled eyebrow lifted.
“I prefer Mrs. Easton,” she said.
The voice was native Texan, and whoever said that a Southern accent was warm and welcoming had never met April’s mother. Robledo felt X-rayed, with special emphasis on his slicked-back black hair, not-so-crisp shirt collar, faded jeans, and scuffed boots. There was no service entrance or he would have been directed to it with a dismissive wave of a manicured hand. She leaned to the side to look at the street behind him and his unremarkable vehicle parked along the sidewalk. He didn’t give a shit about her opinion. As far as he was concerned, his old dented Ford was the soul of America.
