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eBook Category: Mystery/Crime/Suspense/Thriller
eBook Description: Wolf meets Susan Henry. She is being stalked by a professional killer she calls Red. Red succeeds in murdering her and then seeks to take out his only witness, Wolf. Wolf, in turn, must discover Red's boss. Wolf's hunt leads him to tangle with a lesbian motorcycle gang and battle a helicopter in the desert. He discovers the truth at an old mission in California's Central Valley.

eBook Publisher: Quiet Storm Publishing, Published: Paperback, 2004
Fictionwise Release Date: July 2005

This eBook is part of the following series:

• Tim Wohlforth's Private Eye Jim Wolf Series

3 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.3 MB], eReader (PDB) [226 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [198 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [192 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [205 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [235 KB], hiebook (KML) [523 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [307 KB], iSilo (PDB) [166 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [252 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [258 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [275 KB]
Words: 60840
Reading time: 173-243 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 0-9749-6082-9

"Like a great twelve-bar blues--the comfort of a familiar form jazzed by a fresh key and an exciting new voice."--Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author of The Persuader and The Enemy

"Tim Wohlforth gives us a tale that surgically examines the societal forces that shape our world while providing the pulse-stopping suspense that is the hallmark of the finest detective novels."--Gayle Lynds, New York Times bestselling author of Masquerade and The Coil

"A dark gem of a crime novel."--Jeremiah Healy, author of Spiral and The Only Good Lawyer

"Non-stop action leading to a really gripping conclusion!"--Rhys Bowen, author of Evan's Gate and the Molly Murphy series

"They say noir fiction is a creature of the 1940s, but Tim Wohlforth gives it new life in his chilling No Time To Mourn."--Roger L. Simon, author and screenwriter of The Big Fix

"She's back there," Lori gestured with her head toward a shape bent over a drink at the end of the bar. Hardly human. More like a bundle of black clothes someone had left on the barstool.

I shivered, trying to shake off the dampness of the fogbank I had passed through to get to Big Emma's. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, the bundle morphed into the semblance of a woman. She was around fifty with high cheekbones and a touch of wrinkle around eyes with dense pupils. Her black suit exuded quality, Nieman-Marcus or Saks. Full red lips that matched bright dyed hair provided the only color. It was as if an artist had begun to colorize her just before she walked out of a frame in a 40's noir movie.

A slight stiffening in her posture suggested she sensed she was being watched. She didn't look up. Just kept staring into her glass.

"See the way she clutches that drink?" I said. "You didn't tell me she's a lush."

Lori looked up from polishing the mahogany surface of the bar. "Didn't used to be. Her name's Susan Henry. Came in here like clockwork every Friday for lunch with her husband, Edward. He'd order a martini. All she ever drank was a Virgin Mary. Then, someone shot Edward. He died in her arms."

"The black clothes. She's still in mourning."

"I can't break her out of it."

Lori returned to her polishing, platinum blond ponytail bobbing up and down. She wore a white turtleneck sweater and a black skirt. A black velvet ribbon held her hair high up on her head. She used to be my lover. Now my best friend. She runs Big Emma's, the Victorian bar on Jack London Square in Oakland, that serves as my office.

"So what can I do? I'm pretty good but I don't bring back the dead. And I'm lousy at consoling. Become tongue-tied. That's your department."

"Keep her alive. She says the same killer is after her now."

Just what I didn't need, Lori dropping a murder case in my lap.

"You know me," I stumbled ahead. "A bit of insurance fraud here. A skip trace there. Murder's for cops."

"She's already seen the cops. They won't help her. She needs you, Jim."

Lori looked up into my eyes, doing that fluttering thing with her eyelashes.

"I'll talk to her, but I'm not promising anything."

"Thanks, Wolf. You'll see."

What I could see was I was going to have a hell of a time talking my way out of this case. I grabbed my drink, Oban's single malt neat, and headed down the bar feeling like a killer on death row who knew the DNA would match. The place was half full. Largely regulars. Two Port of Oakland engineers nodded as I sauntered by. Soon the after-work crowd would pour in.

The interior of Big Emma's was dimly lit by ornate brass lighting fixtures with golden candle-shaped bulbs. A wide mirror in a carved oak frame covered the wall. Dice cups, some with players' names engraved on gold plaques, were stacked on a shelf in front of it. A large brass antique National cash register with monstrous keys stood in the middle. A tantalizing whiff of garlic and cheese floated through the air from the kitchen where cannelloni was being prepared.

I wasn't expecting to hear the truth from Susan. They never tell all. Human nature. Then you've got to use their money to find out the full truth. Part of the game all clients play. Worse. The deeper the trouble clients are in, the more they hold back. I get paid by the hour so I shouldn't complain. Their decision, their bucks. But, sometimes they pay for their reticence with their lives.

Susan didn't look up as I slid onto the stool next to her. Just kept staring into her glass.

"You are?" she asked, as she finally focused on me. At least her glass didn't have to bear the full weight of her intense glare anymore.

"Wolf. Jim Wolf."

"Oh, Lori sent you. It is a pleasure to meet you."

She held out her quivering hand. I grabbed it and received a limp shake. She withdrew her hand from mine immediately. She smelled of lavender and whiskey.

"Lori tells me that someone is trying to kill you."

Susan looked up at me, eyes wide open, as fear broke through her alcoholic fog. "I call him Red."

"Why?"

"He has a red face and drives a red car."

"He's the one who killed your husband?"

"Now he's following me." She shivered. "Bet he's outside right now."

"Just a minute."

I was not about to take Susan at her word. Too much booze leads so often to paranoia. So I figured I better check out her story. I swung off my stool, and made my way out the door.

A thick fog swallowed me up as I entered Jack London Square. I felt a cloud of white pressing in on my face like a feather pillow. Beads of moisture dripped down my forehead. My damp flannel shirt and jeans clung to my body. I turned up the collar on my sports jacket. I heard the dolorous braying of the foghorn off the estuary.

I stopped and looked around. The only light was the shimmering orange glow of Big Emma's behind me. I saw no one. Once again the bleating of the distant foghorn. I trudged on. The tavern's glow dimmed. Then disappeared entirely. I started to check out parked cars. I didn't notice the red Saab until I was almost on top of it. I stopped, backed up a few steps, and strained to make out the license number in the fog. Then I walked casually past the car.

A man sat in the driver's seat, reading the San Francisco Chronicle under a dome light. What I could see of his face had a ruddy appearance. He glanced up, eyes glowering through layers of fat, like he was trying to kill me with his glare. Then his lips turned slightly upward at the corners. I looked away but too late. He damned well saw me checking him out. Nothing I could do about it. I hurried down the street and tried to lose myself in the fog.

I went to the end of the block, crossed over, and headed back to Big Emma's. I couldn't see the cars on the opposite side. A car's engine started. The roar of its motor grew louder. Red must have made a U-turn in the middle of the street.

I tried to penetrate the fog. Nothing. Then the glare of headlights pierced the haze. The car bore down upon me. I reached the door of Big Emma's and pulled it open. I hesitated and turned to see which direction Red would go.

Straight at me was his answer. He gunned his engine. The car bashed its way onto the sidewalk. Damn it. The bastard wasn't going to stop. So close that when a puff of fog cleared I could see his face through the windshield. A smirk. The guy was drooling.