You Kill Me

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LIEUTENANT EVE SHARPE should have seen the avalanche of trouble headed her way but events had dulled her edge and crumbled her foundation of toughness. With the press and politicians all coming for her, Eve begins to question whether she is really a cold blooded murderer or simply losing her mind. Was it an officer involved shooting gone wrong? An honest mistake? Or, something much, much worse?

There's one thing for sure, it has turned the Chicago Police Department upside down, and Lieutenant Eve Sharpe's life along with it.

my review...

Sometimes things happen and there is no question in your mind you are doing the right thing. Then people can be so against you that you begin to question yourself. Such is the dilemma of Eve Sharpe.

I enjoyed this book. It is called a mystery/thriller genre. I felt it should almost be categorized as crime fiction because of its descriptive writing of police procedures and investigations. Another reason I liked reading this good cop/bad cop book was that while it does have those moments of making you gasp, it isn’t a thriller in the sense of having to read all of the grisly details over and over.

I liked LeRoy’s characters. Eve was of course my favorite. It seemed to me there were a lot of characters involved which can sometimes make for confusing reading, but the author seemed to keep them clear and well-defined.

This is an easy, fast read and I want to read more about Eve (Sharpe that is). 

read an excerpt...

It was well known that police officers, even those with seniority could, for disciplinary reasons, be temporarily assigned to other units. Usually someplace working with non-sworn civilians like personnel or records. Or, if you really screwed up, they’d stick you on stakeout. That’s what really bothered me. Sure, I’d always been a pain-in-the-ass, but lately, I’d been a good girl, not screwing up at all in the past couple of months. Well, maybe a month. Yet here I was, heading to a blisteringly cold stakeout at a South Side crack house instead of doing data entry at a nice warm records desk.

Poor Walt. Guilt by association probably did him in. He actually got the worst end of the deal. He’d be at the crack house until after three.

Every ten minutes, the all-news station, Magic 66, cheerfully announced what I had to look forward to:

‘Subzero temperatures have moved into the Chicago area and are expected to stay for the remainder of the week. Lake effect snow continues to hammer the south and east of the city and plows are trying to . . .’

Shit. I flicked off the radio and hunched over the steering wheel trying to see the road ahead. The smells of antifreeze and water steaming on the exhaust and burned oil coming up through the floorboards all served to remind me that a few months earlier, I’d wrecked my Buick in a snowstorm just like this one.

Insurance had repaired it instead of totaling the damn thing, so now it was more of a rolling wreck than ever. My ex-partner Clark kept telling me that since the accident it went down the road like a fiddler crab. Kind of sideways.

Crazies kept passing me and throwing salted slush over my windshield, and I finally chickened out and moved over to the slow lane behind a Safeway big rig. I found myself staring up at a huge T-bone steak, sun-faded to a light purple.

The off ramp was slick with black ice, and I took it at a crawl, easing into the neighborhood shown on Isaacson’s map. I slowed down even more, threading my way through the narrow streets. It was a ghost neighborhood where half the houses had been torn down and only half of what remained seemed to be occupied. Built after World War II, these were the homes our GI’s came home to in 1945. Now, they were homes for crack whores and junkies ready to die, teenagers ready to screw, and apparently, if Isaacson were correct, our drug lord. The target was a small single-story house, one of the few that didn’t have its windows boarded up.

I sat in my cramped little Buick, staring at it through a pair of binoculars. After an hour, I stuck a Santana cassette into the radio and poured a cup of squad room coffee. When my teeth began to chatter, I began to run the car fifteen minutes on and fifteen minutes off. Even at that, the car’s heater struggled against the cold, my breath fogged over the windows, and a plume of steam from the exhaust filled the air behind. After mopping at the windshield with a handful of napkins from Walt’s last trip to Mr. Moo’s Burger Shack, I sat watching the strings of red taillights headed south on the I-55.

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