Eyes Closed Tight
The Story Plant
I don't really read these types of novels as I'm the squeamish sort in regards to them, but I know that Elmore Leonard was a hugely popular author and as his son is now writing in the same style and genre, I thought quite of few of you might be interested. So please find the book description, Q & A from the author and also a nice juicy excerpt below!
BEAUTIFUL GIRLS ARE DYING TO STAY AT HIS HOTEL
Peter Leonard continues his father Elmore’s thrilling legacy
Peter Leonard is a second-generation thriller writer and son of the renowned Elmore Leonard. Author Carl Hiaasen said about Peter’s work, “Clearly, great storytelling runs in the Leonard family’s DNA.” EYES CLOSED TIGHT (The Story Plant; March 2014) is one of Peter’s most satisfying works to date—relentless, surprising and deeply satisfying. Previous novels include Quiver, Trust Me, Voices of the Dead and All He Saw Was the Girl.
All O’Clair wanted was a quiet life far from the frozen streets of Detroit. A former homicide investigator, he was spending his retirement as a motel owner in sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He had it all, including his knockout girlfriend, Virginia, who can fix anything.
One morning, while he’s cleaning up after the previous night’s partiers, he sees a lovely young woman who appears to be stretched out asleep on a lounge chair. When he goes to awaken her he realizes she’s taken her last nap. The discovery triggers a rollercoaster chain of events that launches EYES CLOSED TIGHT.
When a second girl is murdered, O'Clair realizes someone is sending him a message. The murder pattern is eerily reminiscent of a case he investigated years earlier. Convinced the murders are related, O'Clair returns to his former stomping grounds at Detroit Police Homicide to review the murder file and try to figure out what he might have missed.
Then Virginia is kidnapped and the case becomes personal. Highly personal.
EYES CLOSED TIGHT
by Peter Leonard
Excerpted from the book EYES CLOSED TIGHT by Peter Leonard. Copyright © 2013 by Peter Leonard. Reprinted with permission of The Story Plant. All rights reserved.
O’Clair got up, put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, glanced at Virginia’s cute face and naked shoulder sticking out from under the cover, and went outside. It was seven twenty-five, big orange sun coming up over the ocean, clear sky; looked like another perfect day. O’Clair had moved to Florida from Detroit three months earlier, bought an eighteen-unit motel on the beach called Pirate’s Cove; it had a friendly pirate on the sign surrounded by neon lights.
The Motel was at the corner of Briny Avenue and SE Fifth Street in Pompano Beach. Four-story condo to the north and public beach access immediately south, and next to that, a massive empty lot that a developer was going to build a twenty-five-story apartment building on.
The idea of living through two years of heavy construction had O’Clair concerned, but what could he do about it?
He’d brought a paper grocery bag with ihm and walked around the pool, picking up empties, a dozen or so lite beer cans left by a group of kids from Boston University who’d been staying at the motel the past three days. There were nine of them, three girls and six guys. They’d caravanned down from snowy Massachusetts a week after Christmas.
He fished a few more beer cans out of the pool with the skimmer, picked up cigarette butts that had been stamped out on the concrete patio and threw them in the bag with the empties. O’Clair straightened the lounge chairs in even rows, adjusted the back rests so they were all at the same angle, and noticed one of the chairs was missing. He scanned the pool area, didn’t see it, glanced over the short brick wall that separated the motel from the beach and there it was, twenty yards from where he was standing.
O’Clair kicked off his sandals, opened the gate and walked down three steps to the beach. As he got closer, he could see a girl asleep, stretched out on the lounge chair, one leg straight, the other slightly bent at the knee, arms at her sides. She was a knockout, long blonde hair, thin and stacked, wearing a white T-shirt and denim capris, early twenties. He didn’t recognize her, but figure she was with the group from Boston. She looked so peaceful he didn’t want to wake her. “You should go to your room,” O’Clair said, looking down at her.
The girl didn’t respond. He touched her shoulder, shook her gently. Either she was a heavy sleeper or something was wrong. He touched her neck, felt for a pulse, there wasn’t one. Her skin was cold, body starting to stiffen, definitely in the early stages of rigor. He looked at the sand around the lounge chair, surprised it was smooth, no footprints. Glanced toward the water at the joggers and walkers moving by. O’Clair went back up to the patio, wiped the sand off his feet, and slipped his sandals on.
Virginia was standing behind the registration counter, yawning, eyes not quite open all the way, holding a mug of coffee.
“What do you want for breakfast?”
“There’s a dead girl on the beach.” O’Clair said, picking up the phone and dialing 911.
Virginia’s face went from a half smile, thinking he was kidding, to deadpan, seeing he wasn’t. “What happened?”
The cruiser was white with gold and green stripes that ran along the side, light bar flashing. O’Clair watched it pull up in front, taking up three parking spaces. Two young-looking cops in tan uniforms got out and squared the caps on their heads. O’Clair went outside, met them and introduced himself.
“You the one found the body?” Officer Diaz, the dark-skinned cop said.
“You know her?” Diaz pulled the brim lower over his eyes to block the morning sun, the top of a crisp white T-shirt visible under the uniform.
“At first I thought she was with the group from BU. Now I don’t think so.”
“What’s BU?” the big, pale one, Officer Bush said, showing his weightlifter’s arms, uniform shirt bulging over his gut.
“Boston University. Nine kids staying with us, units seventeen and eighteen.” O’Clair didn’t know the sleeping arrangements and didn’t care. They were paying $720 a night for two rooms, staying for five days.
An EMS van pulled up and parked facing the police cruiser. Two paramedics got out, opened the rear door, slid the gurney out, and O’Clair led them through the breezeway, past the pool, to the beach. The paramedics set the gurney next to the lounge chair, examined the girl and pronounced her dead.
Officer Bush said, “What time did you find her?”
“Around twenty to eight.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I looked at my watch,” O’Clair said, like it was a big mystery.
Diaz grinned, showing straight white teeth, reminding O’Clair of Erik Estrada, his tan polyester uniform glinting in the morning sun. “Did you touch the body?”
“Her neck, felt for a pulse.” O’Clair saw Virginia wander down, standing at the seawall with her cup of coffee, watching them. Officer Bush went back to the cruiser and got stakes and tape, then set up a perimeter around the dead girl, protecting the crime scene. The paramedics picked up the gurney and left, leaving the body for the evidence tech.
Diaz took a spiral-bound notebook out of his shirt pocket, wrote something and looked up at O’Clair. “Ever see her before? Maybe lying in the sun, walking the beach?”
“I don’t think so,” O’Clair said. “Someone like that I would remember.”
Diaz said, “You see anyone else?”
“College kids out by the pool.” He almost said drinking beer, but caught himself, he doubted they were twenty-one and didn’t want to get them in trouble.
“What time was that?”
“Around eleven o’clock.”
“Then what happened?
“I went to bed.”
Diaz said, “Anything else you remember? Any noises?”
The evidence tech arrived carrying a tool box, set it on the sand a few feet from the lounge chair, opened it, took out a camera, and shot the crime scene from various angles. Diaz searched the surrounding area for evidence and Bush questioned the morning joggers and walkers wandering up toward the scene. O’Clair watched from the patio, learning against the seawall. Virginia had gone back to the office.
A guy in a tan, lightweight suit walked by O’Clair and went down the steps to the beach. He had to be with homicide. The evidence tech, wearing white rubber gloves, was swabbing the dead girl’s fingernails. He glanced at the guy in the suit.
“What do you got?”
“I figured that unless you were doing her nails.”
“Not much here,” the evidence tech said, “couple hairs, maybe a latent, and something you’re not going to believe.” He whispered something to the suit that O’Clair couldn’t hear.
“Jesus, I’ve seen a lot, but I haven’t seen that.” The homicide investigator shook his head. “Where’s the blood?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“How’d she die?”
“You want a guess? That’s about all I can give you right now. She was asphyxiated, been gone about four hours.”
“Who found her?”
The evidence tech turned and pointed at O’Clair above them on the patio. The detective came up the steps and stood facing him.
“I’m Holland, Pompano Beach Homicide.” He has a goatee and a crooked nose, early thirties. “What’s your name, sir?”
“I understand you found her.”
“You down here for a vacation, or what?”
“I own the place, bought it three months ago.”
“Where you from, Cleveland, Buffalo, someplace like that?”
“Detroit,” O’Clair said.
“Even worse,” Holland said, breaking into a grin. Just kidding. I got nothing against the Motor City.”
“Well that’s a relief,” O’Clair said.
Holland wore his shield on his belt and a holstered Glock on his right hip.
“Living with a girl named Virgnia, helps me run the place.”
“The hot number in the office?”
O’Clair fixed a hard stare on him.
“How’d you arrange that?”
“I must have some hidden talents.”
“You must,” Holland said. “Tell me what you saw this morning.”
“Same thing you did—dead girl on a lounge chair,” O’Clair said. “Know who she is?”
“No ID. No idea. Have to check with missing persons. Was the chair left on the beach?”
“It shouldn’t have been. The lounge chairs are supposed to be kept in the pool enclosure. It’s one of our rules here at Pirate’s Cove.”
“Your guests break the rules very often?”
“Oh, you know how it is. Get in the Jacuzzi with a beer, without taking a shower, and you’ve broken two right there.” O’Clair paused, playing it straight. “The rules are from the previous owner, guy named Moran. I keep them posted ‘cause I think they’re funny. Someone sat down and wrote them in all seriousness.”
“What do you think happened? This girl was walking by and got tired, saw your place, went up, got a lounge chair, brought it to the beach, lay down, and died in her sleep?”
“I’d ask the medical examiner.”
The evidence tech was taking off the rubber gloves, closing the top of the tool box.
Holland said, “What else did you see?”
“You’re asking the wrong question,” O’Clair said. “It’s not what I saw, it’s what I didn’t see.”
“Okay. What didn’t you see?”
“There were no footprints in the sand. Like she was beamed there.”
“So the wind erased them,” Holland said.
“You really believe that?”
“It’s the only plausible explanation I can think of.”
“What else didn’t you see?”
“No obvious cause of death. No evidence of a struggle. In fact, no evidence at all.” O’Clair looked at Holland, caught something in his expression.
“You sound like you know the trade,” Holland said.
“What’s you do before you became an innkeeper?”
“Worked in homicide in Detroit.”
Holland grinned. “I had a feeling. Then you must’ve seen her eyes were missing right? Bulbs removed, empty sockets.”
“But no blood,” O’Clair said. “So it was done somewhere else. Find the primary crime scene, you’ll find the evidence.”
“You weren’t going to say anything?”
“It’s not my case,” O’Clair said. “I figured somebody was going to notice sooner or later, it wasn’t you or the evidence tech it would’ve been the ME.”
“Why do you think the girl ended up here?”
“I have no idea. Why don’t you roll her over, maybe you’ll find something.”
Occasionally there was a crucial piece of evidence under the body, a lead. IT could be a round that would be tested for ballistics comparison against other homicides. It could be money or drugs, suggesting a possible motive, or it could be a cell phone that would lead to the possible killer or killers.
But there was nothing under the dead girl. No ID. No cell phone. Her body was bagged and the remains taken to the Broward County Medical Examiner’s Office. They took O’Clair’s lounge chair too.
“It’s evidence,” Holland said. “You’ll get it back eventually.”
O’Clair doubted it. He knew what happened to evidence.
Bush and Diaz went upstairs, woke the BU students and brought them down to the pool, nine kids looking hung over, yawning. Eight twenty in the morning was the middle of the night for them. O’Clair had noticed they usually didn’t get up till after noon. Holland questioned them one by one, showed photos of the dead girl, took statements, and sent them back to their rooms. No one knew or had ever seen the girl before. No one had seen anything suspicious or heard anything during the night.
The MacGuidwins from Mt. Pearl, Newfoundland in unit two, who had complained about the students making too much noise, were questioned next by Holland. O’Clair watched the fair-skinned, red-haired couple shaking their heads.
As it got hotter, Holland commandeered unit seven for his makeshift interrogation room and brought the other renters in two-by-two for questioning. There were the Burnses, Susan and Randy, from Troy, Michigan; the Mitchells, Joe and Jean, from San Antonio, Texas; the Belmonts, John and Shannon, from Chicago, Illinois; and the Mayers, Steve and Julie, from Syracuse, New York. Steve Mayer woke up with four-alarm heartburn at three-thirty a.m., got up, took a Nexium, walked out by the pool and remembered seeing the lounge chair on the beach, but didn’t think anything of it. None of the other renters saw or heard anything.
O’Clair walked Holland out to his car at eleven twenty, glad to finally get rid of him.
“Miss the life?” Holland said.
“Are you kidding?”
“Some things about it I’ll bet.” He handed O’Clair a card. “Call me if you think of something.”
Q&A with Peter Leonard
1. Describe your writing space and how it inspires you.
I work in a wood-paneled den with a fireplace and shelves of books. To my right is miniature hair my dog, Sam sits on while I write. To my left on the wall is a photograph of my father taken by Annie Leibovitz for an American Express ad. I feel like Elmore is looking over my shoulder, keeping me in line, saying: if it sounds like writing, rewrite it.
2. What was the best advice your father ever gave you?
Leave out the parts readers tend to skip.
3. Before your father passed away, you and he had the opportunity to tour together to promote your books. What was that experience like for you?
It was a lot of fun. We played off each other well. No matter where we went I was always amazed by how many fans my father had. People would stand in line with their dog-eared copies of Glitz, La Brava, Get Shorty Freaky Deaky and dozens of other books, to get Elmore’s autograph. He gave everyone as much time as they wanted.
4. What advice do you have for aspiring young writers who are thinking about starting their first novels?
If you want to be a writer you have to write.
5. What specific authors or books influenced how and/or what you write today?
I was influenced by Hemingway, Steinbeck, James M. Cain, Philip Roth and my father, Elmore Leonard.
6. Describe your writing process. Do you develop characters and plot before you put pen to paper or do you let the story develop as you write?
I typically have a story in mind and then I develop the characters. The book I’m currently writing Unknown Remains; I started with a scene and no idea where I was going and it worked out fine.
7. If EYES CLOSED TIGHT were to be turned into a move, who would you have play the main characters?
I can see Christian Bale as O’Clair and Scarlett Johansson as Virginia.
8. What’s next for you and your writing?
I’m researching a book about a U.S. deputy marshal.
9. What are your hobbies, interests outside of writing? Do any of these activities find their way into your books?
I read, go to sporting events, movies and concerts; I play tennis, cook and collect wine. Aspects of everything I do go into my books.
10. When you find yourself getting writers’ block, how do you find your inspiration again?
Writing is problem solving. If a scene isn’t working I’ll write it from another character’s point of view. If it still doesn’t work I might get rid of it and move on.