The Copy Candidate

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My latest book, The Copy Candidate, has just been released.  Currently, there are two versions, standard size and large print size.  An audiobook will be finished by the end of the year and is already in development.

It’s an exciting book and contemporary with current political events, and I hope that not only the Ronald Reagan fans will be delighted, but also anyone who enjoys a good mystery and conspiracy.

Here is a sample from Chapter One:

“Yes, you can believe your eyes, your ears and your memories. I am Ronald Reagan.” The audience was immediately back on their feet, questions loudly shouted at the stage from dozens at once, generating a garbled white heat noise. The feelings aroused could not be silenced, and Chairman Waterson emerged, frantically waving his arms in a vain effort to quiet the room and regain control. As soon as some sat down, others rose as if their questions had compelled action. The seated ones stood again, and for a time it seemed as though everyone was trying to be heard all at once. Except Jill. She covered her ears and shrunk back in her seat, her wild eyes trying to follow events but shielding her ears from the intensity of the moment. The place was in chaos, and there was no controlling the crowd, enraged with questions as they were, partially from surprise and partly because of the lack of plausible answers.

From Chapter Six:

“Ron, are you trying to make me fall in love with you? If you are, it’s working.”

“I thought about that last night at dinner. You were lit by candlelight, dressed in that marvelous white gown, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. It’s the way you move, the little change of expression around your eyes, the breathless way you speak. All of it. Sure, I’m trying. I can’t help myself, and I guess I want you to share that emotion.”

“You were serious when you mentioned that we weren’t going to go any farther?”

“You can’t imagine how painful that decision has become on my side. I’ll say it again, though. We are not going to have a physical relationship, but the reasons are not what you might suppose. I am not infected with anything, have no physical limitations, no commitments with anyone else, and it’s not because I don’t find you appealing. It’s entirely some other thing which remains, at the moment, private. Please be patient with me, the last thing I want is to lose your trust and affection.”

“Can we at least kiss?”
“I couldn’t stop with just that. Could you?”
“No.”

From Chapter Twelve:

When the door partially opened, all he could see was the top of her head…grey hair under a coarse hairnet. Her curved bony nose gave her a birdlike appearance, as did her sharp voice.

“What?” she croaked, then the nose disappeared from view while she awaited the correct answer. Bobby discretely and noiselessly placed the toe of his shoe in the crack to prevent the door from closing.

“Top of the morning, Mum. Nothing to fear. I’m no bill collector. In fact, I may be able to pay you a few quid instead.” This morning, his accent was heavily Irish, a facile talent which allowed him to switch dialects as easily as taking a breath. The door opened halfway, and the older woman expectantly searched his face.

“Here…what do you mean sticking your foot in my door like that?” She was looking at his foot which was withdrawn.

“No harm, Mum. I just want a bit of information, then I’ll be on me way.”

“Let me see the color of your money first,” she croaked, her faded blue eyes fixing his face.

Bobby held up a five pounder and waved it around while she watched, then extended it toward her. It was snatched away, disappearing behind the door. His foot quickly blocked the swinging door before it closed. She took another look and saw a thickset man with longer reddish hair and a three-day growth on his chin. The scowl on his face said it all, a man not to trifle with.


 

Beckman stopped and watched as Sommerlyn Crosby walked away without looking back. He felt sorry for her in some distant way. He had seen photographs taken when she was young and full of dreams. A nice little package with puffy lips and long gorgeous blonde hair, innocent and wild, a thing of dreams for a young man. Beckman lit up a cigarette as she slowly disappeared into the night, wishing when he was young he could have known what he now knew. A dish like Sommerlyn should have been put on a pedestal, worshiped, respected and given the world. Instead she was used and thrown aside, just like he himself had carelessly done to girls just like her. He blew a long puff into the night air. What in hell was he investigating?


You can purchase  The Copy Candidate at Amazon

or at Barnes and Noble.

Alexander Francis

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