A Conspiracy of Ravens

Avery Byrne is haunted by guilt. Years have passed since the goth tattoo artist killed an abusive pimp to protect a friend. But when the Desert Mafia murders her girlfriend, Avery fears her past sins have caught up with her.

Trapped in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse with ruthless gangsters and dirty cops, Avery realizes she must once again become a vigilante if she is to survive and protect the ones she loves.

Can she avenge her girlfriend's death before the they kill her too?

A Conspiracy of Ravens is the gripping first book in the bold new Avery Byrne Tattooed Vigilante crime thriller series. If you enjoy heart-pounding suspense, page-turning plot twists , and queer women who kick ass, you’ll love Dharma Kelleher’s goth rock anthem of a thriller.

Buy A Conspiracy of Ravens now and join Avery as she rains hell on those who murdered the woman she loved.

Sam Ferguson glanced at her partner, Julio Cuervo. She knew what was coming. And for the first time since being hired by Mr. Bramwell, it bothered her. 

Still, she couldn’t let on. There was no room in the Desert Mafia for weakness.

“Look, you guys,” Whitmore pleaded as they hustled him down the hallway. The muffled bass beat from Club Elektronik, the dance club downstairs, vibrated through the floor. “You don’t have to do this. Just take the money and say you couldn’t find me. Mr. Bramwell doesn’t need to know.”

“You believe this guy, Cuervo?” Sam snickered, hoping to hide her mixed feelings. “First, he skims forty large from the boss. Follows that up by making a deal with the cops. Now he’s offering us a bribe.”

“No! I didn’t tell the cops nothing. I swear.”

Cuervo smacked the side of the whining man’s head. “You think we’re stupid? We know they picked you up while making your protection rounds. But did they charge you with anything? No. They let you go. Tells me you cut a deal.”

“It’s a setup. They’re pressuring me to talk by making it look like I already did when I didn’t.” 

“Tell that to the boss.” Sam opened the heavy wooden door to the office. 

Theodore Bramwell was a squat man wearing a bespoke double-breasted suit with gold-plated buttons. He sat behind a hardwood desk that looked easily a century old. Above him was mounted a Rembrandt painting of a ship in a storm. Rumor was that Bramwell had stolen it from a gallery up in Boston thirty years earlier. 

Next to the painting was an autographed photograph of the former president. Bramwell idolized the corrupt politician so much, it made Sam ill every time she stepped into the office and saw the photo. 

“Mr. Whitmore.” Bramwell’s tone was warm and consoling as he put a hand on the other man’s shoulder, but his eyes held an arctic chill. He stood as they approached the desk.

“I was concerned for your safety when you didn’t show up at your usual time. Little bird says you ran into a little trouble with the police.” 

“I didn’t tell them anything, Mr. Bramwell. I promise. I’d never betray you. You know that.”

Cuervo tossed a small canvas bag on the desk. “Found him at his apartment with this and a couple of packed suitcases. Looks to be about forty-two thousand dollars and change. Someone’s been skimming.”

“That’s a lie. I won it in Laughlin two weeks ago. I swear to God.”

“Sit,” Bramwell commanded. “Let us discuss this situation like gentlemen.”

Sam and Cuervo stood nearby, waiting. She didn’t want to be here for this. 

Since she’d started dating Avery six months earlier, Sam had felt something she hadn’t in a long time—hope. Hope for a better life. Hope to become a better person. Hope for a future that didn’t involve violence and the ever-looming threat of prison. 

Whitmore sat hunched in the guest chair like a whipped dog. “I haven’t been skimming, Mr. Bramwell. Honest. I’d never double-cross you. Not in a million years.”

“Of course not.” Bramwell sat on the corner of his desk, arms folded, staring down at the man. “But the police did arrest you, did they not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where did this occur?”

“Bennett’s Liquors, McDowell and Third Street.”

“I see. And how did they catch you?”

“The old man’s kid was on the phone when I walked in for my usual pickup. Hung up right away, looking smug. Must’ve called 9-1-1 when I pulled up. Always gave me queer looks whenever I saw him. Cops blocked me in just as I was leaving.”

“That’s very helpful, Mr. Whitmore. What’s this kid’s name?”

“Don’t remember. Darnell or Dante or something like that. He and I never really talked, you know?”

“It’s Corey,” Cuervo offered. “Corey Bennett.”

“Corey Bennett. Yes, we might have to chat with Mr. Bennett and his son, Corey. But first, I want to know more about what happened after you were arrested. Did you call Ms. Olsen, my attorney?”

“Uh, no.”

“Why not? Her services are at the disposal of all of my employees. And at no cost to you. Not many jobs offer such a perk.”

“I… I didn’t want to trouble her. Or you,” Whitmore sputtered. “I know she don’t work for free. Plus, I was afraid calling her might make me look guilty.”

“Very considerate of you. You’re correct. She charges a considerable amount for her services in situations such as this. But I assure you, it is small change compared to the cost of putting the future of the organization in peril. I’ve worked hard to provide solid employment for so many individuals, such as yourself. You would hate to see that go away, would you not?”

“Uh, yeah. I… I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”

“Excellent. So, who in the police station questioned you?” 

“Two men. One white, one Hispanic. I’m trying to remember their names.”

“Such a momentous experience, and you can’t remember their names? Mr. Whitmore. Benny. Do try to remember their names. Try as if your very life depends on it.”

Bramwell’s tone shifted from friendly to hostile. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Even the rhythmic beat from the nightclub below went deathly quiet. 

“Brooks,” Whitmore managed to say. “And… and Dom… Dom… Dominguez. That’s it. Detectives Brooks and Dominguez. Don’t think they gave me their first names, but they’re from the Organized Crime Bureau. But like I said, I kept my mouth shut. I ain’t no a rat.”

“Of course not. And I want to believe you. But Detective Martin Brooks is an associate of mine. We go way back. And he says you were quite loquacious.” 

Whitmore’s gasp was so intense that Sam felt it in her chest. The man’s eyes widened in horror. “No, no, I just made up lies to throw them off the scent.”

“Mr. Whitmore, you know me for an understanding man. I believe in giving people second chances.” He walked over to Sam and cupped her cheek. 

His smile reminded her of the Grinch. A thrill of fear and uncertainty raced up her spine. What was he going to do? 

“Before Miss Ferguson came to work for me, she started a fight in this very club . Put one of my bouncers in the hospital. But did I press charges? No, I saw potential in her. A fire all too rare for members of her fair sex. And now she is one of my most trusted employees.”

Sam responded with an appreciative smile. Does he know I want out? Is this one of his games? Is he testing me? 

“Thank you, Mr. Bramwell,” Whitmore said. “You won’t regret giving me a second chance. I promise you.” 

Whitmore’s blustering was rattling Sam’s nerves. She knew it was bullshit. And Bramwell clearly knew it was bullshit. This was just foreplay. A cat toying with its prey before the inevitable. 

“Of course, Mr. Whitmore. I don’t like to see potential wasted. I am a businessman, after all. Second chances are an investment.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Although…” The word hung in the air like the countdown to an explosion. The music in the club below resumed. “As I recall, I gave you a second chance not two years ago. Did I not?”

“What?” 

“You forced yourself onto one of my girls.”

Again, Whitmore sputtered, his mind no doubt scrambling for excuses. “But… but she was just a whore.”

“Indeed, she was, Mr. Whitmore. She was my whore. And you did not pay for the privilege. I didn’t say anything to you then because I believed you had potential. I had invested in you. But one of the unfortunate aspects of business is that not all investments yield a positive return. And when that happens…”

“No, no, no.”

“You did not pay then. But you will pay now. Because while I do indeed believe in second chances, I do not believe in third chances. And here you sit, having compromised my business, putting all of our futures in jeopardy.” 

He picked up the bag of cash and held it in Whitmore’s face. 

“And all this time, you’ve been stealing from me. Stealing! You had your bags all packed. Ready to run. Third chance, fourth chance, fifth chance! Wasted. I detest waste, Mr. Whitmore.”

With the fluidity of a cat, he whipped out the Walther P38 Sam knew he usually kept in his desk drawer. 

“Please no, Mr. Bram—”

Sam’s ears rang from the thunder of the gunshot. Whitmore collapsed onto the floor, blood pooling from the gaping hole in the back of his head where the bullet had exited before embedding itself in the hardwood floor. 

She watched Bramwell punch the combination into his large wall safe and toss in the bag of money. From where she stood, she could see dozens of kilos of smack. Something big was in the works. The devil on her shoulder began whispering in her ear. 

Bramwell closed the safe and faced Sam and Cuervo. “I have guests coming from Las Vegas tomorrow. An enormous business opportunity. That means no more disruptions like this. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam and Cuervo replied in unison.

“And, Cuervo, you will entertain Alma while I’m meeting with my guests tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Now clean up this mess. I don’t want my office looking like a slaughterhouse.” Bramwell spat at Whitmore’s body with a look of disgust.