Award-winning writer A.J. Diehl is the author of a report on crime and violence in the media. She's been featured as a spokesperson on radio and television, and in newspapers such as
USA Today and
The Los Angeles Times.
Previously a senior news editor who worked with ABC, CBS and NBC-affiliated TV newsrooms, Diehl also freelances for regional and national publications. She's worked in the magazine, music and concert industries, and has organized artists for the LAPD's D.A.R.E. program and other youth initiatives.
The Mind Box, her fast-paced debut novel, took "Editor's Choice" stripes at the San Diego Writers Conference. The manuscript also received high praise from Silence of the Lambs editor Richard Marek who penned the
Central Park Jogger book.
Top writing awards also went to Diehl at the Maui Writers Conference and she's won several national awards for creative excellence.
A member of the RTNDA (Radio and Television News Directors Association), the LA Press Club and the SPJ (Society of Professional Journalists), Diehl graduated from USC with honors in journalism.
On his computer screen, the e-mail's images opened: a white gift box with a blue ribbon that untied itself and fell to a virtual floor. As if removed by invisible hands, the top of the box lifted. From inside came pictures so vivid, so alive, they shamed his Oscar-winning films. The young woman. Drops of red appeared, smearing her with their implication. The heart beating like something out of Poe's worst nightmare. He had to admit, it was the most terrifying gift a person could receive, one's worst memories. Untraceable; he'd checked twice. His estate manager hovered, watching. Was he in with them or not? Feeling exposed, Eddie Ealing reached for his Scotch, then remembered he'd stopped drinking a decade ago. First his mind grayed, like cooling ash, until the replaying images stoked and fired him, enraged him. He'd been accused of propagating violence but his exploits paled against the horrors conjured by the perfectly honorable monsters he knew. What they'd done. What they would do, if allowed. At last, Eddie's plan was in place. The deadline, July 4. They could terrorize, manipulate and threaten him, but they wouldn't win with him alive, and they couldn't kill him. Not now. The one redemptive deal in his life would be this stopping them. He expected the next waves of dark haze icing his brain, but not the tears that dropped to his cheeks as he tried to quell the violent shaking in his gut. The damn memories filled him again.
* * *
Tuesday, July 5
The call interrupted an epic beach morning.
Lane Daily had just settled into her sand chair, the aches of last night's chase melting from her legs in the strong Hermosa Beach sun. She'd finished her first glass of fumi blanc, had just started a new book, and had just forgotten she was an LAPD homicide detective. She answered her cell phone with more of a sigh than a word.
"They're saying it's the strangest murder ever seen in L.A." It was her partner, J.D. Nestor.
"Real funny. First day off"
"in three weeks," he finished. "I'm not messing with you. More media here than God and they're calling it the chart-topper."
"Worse than Tate/La Bianca?"
"More personal. All the sick stuff directed at one guy." Nestor paused. "Eddie Ealing."
The wine soured in her stomach. "The Eddie Ealing? Where? How?"
"His place. Off Mulholland. Haven't seen the how; I'm on my way now. The lieutenant's been trying to reach you. Hear it's colorful." Nestor gave her the address, said he'd see her there.
As she gathered her beach gear the wind nipped at Daily's chestnut hair and relief coursed through her. Even now, she couldn't entirely relax near the ocean, no matter how she tried. Too much to remember. Systematic desensitization, her best friend called it: settling near your fears until they don't conjure up the demons anymore. But Daily's demons weren't in the sea, they were in her head.
It was early but already the smells of a grill tickled her nose. At the yellow beach house, the cute guy manning the barbecue waved at her and smiled. He ate burgers for breakfast. She certainly couldn't criticize given her dry white nourishment this morningthe first sip of relaxation she'd allowed herself in twenty days. She tried to remember his name. Tad? Todd?
"Leaving already, Lane?" He knew hers. "The day's young and long...."
* * *
Mulholland was jammed with news cameras, vans, reporters. In sight was the canyon road that separated the Hollywood Division of the LAPD from the turf of the LA County Sheriff. If Ealing had been murdered a block west, she'd still be on the beach. The lieutenant had reached Daily right after Nestor. Even though the call was out of rotation for her team, he wanted her there. Like Nestor, he'd been unwilling to discuss any details until they were at the scene.
Daily navigated her unmarked car through the media glut and the sun bounced a glare off the rearview. She adjusted the mirror; the reflection of three nonstop weeks stared back at her. Her olive skin looked unusually pale. Red irritation nagged her brown eyes for sleep. Feeling much older than thirty-three, she stretched tired shoulders and wiped the sweat beading her brow. This July was already the hottest in decades, worse than the spikes a couple months back, and the crime rate had hiked in harmony.
The Crown Victoria's churning air conditioner was worthless. She made a mental note to have the Freon checked and rolled down the window. Her unruly mane danced in the arroyo gusts. She reached in her bag for a hair clip, the biggest one she could find, yet it couldn't contain the chaos of her hair. The unsure, loose waves came from her Italian mother, the dense curls beneath from her half-Bahamian, half-British father. The whole mess framed her dad's willful cheeks and nose, her mom's ample lips. Lane Daily was the "other" box on every form and application. Small wonder her hair didn't know if it was coming or going. Her skin prickled and the mirror showed her neck and chest flushing. It wasn't the heat, it happened when she was stuck, as if her blood was trying to jump out of its skin. She needed to move.
She opened the car's glove compartment. Provisions. The notion of real food evaporated when Daily rode a case. In its place came one of two cravingssalt or chocolate. She tore a cellophane cashew packet open with her teeth, downed the warm nuts, then finished off two more packs and stuffed the empty bags under the seat. If Nestor laid eyes on the stuff she'd get another lecture. Ever since...(Continues)
