9781451650631

The fourth installment in this award-winning mystery series draws actor-turned-super-sleuth Tennyson Hardwick into his most challenging case, compelling him to face the unthinkable: save his daughter or the woman he loves. South by Southeast, a title inspired by the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, finds Tennyson and his family in South Beach, Florida, where he is filming his role in a television detective series. Ten's soon-to-be-adopted daughter, Chela, runs into old friend Maria from her earlier days as a prostitute in Los Angeles. The pair dives into the South Beach club scene, but Maria mysteriously goes missing. When Maria's body washes ashore, Chela and the authorities fear that her suspicious death is connected to a serial killer preying on young prostitutes. Tennyson believes he knows who the killer is, but the suspect escapes when the actor-detective tries to capture him. When it's believed the suspected killer may have committed suicide, things return to normal for Ten and his family. But the respite doesn't last long, and Tennyson discovers someone is after him, his girlfriend, and Chela. Realizing it's the killer who's terrorizing him, Ten is presented with a lose-lose dilemma: save his daughter or the woman he loves. In a pulse-pounding thriller that could be described as Walter Mosley's Easy Rawlins meets Miami Vice, Tennyson Hardwick is back big time with his trademark sexiness, sizzle, and James Bond-like sophistication.

Blair Underwood is an author and award-winning actor, director, and producer. He lives in Los Angeles, California.
Tananarive Due is an American Book Award-winning, Essence bestselling author of My Soul to Keep, Blood Colony, The Living Blood, The Good House, and Joplin’s Ghost. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.
Steven Barnes is an award-winning author of twenty-three novels, including the New York Times bestseller The Cestus Deception.

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ALL ACTORS DREAMof a meeting that will change our lives forever, but I didn’t dare hope that Gustavo Escobar would be mine. Even my agent had no idea why Escobar had called me. Escobar was an Oscar-nominated director on a hot streak, and I was lucky to have a job playing a corrupt lawyer on one of the last surviving soap operas.

After twenty years in the industry, I no longer believed in the Big Bang. My microscopic part in a respected film set during the Harlem Renaissance,Lenox Avenue, hadn’t done much for my career. And the last two Hollywood heavy hitters who had contacted me—both women—craved skills that had nothing to do with my acting. Let’s just say I was wary of calls from powerful strangers.

So when Escobar hadn’t shown up by nine o’clock for our eight thirty dinner meeting, I was sorry I had agreed to meet him without more questions. Once again, the joke was on me.

But it was hard to nurse a bad mood inside La Habana.

La Habana was L.A.’s new ethnic restaurant du jour, modeled after a 1930s Cuban supper club. That night, a full orchestra played a rousing rumba against colorful walls splashed with artificially aged murals of palm trees and revelers in old-fashioned Cuban dress. Black-and-white footage of bandleaders Beny MorÉ and Arsenio RodrÍguez flickered on overhead screens. At least I would have an excuse to call my former girlfriend, April; I was glad for any novelties to bring us together.

I was pulling out my phone to give my agent the bad news when a hand rested on my shoulder.“Lo siento,”a man said. “Sorry, I’m on Cuban Time. Gus Escobar.”

I started to stand, but his firm hand on my shoulder told me not to bother. Instead, Escobar sat across from me with a wide smile, sweeping off his white fedora.

I was surprised to note from his short-trimmed graying hair that Escobar was probably in his fifties, long past the norm for an overnight success in Hollywood. He had a slightly rounded midsection, but he carried himself fluidly, like a man who was fit and comfortable in his own skin. His round, thick-framed black eyeglasses were prominent, more fashion than function. His skin had only a whisper of a suntan, so I wouldn’t have guessed his Latino heritage if I hadn’t known. His accent was as much Brooklyn as Havana.

“I lived in New York too long,” he said. “I never get used to the traffic.”

“No problem,” I said with my trademark grin. “Just glad to meet you, Mr. Escobar.”

“No, no, please, it’s Gus. You have to try the Bucanero beer. They keep extras on ice for me.Oye,Ramon!” He signaled for the waiter with two fingers.

Like a lot of Hollywood types, Escobar was broadcasting himself at full wattage, creating a character, but I liked him. Rather than focusing on himself, he pulled his chair closer and gave me his attention, as if I had summoned him. “You’re kind to make time for me on short notice,” he said. “I’m such an admirer. I sawLenox Avenue,and you stole the scene. But Sofia Maitlin and I are distant cousins, did you know? She’s told me so many good things. She said you’ve never gotten full credit, but you’re a hero.”