Corpse Call — Rosalyn Wraight

The car at the bottom of Prentice Lake could not have gotten there accidentally. Max Wendt slumps dead in the front seat with neither a reason to kill himself nor enemies to do it for him. Miles away, Detective Laura McCallister imparts the news that transforms a wife into a heartbroken widow, a ten-year-old boy into a fatherless son. The most she can give them is a promise to learn the truth.

But the clues uncovered at the crime scene have little-if anything-to do with Max Wendt. Instead, they point to places far in the past. They point to a blog filled with horror fiction written from the corpse's point of view. They point to a killer willing to risk capture for what seems nothing more than an arrogant game of cat and mouse. Or is it? What could a killer possibly want from a cop?

With no choice but to play along with the demented game, McCallister turns to cases before her time and technology she has thus far shunned. And all the while, the killer taunts her, pushes her buttons, nudges her to cross lines that were always starkly black and white. Desperate, she seeks help from unlikely sources: a reporter, a realtor, and the rowdy patrons of Ringers bar. But the further she delves, the less it all has to do with the pressing question: Who killed Max Wendt?

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