Amazon The Official Gene (E. C.) Ayres Website Category:  Action/Thriller Publisher: World Audience Publishers ISBN-10:  1935444085 Pages: 268 Copyright: April 1, 2009 ISBN-13: 9781935444084 Winner of the St. Martin's Press/Private Eye Writers of America Best First Private Eye Novel Contest of 1992. Introducing Tony Lowell, the original hip detective. Former press photographer and boat builder Tony Lowell is also a part time P.I. He lives on one of the last stretches of undeveloped bayou on the Florida Gulf Coast, where he teaches college, works on his boat, drinks beer, smokes a little weed, and solves crimes. Especially crimes against old ladies. And crimes the next justice to the Supreme Court may have gotten away with many years ago. Crimes like murder. Originally published in 1994 by St. Martin's Press writing as E. C. Ayres Excerpt Flashing police strobes lit up the vicinity of the Sun Coast Motel like red lightning: rhythmic silent echoes of a violent, passing storm of human origin. Because the motel was on the edge of town, there were only a few bystanders in the area. Most of them were tourists secretly hoping something exciting would finally happen on their vacation. Detective Lena Bedrosian of the Manatee City Police Department got out of her unmarked squad car and surveyed the area, bracing herself for the onslaught of male hostility her recently acquired rank and position had taught her to expect. She'd worked hard, and won honors. There was no question that she was smart, capable, and tough. Tougher than any of the men she'd beaten out for the job. Not physically stronger, of course. But mentally tougher, more resilient, more intuitive (yes, she'd taken plenty of guff for that, too) and in test after re test, had shown more stamina and persistence than any of her male colleagues. Still, to be the first female detective in a major police department in the state of Florida was no small thing. Bedrosian had to watch her back at all times, she knew. Especially for friendly fire. Sheriff's Deputy Joel Pilchner and Police Sergeant Bill Allenson, both experts at friendly fire, were already there, along with a couple of patrolmen whose names Bedrosian couldn't remember. The area was cordoned off, and they were waiting for her with nervous expectation. Procedure called for the Sheriff's Department to handle routine situations in the unincorporated county, including Gulfbridge, which didn't have a police department of its own. When more serious matters arose, such as murder, Manatee City was called in. This tended to cause resentment. The fact that a woman detective had shown up to take over caused even more resentment. But the cops were careful not to show it too openly. It would come with looks, and little remarks, and a general attitude. The fact that the victim was an old woman gave her immediate authority, in this case. The male cops on the scene seemed embarrassed, almost, at having to witness this ultimate indignity inflicted on someone who, in all likelihood, reminded most of them of their grandmothers. It wasn't that uncommon, in Florida, for a murder victim to be elderly. Older people were prime tar gets for every sort of abuse—especially female ones. Usually just scams and cons, but sometimes worse. Like now. "Stab wound right in the eye," muttered Allenson. A veteran police sergeant of twenty years, Bill Allenson was beefy and sweated profusely, especially in the relentless heat of the Gulf Coast. He prided himself in having been around the racetrack a few times. In this case it hadn't helped. "Jesus." he added, mournfully. A chill swept down Bedrosian's spine. She was still relatively young: thirty, and had moved up through the ranks with incredible speed, considering. Her promotion to detective, however, had come primarily on the strength of a dramatic series of relatively peaceful drug busts. Violent crime was not her forte, and the things people seemed capable of doing to other people still appalled her at times. This was one of those times. Joe Pilchner came over. "We can't find the weapon, but the witness says it came from outside. Says she had the door chained when she answered it, and they got her anyway. Jesus." Bedrosian looked around at the solemn faces. "Who was she?" she demanded. "No I.D." offered Allenson. "All we got is the name on the registration. Maureen Fitzgerald. No other address." "Christ," sighed Bedrosian. Why couldn't it ever be easy? "Get these people out of here, and let's take a look." While the policemen shooed the onlookers away, Bedrosian climbed over the rope, careful not to muss her meticulously pressed gray suit—jacket and long pleated skirt, with white blouse and boots. Inside, she stepped carefully over the small, forlorn puddle of blood, and into the motel room. She stooped by the body for a moment, lifted the sheet covering it, and examined the victim's face, still frozen in surprise. And defeat. She became aware of a popping sound in the room, repeating over and over. It made her scalp crawl. "What the hell is that noise?" she demanded. One of the cops pointed at the cassette player. The tape had long since finished, but either the machine had no automatic shut off, or the mechanism was jammed. The spindle was trying to force its way onwards into musical oblivion. The tape clung stubbornly to the hub with its last thread of tension. One would give soon. If not both. Meanwhile, for fear of tampering with evidence, nobody had dared turn the thing off. The tension in the room was tangible. "Somebody find a handkerchief or something, and turn that off!" she snapped. "Dust it later if we need to. Christ!" The cop grudgingly complied. The noise was getting on his nerves too. Lowell sat patiently at the coffee table, eyeing her with some interest, flanked by two more cops—Peters and another Sheriff's deputy. Detective Bedrosian knew Peters from church. That was about it. She spotted Lowell for the first time across the room, gave him a glance, then a double take, followed by a glare of instant disapproval. "Lowell?" She spun on the officers. "What the hell is he doing here?" "Sorry, sir. I mean, Ma'am. He's a witness." volunteered Peters, with a nervous glance at his partner. Bedrosian froze Allenson and Pilchner with a withering look. " Nobody mentioned a witness." "We thought you might want to get here first," explained Allenson, with a knowing look at his partner. Bedrosian turned back to Lowell. She knew who he was: the longhair photographer PI from Gulfbridge. They’d crossed paths once or twice, and Tony Lowell was not high on her list of favorites. Lena Magdalen Bedrosian had grown up in Tarpon Springs, raised in the Greek Orthodox church by devout God fearing Republican parents, first generation immigrants from Armenia who had taught her to fear God and love Country, in that order. To her father, pride had meant having a full table, a clean face, your own home however humble, and a reasonably new car. Her own improvements on that legacy had been to dress as well as one could afford, and then one better. Like now, she was wearing a brand new Alston suit. Off the rack, but then adjusted by the dry cleaner's tailor. And Italian shoes. OK, so the blouse was J.C. Penney's, but it was all cotton, which was the most comfortable. Lena Bedrosian wore her pride like a badge of honor, reflected in her personal appearance and hygiene as solid proof that she worked hard and lived clean. As for Lowell, he was polar opposite to her in every way: unshaven, hair long and unkempt, sloppy dresser, involved in bleeding heart liberal causes, a goddamn reprobate, who called himself a detective! They hadn't mentioned whether he was a suspect or not. Bedrosian chose not to assume she could be so lucky.

From Booklist
“Retired photographer, beach bum, and sometime sleuth Tony Lowell is a roguish fortysomething hippie whose only nod to the establishment is his feisty friendship with police detective Lena Bedrosian…Lowell is a wacky but likeable guy who is sort of Travis McGee, Don Quixote, and Willie Nelson rolled into one--Booklist

From Publisher's Weekly
HOUR OF THE MANATEE
E. C. Ayres St. Martin's/Dunne,

“A weary and reclusive news photographer turned PI must delve into a quarter-century-old death for answers to a recent murder in this atmospheric mystery set on Florida's Gulf Coast. A dotty old woman is shot to death in a motel just as she is asking Tony Lowell to investigate the 1966 drowning of playboy heir Henry Hartley III. All he knows is that she was institutionalized after witnessing the death, which was ruled accidental. A visit from two FBI agents and hints of political scandal goad Lowell to stay on the case, which has been assigned to conservative detective sergeant Lena Bedrosian of the Manatee City Police Department. Lowell returns to the Hartley home in Palm Coast Harbor, an enclave of the wealthy where Lowell himself grew up as son of the local police chief. His probing leads to another murder, and he and Bedrosian must flee or become the next victims. Ayres’ protagonist, a burnt-out survivor of the ‘60s and ‘70s, of Vietnam and Watergate, is a properly alienated PI. His foil (but not his romantic interest), the defensive and determined Bedrosian, may be a little overdone, but nevertheless the two work together to a satisfying conclusion to this tale, which won the 1992 St. Martin’s/Private Eye Writers of America Best First PI Novel contest (Feb.)