AFTER THE BLUE BLUE RAIN, by Mystery Author A.D. Price

L.A. 1946. The client is desperate, the target has disappeared into thin air. And a routine missing person case is about to take a dangerous turn for P.I. Kit Comfort and partner Henry Richman, the LAPD’s most infamous ex-cop. While on the hunt for a veteran who’s gone missing from an L.A.-bound train, detectives Kit and Henry come face-to-face with an underground network of enemy sympathizers. The duo’s discovery sets off alarms with the U.S. Army, and soon, the pair are in a race against the clock, battling both a deadly cabal and dodgy government agents. The wounds of war come full circle in this devastating conspiracy between “good and evil.”

This is an exciting tale with a fast-paced plot that followers of the mystery genre will find too appealing to put down. An excellent detective story.  Asian Essien, Readers’ Favorite

Libraries strong in historical mysteries that incorporate veteran issues will find After the Blue, Blue Rain attractive to readers of both genres; but ideally it also will attract book clubs seeking edgy novels that operate both within and outside the confines of genre reads. This audience will find After the Blue, Blue Rain presents underlying issues of interest to readers of veteran experiences, offering food for thought and discussion that augment the mystery and history components with powerful reflective insights about survival, adaptation, and change.
D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

Available for purchase and in the KU program:

On the day I made my escape, the snow had turned to slush. I had been assigned to road duty a mile from the camp, supervising other prisoners in construction and ditch digging. For that I earned 80 cents an hour.

Based on the schematic I had been provided, I had mentally sketched out my plan some weeks before. I knew that at certain points the road we were building cut across a gas pipeline. Great care had to be taken to avoid striking the line, as it would explode if ruptured, and for weeks I had guided my team with cautious precision. On that day, however, I gave them orders for a perfectly timed miscalculation.

Under the fading winter sun, I lay out markers directing the bulldozer to dig across an area where only I knew the pipeline ran. It would be the last section dug before quitting time. The men were tired — I could tell by the lazy way their shovels hit the half-frozen earth — and in their fatigue they had lost focus. That was good.

Discreetly I tried to listen for sounds of the impact, of the bulldozer’s blade hitting the gas line, but little could be heard above the screeching and rumbling of the engine and roller. After a few seconds, though, I noticed bubbles popping up in the ground behind where the bulldozer had just been. It was a sure sign of escaping gas, but I waited several seconds before yelling, “Gas! Run!”

My warning came a moment before the explosion. A fireball shot up where the volatile bubbles had been, enveloping the abandoned bulldozer. The prisoners and the guard on duty scattered in a panic, and taking advantage of the commotion, I took off, running away from the site.

I kept running as the wail of a fire truck siren filled the cold dusk air. I ran across snow-dusted fallow fields and through a patch of woods. I ran until darkness had fallen and an abandoned barn was in sight. Exhausted I stumbled toward it. The ground was hard and rough with weeds and wild grass, and I lost my balance when my toe struck the edge of a brick that had been obscured by a patch of snow. I flew forward, my chest and right arm striking more loose bricks as I landed face-first on the ground. After a stunned moment, I willed myself to my feet and limped the rest of the way to the old barn.

Once safely inside, I collapsed against the wall and let the pain from the fall wash over me. I had no means to deal with my injuries and little time for rest. As soon as I was able, I began to explore my surroundings. Whatever equipment the building might have once housed was long gone, save for a beat-up toolbox I discovered in a corner. Tucked inside was a rusty switchblade, which I used to cut the camp ribbon off my work coat. The coat had served me well, but the canvas only kept out so much of the cold and would stand out among civilians. I knew I would have to acquire something warmer.
* * *
I waited for the warning whistle to sound before boarding the last car of the idling train. Coatless, hatless and bagless, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, even in the dead of night. I tucked the discarded newspaper I had been hiding behind under my arm and slid into an empty seat in the corner. As I had hoped, everyone around me was either sleeping or reading and barely took notice of my entrance.