The best crime fiction from Next Chapter [March 2023]
The crime fiction genre is one of the most popular and widely read genres in literature. It is characterized by stories that revolve around criminal activities and investigations, and often involve detectives or other law enforcement officers as central characters. Crime fiction can take many forms, from classic whodunit mysteries to gritty police procedurals, to psychological thrillers.
One of the defining features of crime fiction is the emphasis on plot and suspense. Readers are drawn into the story by the puzzle of the crime and the desire to see justice served. The best crime fiction authors are adept at keeping readers on the edge of their seats, building tension and suspense as the investigation unfolds. The genre also often explores themes of justice, morality, and the nature of evil.
Crime fiction has a long and rich history, with some of the most famous and enduring characters in literature emerging from the genre. From Sherlock Holmes to Agatha Christie's Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, to modern-day favorites like Michael Connelly's Harry Bosch and Jo Nesbo's Harry Hole, crime fiction has given us some of the most memorable and beloved characters in literature. With its blend of mystery, suspense, and social commentary, crime fiction continues to captivate readers and writers alike.
Here, you’ll find eleven of our new crime thriller / mystery titles, as of 03/2023, now available from all major book retailers in eBook, hardcover and paperback formats (and some in audio as well).
We hope you enjoy the books on this page - and if you do, please leave a comment below a review in your favorite marketplace. Don’t agree with our choices? Please let us know which book is your favorite in the crime fiction genre :)
Books featured on this page
The Mersey Ferry Murders (Mersey Murder Mysteries Book 9) by Brian L. Porter
Miles To Go (Mo Gold And Birdie Mysteries Book 2) by W.L. Liberman
Mastermind (Mitchell Parker Crime Thrillers Book 1) by Helen Goltz
Guns, Gams, Ghosts and Gangsters (Turner Hahn And Frank Morales Case Files Book 2) by B.R. Stateham
Pigeon-Blood Red (Pigeon-Blood Red Book 1) by Ed Duncan
Broken Alliance (Mountainside Mysteries Book 1) by Chris Hunter
Sing Like a Canary (Canary Islands Mysteries Book 5) by Isobel Blackthorn
A Measure of Trouble (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 2) by Zach Abrams
You Choose (Falcone & Richards Thrillers Book 1) by Phillip Tomasso
The Mersey Ferry Murders (Mersey Murder Mysteries Book 9) by Brian L. Porter
Book excerpt
“Okay, what’s happened?” Fenella Church immediately detected the frisson of an atmosphere in the squad room as soon as walked across the floor towards her desk. Nothing appeared to get past her empathic nature, and Ross knew he had to tell her the news before getting her report.
“That’s fantastic, sir. Congratulations, to you both.”
Ross and Drake both voiced their thanks but then rather than ask any questions, of which she had many, Church’s business-like brain took over and she commenced with her report. She began with her visit to the home of Adrian and Pamela Hill.
“The widow wasn’t exactly helpful to be honest. She couldn’t tell me much more than she imparted to you and Izzie last night, sir. Her sister was very protective of her and if she hadn’t been there, I’d have been worried about the possibility of Pamela harming herself.
The neighbour, Mrs Knott wasn’t much help either. She did say that Phil had gone out and bought a new phone the day after his old one was nicked in the pub. I asked if he’d informed his service provider so they could put a block on it, but she didn’t know. I’m hoping Paul can find that out for us. I tried phoning Vodafone, but they wouldn’t give me the information I required, without some proof of who I was.”
“Give me the number Fee, and I’ll get on it now,” Ferris immediately said.
Church gave him a piece of paper containing the number and then continued her report.
“Pamela Hill is definitely in the clear as far as I’m concerned. I did think maybe she was behind her husband’s murder, you know, maybe for insurance money or something, but no way could grief like that have been faked. She also had no idea why her husband had come home bearing wine and flowers, but I’ll get to that in a minute. Plus, I don’t see how she could have been connected to the first murder, unless it was a random killing as a trial run for the real thing.”
“Highly unlikely,” Ross ventured to interrupt.
“My thoughts exactly, just mentioned it to dismiss it really. Anyway, next I took the ferry to Wallasey. I know, I could have used the tunnel, but I wanted to get a feel of how Hill would have felt crossing the river twice a day. His boss, Trevor Bolton, at Bolton and Son, a company specialising in the supply and maintenance of household appliances couldn’t praise Adrian Hill enough. He’d been with the company for years, and was so highly thought of, that on the day of his murder, he’d been promoted to the post of Service Manager, on the retirement of the previous incumbent. That explained the wine and flowers. He obviously intended to celebrate his promotion with his wife.”
“Poor bastard,” DS Ferris commented from his desk.
“Mmm, that’s what I thought, Paul,” Church agreed, before continuing. “It was probably one of the happiest days of his life, right up until someone decided to end it before his wife could share it with him. So, his boss thought the world of this guy and couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would want to hurt him. It was pretty much the same when I spoke to his fellow workers. Between them they told me that he was well respected, friendly and courteous to them and the customers he came into contact with. In fact, some customers phoning up for a service call would often ask for him by name when they needed an engineer call out.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” Drake commented. “Didn’t anyone have a bad word for him?”
Miles To Go (Mo Gold And Birdie Mysteries Book 2) by W.L. Liberman
Book excerpt
Seventeen and my beard had begun to grow in. Miryam and I met at Rusholme Park on Shabbos afternoon. My excuse? I took my little brother, Eli, to the swings so he could play. Miryam snuck off for half an hour while her parents napped before dinner. We weren’t permitted to be in the same room alone together. No touching or holding of hands allowed. I wasn’t even supposed to talk to her. Insanity. The rules chafed. So, we got around them. I knew Miryam’s family would blame me if ever we’d been caught. I would be the corrupter. But she instigated all the way down the line.
I kept my eye on Eli once we arrived at the park. He did his ape routine swinging from the monkey bars, grunting and beating his chest. It scared off most of the other little kids and their parents.
“Your brother is energetic,” Miryam said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I replied.
She laughed, full-throated, without concern. I kept my eyes peeled for the enemy.
“One day, they’ll catch us.”
“I’ve always liked your positive attitude,” she chided.
“Yeah, well. Law of averages, isn’t it?”
“I don’t care.”
“You should,” I said. “The consequences….” I left it hanging. Religious parents weren’t reasonable when it came to their daughters, their collective reputation and chastity. My father couldn’t care less. He was on some job in New Jersey, smuggling, gun-running, booze, who knew? But my mother suffered through it all. We’d been living in Kensington Market the longest we’d been anywhere; all of eight months. It was hard not to notice Miryam even though she was continually dogged by her older brother; a skinny, pimply geek with black hair, pale skin but the same intense, dark eyes. Her self-appointed protector. We loathed each other on sight. I didn’t wear a hat. I didn’t go to schul. I didn’t wear fringes. I didn’t pray. I wore open-necked shirts. I smoked. And drank when I could get my hands on something. Bad influence all the way round. That’s what Miryam liked. What she wanted. A release from her daily suffocation. She wanted to breathe.
Miryam stroked my face. In public. Forbidden act. Eli ran up, grabbed my hand, yanked on my arm. His timing was impeccable.
“Come on, come on,” he said. “We’d better get outta here.”
I looked down at him. Even at eight years old, he looked the spitting image of Jake. “Why?” Tried to wear his hair in a ducktail, too.
“Look,” he pointed.
I saw two men with angry expressions. Working men, sleeves rolled up, some heft to them, sunburn on their cheeks and foreheads. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“That doesn’t look like nothing,” Miryam said.
I glanced over. The two men headed our way.
I squeezed Eli’s arm. “What’d you do?”
He flinched. “Yeow. Okay, so maybe one or two of those kids fell off the jungle gym or something. I dunno. They were in my way.”
“I should smack you,” I said.
“But you won’t,” Eli smirked. Family and the buttons they pushed.
“Miryam, you take Eli and start home.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“What I always do,” I muttered. “Take care of it. Now get going. I’ll see you later.”
“Mo…”
“Just take him, please, before he starts a riot.”
Miryam nodded. She took Eli’s hand and yanked him along.
“I wanna stay and watch,” he wailed. Miryam yanked him harder.
A kid’s pint-sized baseball bat lay in the dirt. I picked it up and smacked it into my palm. Small but had a little bit of spring to it. The two men strode toward me. One pale and large, with thinning blonde hair and the other, shorter but heavy set. He wheezed just walking up the slight incline. They stopped about five feet away.
The pale one pointed in Eli’s direction. “That kid’s a freakin’ menace. You need to do something about him. He pushed our kids off the jungle gym.”
I nodded. “I know.”
The other one piped up. “They might’ve broken somethin’.”
“My apologies. He’s a bit reckless. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”
“That’s it?”, the pale one said. “We’re supposed to believe you and let it go? Just like that?”
I realized the cause of the flushed faces wasn’t only because of the sun. They’d downed a few beers too. One thing about having a father as a shyster who hung out with shyster friends. You learned the rules of combat early on. You learned to take care of yourself.
“That’s right,” I said. “That’s it. I apologized. It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”
The dark one grinned and stepped forward. A happy glint lit up his face. “You people think you can get away with anything, huh? Do whatever you want?”
It had only been a few years since the Christie Pits riot where Nazi bully boys took on local Jews in a smashing dust-up. Jake had been there and loved every second of the head bashing and shin cracking that took place that day. So, when the guy said, ‘you people’ I understood exactly what he meant.
I had turned to go but swiveled back. They both looked a bit happier now.
“Take your shot, fatso.”
Mastermind (Mitchell Parker Crime Thrillers Book 1) by Helen Goltz
Book excerpt
Charlotte Curtis turned her red MG into the familiar surrounds of the juvenile detention center, finding a parking space between a news van and a motorcycle.
Late again, she cursed, then quickened her pace from the car to the building, racing up the stairs as fast as her fitted navy suit and heels would allow. She pulled up at the security desk.
“Hello Charlotte, you know the drill … your bag and folder please,” the guard instructed as he ran a scanner over her body looking for metal objects.
“Hi Roger, I suppose you want my knife collection?”
“Yes thanks, but the escape kit is fine to take in.”
Charlotte laughed.
“You’re here to see Bradley Parnell?”
“I am.”
Roger shook his head.
“What is it?” Charlotte prompted him.
“Charlotte, that boy has had some terrible nightmares.”
“Really? How often?”
“Several times a night. He wakes himself up yelling, poor kid.”
“Do you know what about? Has he said anything?”
Roger paused. “Sometimes he will yell out words, you know, stop, no – once he called for his mother. Now that’s one messed up kid.”
“Mm, thanks Roger. He’ll be out by tomorrow. They always give the new kids a few days in remand to scare the hell out of them.” She gave him a wave and hurried down the hall to the counseling rooms, walking on her toes to reduce the echo on the tiles announcing “intruder” to the insiders.
Charlotte opened the door to room 7J. She glanced up at a flickering fluorescent light in the ceiling panel and shuddered at the sight of a huge spider web in prime position for moth catching. She did a quick scan of the room to ensure the owner wasn’t in sight, then dropped into a deep, red vinyl chair that groaned beneath her.
I know how you feel, she thought. Right, a ten-minute wait till they bring Brad.
She turned off her phone and sat back with a sigh.
An inscription carved into the timber table caught her eye. Jason loves Samantha. Jason’s probably long gone by now and has kids of his own, she thought. Samantha … Mitch’s colleague. I wonder what she’s like, Charlotte thought, surprising herself at the tinge of jealousy she felt. Ellen and Samantha. The only two girls Mitch has mentioned for a while, since that last one slept over … Lena, Leonie, Lana?
Ah, Lachlan. What are you doing, why are you calling me again?
Charlotte jumped as the door opened, bringing her back to reality. Security brought in a good-looking teenager in a regulation orange jumpsuit. She looked at her watch – she had exactly one hour.
Guns, Gams, Ghosts and Gangsters (Turner Hahn And Frank Morales Case Files Book 2) by B.R. Stateham
Book excerpt
Earlier, there had been something about the kid that bothered me. Well, maybe it was more what the kid had said to me that bothered me. Just a kid really. Maybe fourteen, fifteen years old. A geeky little kid plagued with adolescent acne and a love for video games. Rail thin with big brown eyes and wire rim glasses. A dime a dozen. You find'em in every apartment building on this side of town. At least one.
But the one thing Frank and I knew from experience was a kid like this knew a hell of a lot more than what he usually revealed. Not because he was up to some nefarious shenanigans. But because they just usually kept quiet and stayed out of everyone's way. Because, frankly, he was a geeky teenager with a case of acne with a connoisseur’s intimate knowledge of the city's many pizza parlors.
Who the hell wants to be made into a laughing stock by a toothy-looking geeky kid?
Sliding hands into the pockets of my slacks, I stared down at the body lying on the worn-out carpet of the small apartment. The dead man's name was Tobin. Cory Tobin. Councilman Cory Tobin. Fifty-six years old, married, with two grown kids currently enrolled in some high-priced university on the east coast. His wife was rumored to be worth well over a billion dollars. That's a billion dollars. With a 'B' in front of the 'illions,' baby.
You see the conundrum.
What the hell is a man like Councilman Cory Tobin doing in a two-room efficiency apartment on that side of town? At that hour in the morning? With the handle of some kind of Oriental knife jutting out of his chest at a ten-degree incline?
Feeling the building shake ever so lightly I turned on my heel and watched my partner walk out of the small bedroom and set his course straight for me and the stiff lying on the floor. Big is a word one could use to describe Frank, like in, “Jesus Christ! He's a big man!” And they would be right. A little over six foot four, topping the scales around the three hundred mark, with carrot colored red hair that never stayed combed, a thick mustache of the same color, and a coating of carrot-colored fuzz for a beard. He viewed the world with little dark pin pricks for eyes that never missed a thing. Imagine that nightmare, buddy, and you’ll have the perfect image of Frank Morales. My partner.
But make no mistake, hombre. Say whatever you want about Frank's size and looks. But never make the mistake that he's just a big dumb cop. Others have. Lots of others have. And they're upstate in one prison or another locked away behind bars for decades to come. The old cliché about your mistakes coming back to haunt you? Very true; very, very true.
"Nothing in the bedroom," Frank growled in his usual congenial self, stepping across from me and looking down at the corpse. "Hasn't been slept in for days. Nothing in the bedroom or the bath to indicate the councilman has ever been here."
"The girl?"
Pigeon-Blood Red (Pigeon-Blood Red Book 1) by Ed Duncan
Book excerpt
Their search of Robert's apartment having turned up nothing, Rico and Jerry went back to their car. Rico looked up and shaded his eyes from the sun. It had shone brightly earlier in the day, only to give way later to an angry dark sky, and now it peeked through the clouds and, aided by a gentle breeze, warmed the chilly March air. Jerry didn't notice. A chill gripped his body and he shivered as the image of the velvet pouch slipping from his pocket flashed across his mind for perhaps the tenth time.
Rico got behind the wheel. His search for clues to Robert's whereabouts had disclosed that luggage and toiletries were missing. Robert and his wife had gone somewhere. Maybe they were still in town, but his hunch was they had left the city. “I'll check the two stores. You take the college.”
Jerry looked puzzled, so Rico added, “Where his wife works.”
“I forgot. What's her name again?”
“Evelyn.”
Jerry hesitated a moment. Then he said, “What about Frank?”
“What about him?” Rico said without a hint of emotion.
“We gotta break the news, don't we?” Jerry asked, squirming a little in his seat. This was going to be a rough meeting for him, but Rico didn't seem to empathize. “Yeah, we might as well take care of that now,” was all he said.
They drove in silence. Jerry would have preferred telling Litvak over the phone, but Rico hadn't asked his opinion. He hoped Rico could think of something to make the telling easier. He caught himself reaching in his pocket for a cigarette.
Rico leaned back without looking at him. “A smoke isn't gonna help. Don't sweat it.”
Litvak met them at his office door, angrily firing questions. “Where the hell've you been? Lou says you never made it to his place. Is he shittin' me? You left here hours ago!”
“Can we come in?” Rico asked evenly.
Litvak made an exaggerated, sweeping gesture with his arm. “Be my guest,” he said. He sat at his desk, Rico and Jerry in the two chairs in front of it.
“We had a problem,” Rico said.
“What kind of problem?”
Jerry summoned all the courage he could command, but his voice still shook. “The guy lifted it.”
Litvak leaped to his feet, incredulous. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! He what?”
Jerry straightened his collar and shifted positions in his chair. He looked at Rico and decided to take his medicine. “While we were driving—”
Broken Alliance (Mountainside Mysteries Book 1) by Chris Hunter
Book excerpt
Greg Larson had been with the Mountain View DA’s office for two years now. Born and raised in the town, after graduating with a Bachelor’s degree from UNC Asheville, he had no idea what he wanted to do. He had majored in English Language and Lit and minored in psychology, because he loved to read and was interested in what made people tick. But he knew he did not want to teach. He did not want to spend his life indoors sitting at a desk, and did not want to have a supervisor looking over his shoulder and telling him what to do. He knew what he didn’t want but not what he did.
Greg was bright. Very bright. His father, a research scientist, encouraged him to go into medicine. But science was not Greg’s interest. His father agreed to fund a “gap year”, during which Greg would travel and “find himself”. He did that and enjoyed it immensely. But he did not find himself. Tragically, his parents both died in a freak accident while he was away. This shook Greg out of his dream world and back to reality. He was on his own now. He inherited the house and some money in a trust fund but, other than for tuition, he could not touch it until he turned thirty. He was twenty.
After some thought, Greg decided law gave him the most flexibility. With a law degree, he could go into almost any field. And, if he picked the right field, it would give him the independence he needed. UVA Law had a great reputation. He applied and was accepted. Three years later, after graduating and passing the bar, he accepted a job as a prosecutor. He had been offered positions with large city firms, where the pay was spectacularly higher, but he knew he would hate it. Money was not his primary goal. Criminal law was more interesting and rewarding. He spent two years as Assistant Commonwealth Attorney in a small Virginia town not unlike his hometown, Mountain View, North Carolina.
In law school, he met a girl and fell in love. She did too, and they got engaged. They enjoyed fun things together and were never short of topics to discuss. The one thing they could not agree on, was lifestyle and where to live. She loved the excitement of big cities and he liked the quiet of the country. Her dream was to become a successful big-firm partner in Northern Virginia, and he missed Mountain View. He took the NC bar exam so some day he could return. Finally, they realized that no compromise would work for both. She met an upcoming attorney in a DC law firm and was offered a job. She accepted. He knew it was over, and when he heard from a friend that his home county had an opening for an assistant district attorney, he quickly applied and got the job. It was time to go home.
The girl approached him hesitantly, winding her way past her companion in the adjoining chair and around an elderly man in a wheelchair who was parked in the isle between the rows of seats. Greg watched her from his table behind the bar, the boundary in a courtroom beyond which only lawyers, judges, bailiffs and participants in a case are allowed. She was about college age and beautiful. Long blonde hair streaked with darker brown flowed down on to her shoulders and her blue eyes were framed by delicate features. She was wearing a skirt that was tight but tasteful in a twenty-something way, not too short, and a blouse that was sexy without being over-revealing. In her hand, she was nervously clutching the inevitable yellow paper, the defendant’s copy of a summons. In her case, most likely a traffic summons. When she reached the wooden knee wall that separated them, she faltered for a second, unsure of whether or not to address him. Then she gathered herself, smiled nervously at him, locked eyes and asked the question he knew was coming.
Sing Like a Canary (Canary Islands Mysteries Book 5) by Isobel Blackthorn
Guatiza was a mile or two south of Mala. In the centre of the village, I made a left. After crawling down the narrow lane that zigzagged past the church, I made another left at the next intersection and pulled up in the designated parking area in the gravel, the front garden being wall-to-wall gravel marked out with large stones each sporting a smear of white paint. No one had thought to lay any sort of path to the front door or even a few stepping stones. Rustic. The garden – if that patch of some ten-by-twenty metres could be called a garden – contained a few large cacti and some spiny-leafed plants. No flowers, but the low stone walls were capped with white-painted concrete and the cacti lent a sculptural element. They were nothing like the chaotic array of leaves of the prickly pear in the fields all around. Instead, giant spiny shafts reached skywards. One cactus was an enormous furry-looking blob. Deceptively furry. I wasn’t about to stroke it. There was a fleshy-leaved groundcover, too. Didn’t cover much ground but I supposed it would spread.
I had no idea what any of those plants were called. I’d never been a gardener. That was Jess’s forte. I had always been happy to leave her to it.
Cashing In: The Corruption Kings by Jonathan D. Rosen
Sterling Brewer adjusted his tie and tugged on his cufflinks.
“Mr. Brewer, the governor is ready to see you,” said the governor’s assistant.
Sterling had come a long way the past decades, from working as an insurance salesman to being the CEO of a private prison company known as Corrections United Company, or CUC. He always had the gift of gab and used it to convince Florida State officials to advocate for a prison in Homestead to be subcontracted and run by CUC.
“Governor Pena, how are you? It’s great to see you,” said Sterling as he walked through the door. Sterling was an amateur body builder. At five feet eight and one hundred and ninety pounds, Sterling was built like a sparkplug.
“Great to see you, Sterling. Come on in,” said José Pena, who had been in office for two years. Governor Pena ran as a moderate Republican and vowed to decrease corruption and improve efficiency throughout the state.
Governor Pena was a living example of the American Dream. His parents fled Cuba before the 1959 revolution and moved to Miami. Pena excelled in the Florida public school system and earned a full scholarship to Yale. He continued his education at Yale Law School and became the top prosecutor in the State of Florida at just thirty-four years old. He ran for governor and won at the age of forty-one.
Inside Sam Lerner by Gwen Banta
While Sam showered, he wondered if Dr. Fillet could live up to his name and fillet his skull to remove the ringing from his ears. The blow to his head had also left him with waves of nausea. After he dressed he tried to eat some plain toast, then he drank three cups of strong coffee.
As he glanced over the paper, he made mental notes of what was happening locally, including the disappearance of another girl around Madsen's age. The missing girl, identified as Carol Stone, also had no kin. Her landlady reported her missing, but friends said she never stayed in one city too long. Must be the case Duval had referred to, Sam thought. He automatically filed it away.
When he felt more alert, he brought in a few boxes from the trunk of his car and a card table he had picked up to use as a desk. After he peeled the tape off a box and lifted out his computer and his papers, he spotted a photo of Kira on top of the heap. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, and she was smiling as though she would go on breathing forever. She was sitting on the edge of a boat off the coast of Cozumel where they had spent their last vacation. The photo had been tucked into a birthday card she had given him. He flipped it over to read the inscription he had long ago memorized: "I love you, Sweetheart."
"I love you too, babe," Sam said aloud before he tucked the photo under his keyboard. He couldn't leave it out where he'd have to look at it every day. He needed distance. Somehow he knew she would understand.
A Measure of Trouble (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 2) by Zach Abrams
Fifteen minutes later, Alex, accompanied by Police Constable Mary McKenzie, turned the Santa Fe off the road into the driveway of a large, modern, architect-designed villa, sitting alone on a wide stretch of land atop a small hill.
They climbed down from the SUV and crunched across the red blaize pathway, halting on the penultimate of the four approach steps before ringing the doorbell. They heard thunderous movement from within and the sound of loud barking.
A few moments passes before they heard, “get down, get down,” and the metallic click of a lock turning. The door pulled open a few inches.
“Yes, can I help you?” They were addressed by a dour looking middle-aged woman. She was plump and her round, red face was accentuated by her long greying hair being tied up in a bun. She was dressed all in black, wearing a tight fitting sweater and leggings and she was holding a rag in her left hand.
Alex held out his warrant card. “I’m DCI Warren and this is PC McKenzie. We’re here to speak to Mrs Mathewson.”
You Choose (Falcone & Richards Thrillers Book 1) by Phillip Tomasso
Book excerpt
Late October was Investigator Vincent Falcone’s favorite time of year. Brisk mornings, cool days, and cooler nights. He didn’t miss the heat and humidity of summer. This morning was no different. The chill in the air felt invigorating, and although he wore a thigh-length black leather jacket over a white-collar dress shirt, and loose blue jeans, he drove toward work with his window down.
On his way, he stopped at the Tim Hortons on Lake and Ridge and bought two coffees at the drive-thru. He took his black. His partner drank her coffee with two creams, two sugars. Pulling into the precinct parking lot, past the back gates, Falcone parked alongside the fence, and then entered the precinct through the front door. He greeted the desk sergeant, made his climbed stairs, and exited on the second floor, Special Operations Division. Investigators for the Major Crimes Unit, like Falcone and Farrah Richards, were to the right, other divisions, like Economic Crimes, License Investigations, and SVI, the Special Victims Investigations—were to the left, and also occupied space on the third, and fourth floors.
There you go: eleven of the best crime fiction books from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the stories on this page, and would love to hear your thoughts! If one of the books here made your day, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. We’d love to hear from you!
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