The Dead Detective Case Files

Listen to The Dead Detective Casefiles on the Books to the Ceiling Podcast Below

This week we’re headed to a very different side of life, or should I say the other side of life. We have three books on Books to the Ceiling and we’re about to investigate with a dead detective in the Dead Detective Case Files.

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DYING TO KNOW

Detective Oliver Tucker’s dead—murdered—and back as an earth-bound spirit to help his wife, Professor Angela Tucker, crack the most important case of his life—his own. But, this is not a ghost story; it’s a murder case.

Tuck knows why he is back among the living but not one of them—Detective Solve Thyself. Perhaps he was murdered because of his last case—a murder involving a retired mob boss, a local millionaire land developer, a New York hit man, and the local university elite. Or could it be that Bear Braddock, his best friend and partner for more than fifteen years, wants Angela? Tuck knows that everything surrounds Kelly’s Dig where the discovery of Civil War graves may put an end to a multi-million dollar highway project. If it does, who stands to gain the most? Enough to kill?

Using his unique skills, Tuck weaves through half-truths and generations-old lies chasing a madman. And he’s not alone—others, dead and alive—are hunting the same killer. Still nothing can change the truth—it is the living, not the dead, who are most terrifying.

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DYING FOR THE PAST

Still an earth-bound spirit-detective, Tuck is on the case of the murder of a mysterious philanthropist with ties to the Russian mob and 1930’s gangsters. With the help of his wife, Professor Angela Tucker, and his former partner, Detective Bear Braddock, they must find the killer and be the first to read “the book”—an old gangster’s journal of the roots of espionage, racketeering, and corruption leading to the identity of modern-day powerbrokers and spies. Tuck finds a colorful cast of allies in a tough Assistant U.S. Attorney General, a secretive FBI agent, and the spirits of a long-dead 1930’s gangster and his sassy girlfriend.

As Tuck searches to learn the secrets of “the book,” he begins to unravel his own ancestry of mobsters, adventurers, and wayward spirits. Is being a ghost hereditary?

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DYING TO TELL

Detective Oliver Tucker never knew how perilous dying was until he stumbled onto William Mendelson—murdered in a hidden vault where Egyptian relics and World War II secrets were once stashed. Now those relics are missing. The secrets are coming out. The dead are talking.

Tuck, the detective for the dead—the Dead Detective—is pulled into the case by the spirit of a World War II Office of Strategic Services operative with his own agenda. OSS Captain Ollie Tucker I—Tuck’s namesake—knows the past is catching up to the survivors of an Egyptian spy ring from more than seventy years ago. With the help of his beautiful and brilliant wife, Angel, and his gruff former partner, Detective Bear Braddock, Tuck must unravel a tale of spies, murderers, and thieves.

As Tuck’s case unfolds, he confronts the growing distance between his death and Angel’s life—and the solution is a killer of its own.

Praise for The Dead Detective Casefiles:

“O’Connor’s The Dead Detective Casefiles series is a must read for those who like mysteries with a dash of history, a hard-boiled twist, and a pinch of paranormal.”
~ Heather Weidner, Author of the Jules Keene Glamping Mysteries

“Tj O’Connor is a master storyteller who can have you gasping in suspense one moment and snorting coffee through your nose the next. In the Dead Detective Casefiles, he seamlessly merges mystery, humor, and paranormal so authentically that the reader never gives a second thought to the concept of the main character, Detective Oliver Tucker, actually being dead. “
~ Annette Dashofy, USA Today Bestselling author of the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series

Book Details:

Genre: PI Cozy Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 2024
Series: The Dead Detective Casefiles

Read an excerpt from DYING TO KNOW:

One

Dying is overrated. Murder, on the other hand, is not.

Trust me, after fifteen years as a detective, I know a lot about both. Like death and murder are always complicated, but not always related. You can have death without murder, but not the other way around. That’s what I used to think anyway. I changed my mind after an episode of my recurring nightmare. I’d been having it for years and it always turned out the same. While chasing a bad guy in the dark, he turned and shot me. I was about to die when something always pulled me from the nightmare.

This time, it was Hercule’s hot breath.

My four-year-old black Lab was standing beside my bed alternating between low growls and a tongue-lashing. Both demanded my attention. When my eyes first opened, he lapped at my face and nudged me with his big, wet nose. I forced my eyes open wider and at the same time realized that Angel was not snuggled beside me in bed. She was standing across the room and listening at our bedroom door.

“Angel, did you hear something again?” She always heard things late at night and always felt compelled to share them with me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Tuck. Herc can hear it, too. Wake up, will you? What kind of detective are you?”

“The asleep-kind.”

“Just get up. Please?”

Hercule froze, nose down, staring at me as we both heard creaking floorboards in the downstairs hall. I rolled sideways and sat on the side of the bed. Hercule crept away and crouched near the door. For the third time, something interrupted Angel’s sleep. The first two times were just our old house’s creaks and groans, and both failed to wake Hercule out of a stone-cold sleep. Now, after summoning me, he was poised for homeland defense.

I got to my feet and gathered my clothes littered in a strategic path across the room. I nearly toppled over slipping on my jeans and a black tee shirt and did manage to trip over my running shoes.

Angel motioned for Herc to return to the bed. To me she whispered, “Hurry up.”

“Look, if I’m going to get killed tonight, I don’t want to be naked.” I grabbed my 40-caliber Glock from the nightstand and checked the chamber. Then, I retrieved a .38 revolver from our walk-in closet and handed it to Angel. “Just in case.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“Keep Herc close, babe. If it’s your imagination, stay awake and lose those pjs. If it’s trouble, give me fifteen minutes—then lose them.”

Even in the dark, I could see her eyes roll. “Just be careful.”

At the door, I listened but heard nothing. I winked at Angel and Hercule on the bed and whispered, “I love you—you too, Angel.”

Hercule wagged his tail.

In the hallway, I waited for my eyes to adjust a little more to the darkness. I shifted them to use my peripheral vision, looking for any telltale movement. Still nothing. From the top of the stairs, I could just make out the foyer below and did not see or hear anything. There were no wispy shadows, no running feet, and no creaking floorboards. Yawning, I eased down the stairs with my Glock out in front of me. At the bottom landing, I stopped.

Darkness and the grandfather clock greeted me—it chimed two.

The downstairs was quiet and I checked the front door. It was still locked and there were no signs of splintered wood, broken glass, or other forced entry. The only sound I heard was my own breathing. The only curious sighting was the half-dressed, frumpy guy in the hall mirror who looked tired and irritated.

Maybe Angel would be losing those pjs sooner rather than later.

I started with the kitchen and worked my way around the first floor, searching room by room—all five of them—ending in my den. Nothing. The most dangerous thing I found was Hercule’s squeaky frog that scared the crap out of me when I stepped on it. I felt foolish and decided to head back to bed.

It hit me when I reached to turn off my desk lamp.

The light shouldn’t have been on. I looked around. My briefcase wasn’t in its ritual place on my credenza. It was on my chair and the contents strewn over my desk. Everything was dumped out—my gold detective’s badge and I.D., several files, a notepad, tape recorder, and my .380 backup piece.

No, the Walther wasn’t there—the holster was empty.

“Angel …” I bolted to the stairs and looked up.

Floorboards groaned above me. A door opened in the darkness beyond the landing. Movement—a shadow.

Somewhere above, Angel called, “Tuck.”

There was a flash at the top of the stairs … a shot.

I lunged for the third stair. A figure stepped out of the darkness twelve feet above me.

Another flash.

“Angel!”

***

Author Bio:

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.

Catch Up With Tj O’Connor:
tjoconnor.com
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BookBub – @tj37
Amazon Author
Instagram – @tjoconnorauthor
Twitter/X – @Tjoconnorauthor
Facebook – @TjOConnor.Author
YouTube – @tjoconnorauthor3905

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