This powerful sequel to Kelli Stanley's scorching City of Dragons , which introduced unique and unforgettable series heroine Miranda Corbie, begins on May 25th, 1940, opening day for the World's Fair. When a woman is found dead, private investigator Miranda Corbie is soon hot on the trail of a vicious murderer. Set against the backdrop of a Europe defeated by Nazi Germany and an America unsure of where to turn, City of Secrets is a fast-paced mystery featuring a P.I. who will stop at nothing to right the world's wrongs. “The historical details shine in this perfectly drawn mystery.... This shows how historical mystery can not only re-create the sights but also the atmosphere of the time.” ― RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!) “Stanley's brittle prose and period touches effectively capture the feeling of '40s noir.” ― Kirkus Reviews “In best pulp fiction style, suspects lounge about with slick hair and cheap suits, blondes are chain-smoking broads, and the nightclubs are smoky and languid.” ― Publishers Weekly “Engrossing.... Stanley brings 1940s San Francisco to life with her meticulously detailed, hard-boiled novel.” ― Library Journal Kelli Stanley is an award-winning author of crime fiction (novels and short stories). She makes her home in Dashiell Hammett's San Francisco, a city she loves to write about. She is the author of two crime fiction series, including the Miranda Corbie Mysteries ( City of Ghosts , City of Secrets ). Kelli earned a Master's Degree in Classics, loves jazz, old movies, battered fedoras, Art Deco and speakeasies. She is walked daily by a Springer Spaniel named Bertie. She credits Raymond Chandler, Ernest Hemingway, Cornell Woolrich, Dashiell Hammett and Thomas Hardy as some of her major influences. City of Secrets By Kelli Stanley Minotaur Books Copyright © 2012 Kelli Stanley All right reserved. ISBN: 9781250007483 One   Pandora was still pretty. White skin, blond hair. Roots not faded back to black and brown. Stretched across the platform, breasts firm, nipples plump, pubic hair shaved. Head hung over the edge, upside down. Frozen, still, marble. Perfect artist’s model, except for the blood dripping. Drip-drop. Drip-drop. Fred was standing in the stage shadows, hat in his hands. Tom skittered around Miranda, keeping up a monologue. “I—I figure you know wh-what to do, Miss Corbie, bein’ a detective an’ all. You probably seen … She really is—dead?” Fred choked, his large brown fedora crumpled with sweat from where he was squeezing it. He took a step toward Miranda. “Ain’t you better—ain’t you better do somethin’, Miss Corbie? Whoever did this to Pandora…” She turned to face him. “Somebody threaten her? Try to get too close?” He shook his head. “I can’t say, Miss Corbie. Tom finds her like this—she ain’t supposed to be here, she was always late, but you know, it don’t take much time to take off your clothes, and she—she never had to wear much makeup.…” He turned his back to her, faced the shadows again. A calliope started playing from the merry-go-round. Miranda stood up from where she was crouched by the dead woman’s face. “You touch anything?” “I cain’t—cain’t remember, Miss Corbie. I saw her, might’ve shook her some.” Tom’s eyes came back to the dead girl, West Virginia accent thicker. Miranda took the pack of Chesterfields out of her purse. Said carefully: “You know how this got here?” She pointed to Pandora’s right breast, the one without a hole in it. Under the swell, under the small, slow trickle crossing her chest and oozing from the stab wound. A word in blood. Kike. Bombs exploded from the Elephant Towers, rattling the wooden platform. Signal for opening time, second Golden Gate International Exposition, step right up, folks, and welcome to Treasure Island. Miranda took a deep breath and lit a cigarette, staring at the dead girl. May 25, 1940. Opening Day at the Fair to End All Fairs. Closing day for Pandora Blake. *   *   * 9:06 A.M. Miranda folded the newspaper over the B-western fence post outside Sally’s and flicked the Chesterfield in the dirt, waiting for the bulls to make an appearance, waiting for someone official to show up and tell her to go away. Another explosion shook the Gayway, drowning out the Hawaiian and Spanish music from the turnstiles. Some genius in the PR department figured bombs were news in Europe, why not drop them on San Francisco? Girls in line at the hot dog stand tittered. Whiff of fresh scones from Threlkeld’s, fog peeling off Ripley’s Odditorium. Tom stepped out of Artists and Models across the midway strip, his long body jerking itself in different directions. She waited, quick inhale, dropped the Chesterfield, crushing it in the sawdust. His hand shook when he grasped her arm. A little taller than her, about five eight. Patched and stained dungarees, worn, covered in dirt, electrical wire hanging from his pocket. Blue eyes watery, wide, scared. “They—they takin’ her away, Miss Corbie. Don’t know no family for