THE THIRD BLOCKBUSTER THRILLER IN THE KRUG & KELLOG SERIES…WHICH BECAME THE HIT TV SHOW "THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO"It’s the socially turbulent 1970s. A controversial therapist secretly records his sessions…until he’s brutally murdered. Homicide detectives Al Krug and Casey Kellog discover that key tapes have been erased…recordings that could tie the therapist to the mysterious disappearance of one of his former patients, a psychotic teenage girl who may also have been his lover. But the cops soon realize that the killing is only beginning….and that a dark secret has roused a demon.“Weston writes smoothly and uses a good deal of sharp dialogue,” New York Times“Hard-hitting and eminently readable,” San Francisco Chronicle Carolyn Weston grew up in Hollywood during the Depression. She played hooky from school in movie theaters and libraries, honing the craft that would make her books so remarkable. During World War II, she worked in an aircraft plant and then did odd jobs around the country before writing Poor Poor Ophelia, the first Al Krug / Casey Kellog police procedural... which became the hit TV series The Streets of San Francisco. Two more books in the series, every bit as good as Ed McBain's 87th Precinct and just as memorable, followed and all three are proudly being published by Brash Books. Rouse the Demon A Krug & Kellog Thriller By Carolyn Weston Brash Books, LLC Copyright © 2015 Brash Books All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-941298-51-0 CHAPTER 1 "You've been shopping again," his mother observed. "Casey, where in the world did you get that tie?" "A real mind-bender, isn't it?" Enjoying his psychedelic image in the dining-room mirror — wide flowered tie, purple striped shirt, blue denim hacking-style jacket — he ignored her expression. "Coffeepot's full, I only drank one cup. Got to split, like now. My public's waiting." "Some public," she sniffed. "Murderers, thieves —" "And I'm wasting a perfectly good education," he finished for her. "You're in good voice this morning, Mrs. Kellog." Blowing her a kiss, he ducked through the kitchen, calling, "See you later!" and slammed out the back screen door. Her voice floated after him as he trotted down the driveway of the garage: "Did you read your astrological forecast? It says to be wary of strangers ..." And Greeks bearing gifts, he thought. And hoods bearing guns. His new Mustang started with a Grand Prix roar even louder and more satisfying than the power-punch boom of his last year's model, now a heap of incinerated metal in some junk dealer's lot — RIP, lost in the performance of duty. He'd broken his arm in that fracas on the hilltop, too, but it had mended perfectly; not even a twinge this morning as he shot down the long driveway in reverse, crimping the wheel hard to swing into the street. From two blocks away, the first traffic signal at Montana Avenue gleamed a tiny green eye of temptation at him. Succumbing, Casey floored the accelerator, shattering the middle-class morning quiet of his neighborhood. Zero to fifty in six seconds flat, and he caught the green. Caught the next and the next. Obviously this was to be a banner morning. Seven minutes later when he whirled into the entrance by the Santa Monica City Hall — a snow-white building, part of a gleaming complex of municipal structures which ended, a block away, with the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium — he found he'd tied his portal-to-portal record. Parking in a slot marked official vehicles only, he jogged into the beehive-busy police headquarters housed in the rear of the City Hall. Ten minutes to spare, he congratulated himself, pounding up the stairs to the Detective Bureau. Time to grab a cup of coffee. Time to skim through the overnights before the morning rundown ... "Don't bother to sit down." Krug's harsh voice stopped him at the counter which divided the desk-filled squad room from the small area which served as the captain's anteroom. "New one just came in, and it sounds like a beaut." My partner, the early bird. Spying Ralph Zwingler's grin across the squad room, Casey's spirits sank. Caught a worm already, too. "No details yet." Krug's ruddy, weather-beaten face looked even sourer than usual. "Only what the cruiser team reported in. Some dude with his head beat to a pulp. The troops have already gone with the lieutenant. Come on, let's roll." So much for banner mornings. * * * The address was on Palisades Avenue, Krug filled him in as they pounded down the stairs and made their way through the bustling corridors below. "Don't get much business in that district." Casey nodded. "I used to bicycle along there to get to the beach. It's still nice, quiet." "Keep forgetting you're a native son." They climbed into the Mustang, and as usual, Krug slammed the door violently. "My wife claims there ain't no such animule here; the storks in California bring poodles instead of babies." Dutifully Casey said, "Hoho," and swung out onto Main Street again. More sedately th