The Dead Don't Dream
An Ian McBriar Murder Mystery
by Mauro Azzano
Genre: Mystery
You are a Toronto police detective, lying in the gutter, shot by the man you were pursuing, and your life
is slipping slowly away.
The Dead Don’t Dream takes you back to the year 1973 and the world of Ian McBriar, a homicide police
detective, as he investigates the brutal assault on two young boys, one of whom is the son of a local
underworld figure. Haunted by the deaths he has investigated and the lives he has seen destroyed, Ian
struggles with the memories that make him who he is.
When he gets too close to the truth, the killer makes a desperate strike, and Ian ends up face-down in
the street. Can he survive his attack and track down the gunman before more lives are lost?
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Mauro Azzano was born in the Veneto region of Italy. He grew up in Italy, Australia and eastern Canada,
finally settling on the West Coast, near Vancouver.
When he's not writing he can be found teaching college or running half marathons.
GUEST POST
"You can't get there from here."
Goes an old joke about asking for directions in New England.
Shortly after a trip through Quebec, we decided, based on the recommendations of an article in
Yankee magazine, to spend a weekend at a historic inn on the Atlantic coast, in Essex Connecticut.
The Griswold Inn (insert National Lampoon jokes here) is located in Essex, Connecticut. The heart of
old New England, woolen cardigans, pipe-smoking captains and clapboard buildings.
We were smart enough to realize we couldn't make the whole trip in one go, so we booked a Friday
night at the Holiday Inn in Schenectady, New York, then the next day we figured we'd carry on to
the coast.
We left Toronto around five thirty, got to the Niagara Falls border crossing, and by eleven that night
got to our first hotel. We were given our room key. It was directly over the disco. I could hear
'Funkytown' booming up from below. The man at the desk informed me that no, they didn't have
another room for us, but not to worry, the disco would shut down 'Promptly at 3 AM'.
Where should I park my car, i asked. Well, he said, there is an abandoned building down the street
with a vacant lot beside it. I could park there.
At this point, a man came in, bleary-eyed, who had driven all the way from Atlanta. He asked if
there was a room for him, any room. The desk clerk said that no, they were full. "No, you're not." I
said, and handed the grateful man my key.
We drove on, finally stopping at a motel outside Albany. By this time, it was after midnight. The
'motel' was a series of tiny cabins on a paved lot, and the 'office' was a six-by-eight shack facing the
road, with a buzzing neon 'vacancy' sign.
Inside the shack, Norman Bates watched a tiny black and white portable TV. He casually looked up
as we pulled in; i went into the office and asked if he had any cabins free,
He said 'sure' and handed me a card to fill in. At this point, I was exhausted, my wife was
exhausted, and we both looked like drowned rats.
He glanced over my shoulder at our car and coughed. "Nobody ever reads these." He said.
I looked up. 'Scuse me?'
He waved his hand at the card. "Nobody ever reads these cards. You can put down any name you
want."
Amused, I went back to the car with our cabin key. I mentioned the interaction to my wife.
"Did you register us as mister and Mrs. Smith?" She joked.
"No, but next time...."
"You can't get there from here."
Goes an old joke about asking for directions in New England.
Shortly after a trip through Quebec, we decided, based on the recommendations of an article in
Yankee magazine, to spend a weekend at a historic inn on the Atlantic coast, in Essex Connecticut.
The Griswold Inn (insert National Lampoon jokes here) is located in Essex, Connecticut. The heart of
old New England, woolen cardigans, pipe-smoking captains and clapboard buildings.
We were smart enough to realize we couldn't make the whole trip in one go, so we booked a Friday
night at the Holiday Inn in Schenectady, New York, then the next day we figured we'd carry on to
the coast.
We left Toronto around five thirty, got to the Niagara Falls border crossing, and by eleven that night
got to our first hotel. We were given our room key. It was directly over the disco. I could hear
'Funkytown' booming up from below. The man at the desk informed me that no, they didn't have
another room for us, but not to worry, the disco would shut down 'Promptly at 3 AM'.
Where should I park my car, i asked. Well, he said, there is an abandoned building down the street
with a vacant lot beside it. I could park there.
At this point, a man came in, bleary-eyed, who had driven all the way from Atlanta. He asked if
there was a room for him, any room. The desk clerk said that no, they were full. "No, you're not." I
said, and handed the grateful man my key.
We drove on, finally stopping at a motel outside Albany. By this time, it was after midnight. The
'motel' was a series of tiny cabins on a paved lot, and the 'office' was a six-by-eight shack facing the
road, with a buzzing neon 'vacancy' sign.
Inside the shack, Norman Bates watched a tiny black and white portable TV. He casually looked up
as we pulled in; i went into the office and asked if he had any cabins free,
He said 'sure' and handed me a card to fill in. At this point, I was exhausted, my wife was
exhausted, and we both looked like drowned rats.
He glanced over my shoulder at our car and coughed. "Nobody ever reads these." He said.
I looked up. 'Scuse me?'
He waved his hand at the card. "Nobody ever reads these cards. You can put down any name you
want."
Amused, I went back to the car with our cabin key. I mentioned the interaction to my wife.
"Did you register us as mister and Mrs. Smith?" She joked.
"No, but next time...."
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