JEFF OSTERHAGE

AND

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            Hot. Wet. Wild. Sizzling waves of tan bodies roasted dark in the midsummer heat, as thousands of sun-worshipping 'river rats' reached ultimate bake down on this fifteen-mile stretch of warm Colorado River water, better known as Parker Strip. Bikinis, boats, bars, booze, if there was a mood gauge in this paradise it would've registered 'redline scorch'...and the mercury just kept climbing. Wave runners kissed white lace crests of turquoise swells. Topless beauties flaunted oil-slicked flesh across jet boat bows. Margarita soaked barflies rocked out to the throb of sax-driven blues perched along floating, shoreline cantinas.

            Far upriver, through a two-mile, cliff-lined divide, referred to by the locals as 'Dog Leg Rocks', a high-powered, twin-turbo Scarab, with a twenty-foot roostertail, approached at a fast rate. The pilot was Jay Fallbrook, a seventy-six-year-old venture capitalist - powerful, shrewd and extremely charismatic - the quintessential CEO, with all the charm of an Italian matinee idol. He was a man's man who would never hesitate to reach half way to heaven to guarantee a good time was had by one and all. When Mr. Fallbrook needed something done, however, it got done quick, if not by generous fiscal persuasion, then by strong physical diplomacy. He closed contracts quicker than Gotti closed coffins, and actually closed a few dozen himself during his early years with the mob.      

PARKER STRIP
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"Osterhage excels

at making the various storylines fall into step..."

"An endlessly diverting crime story

featuring a wide array of characters and subplots"

"...thoroughly detailed...   . ..wonderful interplay..."

...shocking turns..."

"...continually teases an ineveitable confrontation before delivering a blistering coda."

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