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Aphrodite

by Russell Andrews

Russell Andrews, aka Peter Gethers, has supplied the murder mystery genre with another compelling story. His book jacket photo makes him look like a member of the slowly deteriorating Mafia – a concept reinforced by the fact he has one home in Sicily – but that doesn't have any bearing on the fact that here is one helluva good writer who instinctively knows how to rivet your attention with the written word. Aphrodite tells an amazing tale with a mix of terror and gentleness, money, political power and public benefit. There simply isn't any comparison you can make to other mystery authors whether or not they write mostly as tough or compassionate, because Russell Andrews stands alone with a marvelous balance of both.

Aphrodite starts with the murder of Maura Greer in a parking garage. Then Susanna Morgan, a journalist, writes an obituary for her elderly friend, William Miller, who has just died in a nursing home. Only after the obit appears in the paper, somebody tells her she's got all the facts wrong, which puzzles Susanna, since she got her information from 'the horse's mouth' so to speak. Bill had been an actor, and mentioned the years as well as the movies he'd been in. But when Susanna looks up the films and dates in the library, she makes an amazing discovery: The film names were correct, but the dates were much earlier than the ones Bill gave her. He couldn't possibly be that old. Could he?

Susanna phones a man named Edward Marion who is said to be Bill's great-nephew, although Bill had told her he had no living relatives. They plan to meet for lunch – but that night Susanna is awakened by an intruder, and when she clambers out her window as he breaks through the door, she runs up to the roof via her fire escape – to find herself facing him anyhow. Her neck is broken and her body dumped in her own bedroom, arranged so the police would think it's an accidental fall.

Justin Westwood, thirty-seven years old and a cop on the force of East End Harbor, spends his time wishing he were dead – ever since his own wife and daughter were shot right in front of his eyes. Alicia and Lili. He has dreams about them and the night when they died. Horrible, scary dreams, when he wakes up screaming. Now he just tries vainly to forget, giving out traffic tickets and warding off the contemptuous sneers and comments of two young cops on the force, Brian and Gary. That is, until Susanna's 'accident' comes to his attention.

Although Westwood tells his chief Susanna's death must be exactly what it looks like, attempting to distance himself from it, he finds his feet taking him to Susanna's window, the fire escape, and the roof. And there he discovers Deena, the woman who had been sitting and meditating on a corner of the roof, out of sight, when Susanna was murdered.

An FBI Agent, Rollins, is brought in and Westwood is taken off the case. What follows are more murders, with Westwood blamed for them to throw suspicion his way – blonde twins who get a kick from killing – the involvement of politicians and high government officials along with the usual corruption in such circles – corporate manipulation, and most terrifying of all, the real reason behind a certain type of scientific research.

Justin Westwood becomes attracted to Deena and her daughter Kendall while all three try to outwit those hunting for them. When at last Westwood is able to dispose of his evil adversaries and place the scientific research where it belongs, he discovers that Deena is torn between her love for him and distaste for the violence he's been forced to use.

Russell Andrews messed up only once in writing this scary, frightening novel – and the more picky of his readers will be quick to notice it (afraid I'm also picky!). It's one of the several times Justin, Deena and Kendall are fleeing in a car, and the evil ones shoot at Deena through the car window just as she bends over
to retrieve something. So where does the bullet go? Wouldn't it hit Justin, the driver? It could, of course, be deflected somehow, or even be on a slant and hit another part of the car – but no mention is made of that fact. Other than that it's a wonderful, delightful thriller with just the right amount of suspense, pathos, terror, political manipulation and love. A sort of Agent 007 except he's on the other side. If James Bond 007 is the English equivalent of our FBI and CIA - well, I never much liked them anyhow...


Alan Paul Curtis

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