Books by Richard Wormser

Her name was Vera Mae, and she had been around these dusty tank towns too long-working the two-bit rodeos and cozying up to suckers, like this fat tourist in the bar.Oh God, she thought, I can con him and ditch him by nine-thirty, but what then? Sit in a hotel room. Get drunk and pass out. I'll be an old bag before I'm thirty.That was Vera Mae: fed up and ripe for trouble, when a lean ex-bronc rider named Lonnie drifted in from the desert...

The murder hadn't happened yet, but when it did, it would come as no surprise to the man from the D.A.'s office.Right now, in fact, he was sitting in the victim's apartment, awaiting her return. He had already taken care to plant the leads, to weave together the whole web of evidence that would direct the police unerringly to the wrong man.If you want a frame-up done right, he was thinking, build the frame yourself. ...Then he heard a key in the door. He rose, and reached for the pistol under his coat.