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After a grisly murder in a shabby New York bookstore, Detective Callum Doyle starts receiving sinister phone calls. Doyle is told more deaths are planned but the caller will give him clues, on the condition that he keeps them to himself. As more vicious deaths follow, the pressure on Doyle to find a link becomes unbearable. Does he continue to gamble with people's lives? Or should he sacrifice everything to defeat a ruthless and manipulative enemy?
‘Excuse me?’ ‘The Grapes of Wrath. You finish it already?’ The book he bought the last time he was in here. Two days ago. Obviously he made an impression. ‘You remember.’ She reddens as she wrestles with her answer. ‘I, uh, I have an excellent memory when it comes to books.’ Good recovery, he thinks. Now my turn for a plausible response. ‘My mother took the Steinbeck. Saw it in my hands and thought it was a gift. Yanked it from me so fast I got paper cuts.’ He laughs and she joins in.
wants him to plead to see her outpourings. She wants him to keep on asking so that she can keep on saying no, no, no, until he just wants to rip the fucking pages from her hand. But he manages to hold on to his civility. ‘What, you mean it’s hot stuff?’ She looks shocked. ‘No. What do you . . . No.’ ‘I’ll bet it is. I bet I’d never be able to look you in the eye again once I’d found out what goes on in that head of yours.’ ‘Well, you’re just going to have to keep on wondering, aren’t you?’
Bonnow. Sometimes we hear things and we have to follow them up, and it can all seem a little weird. You might get a few more weird questions as the investigation proceeds. It just means we’re doing our job.’ ‘Oh. Well, okay then. It’s just . . . well, I loved her, ya know? Even though she went with that other guy . . . I kind of understand why she did that. So, I was . . . well, I was hoping for a little more.’ ‘I understand. Give us time. We’ll catch him.’ Doyle rings off. He too was hoping
without going anywhere near a computer, scurries for the panic button and allows his survival instincts to take the helm. He tries to push himself up from the floor, because that’s the only message he’s getting. And then something soft and warm is pulled over his head. Musty cloth presses tightly against his mouth and nose. He tries to suck oxygen through the weave, but it won’t come quickly enough. The claustrophobia and the pain make him want to vomit, but he swallows it back, knowing that he
minutes to eight. At that time, he will march up to Repp’s building and sound his buzzer and demand to come in. He will enter on the pretext of wanting to talk about the scam that Repp is running. In reality, he will be there to save Repp’s life. Even if it means revealing his presence to the killer, Doyle knows he can’t stay out here on the street when there’s a man in there who is about to die. And if the killer shows, great. Who knows? Maybe he’s already inside the place. He could have been