By Linwood Barclay
Hailed as a suspense master” through Stephen King, Linwood Barclay now unearths the darkish part of a small townand the even darker secrets and techniques that disguise there...
It’s been months in view that inner most investigator Cal Weaver’s teenage son Scott died in a sad coincidence. Ever considering that, he and his spouse have drifted aside, fracturing a as soon as basic lifestyles. Cal is mired in grief, a grief he can’t movement previous. and perhaps his grief has clouded his judgment. simply because using domestic one evening, he makes his first enormous mistake.
a woman sopping wet in rain faucets on his vehicle window and asks for a experience as he sits at a stoplight. even supposing he understands a fortysomething guy selecting up a teenage hitchhiker is a idiot, he we could her in. She’s an analogous age as Scott, and perhaps she will support Cal locate the broker who bought his son the medicine that killed him. After a short cease at a roadside diner, Cal senses that something’s no longer correct with the lady or the location. yet it’s too past due. He’s already involved.
Now Cal is drawn right into a nightmare of ache and suspicion. whatever is horribly incorrect within the small city of Griffon in upstate manhattan. There are too many secrets and techniques there, too many lies and cover-ups. And Cal has made up our minds to reveal these secrets and techniques one through one.
That’s his moment titanic mistake.
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Additional info for A Tap on the Window
Detective Rea was a tall, good-looking guy with reddish blond hair and ears just a little too big for his head. He reminded me of Joey Ross, a kid I went to elementary school with. Joey was a world-class wiseass, always challenging the teachers and acting like he knew all the answers. And the irritating thing about Joey was that he really did know all the answers. He was a smart guy, and he never let you forget it. Detective Rea looked just like Joey during a pop quiz. “Have a seat, Ms. ” He gestured to a chair that had clearly been around since Los Angeles belonged to the Spaniards.
A handsome guy in a black turtleneck sweater and wire-rimmed glasses waved from his table. Unfortunately, he wasn’t waving at me, but at the stunning redhead behind me. I headed over to where Kandi was sitting, waiting for me. Kandi Tobolowski is an ex-New Yorker with enviably straight hair and a great sense of humor (which comes in handy when you’re saddled with a name like Kandi Tobolowsky). I guess you could say Kandi is my best friend. We met five years ago at a UCLA screenwriting class. ) and was looking for a way to stretch my creative muscles.
That’s okay,” I said, ushering him inside. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. ” No, I’m not a prostitute. I’m a writer, which in Los Angeles is often the same thing. My name is Jaine Austen (my mother is an Anglophile, and a bad speller), and I run a writing service out of my apartment called This Pen for Hire. Catchy, isn’t it? ” I write resumes. Letters. Brochures. And Personals ads. Lots of Personals ads. Maybe you’ve read my latest? ” I don’t usually greet clients in a kimono, but Howard Murdoch was a full hour early for his appointment.