Hard news - Jeffery Deaver [0]
—Kirkus Reviews
mistress of justice
“Excellent entertainment, with a resilient, astute paralegal as a likable heroine.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“An intelligently written thriller … The characters are well-drawn [and] the plot is fast-paced.”
—Booklist
“Fresh and funky; I loved it.”
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“A solid achievement … the ending packs a nice wallop.”
—Mystery News
“Loaded with characters and action and a very devious plot … a top-notch legal thriller.”
—Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
Praise for other riveting novels by Jeffery Deaver
manhattan is my beat
“Highly original and very entertaining.”
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“Deaver writes with clarity, compassion, and intelligence, and with a decidedly human and contemporary slant.”
—Publishers Weekly
death of a blue movie star
“Innovative and entertaining … truly an original.”
—The Drood Review of Mystery
“The author creates a great sense of atmosphere, enhanced with vivid imagery and well-defined characters.”
—Rendezvous
the lesson of her death
—Publishers Weekly
“Chilling … Jeffery Deaver has written a strong, compelling novel forcing the reader to the edge.
A commitment worth making.”
—Mostly Murder
“A terrific book which can be enjoyed on many different levels.”
—Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
By the author of
THE STONE MONKEY
THE BLUE NOWHERE
THE EMPTY CHAIR
SPEAKING IN TONGUES
THE DEVIL’S TEARDROP
THE COFFIN DANCER
THE BONE COLLECTOR
A MAIDEN’S GRAVE
PRAYING FOR SLEEP
THE LESSON OF HER DEATH*
MISTRESS OF JUSTICE*
DEATH OF A BLUE MOVIE STAR*
MANHATTAN IS MY BEAT*
BLOODY RIVER BLUES
SHALLOW GRAVES
HELL’S KITCHEN
*Available from Bantam Books
For Irene Miranker
Journalism without a moral position
is impossible. Every journalist is a moralist….
She cannot do her work without
judging what she sees.
—MARGUERITE DURAS
chapter 1
THEY MOVED ON HIM JUST AFTER DINNER.
He didn’t know for sure how many. But that didn’t matter; all he thought was: Please, don’t let them have a knife. He didn’t want to get cut. Swing the baseball bat, swing the pipe, drop the cinder block on his hands … but not a knife please.
He was walking down the corridor from the prison dining hall to the library, the gray corridor that had a smell he’d never been able to place. Sour, rotten … And behind him: the footsteps growing closer.
The thin man, who’d eaten hardly any of the fried meat and bread and green beans ladled on his tray, walked more quickly.
He was sixty feet from a guard station and none of the Department of Corrections officers at the far end of the corridor were looking his way.
Footsteps. Whispering.
Oh, Lord, the man thought. I can take one out maybe. I’m strong and I can move fast. But if they have a knife there’s no way….
Randy Boggs glanced back.
Three men were close behind him.
Not a knife. Please….
He started to run.
“Where you goin’, boy?” the Latino voice called as they broke into a trot after him.
Ascipio. It was Ascipio. And that meant Boggs was going to die.
“Yo, Boggs, ain’ no use. Ain’ no use at all, you runnin’.”
But keep running he did. Foot after foot, head down. Now only forty feet from the guard station.
I can make it. I’ll be there just before they get me.
Please let them have a club or use their fists.
But no knife.
No sliced flesh.
Of course word’d get out immediately in general population how Boggs had run to the guards. And then everybody, even the guards themselves, would taunt him every chance they got. Because if your nerve breaks there’s no hope for you Inside. It means you’re going to die and it’s just a question of how long it takes to strip away your body from your cowardly soul.
“Shit, man,” another voice called, breathing hard from the effort of running. “Get him.”
“You got the glass?” one of them called to