"An unearthed North Carolina skeleton reveals unexpected treachery!"
Reviewed by Audrey Lawrence
Posted February 20, 2020
Mystery Private Eye | Thriller P.I.
Despite the hot Asheville weather, Private Investigator Sam Blackman and his fellow PI and romantic partner Nakayla Robertson are happy to join friends at the CANarchy Collaboratory brewpub to celebrate Cory DeMille’s birthday. Cory is a paralegal at Hewitt Donaldson’s law office which is conveniently next door to their own office.
Their bantering and teasing start off in the usual way and continues as two Asheville detectives, Curt Newland (Newly) and Tuck Efird, belatedly join them. As Newly apologizes for their lateness, things take a dramatic turn when he mentions a phone call from Sheriff Hickman about a recent discovery of skeletal remains at the Pisgah Astronomical Research Institute PARI).
Sunned by the news, Cory is in shock as she believes the body could be that of her long-lost uncle. Can it possibly be? Can Sam find out? Was it an accident or murder?
As other law enforcement agencies get involved in this 40-year-old skeleton mystery, other murders occur. What is really going on and what is someone trying to cover up?
MURDER IN RAT ALLEY is the seventh mystery by North Carolina author Mark de Castrique involving Sam Blackman, a former Iraq war vet with a prosthetic leg and his smart and beautiful partner Nakayla Robertson. While fans of the Blackman series are sure to appreciate this latest installment, I can attest that MURDER IN RAT ALLEY can also easily be read as a standalone story as this is my first book to read by this multi-book author. Sam and his friends are all likeable and realistic characters with their own quirks and concerns. Their banter and mannerisms come across authentically as their actions and interests move the plot quickly along.
Set in the historic city of Asheville, North Carolina, Mark de Castrique brings a strong sense of place to this intriguing mystery that soon evolves from a simple case of personal identification to dangerous linkages at PARI that reach back to Vietnam war and Cold War times to future concerns and murder.
With its intriguing plot development, MURDER IN RAT ALLEY comes across in a realistic manner that would appeal to readers of all genders whether mystery fans or not. Long standing fans are sure to be thrilled by this compelling new adventure and new fans, like myself, can look forward to reading de Castrique’s previous Sam Blackman stories. As I quickly got absorbed in Sam’s search for answers, I could barely put MURDER IN RAT ALLEY down and read late in the night to finish it.
MURDER IN RAT ALLEY is definitely a very compelling mystery with some surprising twists and unexpected connections! Do check it out!
SUMMARY
In this unusual spin on the classic spy novel, murder strikes from our wartime pasts...
Iraq War veteran Sam Blackman with his prosthetic leg and his no-nonsense private eye partner Nakayla Robertson love their investigations which always carry a thread from the past—and they love each other. An interracial couple in the new South, the Asheville, NC, pair has surrounded themselves with a terrific support team including an unorthodox lawyer and a veteran cop. They deploy humor both to bind them together and to deflect insults. Plus, it helps deal with the tragedies their work uncovers.
Such a tragedy interrupts a meeting between the PIs and the neighboring law office when a body is unearthed from the grounds of the nearby Pisgah Astronomical Research Institute. During the Cold War it monitored developing space programs. Today it plays a vital role gathering weather and climate data. The body has been in the ground a long time. Why would its discovery spark off a new murder in Asheville's mountain music scene, the victim found amid the garbage of dark, dank Rat Alley?
She was the fiancée of the man murdered long ago. But surely this case is more than a domestic drama playing out over time....
ExcerptChapter 1
The noonday heat smothered me. It even rose from the sidewalk like the ground underneath was molten lava. I’d taken no more than twenty steps out of our office building when I felt my damp shirt sticking to my back.
I looked at the woman walking beside me. In the ninety-six-degree temperature, my partner and lover, Nakayla Robertson, didn’t sweat; she glistened with a radiance that only made her more beautiful. I, however, probably looked like I’d walked through a car wash.
“Do you think the restaurant has a shower?” I asked.
Nakayla laughed. “Don’t worry, Sam. Look around. You’re in good company.”
The office for our Blackman and Robertson Detective Agency was on the edge of historic Pack Square, the central landmark in the mountain city of Asheville, North Carolina. It wasn’t really square but rather a sizable rectangle stretching for several hundred yards and a magnet for tourists who clustered in small groups that moved slowly and randomly across the open terrain. Everyone I saw exuded the energy of a limp noodle. The largest crowd was concentrated near the far end where water fountains doused a play area designed for children. Splashville, as we Asheville locals called it. Even at a distance, I could see adults casting aside decorum and enjoying a cool soaking in their shorts and T-shirts.
“I heard it’s hotter here than down in Charlotte,” I complained.
“That’s the inversion effect. Warmer air’s trapping colder air beneath it. You climb into the mountains, and the temperature climbs as well. There’s no thermal movement, which is why this smoke’s stuck in the air.”
“Impressive. Are you auditioning for the Weather Channel?”
She grabbed my hand. “No. Explaining things to you is more like Sesame Street.”
The August heat wave shared the news with forest fires plaguing the tinder-dry mountains. The acrid smell of burning wood was strong enough to sting my nostrils, and the smoke’s blue-tinged haze obscured the more distant ridges. Asheville wasn’t in immediate danger from the flames, but elderly residents were advised to stay indoors to avoid respiratory complications. As a popular retirement destination, Asheville attracted seniors who’d become a significant portion of the population.
Nakayla and I were headed for lunch at the CANarchy Collaboratory. The popular brewpub was only a few blocks away and closer than our parked cars. So other than summoning an Uber, we had no choice but to hoof it on foot.
For me, the walk was a little more complicated, because I wore a prosthetic device attached below my left knee. I’d lost the limb in an attack by rocket grenades in Iraq, a physical and emotional injury that landed me in Asheville’s VA hospital. The one saving grace of the ordeal was meeting Nakayla as together we solved the mystery of her sister’s murder.
As a black woman from the mountains and a white man from the middle of the state, Nakayla and I were an unlikely team. Yet I couldn’t imagine my life without her.
“What time is Cory coming?” I asked.
“Shirley’s bringing her about twelve thirty. Cory thinks it’s just the two of them.”
Cory DeMille was the paralegal for the law firm of Hewitt Donaldson, whose offices were next to ours. Today, August 5, was her birthday, and Shirley, the office manager, had planned a surprise lunch. At a quarter to noon, Shirley secretly dispatched the firm’s one lawyer, Hewitt Donaldson himself, to use his blustery skills to hold a table for us. Nakayla and I followed about ten minutes behind. When Cory and Shirley arrived, we’d sing “Happy Birthday” off-key and resume drinking beer.
At the rate I was perspiring, I’d need a couple of pints for fluid replacement.
Reaching the restaurant, we had to step over dogs sprawled across the floor of the outside eating area. Asheville is so doggone dog-friendly, most stores set out bowls of water for canine customers. One of our favorite spots, the Battery Park Book Exchange & Champagne Bar, claimed to have had more problems with humans than dogs. Nakayla and I shared custody of a bluetick coonhound appropriately named Blue. Most days, he came to work with us and often enjoyed hanging out after hours at the book bar while Nakayla and I read and drank wine.
We knew Blue would have been welcome at Cory’s party, but the dog days of August were more than just a saying, so we’d left him in the comfort of the office air-conditioning.
I spotted Hewitt Donaldson as the sole occupant at the head of a long table. He had a pint of Perrin Black Ale in front of him.
I nudged Nakayla. “Looks like Hewitt’s gotten a head start.”
“I’m sure you can quickly catch up.” Nakayla led the way, weaving her slim body through the crowd.
Hewitt stood, gave Nakayla a hug, and shook my hand. “Glad to see you. I was starting to get some hostile looks for holding down such a large table.”
I counted the chairs. Seven. “Who all’s coming? I thought it was just the five of us.”
Hewitt shrugged. “Shirley just said get a table for seven.” He looked at Nakayla as if she might have an explanation.
“Cory’s got other friends,” she said.
“Fine,” Hewitt said. “But you know me. I like to know the witness list in advance.”
I laughed. “It’s a lunch, not a trial.”
Hewitt was Asheville’s premier defense attorney and a personality with no equal in the local legal community. His courtroom successes had made him the bane of the district attorney’s office. Hewitt, now in his late sixties, had come of age in the sixties. His penchant for Hawaiian shirts and sandals, his long, flowing gray hair, and his booming voice made him a recognizable celebrity. The looks he described as hostile were probably nothing more than curious stares at what appeared to be Asheville’s oldest hippie.
He sat back down. “I know Cory has friends. But I don’t want any arguments over who’s paying the bill. Shirley’s the organizer, and I’m the bankroller. So order up some drinks and appetizers.”
We did as he asked. Nakayla went for a pale lager, and I chose the same black ale as Hewitt’s. Chicken wings and nachos had just arrived when Shirley led the blushing birthday girl to the table. Hewitt immediately launched into the birthday song, which was quickly picked up by every diner in the place. A round of applause capped the performance, and Hewitt patted the seat closest to him as the signal for where Cory was to sit.
He slid her a menu. “Now that you’re old enough, order whatever you want to drink.”
“Yeah, right,” Cory said. “We’re celebrating the twelfth anniversary of my twenty-first birthday.”
I hadn’t thought about her age, and I realized, other than Hewitt, the rest of us were no more than a year or two apart. But we were very different in other ways. If one had to select the grown-up in Hewitt’s law firm, the clear choice was Cory. She wore the corporate clothes and looked like she’d be one of the government’s attorneys sitting behind senators at a congressional hearing. Hewitt’s idea of corporate wardrobe was a ratty sport coat, food-stained tie, and his hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Shirley could only be described as some energy force hovering on the edge of our astral plane. Her curly, ink-black hair seemed to swallow light, not reflect it. She wore heavy white makeup and dark eye shadow that made her face look like it was floating in the void of hair. She claimed to experience going on out-of-body travels like the rest of us experience going to the grocery store. She was a wisp of a woman who looked like she could be blown away by a breeze. She was also the smartest one at the table, and even Hewitt was afraid of her.
Ten minutes later, Shirley looked at her watch and then at the two empty chairs. “Well, I think we should go ahead and order.”
Hewitt frowned. “Who else were you expecting?”
Instead of answering, Shirley turned and looked toward the front door. “Oh, good.” She stood and waved her hand, catching the attention of two men just entering.
“The police?” Hewitt stammered. “You invited the police?”
“Thanks, Shirley,” Cory said. “I’m glad they’re here.”
Hewitt and the police were like oil and water, but the two men approaching our table were in a special category. As adversarial as homicide detectives and defense attorneys could be, there was grudging respect across the gulf between them. Lead detective Curt Newland and his partner, Tuck Efird, had been instrumental in working a case in which Cory had been shot and two friends murdered. The team effort had saved my life and mellowed Hewitt’s antagonistic attitude toward law enforcement.
Curt Newland, or Newly as everyone called him, was a veteran detective of the Asheville Police Department. He and I shared a bond in that I’d been a chief warrant officer in the U.S. Army and conducted hundreds of investigations. I knew how tough his job was. I’d also solved the murder of his former partner and was as close to being an honorary police officer as a private investigator could be.
Hewitt forced a smile and stood to welcome them. He raised his glass and toasted the two detectives. “To Asheville’s finest. Join us. My treat.”
“All right,” Tuck Efird said. “How many to-go boxes can I get?”
“As many as you can carry. But you have to leave right now.”
Everyone laughed.
“Nah,” Efird said. “We owe it to Cory to stay and add some class to this group.”
Newly sat beside me. “Sorry we’re late. I was on the phone with Sheriff Hickman in Transylvania County. They’ve come across a body in the cleanup from the forest fire.”
“That’s terrible,” Cory said. “Someone didn’t get out in time?”
“No. It’s skeletal remains that were exposed when an earth mover dug up ground trying to build a firewall.”
“A cold case,” Hewitt said. “But that area’s way out of your jurisdiction.”
“Correct,” Newly said. “But Hickman wants us to go through our missing person files. We could be talking forty years back.”
“Assuming the skeleton’s human,” Efird said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Efird laughed. “I mean it could be some alien from outer space. The body was discovered at PARI. The UFO nutters are going to be coming out of the woodwork.”
A loud crash cut off Efird’s next words. We all turned to Cory. Her glass lay toppled on its side, beer spreading across the table like a tidal flood. Her face had paled as white as raw cotton. Hewitt grabbed her wrist to steady her.
“It’s him,” she whispered. “It has to be him.”
Chapter 2
“Pisgah Astronomical Research Institute,” Newly said. “PARI for short. That’s what it’s known as now.”
Hewitt nodded. “A NASA tracking station back in the day.” He turned to Cory. “We’ll learn what’s going on even if I have to file a petition under the Freedom of Information Act.”
We sat around Hewitt’s circular conference table. Newly and Tuck Efird’s news about the human remains had jolted Cory and brought an abrupt halt to the birthday lunch. Nakayla and Shirley had escorted Cory back to the law offices while Newly, Efird, and I waited for Hewitt to settle the bill.
Efird was upset that he’d somehow upset Cory, and he wanted to know what Hewitt knew. Hewitt had declined to comment at the restaurant, saying he would talk it through with all of us if Cory was up to it.
Now that we were assembled, Hewitt asked Cory, “Do you want me to tell what I know?”
She took a sip of water and licked her lips. “Yes. You probably know more than I do.”
“Well, for one thing, you weren’t born yet.” He swept his gaze around the table. Each of us gave him our undivided attention.
“I’d finished my first year of law school. This was the summer of 1971, and I was clerking at the U.S. District Court here in Asheville. I worked out of the Federal Building at the corner of Patton and Otis. Like now, there were a bunch of federal agencies housed there, including the IRS and the FBI. One of the big events of the summer was an Apollo moon launch. Apollo 15. It was the first to use the lunar roving vehicle that would extend the reach of the astronauts’ physical exploration. The Saturn V rocket lifted on July 26, and the lunar module touched down on July 30 shortly after six in the afternoon. I remember because just about all the federal offices stayed open late to watch the live signals.”
Hewitt paused to take a sip of water and then cleared his throat. “I also noticed an influx of FBI agents coming and going from the Western North Carolina Resident Agency. When I asked about the increased presence, I was told unofficially they were traveling back and forth from the NASA tracking station located deep in Pisgah National Forest.”
“Tracking what?” Efird asked.
“The astronauts. Huge radio telescopes had been constructed in the middle of the forest. It was one of nine such sites spaced around the world. As the earth rotated, NASA would jump from station to station so they’d never lose contact with the crew.”
“Go slow for Tuck,” Newly said. “He thinks the world’s flat.”
The remark drew a smile from Cory and eased the tension in the room.
“Hey, old man,” Efird said. “You should remember this as well as Hewitt.”
“I was five,” Newly said. “But I remember watching it on TV.”
“The tracking stations made that coverage possible,” Hewitt continued. “The moon was showing its half phase, so the Pisgah station was active at night. The lunar landing was the focus, although signals from the orbiting Apollo capsule were coming in as well. During the time the station was the main communication link, everyone at Pisgah was fully engaged in operations. It was after the torch was passed to the next station that the problem surfaced.” He looked at Cory and shook his head sympathetically.
“My father said he just disappeared,” Cory said.
The rest of us looked at each other with confusion.
“And Frank DeMille was what relation?” Hewitt asked.
“My father’s older brother. An uncle I never knew.”
Hewitt nodded and picked up his story. “Frank DeMille was a software engineer on-site for writing and maintaining the codes that kept the radio telescopes under computer control. Once the station had completed its function for that rotation, the computer scientists reprogrammed for the next pass. That was when Frank DeMille was reported missing. He was never seen again.”
“This was over a decade before I was born,” Cory explained. “My father, Zack DeMille, came here looking for his brother. At first, he thought Frank might have gone out for a walk that evening and gotten lost. He loved the woods. Dad hiked the area for days. He eventually took a job with the city of Asheville and wound up staying here.” Her eyes welled with tears. “He and Mom were killed in a car crash ten years ago. I hate to think that they died without ever knowing what happened.”
The room fell silent.
Then Hewitt said, “I knew the FBI was concerned because Frank DeMille worked with classified computer information. The scientist in charge had told them how innovative Frank was. That he was a real loss to the project. His skills went beyond the space program, and he’d drawn the attention of the Department of Defense as they began to consider the computer as another potential weapon of the Cold War. I heard the theory floated that Frank had been abducted.”
Hewitt looked at Efird and smiled. “Yes, that did fuel the UFO crowd when they heard the word. Not a Soviet abduction but an alien abduction. They still consider PARI to be hiding an interstellar spaceport with more saucer traffic than the jets at the Asheville airport.”
“That’s crazy,” Shirley said. “Everybody knows PARI is a vortex of overlapping dimensions, not some interstellar hub.”
Again, Cory smiled and looked at me. We both knew Shirley wasn’t kidding.
Newly leaned forward in his chair. “I would think Sheriff Hickman would know this. It’s got to be in the cold case records of the Transylvania Sheriff’s Department.”
“Not necessarily,” Hewitt said. “The location was federal property, not county. If not owned by NASA, it would be national forest patrolled by rangers.”
“Why’s Hickman on the case now?” I asked.
“Because the land’s no longer federal,” Hewitt said. “I don’t know the details, but there was some kind of acreage swap with the government.”
“That’s right,” Newly agreed. “I’d forgotten. Must be twenty years ago. The case probably didn’t cross into Hickman’s jurisdiction with the exchange. He might not be aware of the disappearance.” The homicide detective turned to Cory. “Tuck and I will offer him any help we can. First, he needs to determine if it is indeed your uncle.”
“DNA,” Cory said.
Newly nodded. “Your father was your biological father?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest you let us take a saliva swab. I’m going to notify Special Agent Lindsay Boyce, since the FBI should still have an interest. That will give us access to the Quantico labs and maybe expedite the process. Is that OK?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Hewitt took a deep breath. “Do you want Cory to go with you?”
“That’s not necessary,” Efird said. “I’ll bring the kit here. That is if we’re done.”
Hewitt stood. “Thank you for your assistance. I know we’re not always on the same side, but you have my unqualified respect.”
The rest of us rose.
Newly gave a wry smile. “My dear counselor, I hope we’re always on the same side. The side of truth.”
“Had you heard that story from Cory before?” I asked Nakayla the question as we sat in the conversation area of our three-room office suite.
The layout was simple and practical. You entered a room that looked more like an old English drawing room than an office. A leather sofa, two matching chairs, a Persian rug, and antique end and coffee tables were meant to relax our clients in a homey atmosphere.
Off to the left of this main room was my office, the door usually shut so that the mess didn’t give the impression I was disorganized. I simply liked to keep everything within arm’s reach. On the right, Nakayla’s open door revealed a tidy, orderly desk and file cabinets that assured clients that important documents wouldn’t fall into the trash.
Nakayla sat in a corner of the sofa, her bare feet tucked under her thighs. “No. If Cory hasn’t told Shirley, she hasn’t told anyone. And it happened nearly fifty years ago.”
I rose from the chair opposite her and stepped over Blue, who lay sprawled at my feet. As I paced back and forth, the coonhound followed me with his eyes. “Whether it’s her uncle or not, Sheriff Hickman has to be looking at a murder investigation. You don’t bury yourself.”
“Newly’s smart to cover the FBI,” Nakayla said. “Not that Hickman wouldn’t have brought them in. But you know as well as I that the local authorities don’t all welcome feds into their cases.”
“Hickman won’t have any choice if it turns out to be Frank DeMille.” I glanced at my watch as if the hour since Hewitt and Cory told their stories should have yielded some results. “I guess we’ll know in the next few days.”
Nakayla stretched her legs and slipped on her shoes. “Probably. My guess is Newly called Hickman immediately, asking for a skeletal fragment to go with Cory’s DNA swab. The sheriff has no reason not to cooperate.”
A knock sounded from the hallway door. Then Cory opened it. “Can we talk a few minutes?”
Blue sat up on his haunches, and his tail thumped the floor like a metronome.
Nakayla stood. “Certainly. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m coffeed out.” Cory closed the door behind her and crossed to the sofa.
Nakayla sat beside her as I returned to my chair. Blue rested his head on Cory’s knee and was rewarded with a scratch behind his ears.
“Did Tuck get everything he needed?” I asked.
“Yes. He and Detective Newland were going to see Sheriff Hickman and then Special Agent Boyce at the FBI office. Newland thought it would be bad to run straight to the feds. Since Hickman had called Newland, it was only fair they contact him first.”
I nodded in agreement. Investigations can be very territorial, and there was no benefit in alienating the Transylvania County sheriff. It was his case until it wasn’t.
Cory shifted her gaze to Blue’s face as if she were more comfortable talking to the dog. “If the DNA proves it was my Uncle Frank, I don’t know whether to be happy or sad. Is knowing that he’s dead better than living with uncertainty when uncertainty means he could be alive?”
“It’s better to know,” Nakayla said. “Wouldn’t your parents have taken some degree of comfort, slim as it may be, that he didn’t just turn his back on his family? That he didn’t reject those who loved him?”
Cory kept staring at Blue. I saw a tear trickle along one cheek and fall to the back of her hand. Blue licked it and whimpered.
Cory pushed him away and leaned back against the sofa. “Yes. I guess. But what do I do now?”
“What do you mean?” Nakayla asked.
Cory’s expression hardened. “I never knew my uncle. My feelings are for my parents, if that makes any sense. I cry because they’re not here to. I cry because I believe my father’s brother was murdered. Someone had to have buried his body.”
Nakayla and I said nothing.
“And if it is Uncle Frank and he was murdered, I cry because there’s nothing I can provide the police to help find his killer, whether that killer is alive or long since dead.”
“Are there no relatives of your parents’ generation?” I asked.
“I have an aunt. Frank and my father’s sister. She was the baby of the family. She’s in Roanoke. We’ve never talked much about Frank, and it’s been several months since I’ve seen her.” Cory sniffled. “She’s closer kin than I am. Guess she’ll get the official notification.”
“You should give her a call,” Nakayla said. “She might see a newscast and have the same reaction you did. The story will break before any DNA analysis is complete.”
Cory nodded. “OK. But that’s not what I came to talk about.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Go ahead.”
“This Sheriff Hickman. What do you know about him?”
I looked at Nakayla. She’d grown up here and knew the players better than I did.
“He’s been sheriff a long time,” Nakayla said. “Fifteen years at least. I was in high school when he was elected. Before I met Sam, I was working for an insurance company in fraud investigations. Sometimes those cases were in Transylvania County, and he served some papers for us. Nothing demanding investigative skills, so I can’t speak to his competency. I would think Hewitt and he would have tangled at some point.”
“They did,” Cory said. “Hewitt has defended six clients over the years that were arrested by Hickman and his deputies. Hewitt got all of them acquitted. Hewitt said some of the acquittals were the DA’s fault for bringing a weak case to trial. But two of the cases had bungled evidence and procedural search irregularities that Hewitt exploited. He made the sheriff look bad. You know how Hewitt can be. Cut a witness on the stand to pieces and then pour salt in the wounds. In other words, if Hewitt were drowning, instead of a life preserver, Hickman would throw him an anchor.”
“And you’re afraid if Hickman discovers you work for Hewitt, he’ll slack off on the investigation?” I asked.
Cory shrugged. “I don’t know. I would think he’d want to close a murder case. It’s more the competency issue. I wouldn’t worry if it were Detective Newland. He’s one of the best, but if it’s murder, it’s outside his jurisdiction.”
“There’s the FBI,” Nakayla said.
“Yeah. The Federal Bureau of Incommunicado. Ask them what time it is, and they answer they can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
I understood where Cory was headed. “If it’s murder, we’ll do it.”
She blushed. “I haven’t asked yet.”
“See. Aren’t we good detectives?”
I glanced at Nakayla. She nodded, signaling she approved.
“This will be a professional relationship,” Cory said. “I’ll be paying whatever’s your rate.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “We’re not busy right now, so your case will keep us occupied. Idle hands and the devil’s workshop.”
“But if you’re not busy, then you should let me pay you. You’ve got bills, don’t you?”
“OK. Give Hewitt a dollar and have him give it to us. Then if you and your aunt ever file a wrongful death suit, our work will be part of Hewitt’s case file. That’s our final offer.”
What Cory didn’t know was that Nakayla and I had several million dollars in an offshore account that came from two earlier investigations—one involving a long-ago theft from her family and the other tied to my service and injury in Iraq. Both “treasures” went unreported to Uncle Sam and both now trickled through our detective agency and provided a comfortable income and the ability to make generous donations to worthy causes. Causes like Cory’s.
Tears welled in the paralegal’s eyes. “It’s too much to ask. Really.”
“You didn’t ask,” Nakayla said. “It’s something we want to do. Don’t deny us the opportunity.”
Cory pulled a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her tears. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“We haven’t done anything yet. It might not be your uncle, and it might not be murder.” I said the words, but I didn’t believe them.
What do you think about this review?
Comments
No comments posted.
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy