Blood Relations by Jonathan Moore
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB |2.4 Mb
Blood Relations : So wonders PI Lee Crowe when he finds her dead, in a fine cocktail dress, on top of a Rolls Royce, in the most dangerous neighborhood in San Francisco. Claire’s mother, Olivia, is one of the richest people in California. She doesn’t believe the coroner: her daughter did not kill herself. Olivia hires Crowe, who—having just foiled a federal case against a cartel kingpin—is eager for distraction. But the questions about the Gravesend family pile up fast. First, the autopsy reveals round scars running down Claire’s spine, old marks Olivia won’t explain. Then, Crowe visits Claire’s Boston townhouse and has to fend off an armed intruder. Is it the Feds out for revenge? Or is this connected to the Gravesends? He leaves Boston afraid, but finds his way to Claire’s secret San Francisco pied-à-terre. It’s there that his questions come to a head. Sleeping in an upstairs bedroom, he finds Claire—her face, her hair, her scars—and as far as he can tell, she’s alive. And Crowe’s back at the start: Who is Claire Gravesend?
“With that done, I picked up the phone again and called Jim Gardner, the attorney who’d bought all my time this summer. He answered on the first ring, already at his desk at six fifty in the morning. Of course he was. He’d just started a trial, and the prosecution’s star witness was about to take the stand.
“Good morning,” I said, jumping in to cut off his routine greeting. “Just in time. I have something.”
There was a beat of silence. He was likely considering how he wanted to sound if the FBI had a tap on his line. Which wasn’t an entirely remote possibility. Not if the government had any idea what Jim had been paying me to do this summer.
“Are you on the clock, Mr. Crowe?”
When he was in trial mode, Jim Gardner’s most mundane questions began to sound leather-bound and consequential. He’d given his opening statement yesterday, so he was in full swing. And he knew he might be playing to a larger audience.
“Yes, counselor,” I said. “This call is privileged and confidential.”
“Not enough for me. You’ve had coffee?”
At the Westchester, there was a guy on the third floor who sold crack cocaine out of his room. He bagged it in condoms cadged from the API Wellness Center on Polk Street. That was as close as my hotel got to coffee.”