Inherit the Dead by John Connolly, Jonathan Santlofer, Charlaine Harris, Heather Graham, Val McDermid, Lawrence Block, Lee Child, Max Allan Collins, Stephen L. Carter, Alafair Burke, Ken Bruen, Mark Billingham, Marcia Clark, Sarah Weinman, James Grady, Bryan Gruley, S. J. Rozan, Dana Stabenow, Lisa Unger, C. J. Box Page A
Authors: John Connolly, Jonathan Santlofer, Charlaine Harris, Heather Graham, Val McDermid, Lawrence Block, Lee Child, Max Allan Collins, Stephen L. Carter, Alafair Burke, Ken Bruen, Mark Billingham, Marcia Clark, Sarah Weinman, James Grady, Bryan Gruley, S. J. Rozan, Dana Stabenow, Lisa Unger, C. J. Box
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and handed it to him. “Whatever you need, please feel free to call me.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Loki opened the door to reveal one of the few men Perry had ever seen who truly deserved to be described as an Adonis. Well over six feet tall, with wavy, shoulder-length blond hair and pecs so large they showed through his waffle shirt. The warm smile he’d aimed at Loki turned to puzzlement when he saw Perry.
Loki quickly introduced them, and the man recovered his one-hundred-watt smile. After enduring his bone-crushing handshake, Perry bid them farewell. The moment the door closed, he wiggled his fingers to work out the kinks from that death grip.
As Perry turned to go, he heard the two men laughing. He slowly walked down the porch steps then stopped. It seemed odd that a worried father would have a trainer come out at a time like this. Odder still that he’d be in the mood to laugh. About anything.
As he drove down the private road back toward the highway, Perry mentally replayed his interview with Loki, the aging, de pendently wealthy hipster. A bit of a poser, a big doper, but a kidnapper? A killer? Hard to believe. Then again, how could a lawyer not know about his own daughter’s inheritance? And if he did know, why lie about it?
Perry sighed as he turned onto the empty highway. The interview that was supposed to give him a central piece of the puzzle had instead only delivered more questions. The scream of a lone seagull pierced the sky above him. Perry looked up and nodded. “Yeah, I’m with you, buddy.”
You don’t have to drive down the road to find out why the private eye has come here and who he’s come to see because you know exactly who he is talking to.
You wait by the side of the road, car under the trees, hidden in the shadows, trying to imagine their conversation while you gnaw on a PowerBar to keep up your energy. You’ve got a whole bag of them, plus apples and juice boxes. You’re prepared.
You think about all those mansions you’ve passed, the way these people live, and you’re going to have it, too, because you deserve it, and you don’t care who gets hurt. Somebody always gets hurt, but not you, not this time.
You’re trying to picture it, your new life, when the PIs junk heap of a car comes rattling back down the private lane and he’s so damn preoccupied he doesn’t even look your way, just turns onto the main road, and you wait a couple of minutes so as not to arouse suspicion then turn the key in the ignition and follow under a sky with low dark clouds like filthy rags and feel a kind of electricity coursing through your body, hands tingling on the steering wheel because this is what you’ve been waiting for.
4
HEATHER GRAHAM
I t didn’t take Perry long to reach his next destination.
The afternoon sky over the Hamptons was darker now, an icy rain just beginning as he headed down the long drive.
The minute Perry Christo walked into Lilith Bates’s studio, one thought came into his mind.
Wannabe.
She had made the third floor of her lavish East Hampton mansion into her work space, and it appeared that she had worked hard to create the image of the artistic recluse; canvases were everywhere. She’d studied the studios of others, and she’d had the house revamped to create magnificent, floor-to-ceiling windows and skylights for her work. She had all the proper utensils for her craft, palettes of oils and watercolors, cabinets with half-opened drawers spilling over with brushes, paint thinners, pens, pencils—every artistic supply an artist could ever want.
Trust-fund baby turned artist!
The Bates’s butler had walked him up, and he knew that she was expecting him, even though she pretended to have completely forgotten he was coming.
One thing he would say for her—Lilith was beautiful.
She was dressed in a form-hugging tank top and knit pants; a white smock blouse—artfully splashed with paint—was carelessly worn over her clothing. She was slender—it seemed
“Thanks, I will.”
Loki opened the door to reveal one of the few men Perry had ever seen who truly deserved to be described as an Adonis. Well over six feet tall, with wavy, shoulder-length blond hair and pecs so large they showed through his waffle shirt. The warm smile he’d aimed at Loki turned to puzzlement when he saw Perry.
Loki quickly introduced them, and the man recovered his one-hundred-watt smile. After enduring his bone-crushing handshake, Perry bid them farewell. The moment the door closed, he wiggled his fingers to work out the kinks from that death grip.
As Perry turned to go, he heard the two men laughing. He slowly walked down the porch steps then stopped. It seemed odd that a worried father would have a trainer come out at a time like this. Odder still that he’d be in the mood to laugh. About anything.
As he drove down the private road back toward the highway, Perry mentally replayed his interview with Loki, the aging, de pendently wealthy hipster. A bit of a poser, a big doper, but a kidnapper? A killer? Hard to believe. Then again, how could a lawyer not know about his own daughter’s inheritance? And if he did know, why lie about it?
Perry sighed as he turned onto the empty highway. The interview that was supposed to give him a central piece of the puzzle had instead only delivered more questions. The scream of a lone seagull pierced the sky above him. Perry looked up and nodded. “Yeah, I’m with you, buddy.”
You don’t have to drive down the road to find out why the private eye has come here and who he’s come to see because you know exactly who he is talking to.
You wait by the side of the road, car under the trees, hidden in the shadows, trying to imagine their conversation while you gnaw on a PowerBar to keep up your energy. You’ve got a whole bag of them, plus apples and juice boxes. You’re prepared.
You think about all those mansions you’ve passed, the way these people live, and you’re going to have it, too, because you deserve it, and you don’t care who gets hurt. Somebody always gets hurt, but not you, not this time.
You’re trying to picture it, your new life, when the PIs junk heap of a car comes rattling back down the private lane and he’s so damn preoccupied he doesn’t even look your way, just turns onto the main road, and you wait a couple of minutes so as not to arouse suspicion then turn the key in the ignition and follow under a sky with low dark clouds like filthy rags and feel a kind of electricity coursing through your body, hands tingling on the steering wheel because this is what you’ve been waiting for.
4
HEATHER GRAHAM
I t didn’t take Perry long to reach his next destination.
The afternoon sky over the Hamptons was darker now, an icy rain just beginning as he headed down the long drive.
The minute Perry Christo walked into Lilith Bates’s studio, one thought came into his mind.
Wannabe.
She had made the third floor of her lavish East Hampton mansion into her work space, and it appeared that she had worked hard to create the image of the artistic recluse; canvases were everywhere. She’d studied the studios of others, and she’d had the house revamped to create magnificent, floor-to-ceiling windows and skylights for her work. She had all the proper utensils for her craft, palettes of oils and watercolors, cabinets with half-opened drawers spilling over with brushes, paint thinners, pens, pencils—every artistic supply an artist could ever want.
Trust-fund baby turned artist!
The Bates’s butler had walked him up, and he knew that she was expecting him, even though she pretended to have completely forgotten he was coming.
One thing he would say for her—Lilith was beautiful.
She was dressed in a form-hugging tank top and knit pants; a white smock blouse—artfully splashed with paint—was carelessly worn over her clothing. She was slender—it seemed
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