By R. J. Ellory
By award-winning mystery heavyweight R.J. Ellory, this bold crime novel takes his ability for suspense to a spellbinding level.
whilst Catherine Ducane disappears in New Orleans, the law enforcement officials react fast--she is the governor's daughter, in any case. however the case quick grows strange.
Her bodyguard turns up horribly mutilated, and while the kidnapper calls, he does not wish funds: he wishes time by myself with a minor govt functionary. by the point the items fall into position, it really is already too overdue . . .
A Quiet Vendetta is either the epic tale of 1 mobster's life-- starting from Cuba to Chicago-- and both a strong mystery of rage, love, and loss. With pressure to check the simplest of Cussler, Patterson, and his personal best-selling paintings, A Quiet Vendetta confirms R.J. Ellory's position on the vanguard of the style.
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Extra info for A quiet vendetta
He stopped at a deli en route, bought a sandwich and a bottle of root beer. He ate while he drove, more out of necessity than any other consideration. Twenty minutes later: New Orleans Police Department Vehicle Requisition Compound, corner of Treme and Iberville. John Verlaine stood with the criss-crossed shadows of the wire mesh fence sectioning his face into squares, and waited patiently. The officer within, name of Jorge D’Addario, had stated emphatically that until he received something official, something in writing, he could not permit Verlaine entry to the compound.
Emerson added a certain flair and insight to what would ordinarily have been a dry and factual task. He was sensitive to people, sensitive even when they were rigored and bloated and shattered and dead. Verlaine stood in the corridor outside Emerson’s office for a moment. Here we go again, he thought, and then knocked once and walked straight in. Emerson rose from his desk and reached out his hand. ‘Short time, plenty see,’ he said, and smiled. ’ Verlaine nodded. ’ ‘Nasty shit,’ Emerson said, and glanced to the desk.
The heat breathed through everything, turned the surface of the hot top to molasses, and Verlaine stopped to buy a bottle of mineral water from a store on the way back to his car. There was something present today, something in the atmosphere, and breathing it he felt invaded, even perhaps abused. He sat in his car for a while and smoked a cigarette. He decided to drive back to the Precinct House and wait there for Cipliano’s call. The call came within an hour of his arrival. He left quickly, as inconspicuously as he could, and drove back across town to the coroner’s office.