Dead midnight by Marcia Muller

By Marcia Muller

After her severely acclaim-ed departure, element Decept-ion, Marcia Muller returns with a brand new Sharon McCone secret set within the cut-throat desktop international of San Francisco.Sharon McCone has made up our minds to throw herself into paintings so she will be able to get prior her brothers suicide, however the wrongful-death go well with she is operating on hits too just about domestic. Its a civil case within which the kinfolk of a tender zine em-ployee claims his suicide was once the results of his companys remedy of him. In his ultimate magazine access, Roger Nagasawa describes his deadly plunge from the San Francisco Bridge as being swept clear of disappointment. With assistance from her pal, J.D. Smith, McCone investigates the InSite workplaces and shortly learns of its publishers less-than-professional actions. She additionally learns that Roger have been afraid for his lifestyles for the reason that he was once a witness to computing device espionage. confronted with the demise of her pal, Smith, and the unexpected disappearance of Rogers affiliate, McCone needs to retain one step sooner than the sport and resolve this mysteryor else develop into the following sufferer.

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I’m only learning to be a father. ” “Oh, for God’s sake! ” “Good. ” Assemble my thoughts, my ass! He pulled that crap on me when we first met, but it isn’t going to work this time. Who is this man to me, anyway? Somebody who donated his sperm to my birth mother, that’s all. End of his connection to both Saskia and me. Later, when she was in worse trouble than the pregnancy, he didn’t return her phone call because he was preoccupied with the woman he eventually married. Why should I care what he thinks?

I pulled my mini-cassette recorder from my bag and said, “I’ll need some particulars now, so I can open a file. And I’ll need copies of your files on the case as well. ” “You’ve probably seen the name in the paper. They’re patrons of the arts and supporters of a number of local charities. I went to college with Daniel Nagasawa. He’s an eye surgeon and owns one of those clinics that do corrective laser treatment. His wife, Margaret, has a small press that publishes quality children’s books. They have—had—three sons.

So that’s how it is. ” Curled up on my sofa, a cat draped across the back with its paws dangling onto my head, another purring on my feet, I was sipping a glass of wine and talking on the phone with my birth father, Elwood Farmer. —the hour I’d finished reading Glenn’s files on Roger Nagasawa’s death. “I understand why you think you can’t take it,” he said. I could picture him seated in his padded rocker in front of the woodstove in his small log house in Montana. He’d be wearing a plaid wool shirt and jeans, his gray hair unkempt and touching his shoulders, a cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth, its smoke making him squint.

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