By Judith Skillings
Rebecca Moore has had greater than her fill of lifeless males . . . the 1st, her lover David, took his personal existence in her bed room simply outdoors of Washington, D.C. -- a wholly mindless act of violence that reasons a critically shaken Rebecca to give up her activity as an investigative journalist and flee to rural Maryland to run her past due Uncle Walt's vintage vehicle recovery store. Out right here she faces a truly assorted pressure of rampant craziness -- let alone a motley choice of most likely harmful, allegedly reformed ex-convict staff she's inherited. As she attempts to settle in, a moment male corpse surfaces, murdered and crammed right into a glass beading computer at the store flooring, the place it has no earthly correct or cause to be. Now, with a gorgeous cop who is extra attracted to her than within the case, and with extra dying within the offing, Rebecca Moore goes to need to inn to what she does most sensible: locate the proof, finger a wrongdoer . . . and in some way remain alive.
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Extra resources for Dead End
A second one followed quickly as Paulie pulled open the door to his baby-blue Cadillac. She wasn’t crazy: Someone had a lens trained on the shop. She was willing to bet the someone was sitting in the Jeep Cherokee with the driver’s-side window eased down four inches. She didn’t recognize the car. Couldn’t see the license plate. Couldn’t see through the tinted glass. It was dirty enough to be the one that had been parked in front of the Great Wall while she was getting soup. She recalled the dark-haired stranger—his quick glance at her and away.
Ofﬁce help in short skirts and fuckme pumps; sunburned yacht rats in jeans and Topsiders. Everyone looking for a few hours of drink-induced good times. They didn’t mind contracting lung cancer or blasting out their eardrums in the process. Given the noise level, conﬁdential talk would be difﬁcult. Pretending others weren’t gawking would be impossible. Every stare and pointed ﬁnger brought back the goldﬁsh-bowl existence she’d barely survived after David’s death hit the papers. A reporter whose lover kills himself because of her investigation was fair game for the Post as well as its competitors.
The ofﬁcer shifted his stance. ” He capitalized the M. ” “Yeah. ” “Hagan. Michael Hagan. ” Mick didn’t specify rank, department or district. He did unzip the L. L. Bean windbreaker he’d ordered for the trip. If the kid was curious, he could see that Mick wasn’t packing. It was a gesture. Like a Roman shaking hands to show he didn’t have a knife up the sleeve of his toga. ” The cop strolled to an ofﬁce at the back. Mick remained standing. He ﬁshed a cellophane-wrapped toothpick out of his hip pocket.