City of Whispers (A Sharon McCone Mystery)
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Private eye Sharon McCone receives an e-mail asking for help from her emotionally disturbed half brother Darcy Blackhawk. She replies . . . but gets no response. As Sharon digs deeper, she discovers that Darcy sent his message from an Internet café in San Francisco, a city he's never been to before. Sensing that her brother is in terrible danger, Sharon begins a search for him throughout the city.
The investigation leads her to the body of a woman at the Palace of Fine Arts, where a witness had told her that Darcy was headed. Then, as she digs deeper, Sharon uncovers a connection to the unsolved murder of a young heiress to a multimillion-dollar banking fortune. Now Sharon must race to solve both murders and ensure her brother's safety, despite the imminent danger that lurks within her own family.
crinkling at the corners of his eyes and mouth, “it was such a shame, with their whole lives ahead of them. Of course, the blond-haired one—what was her name?” “Lucy Grant.” “Right. She wasn’t killed, but she was damaged all the same. I’d see her coming home from her classes all hunched over and looking down at the ground, and it wasn’t the weight of her backpack that caused it, but the death of her friend.” “How long did she stay on here?” “Till the Christmas break. Then she was gone for
time this would have been a fine old residence, but now the carpets were worn, the wallpaper peeling, and most of the lightbulbs burned out. He rapped on the door of the first-floor unit. As he’d expected from the lack of lights, there was no response. Okay, farthest place next. After his knock at the top-floor unit, he heard murmurs, footsteps, a female voice saying, “Yes?” “Fire inspector.” The door opened and a woman with her hair in curlers looked out. Pink plastic curlers, the likes of
results in violence against the self or others. Secrets, damned secrets. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 12 Mick Savage As Shar had told him to, he maintained surveillance on the house on Clayton Street. Past midnight the neighborhood was quiet, people returning from Saturday night activities, slotting their cars on an angle on the steep incline. Getting out of cabs. Walking uphill and calling good night to their companions. Lights flared on and winked out. Gradually a middle-of-the-night hush stole over
Heights I chanced to meet Rae in one of the elevators. “Prepare yourself,” she said. “Mick’s in a foul mood.” “Uh-oh.” “His head, he says, feels like it’s been run over by a tractor in a newly fertilized field. His breakfast was like porridge the Three Bears wouldn’t’ve eaten. The nurse would be a pit bull if she was shorter and had four legs.” “I never knew he could come up with such colorful images.” “Neither did Alison. She visited earlier and he told her that her father—you remember he
is this?” “Never mind that. We have him, and if you want him back alive, you better follow instructions.” So Hy had been right. Quickly I turned up the volume on the phone as high as it would go, rummaged in my bag for my tape recorder, and began documenting the call. “Is Darcy all right?” “He’s alive. He’ll remain alive as long as you do as we say.” “What do you want me to do?” “We’ll negotiate this in stages. If at any time you contact the authorities, the negotiations will stop. And your