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THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER THAT?LL LEAVE READERS BREATHLESS.
Controversial New York State Attorney General Liz Shaler is announcing her candidacy for president at a high-profile convergence of media heavy-hitters. Also in attendance is an assassin with a brilliant and foolproof plan.
crime-scene photos from Salt Lake,” he told her. “Pretty gruesome stuff. But they’re lousy photos. I’d like to enlarge some, crop and zoom some others. Above my skill set.” She looked out the top of her eyes at him and said disdainfully, “I see.” “I need them pretty quickly.” “It’s a date, is all.” “A guy named Capshaw—TSA down in Salt Lake—thought it important enough to send these. I have a five o’clock with everyone who’s anyone connected to C3 security. But as I said, the photos are pretty
shoe prints washing away before his eyes. Walt peeled his coat off and lay it across the trail, attempting to protect the matching shoe prints—both heading in different directions. He didn’t dare lift the coat to see if he’d managed to cover them, the rain falling steadily now. He raced ahead, staying off the trail, dodging trees and stumps and massive rocks. “Tommy,” he called ahead on the radio, “how many times have you seen a guy in office shoes out on one of these trails?” “Sneakers,”
darkly, and he sat back in his chair. Patrick continued. “I had Dick share the security footage because if Danny did something…if he hurt her in any way…then God damn it, for once he’s going to pay.” “I’ll need you to account for your whereabouts last night, from nine P.M. to past midnight.” Without pause, Cutter replied, “I was hosting a dinner at the lodge dining room followed immediately by a dessert function out at Trail Creek Cabin. The commissioner of the FCC. Believe me, Walt, every
ballpoint pen, the tweezers had passed through security undetected, and he used them now, lowering himself awkwardly to one knee in the cramped space to where he had a good view of Callie’s chest. He spread the dog’s hair until the pink incision appeared—a string of fine-looking hook-and-knot stitches running in a straight line ten inches up her abdomen. Blood seeped from the middle, but he dabbed it with tissue and it seemed to stop. He carefully guided the tweezers between the second and third
pass. Then another. To both men it seemed much, much longer. Then he took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and let his true emotions color his voice. “You picked the wrong car, asshole.” He waved the bag containing the contact lens in the man’s face. “Danny Cutter wasn’t driving the Toyota, Patrick was. Danny’s the one Mr. Holms wanted framed for this. Not Patrick. We were all over Danny until we found the contact lens. This contact lens. The one on which they developed a latent print. The