The Judge (A Paul Madriani Novel)
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When Judge Armando Acosta is charged with soliciting a prostitute, attorney Paul Madriani is less than sympathetic. Nevertheless, Madriani is forced to defend his old nemesis.
And when the policewoman who snared Acosta is brutally murdered, Madriani wonders if the judge is also the executioner.
The most explosive thriller yet by New York Times bestselling author Steve Martini -- The Judge.
Gus Lano’s an archangel.” “Well, I grant you the union,” he says. “I’m no defender of organized labor.” I can believe that. “But you’re reaching,” he says. “At least you hope I am,” I tell him. I get a quizzical look from him. “Do you know something you haven’t told us?” He stops walking and looks at me dead in the eye. Now he wants to know what we are thinking. “If you do, you should tell me,” he says. “It might make a difference.” Yeah. He would take
Stinegold. Prodded by Kline, the witness explains. “In general terms, what this means is that the blanket itself did not come in contact with a horse. Instead it is likely that someone else got the hair on their clothing and either carried it to the blanket or perhaps to their residence, where it got on other things, furniture, bedding. The blanket could have become impregnated with the hair there, or it is even possible that the killer picked it up on his own clothing at that point,
do it on the back of their cycles without taking their foot off the starter pedal,” he says. Unless I knew better, I might think that Leo was talking from experience. “But you found out something else?” I say. “Yes,” he says. “I checked with my sources. Knowledgeable people. All very reliable,” he tells me. He makes them sound like college dons. “These are people who would not shit me,” says Leo. “What I heard was that it was either true love,” he says, “or higher ambition.
might happen if he panics. He is no doubt armed. I don’t want bullets passing through ceilings or walls with Sarah sleeping in her room upstairs. I close the distance between us, passing soundlessly over the kitchen floor, until I am pressed against the wall near the refrigerator, looking down the hall, seeing a shadow moving at the far end. He is approaching the foot of the stairs. From the silhouette, the shape of his head, the night goggles are in place. He puts one foot on the
very good.” He is pointing to the potato salad, which he has tasted with one finger because he cannot find a spoon in the paper bag. “I thought things have been going very well,” he says. “What’s the problem?” Before I can answer, he cuts me off, issuing a directive to one of the jail guards, a man he knows by first name. “Jerry, would you get me a plastic fork?” he says. “Oh, and a cup of coffee.” In this Acosta treats the man as if he were wearing white livery, hovering over our