Deep Pockets

Deep Pockets

4.6 3
by Linda Barnes

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Harvard professor Wilson Chaney's position in life is hanging by a thread; his marriage, his reputation, not to mention his tenure at Harvard are in the hands of a blackmailer, someone threatening to sell Chaney's secrets at very high prices. His enviable life could disappear into thin air should the blackmailer's evidence-proof of his affair with a young

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Harvard professor Wilson Chaney's position in life is hanging by a thread; his marriage, his reputation, not to mention his tenure at Harvard are in the hands of a blackmailer, someone threatening to sell Chaney's secrets at very high prices. His enviable life could disappear into thin air should the blackmailer's evidence-proof of his affair with a young student-become public knowledge.

So he hires Boston private investigator Carlotta Carlyle to track down the blackmailer and put a stop to the scheme. Can she do it? Of course, but should she? The professor doesn't inspire much loyalty-after all, he did commit adultery with one of his own students-but Carlotta agrees. Digging into the case, nosing around Harvard and the possible suspects from the rest of Dr. Chaney's life, she uncovers a suspicious death as part of the backstory to Dr. Chaney's situation. Suddenly Carlotta's sixth sense is telling her the case might be more complicated-and more dangerous-than it first seemed.

Fresh from the success of The Big Dig, the masterful Linda Barnes delivers a bold and engaging novel infused with the deft touch and intricate suspense that have become her trademarks.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In her 10th robust Carlotta Carlyle mystery (after 2002's The Big Dig), Barnes weaves an intricate web with a pleasingly poisonous spider at its center. African-American Harvard professor Wilson Chaney asks Boston PI Carlotta for help because someone is blackmailing him over his affair with Delani Brinkman, a seductive Harvard rowing star. When Delani turns up dead in a boathouse on the Charles, incinerated on a gasoline-soaked futon, a note left by the victim suggests suicide. But Brinkman herself remains quite the puzzle-a loner who slept with her kayak in her room, then abandoned her dorm to camp in the university boathouse: "Her mother was an American Indian.... Her father was Swiss, but she didn't learn that until much later. She had no brothers and sisters. She never went hungry, but there wasn't much kindness in her life." When Delani's ex-con boyfriend is killed by a hit-run driver on a dark city street, suspicion points back to the urbane Professor Chaney-or does it? Almost every character carries a secret, including Carlotta, who's gingerly resuming her romance with a charming Mafioso. If a couple of red herrings aren't fully explained, Barnes makes superb use of town-gown tensions and the contrasting worlds of Harvard bureaucrats, blue-collar cons, the Brattle Street swells and more. The twists and turns in this nail-biter are at once startling without ever becoming absurd. 3-city author tour. (Mar. 8) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
A black Harvard professor having an affair with a white student hires Carlotta to find his blackmailer, but her investigation uncovers a suspicious death as well. Barnes's tenth Carlotta Carlyle adventure features slick, winning prose and a nifty plot. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A blackmailed Harvard professor calls on shamus Carlotta Carlyle (The Big Dig, 2002, etc.) because he thinks his world is falling apart. If only he knew. Medical/educational researcher Wilson Chaney does know there aren't many academic jobs that would carry anything like his present funding or his present clout, and he's not eager to get fired over the torrid letters he wrote Denali Brinkman, a white freshman, during an affair he insists ended even before her suicide in the Harvard boathouse. How to get the blackmailer peddling those letters off his back? Carlotta soon identifies Denali's boyfriend, ex-con Benjy Dowling, as the perp during an unauthorized visit to his apartment that nets all the letters. Mission accomplished-except it's all so easy that nobody but Carlotta and Chaney will be surprised when the absent Benjy's killed by a hit-and-run driver behind the wheel of Chaney's own car. It's only then that the case starts to assume its true proportions, as Carlotta gradually teases out the tangle of drug trials, fraud, civil suits, and murder that links Chaney, his wealthy and imperious wife, a porous security firm, and the venerable university. But it's not until the last act, just when other cases would be winding down, that this one sends out a shower of fresh sparks that make it bold, powerful, and shattering. No question: Carlotta's tenth case is her best to date. Edgar nominators, take note.

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Product Details

St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
Carlotta Carlyle Series , #10
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2 MB

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I hate running errands. I put them off and put them off, and then one morning the cat's got no food, there are zero stamps on the roll, and I realize I own no underwear minus holes. I understand some people like to shop for clothes, do it for pure pleasure and entertainment, but I count it as one more damned errand. When the tasks mount up and I can't put it off any longer, I make a list and set forth to Harvard Square. There are less pricey areas, granted, but the Square has its own post office and lies within spitting distance of my house.

I waited in line at the post office till my feet felt like they'd grow roots. I bought panties on sale at the Gap, mourned the passing of Sage's, where they'd always carried tons of my cat's favorite Fancy Feast, bought a few cans of an off-price substitute at the CVS instead. The wind tangled my hair, which helped me recall a shampoo shortage and led to cart-filling thoughts of toothpaste, soap, and lip balm.

I first noticed him as I was waiting, along with thirty-five other assorted students, panhandlers, and shoppers, for the scramble light at the intersection of Brattle and Mass Ave. His gaze lingered a moment too long and I wondered briefly whether I'd met him at a party or exchanged small talk with the man at a bar. He wasn't especially noticeable, a middle-aged light-skinned black man in a well-cut tweed jacket and charcoal slacks. Didn't hold a candle fashion-wise to the young guy on his left wearing buckskin fringe. Still, I had the feeling I'd seen him before, and I thought it might have been behind me in line at the post office, or across the room at one of the writing tables, scribbling on the back of an envelope. When the traffic light changed, the herd charged across the street and dispersed, some heading for the subway, some the shops, some disappearing through the gates to Harvard Yard. I stopped at the Out of Town News Stand and gazed at the covers of foreign magazines. So did the black man.
The next time I saw him, he was standing outside the Cambridge Savings Bank while I was considering a bite to eat at Finagle a Bagel. He'd added a tan raincoat and a battered hat to his attire, and if I had to describe what he was doing, I'd have to say he was doing zip, simply loitering, which made him stand out from the crush of hurrying pedestrians. When I edged past, he fell into step thirty paces behind me.
Now, Cambridge is a crowded city, and Harvard Square is its hub. Teenagers cruise the streets, parading their finery, hoping someone will admire their most recent tattoo or pierced body part, but this guy hadn't been a teen in twenty years easy. I crossed Mass Ave again, turned right, then left on Church Street. I hurried past the movie theater and the Globe Corner Bookstore, hung a quick left on Palmer, a glorified alley, slowed down, and kept watch in the plate-glass windows of the Coop, purveyor of all things Harvard. Sure enough, he came hurtling around the corner, hurrying to catch up. I tried to get a better glimpse of his face, but it was obscured under the brim of the hat. I feigned interest in the fine-art posters displayed in the front window, then sauntered on.

I'd just finished working a case in which I'd managed to frustrate a bunch of survivalists-cum-terrorists. The Feebies, no less, had warned me to be on the lookout for revenge-crazed Looney Tunes. But the group allegedly out for my blood was the sort that wouldn't associate with black people, much less admit them as prized members and give them the choice assignment of taking out the half-Jewish bitch who'd foiled their finest scheme.

I used to be a cop, across the river in Boston. I worked Major Crimes and I worked Homicide, and there are no doubt former and future felons who hold a grudge. But I was pretty sure most of them would do a better job of shadowing. Truly, this guy was not good at his work. If he was an accomplished felon, I was queen of the junior prom.

He stayed too close, and then he stayed too far. He didn't know the basics, like walking on the opposite side of the street. He didn't use a shiner, a small mirror, so when he wanted to check where I was, he had to turn, risk a full stare, and look straight at me. He was strictly an amateur, but he was bird-dog stubborn and extremely patient while I visited Tower Records and sorted through stacks of bargain CDs.

The gent also looked prosperous. If I'd sent him away and he'd come out of jail dressing the way he did, he owed me thanks. My grandmother, my mother's mother, would have cautioned me to quit judging by appearances. 'Fun oybn puts, fun unten shmuts,' she'd have warned in Yiddish. 'Finery on top, filth underneath,' meaning the guy could be some kind of stylish hitman, unswayed by the Hollywood idea of what a modern hood ought to wear. I considered strolling over to a beat cop, informing him that the elegant black man was tailing me, but I knew too many Cambridge cops to relish the horselaugh that would follow. Plus, I take pride in handling my own problems. My shadow didn't seem like much of a threat so far, but I wasn't about to lead him home or walk solo down some dark alley where he'd feel free to pull a gun if such were his intent. I could have lost him easily, could have hailed a cab or jumped a bus. Instead, I marched him around the Square while considering my options, then entered the Coop at the Mass Ave door, quickly stepped to the right into an open elevator car, and pressed the button for the third floor.

As the doors narrowed, I saw my man rush inside and take note of the departing elevator. I figured he'd wait for the next trip, and wait a while, too, since there was only the single car. I had plenty of time to turn left twice and secrete myself in an alcove, surrounded by books on medicine and near a handy fire extinguisher. Hidden from view, I stuffed my parcels into my backpack, turned my reversible jacket inside out, blue to gray, and yanked a knitted cap over my red hair. It took him four minutes to elbow his way off the elevator and start tracking me down.

I stayed behind him, veering from extreme left to far right, shielded by high bookcases, feeling like a crafty fox who'd turned the table on the hounds. The guy was tenacious, I'll give him that. He didn't approach the information desk or ask any Coop shoppers if they'd seen me. Instead, he walked briskly to the back of the store, glanced down the curving staircase, decided I hadn't taken it, and charged across the third-floor pedestrian bridge, passing the rest rooms and the phones and rushing into the connected Palmer Street Coop. There, he checked out the aisles of the textbook department, then worked his way down the floors of the Palmer Street building, ignoring dorm funishings, greeting cards, Harvard insignia bears and chairs, sweatshirts and baby booties.

He took the seven steps down into the Brattle Street building, exited, and did a brief survey of pedestrian traffic before stopping to consult a Rastafarian street musician who commanded a view of the door. I observed the interaction from behind a circular rack of crimson insignia bathrobes. The guitar player shook his head slowly, dreadlocks wriggling like snakes, and accepted a cash donation. The black man re-entered the Coop, passing within ten feet of my hiding place.

Tall, slim, maybe 180 pounds, regular features. He still wore the hat, so I couldn't check his hairline. Late thirties, early forties, a worried frown on a clean-shaven face. I still thought I might have seen him before today's post-office encounter, but I didn't know where, couldn't tag a name to the face or fathom a reason behind his dogged pursuit.

I followed him back up the stairs, across Palmer Street, and into the Mass Ave building again, where he took the elevator to the third floor and started working his way down through the huge bookstore, philosophy to periodicals to fiction.

He'd reached nonfiction before I grew impatient and approached. When he saw me, a look of relief washed over his face, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. When he realized I was heading straight toward him, the relief was replaced by panic. He grabbed a book off a pile and buried his nose in it. He was holding The New Joy of Sex upside down.

Maybe if he'd picked another book, or if a crease of anxiety hadn't furrowed his brow, or if he hadn't been quite so good-looking, I'd have shoved him against a wall, demanded ID, and threatened him with the cops. As it was, I made do with a firm hand on his arm.

" Store Security," I said. "Come along - "

"You are not." His low voice was indignant.

"Gotcha. How do you know?"

He pursed his lips and thought about fleeing. He was my height, maybe an inch shorter. Six feet, narrow frame. With the shoes he had on, I didn't think he could outrun me. I watched his eyes as he considered his options. He closed them briefly, reopened them, and then pressed his lips together until they almost disappeared. His shoulders slumped, but he didn't appear defeated. The expression that crossed his face seemed more like resolve than despair.

"Miss Carlyle," he said. "May I buy you a drink?"

Copyright © 2004 by Linda Appelblatt Barnes

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Deep Pockets (Carlotta Carlyle Series #10) 4.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 3 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was my first Linda Barnes book. I enjoyed Deep Pockets, even though early on I figured out what was happening. I usually don't like first person, but this didn't annoy me here. Carlotta is an interesting character. I liked her and her foibles. I'll try this author and this series again. Deep Pockets is a good way to pass a day and a half. Good but not great.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Carlotta Carlyle, PI and sometimes cab driver, notices someone following her throughout Harvard Square. She hides and then confronts him. He swears he wasn¿t going to hurt her. He says he was trying to work up the courage to talk to her. He wants to hire her. ¿His friend¿ is being blackmailed. He paid once and now they¿re asking for more. He finally admits that he, not his friend, had an affair with freshman student Denali Brinkman. He is a tenured Harvard Professor Wilson Chaney. If his affair is made public, it will ruin his career. He wants Carlotta to uncover the identity of his blackmailer so he can then persuade him to stop. When Carlotta starts digging, she finds Denali recently committed suicide in a fire in the boathouse at Harvard. She was a rower. She tries to interview Denali¿s roommate and an ex-boyfriend. The more she digs, the more she questions everything her client has told her. Plus she finds more pieces to investigate the deeper she gets. Plus Carlotta is dating Leon, an FBI agent she met on her last job. Carlotta isn¿t sure where this relationship is going. She doesn¿t have much time to devote to it either due to her investigation. I really like Carlotta. She is a great PI. I don¿t feel that she puts herself in dangerous situations without the proper tools like in many mysteries. This is very believable. I like the way that she is able to find out the needed information without just calling someone else to find out everything. Her roommate is a great asset as well. I also like the Boston setting for this series. The author has done a great job of creating the characters and location in the book. I highly recommend this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Boston area private investigator Carlotta Carlyle noticed the mark trailing her throughout Harvard Square. She pulls a magician¿s trick and accosts her tracker. He insists he was not stalking her, but instead working up the courage to consult with her in a professional capacity........................... He explains that ¿his friend¿ is being blackmailed and paying failed to end the nightmare. Tenured Harvard Professor Wilson Chaney admits he had an affair with a freshman student Denali Brinkman. Realizing that revelation of his taboo indiscretion would end his career Wilson hires Carlotta to uncover the identity of his blackmailer so he can persuade the person to stop. Though Carlotta literally (only slightly that is) and figuratively (totally) looks down at her client especially over the age of his lover, she accepts the case............................. Carlotta digs deep into the background of her client and his former teen lover. She searches for threads at the University and in Wilson¿s personal life, finding a vehicular death link. Unable to resist, Carlotta goes down the side path that this death takes her not realizing how dangerous her detour will soon prove as there is much more to this case than simply a blackmailed cheating husband.......................... In her tenth appearance, Carlotta remains an invigorating private investigator. Her latest case DEEP POCKETS is a fabulous detective story that starts rather differently, but quite exhilaratingly before turning into a suspense thriller. Carlotta deals with ethics issues throughout the tale beginning with her odious client and continuing when she chose a lane that might not be in the best interest of the professor. This six foot one former police officer still kicks butt as one of Boston¿s finest........................... Harriet Klausner