Down to the Wire [NOOK Book]

Overview

A reporter for the Bergen News, Chris Turley could never measure up to his father. Edward Turley, a combination of Bob Woodward and Ernie Pyle, was one of the last great investigative reporters and a difficult man to impress. While stuck covering press conferences and town hall meetings, Chris, his father’s legend in mind, has always dreamed of his own Pulitzer, however unlikely it seems.

Then one day while he’s waiting to meet a source, a ...

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Down to the Wire

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Overview

A reporter for the Bergen News, Chris Turley could never measure up to his father. Edward Turley, a combination of Bob Woodward and Ernie Pyle, was one of the last great investigative reporters and a difficult man to impress. While stuck covering press conferences and town hall meetings, Chris, his father’s legend in mind, has always dreamed of his own Pulitzer, however unlikely it seems.

Then one day while he’s waiting to meet a source, a giant explosion takes out half of an office building next door. Shocked into action, Chris saves five people from the burning building. His firsthand account in the next day’s paper makes him a hero and a celebrity.

And that’s not all. The source’s next tip delivers a second headline-grabber of a story for Chris, and suddenly his career is looking a lot more like his dad’s. But then it seems this anonymous source has had a plan for Chris all along, and his luck for being in the right place at the right time is not a coincidence at all. What seemed like a reporter’s dream quickly becomes an inescapable nightmare.

Down to the Wire, David Rosenfelt’s shocking new thriller about an ordinary man who gets exactly what he’s always wanted at a price he can never pay, is an intense thrill ride that will have readers racing through the pages right up to the end.


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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Near the start of Rosenfelt’s dynamite thriller, his second stand-alone after 2008’s Don’t Tell a Soul, reporter Chris Turley from the Bergen News, is about to meet an anonymous tipster at a Teaneck, N.J., park to discuss “corruption by a high-level government official” when an explosion rips through an office building opposite the park. Chris makes headline news by saving five people from the wreckage. Chris’s source, who calls himself “P.T.,” soon starts to brag about a killing spree (using remotely detonated bombs and poison darts), which won’t end unless Chris kills himself. Aided by his entertainment editor girlfriend, an FBI agent, and a homicide detective, Chris embarks on a wild hunt for the slippery psycho. Might P.T. be embittered Peter Randolph, who blames Chris’s late father, a famed journalist, for his own father’s suicide? Rosenfelt’s sly humor, breathless pacing, and terrific plot twists keep the pages spinning toward the showdown on New Year’s Eve in Times Square. (Mar.)
Kirkus Reviews
Where's Paterson attorney Andy Carpenter (New Tricks, 2009, etc.) when you need him? In his absence, North Jersey's hit by an epidemic of violence courtesy of a home-grown terrorist with a fixation on an inoffensive reporter. Chris Turley doesn't think of himself as a hero. So when an anonymous tip on a corrupt local politician sends him to a meeting just in time to see an office building get blown up and rescue five survivors, the story he writes for the Bergen News doesn't make him out to be a hero. Same thing with the story he writes after the tipster helps him nail Englewood mayor Alex Stanley just as Stanley's nailing a high-priced hooker. Suddenly Chris is the flavor of the month, giving the News's website more traffic than it can handle. But now the tipster, who calls himself "P.T.," turns nasty, killing citizens at random, some by car bombs, some in more inventive ways, and blaming their deaths on Chris. Evidently P.T. has a long-standing grudge against the reporter whose reputation he's made, and for every day Chris declines to commit suicide, P.T. resolves to claim more victims in a rising curve. Local law enforcement calls in the FBI, with predictable nonresults. Can Chris and his buddies at the News, entertainment editor Dani Cooper and online editor Scott Ryder, end the carnage before a high-stakes New Year's Eve deadline?An effective page-turner despite by-the-numbers plotting and an unusually obtuse hero whose all-too-accurate mantra is "it's all about me."
Publishers Weekly
At the height of the Reign of Terror in 1793, an unknown killer is emulating the work of the guillotine by leaving beheaded corpses all over Paris in Alleyn's superior fourth Aristide Ravel mystery (after 2009's The Cavalier of the Apocalypse). Given the tight control of the republican government, the police don't realize that the deaths are part of a series, but eventually former justice minister Georges Danton asks Ravel to solve the case. With delicate peace negotiations with the English under way, Danton fears that word of the atrocities will jeopardize them. The pressure to catch the killer only increases as the roster of victims expands to include a member of the government. Alleyn brilliantly captures the paranoid spirit of the times, and inserts enough twists to keep most readers guessing. This entry approaches the quality of the historical fiction of such authors as Steven Saylor and Laura Joh Rowland. (Dec.)
From the Publisher
"Near the start of Rosenfelt's dynamite thriller, his second stand-alone after 2008's Don't Tell a Soul, reporter Chris Turley from the Bergen News, is about to meet an anonymous tipster at a Teaneck, N.J., park to discuss "corruption by a high-level government official" when an explosion rips through an office building opposite the park. Chris makes headline news by saving five people from the wreckage. Chris's source, who calls himself "P.T.," soon starts to brag about a killing spree (using remotely detonated bombs and poison darts), which won't end unless Chris kills himself. Aided by his entertainment editor girlfriend, an FBI agent, and a homicide detective, Chris embarks on a wild hunt for the slippery psycho. Might P.T. be embittered Peter Randolph, who blames Chris's late father, a famed journalist, for his own father's suicide? Rosenfelt's sly humor, breathless pacing, and terrific plot twists keep the pages spinning toward the showdown on New Year's Eve in Times Square." —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

Praise for Don’t Tell a Soul and David Rosenfelt

“This fast-paced and brightly written tale spins along. . . . Don't Tell a Soul is a humdinger.”

—-St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“[Rosenfelt] has pulled together a cynical political thriller that rings true in this age of terrorism, media hype, and Washington scandals. . . . It’s an enjoyable tale.”

—-Minneapolis Star Tribune

“Stellar . . . Rosenfelt keeps the plot hopping and popping as he reveals a complex frame-up of major proportions, with profound political ramifications both terrifying and enlightening.”

—-Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“High-voltage entertainment from an author who plots and writes with verve and wit . . . Plot twists and red herrings abound, and Rosenfelt ratchets up tension with the precision of a skilled auto mechanic wielding a torque wrench.”

—-Booklist (starred review)

“Rosenfelt’s first stand-alone novel is a riveting thriller that should boost him to best-seller status. . . . Compelling twists and turns, a lightning-fast pace, and breathtaking suspense make this a harrowing ride.”

—-Library Journal (starred review)

“Absolute fun . . . Anyone who likes the Plum books will love this book.”

—-Janet Evanovich on Bury the Lead

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429968522
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 3/16/2010
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 304
  • Sales rank: 60,666
  • File size: 227 KB

Meet the Author



David Rosenfelt is the Edgar and Shamus Award--nominated author of seven Andy Carpenter novels and a stand-alone, Don’t Tell a Soul. He and his wife live in California with their twenty-seven golden retrievers.

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Read an Excerpt


One Reporter’S Eyewitness Account Of A Nightmare
by Chris Turley
I am not a hero. I’m just not the type. I have lived thirty-two years without displaying any physical courage at all. So let’s get that straight going in.
But I was across the street from the medical center this afternoon when it exploded. The force of it, even from a distance of a hundred feet, was unlike anything I have ever experienced. And very much unlike anything I want to experience again.
Because I was so close, even as I write this I know very few particulars of what happened and why. I reacted in the moment, with no real understanding of what was going on.
The left side of the building, as I faced it, crumpled to the ground within seconds. The right side, perhaps even sixty percent of the building as a whole, remained, stubbornly refusing to give in.
It was from that area that I thought I heard screams, though because the explosion had dulled my hearing, I couldn’t be sure that the voices were not from people with me on the street.
Never having been in war, and war is the only comparison I can make, I was not prepared for the chaos around me. But I had to do something, even though every instinct told me to run away.
I went to the building and confirmed that the terrified screams were coming from inside. I ventured in, going through a front door and façade that remained perfectly intact, as if it had not gotten the memo that the rest of the building was . . .
IT’S RARE THAT A story comes out just right the first time; usually it’s a process of rewriting and editing. But Chris’s story was approved almost without any changes at all, such was the vivid power of his words. Of course, stories are almost always written to match up with available space, but that was not a consideration this time. For a first-person account of such an enormous event, Chris would have all the space he needed.
Eleven people died in that building and another seventeen were injured. Chris wrote about five of them in his story, the five he rescued, but ironically didn’t even know their names. In a way, their anonymity was appropriate for the story; Chris’s rescue efforts were a human reaction to other humans in trouble. Personal knowledge of who they were, or a personal connection to them, was not necessary in any way.
When the story was put to bed, Lawrence called Chris into his office, where he poured him a drink. To Lawrence, a drink was scotch, and the only choice offered was for it to either be on the rocks or with water.
Chris hated scotch, but saying no to Lawrence was not a consideration, so it presented him with a dilemma. If he took it with water, it diluted the taste, which was a good thing. However, it increased the size of the drink and made it last longer, which was quite a bad thing.
On this particular occasion, he opted for the scotch on the rocks, mainly because he needed something to calm his nerves quickly. He had acted instinctively after the explosion, but the enormity of what had happened was finally starting to hit him hard. As he drank from the glass, his hand shook.
“You sure you’re okay?” Lawrence asked.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You look like you’re enjoying that scotch. Usually you drink it like it was medicine.”
Chris laughed. “So why do you always give it to me?”
“Because when I die, I don’t want your father coming up to me and saying, ‘Why the hell did you give my son a fucking Kahlua and cream?’ ”
“I like Kahlua and cream.”
“Quiet,” Lawrence said, looking skyward. “He can hear you.” Then, “But I’ll bet he’s proud of you today.”
Talk of his father often made Chris uncomfortable, especially when it was Lawrence doing the talking. Lawrence had an uncompromisingly positive view of Edward, a view which much of the rest of the world did not fully share. Edward had taken a scorched earth approach to journalism, and his unwillingness to take his foot off the throat of his “victims” often provoked fear and hatred, albeit with a healthy dose of grudging admiration.
“I was in the right place at the right time.”
“That’s what good reporters do,” Lawrence said. “They make sure they’re in the right place at the right time. That’s what your father did with Hansbrough. You did good, but your life will never be the same again.”
“Why?” Chris asked.
“Because the world is about to know your name. It’s not going to be easy to handle.”
“Then can I have another scotch?”
Lawrence laughed. “That’s a good start.” He got up to pour the drink when his phone rang, and he answered it. “Terry.”
He listened for a moment, frowned, and held the phone out for Chris. “Shit. Here it goes,” he said.
“Who is it?” Chris asked.
“The Today show.”
FOR THE MAN WHO would soon be known as “P.T.,” things were going perfectly.
He had arrived at Simmons Crystal and Glass, a large factory in Edison, New Jersey, an hour before closing time. He had pretended to be a vendor, hyping a new type of glass-making machine that produced a more durable product than the kind they were using.
It was the fourth time he had been in the building; the first three amounted to crucial scouting missions. Nobody paid him much attention, since vendors wandered in and out of there all the time. But none had ever been there for a reason anywhere close to this important.
Of course, all he knew about glass he had learned in the last two months, through the magic of Google. And the wondrous machine he bragged about did not even exist. But it got him in the door, and though his halfhearted efforts were brushed off by the purchasing manager, he couldn’t have cared less.
P.T. hid in a storage room until a full hour after closing, then carefully made his way onto the factory floor. He knew from his research that there would be no one around, and that the security guard made his rounds every half hour. That would give him twenty-five minutes to do what he had to do, which was more than enough time.
The first thing he did was disable the security cameras, which for P.T. was the easiest part of the operation. He did it in such a way that they would restart when he left and no one would ever know they had been off .
P.T. then quickly went to the enormous crystal ball being assembled in its own room near the back of the factory. It was an extraordinarily impressive piece, twelve feet tall and six hundred pounds of fine crystal. He detached four of the panels, then opened his briefcase and took out four clear, odorless packets, each weighing more than three pounds. They were connected by remarkably thin, clear fiber-optic wires to a device no larger than a small computer chip.
The difficult part was in attaching the packets to the inside of the detached crystals without damaging the elaborate laser lighting mechanisms inside. He had to be incredibly careful; he was placing them where they could virtually never be detected, yet if he made the slightest mistake it would be immediately noticeable to everyone.
P.T. knew that even with all that was to follow, with all the precision maneuvers he would conduct, this would be the most difficult. In fact, it was the only thing that had the slightest risk of failure. If he erred, he would still be able to compensate, but it would be a setback. And he hated setbacks.
But things went off without a hitch, and twenty-five minutes later, P.T. was driving home. Alone in the safety of his car, he spoke the first words he had spoken in hours.
“Happy New Year.”
THE VISITS WERE MORE for him than for her.
Logically, there was no getting around that. Harriet Turley had been in the Eddings Nursing Home for Women in Teaneck for three years, which meant that she had literally outlasted more than seventy-five percent of the people who were living there when she arrived. Of course, that would depend on one’s definition of “living.”
Chris had always known his mother to be a forceful, independent woman with a razor-sharp mind, one of the few people who could hold her own in a conversation with Chris’s father. The probing, badgering style of questioning that Edward Turley used in his interviews often carried over into his private life, but Harriet could stand toe to toe with him.
Most memorable for Chris was the time he sat unnoticed, at the top of the stairs in their house, as Edward and Harriet argued in the kitchen below. The subject was not memorable, something about the way Harriet had dealt with Chris’s fourth-grade teacher about some difficulty he was having. But Edward was criticizing Harriet’s handling of it, and she was giving better than she got, letting him know in no uncertain terms that as long as he was going to be a relatively absentee father, she was going to call the shots.
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” she had said in a calm voice. “But I am making the decisions.”
Chris often thought that if his interview subjects could have watched her in action, they wouldn’t have been nearly as intimidated by Edward and his typewriter, and in later years his camera and microphone, as they always seemed to be.
But Harriet’s mind had gradually been erased, over a three-year process that Chris watched with horror and Harriet initially cloaked in denial. For at least the past two years, she had displayed a decreasing recognition of Chris when he arrived for a visit, and by this time the frequency of her awareness of him as her son had dipped to less than five percent.
But even though Harriet had no recollections of his visits five minutes after he left, it was still far more than obligation that brought him there three times a week. He loved her deeply; she was the only person he could count on every day of his life. And even though her own life might be coming to an end, he wanted to hold on to her as long as he could.
She was also a link to his father. Sometimes, in her more lucid moments, she would talk about Edward as if he were still there, as if they still shared a life together. A few months before, she had even referenced a rare vacation that they took as a family, talking about it as if it were yesterday, although it was twenty years ago. They had gone to Hersheypark, the amusement park in the Pennsylvania town famous for its chocolate factory.
“Remember how your father took us to a restaurant at the corner of Chocolate Avenue and Cocoa Street?” She laughed at her own recollection, and Chris was stunned by it.
“And then we toured the chocolate factory, and I ate all those free samples,” he said. “I was sick for a week, but it was still the best time I ever had.”
But she didn’t answer. As fast as her lucidity had appeared, just as quickly it was gone, and her blank stare returned.
The few times that Harriet was in touch with her memories, she always talked about times when they were together as a family, when Edward’s presence made her feel safe and happy. The irony, of course, is that her relationship with him was always distant and sporadic; it was on Edward’s terms when Edward’s work permitted.
But Chris would never correct her and would just let her ramble, hoping she would hit upon a memory that they could savor together.
Most of the time Chris just talked to her, talked as if she could process and understand what he was saying. So that day he talked about the building explosion and the rescue of the people. She seemed to listen intently, but had no response.
“And tomorrow morning I’m going to be on the Today show,” he said. “They’re putting me up in a hotel tonight in the city and sending a car for me in the morning.”
She seemed to smile slightly at that, so he continued. “I don’t think Dad was ever on the Today show, was he? I’ll ask the people here to bring you over to the television so you can watch me.”
He looked at her and saw that her eyes were closing. She did that more frequently every week; she just fell asleep in the middle of a visit. He thought that was a good thing and hoped she could have coherent, pleasant dreams.
“I wish Dad were here to see me on the show,” he said, basically to himself. “I think he would have been proud of what I did.”
And then he kissed her on the cheek, and thought he saw her smile.
And then he left.
“P.T.” PICKED PARAMUS PARK out of a hat.
Excerpted from DOWN TO THE WIRE by .
Copyright © 2010 by Tara Productions, Inc..
Published in March 2010 by Minotaur Books.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
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First Chapter

Down to the Wire


By David Rosenfelt

Minotaur Books

Copyright © 2010 David Rosenfelt
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780312373948

One Reporter’S Eyewitness Account Of A Nightmare
by Chris Turley
I am not a hero. I’m just not the type. I have lived thirty-two years without displaying any physical courage at all. So let’s get that straight going in.
But I was across the street from the medical center this afternoon when it exploded. The force of it, even from a distance of a hundred feet, was unlike anything I have ever experienced. And very much unlike anything I want to experience again.
Because I was so close, even as I write this I know very few particulars of what happened and why. I reacted in the moment, with no real understanding of what was going on.
The left side of the building, as I faced it, crumpled to the ground within seconds. The right side, perhaps even sixty percent of the building as a whole, remained, stubbornly refusing to give in.
It was from that area that I thought I heard screams, though because the explosion had dulled my hearing, I couldn’t be sure that the voices were not from people with me on the street.
Never having been in war, and war is the only comparison I can make, I was not prepared for the chaos around me. But I had to do something, even though every instinct told me to run away.
I went to the building and confirmed that the terrified screams were coming from inside. I ventured in, going through a front door and façade that remained perfectly intact, as if it had not gotten the memo that the rest of the building was . . .
IT’S RARE THAT A story comes out just right the first time; usually it’s a process of rewriting and editing. But Chris’s story was approved almost without any changes at all, such was the vivid power of his words. Of course, stories are almost always written to match up with available space, but that was not a consideration this time. For a first-person account of such an enormous event, Chris would have all the space he needed.
Eleven people died in that building and another seventeen were injured. Chris wrote about five of them in his story, the five he rescued, but ironically didn’t even know their names. In a way, their anonymity was appropriate for the story; Chris’s rescue efforts were a human reaction to other humans in trouble. Personal knowledge of who they were, or a personal connection to them, was not necessary in any way.
When the story was put to bed, Lawrence called Chris into his office, where he poured him a drink. To Lawrence, a drink was scotch, and the only choice offered was for it to either be on the rocks or with water.
Chris hated scotch, but saying no to Lawrence was not a consideration, so it presented him with a dilemma. If he took it with water, it diluted the taste, which was a good thing. However, it increased the size of the drink and made it last longer, which was quite a bad thing.
On this particular occasion, he opted for the scotch on the rocks, mainly because he needed something to calm his nerves quickly. He had acted instinctively after the explosion, but the enormity of what had happened was finally starting to hit him hard. As he drank from the glass, his hand shook.
“You sure you’re okay?” Lawrence asked.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You look like you’re enjoying that scotch. Usually you drink it like it was medicine.”
Chris laughed. “So why do you always give it to me?”
“Because when I die, I don’t want your father coming up to me and saying, ‘Why the hell did you give my son a fucking Kahlua and cream?’ ”
“I like Kahlua and cream.”
“Quiet,” Lawrence said, looking skyward. “He can hear you.” Then, “But I’ll bet he’s proud of you today.”
Talk of his father often made Chris uncomfortable, especially when it was Lawrence doing the talking. Lawrence had an uncompromisingly positive view of Edward, a view which much of the rest of the world did not fully share. Edward had taken a scorched earth approach to journalism, and his unwillingness to take his foot off the throat of his “victims” often provoked fear and hatred, albeit with a healthy dose of grudging admiration.
“I was in the right place at the right time.”
“That’s what good reporters do,” Lawrence said. “They make sure they’re in the right place at the right time. That’s what your father did with Hansbrough. You did good, but your life will never be the same again.”
“Why?” Chris asked.
“Because the world is about to know your name. It’s not going to be easy to handle.”
“Then can I have another scotch?”
Lawrence laughed. “That’s a good start.” He got up to pour the drink when his phone rang, and he answered it. “Terry.”
He listened for a moment, frowned, and held the phone out for Chris. “Shit. Here it goes,” he said.
“Who is it?” Chris asked.
“The Today show.”
FOR THE MAN WHO would soon be known as “P.T.,” things were going perfectly.
He had arrived at Simmons Crystal and Glass, a large factory in Edison, New Jersey, an hour before closing time. He had pretended to be a vendor, hyping a new type of glass-making machine that produced a more durable product than the kind they were using.
It was the fourth time he had been in the building; the first three amounted to crucial scouting missions. Nobody paid him much attention, since vendors wandered in and out of there all the time. But none had ever been there for a reason anywhere close to this important.
Of course, all he knew about glass he had learned in the last two months, through the magic of Google. And the wondrous machine he bragged about did not even exist. But it got him in the door, and though his halfhearted efforts were brushed off by the purchasing manager, he couldn’t have cared less.
P.T. hid in a storage room until a full hour after closing, then carefully made his way onto the factory floor. He knew from his research that there would be no one around, and that the security guard made his rounds every half hour. That would give him twenty-five minutes to do what he had to do, which was more than enough time.
The first thing he did was disable the security cameras, which for P.T. was the easiest part of the operation. He did it in such a way that they would restart when he left and no one would ever know they had been off .
P.T. then quickly went to the enormous crystal ball being assembled in its own room near the back of the factory. It was an extraordinarily impressive piece, twelve feet tall and six hundred pounds of fine crystal. He detached four of the panels, then opened his briefcase and took out four clear, odorless packets, each weighing more than three pounds. They were connected by remarkably thin, clear fiber-optic wires to a device no larger than a small computer chip.
The difficult part was in attaching the packets to the inside of the detached crystals without damaging the elaborate laser lighting mechanisms inside. He had to be incredibly careful; he was placing them where they could virtually never be detected, yet if he made the slightest mistake it would be immediately noticeable to everyone.
P.T. knew that even with all that was to follow, with all the precision maneuvers he would conduct, this would be the most difficult. In fact, it was the only thing that had the slightest risk of failure. If he erred, he would still be able to compensate, but it would be a setback. And he hated setbacks.
But things went off without a hitch, and twenty-five minutes later, P.T. was driving home. Alone in the safety of his car, he spoke the first words he had spoken in hours.
“Happy New Year.”
THE VISITS WERE MORE for him than for her.
Logically, there was no getting around that. Harriet Turley had been in the Eddings Nursing Home for Women in Teaneck for three years, which meant that she had literally outlasted more than seventy-five percent of the people who were living there when she arrived. Of course, that would depend on one’s definition of “living.”
Chris had always known his mother to be a forceful, independent woman with a razor-sharp mind, one of the few people who could hold her own in a conversation with Chris’s father. The probing, badgering style of questioning that Edward Turley used in his interviews often carried over into his private life, but Harriet could stand toe to toe with him.
Most memorable for Chris was the time he sat unnoticed, at the top of the stairs in their house, as Edward and Harriet argued in the kitchen below. The subject was not memorable, something about the way Harriet had dealt with Chris’s fourth-grade teacher about some difficulty he was having. But Edward was criticizing Harriet’s handling of it, and she was giving better than she got, letting him know in no uncertain terms that as long as he was going to be a relatively absentee father, she was going to call the shots.
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” she had said in a calm voice. “But I am making the decisions.”
Chris often thought that if his interview subjects could have watched her in action, they wouldn’t have been nearly as intimidated by Edward and his typewriter, and in later years his camera and microphone, as they always seemed to be.
But Harriet’s mind had gradually been erased, over a three-year process that Chris watched with horror and Harriet initially cloaked in denial. For at least the past two years, she had displayed a decreasing recognition of Chris when he arrived for a visit, and by this time the frequency of her awareness of him as her son had dipped to less than five percent.
But even though Harriet had no recollections of his visits five minutes after he left, it was still far more than obligation that brought him there three times a week. He loved her deeply; she was the only person he could count on every day of his life. And even though her own life might be coming to an end, he wanted to hold on to her as long as he could.
She was also a link to his father. Sometimes, in her more lucid moments, she would talk about Edward as if he were still there, as if they still shared a life together. A few months before, she had even referenced a rare vacation that they took as a family, talking about it as if it were yesterday, although it was twenty years ago. They had gone to Hersheypark, the amusement park in the Pennsylvania town famous for its chocolate factory.
“Remember how your father took us to a restaurant at the corner of Chocolate Avenue and Cocoa Street?” She laughed at her own recollection, and Chris was stunned by it.
“And then we toured the chocolate factory, and I ate all those free samples,” he said. “I was sick for a week, but it was still the best time I ever had.”
But she didn’t answer. As fast as her lucidity had appeared, just as quickly it was gone, and her blank stare returned.
The few times that Harriet was in touch with her memories, she always talked about times when they were together as a family, when Edward’s presence made her feel safe and happy. The irony, of course, is that her relationship with him was always distant and sporadic; it was on Edward’s terms when Edward’s work permitted.
But Chris would never correct her and would just let her ramble, hoping she would hit upon a memory that they could savor together.
Most of the time Chris just talked to her, talked as if she could process and understand what he was saying. So that day he talked about the building explosion and the rescue of the people. She seemed to listen intently, but had no response.
“And tomorrow morning I’m going to be on the Today show,” he said. “They’re putting me up in a hotel tonight in the city and sending a car for me in the morning.”
She seemed to smile slightly at that, so he continued. “I don’t think Dad was ever on the Today show, was he? I’ll ask the people here to bring you over to the television so you can watch me.”
He looked at her and saw that her eyes were closing. She did that more frequently every week; she just fell asleep in the middle of a visit. He thought that was a good thing and hoped she could have coherent, pleasant dreams.
“I wish Dad were here to see me on the show,” he said, basically to himself. “I think he would have been proud of what I did.”
And then he kissed her on the cheek, and thought he saw her smile.
And then he left.
“P.T.” PICKED PARAMUS PARK out of a hat.
Excerpted from DOWN TO THE WIRE by .
Copyright © 2010 by Tara Productions, Inc..
Published in March 2010 by Minotaur Books.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.


Continues...

Excerpted from Down to the Wire by David Rosenfelt Copyright © 2010 by David Rosenfelt. Excerpted by permission.
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 26 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(10)

4 Star

(8)

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(3)

2 Star

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 26 Customer Reviews
  • Posted October 4, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Reviewed for Midwest Book Review

    Chris Turley, reporter for the Bergen News, lives in the shadow of his father, award-winning investigative reporter Edward Turley. Chris's anonymity comes to an end when he witnesses the explosion of an office building while waiting to meet a source. Chris rescues five people and is hailed a hero, finding himself an instant celebrity. Chris's life and career take a dramatic turn when his source subsequently feeds him information that establishes Chris as an investigative journalist. But Chris's celebrity status fades as the mysterious source begins randomly killing people, using Chris as his reason for doing so. Law enforcement personnel and the FBI initially suspect Chris is the culprit but eventually turn their investigation outward, following clues that lead to nowhere.

    Rosenfelt is best known for his light, comedic Andy Carpenter mystery series. This standalone thriller offers a fast-moving plot filled with twists and turns. Chris is a likable character, an everyday guy thrust into a complicated situation from which there seems no escape. Although some may question the reason behind the murders, the psychopathic killer is well portrayed and adds a thrilling dimension to the plot.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 2, 2011

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 15, 2010

    Great Book, thoroughly engaging.

    I really liked this book. It's not Rosenfelt's usual style, but it is well written and a story I didn't want to put down.

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  • Posted June 9, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    Who's the ghost writer?

    This is NOT in David Rosenfelt's voice, and what a disappointment! We have come to enjoy and expect his unique combo of ascerbic wit and suspense in his previous novels featuring Andy Carpenter and even his other stand alone novel. Howver, the suspense is attempted, but the result is BORING! The ubiquitous red herrings are prevalent, but not realistic. The characters and their motives aren't developed well. The plot just "ends" without a complete and satisfying denouement. Many quetions remain in the reader's mind. Read all his novels except this one, and hope his voice will return in the next novel.!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 15, 2010

    Keeps you reading!

    This book has a nice writing flow that keeps you turning the pages. Nice powerhouse ending, several twists and turns. Good book--THANKS!

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  • Posted May 15, 2010

    Least Favorite of Rosenfelt Books

    I have read all of David Rosenfelt's books and am a big fan of his Andy Carpenter books. This is not one of those books. I didn't find the characters to be that engaging and it didn't have the surprising twists and turns that I look for in a "thriller." David says that he will have another Andy Carpenter book out in Aug. so I'll look forward to that.

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  • Posted May 11, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Extemely Intense and Frightening Thriller

    What makes this thriller so frightening is that based on today's social and political climate, something like this could happen. Chris Turley is a reporter for a Bergen, NJ newspaper. His father Edward had been a star reporter for the same paper and was notorious for exposing bad people in the paper.

    Acting on a tip to meet a guy at a park with information about the Mayor, Chris goes there. As soon as he arrives a building blows up and Chris rushes in to try to save possible survivors. This thrusts Chris into the media spotlight. Shortly after he receives the information from the informant (nicknamed P.T.) and is able to catch the Mayor in something illegal.

    The amount of attention that Chris achieves now seems monumental and he appears on his way to eclipsing his father as a star reporter. What happens next is that P.T. is not the tipster he seems to be but is a serial killer that uses terrorist tactics to kill his victims. Somehow P.T. has focused on Chris as the one to cover his story.

    People start dying in frightening manner like being blown up in their cars and killed by poison darts. Of course the police begin to think Chris fabricated the personna of P.T. and suspect that he may be the actual killer.

    This is a tense thriller up to the end and Rosenfelt does another great job of deviating from his Andy Carpenter tales. I would have rated this book a solid five stars but there were a few obvious clues that Chris and the police are slow to catch on to, one involving an email.

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  • Posted May 9, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Wired

    This is a really interesting novel, well worth the time it takes to read it.I found some of the storyline rather absurd, but it didn't keep me from hanging in there, all in one day.

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  • Posted April 17, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    BEST READ OF THE YEAR

    Absolutely great!!! I couldn't put it down for a minute. It was a roller coaster ride of a book and kept me going every page. If you love this genre of novel, you'll love this one. Congratulations if you bought it, you are in for a real treat.

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  • Posted April 17, 2010

    Down To The Wire - David Rosenfelt

    This is another of David Rosenfelt's premier writing style books. From beginning to end it is well worth reading. He knows how to interest the reader and the only problem I see is not wanting to put the book down, so finishing the book, we want more.
    I wish he could write faster, but I'm already looking forward to his next book coming out in August 2010.

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  • Posted March 3, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Filled with powerful twists and unexpected spins, readers will be totally engrossed in Down to the Wire

    In Teaneck, New Jersey, Bergen News reporter Chris Turley is meeting an anonymous source, using the moniker P.T., who claims he has evidence that exposes government corruption by a high-level official. Just as Chris reaches the rendezvous point, an explosion rocks a nearby office building. Chris becomes part of the story when he rescues five people; eleven died while seventeen were injured.

    P.T. boasts he blew up the building. He continues his killings using bombs and poisoned darts while also bragging about his deadly accomplishments. P.T. contacts Chris to demand he commit suicide if he wants the serial murders to end. Desperate while thinking about how his legendary late father would handle this investigation, Chris accompanied by entertainment editor Dani Cooper, FBI agent Quinlan, and homicide detective Novack, searches for the deadly psychopath before more people die.

    Filled with powerful twists and unexpected spins, readers will be totally engrossed in Down to the Wire; with the wire increasingly looking like Times Square on New Year's Eve. The story line is fast-paced from the first explosion until the final explosive climax while loaded with tense suspense that seems to tighten with each page. As Carpenter takes a breather, fans will relish this superb taut cat and mouse thriller as a serial killer plays with the reporter using murder to establish the rules of the game.

    Harriet Klausner

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 25, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 26, 2012

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    Posted December 8, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 21, 2010

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    Posted April 25, 2011

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    Posted November 17, 2013

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    Posted May 6, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 21, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 24, 2014

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 26 Customer Reviews

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