Fatal Flaw (Victor Carl Series #3)by William Lashner, Peter Francis James
Late one night Victor Carl gets a panicked phone call from an old law school classmate. Guy Forrest claims he has just found the body of his fiancé lying murdered in the house they shared. The victim is Hailey Prouix, for whose love Guy had abandoned his children, his job, his wife, his life. Hailey had mesmerized every man she ever met including,
Late one night Victor Carl gets a panicked phone call from an old law school classmate. Guy Forrest claims he has just found the body of his fiancé lying murdered in the house they shared. The victim is Hailey Prouix, for whose love Guy had abandoned his children, his job, his wife, his life. Hailey had mesmerized every man she ever met including, unbeknownst to Guy, Victor Carl. Convinced that Guy is Hailey's killer, Victor agrees to represent him, all the while secretly vowing to see justice done, whatever the cost.
Victor embarks on a quest that will take him from Philadelphia to Las Vegas to the valleys of West Virginia. He digs further into Hailey Prouix's past and discovers that nothing is as simple as it had seemed, especially the woman he thought he loved. As Guy's murder trial heads toward its shattering conclusion, Victor must find the brutal truth before the mechanism of retribution he himself has set into motion falls like a hatchet, smack on his client's head.
Read an Excerpt
By William Lashner
William MorrowISBN: 0-06-050816-7
Chapter OneGuy Forrest was sitting on the cement steps outside the house when I arrived. His head was hidden in his hands. Rain fell in streams from his shoulders, his knees, tumbled off the roof of his brow. He was slumped naked in the rain, and beside his feet lay the gun.
From his nakedness and the diagonal despair of his posture, I suspected the worst.
"What did you do?" I shouted at him over the thrumming rain.
He didn't answer, he didn't move.
I prodded him with my foot. He collapsed onto his side.
"Guy, you bastard. What the hell did you do?"
His voice rose from the tangled limbs like the whimperings of a beaten dog. "I loved her. I loved her. I loved her."
Then I no longer suspected, then I knew.
I leaned over and lifted the gun by the trigger guard. No telling what more damage he could do with it. Careful to leave no prints, I placed it in my outside raincoat pocket. The door to the house was thrown open. I slipped around his heaving body and stepped inside. Later on, in the press, the house would be described as a Main Line love nest, but that raises images of a Stanford White-inspired palace of debauchery-red silk sheets and velvet wallpaper, a satin swing hanging from the rafters-but nothing could be further from the truth. It was a modest old stone house in a crowded Philadelphia suburb, just over City Line Avenue. The walls were bare, the furnishings sparse. A cheap table stood in the dining room to the left of the entrance, a television lay quiet before a threadbare couch in the living room to the right. There was a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, true, but in the furnishings there was a sense of biding time, of making do until real life with real furniture began. In the bedroom, up the stairs, I knew there to be a single bureau bought at some discount build-it-yourself place, a desk with stacks of bills, a fold-up chair, a mattress on the floor.
A mattress on the floor.
Well, maybe the press had it right after all, maybe it was a love nest, and maybe the mattress on the floor was the giveaway. For what would true lovers need with fine furnishings and fancy wallpaper? What would true lovers need with upholstered divans, with Klimts on the wall, with a grand piano in the formal living room? What would true lovers need with a hand-carved mahogany bed supporting a canopy of blue silk hanging over all like the surface of the heavens? Such luxury is only for those needing more in their lives than love. True lovers would require only a mattress on the floor to cast their spells one upon the other and enjoin the world to slip away. Until the world refused.
The mattress on the floor. That's where I would find her.
Rain dripped off my coat like tears as I climbed the stairway. My hand crept along the smooth banister. Around the landing, up another half flight. As I rose ever closer, my step slowed. A complex scent pressed itself upon me like a smothering pillow. I could detect the sharpness of cordite and something sweet beneath that, a memory scent from my college days touched now with jasmine, and then something else, something lower than the cordite and the sweetness, something coppery and sour, something desolate. A few steps higher and then to the left, to the master bedroom.
The door was open, the bedroom light was on, the mattress on the floor was visible from the hallway outside. And on it she lay, her frail, pale body twisted strangely among the clotted sheets.
There was no need to check a pulse or place a mirror over her mouth. I had seen dead before and she qualified. Her legs were covered by the dark blue comforter, but it was pulled down far enough to reveal her cream silk teddy, shamelessly raised above her naked belly. Crimson spotted the blanched white of her skin. The teddy was stained red at the heart.
I stood there for longer than I now can remember. The sight of her unnatural posture, the colliding scents of gunpowder and pot, of blood and jasmine, the brutal mark of violence on her chest, all of it, the very configuration of her death overwhelmed me. I was lost in the vision, swallowed whole by time. I can't tell you exactly what was flailing through my mind because it is lost to me now, just as I was lost to the moment, but when I recovered enough to function a decision had been made. A decision had been made. I'm not sure how, but I know why, I surely know why. A decision had been made, a decision I have never regretted, an implacable decision, yet pure and right, a decision had been made, and for the rest of my involvement in that death and its grisly aftermath that decision guided my every step, my every step, starting with the first.
I took a deep breath and entered the bedroom. I squatted, leaned over the mattress, touched her jaw. It was still slightly warm, but the joint now was not perfectly slack. The skin at the bottom of her arm had turned a purplish red. I pressed a finger into the skin; it whitened for an instant before the color returned. It had been about an hour, I calculated. Still squatting, I leaned farther forward and stared closely at her face.
Her name was Hailey Prouix. Black hair, blue eyes, long-necked and pale-skinned, she was thirty years old and lovely as a siren. While still alive she had peered out at the world with a wary detachment. She had seen too much to take anything at face value, her manner said as clear as words, she had been hurt too much to expect anything other than blows. She wore sharp, dark-rimmed glasses that were all business, but her mouth curved so achingly you couldn't look at it without wanting to take it in your own. And her stare, her stare, containing as it did both warning and dare, could weaken knees.
Excerpted from Fatal Flaw by William Lashner Excerpted by permission.
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Meet the Author
New York Times bestselling author William Lashner is the author of seven suspense novels that have been published in more than a dozen languages throughout the world. A graduate of the University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop, he lives with his family outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Peter Francis James has starred in numerous Broadway and off-Broadway productions, as well as on such television programs as Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, New York Undercover and State of Affairs.
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This book was amazing. Lost a lot of sleep to it but worth every wink.
I received this book in the mail as a free gift from the publisher and I certainly don't think I will read anymore Lashner work. The book is too long and the characters are not interesting. No suspense at all, halfway through the book the reader probably won't care who killed Hailey because they will be off on a wild goose chase. Very disappointing novel.
The title says it all in this novel. Every character is flawed and even the characters you hope to prosper- are the characters you're not so sure you even like all that much. 'Fatal Flaw' is a non-stop fantastic read with morality, suspense, law, all connected with passion. Highly recommend
Captivating from beginning to end - Lashner deserves a space at the top. Fatal Flaw screams for a 'Warning Sign' Do NOT Begin Unless You Have a Day to Finish. Depth of each character and a plot thicker than Irish Stew makes even the heart of stone race against the clock. It's better to have one Lashner every 5 years and enjoy his wicked talents than the boiler-plate 'yearly' publications of late.
Although the prime suspect is a close friend, Philadelphia attorney Victor Carl believes that lawyer Guy Forrest killed his live-in lover in a crime of passion. When Victor arrived at the rainy scene, he found Guy sitting naked outside the house he shared with the victim, holding a gun. Inside Hailey Prouix had been shot dead. Guy, who left his family for Hailey, swears he did not kill her, but Victor thinks otherwise. The police arrest Guy for murder. Although Victor is the defense attorney, he has his own agenda pushed by his personal obsession for Hailey, whom he slept with too. Even while he wants his client locked away, Victor investigates the couple. He learns that the two lovers were on opposite sides of a medical malpractice suit leading to his wondering if his client might be a victim of a seduction in order to win massive damages for her patron. He looks elsewhere for a clever killer, which leads Victor ultimately to Hailey¿s West Virginia hometown where secrets and murder reside in the gene pool. This is an exciting legal thriller that brazenly steps off the edge, but never lands into free fall due to the energy of the vigorous story line. The two lawyers are interesting characters sharing in common besides the law a need for the deceased. Victor is especially intriguing as he plans to hang his pal until the evidence confirms that his client is a victim too. Hailey and her roots (no literary pun intended) provide a nice spin. Though gimmicks are the only flaw, they are not fatal to a gratifying legal thriller. Harriet Klausner