Letters In Blood

Overview

WEB EXCERPT - Letters in Blood - # 40739

Tom Larkin paid fifty grand for his brilliant red casket months

before they planned a sailor's funeral for him that night. His coffin cruised

at 120 mph with its dash lit like a jet's cockpit, ...

See more details below
Other sellers (Hardcover)
  • All (2) from $15.00   
  • New (1) from $27.83   
  • Used (1) from $15.00   
Letters in Blood: and other Tom Larkin mysteries

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$8.99
BN.com price
(Save 10%)$9.99 List Price

Overview

WEB EXCERPT - Letters in Blood - # 40739

Tom Larkin paid fifty grand for his brilliant red casket months

before they planned a sailor's funeral for him that night. His coffin cruised

at 120 mph with its dash lit like a jet's cockpit, where the most-important

reading to Larkin glowed on his Porsche's digital clock--4:00 AM. Perhaps

it was his darkest moment before dawn, but he had other plans. He

drove recklessly, hydroplaning northbound on Manhattan's flooded FDR

Drive through sheets of pouring rain.

The drive home took an hour, but, with minimal visibility in a torrent-

ial downpour, the flooded Harlem River Drive leading to the George

Washington Bridge concealed potholes rattling the fine suspension of his

German-made wet dream. Larkin's greater problem-DWI-was a given

they had counted on. Still, they drugged his last sour mash at Rao's, just to

up the prelude's tempo to an evening dirge. With the bad weather, his inebri-

ation, and hallucinations from a subtle drug taking hold of his senses, the

distance between Larkin and home lengthened as time became his enemy.

Vera, his wife, told him she'd kill him the next time he stumbled in

after daybreak. It was no idle threat. He knew she could kill in a crime of

passion, especially him. Death lurked at the start and finish of his race

homeward, but, with two strikes against him, only he could fathom the third

--his bent to self destruction.

If all went as planned, Harbor Police would find Tom Larkin dead

behind the wheel after hitting the muddy bottom of the East River, or any

other river. They just wanted him gone, stateside or overseas, no matter

what.

Larkin still felt sharp an hour after downing his third double Jack

Daniels. In his mind, past, present, and future were clear. Remembering

his hat size, Social Security number, and the measurements of a dozen

bimbos was no problem. He could read his driver's license number from

three paces, backward, upside down, with either eye or both-without

glasses.

He'd been sharp for two hours before he started driving, but an

hour after his last belt, the one first kicked in with the drugs and

compounded his usual buzz. Seeing Vera as more dangerous than the road,

he sped recklessly despite the hazardous conditions. He had no idea anyone

wanted to kill him for anything other than his flagrant infidelities.

To his right, the black depths of the East River was a fatal attraction.

He could be a loser on two counts, but there was a third alternative, the

loser's hat trick--call strike-three without a swat to stay alive. His own

worst enemy, he knew they might find him dead before dawn on all three

counts.

"Bastards," he grumbled, cursing his so called buddies who let

him get behind the wheel after he had been pumping drinks for hours. Their

names escaped him. So much for clarity. Sharp as a rose thorn? he

wondered. My ass.

Where were those faceless nonentities? They were friends enough to

buy his fourth drink in a dingy saloon, yet, they had turned their backs when

he squinted to read the address on his parking stub. Had they callously

watched him stumbling to his Porsche trying to get the himself home?

So much for twenty-twenty fucking vision, he thought. Vera will kill

me if I'm not out of here. What time you got, Pal? I can't read my damn

watch."

His mind and car sped out of control at a mile a minute. The East

River beckoned. Who could ever see clearly in a dim twilight between

happy hour and an untimely death?

He shrugged and imagined seeing his own hands clutching the

steering wheel but saw no flesh, only bone. In the rearview mirror, he caught

the malicious grins of three Mexican capungos, bandits

who'd kill as soon as spit.

"Fuck off!" he shouted, shaking their image from his mind. Adjusting

the mirror to be sure they were gone, he saw his own reflection as a skeleton

and swerved toward the rive

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781425760069
  • Publisher: AuthorHouse
  • Publication date: 2/6/2008
  • Pages: 200
  • Product dimensions: 6.00 (w) x 9.00 (h) x 0.63 (d)

Read an Excerpt

WEB EXCERPT - Letters in Blood - # 40739

Tom Larkin paid fifty grand for his brilliant red casket months

before they planned a sailor's funeral for him that night. His coffin cruised

at 120 mph with its dash lit like a jet's cockpit, where the most-important

reading to Larkin glowed on his Porsche's digital clock--4:00 AM. Perhaps

it was his darkest moment before dawn, but he had other plans. He

drove recklessly, hydroplaning northbound on Manhattan's flooded FDR

Drive through sheets of pouring rain.

The drive home took an hour, but, with minimal visibility in a torrent-

ial downpour, the flooded Harlem River Drive leading to the George

Washington Bridge concealed potholes rattling the fine suspension of his

German-made wet dream. Larkin's greater problem-DWI-was a given

they had counted on. Still, they drugged his last sour mash at Rao's, just to

up the prelude's tempo to an evening dirge. With the bad weather, his inebri-

ation, and hallucinations from a subtle drug taking hold of his senses, the

distance between Larkin and home lengthened as time became his enemy.

Vera, his wife, told him she'd kill him the next time he stumbled in

after daybreak. It was no idle threat. He knew she could kill in a crime of

passion, especially him. Death lurked at the start and finish of his race

homeward, but, with two strikes against him, only he could fathom the third

--his bent to self destruction.

If all went as planned, Harbor Police would find Tom Larkin dead

behind the wheel after hitting the muddy bottom of the East River, or any

other river. They just wanted him gone, stateside or overseas, no matter

what.

Larkin still felt sharp an hour after downing his third double Jack

Daniels. In his mind, past, present, and future were clear. Remembering

his hat size, Social Security number, and the measurements of a dozen

bimbos was no problem. He could read his driver's license number from

three paces, backward, upside down, with either eye or both-without

glasses.

He'd been sharp for two hours before he started driving, but an

hour after his last belt, the one first kicked in with the drugs and

compounded his usual buzz. Seeing Vera as more dangerous than the road,

he sped recklessly despite the hazardous conditions. He had no idea anyone

wanted to kill him for anything other than his flagrant infidelities.

To his right, the black depths of the East River was a fatal attraction.

He could be a loser on two counts, but there was a third alternative, the

loser's hat trick--call strike-three without a swat to stay alive. His own

worst enemy, he knew they might find him dead before dawn on all three

counts.

"Bastards," he grumbled, cursing his so called buddies who let

him get behind the wheel after he had been pumping drinks for hours. Their

names escaped him. So much for clarity. Sharp as a rose thorn? he

wondered. My ass.

Where were those faceless nonentities? They were friends enough to

buy his fourth drink in a dingy saloon, yet, they had turned their backs when

he squinted to read the address on his parking stub. Had they callously

watched him stumbling to his Porsche trying to get the himself home?

So much for twenty-twenty fucking vision, he thought. Vera will kill

me if I'm not out of here. What time you got, Pal? I can't read my damn

watch."

His mind and car sped out of control at a mile a minute. The East

River beckoned. Who could ever see clearly in a dim twilight between

happy hour and an untimely death?

He shrugged and imagined seeing his own hands clutching the

steering wheel but saw no flesh, only bone. In the rearview mirror, he caught

the malicious grins of three Mexican capungos, bandits

who'd kill as soon as spit.

"Fuck off!" he shouted, shaking their image from his mind. Adjusting

the mirror to be sure they were gone, he saw his own reflection as a skeleton

and swerved toward the rive

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Be the first to write a review
( 0 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(0)

4 Star

(0)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously

    If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
    Why is this product inappropriate?
    Comments (optional)