The Lightning Rule

The Lightning Rule

5.0 1
by Brett Ellen Block
     
 

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They say lightning never strikes the same spot twice. Detective Martin Emmett is about to prove the exception to the rule. It is the summer of 1967 and a heat wave is bringing Newark, New Jersey's simmering racial tensions to a boiling point. Banished to desk duty, his career on the line, Emmett is offered a chance at professional redemption if he can quickly and

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Overview

They say lightning never strikes the same spot twice. Detective Martin Emmett is about to prove the exception to the rule. It is the summer of 1967 and a heat wave is bringing Newark, New Jersey's simmering racial tensions to a boiling point. Banished to desk duty, his career on the line, Emmett is offered a chance at professional redemption if he can quickly and quietly solve the murder of a black teenage boy whose mutilated body has been found in a subway tunnel. But Emmett discovers that the teen is a victim of a sadistic predator who abducts boys to use as prey in a twisted game of cat and mouse. While the riots engulf Newark, crippling the city with chaos, Emmett must track down the killer before the next hunt begins.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
A flawless historical backdrop underpins Block's second novel (after 2004's The Grave of God's Daughter) about a rookie Newark, N.J., homicide cop, Martin Emmett. Mistrusted by his superiors and unable to solve the first murder case assigned to him, Emmett has been shunted off to man the records room. On the eve of the 1960s riots, Emmett is handed a second case a make or break opportunity. Emmett quickly gets an inkling that the murder of a healthy young black man, mutilated and dumped in a sewage tunnel, may not be an isolated killing, but hard evidence is lacking. Corrupt cops, mobsters, racists (white and black) and the riots complicate his investigation. Block's serial killer, whose exploits are described episodically, stretches credulity, as do some of her minor characters, particularly an engaging juvenile suspect who at times acts too adult for his years. Still, Block dramatically depicts the attitudes and the economic and social forces that created the tinderbox that was Newark, the match that lit the fuse and the resulting firestorm. (Nov.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Detective Martin Emmett investigates a gruesome murder that hints at something even more sinister. It's the summer of 1967 in Newark, N.J. The temperature is rising in the predominantly black Central Ward as racial tensions worsen. While riots rage on the streets outside his station, Emmett struggles to do his job surrounded by corruption and indifference. A black teenage boy involved in a mob-controlled stolen-car ring turns up dead in the subway. Dumped on the tracks to be mangled, his body is missing a finger. In this racially charged environment, Emmett is pressured to solve the case quickly. He comes across another corpse similarly mutilated; then another boy disappears. As the situation in the city reaches a fever pitch, Emmett finds himself face to face with a completely different sort of madman. Drue Heinz Literary Prize-winner Block (The Grave of God's Daughter, 2004, etc.) indulges here in a fair amount of melodrama. Emmett serves as caretaker for his paralyzed war-veteran brother, and his home environment can be as psychologically grueling as the precinct. Yet she also reveals her complex protagonist's strength of character in subtle ways. Emmett takes pride in the quality of his work, not in the uniform or the authority that comes with the job. Stymied by reluctant witnesses, he bails out an associate of the dead boy, offering the con a chance at redemption in exchange for help with the case. Together they follow leads, dodge angry mobs and mobsters and trail the killer deep underneath the city. Martin Emmett is hardly the first stubborn detective in fiction, but Block does a superb job of giving him flesh and bone in a gritty, historically rich narrative. Another appearancewould be welcome. Many cuts above the typical police procedural.
Entertainment Weekly
“Polish-American homicide cop Martin Emmett…is a terrific character.” Grade: B
Booklist
“Evocative…a vivid portrayal of a city where racial tensions have escalated from a steady simmer to a raging boil.”

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780061915925
Publisher:
HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
11/16/2010
Sold by:
HARPERCOLLINS
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
320
Sales rank:
388,278
File size:
1 MB

Read an Excerpt

The Lightning Rule

A Novel
By Brett Block

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 Brett Block
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0060525061

Chapter One

Wednesday
July 12, 1967

The basement was where the dead were kept. The murder victims, accidental deaths, and suicides were on the top shelves. Next down were abductions followed by arsons, assaults, then auto thefts. Below were burglaries and robberies, filling tier after tier. Vice charges were at the bottom. Solved or unsolved, every case died with the passing of time. Their final resting place was the Records Room of Newark's Fourth Precinct.

Rows of manila files lined the labyrinth of shelves, like a library that carried thousands of copies of the same book. Due to the dampness of being underground, the folders had a tendency to rot at the edges, giving off a peculiar odor of decay. Some cops called the basement the "paper graveyard." Detective Martin Emmett called it his office.

He had a corner to himself with a metal desk, a chair, a lamp, and a telephone, not much more. There were no windows. He had gotten used to that. What Emmett couldn't get accustomed to was the silence. The basement spanned the breadth of the police station, a quarter of a city block, and the absence of noise echoed around the aisles. Emmett tried a radio, but couldn't get any reception, so he brought a windup clock from home and left it in the desk drawer. The muted ticking chipped away at the quiet, though it was almost as maddening.

TheFourth Precinct wasn't the city's largest, however it handled the heaviest caseloads and the highest volume of reports. Once a case was closed or over three months cold, it was sent to the Records Room to be cataloged. That was Detective Emmett's new job. Oddly enough, being in the basement gave him a bird's-eye view of the goings-on at the station. No doubt his lieutenant realized that would happen when he assigned him the post. Emmett wondered whether that was part of the punishment.

In the two and a half months since he had become the station's unofficial undertaker, he learned not to shelve the reports too fast. Filing them took mere minutes, and his shift was eight hours long. He would be twiddling his thumbs by lunch if he didn't give himself something to do. Each day a few folders would trickle down, dropped off by cops happy to have cleared them or disgruntled at having a file hang open and having to admit defeat. Emmett understood how they felt. Putting a case to bed was better by far. For him, the worst was knowing he might not get the chance to close one of his own again.

Three cases had arrived that day: a purse snatching, a domestic assault, and a rash of bicycle thefts where somebody had taken a bolt cutter and snipped the chain links holding the locks. Ultimately, the mugger was never identified, the woman in the domestic refused to press charges against her boyfriend, and the bikes could not be recovered. Because the files had become as futile as the chains on the bicycles, the Records Room was where they would meet their end.

Emmett had read through each of them carefully, sifting through the paperwork to pass the hours. The woman whose pocketbook was grabbed while she waited at a bus stop on Irvine Turner Boulevard listed a nickel hidden in a pillbox among the stolen items. The coin had been given to her by her grandfather. It was the first wage he ever earned. The man responsible for the assault had hit his girlfriend with the frying pan she was cooking his breakfast in. He knocked out two of her teeth. Five of the seven bicycles stolen from the area surrounding the Stella Wright Housing Projects were red, the remainder blue. The details made the day go by. Details were what Emmett had in lieu of a real crime, a poor substitute under poor circumstances.

He waited until the end of his shift to shelve the files and took his time weaving through the stacks. All Emmett had was time, yet every second, he was running short. The case that had gotten him exiled to the Records Room would go on the top shelf in ten days, a plain manila folder indistinguishable from the other murders. He didn't need the ticking of his windup clock to remind him that the minutes were steadily slipping by.

"Hello? Anybody here?"

Emmett emerged from the stacks. A young patrolman was standing at the basement door. He was a smooth-faced kid straight out of high school, his collar overstarched, his pants khaki instead of blue, the distinguishing mark of a rookie recently accepted to the force. The pin above his breast pocket said his name was Nolan. At thirty-three, Emmett wasn't that much older than the patrolman, but the shine on the kid's shoes and the eagerness in his eyes made Emmett feel twice his age.

"I got orders to bring this to the Records Room," Nolan said, fidgeting with the report. "This is it, right?"

Emmett cast an obvious glance at the multitude of shelves. "Yeah, that's right."

Most officers would flop the folders onto his desktop without a word. Some wouldn't even make eye contact. Many openly shunned him. Emmett expected as much. Filing in the Records Room was a chore normally foisted on recruits such as Nolan, though not anymore. No one had passed along the gossip about Emmett, or else the kid would have dumped the case and hurried off. The rookie would appreciate his error once his buddies had ribbed him for it.

"Guess this is an easy racket for you," Nolan remarked, "what with you being so tall. Five bucks says you don't need a step stool to reach them tippy-top shelves."

Emmett stood a full head above the majority of cops on the force. Not a single officer in the Fourth Precinct could look down on him. That didn't mean they wouldn't act like they could.



Continues...

Excerpted from The Lightning Rule by Brett Block Copyright © 2006 by Brett Block. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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