Sacrifice by Clyde Phillips, Angela Dawe |, Paperback | Barnes & Noble


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by Clyde Phillips

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On a cold, foggy night, two lives are cut short. The first: Philip Iverson, a billionaire philanthropist shot to death in a hotel parking structure. The second: Willie Temple, a homeless man stabbed through the heart on an abandoned San Francisco pier. The murders of such disparate men can’t possibly be connected…can they?

SFPD Lieutenant


On a cold, foggy night, two lives are cut short. The first: Philip Iverson, a billionaire philanthropist shot to death in a hotel parking structure. The second: Willie Temple, a homeless man stabbed through the heart on an abandoned San Francisco pier. The murders of such disparate men can’t possibly be connected…can they?

SFPD Lieutenant Jane Candiotti is still coming to terms with her promotion and her marriage to Detective Kenny Marks when the Iverson and Temple cases land in her lap. Under pressure from the media and the billionaire’s widow, the Powers That Be make it clear that the Iverson case should be Jane’s priority. But when Jane discovers a shocking link between the two victims, she can’t ignore there’s something big at play. And if she doesn’t uncover the truth in time, she could lose more than just her job.…

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Phillips's third crime novel (Fall from Grace; Blindsided) featuring diminutive but brassy San Francisco lady cop Jane Candiotti-newly promoted to homicide lieutenant and also newly married to her police sidekick, homicide inspector Kenny Marks-tears up the pages, sirens blaring and lights flashing, at car-chase speed. A billionaire Silicon Valley philanthropist famous for helping needy children is found murdered in a hotel parking garage just after donating $50 million to build a cancer wing on a children's hospital. Scarcely an hour later, a black skid-row bum is found stabbed to death. Jane, under pressure from the billionaire's snooty widow, struggles to give equal attention to both cases. She is further frustrated by the manipulations of an ambitious female underling who resents Jane assigning her to the case of the street bum. Soon, other murders connected to the skid-row stabbing-by an "S" scrawled in blood at the crime scenes-make it obvious that a serial killer is on the loose. As the "S" murders proliferate, anonymous letters arrive linking the two original cases. In an election year, political pressure from the top increases, and the media join the philanthropist's wife, taking up the cry to bring the serial killer to justice. There are few surprises here, but Phillips is a skilled craftsman and follows in the footsteps of Ed McBain with this solid police procedural series. (July) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Recently married to SFPD partner Kenny Marks and now his boss as a newly promoted homicide lieutenant, Jane Candiotti finds herself forced to balance many roles, including juggling the investigation of two murders. The high-profile nature of the killing of the richest man in San Francisco is set in dramatic contrast with the perfunctory investigation of the death of a homeless person, until a connection between the two becomes apparent. Personally, professionally, and politically, Candiotti's life is at risk long before the dramatic conclusion to the novel. Fans of Phillips's series (after Blindsided and Fall from Grace) are rewarded with reminders of past events from the previous novels, but the novel can stand alone for newcomers. Strongly recommended for most popular fiction collections.-Laura A.B. Cifelli, Ft. Myers-Lee Cty. P.L., FL Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Suspicious billionaires, murderers, and busybody bureaucrats are no match for husband-and-wife detectives Jane Candiotti and Kenny Marks. Is it even worth wondering whether any police department, even San Francisco’s, would ever assign a husband and wife to be partners in the same homicide squad? This improbability is mostly beside the point as one of the Bay Area’s most beloved philanthropists, filthy-rich computer entrepreneur Philip Iverson, turns up murdered after a ritzy party and Jane and Kenny are assigned to the case. That same night, at almost the exact same time, a homeless man was also killed, but in a strangely ritualistic fashion. It’s no surprise which case the chief wants solved quicker, even after another down-and-out is cut down. The resourceful Jane (Blindsided, 2000, etc.), who’s definitely the star in this third in a series (Kenny functions merely as an ultrasupportive, cardboard cutout Perfect Man who’s always there in the clinch), has a problem with authority, to say the least, and so doesn’t deal too well with the chief’s constant meddling in her investigation, or the ice-queen attitude of Iverson’s gorgeous and none-too-sad widow. Unlike many mysteries, there isn’t a surfeit of clues to choose from here; Jane has to work with some pretty meager scraps, which makes this perhaps slightly more realistic, but also gives readers a feeling that the author is doling out his material a little too carefully. Nonetheless, the pairing of Jane and Kenny will likely make an attractive couple for those seeking a little romance with their Thriller Lite. That said, however, the action is subpar, with only a few moments of genuine tension. Genre goods, competently delivered, butnothing more.

Product Details

Thomas & Mercer
Publication date:
Jane Candiotti and Kenny Marks Series, #3
Edition description:
Product dimensions:
5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.00(d)

Read an Excerpt


Chapter One

It was Philip Iverson's big night.

He stood at the podium of the Golden Gate Grand's Crystal Ballroom and basked in the applause of San Francisco's elite. As the audience rose to its feet, he took a step back and held up his hands, gesturing for everyone to sit down. In his midfifties, his trim runner's body -- draped tonight in an elegant tuxedo -- and his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair made him seem ten years younger. His pale blue eyes glistened as the emotion of the evening caught up with him, and he nodded to the people at the front tables. Some of them sat, then others, until, gradually, everyone in the ballroom took their seats.

The huge room hummed in anticipation as Philip Iverson, the city's best-loved citizen, finally stepped forward and adjusted the microphone.

"Thank you, my friends." He picked up the award he'd just received. "Thank you for this honor. Thank you for this incredible evening ... and thank you for the many opportunities this great city has given me." He returned the plaque to the lectern. "It is because of those opportunities that I feel especially fortunate to announce tonight my pledge of an additional fifty million dollars for a new cancer wing at Children's Memorial Hospital."

The audience erupted in cheers. Philip Iverson held his hands out toward the crowd. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I just want to add that, with this gift, I and my Make It So Foundation have now passed one billion dollars in donations. And, my friends, we're not stopping there." He raised a champagne glass. "Here's to you. Here's to our beautiful city. And here's to the next billion dollars ... with love ... from me to you!"

Everyone in the ballroom lifted their glasses to join him in the toast.

Beyond the faces beaming up at him, beyond the shimmering chandeliers, beyond the smoked glass of the towering floor-to-ceiling windows, the man who would kill Philip Iverson waited in the coming fog.

- - -


Like the cold breath of God, it descended on San Francisco. The heavy clouded air moved through the parking structure of the Golden Gate Grand. The dark shapes of the luxury cars on Level Seven grew more and more indistinct. And then they were invisible -- afterimages of themselves in the mist.

The green light of the exit sign above the stairwell door glowed dimly. A tiny beacon.

The door burst open, throwing a sudden wedge of light onto the slick concrete surface. Philip Iverson, his hair now damp with sweat, raced through the door. His breath coming in desperate searing gasps, he jabbed in his coat pocket, frantically searching for his keys. He ripped them out and thumbed the remote as he ran.

The door locks on a black Mercedes S600 popped up like sentries, and Iverson, thinking the haven of his car would save him, ran even faster. He chanced a look back.

The light in the doorway was filled by the hulking body of his pursuer. He spotted Iverson, and without hesitation, he pushed forward, parting the fog before him like a ghost.

Philip Iverson was almost to his car when he slipped on a wet patch of grease. He scrambled to regain his footing and hurled himself toward the Mercedes.

But it was too late. His pursuer was upon him.

A sob of resignation catching in his throat, Iverson grabbed at the door of his car.

A flash of light. An echoing pop.

Philip Iverson gasped and stumbled forward, the bullet in his brain extinguishing his life even before he crumpled facedown on the cold concrete floor.

Kneeling beside him, his pursuer barely had time to tear Iverson's wallet out of his trousers when the squeal of tires -- above or below he couldn't tell -- sent him racing back toward the stairwell.

As he pulled the door shut, there was music, a fanfare coming from the ballroom, and applause. The fanfare reached its crescendo and the applause died away.

The fog covered Philip Iverson like a shroud.

- - -

Jane Candiotti stood at her bedroom window watching the fog roll into San Leandro. It moved onto Oak Street, she thought, like some great enveloping cloud in a science-fiction movie.

The grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs chimed. Announcing midnight. Jane turned at the sound. Kenny Marks, her partner in the SFPD Homicide Division, snored softly in their bed. She crossed the room, brushed a kiss across his lips, and went out the door.

Jane and Kenny had been married for four months.

The floorboards of the upstairs hallway creaked as she walked. Passing the room that had been hers as a child, Jane entered the bathroom. This one bathroom, small and simple, had been the only one in a household of four when she was growing up.

Jane flicked on the bathroom light and went to the mirror. She studied her face. Her eyes, black and shining, stared back at her as she touched her high cheekbones, her pale, almost translucent skin.

She knew she was pretty -- some thought her beautiful -- but lately the gray hairs and the fine etching of tiny wrinkles around her eyes had begun to make her feel her age.

Poppy used to say that her hair was the color of a blackbird's wing. She grasped a gray hair between her thumb and forefinger and yanked it out.

She would turn forty this month.

"Hey, knock it off," Kenny said as he came into the bathroom. He wrapped his arms around her. "I like those guys." He flashed his easy smile and Jane kissed the scar on his chest. The size of a small coin, the bullet scar was a constant reminder that they were in a very dangerous business ...

Sacrifice. Copyright © by Clyde Phillips. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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