Tonight I Said Goodbye (Lincoln Perry Series #1) [NOOK Book]

Overview


A remarkable debut mystery from the award-winning author of the 2003 St. Martin's Press/Private Eye Writers of America Prize for Best First Private Eye Novel.

Michael Koryta's Tonight I Said Goodbye marks the emergence of a stunning new voice in crime fiction. With its edge-of-your-seat pacing, finely drawn characters, and rock-solid prose, Tonight I Said Goodbye would seem...
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Tonight I Said Goodbye (Lincoln Perry Series #1)

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Overview


A remarkable debut mystery from the award-winning author of the 2003 St. Martin's Press/Private Eye Writers of America Prize for Best First Private Eye Novel.

Michael Koryta's Tonight I Said Goodbye marks the emergence of a stunning new voice in crime fiction. With its edge-of-your-seat pacing, finely drawn characters, and rock-solid prose, Tonight I Said Goodbye would seem to be the work of a grizzled pro; the fact that the author is just twenty-one years old makes it all the more amazing.

Investigator Wayne Weston is found dead of an apparent suicide in his home in an upscale Cleveland suburb, and his wife and six-year-old daughter are missing. Weston's father insists that private investigators Lincoln Perry and Joe Pritchard take the case to exonerate his son and find his granddaughter and daughter-in-law. As they begin to work they discover there is much more to the situation than has been described in the prevalent media reports. There are rumors of gambling debts and extortion, and a group of Russians with ties to organized crime who don't appreciate being investigated--a point they make clear with baseball bats.

With some assistance from newspaper reporter Amy Ambrose, Perry and Pritchard believe they are making swift progress. But then they are warned off the investigation by a millionaire real estate tycoon and the FBI. Just when they feel they are closing in on a possible source of answers, another murder forces them to change direction in the case.

Perry travels to a resort town in South Carolina and there he finds more than one game being played, and all of them are deadly. The stakes quickly become very personal for Perry, and it's clear that there will be no walking away from this case.

In a debut that has already garnered praise from some of today's top writers, Michael Koryta immediately establishes himself as a standard bearer for the next generation of crime writers. Tonight I Said Goodbye is a 2005 Edgar Award Nominee for Best First Novel.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
A pair of PIs investigate the murder of one of their own in Koryta's sharp, fast-paced debut. Crusty old John Weston hires partners Lincoln Perry and Joe Pritchard to investigate both the death of his son, Wayne, in an incident the cops have ruled a suicide, and the disappearance of Wayne's wife and young daughter. Perry and Pritchard soon determine that Wayne was working for Jeremiah Hubbard, "Cleveland's answer to Donald Trump," in a series of surveillance jobs that brought him into contact with Russian mobsters. The case heats up considerably when the detectives locate Randy Hartwick, a Marine who served with Wayne in a special ops unit, only to have him shot right before their eyes. The cat-and-mouse game shifts to South Carolina, as Perry noses around a Myrtle Beach resort where Hartwick had worked security, only to stumble into Wayne's daughter and wife, who are staying at the same hotel. Julie Weston reveals that she has a videotape her husband made of the mobsters committing a murder, and soon they're both in danger when the Russians come looking for the tape. Although he occasionally tries to substitute jaded PI patter for genuine character development, 21-year-old Koryta delivers well-crafted scenes and genuinely surprising plot twists. This riveting detective novel should delight fans looking for new talent. Agent, David Hale Smith. (Sept.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
The Cleveland police would charge private investigator Wayne Weston with murdering his wife and daughter except that their bodies can't be found and he's dead, apparently a suicide. Weston's father isn't buying it, however, and he hires private investigators Lincoln Perry and Joe Pritchard to clear his son's name and find his family. Perry is a former cop whose cheating ex-fianc e set him off on a bender that cost him his job. Pritchard, his old partner, is ready to retire and become what all retired cops become, a P.I. The hard-boiled clich works beautifully here as these two men find themselves chasing Russian Mafiya, a real estate mogul, and an ex-Marine while dodging bullets, cops, and the FBI. The Cleveland setting is a nice change from the usual East Coast/West Coast locales, and the 21-year-old author excels at building characters and story, making this one of the best mystery debuts this year. Winner of the 2003 SMP/PWA Prize for Best First PI Novel, this is highly recommended. A student at Indiana University, Koryta lives in Bloomington. [See Mystery Prepub, LJ 4/1/04.] Stacy Alesi, Palm Beach Cty. Lib. Syst., Boca Raton, FL Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The winner of St. Martin's 2003 Prize for Best First P.I. Novel presents a Cleveland shamus who falls afoul of Russian mobsters-and for his beautiful clientAgainst the better judgment of his partner Joe Pritchard, novice gumshoe/narrator Lincoln Perry accepts a retainer from wealthy industrialist John Weston to find his missing daughter-in-law Julie and granddaughter Betsy. Weston's son Wayne made headlines when he was found shot dead. The smart money says that Wayne, a Pinkerton investigator, killed Julie and Betsy before turning the gun on himself. Dad can't believe it, and the bodies of the two females haven't been discovered. Ex-cops Perry and Joe's fledgling agency can't afford to turn down the work. Reporter pal Amy Ambrose helps fill in the background, but when she follows up a lead, she's threatened by a group of Russian-American thugs, headed by imperious kingpin Dainius Belov, who destroy her car. The investigative trail leads through a shady businessman named Jeremiah Hubbard and Wayne's partner Aaron Kincaid to sometime thug Randy Hartwick, who dates back to Wayne's days as a Marine. During Perry's meeting with Hartwick, a sniper ends the subject's checkered career with a fatal bullet. In Myrtle Beach, Perry finds Betsy and Julie, whose beauty and vulnerability captivate him. But his satisfaction is cut short by the news that the Russians are headed south in pursuit. A gracefully written, straight-ahead detective story with a welcome 11th-hour surprise. Agent: David Hale Smith/DHS Literary, Inc.
From the Publisher
"Quick pacing, sharp dialogue and very human characters—the good guys and the bad—make Michael Koryta's debut a fine and satisfying read."

—SJ Rozan, Edgar-winning author of Winter and Night

"Michael Koryta hits the ground running with this masterful debut. He's already so good, it's scary!"

— Steve Hamilton, author of Ice Run

"An exciting debut that crackles with gunfire and terse, dead-on dialogue. This is noir, fresh and fine."

—William Kent Krueger, author of Blood Hollow

"...the 21-year-old author excels at building characters and story, making this one of the best mystery debuts this year."

Library Journal

"This riveting detective novel should delight fans looking for new talent."

Publishers Weekly

"A gracefully written, straight-ahead detective story with a welcome 11th-hour surprise."

Kirkus Reviews

"Koryta is only 21, but he writes with the style of a seasoned vet...This is a writer to watch."

Globe & Mail

"Michael Koryta makes an impressive debut."

Midwest Book Review

"An incredibly fresh private-investigator novel...Koryta...emerges fully formed in his first effort."

Chicago Tribune

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429906210
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 4/1/2007
  • Series: Lincoln Perry Series , #1
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 304
  • Sales rank: 25,904
  • File size: 655 KB

Meet the Author

Michael Koryta

Michael Koryta lives in Bloomington, Indiana. While in high school he began to work both for a private investigator and for the local newspaper, and he still has those jobs. That work experience benefited his fiction writing greatly. He hopes to complete his degree at Indiana University in 2005.
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Read an Excerpt


CHAPTER 1

The last time John Weston saw his son alive, it was a frigid after-noon in the first week of March, and John's granddaughter was build-ing a snowman as the two men stood in the driveway and talked. Before he left, John gave his son a fatherly pat on the shoulder and promised to see him again soon. He saw him soon-stretched out in a morgue less than forty-eight hours later, dead of a small-caliber gun-shot wound to the head. John was saved the horror of viewing his granddaughter in a similar state, but the reason for that was a hollow consolation: Five-year-old Betsy Weston and her mother were missing.

John Weston told me this as we sat in his house in North Olmsted, a suburb on Cleveland's west side, five days later. Weston's living room was clean and well arranged but dark, with the window shades pulled, and smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. While he spoke, the old man stared at me with a scowl that betrayed no trace of grief but plenty of determination.

"Listen to me, Mr. Perry," he said, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke in my direction, I know my son. He did not kill himself, and he damn sure didn't hurt his family. Have you watched the news? You hear what those bastards are saying? They're saying my son killed his own wife and baby daughter, then killed himself." He slapped the coffee table with his hand hard enough to make some of my coffee splash over the rim of the Mug. "I will not tolerate that. I want to know what happened, and I want YOU and your partner to help me."

Weston sat on an enormous leather couch across from me, and I was in a bizarre chair with a curved wooden frame and a large, rip-pled plastic cushion. When I leaned back in it I immediately slid down until my head was parallel to the armrests. Feeling pretty ridiculous in that position, I'd tried an assortment of others before, surrendering to gravity and the slick cushion, I leaned forward, sitting on the edge of the chair, my elbows resting on my knees. Now I looked more intense than I felt, but it beat the alternatives.

"I've heard the television reports," I said. "But the police haven't said the murder/suicide angle is a legitimate theory, Mr. Weston. That's just some talking head in a newsroom trying to hold an audience with sen-sationalism."

Weston kept the scowl. He was in his upper seventies but still a large man; when he was younger he must have been massive. His legs were skinny now and his belly soft, but his broad chest and shoulders were a testament to his former size. He still had nearly a full head of gray hair, a nose that seemed too small for his face, and calculating, edgy eyes that took everything in as if he were looking for an excuse to shout. The pinky finger of his right hand was missing, and the ring finger ended in a stump just past the middle knuckle. While I sipped my coffee, he turned and pointed at two framed paintings on the wall behind him.

"You see those paintings?" he said.

They appeared to be World War II military scenes, and they were well done. Nothing fancy, just a talented artist's precise rendition of what he had seen. My type of painting-something you could appre-ciate without a master's degree in art.

"A buddy of mine did those," he said, and then coughed loudly, a wet, rasping hack like a shovel scraping snow off rough pavement. "Pretty good, aren't they?"

"Very nice." I finished my coffee and set the mug on the coffee table beside the business card I had given Weston. PERRY AND PRITCHARD INVESTIGATIONS it read. I was Lincoln Perry, and Joe Pritchard was my partner. We were just six months into the business now, but we'd already managed to accumulate a significant amount of debt. We tried not to boast about that accomplishment too often, though, especially to clients. Before going into private work, Joe and I had been partners in the Cleveland Police Department's narcotics division. I'd been forced into resignation, and he'd retired about a year later. Somehow, Joe had con-vinced me to meet with John Weston alone while he handled what would probably be a routine interview. I was regretting that arrangement now.
'What you see there in the paintings are a CG-4A glider and a tow plane," Weston said, looking back at the paintings again. "I flew the gliders."

"That was a one-of-a-kind experience, I imagine."

"You've got that right. There was never anything like it before, and there hasn't been since. By the time 'Nam rolled around they had heli-copters to do that job. In my war, though, it was gliders."

I thought about it, the experience of drifting down onto a battle-field in silence with no motor to power you.

"What'd it feel like, flying the thing?"

He smiled. "Like sitting on the front porch and flying the house. I flew two combat missions and a handful of supply missions. Had a rough landing in the second combat mission and lost some fingers, but I still had to fight on the ground all that night. We had the same weapons training as the commando soldiers, and it was the job of us glider pilots to hold whatever territory we landed on. I fought Nazis all night without taking any medicine to help with the pain in my hand. But it was better than it could have been. A couple of the other gliders cracked up badly on landing, and a few were shot down. Hell, I had bul-let holes through the canvas."

"Close call, eh?" I didn't know where he was going with this conver-sation, but I was content to ride it out.

"Close enough. The closest call I ever had was a mission I didn't fly, though. I was slated to fly into what was basically a German fortress in France, and the probability of survival was so low it was damn near a suicide mission. We were all set to fly out, saying our goodbyes to the world, you know, because we were pretty convinced this was a one-way trip. Just before we went up, they told us the mission had been can-celed, because Patton took the Nazi fortress." He lit a cigarette with a steel Zippo and took a long drag. "People badmouth Patton all the time these days, but I'll tell you this-that son of a bitch is a friend of mine for as long as I live."

I've always been a bit of a Patton fan myself, at least in terms of re-specting the man's battlefield genius and efficiency, but 1 guessed Weston would scorn such appreciation from a man who'd never served, so I kept quiet. He smoked the cigarette for a minute, staring over his shoulder at the paintings, lost in his memories. Then he turned back to me, and his eyes narrowed in a way that suggested fo-cus and determination.

"I appreciate you meeting with me," he said. "After our first phone conversation, I thought you were turning me down."

"I'm here," I said, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to take the job, Mr. Weston. You've got some of the finest cops in the city working on this, and from what I hear, even the FBI is helping."

"Helping to dick around and waste time!" he roared.
0
"I don't think they're wasting any time, sir."

"No? Then where the hell are some results? Those damn cops come over here every damn day and tell me what they've produced. You know what they've produced? Jack shit, boy. In five days, they've done nothing." He stuck out his lower lip and exhaled a cloud of smoke forcefully over his face.

"It takes some time to make headway in an investigation of this magnitude, sir."

"Look," he said, trying to contain his anger, "this is my son we're talking about. My son and his family. I've got to do something, but I'm smart enough to realize I can't do it alone. I need someone working for me. Someone who can pursue this as aggressively as it needs to be pursued."

I sighed. John Weston was convinced his son had been murdered, although none of the police investigators seemed to agree. The prevailing media theory, courtesy of an "unnamed police source," was that Wayne Weston had killed his family before offing himself. No bodies had been found, and there was little evidence to explain their disap-pearance. There had been no signs of violent intruders at the house; everything appeared normal except for Wayne Weston's corpse.

"Why us, Mr. Weston?" I asked. "Why do you think we need to be involved, when you have the police doing everything they can?"

"You knew my son."

I held up a cautioning hand. "I'd met your son."

"Whatever. You knew him, and he knew you and respected you. He told me he thought you and your partner were going to be very good when you started your business."

I'd met Wayne Weston at a private investigators conference in Day-ton two months before. It was one of those two-day events featuring seminars on various business issues during the day and sessions of too much food, drink, and loud laughter in the hotel restaurant at night. Joe had decided we should go because it offered a chance to network with other local investigators, making contacts, and possibly attracting some business.

Wayne Weston had sat at the same table as me for dinner one night. He was a flashy guy, wearing expensive suits and driving a fancy car, but he was friendly and charismatic. And, from what I'd heard, a hell of an investigator. He'd been with the Pinkertons for a few years be-fore returning to Cleveland to open his own firm, and he was appar-ently making good money at it. I hadn't talked to him individually for more than an exchange of names, and I was surprised to hear he'd said anything about Joe and me to his father.

"My son didn't kill himself or hurt his family," Weston said. "That's the most absurd and offensive bullshit I've ever heard. They came on the news talking about that yesterday, and I damn near drove down there and kicked some ass. I want to know what did happen to my daughter-in-law and granddaughter, so I can quit this damn worrying, and so those television people can shut their mouths."

His eyes flashed with anger as he spoke, and he tried to extinguish it with a tremendous drag on the cigarette. For a minute I thought he'd polish the whole thing off in that one ferocious inhalation.

"What exactly is it that you want Joe and me to do?" I asked. "Deter-mine whether your son was murdered, or find his wife and daughter?"

"Both," he said, blowing out a cloud of smoke that made my eyes sting. "It seems to me one would be pretty well intertwined with the other."

That was a fair point. I still didn't like it, though. The cops would resent our presence, and I definitely didn't want to get caught up in the media frenzy.

"Look, I've got plenty of money," Weston said. "I've got a good re-tirement plan, I've got a savings account. I can afford to pay whatever it is you want."

"It's not about the money, Mr. Weston," I said.

"No? Then what the hell is it?"

"The police have a lot of investigators working on this case," I said. "They have resources and access that we don't, and they've also got a week's head start on it. I'd advise you to wait on the police, and see what they can do with it. If they haven't made any progress in a few weeks, give us a call again, and maybe we'll reconsider." I had no plans to reconsider, but I hoped the offer would placate the old man.

"You know why I showed you those paintings?" he asked. "Why I told you what happened to my hand?"

"No, sir."

He ground his cigarette out in an ashtray on the table and stared at me with contempt. Then he shook his head.

"Wayne was one of your own," he said. "Same city, same business, and that's a business without many people involved. That used to mean something to people. When I was in the war, we fought for the men with us. Before battle, during the preparation, it was all about patriotism saving he world and protecting the freedom of our families back home. But you know what? When it came down to the firefight, that wasn't in your mind anymore. You were fighting for the boys next to you, fighting for your buddies, protecting your own." He looked at me sadly. "Maybe my generation was the last one that had that kind of loy-alty, that kind of brotherhood."

It was a hell of a pitch. I didn't answer right away, but it resonated with me as he had hoped it would. I hadn't known Wayne Weston well, and we were in the same business, not in the same war, but some-how, sitting here in front of this man with his World War II paintings, gnarled hand, dead son, and missing family members, that line of rea-soning seemed hollow.

I "Why do you do it?" he asked. "Why are you even in this business? You want to get rich chasing cheating husbands? You think it impresses women to say you're a PI? Huh?"

I looked at the floor, trying not to snap at him. "Nope," I said evenly. "None of those, sir."

"Really? Then what the hell do you do it for?"

I didn't say anything.

"Well?" he said. "You gonna give me an answer, son?"

I raised my head and looked at him. "I do it," I said, "because I'm awfully damn good at it."

"You think you're awfully damn good at it, eh?"

"I don't think I am, sir. I am. And so is my partner."

He smiled without amusement or pleasure. "Then prove it."

I met his eyes and held his gaze for a while, then gave one, short nod.

"All right," I said. "We will."


Copyright 2004 by Michael Koryta
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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

CHAPTER 1

The last time John Weston saw his son alive, it was a frigid after-noon in the first week of March, and John's granddaughter was build-ing a snowman as the two men stood in the driveway and talked. Before he left, John gave his son a fatherly pat on the shoulder and promised to see him again soon. He saw him soon-stretched out in a morgue less than forty-eight hours later, dead of a small-caliber gun-shot wound to the head. John was saved the horror of viewing his granddaughter in a similar state, but the reason for that was a hollow consolation: Five-year-old Betsy Weston and her mother were missing.

John Weston told me this as we sat in his house in North Olmsted, a suburb on Cleveland's west side, five days later. Weston's living room was clean and well arranged but dark, with the window shades pulled, and smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. While he spoke, the old man stared at me with a scowl that betrayed no trace of grief but plenty of determination.

"Listen to me, Mr. Perry," he said, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke in my direction, I know my son. He did not kill himself, and he damn sure didn't hurt his family. Have you watched the news? You hear what those bastards are saying? They're saying my son killed his own wife and baby daughter, then killed himself." He slapped the coffee table with his hand hard enough to make some of my coffee splash over the rim of the Mug. "I will not tolerate that. I want to know what happened, and I want YOU and your partner to help me."

Weston sat on an enormous leather couch across from me, and I was in a bizarre chair with a curved wooden frame and a large, rip-pled plastic cushion. When Ileaned back in it I immediately slid down until my head was parallel to the armrests. Feeling pretty ridiculous in that position, I'd tried an assortment of others before, surrendering to gravity and the slick cushion, I leaned forward, sitting on the edge of the chair, my elbows resting on my knees. Now I looked more intense than I felt, but it beat the alternatives.

"I've heard the television reports," I said. "But the police haven't said the murder/suicide angle is a legitimate theory, Mr. Weston. That's just some talking head in a newsroom trying to hold an audience with sen-sationalism."

Weston kept the scowl. He was in his upper seventies but still a large man; when he was younger he must have been massive. His legs were skinny now and his belly soft, but his broad chest and shoulders were a testament to his former size. He still had nearly a full head of gray hair, a nose that seemed too small for his face, and calculating, edgy eyes that took everything in as if he were looking for an excuse to shout. The pinky finger of his right hand was missing, and the ring finger ended in a stump just past the middle knuckle. While I sipped my coffee, he turned and pointed at two framed paintings on the wall behind him.

"You see those paintings?" he said.

They appeared to be World War II military scenes, and they were well done. Nothing fancy, just a talented artist's precise rendition of what he had seen. My type of painting-something you could appre-ciate without a master's degree in art.

"A buddy of mine did those," he said, and then coughed loudly, a wet, rasping hack like a shovel scraping snow off rough pavement. "Pretty good, aren't they?"

"Very nice." I finished my coffee and set the mug on the coffee table beside the business card I had given Weston. PERRY AND PRITCHARD INVESTIGATIONS it read. I was Lincoln Perry, and Joe Pritchard was my partner. We were just six months into the business now, but we'd already managed to accumulate a significant amount of debt. We tried not to boast about that accomplishment too often, though, especially to clients. Before going into private work, Joe and I had been partners in the Cleveland Police Department's narcotics division. I'd been forced into resignation, and he'd retired about a year later. Somehow, Joe had con-vinced me to meet with John Weston alone while he handled what would probably be a routine interview. I was regretting that arrangement now.
'What you see there in the paintings are a CG-4A glider and a tow plane," Weston said, looking back at the paintings again. "I flew the gliders."

"That was a one-of-a-kind experience, I imagine."

"You've got that right. There was never anything like it before, and there hasn't been since. By the time 'Nam rolled around they had heli-copters to do that job. In my war, though, it was gliders."

I thought about it, the experience of drifting down onto a battle-field in silence with no motor to power you.

"What'd it feel like, flying the thing?"

He smiled. "Like sitting on the front porch and flying the house. I flew two combat missions and a handful of supply missions. Had a rough landing in the second combat mission and lost some fingers, but I still had to fight on the ground all that night. We had the same weapons training as the commando soldiers, and it was the job of us glider pilots to hold whatever territory we landed on. I fought Nazis all night without taking any medicine to help with the pain in my hand. But it was better than it could have been. A couple of the other gliders cracked up badly on landing, and a few were shot down. Hell, I had bul-let holes through the canvas."

"Close call, eh?" I didn't know where he was going with this conver-sation, but I was content to ride it out.

"Close enough. The closest call I ever had was a mission I didn't fly, though. I was slated to fly into what was basically a German fortress in France, and the probability of survival was so low it was damn near a suicide mission. We were all set to fly out, saying our goodbyes to the world, you know, because we were pretty convinced this was a one-way trip. Just before we went up, they told us the mission had been can-celed, because Patton took the Nazi fortress." He lit a cigarette with a steel Zippo and took a long drag. "People badmouth Patton all the time these days, but I'll tell you this-that son of a bitch is a friend of mine for as long as I live."

I've always been a bit of a Patton fan myself, at least in terms of re-specting the man's battlefield genius and efficiency, but 1 guessed Weston would scorn such appreciation from a man who'd never served, so I kept quiet. He smoked the cigarette for a minute, staring over his shoulder at the paintings, lost in his memories. Then he turned back to me, and his eyes narrowed in a way that suggested fo-cus and determination.

"I appreciate you meeting with me," he said. "After our first phone conversation, I thought you were turning me down."

"I'm here," I said, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to take the job, Mr. Weston. You've got some of the finest cops in the city working on this, and from what I hear, even the FBI is helping."

"Helping to dick around and waste time!" he roared.

"I don't think they're wasting any time, sir."

"No? Then where the hell are some results? Those damn cops come over here every damn day and tell me what they've produced. You know what they've produced? Jack shit, boy. In five days, they've done nothing." He stuck out his lower lip and exhaled a cloud of smoke forcefully over his face.

"It takes some time to make headway in an investigation of this magnitude, sir."

"Look," he said, trying to contain his anger, "this is my son we're talking about. My son and his family. I've got to do something, but I'm smart enough to realize I can't do it alone. I need someone working for me. Someone who can pursue this as aggressively as it needs to be pursued."

I sighed. John Weston was convinced his son had been murdered, although none of the police investigators seemed to agree. The prevailing media theory, courtesy of an "unnamed police source," was that Wayne Weston had killed his family before offing himself. No bodies had been found, and there was little evidence to explain their disap-pearance. There had been no signs of violent intruders at the house; everything appeared normal except for Wayne Weston's corpse.

"Why us, Mr. Weston?" I asked. "Why do you think we need to be involved, when you have the police doing everything they can?"

"You knew my son."

I held up a cautioning hand. "I'd met your son."

"Whatever. You knew him, and he knew you and respected you. He told me he thought you and your partner were going to be very good when you started your business."

I'd met Wayne Weston at a private investigators conference in Day-ton two months before. It was one of those two-day events featuring seminars on various business issues during the day and sessions of too much food, drink, and loud laughter in the hotel restaurant at night. Joe had decided we should go because it offered a chance to network with other local investigators, making contacts, and possibly attracting some business.

Wayne Weston had sat at the same table as me for dinner one night. He was a flashy guy, wearing expensive suits and driving a fancy car, but he was friendly and charismatic. And, from what I'd heard, a hell of an investigator. He'd been with the Pinkertons for a few years be-fore returning to Cleveland to open his own firm, and he was appar-ently making good money at it. I hadn't talked to him individually for more than an exchange of names, and I was surprised to hear he'd said anything about Joe and me to his father.

"My son didn't kill himself or hurt his family," Weston said. "That's the most absurd and offensive bullshit I've ever heard. They came on the news talking about that yesterday, and I damn near drove down there and kicked some ass. I want to know what did happen to my daughter-in-law and granddaughter, so I can quit this damn worrying, and so those television people can shut their mouths."

His eyes flashed with anger as he spoke, and he tried to extinguish it with a tremendous drag on the cigarette. For a minute I thought he'd polish the whole thing off in that one ferocious inhalation.

"What exactly is it that you want Joe and me to do?" I asked. "Deter-mine whether your son was murdered, or find his wife and daughter?"

"Both," he said, blowing out a cloud of smoke that made my eyes sting. "It seems to me one would be pretty well intertwined with the other."

That was a fair point. I still didn't like it, though. The cops would resent our presence, and I definitely didn't want to get caught up in the media frenzy.

"Look, I've got plenty of money," Weston said. "I've got a good re-tirement plan, I've got a savings account. I can afford to pay whatever it is you want."

"It's not about the money, Mr. Weston," I said.

"No? Then what the hell is it?"

"The police have a lot of investigators working on this case," I said. "They have resources and access that we don't, and they've also got a week's head start on it. I'd advise you to wait on the police, and see what they can do with it. If they haven't made any progress in a few weeks, give us a call again, and maybe we'll reconsider." I had no plans to reconsider, but I hoped the offer would placate the old man.

"You know why I showed you those paintings?" he asked. "Why I told you what happened to my hand?"

"No, sir."

He ground his cigarette out in an ashtray on the table and stared at me with contempt. Then he shook his head.

"Wayne was one of your own," he said. "Same city, same business, and that's a business without many people involved. That used to mean something to people. When I was in the war, we fought for the men with us. Before battle, during the preparation, it was all about patriotism saving he world and protecting the freedom of our families back home. But you know what? When it came down to the firefight, that wasn't in your mind anymore. You were fighting for the boys next to you, fighting for your buddies, protecting your own." He looked at me sadly. "Maybe my generation was the last one that had that kind of loy-alty, that kind of brotherhood."

It was a hell of a pitch. I didn't answer right away, but it resonated with me as he had hoped it would. I hadn't known Wayne Weston well, and we were in the same business, not in the same war, but some-how, sitting here in front of this man with his World War II paintings, gnarled hand, dead son, and missing family members, that line of rea-soning seemed hollow.

I "Why do you do it?" he asked. "Why are you even in this business? You want to get rich chasing cheating husbands? You think it impresses women to say you're a PI? Huh?"

I looked at the floor, trying not to snap at him. "Nope," I said evenly. "None of those, sir."

"Really? Then what the hell do you do it for?"

I didn't say anything.

"Well?" he said. "You gonna give me an answer, son?"

I raised my head and looked at him. "I do it," I said, "because I'm awfully damn good at it."

"You think you're awfully damn good at it, eh?"

"I don't think I am, sir. I am. And so is my partner."

He smiled without amusement or pleasure. "Then prove it."

I met his eyes and held his gaze for a while, then gave one, short nod.

"All right," I said. "We will."


Copyright 2004 by Michael Koryta
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Customer Reviews

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( 39 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 39 Customer Reviews
  • Posted June 20, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Best book I've read in years, no kidding!

    I am not always a fan of mystery or private investigator stories, and I tend more toward fantasy/sci-fi/supernatural but I found out Michael Koryta was speaking at my departmental graduation ceremony so I decided to check out his books. First of all, I was thinking local, 21-year-old author... okay... I guess I could find some time to at least skim over something. I WAS SO WRONG! Less than a chapter into Tonight I Said Goodbye, I had to stop to buy the book (which is rare for us poor college students!) and couldn't put it down until I finished, despite finals and papers with rapidly approaching due dates. The next day I went and got the next book in the series. Not only did I want to read more by the same author, but I could not bring myself to say goodbye - tonight or any other time - to Lincoln Perry (the main character). Rare is the author who can develop a character SO WELL that I feel like we're old friends and I had to find out what would happen to him next!

    So Tonight I Said Goodbye starts out with the plot and character development in the first paragraph and just gets better from there. I never do this but I find I cannot convey why I wasn't able to stop reading any way but to show you the first paragraph:

    "The last time John Weston saw his son alive, it was a frigid afternoon in the first week of March, and John's granddaughter was building a snowman as the two men stood in the driveway and talked. Before he left, John gave his son a fatherly pat on the shoulder and promised to see him again soon. He saw him soon - stretched out in a morgue less than forty-eight hours later, dead of a small-caliber gunshot wound to the head. John was saved the horror of viewing his granddaughter in a similar state, but the reason for that was a hollow consolation: Five-year-old Betsy Weston and her mother were missing."

    Within the next few pages, Lincoln Perry - former cop and new private investigator - gets hired to find out what happened. What seems like it will follow a predictable PI novel pattern soon takes off completely away from the typical template of the genre into more twists and turns than I could have imagined! Koryta does an amazing job with developing characters so that you feel like you not only know ABOUT them, but you KNOW them. The plot, while totally intense, fast-paced, and unpredictable, is also somehow completely believable.

    And before you believe that I am just praising a local author... of Tonight I Said Goodbye, Lee Child said: "A terrific, first-class debut full of suspense, tension, tricks, and charm," the Library Journal claims, "The twenty-one-year-old author excels at building characters and story..." and Steve Hamilton (author of Ice Run) says, "Michael Koryta hits the ground running with this masterful debut. He's already so good, it's scary." I don't have enough room to keep on this tack but there's plenty more!

    While I have my own favorite genres, I am ALWAYS willing to read something that is incredibly well-written no matter what it is about. This is one of those books. I don't care if you don't like PI novels or mystery or thrillers: it's completely and totally worth it to drop whatever you're in the middle of and read this! As much as I'd love to extol the book and the author for a few pages more, I have to get back to the next book...

    6 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 4, 2011

    Great Debut Novel - yes, highly recommended!

    I was hooked from the first page. I found this book accidentally while reading reviews of another reader [who also gave it 5 stars] and I am so glad I did. This was a very, very good book and I had trouble putting it down to go to sleep. I'm always looking for a "series" book and can't wait to begin the second one in the series tonight. Just before writing this review, I was very surprised to read the author was only 21 years old when he wrote this book; WOW! Mr. Koryta has a great talent for such a young man. I hope he continues to write for years and years.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2004

    Great Debut By A Writer To Watch!

    Michael Koryta's first mystery is, hands-down, the best debut mystery of the year. Koryta brings a veteran's touch to his first book despite being a remarkably young writer. The novel starts with a dead private investigator whose family is missing, and from there Lincoln Perry and his partner Joe Pritchard move from the cold beaches of Lake Erie to the warm beach of South Carolina, unraveling a mystery that is extremely well plotted, full of twists that do not seem at all contrived. Koryta's greatest strength is his dialogue, and the action scenes will make you turn the pages of this wonderful book quickly. Put this one at the top of your Christmas list.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 20, 2014

    awesome book

    very good book by this author. all his books are really good. You won't waste ur money if u buy. In fact i have read all of his books and not one has disappointed me!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 28, 2013

    A Must Read!

    I was so into this book;it became very hard for me to focus on anything during the day because of this book. Keeps you guessing and intrigued. Since reading this book, I ordered 2 more by this author.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted September 10, 2013

    The phrase "tonight I said goodbye" is found in a litt

    The phrase "tonight I said goodbye" is found in a little girl's diary, but the little girl and her mother are missing when her father is found murdered in their home.  Police rule it a suicide, and suspect the man has murdered his wife and daughter and hid their bodies somewhere before he shot himself.  The little girls grandfather is adamant that his son was murdered, so he hires PIs Lincoln Perry and Joe Pritchard to prove this, and to find his daughter in law and granddaughter---dead or alive.  




    The dead man was a PI himself, and Perry and Pritchard discover that he was working for a very powerful man, with connections to the Russian mob.  The more they discover, the desperate and deadlier the results become.  When they stumble upon the wife and daughter hiding out in another state, things become dangerous for everyone.




    With this first book in the Perry and Pritchard series, we learn a lot about the background of these characters while they pursue and are pursued.  The mystery is fast passed, with the addition of a child and mother that adds an additional element of suspense.  Looking forward to reading more from this young talented author.  Thankfully, there are a number waiting out there to be read already. 

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  • Posted March 29, 2013

    Anxious to read the next Lincoln Perry novel

    At times it was a little slow moving but towards the end I couldn't put it down until I got to the end - 4 1/2 hours later!

    I'm a fan.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2013

    Highly Recommend

    If you like books with the same main and supporting characters, you'll like this one. Unfortunately there are only four in the series. I have read all of them and would readily purchase another if it were ever to be written.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 21, 2012

    Promising new author.

    Good debut. It had quite a twist towards the end that was not evident earlier! Plan to read more by this author.

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  • Posted September 19, 2012

    Flawless series-starter! Suspenseful plot, skilled writing and r

    Flawless series-starter! Suspenseful plot, skilled writing and rounded-out characters make for a great read. I hope this author keeps writing, because I love his style!
    Also recommended: Lee Child, Sue Grafton and Ruth Rendell.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 29, 2012

    a good quick read

    I went back to this after reading two of Koryta's more recent books and this is a solid crime novel - I bought it to read on my commute and at the gym and it was perfect for that. I liked "So Cold the River" and "The Cypress House" better, but they are a different sort of novel, and definitely show his development as an author.

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  • Posted February 15, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Surprise page turner - Enjoyed this new author and so will you.

    Found this book by accident when I was looking for something to read on my new Nook that was in my price range. This is the 1st book I read by Mickael Koryta and was thrilled to find it was a page turner. Definately worth reading. Young author with great potential.

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    excellent private investigator tale

    In the Cleveland suburb of West Olmsted, John Weston hires private investigators Lincoln Perry and Joe Pritchard to learn who killed his son Wayne and what happened to his missing daughter-in-law Julie and five year old granddaughter Betsy. The police suspect a murder-suicide though they have not found two of the corpses while the media insist that Wayne killed his wife and child. John insists he just saw Wayne who was too contented to suddenly within forty-eight hours commit the horrors the press assert he did.---- Though reluctant to get in the middle of an on-going official investigation, Lincoln accepts the case for a larger than normal fee. As he and his partner investigate an intriguing money trail that leads to gambling and South Carolina, several divergent parties threaten to kill the two sleuths if they do not drop the case; others try to hit home runs using the heads of Lincoln and Joe as baseballs. Still the increasingly dogmatic detectives dig deeper.---- The dual mysteries of murder and missing people are cleverly handled so that readers accompany the sleuths as they follow the clues and antagonists in turn pursue them. The suspense increases by the moment with threats to harm or kill Perry and Pritchard if they fail to back off. Although an excellent investigative plot, the key that supports why TONIGHT I SAID GOODBYE won the 2003 St. Martin¿s Press Best First PI Novel award is the cast. Lincoln especially is fully developed but the prime support players including Joe, the deceased and his family, some media and police, and the villains seem genuine. Michael Kortya makes an impressive debut.---- Harriet Klausner

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    Posted September 27, 2010

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    Posted May 20, 2010

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    Posted September 10, 2012

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    Posted January 15, 2013

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    Posted July 15, 2014

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    Posted April 4, 2011

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    Posted January 5, 2011

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