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Overview
Marshall and Lori Quinn's quiet, peaceful life is shattered when their three-year-old son Jeff is abducted. When the police investigation stalls, and Lori plunges into catatonic despair, Marshall takes on the hunt for Jeff himself, a relentless, increasingly deadly quest that pits him against violent forces that he can't defeat alone...
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781941298183 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Cutting Edge Publishing |
| Publication date: | 08/04/2015 |
| Pages: | 330 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.74(d) |
About the Author
But that success is built on a foundation of incredible crime writing. In his highly-praised debut Michigan Roll, Kakonis introduced Tim Waverly - a loveable gambler who constantly finds himself playing a game of survival against the odds. The Waverly series continued with Double Down and Shadow Counter, and Kakonis also penned the hilarious and harrowing Christmas car heist Criss Cross.
Kakonis took a darker turn with Blind Spot and Flawless, two mind-blowing thrillers he initially wrote under the pseudonym "Adam Barrow." Blind Spot is a tour-de-force that tracks a father's relentless, driving obsession to save his family at any cost, while Flawless, picked as a People Magazine Chiller of the Week, centers on a chilling serial killer as his perfectly-ordered life begins to crumbled when he falls in love, his imprisoned father is released, and a relentless, and sleazy, PI starts to follow the trail of bodies to his door.
And now Tom Kakonis is back with the thriller his fans have been waiting to read for years. It was worth the wait. Treasure Coast Is "Get Shorty" meets "No Country for Old Men" on a sunny Florida coast that's teeming with conmen and killers - and marks the return of Tom Kakonis at his best.
Read an Excerpt
Blind Spot
By Tom Kakonis
Brash Books, LLC
Copyright © 2014 Tom KakonisAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-941298-18-3
CHAPTER 1
PART ONE
You're sure this is all right, now?"
"Absolutely."
"You don't mind?"
"Listen, hon, we'll have a good time."
"It's a shame about the aquarium."
He glanced over at the line snaking down the marble steps and trailing away from the great colonnaded building. The diversity of peoples, their fidelity to stereotype, piqued his professional interest: brash, noisy blacks; swaggery, sinister Hispanics; earnest, chocolate-skinned India Indians, many of the women sweltering resignedly in traditional saris; intense, camera-toting Orientals; rowdy adolescents; querulous seniors; here and there a few mincing homosexuals; middle-class whites, aloof, distant, but a little apprehensive-looking too (not, he supposed, unlike themselves); troops of squealing field trip school kids, some not much older than Jeff — and all of them leagued by the single leveling commonality of an oppressive, muggy, almost equatorial heat. He shrugged, said, "No way we could know."
"He'd have so liked to see the fish. He's talked about it all week."
"Once we're inside the planetarium he'll forget all about it. What's more exciting than a trip to the stars?"
The object of all this whispered concern stood a couple of feet to their left, gazing orb-eyed up, up, at the heroic figure of a saber-brandishing horseman, frozen in space and stone and time, leading the charge of a phantom army.
"Who's that?" the child asked.
"His name was Thaddeus Kosciuszko," his father said, enunciating clearly, deliberately, but by no means condescendingly. It was Marshall Quinn's conviction that children responded best to adult speech patterns, and for the most part that's the way he addressed his son. "He fought in the American Revolutionary War," he went on, simplifying the statue's inscription but not by much. "Helped make this country what it is today," he added with only a pinch of irony.
"Why's his name funny?"
"He was from another country. Poland."
"Got a knife."
"That's what you call a sword."
"Sword?"
"A long knife."
They were all three of them munching Chicago Dogs, the bulgy tubes of meat slathered with condiments and spilling over with relish, eating with that peculiar contortive tilt of the head hotdogs inspire. Periodically Lori Quinn stooped down and swiped the drippings from the boy's chin with a napkin. When they were finished, Marshall checked his watch.
"Okay. It's a quarter to three. Show lasts about an hour, according to the program guide. Why don't we meet right here, under the watchful eye of Thaddeus? Four-fifteen, say? That give you enough time?"
"Plenty. I just want to walk through the exhibit again. Maybe browse the bookstore awhile."
The exhibit she referred to was a special collection of ancient Egyptian artifacts housed in the museum's basement level. After the initial disappointment of the impossible aquarium lines, they had spent the better part of the day wandering through the museum, starting on the second floor and working their way down, Jeff skipping excitedly from one display to the next, plants to birds to extinct wild beasts, wearing them out with his incessant chattery questions, a child's inexhaustible curiosity and wondrous energy, seemingly oblivious to the heat and the jostling crowds. Until they began their descent into ancient Egypt. Then he wilted and, bored, turned fractious, fretful. Marshall's reasoned appeals ("Come on, Jeff, Mom wants to see these things. It's only fair. Didn't we look at all the dinosaurs?") pacified him not in the slightest, and so after their snack break he volunteered to take him to the sky show. It was, after all, her outing too. Rare occasion, for them, a trip into the roaring city. For them, an adventure.
"Enjoy yourself," he said. "And don't worry about us."
"You're sure you can handle him, Marsh?"
"Of course I can."
"Watch him carefully. Don't let him go anywhere near the water."
"How about a fountain? If he's thirsty."
"Will you be serious?"
"Only if you'll get moving. We don't want to miss the moon and the planets." He stepped over and tapped Jeff, still fascinated by the gigantic horseman, on the shoulder. "We're going now. Wave goodbye to Mom."
The boy lifted a tiny arm, shook it vigorously. "Bye, Mom."
"Bye, Jeffie. Be good now and mind Daddy."
"Tell her see you later," Marshall prompted.
"See later."
"See you later," he said, softening the correction with a fond smile. "Don't forget your pronouns."
"What's a pronow?"
"You are. Come on."
Hands linked, they set out down one of the walks flanking a long, grassy boulevard. No one watching could have mistaken them for anything other than father and son, the child a replica in miniature of the man. Both of them had shocks of light brown hair, both smooth pink faces (the father's leaner, of course, but remarkably youthful and unlined for his accumulated thirty-two years), clear blue eyes, noble Anglo-Saxon noses, thin mouths, strong jaws, slender, small-boned frames (the son's, at a month or so past three, still padded with baby fat; the father's flat in the chest and waist, narrow at the hips, build of a recreational jogger, which in fact he was). On both the individual features were nondescript, unmemorable, yet seemed to come together somehow to achieve the effect of handsomeness.
Midway they came upon another statue, this handsome pair, and paused for an inspection. Some martyred Bohemian statesman, unknown to Marshall. He tried to explain the concept of martyrdom without much success. Next came Copernicus, where he was on slightly firmer historical ground. At last they arrived at the planetarium and joined a short line outside a square, glass-walled building fronting the domed structure.
They waited. Sunlight splashed off the pavement. Traffic scooted up and down the boulevard's parallel streets. Horns tooted. Vendors hawked. A trace of a sultry breeze lifted off the lake. Powerboats skimmed the surface of the green water. Overhead, gulls dipped and soared through a shimmery white sky.
Marshall felt drained, battered by the heat and clamor and confusion. Under his loose-fitting shirt, sweat streamed south along the ridges and valleys of his ribs and spine, pooled in the band of his shorts. His stomach churned. No more Chicago Dogs. One was more than plenty. At his side, Jeff twisted and squirmed. "When's the stars?" he demanded.
"Soon."
"I'm hot."
"So am I. Be patient."
A throng of people came pouring out the several glass doors. The line inched forward. And then they were inside, delivered into the clement wrap of cool, conditioned air, hurried along by teenage ushers through a lobby, down a flight of stairs illuminated by blue fluorescent lights in futuristic configurations, over to a ticket window where they were handed plastic eyeglasses in exchange for bills, and finally, mercifully, into a dimly lit auditorium. Swarms of kids, more of the field trippers, filed through banks of seats sloping toward three screens, the center one draped, the other two uncovered and angled off sharply to either side. Marshall gripped Jeff's hand and led him down an aisle to a couple of empty spots near the front.
In a moment the drapes slid back, and a paunchy fellow, hugely grinning, strode out onto the stage and in that fraudulent chirpy voice adults often inflict on children (sort of voice Marshall Quinn despised) welcomed them all to the Adler Planetarium and announced the show was about to begin. Two parts, he explained, prominently displaying the appropriate number of fingers: the first a brief introduction to the heavens right here in this auditorium, and after that the center screen would magically open, revealing an escalator to whisk them to the planetarium proper for the main event — dramatic pause — Meteor Mouse! They were instructed to wear their glasses throughout the first segment, for the full 3-D effect, and reminded, twice, to return them to the ushers before ascending the escalator. After a couple of limp stabs at wit, he bawled, "Okay, kids! Everybody ready?"
Chorus of affirmative shrieks.
"Then le-e-e-t's go star hopping!"
Marshall smothered a sigh. Reminded himself this was his idea. He helped Jeff adjust the glasses, put on his own. The lights faded. Center screen a silhouette of the city skyline materialized on a horizon framed in pale blue, while a creamy female overvoice invited them on a trip through the cosmos, commencing at their present astronomical address — Chicago, North America, Earth — and proceeding outward through the solar system (the tiny ball of Earth gradually receding as she spoke, field of blue darkening, blackening) and galaxies whirling with stars. The three screens, working in concert, created a feel of spectacular velocity, a dazzling, almost vertiginous effect. Delighted oohs and aahs rose through the auditorium. And as the voyage continued on into the vast immensities of space, the voice encouraged them to search for patterns, design.
Abruptly it was over, the limits of the universe prudently left unexplored at the boundaries of theology. The lights came on, and the center screen, even as promised, parted. Marshall stood, stretched, looked down at his son, whose eyes were comically veiled by the glasses. A diminutive celebrity. "Did you like that?" he asked him.
"Where's the mouse?"
"Coming right up. Next feature."
He steered him toward the line forming at the foot of the escalator. Obediently, they handed over their glasses to a vigilant usher. Up they went. Emerged into another auditorium, this one large, circular, its seats arranged in ascending blocks split by narrow aisles and banked around a metallic device that looked, curiously, like some giant robotic bug, identical bulbous heads freakishly sprouting from either end. "What's that thing?" Jeff asked, jabbing a finger at it as they settled into seats near the middle of an otherwise empty file.
"I think it's the projector."
"What's a jector?"
"Projector. It's a machine that, well, casts an image — a picture — on a screen," Marshall said, grasping after a vocabulary to capture an explanation, conscious of his woeful ignorance of technology. "Like at the movies."
"Looks like Robocop."
"There's a resemblance."
The auditorium was filling but slowly. Painfully slow. Kids rolled off the escalator like finished products of an assembly line, darted about wildly. Their adult guides, harried, spent, chased after them scolding and corraling. Jeff, catching the fever, wiggled restlessly. Marshall reached into a pocket, produced a small bag of candy. "Well, look at this, would you?" he said, dangling it as though he had just made a most marvelous discovery. "Gummi Bears. Imagine that."
The boy's eyes widened. A grin scampered across his face.
"What do you think, Jeff? Should we eat them?"
"Mom said no."
Marshall glanced around slyly. "But Mom's not here. You see her?"
"No."
"So what do you think?"
"Eat 'em."
"I think you're absolutely right."
Marshall popped a candy in his mouth, handed Jeff the bag, and leaned over and whispered in conspiratorial tones, "This will be our little secret, okay?"
"'Kay," the boy said around a mouthful of bear.
The lights dimmed. A great vault of daylight sky opened above them. Another female voice introduced herself as Cosmic Cat, temporary stand-in for Meteor Mouse, who was unaccountably delayed but would be along any minute now. The sky deepened into night. Clusters of stars winked on, salted the heavens. Among them an unmistakable feline figure appeared, directing the viewers' attention to assorted constellations — the Dippers, Leo the Lion, the Archer Sagittarius, Draco the Dragon — in a voice unbearably cute and punctuated by a particularly grating "meeow." Presently the tardy mouse arrived, and to the boundless mirth of the juvenile audience the two figures bickered tirelessly, like a pair of quarrelsome celestial house pets.
Marshall heard a small rustling in the row directly behind them. Latecomer, no doubt, groping for a seat. He eased back in his own. It was slanted as a recliner, cushioned, remarkably comfortable. The chill air soothed him. His limbs slackened. He indulged a mighty yawn. Shuttered his eyes. Tuned out the rackety voices. And promptly fell asleep.
Later — impossible to say how long — he was jolted into wakefulness by a majestic crescendo of finale music. The lights were on. Children streamed through the many exits, emptying the auditorium. A lingering trace of an odor, faintly sweetish, rose from the seat next to him, which also was empty, his son gone.
At about six p.m. that same day, Odell DeCruz was about to exit his Brookfield apartment when the rattle of the phone brought him up just short of the door. He went into the kitchen, picked up the cellular and, assuming it to be a business call, said, "Dingo," the name by which he was commonly known to all his associates.
"Dingo?" a snarly voice gave it back to him.
"That's right."
"Sal."
"Sal. What can I do for you?"
"You in a talkin' position?"
"I am," Dingo confirmed, strolling into the empty living room, receiver fused to his ear.
"Remember that piece merchandise you was askin' about, couple months back?"
"Help me out, Sal. We've discussed all kinds of merchandise."
"Crumbsnatcher."
It took Dingo a moment to translate the street rap in his head. For himself, he preferred a precise, explicit, almost formal diction. It was a way of distancing one's self. Also an elevating discipline. "Oh, yes," he said. "I believe I do recall that one."
"Think maybe I got somethin' for ya."
"Splendid, Sal." It was a word he'd picked up recently, splendid, made it his own. He liked the liquid peal of it, the way it came oiling off the tongue.
An exasperated sigh rode down the wire. "That mean we're doin' some business? That splendid?"
"Well, I'd want to speak with my contact first, of course. Get back to you."
"Unh-unh. I gotta put a wrap on it tonight."
"Awfully short notice, Sal."
"Yeah, well, it's a seller's market out there. And this ain't the kinda merchandise y'can store too long."
Dingo hesitated. He didn't much like being stampeded into a transaction, particularly when the product came sight unseen. On the other hand, this one held the potential for a small but tidy profit, depending on how the haggling went. Enough, possibly, to replace the wooden coffee table he was gazing at right now with an elegant marble and glass one he'd come across in the pages of an interior design magazine. Spruce up the already well-appointed (by his tastes, for in this, as in all things, he was entirely self-taught) room not a little.
"So what's it gonna be, Dinger?"
"That's Dingo," he said, sudden wintry edge to his otherwise studiedly silken voice.
"Same question. An' I ain't got all night here."
"We'll take it," Dingo said crisply. Even if he didn't care for them, instant decisions were nothing new to him. Sometimes they secured a handsome return, other times not. Went with the territory.
Sal recited a west side address, instructed him to be there "nine bells sharp. Get a look at what you're buyin'. Arrange the swap."
Dingo copied the address in the pocket-sized ledger he habitually carried, frowning as he wrote. Not one of your better neighborhoods. Price, of course, was not mentioned. That would come later. Part of the waltz. It didn't matter. Though he was without experience in this sort of merchandise, had never trafficked in it before, he had an idea of its general range, value, markup, and negotiating cushion. He rung off with a promise to meet Sal at the specified hour, and immediately pecked out a number, long since committed to memory, ambling into the bedroom and studying himself in the full-length mirror on the door as he did.
He was not displeased with what he saw: sober young man, trim, rigidly — some might say stiffly — erect (perhaps in compensation for a slightly shorter than average height: If there was one thing Dingo regretted about his physical self, it was that his growth had stalled out at four inches short of six feet), nattily outfitted in a pastel blue linen suit, double-breasted, the trousers knife-creased, set off by burgundy silk tie and matching tasselled loafers. Good clothes, expensive. Made a statement. He was about to extend this somewhat preening self-inspection to the lineaments of his face when, after about a dozen rings, a breathless voice demanded rudely, "Yeah?"
"Dingo calling, Jimmie."
That's as much as it took to restore a civil note, jocular but respectful, to the voice. "Hey, Dingo. Sorry it took me so long to get on the horn. Just comin' outta the shower. Matter fact, I'm standin' here in the bareass right now."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blind Spot by Tom Kakonis. Copyright © 2014 Tom Kakonis. Excerpted by permission of Brash Books, LLC.
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