“America's best storyteller.” The New York Times Book Review
From Edgar Award-winning author Ross Thomas comes Briarpatch, a thrilling mystery of one man’s personal mission to find justice for his family. Now, the basis for the USA Network television series executive produced by Sam Esmail, creator of Mr. Robot, starring Rosario Dawson.
A long-distance call from his small Texas hometown on his birthday gives Benjamin Dill the news that his sister Felicityborn on the same day exactly ten years aparthas died in a car bomb explosion. She was a homicide detective who had perhaps made one enemy too many over the course of her career.
Unwilling to let local law enforcement handle the investigation, Dill arrives in town that night to begin his dogged search for his sister’s killer. What he finds is no surprise to him as he begins to unravel town secrets, because Benjamin Dill is never surprised at what awful things people will do.
Featuring an Introduction by New York Times bestselling author Lawrence Block
Edgar Award Winner for Best Novel
|Publisher:||St. Martin's Press|
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.78(d)|
About the Author
ROSS THOMAS is the author of over twenty-five critically acclaimed novels. His debut, The Cold War Swap, was written in under six weeks and won an Edgar Award for Best First Novel, and Briarpatch won an Edgar Award for Best Novel. He's also written under the name Oliver Bleeck.
Thomas died in 1995 at the age of 69 in Santa Monica, California.
Read an Excerpt
The redheaded homicide detective stepped through the door at 7:30 A.M. and out into the August heat that already had reached 88 degrees. By noon the temperature would hit 100, and by two or three o'clock it would be hovering around 105. Frayed nerves would then start to snap and produce a marked increase in the detective's business. Breadknife weather, the detective thought. Breadknives in the afternoon.
The door the detective stepped through led out onto the second-floor landing of a two-story yellow brick duplex with a green copper roof. The detective turned back, made sure the door was locked, and started down the outside staircase. The yellow brick duplex was in the still-fashionable Jefferson Heights section and had been well built fifty-two years ago on a nicely shaded sixty-foot lot on the southeast corner of Thirty-second Street and Texas Avenue. By dint of some rather dubious creative financing, the homicide detective had bought the duplex seventeen months back, lived alone in its upper two-bedroom apartment, and rented the lower floor for $650 a month to a thirtyish home-computer salesman and his girl friend, who were usually late with the rent.
It was 7:31 on the morning of August 4, a Thursday, when the detective reached the bottom of the outside staircase, turned left, stopped at the salesman's door, and rang the bell. After thirty seconds or so the door was opened by an unshaven, sleepy-looking Harold Snow who tried his best to seem surprised and almost succeeded.
"Oh-my-God, Rusty," Snow said. "Don't tell me I didn't pay it again."
"You didn't pay it, Harold."
"Oh-my-God, I forgot," Snow said. "You wanta come in while I write the check?" Snow was wearing only the stained Jockey shorts he had slept in.
"I'll wait out here," the detective said. "It's cooler."
"I already got the air-conditioning on."
"I'll wait out here," the detective said again, and smiled a small, meaningless smile.
Harold Snow shrugged and closed the door to keep the heat out. The detective noticed a suspicious-looking gray blister, about two inches in diameter, on the brown molding that framed the door. With the aid of a fingernail file, the detective gently probed the blister, suspecting termites. I cannot afford termites, the detective thought. I simply cannot afford them.
The gray blister turned out to be only that, a paint blister, and the detective let out a small relieved sigh just as Harold Snow, now wearing a blue polo shirt, but still no pants, opened the door and held out the rent check. It was one of those brightly tinted checks with a pretty picture on it. The detective thought such checks were silly, but accepted it and studied it carefully to make sure Harold Snow hadn't postdated the check or forgotten to sign it, or even, as he had once done, written in differing amounts.
"Damn, I'm sorry it's late," Snow said. "It just clean slipped my mind."
The redheaded detective smiled slightly for the second time. "Sure, Harold."
Harold Snow smiled back. It was a sheepish smile, patently false, that somehow went with Snow's long narrow face, which the detective also found to be rather sheeplike, except for those clever coyote eyes.
Still wearing his smile, Harold Snow then said what he always said to the homicide detective, "Well, I guess you gotta go round up the usual suspects."
And as always, the detective didn't bother to respond, but said only, "See you, Harold," turned, and started down the cement walk toward the dark-green two-year-old five-speed Honda Accord that was parked the wrong way at the curb. Snow shut the door to his apartment.
The detective unlocked the two-door Honda, got in, put the key in the ignition, and depressed the clutch. There was a white-orange flash, quite brilliant; then a loud crackling bang, and a sudden swirl of thick greasy white smoke. When it cleared, the Honda's left door was hanging by one hinge. The detective sprawled halfway out of the car, the red hair now a smoking clump of fried black wire. The left leg below the knee ended in something that looked like cranberry jelly. Only the greenish gray eyes still moved. They blinked once in disbelief, once again in fear, and then, after that, the detective died.
Harold Snow was the first to race through the door of the downstairs apartment followed closely by Cindy McCabe, a thin tanned blond woman in her late twenties, who wore her hair up in green rollers. Snow had his pants on now, but no shoes. Cindy McCabe, also barefoot, wore a man's outsized white T-shirt and faded jeans. Snow held out a cautioning hand.
"Stay back," he said. "The gas tank might go."
"Jesus, Hal," she said. "What happened?"
Harold Snow stared at the sprawled body of the dead homicide detective. "I guess," he said slowly, "I guess somebody just blew away the landlady."
Copyright © 1984 by Ross E. Thomas, Inc. Introduction copyright © 2003 by Lawrence Block.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Never heard of Ross Thomas and picked this up on a lark. Have been trying to find a mystery author that I realllly like. Mr. Thomas fills the bill. Character development, plot, the whole nine yards. Wonderful book. I hesitate to discuss the plot - nonetheless, buy it and enjoy
We've all had that vacation from hell: it involves stitches, mechanics, and the phrase 'We haven't had this kind of weather around here for years.' In 1984 my wife and I had a 'Holiday' like this. Confined, mechanically and meterologically, to a motel room we walked to the local bookstore. I plucked a hardcover mystery off the shelf by a writer I'd never heard of, 'Briarpatch' by Ross Thomas. It turned out, after all, to be a great vacation. I recently re-read 'Briarpatch' and it more than stands the test of time. It is a dynamic, funny, haunting, and forceful book--which flows effortlessly, seamlessly. Do yourself a favor and read everything Thomas has written. (He also writes under a pseudonym, Oliver Bleeck: also wonderful.) Although I never met him, Ross Thomas inspired and encouraged me as a mystery writer; I used him as a long distance mentor, learning how to make a town or city a character in the book; how to describe architecture; how to make a crime scene more grisly and horrific by describing it simply. Thanks, Ross. Pick up 'Briarpatch' everyone. 50 years from now when people are talking about great mysteries of the late 20th century, it'll be near the top of the list.
I listened to this book on tape while driving to and from work every day. Hated getting to my destination and looked forward to getting in the car again. The characters are well-drawn and the plot keep me wanting more details. Finally, I cared what happened in the story and language is smart -- an intelligent read!
Arguably Thomas' best novel, and a book anyone who enjoys political thrillers will love. Great story, strong characters, superior dialogue -- if you aren't already familiar with Ross Thomas, you will really like this.
Not my favorite of Thomas' but a second-class book by Thomas is better than many of the first-class mysteries out there. Still very good.
This is a great beach book: highly suspenseful, with a couple of unexpected twists at the end, written in a breezy, very readable style. Also somewhat forgettable after finishing.
The body count in this book really undermines the suspension of disbelief, and the sex scenes, while not of the notoriously (and humorously) bad sort, do really date the book a bit (still hearing the reverberations of the heyday of Playboy serialization).But well done, otherwise. Thomas near the top of his game.
Well I can¿t say that I was surprised. Partly because this is not my first Thomas and I know better than to trust what he tells me. He is king of the cross and double cross. Also it¿s partly because I do read a lot of thrillers and many of the innovative techniques Thomas pioneered have been adopted countless times by other authors. The unreliable narrator is one. The veritable briarpatch of characters with dubious motivations is another.But that¿s not what Thomas means by briarpatch. What he means here is a thicket of protection founded up on secrets and blackmail. Ben¿s old friend Jake Spivey is trying to create his personal briarpatch in their hometown when Felicity is killed. Coincidentally, Ben is also working for a senate subcommittee who has an interest in Spivey; particularly his non-official record of activities in Vietnam on behalf of the CIA. So going home to investigate Felicity¿s murder also serves up the opportunity to depose Spivey for the senator. In the end, Ben ends up with his own little briarpatch earned and compiled as a bitter result of Felicity¿s death.I really wish I could have read this fresh, without the jaded eye that comes from having read hundreds of thrillers and detective novels with unreliable narrators, duplicitous friends and conflicting motives. While the plot was interesting and the writing a joy to read, I was not surprised at Felicity¿s double life and the identity of her killer. I was not surprised at the carelessness in which certain characters manipulated others. The dispassionate violence and scheming are all too common. The ending though is typical Thomas. Open, ambiguous and ripe for the imagination. I do not wonder that Briarpatch won an Edgar award, but I do wish for a time machine.