Blood Wine by John Moss

By John Moss

The summer season ahead of 9-11, Toronto murder detective Miranda Quin wakes as much as locate her lover useless beside her, but has no reminiscence of going to mattress with him. Horrified by means of the result of the forensic research, the commonly feisty Miranda strikes via occasions in a daze whereas her accomplice, Detective David Morgan, deals support.

Because Miranda is the top suspect, neither she nor Morgan may be able to pursue the case formally, liberating them from jurisdictional constraints. They locate it most unlikely to prevent being pulled into the frenzy of occasions that keep on with from one mysterious dying to a different in a unusual narrative that brings in a brand new York policeman who reads Thoreau and a gorgeous and unsafe ecu wine professional who's no longer what she seems to be. because the plot strikes from Toronto to manhattan and London, a dangerous fraud results in explosive revelations of drug smuggling as a canopy for foreign terrorism.

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She threw me a withering look, like she was just disgusted I was being so thick. “Your college application is intended for a different audience altogether. As for this other issue, all you have to say is that you’re not . . not one of those people. That is . ” Her eyes bounced from me to the wall and then the floor. “Unless . . well, unless there’s something you need to . . ah . . ” My cheeks heated. ” She was using her reasonable-mom voice, the one she pulled out whenever she’d thought of one more new project guaranteed to get me into the dream school of her 46 choice.

I was helping the marine put away pamphlets when he peered at my name tag and then grinned. “I was wondering if you’d be around,” he said. I was puzzled. ” He stuck out his hand, one of the largest I’d ever seen, like a garden spade. But then again, he was also very tall, easily six-five: a giant with a buzz cut in a navy blue pullover sweater and khaki shirt. You wouldn’t think the military would want such tall guys. They’d be easy targets, know what I’m saying? “Staff Sergeant Bruce Pfeiffer.

Lange’s forearm. ” At his touch, a tremor shuddered through Mr. Lange. He jerked around, and for a second I thought he might hit the pastor. But then his shoulders slumped and he was making these raw, grunting sounds that I recognized, belatedly, as sobs. “Come on, Harlan,” said the pastor. “That’s enough now. You’ve corrected the boy. ” 35 “There’s nothing to sort out,” Mr. Lange said, his voice so ragged and raw it sounded like it must be cutting his throat. Sweat and tears glistened on his cheeks.

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