Autorentext

Jonathan Kellerman and Jesse Kellerman

Klappentext

The electric new Clay Edison thriller from the New York Times bestselling, acclaimed father-son duo who write “brilliant, page-turning fiction” (Stephen King)

Clay Edison has left behind the Alameda County coroner’s office to strike out on his own as a private investigator. He’s perfectly happy working low-stakes embezzlement cases—that is, until PI Regina Klein calls him with a mystery only he can solve. The son of a wealthy couple has washed up dead on the shores of San Francisco Bay with drugs in his system and a head injury. The police are calling it an accident. But the parents are adamant something’s not right—and as Clay digs deeper, he uncovers a horrifying tangle of betrayal and lies.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

Regina Klein called.

“Buy me lunch,” she said.

“Good to hear from you,” I said.

“There’s an Ethiopian place near my office.”

“Doing well, thanks for asking.”

“Spicy, but they’ll tone it down for you.”

“Kids are great, thanks,” I said. “How about yourself?”

“I’m texting you the address. Meet me at noon.”

“Regina. I’m busy. I can’t just pick up and drive to Santa Cruz in the middle of the day.”

“Need I remind you,” she said, “I almost died for you.”

“Nice try. You acted of your own free will.”

“Busy with what?”

“Embezzlement case.”

“F*** that,” she said. “Mine’s better. There’s a body.”

I drove to Santa Cruz.

The restaurant, Lulit’s, was on Soquel Avenue adjacent to a Brazilian jiujitsu studio. Grunts and thuds vibrated through the shared wall.

Regina is five-­one, I’m six-­three. She rose on tiptoes to hug me; I bent down to meet her. Button-­cute and a chameleon. Perfect for snaring the gullible.

She was wearing a silver silk blouse over black gabardine slacks, which on her gave the look of a kid playing dress-­up. She’d corralled her wild dark hair into a bun, ditched the Keds for ballet flats, subbed out her gigantic horn-­rimmed glasses for an understated rimless pair. Just enough makeup.

Introducing Ms. Polished, Discreet PI.

“What’s shaking, Poirot?” she said.

The waitress greeted her by name. After we put in our order—­atakilt wat, vegetable sambusas, lentil stew—­Lulit herself emerged in clogs and an apron.

“How spicy?” she said.

“Spicy’s fine,” I said.

“Make him regret it,” Regina said.

Lulit laughed and retreated to her kitchen.

“I already regret this,” I said.

“What’s new with the fam?” Regina asked.

“Now you want to know?”

“I’m trying to be civilized.”

I caught her up. Charlotte was reading like a fiend. Myles was starting preschool in the fall. Amy still had her clinic job but was toying, as ever, with leaving and going into private practice.

“Give everyone a hug for me.”

“Will do.”

“Sorry I missed the birthday party,” she said. “Ed had a department thing.”

“Not a problem. Thanks for the presents. The kids loved them.”

“Auntie Regina knows child development.”

“How’s Ed, speaking of?”

Regina’s boyfriend of the last year was a Stanford biology professor—­a widower, fifteen years her senior; rangy, balding, handsome in a well-­worn way. And utterly smitten.

“He wants me to marry him,” she said.

“Wow. And?”

“I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no.”

“Did you give him a time frame, at least?”

“Time is a construct.”

“He must really love you, to put up with your shit.”

Regina posed daintily, fingers under chin. “What’s not to love?”

The food was abundant, colorful, fragrant. I tore off a piece of injera bread and scooped up a mouthful of lentils. It was delicious. Then my face caught fire.

“Oh God,” I said.

Lulit brought the water pitcher.

Regina said, “Better leave it.”

Lulit set the pitcher down with a smile.

I dipped my napkin in ice water, swabbed my forehead and neck. “What the hell.”

“I warned you,” Regina said, chewing.

“How are you not dying?”

“I’m not a pussy.”

“Says the woman allergic to cheese.” I chugged a glass, refilled it, reached for more injera. “The crazy thing is, I want to keep eating it.”

“Obviously. You’re a masochist.”

“Obviously. I’m friends with you.” I wiped my mouth. “The case. Go.”

“Elizabeth and Rick Valois. He’s a colleague of Ed’s. They live in Los Gatos. Two grown kids, a daughter and a son named Adam. Last summer Adam goes missing. Couple weeks later his body washes up in a park at the edge of the Bay. Coyote Hills.”

“That’s near Fremont.”

Regina nodded. “Anniversary’s coming up. The parents are frustrated. They feel like they’re getting the runaround.”

“Are they?”

“I don’t know. I told Rick I could talk to him unofficially. But you’re a better fit.”

“Aw, shucks.”

“Don’t get puffed up, Poirot. It’s basic stuff: You’re local, you know the territory, you’re connected to the Coroner’s and PDs.”

“Or you’re smelling a loser case and decided to punt.”

She grinned. “Would I do that to you?”

“Terms?”

“You drive. I ride shotgun. I bill you, you bill them and take the deduction.”

“Sounds like a good deal for me.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I’ll talk to them and see what’s there.”

“I need an answer now.”

“Why?”

“They’re expecting us at one-­thirty. Eat up, buttercup.”

“For God’s sake.”

“I almost died for you.”

“Can you not, with that.”

“I can and I will.”