In the latest thriller featuring the legendary Boston PI, Spenser heads to the City of Angels to meet old friends and new enemies in a baffling missing person case that might shake Tinseltown to its core. Gabby Leggett left her Boston family with big dreams of making it as a model/actress in Hollywood. Two years later, she disappears from her apartment. Her family, former boyfriend, friends--and the police--have no idea where she is and no leads. Leggett's mother hires Spenser to find her, with help of his former apprentice, Zebulon Sixkill, now an L.A. private eye. Spenser barely has time to unpack before the trail leads to a powerful movie studio boss, the Armenian mob, and a shadowy empowerment group some say might be a dangerous cult. It's soon clear that Spenser and Sixkill may be outgunned this time, and series favorites Chollo and Hawk ride to the rescue to provide backup. From the mansions of Beverly Hills to the lawless streets of a small California town, Spenser will need to watch his step. In Hollywood, all that glitters isn't gold. And not all those who wander are lost.

"Another rock-solid addition to the Spenser case files.”—*CrimeReads

*"Atkins gets the hardest parts right—his hero/narrator now sounds indistinguishable from Robert B. Parker’s...Readers who’ve always wanted to see Spenser in Tinseltown can cross that off their bucket lists."—*Kirkus Reviews

*"Atkins continues to do a fine job of extending the life of Robert B. Parker's characters and capturing the tone of the Spenser series. Parker would be proud of Atkins' wise-guypatter; the violence is exciting and nicely choreographed; and Atkins’ plots are complex enough to holdreaders’ interest yet do not get in the way of the suspense."—*Booklist

*“Atkins does a great job making Spenser sarcastic and funny in the face of danger and keeps the plot moving along as danger seems to be around every corner.”—**Parkersburg News & Sentinel

**"Spenser [is] the late master Robert B. Parker’s greatest creation. . . The complex plot keeps things interesting but never gets in the way of what always matters most in the world Spenser inhabits. That’s the characters Parker brought to life and their singular voices. . . [Atkins] has stayed true to his voice and his literate, dialogue-driven vision while keeping his characters compelling and allowing them to grow. If you love crime fiction and aren’t already reading Ace Atkins, you should be.”—**Chicago Sun-Times
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Autorentext
Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the novels featuring police chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole-Everett Hitch westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, he died in January 2010. Ace Atkins is the New York Times bestselling author of the Quinn Colson novels, two of which were nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. In addition, he is the author of several New York Times bestselling novels in the continuation of Robert B. Parker's Spenser series. Before turning to fiction, he was a correspondent for the St. Petersburg Times, a crime reporter for the Tampa Tribune, and, in college, played defensive end for the undefeated Auburn University football team (for which he was featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated). He lives in Oxford, Mississippi.

Leseprobe
1
“Whoever said it never rained in Southern California lied,” I said.
            “Albert Hammond,” Zebulon Sixkill said.
            “Albert Hammond wrote it?” I asked.
            “Albert Hammond and Mike Hazlewood,” Z said. “Albert Hammond sang it. 1972. I can’t recall the label.”
            “I can recall record labels and ball players,” I said. “It’s one of my many gifts.”
            “What are your other gifts?”
            I shrugged, trying to look modest. “I don’t like to brag. But there’s a reason Susan stays with me. Beyond my obvious good looks and stellar charm.”
            “Must be your fashion sense.”
            “I color-coordinated my ball cap with the T-shirt,” I said. “Didn’t you notice?”
            “I did,” he said. “You’ll look right at home on Rodeo Drive. They’ll think you’re a wealthy eccentric.”
            “And they’d be half right.”
            We sat parked outside a mid-century modern apartment building in West Hollywood, not far from the Runyon Canyon Park. I’d brought breakfast burritos and two hot coffees from my hotel and graciously shared with Z. Every few seconds, the windshield wipers on his highland-green Mustang would tick tock across the glass. Downslope, the L.A. Basin spread far and wide from the hills. Tall palms moved as if blown by a gentle breath. “What do you know about 1972?” I said. “You weren’t born yet.”
            “You live long enough in Los Angeles and you pick up things,” Z said.
            “Ray-Bans,” I said. “Sports car. An office in Hollywood. You’ve become the cliché of a private eye.”
            “Might I remind you I am a full Cree Indian?” he said. “That gives me character.”
            “Character only gets you so far,” I said. “Right now, I’d settle for a clue.”
            “Have you spoken with Samuelson yet?”
            “I put in a call,” I said. “He’ll be thrilled to hear from me.”
            “You think the cops know more than us?”
            “Wouldn’t take much,” I said and opened the paper around the burrito and started to eat. I hadn’t eaten since asking for an extra pack of pretzels on flight from Boston. No one came from the building, which was guarded with a steel gate and punch-key entry. The rain continued to ping the car. It was overcast and cloudy at nine in the morning. But who was I to complain? It was like summertime compared to the Back Bay at the moment.
            “Tell me again about Gabby,” Z said. He was tall and thick-muscled, with a wide, flat face and long black hair. For three years he’d been my sleuthing apprentice, now on his own. His claim to fame was being the only mortal man who could out-bench-press me and Hawk. And he never let us forget.
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