Robert B. Parker's Buried Secrets (A Jesse Stone Novel, Band 22) - Hardcover

Farnsworth, Christopher

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593544765 ISBN 13: 9780593544761

Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

Police chief Jesse Stone investigates the mystery behind a dead body found strewn with photos of murder victims and placed on top of $2 million in cash, before a mob of hitmen converge on Paradise.

Just another day in Paradise . . . 

Chief of Police Jesse Stone is on his way home from a long shift when a call comes in for a welfare check on an elderly resident of the wealthy seaside town of Paradise, Massachusetts. Inside a house packed with junk and trash is a man’s dead body. It’s a sad, lonely end, but nothing criminal . . . until Jesse finds the photos of murder victims strewn around the corpse, on top of a treasure trove of $2 million in cash.

Jesse takes on the case and finds a trail leading to an aging mobster who will do whatever it takes to keep the past from coming to light. Before long, Jesse has a price on his head as hitmen converge on Paradise to take back the cash and destroy any remaining evidence. But the real danger might be coming from inside his own department. Jesse Stone must unearth the truth buried under the wreckage of a dead man’s life . . . before he winds up in the ground himself.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the novels featuring 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.

Christopher Farnsworth worked as a reporter in Arizona and California before selling his first screenplay. He now pens successful crime and thriller novels. His books have been published in a dozen countries and translated into ten languages, and optioned for film and television. A loyal reader of Robert B. Parker since his high school days, Farnsworth currently resides in Los Angeles with his family.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

One

Jesse Stone was on his way home when his deputy chief, Molly Crane, interrupted him on the radio for a welfare check.

"A guy is worried about his friend. Says he hasn't seen him in a couple weeks and now he won't answer the door," Molly told him.

"Can't someone else do it?" It had already been a long day. Three of his officers were out sick-COVID again-which was why Molly was covering dispatch. Jesse himself had been on multiple patrol calls and was looking forward to sitting down and watching whatever ESPN had to offer.

"Suit's breaking up a fight at the Scupper. Everyone else is busy," Molly said. "Serve and protect. It's in the job description."

"Yeah, but I'm the chief. I'm supposed to tell you what to do."

"It's adorable that you think that," Molly said. "Anyway, it's not like you had plans. Your girlfriend left you for The New York Times."

"You know, I can fire you anytime I want," Jesse said.

"Good luck. You'd be lost without me."

"Fine. Where is it?"

"See?" Molly read him the address.

The house was in a nice neighborhood on the good side of Paradise, but it had seen better days. The paint was peeling, and the wood was splintered and rotting in places. The lawn was mostly weeds and crabgrass. Deferred maintenance, Jesse had heard it called. When the people inside the house had to choose between upkeep and property taxes. Even in a place with a median income as high as Paradise's, it happened to some of the older residents as their lives extended past their savings accounts.

As Jesse drove up, he saw a younger man in the driveway, his worried face framed by a thin beard. He wore a leather jacket, black jeans, and boots, despite the early-spring warmth. He looked like he was late for a club opening somewhere.

"Are you the police?" he asked, as Jesse got out of his Explorer. Not from around here, Jesse figured.

"I'm Chief Stone," Jesse said, showing the young man his badge.

He looked at the badge and then at Jesse, as if trying to make up his mind.

True, Jesse didn't really dress like a cop. Perks of being the chief of a twelve-person force. He wore jeans and a polo shirt and sneakers and a ball cap with paradise pd printed on it. Usually a jacket to hide the Glock on his hip, too, but again, today was warm.

"This is the part where you tell me your name," Jesse said helpfully.

"Oh, right," the man said. "Sorry. I'm Matthew. Matthew Peebles."

"Can I see some ID?" Jesse said. Peebles? Really?

Matthew Peebles appeared taken aback. "Why do you need to see my ID?"

"It's a cop thing." Jesse shrugged. "We like to make sure people are who they say they are."

"Oh. Of course," Peebles said. He handed over a driver's license from a thick wallet attached to a chain. It was from New York.

Despite the odds against it, Peebles really was his name. Jesse handed the ID back. "You said you were worried about your friend inside the house?"

"Well. My parents' friend more than mine, really," Matthew said. "His name is Phil Burton. He's old. I mean, he's an elderly gentleman. I come out from the city and check on him every now and then for my folks. We talk on the phone, too. But I haven't heard from him for a while, and I got worried."

The propensity of people who lived in New York to refer to it as "the city," as if there were no others, wasn't lost on Jesse. Nobody ever did that in Los Angeles when he lived there. He wondered if it was them overcompensating.

"You drove four hours up here to check on him?"

"He wasn't answering. And like I said, I was worried."

"Would you mind calling him again?"

Peebles called again, with his phone on speaker so Jesse could hear. There was a generic voicemail greeting, and the mailbox was full.

"Are you going to check on him or what?" Peebles asked. He seemed to be growing increasingly agitated.

"Let's go knock on the door," Jesse said.

He knocked on the door, which wasn't in any better shape than the rest of the house. Then he rang the bell. No answer to either.

"You're sure he's home?"

"Well, pretty sure," Matthew said. "He usually spends a couple weeks out of the country every winter. He doesn't like the cold much anymore. But I thought he was back now."

Jesse rang the bell again.

"Can you kick it in?" Matthew asked.

Jesse looked at him. "I'd rather not do that if he's just on vacation. I think your friend probably wants to come home to a door that works."

"Well, are you going to do anything?" Matthew asked, now clearly aggravated.

Jesse nodded. "I think I might try the back way first."

He went around the side of the house and found a gate. It was stuck, as if something was pressing against it. Jesse sighed. "Serve and protect," Molly said. Let's see her come out here and do this, he thought.

He hopped up, caught the top of the gate with both hands, and felt the familiar twinge in his bad shoulder, a relic of the injury that had ended his days playing baseball. He ignored it and scrambled up without looking too ridiculous, he thought. He swung his body over the gate and came down in the yard.

Which looked like it was auditioning for a landfill, Jesse thought. There was a pile of garbage under his feet heaped up against the gate. The random junk was holding it shut. Old tires, layers of cardboard boxes, plastic restaurant-sized jugs of condiments and sauces, both empty and full. A child's wagon. A stack of broken lawn furniture. Heavy black garbage bags.

Jesse shifted his balance, trying to stay upright, and picked his way toward the back.

He found a sliding glass door, half open, and put on the blue nitrile gloves he always kept in his pocket before walking inside.

The door opened into what must have been the kitchen, and the inside of the house was even more crowded with junk than the yard. The counters were hidden under boxes: cases of motor oil, unopened. Stacks of mail that must have gone back decades. Old phone books. Where do you even get phone books anymore? Jesse wondered. Fast-food wrappers and delivery bags in piles, most of them with rotting food and grease stains.

There was also a familiar smell. Jesse knew that odor. It was not a pleasant one.

He tried to breathe through his mouth.

There was a narrow path in among all the debris. It led to the living room, where Jesse found dozens of moldering cardboard file boxes, some stacked as high as his head, arranged in a semicircle around an old couch.

And the couch was where Jesse found the body.

Two

Phil Burton-Jesse assumed that's who this was-had been there awhile.

It was like he'd built a nest in the living room, the one open space in the house that Jesse could observe.

The decomposition wasn't too bad. The house was dry, and it had been cold until recently. The skin had drawn back from the face, but there was still something recognizably human there. He'd been an old man, his hair strawlike and fried from multiple dye jobs. His eyes were sunken behind tinted aviator glasses, and he wore a button-down shirt with epaulets. He looked deflated, half melted.

Around him on the floor were paper plates and more fast-food containers. This was apparently his dining room as well as his bedroom.

In truth, this wasn't the first time he'd found a body like this in Paradise. Older men, living alone, with no close friends or family nearby, occasionally ended up like this. Waiting for someone to discover them.

But Jesse had never seen a house this far gone before. He'd heard of hoarders, obviously, but he'd never seen one here. He wondered how it started-how you went from hanging on to an old phone book to living like this. What was the tipping point? When did you stop seeing the mess, start...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593544765
• ISBN 13: 9780593544761
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: G.P. Putnam's Sons; https://www.penguin.com/putnam/; ; 1745 BROADWAY Attn: Madison Forsander; NEW YORK; NY; 10019; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland