Robert B. Parker's Buzz Kill (Sunny Randall, 12) - Softcover

Gaylin, Alison

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593715667 ISBN 13: 9780593715666

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

Boston PI Sunny Randall is back to investigate the disappearance of a hard-partying energy drink mogul, in the latest thriller in Robert B. Parker’s bestselling series.

After a near-death experience, Sunny Randall is ready to lighten her load as a PI, that is until she is called upon by billionaire media magnate Bill Welch to investigate the disappearance of his son, Dylan, the cofounder of the Gonzo Energy Drink company. Lazy, unscrupulous and a notorious partier, Dylan isn’t exactly reliable. But Dylan’s mother, Lydia, insists this time is different. She knows him. He’s her son. And she believes he’s in serious danger.

Unable to turn down the Welches’ life-changing offer, Sunny takes on the case, starting off by befriending Dylan's smart young business partner, Sky, who seems like his polar opposite. Sky is bright, innovative, ambitious and empathetic -- yet surprisingly, she adores Dylan, and desperately wants Sunny to find him.

As Sunny traces the marks left behind by Dylan’s past, she must unearth all the skeletons in his closet. She discovers not only his bad behavior with women, but also his reckless moves within the business world, producing an energy drink that, despite its marketing, has proven dangerous and even deadly. Still, Sky insists he’s a good man. Who is Dylan, really? And why has he vanished? When bodies start to pile up, Sunny must find answers quick, before she—and those she cares about—get caught in the crossfire.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Alison Gaylin

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One

I never thought I'd say this," I told Richie, "but I love New Jersey."

Richie grinned. "All you've seen of it is my apartment."

He was correct, if a little generous. I'd seen the kitchen, because my dog, Rosie, had insisted. And then the bedroom, which was where we currently were, lying on our backs in the pink glow of a glorious December sunset, having just caught our breath. The ocean view from the bedroom window was spectacular, and the bed itself was heaven, the sheets a fine Egyptian cotton and with a ridiculously high thread count, bought by Richie especially for this occasion, "because I know you like that fancy stuff." But if I was going to be honest, the rest of Richie's apartment was a blur. "I've seen and experienced the best that the Garden State has to offer," I said.

"Can't dispute that," Richie said.

Rosie nosed open the bedroom door and scuttled in, her claws clacking on the parquet wood floor. She jumped up on the bed and burrowed between us until her big bull terrier head was under both of our pillows, her lower half sticking out, tail wagging. The perfect family portrait. I'd have snapped a selfie so I could paint it later, but I didn't want to ruin the mood.

"I've missed you, Sunny," Richie said.

I gave him sad eyes. "You've only missed me for my dog."

Rosie knew the word dog. On cue, she pulled her head out from the pillows and licked Richie's cheek. He smiled, scratching her behind the ear. "It is a pretty sweet package deal," he said.

It had been nearly five months since I'd been in the same room as my ex-husband. The last time he'd seen me in bed, it had been a hospital bed, and I'd been recovering from stab wounds after a run-in with a psychopath.

And so, for two people who had decided to try to make a go at . . . something . . . we had a lot of catching up to do. Physically speaking, we'd accomplished that mission, but that was no surprise. Nonverbal communication had always been our strong suit. The problem was talking. Figuring out what, exactly, this "something" was.

The one constant throughout our very long and complicated relationship was this: Richie was the one who wanted to put his foot on the gas, while I was content to keep the gearshift in park for as long as I possibly could. It had been the reason we'd divorced-and the reason he'd remarried, had a kid, and divorced again. And it had been the reason I'd gone into analysis.

But things change. People change. Even me. Once you hit a certain age, a long absence can affect you in ways you never expected it to.

"Rosie's missed you, too," I said.

Richie and I had been in touch via phone and the occasional Zoom chat since his big move down the shore (get me, talking like a Jersey girl). But our busy schedules had prevented us from seeing each other until now. On Richie's end, it was starting a new job as general manager of Candy's Room-a bar/restaurant that advertised itself as being "the number-one destination for the world's greatest Springsteen tribute bands"- as well as working out a joint custody schedule for his son, Richard Jr., in a whole new state.

For me, it was the fame I'd acquired as the result of a high-profile case I'd solved-which involved a couple Instagram influencers, as well as the aforementioned run-in with said psychopath. With the Boston press swarming my apartment building and calling me nonstop following my release from the hospital, I'd finally relented, giving an exclusive interview to Tom Gorman, a sweet Globe columnist I'd dated for about a minute the previous year. No sparks. (I'd left my heart, as it seemed, in New Jersey.) But professionally speaking, the interview had changed my life. It went viral, landing me with more work than I knew what to do with. Other than Thanksgiving, this was my first free weekend since July. So at long last, I'd packed a bag, grabbed Rosie, and taken the four-and-a-half-hour drive to Richie's apartment.

So far, the reunion had been better than I'd dreamed it would be. And I have excellent dreams. Ask my shrink. She's blushed more than once-and believe me, she's not a blusher.

I rolled over onto my side and ran a hand through Richie's dark hair, inhaling his clean, familiar scent. Rosie licked my hand and flipped onto her back so I could rub her belly. I could be happy here, I thought. Maybe.

"You ever miss Boston?" I said.

"Yes and no."

"Meaning . . ."

"I don't miss owning the saloon. I don't miss the traffic. I don't miss all the baggage that comes with people knowing who my dad is. But I do miss my dad. I miss the regulars at the saloon. I miss being able to get a decent lobster roll. I miss the lights on the harbor at sunset. I also miss the Bloody Marys at the Russell House and . . . you know . . ."

"Spike?"

"Sure," he said and smiled. "I miss Spike."

I smiled back. "And Rosie."

"We already covered that." Richie kissed my hand. Rosie snuggled between us, and I felt hopeful and confused and nervous and content, all those conflicting emotions rushing back, the way they always did when I was with Richie after a long absence or even a short one. And I could tell he was feeling the same. It seems like you understand each other, my shrink, Susan Silverman, had told me during my last visit.

We do, I'd replied. We always have. But does that mean we belong together?

That's a question only you can answer, she had said, which hardly seemed fair, considering how much time and money I'd invested in her over the years.

I asked Richie how his son was enjoying his new school. He said he loved it. I asked him about work, and he said he couldn't complain. He asked me about my work, and I told him that I couldn't complain, either. Then I let him know that I'd turned down multiple offers from Bill Welch, a multimillionaire who wanted me to "discreetly" track down his wayward son, Dylan-the CEO of an energy drink company called Gonzo and, as a side note, a total douchebag. (I'd dealt with Dylan back in July, and in my humble opinion, he was better off missing.)

"How much did Welch offer you to find his son?" Richie asked.

"Not enough to cancel my weekend plans."

Richie looked at me in a way that could have melted the polar ice caps. "As your weekend plans, I'd like to show my appreciation."

We kissed. We kissed some more. Things progressed. And then, when we were catching our breath for the second time, Richie asked the million-dollar question.

"Sunny," he said. "Where do we go from here?"

I gazed deep into his eyes and gave him a blinding cop-out of a smile. "How about out to dinner?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Richie said. He looked relieved. Or maybe I was just projecting. Another question for my therapist, I supposed.


After we were dressed and outside and he’d locked the door behind us, Richie slipped his arm around my waist. “You know what?” he said.

"What?"

"I wouldn't mind having you nearby for more than just a weekend."

"You say that now, but I only just got here."

"I know."

"You could be really annoyed with me in forty-eight hours."

"I'm willing to take that risk."

I rested my head on his shoulder, the palm of my hand against the back of his coat. It felt terrifyingly comfortable. "I'll think about it," I said.

Richie kissed my forehead. He pulled me closer. "That's good enough for me."

Two

I spent an extra day down the shore. It meant I had to leave on Monday before dawn to get home, shower, change, and go back to my office at a reasonable hour, but it was worth it. I loved Asbury Park in December-the windswept beach, the absolute quietness of it, the Christmas tree Richie and I passed every day during our long walks by the water-a scraggly pine bedecked with...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593715667
• ISBN 13: 9780593715666
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 353
• 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: Buchbär; info@buchbaer.de; ; Weberstr. 67; Osnabrück; 49084; Deutschland