More Twisted: Collected Stories, Volume 2
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver has famously thrilled and chilled fans with tales of masterful villains and the brilliant minds who bring them to justice. Now the author of the Lincoln Rhyme series (The Cold Moon and The Bone Collector, among others) has compiled a second volume of his award-winning, spine-tingling short stories of suspense.
While best known for his twenty-four novels, Jeffery Deaver is also a short story master -- he is a three-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Reader's Award for Best Short Story, and he won the Short Story Dagger from the Crime Writers Association for a piece that appeared in his first short story collection, Twisted. The New York Times said of that book: "A mystery hit for those who like their intrigue short and sweet . . . [The stories] feature tight, bare-bones plotting and the sneaky tricks that Mr. Deaver's title promises." The sneaky tricks are here in spades, and Deaver even gives his fans a new Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs story.
Deaver is back with sixteen stories in the tradition of O. Henry and Edgar Allan Poe. His subjects range from a Westchester commuter to a brilliant Victorian England caper. With these intricately plotted, bone-chilling stories, Jeffery Deaver is at the top of his crime-writing game.
Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll—” “Shut up.” In his gloved hands, the guy exchanged his gun for Schaeffer’s own pistol and pushed the big chrome piece into the detective’s neck. Then the fake cop pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and stuffed it into the detective’s jacket. He leaned forward and whispered, “Here’s the message, asshole: For two years T.G.’s been setting up everything, doing all the work and you take half the money. You’ve fucked with the wrong man.” “That’s bullshit,”
the answer. “It’s complicated,” Boyle continued. “I think what happened was we didn’t do enough psychological testing. It’s got to do with his mother’s death.” “Phelan’s mother?” “Yeah. He’s got a thing about families. He’s mad because his mother abandoned him by dying when he was ten and he had to raise his sisters.” “What?” “I know, it sounds like psychobabble. But it all fits. Call Dr. Hirschorn. Have him—” “Boyle, Phelan’s parents are still alive. Both of ’em.” Silence. “Boyle? You
“When?” Lescroix demanded. “I don’t remember.” “No? Could it have been just a few days before you hired Jerry?” “No . . . . Well, maybe.” “Did Jerry say anything about the tarp?” “I don’t recall.” Lescroix said patiently, “Didn’t Jerry say to you that the stakes were pounded into the ground too hard to pull out and that he’d have to loosen them somehow to uncover the wood?” Cabot looked up at the judge, uneasy. He swallowed again, seemed to think about taking a sip of water but didn’t.
to kids who were starving or sick, you’d be amazed at how many enemies he had. But I’ll try to give you an idea. Our big drives for the past couple of years have been getting food and HIV drugs to Africa and funding for education in Asia and Latin America. The hardest place to work has been Africa. Darfur, Rwanda, the Congo, Somalia . . . . Ron refused to give money directly to the government. It’d just disappear into the pockets of the local officials. So what we do is buy the food here or in
Silverman realized that he’d been partly right. Doyle’s people had shot up the safe house to flush out Pease—but not to send him to the hospital; they knew the cops would bring him to the jail for safekeeping. The hit man looked up the corridor. None of the other guards had heard or otherwise noticed the killings. The man pulled a radio from his pocket with his left hand, pushed a button and said, “It’s done. Ready for the pickup.” “Good,” came the tinny reply. “Right on schedule. We’ll meet