Heat (87th Precinct)
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In the middle of a stifling heat wave, why would an artist intent on committing suicide turn his air conditioning off before taking his life? That’s the question troubling Detectives Steve Carella and Bert Kling until more personal—and deadly—questions threaten to tear Kling’s life apart.
Certain his wife, Augusta, is cheating on him, Kling sets out on a course from which there is no turning back. Meanwhile a dangerous killer from his past begins a similar path destined to end in retribution. As Carella’s case of the mysterious suicide unravels, Kling’s personal life explodes in pain and violence.
An Ed McBain classic, this installment of his famed 87th Precinct series is a triple threat as the three storylines weave together with relentless momentum, culminating in a shattering climax that tears open the heart of one of the precinct’s finest.
and smiled grimly. “And you?” “Zilch. I was the black sheep. I was the son who left home to manufacture coffins. My dear brother, Jerry, was the artiste, you know, following in our father’s footsteps. Churning out utter crap, as it was, but that didn’t disturb my father, oh no. Jerry was carrying on the great family tradition.” “When you say a large chunk of money—” “Millions,” Newman said. “Who gets that now, would you know?” “What do you mean?” “All that money. Now that your brother’s
when you’re finished, if it ain’t too late, I’ll give you those addresses. And be sure you explain I offered to come with you, will you? When you talk to the tenants.” “Yes, I will,” Kling said. “Thanks.” “Sure,” Watkins said. Kling took the iron-runged steps up to the first floor. Below, he could hear Watkins closing and locking the door to his own apartment. The steps and the first-floor landing were badly lighted. There was only one door on the landing. He went to it. No bell. He knocked on
refused. He told her he was perfectly capable of handling his own life. And now…” Brolin sighed. “The way he handled his own life was to end it.” Carella nodded, and then said, “Dr. Brolin, these suicide threats, would they have predated the drawing of his will?” “What will is that?” Brolin asked. “Mr. Newman had a new will drawn last month.” “Oh my, he’d been threatening suicide for almost as long as I’ve been treating Mrs. Newman.” “Then this wasn’t something new.” “Not at all.” “Dr.
location—the same old jazz.” She licked the knife with which she’d been spreading peanut butter and said, “Mmm, you sure you don’t want some of this?” “They needed you for that, huh?” “For what?” “Rewriting, and rescheduling, and—” “Well, Larry wants me for the spot.” “Larry?” “Patterson. At Chelsea. He wrote the spot, and he’s directing it.” “Oh, yeah, right.” “So we had to figure out my availability and all that.” He found himself staring at her as she came back into the living room,
“Well, good,” she said, and smiled. “What time do you have to be back up there?” he asked. Augusta looked at her watch. “I still have a few minutes,” she said. “So will we be going out to dinner tonight, or what?” “I planned on catching a sandwich in the squadroom.” Augusta pulled a face. “Great,” she said. “That means I won’t be seeing you till nine tomorrow morning.” “Nine-thirty, by the time I get uptown.” “Terrific. My first sitting’s at nine-thirty.” “Honey, I didn’t ask Parker to get