Money, Money, Money: A Novel of the 87th Precinct (87th Precinct Mysteries)
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It is Christmas in the city, but it isn't the giving season. A retired Gulf War pilot, a careless second-story man, a pair of angry Mexicans, and an equally shady pair of Secret Service agents are in town after a large stash of money, and no one is interested in sharing.
The detectives at the 87th are already busy for the holidays. Steve Carella and Fat Ollie Weeks catch the squeal when the lions in the city zoo get an unauthorized feeding of a young woman's body. And then there's a trash can stuffed with a book salesman carrying a P-38 Walther and a wad of big bills.
The bad bills and the dead book salesman lead to the offices of a respected publisher, Wadsworth and Dodds. This is good news for Fat Ollie, because he's working on a police novel -- one written by a real cop -- and he's sure it's going to be a bestseller.
know you were only dee messenger.” “We want to know whogave you dee money.” “I don’t know his name. Look, if the money was short, I’m sorry. You should have counted it more carefully. Anyway …” “We did coun’ it carefully.” “It took us a fockinhour to coun’ it.” “We counted itvery carefully.” “Dee moneywassen short,” the one with the gun said. “Who gave it to you?” “I told you, I don’t …” “His name,por favor .” The gun was in her face now. “He called himself Frank. But I’m sure that
fly a kite off it!” Antonia laughed at her own witticism. “But it was as queer as monkey soup,” she said, on a comic roll. “A lot of these C-series hundreds were coming through at the time, all of them printed in Teheran on high-tech intaglio presses.” “Whatkind of presses?” Carella asked. “Intaglio,” she said. “What’s intaglio?” Meyer asked. “An embossing technique that uses a very thick gummy ink.” “Is that what intaglio means?” Parker asked Carella. “Thick and gummy?” “How should I
confirmation yet another time. “Yes, at nine-thirty precisely,” Akbar said. “A fitting climax to the first movement.” The men laughed. All but Jassim, who found nothing humorous in any of this. “What kind of bomb are you using?” Nikmaddu asked. “A simple pipe bomb. Two of them actually. Taped together and packed with black powder, nails, and screws. Similar to the one in Atlanta four years ago.” “And the timer?” “A battery-powered clock.” “How will he carry it in?” Nikmaddu asked. “In a
said. “I’m afraid I’ll get killed.” “We’re all afraid we’ll get killed.” “I came so close, Meyer.” “We’ve all come close, one time or another. O’Brien comes close every day of his life.” “O’Brien’s a hard luck cop. And he never had a lion sitting on his chest.” “So what are you scared of? Another lion sitting on your chest? Come on, Steve.” “He almost had my head in his mouth, I could feel his breath on my face, I could smell his breath. Another minute, he’d have closed his jaws on me. I
guessed she thought it made sense to marry a Presbyterian minister and then present him with two daughters, one of whom grew up to be a holy person like Papa. The second and youngest, Cassandra Jean Ridley herself, fed up to here, ran away from home instead. Went to live on a commune in New Hampshire, which was even colder than it was here on this street corner in Isola. Left there when the group’s youth advisor came into her room naked one midnight clear, determined to read to her out loud a