Frozen Stare - Hardcover
A simple missing-persons case expands into a wide and violent abyss for private eye Jack Grant, who is soon dealing with the world of Chilean exiles and killers who favor chilling means of death
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Richard Schwartz (Missouri) is a Professor of English and Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of Missouri, Columbia. He has also taught at West Point and Georgetown, and is the author of six nonfiction books, including Nice and Noir: Contemporary American Crime Fiction.
The second Jack Grant mystery, The Last Voice You Hear, has not been previously published. Look for it in trade paperback from Midnight Ink in June 2006.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
The second Jack Grant mystery, The Last Voice You Hear, has not been previously published. Look for it in trade paperback from Midnight Ink in June 2006.
I was driving up to Lake to pick up a paper, some coffee, and a sweet roll or a donut. The morning air was cool and dry, and when I checked the San Gabriels I could see every line, ridge, and shrub. My girlfriend's earrings were still in my ashtray; when I turned left of f of California they slid from side to side. She started leaving them there about a month and a half ago. At first their sound was like a new rattle. Now I listened for it, like waiting for a clock to chime.
I parked my blue Celica between a beat-up Ford truck and a burgundy Mercedes and walked across the street to the row of newspaper dispensers at the corner. I picked up a USA Today--I always read it between November and February--and pored over the weather map, checking on all the places where I used to spend my winters. When the Pasadena freeway jams I can sometimes have all four sections of the paper read before I hit the Hill Street exit. It makes me feel as if I'm making progress.
I went into the donut shop three doors from the corner and picked up a cinnamon roll and two large black coffees, one for now and one for the thermos I keep in my car. The girl who always waits on me is named Marta. She has a picture of her family and a gilt-edged holy card of the Little Flower taped to the side of the electronic cash register. When her boyfriend comes in, her brown eyes fall, and she looks like one of those virgin martyrs from an old religious textbook. The rest of the time she shuffles money and makes change like a blackjack dealer at a hundred-dollar table. Marta carries four dozen varieties of donuts, some rolls, bear claws, and an occasional cookie. When a customer isn't able to make up his mind in eight or nine seconds, she becomes impatient. At ten seconds she starts to look like an inquisitor with a short temper and a deep dungeon. Marta prefers the regular customers.
As the mingled smells of coffee, sugar, cinnamon, and grease followed me into the street, I felt like a kid cutting school. I took a sip of my coffee, crossed the street, and sat down in my car. Sliding the seat back, I thought about the fact that I was now setting my own schedule. It wasn't hard for me to remember a time when I didn't have that luxury. The big change for me came when a crisp young army branch chief stared at the bird entrails on his Washington desk and saw a tour of the jungle in my future. He quoted me some convincing statistics from a recent study of career development patterns, informed me that there were no current command slots open for an armor captain in those parts, and encouraged me to see the wisdom of a twelve-month sojourn in the ranks of the United States Army Infantry. It didn't take much to persuade me. My wife had just died--in a way a casualty of the war--and I didn't have anyone or anything left in my private life to protect or save.
The adventure ended abruptly when I saw dirt, rain, mud, and my own blood mix for the first time. I caught half of a Chinese grenade with my right leg. We had been told that they were worthless. That they split in two instead of fragmenting. That the odds were always in our favor. I lost.
I ended up with a slight limp and the loss of the picket fence of ones on my physical profile. Everything suddenly came into focus. There would be no Command and General Staff School at Leavenworth, no more serious promotions, no more command assignments, and a guaranteed return to civilian life after twenty. I had a steady run of light duty, finished up a master's degree in history, and grew philosophic. When I left Fort Knox one fine March morning in my forty-first year, it was thirty-seven degrees and gray, with a steady drizzle and smoky haze hanging over the muddied tank trails crisscrossing the landscape. It looked like the aftermath of some apocalypse in which all of the dirt bike riders of the world had inherited the earth. I pointed my car in the general direction of California and wondered how long it would take the speedometer to reach seventy-five. It took fourteen seconds. My retirement pay cushioned me for a while, but I started to develop some expensive tastes, so I took on some high-risk investigative work. I was reverting. Three swats with a car antenna and two stab wounds brought me to my senses instantly. Then I discovered Valley Mutual and a man named Cliff Henderson.
Valley bills itself as the small-town company. My neighbors in the San Gabriel Valley are encouraged to think of it as their very own: at the ready to protect them whenever they're in need. Those who don't get out much probably don't realize that Valley is also in the San Fernando Valley. And the Simi Valley. And the Santa Inez Valley. And the Napa and Sonoma and Alexander and San Joaquin Valleys. Each year they get a little more neighborly. Henderson is the district manager, the man authorized to hire an investigator for less-than-routine cases of insurance fraud, a growth industry.
Cliff stands five nine, goes about 210, pulls down a salary in the high eighties, and dresses as if he just found the last Robert Hall store in the country. We met at a garage. I was having my brakes checked and Cliff was trying to squeeze some extra miles out of a warranty. We forged a for-profit alliance. I chase down white-collar criminals and he gets company trips to Maui. We meet once every two weeks to exchange paper. I give him reports and he gives me checks. It's not quite the same as liberating Paris or rolling into Berlin with the Third Army, but at least here the opposition doesn't of ten shoot back. Generally they lie, then swear, cry, loosen their ties, and, finally, try to bribe me. I have free time. I dress any way I want to and I have enough money to buy any type of wine that the local grocer carries.
With Cliff I had enough business so that I could replace the block ad in the telephone book with a simple, one-line entry with my name and phone number. I still get some calls--mostly from salesmen--but unless the work is interesting, safe, or lucrative, I refer the spillage to a friend in Glendale named Dave Hagan. Dave still has a taste for the sound of guns and the sight of blood. I send him all the chancy stuff; he likes it that way.
When the call came in it seemed like a safe one--a quick job and a quick check. A man by the name of Joseph Gomercio wanted me to help him find a friend. He said he had heard about me from a mutual friend, a man named Luis Cordon. Luis was from Peru, but he wasn't there now. He was under a three-foot stone cross in East L. A. I had buried him two weeks before.
When they started issuing .45 automatics a few years back, the reason was simple. The .38 will kill but it won't knock you down. The .45 puts you right on your back. Luis was shot twice with a .45, but that much gun hadn't been necessary. He was shot once in each eye. A not very subtle message: Luis had seen something he shouldn't have. I don't like dealing with third parties when the middle guy is dead; you can't be certain about their relationship. In this case I made an exception. Luis had been a special friend and he had kept honest company.
Gomercio claimed to be new in L. A. and confused. I didn't have any trouble believing that. The friend he was looking for had a Spanish surname, but he wasn't in any of the books. Gomercio assured me that nothing was involved but friendship--no dope, no green card problems, no women. He knew that his friend was in Southern California, but he figured that putting notes on bulletin boards or driving around town with a bullhorn would take longer than hiring a pro to do some checking. We arranged to meet before work the next day at the Farmer's Market. He said he had a picture of his friend.
I liked the arrangement. I don't like clients knowing where I live and I don't want them to know that I don't have an office. When I go home at night I don't want to wonder about who's still out in the parking lot. I hadn't been to the market in a while and I wanted some of those grapefruit-sized oranges and Kansas City-quality Delmonico steaks that I never managed to find anywhere else. Things were working out all around. Gomercio promised to meet me in his car near the public phone booth on the north entrance parking lot. I promised him confidentiality, speed, and value for dollar. Actually, value for $250 a day.
I drank down the coffee and had finished most of the cinnamon roll before I reached Highland Park. Traffic was still light as I passed the Golden State Freeway interchange; I should have gotten a second roll. I passed Sunset and turned north onto the Hollywood, wondering where everyone was. I drove across Hollywood on Melrose. It was a little out of my way, but I wanted to drop off a reward to a business acquaintance who had proved helpful in tracking a merchant who had filed one too many claims with Valley Mutual. He had hoped to finance a cheap condo and a lifetime of golf in Palm Springs at the company's expense. I gave my informant a fifth of Don Q rum. It had taken me some time to find it, but I thought he might enjoy it. He smiled and thanked me. As I drove away I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed that he had already opened the bottle and was taking a long pull from it. It was 8: 14 AM. I should have given him Bacardi.
I drove past CBS, tried not to hit any pedestrians on Fairfax, turned into the market parking lot, and looked for a maroon Chevy Nova and a Hispanic gentleman holding a photograph in his left hand and a check in his right.
I give all clients a half hour's leeway for traffic, so I wasn't surprised that Joseph Gomercio had not yet arrived. I reached across the seat for my USA Today and pulled out the sports section. It took about five minutes to check the essential facts and another fifteen to work through the incidental statistics. The first thing I had learned in my new line of work was the fine art of compulsive reading. I was looking for the freshly filled thermos of coffee which had somehow rolled under the passenger seat when three black and whites pulled into the lot and parked behind me. The officers all had that look that said they were too late to make any difference. The man in charge was in plain clothes; he looked like one of those supermen on a Russian propaganda banner--all seriousness and determination. There were just a few differences. He was black and he wasn't carrying a shovel. He was also bigger: six three and about 240 pounds. His name was Frank White.
As I approached him, he spoke." Jack. What are you doing here?"
"Meeting a client, Frank. Why all the cavalry?"
"Mostly to keep the citizens away. A guy was hit here."
"Name?"
"No, nothing yet. We just took the call a few minutes ago. Want to come along?"
"OK, but only for a few minutes. I've got to check back here for my client."
We walked through the row of souvenir and trinket shops and into the food area. A crowd of workmen had formed behind one of the stalls where they sell fresh fish. There was a freshly cleaned skylight overhead. The sun shone on the bloodied aprons of the men. None of them were talking. Frank flashed his shield and said quietly," Please move." It was somewhere between a request and an order. The group parted like the Red Sea before Charlton Heston. On the floor was a large galvanized steel tub, the kind they use at church festivals to ice down the bottled beer. Someone had used it to ice down the victim. He lay there on his back under a layer of shaved ice, his dark eyes open and glistening, staring upward at a sky he could no longer see.
The sawdust on the gray cement floor around the tub had been trampled by the hawkers in the streaked aprons. Any identifiable footprints were long gone. Frank looked at the floor and then at me.
"Looks like a damned cattle drive came through," I said. He nodded. The body in the tub was dressed in a brown business suit with a white shirt and conservative striped tie. Frank took a pen out of his jacket pocket and put it through the ice and into the man's mouth. With some difficulty he parted the man's lips. Gold fillings were visible, in front as well as in back. Then he put the pen into one of the man's coat sleeves and raised a hand. On it was a gold ring with a diamond of at least half a carat." It wasn't a mugger," I said. Frank rolled up his own sleeve and reached into the icy water, feeling for the man's wallet. It was in his jacket pocket.
Frank opened it." No credit cards," he said," but there's a driver's license. Joseph--"
"Gomercio," I said.
"How did you know that?"
"Because the day started too well."
"You know him?"
"I talked to him on Tuesday. He was the client I came here to meet."
Frank motioned to one of the uniformed policemen." Clear out all the curiosity seekers," he said." Get one of those tarps from over there in the corner and cover up the tub until Dailey arrives with his people. Mr. Grant and I will be over at that table."
While the uniforms covered the body and removed the civilians, we sat down at a white wrought iron table with leaf work on the legs and a dusty glass top. One of the butchers brought us some unsolicited coffee in ceramic mugs with other people's names on them. I said thanks; Frank just smiled and nodded.
"What was the job?" he asked.
"Nothing, really. He was trying to find a friend. He wanted some help and called me."
"Name?"
"Ramos."
"Any description?"
"No. I was supposed to get a picture along with my retainer." Frank opened the man's wallet and spread the contents on the table. I took a sip of the coffee; it wasn't bad. Frank still hadn't touched his. The driver's license carried a San Gabriel address. There were no credit cards, no bank cards, no business cards, and no personal photographs. In the front flap was $35, in the back $250, as if Gomercio had separated out my fee so that he wouldn't be tempted to spend it. There was also a card with a prayer in Spanish, a faded picture of the San Gabriel Mission, and a soggy piece of cardboard with my telephone number written on it in dark pencil. That was all.
"Dailey and his people will be here soon," Frank said." We'll get the body out of the tub and go through all of the pockets. Maybe we'll turn up something."
"I didn't see any blood or bruises."
"No, I didn't either," Frank said." Just the big eyes and the blank stare. The cheeks are starting to swell . . ."
"What do you make of the ice? An attempt to mask the time of death?"
"Possibly." Frank paused, thought a moment, and then continued." If there was some sign of struggle, you might figure that the man was being tortured. After all . . . there are easier ways to do this. If you simply want to kill somebody you can hold his head underwater in a bathtub or wrap a baggie over his face. There's no reason to put him on ice like a dead fish and no reason to lay him on his back so that he has to watch. A quick blow to the temple and a toss into a freezer would have done the job. Simple. This is complicated. I don't like it. It was planned. Somebody knew he was coming here and wanted him to be found. The L. A. market? Hell, you might just as well put him on the lead tram at the Universal tour or strap him to a seat on the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland. People who kill this way are either smart, psychotic, or connected. I don't like any of those possibilities. I'd rather deal with simple crimes of passion." "Maybe it was simpler than it looks," I said." Gomercio might have been followed. A pop on the back of the head . . . the guy looks into his eyes, decides he's not up to bludgeoning him to death, and tosses him into some water . . . then adds the ice to confuse the cop...
I parked my blue Celica between a beat-up Ford truck and a burgundy Mercedes and walked across the street to the row of newspaper dispensers at the corner. I picked up a USA Today--I always read it between November and February--and pored over the weather map, checking on all the places where I used to spend my winters. When the Pasadena freeway jams I can sometimes have all four sections of the paper read before I hit the Hill Street exit. It makes me feel as if I'm making progress.
I went into the donut shop three doors from the corner and picked up a cinnamon roll and two large black coffees, one for now and one for the thermos I keep in my car. The girl who always waits on me is named Marta. She has a picture of her family and a gilt-edged holy card of the Little Flower taped to the side of the electronic cash register. When her boyfriend comes in, her brown eyes fall, and she looks like one of those virgin martyrs from an old religious textbook. The rest of the time she shuffles money and makes change like a blackjack dealer at a hundred-dollar table. Marta carries four dozen varieties of donuts, some rolls, bear claws, and an occasional cookie. When a customer isn't able to make up his mind in eight or nine seconds, she becomes impatient. At ten seconds she starts to look like an inquisitor with a short temper and a deep dungeon. Marta prefers the regular customers.
As the mingled smells of coffee, sugar, cinnamon, and grease followed me into the street, I felt like a kid cutting school. I took a sip of my coffee, crossed the street, and sat down in my car. Sliding the seat back, I thought about the fact that I was now setting my own schedule. It wasn't hard for me to remember a time when I didn't have that luxury. The big change for me came when a crisp young army branch chief stared at the bird entrails on his Washington desk and saw a tour of the jungle in my future. He quoted me some convincing statistics from a recent study of career development patterns, informed me that there were no current command slots open for an armor captain in those parts, and encouraged me to see the wisdom of a twelve-month sojourn in the ranks of the United States Army Infantry. It didn't take much to persuade me. My wife had just died--in a way a casualty of the war--and I didn't have anyone or anything left in my private life to protect or save.
The adventure ended abruptly when I saw dirt, rain, mud, and my own blood mix for the first time. I caught half of a Chinese grenade with my right leg. We had been told that they were worthless. That they split in two instead of fragmenting. That the odds were always in our favor. I lost.
I ended up with a slight limp and the loss of the picket fence of ones on my physical profile. Everything suddenly came into focus. There would be no Command and General Staff School at Leavenworth, no more serious promotions, no more command assignments, and a guaranteed return to civilian life after twenty. I had a steady run of light duty, finished up a master's degree in history, and grew philosophic. When I left Fort Knox one fine March morning in my forty-first year, it was thirty-seven degrees and gray, with a steady drizzle and smoky haze hanging over the muddied tank trails crisscrossing the landscape. It looked like the aftermath of some apocalypse in which all of the dirt bike riders of the world had inherited the earth. I pointed my car in the general direction of California and wondered how long it would take the speedometer to reach seventy-five. It took fourteen seconds. My retirement pay cushioned me for a while, but I started to develop some expensive tastes, so I took on some high-risk investigative work. I was reverting. Three swats with a car antenna and two stab wounds brought me to my senses instantly. Then I discovered Valley Mutual and a man named Cliff Henderson.
Valley bills itself as the small-town company. My neighbors in the San Gabriel Valley are encouraged to think of it as their very own: at the ready to protect them whenever they're in need. Those who don't get out much probably don't realize that Valley is also in the San Fernando Valley. And the Simi Valley. And the Santa Inez Valley. And the Napa and Sonoma and Alexander and San Joaquin Valleys. Each year they get a little more neighborly. Henderson is the district manager, the man authorized to hire an investigator for less-than-routine cases of insurance fraud, a growth industry.
Cliff stands five nine, goes about 210, pulls down a salary in the high eighties, and dresses as if he just found the last Robert Hall store in the country. We met at a garage. I was having my brakes checked and Cliff was trying to squeeze some extra miles out of a warranty. We forged a for-profit alliance. I chase down white-collar criminals and he gets company trips to Maui. We meet once every two weeks to exchange paper. I give him reports and he gives me checks. It's not quite the same as liberating Paris or rolling into Berlin with the Third Army, but at least here the opposition doesn't of ten shoot back. Generally they lie, then swear, cry, loosen their ties, and, finally, try to bribe me. I have free time. I dress any way I want to and I have enough money to buy any type of wine that the local grocer carries.
With Cliff I had enough business so that I could replace the block ad in the telephone book with a simple, one-line entry with my name and phone number. I still get some calls--mostly from salesmen--but unless the work is interesting, safe, or lucrative, I refer the spillage to a friend in Glendale named Dave Hagan. Dave still has a taste for the sound of guns and the sight of blood. I send him all the chancy stuff; he likes it that way.
When the call came in it seemed like a safe one--a quick job and a quick check. A man by the name of Joseph Gomercio wanted me to help him find a friend. He said he had heard about me from a mutual friend, a man named Luis Cordon. Luis was from Peru, but he wasn't there now. He was under a three-foot stone cross in East L. A. I had buried him two weeks before.
When they started issuing .45 automatics a few years back, the reason was simple. The .38 will kill but it won't knock you down. The .45 puts you right on your back. Luis was shot twice with a .45, but that much gun hadn't been necessary. He was shot once in each eye. A not very subtle message: Luis had seen something he shouldn't have. I don't like dealing with third parties when the middle guy is dead; you can't be certain about their relationship. In this case I made an exception. Luis had been a special friend and he had kept honest company.
Gomercio claimed to be new in L. A. and confused. I didn't have any trouble believing that. The friend he was looking for had a Spanish surname, but he wasn't in any of the books. Gomercio assured me that nothing was involved but friendship--no dope, no green card problems, no women. He knew that his friend was in Southern California, but he figured that putting notes on bulletin boards or driving around town with a bullhorn would take longer than hiring a pro to do some checking. We arranged to meet before work the next day at the Farmer's Market. He said he had a picture of his friend.
I liked the arrangement. I don't like clients knowing where I live and I don't want them to know that I don't have an office. When I go home at night I don't want to wonder about who's still out in the parking lot. I hadn't been to the market in a while and I wanted some of those grapefruit-sized oranges and Kansas City-quality Delmonico steaks that I never managed to find anywhere else. Things were working out all around. Gomercio promised to meet me in his car near the public phone booth on the north entrance parking lot. I promised him confidentiality, speed, and value for dollar. Actually, value for $250 a day.
I drank down the coffee and had finished most of the cinnamon roll before I reached Highland Park. Traffic was still light as I passed the Golden State Freeway interchange; I should have gotten a second roll. I passed Sunset and turned north onto the Hollywood, wondering where everyone was. I drove across Hollywood on Melrose. It was a little out of my way, but I wanted to drop off a reward to a business acquaintance who had proved helpful in tracking a merchant who had filed one too many claims with Valley Mutual. He had hoped to finance a cheap condo and a lifetime of golf in Palm Springs at the company's expense. I gave my informant a fifth of Don Q rum. It had taken me some time to find it, but I thought he might enjoy it. He smiled and thanked me. As I drove away I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed that he had already opened the bottle and was taking a long pull from it. It was 8: 14 AM. I should have given him Bacardi.
I drove past CBS, tried not to hit any pedestrians on Fairfax, turned into the market parking lot, and looked for a maroon Chevy Nova and a Hispanic gentleman holding a photograph in his left hand and a check in his right.
I give all clients a half hour's leeway for traffic, so I wasn't surprised that Joseph Gomercio had not yet arrived. I reached across the seat for my USA Today and pulled out the sports section. It took about five minutes to check the essential facts and another fifteen to work through the incidental statistics. The first thing I had learned in my new line of work was the fine art of compulsive reading. I was looking for the freshly filled thermos of coffee which had somehow rolled under the passenger seat when three black and whites pulled into the lot and parked behind me. The officers all had that look that said they were too late to make any difference. The man in charge was in plain clothes; he looked like one of those supermen on a Russian propaganda banner--all seriousness and determination. There were just a few differences. He was black and he wasn't carrying a shovel. He was also bigger: six three and about 240 pounds. His name was Frank White.
As I approached him, he spoke." Jack. What are you doing here?"
"Meeting a client, Frank. Why all the cavalry?"
"Mostly to keep the citizens away. A guy was hit here."
"Name?"
"No, nothing yet. We just took the call a few minutes ago. Want to come along?"
"OK, but only for a few minutes. I've got to check back here for my client."
We walked through the row of souvenir and trinket shops and into the food area. A crowd of workmen had formed behind one of the stalls where they sell fresh fish. There was a freshly cleaned skylight overhead. The sun shone on the bloodied aprons of the men. None of them were talking. Frank flashed his shield and said quietly," Please move." It was somewhere between a request and an order. The group parted like the Red Sea before Charlton Heston. On the floor was a large galvanized steel tub, the kind they use at church festivals to ice down the bottled beer. Someone had used it to ice down the victim. He lay there on his back under a layer of shaved ice, his dark eyes open and glistening, staring upward at a sky he could no longer see.
The sawdust on the gray cement floor around the tub had been trampled by the hawkers in the streaked aprons. Any identifiable footprints were long gone. Frank looked at the floor and then at me.
"Looks like a damned cattle drive came through," I said. He nodded. The body in the tub was dressed in a brown business suit with a white shirt and conservative striped tie. Frank took a pen out of his jacket pocket and put it through the ice and into the man's mouth. With some difficulty he parted the man's lips. Gold fillings were visible, in front as well as in back. Then he put the pen into one of the man's coat sleeves and raised a hand. On it was a gold ring with a diamond of at least half a carat." It wasn't a mugger," I said. Frank rolled up his own sleeve and reached into the icy water, feeling for the man's wallet. It was in his jacket pocket.
Frank opened it." No credit cards," he said," but there's a driver's license. Joseph--"
"Gomercio," I said.
"How did you know that?"
"Because the day started too well."
"You know him?"
"I talked to him on Tuesday. He was the client I came here to meet."
Frank motioned to one of the uniformed policemen." Clear out all the curiosity seekers," he said." Get one of those tarps from over there in the corner and cover up the tub until Dailey arrives with his people. Mr. Grant and I will be over at that table."
While the uniforms covered the body and removed the civilians, we sat down at a white wrought iron table with leaf work on the legs and a dusty glass top. One of the butchers brought us some unsolicited coffee in ceramic mugs with other people's names on them. I said thanks; Frank just smiled and nodded.
"What was the job?" he asked.
"Nothing, really. He was trying to find a friend. He wanted some help and called me."
"Name?"
"Ramos."
"Any description?"
"No. I was supposed to get a picture along with my retainer." Frank opened the man's wallet and spread the contents on the table. I took a sip of the coffee; it wasn't bad. Frank still hadn't touched his. The driver's license carried a San Gabriel address. There were no credit cards, no bank cards, no business cards, and no personal photographs. In the front flap was $35, in the back $250, as if Gomercio had separated out my fee so that he wouldn't be tempted to spend it. There was also a card with a prayer in Spanish, a faded picture of the San Gabriel Mission, and a soggy piece of cardboard with my telephone number written on it in dark pencil. That was all.
"Dailey and his people will be here soon," Frank said." We'll get the body out of the tub and go through all of the pockets. Maybe we'll turn up something."
"I didn't see any blood or bruises."
"No, I didn't either," Frank said." Just the big eyes and the blank stare. The cheeks are starting to swell . . ."
"What do you make of the ice? An attempt to mask the time of death?"
"Possibly." Frank paused, thought a moment, and then continued." If there was some sign of struggle, you might figure that the man was being tortured. After all . . . there are easier ways to do this. If you simply want to kill somebody you can hold his head underwater in a bathtub or wrap a baggie over his face. There's no reason to put him on ice like a dead fish and no reason to lay him on his back so that he has to watch. A quick blow to the temple and a toss into a freezer would have done the job. Simple. This is complicated. I don't like it. It was planned. Somebody knew he was coming here and wanted him to be found. The L. A. market? Hell, you might just as well put him on the lead tram at the Universal tour or strap him to a seat on the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland. People who kill this way are either smart, psychotic, or connected. I don't like any of those possibilities. I'd rather deal with simple crimes of passion." "Maybe it was simpler than it looks," I said." Gomercio might have been followed. A pop on the back of the head . . . the guy looks into his eyes, decides he's not up to bludgeoning him to death, and tosses him into some water . . . then adds the ice to confuse the cop...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherSt Martins Pr
- Publication date1989
- ISBN 10 0312033486
- ISBN 13 9780312033484
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages216
Top Search Results from the AbeBooks Marketplace
Stock Image
Frozen Stare
Published by
St Martins Pr 1989.
(1989)
ISBN 10: 0312033486
ISBN 13: 9780312033484
Used
Hardcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description A Hard Back. Dust Jacket Condition: Good But Dusty. 0312033486 Good+ Maybe VG. And Not Ex-Library. Seller Inventory # 520106
Buy Used
US$ 4.85
Convert currency
Stock Image
Frozen Stare
Published by
St Martins Pr
(1989)
ISBN 10: 0312033486
ISBN 13: 9780312033484
Used
Hardcover
First Edition
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description HARDCOVER. Condition: Fine. Dust Jacket Condition: Near Fine. First Edition. We're happy to combine shipping to save you some money. We're also always buying collectible book collections. Contact us for details. We're happy to provide pictures of any and all books for you, please just ask! American first edition, first printing. Contains number line 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Virtually no wear to jacket. Jacket is NOT price clipped. Jacket is in a Mylar cover. Covers are clean and bright. Edges are sharp. No tears or creases. The book itself is in Near Fine condition. The binding is straight and tight. No remainder mark. Seller Inventory # sku520006962
Buy Used
US$ 3.82
Convert currency
Frozen Stare
Published by
St. Martin's Press, New York
(1989)
ISBN 10: 0312033486
ISBN 13: 9780312033484
Used
Soft cover
First Edition
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Soft cover. Condition: Very Good. 1st Edition. Advanced reading copy of the first novel in the "Jack Grant" series. Spine faded. In very good unread condition. Seller Inventory # 13009
Buy Used
US$ 12.00
Convert currency
Stock Image
Frozen Stare [inscribed]
Published by
St. Martin's Press, New York
(1986)
ISBN 10: 0312033486
ISBN 13: 9780312033484
Used
Hardcover
First Edition
Signed
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Hardcover. First Edition. Octavo; pp 216; VG-/VG-; ivory spine with blue text; dust jacket has slight rubbing to exterior; mild edge wear; cloth has slight wear to exterior; light wear to edges; strong boards; text block shows light wear to exterior edges; interior clean; inscribed by author. 1314494. FP New Rockville Stock. Seller Inventory # 1314494
Buy Used
US$ 15.00
Convert currency
Frozen Stare
Published by
St Martins Pr
(1989)
ISBN 10: 0312033486
ISBN 13: 9780312033484
Used
Hardcover
First Edition
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Hardcover. Condition: Like New. Dust Jacket Condition: Like New. First Edition. First Edition, First Printing (Full Number Line). Not price-clipped ($16.95 price intact). Published by St. Martin's Press, 1989. Octavo. Black cloth boards stamped in gold. Book is like new; clean with no writing or names. Sharp corners and spine straight. Binding tight and pages crisp with light spotting to page end. Dust jacket is like new. 216 pages. ISBN: 0312033486. 100% positive feedback. 30 day money back guarantee. NEXT DAY SHIPPING! Excellent customer service. Please email with any questions or if you would like a photo. All books packed carefully and ship with free delivery confirmation/tracking. All books come with free bookmarks. Ships from Southampton, New York. Seller Inventory # 91395
Buy Used
US$ 29.99
Convert currency