{"product_id":"9781456805845","title":"Letters in Blood: and other Tom Larkin mysteries","description":"Tom Larkin paid fifty grand for his brilliant red casket months   before they planned a sailor’s funeral for him that night. His coffin cruised   at 120 mph with its dash lit like a jet’s cockpit, where the most-important   reading to Larkin glowed on his Porsche’s digital clock--4:00 AM. Perhaps   it was his darkest moment before dawn, but he had other plans. He   drove recklessly, hydroplaning northbound on Manhattan’s flooded FDR   Drive through sheets of pouring rain.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  The drive home took an hour, but, with minimal visibility in a torrential downpour, the flooded Harlem River Drive leading to the George   Washington Bridge concealed potholes rattling the fine suspension of his   German-made wet dream. Larkin’s greater problem—DWI—was a given   they had counted on.  Still, they drugged his last sour mash at Rao’s, just to   up the prelude’s tempo to an evening dirge. With the bad weather, his inebri-   ation, and hallucinations from a subtle drug taking hold of his senses, the   distance between Larkin and home lengthened as time became his enemy.    Vera, his wife, told him she’d kill him the next time he stumbled in   after daybreak. It was no idle threat. He knew she could kill in a crime of    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   passion, especially him. Death lurked at the start and finish of his race   homeward, but, with two strikes against him, only he could fathom the third   --his bent to self destruction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  If all went as planned, Harbor Police would find Tom Larkin dead  behind the wheel after hitting the muddy bottom of the East River, or any   other river. They just wanted him gone, stateside or overseas, no matter   what.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  Larkin still felt sharp an hour after downing his third double Jack   Daniels. In his mind, past, present, and future were clear. Remembering   his hat size, Social Security number, and the measurements of a dozen   bimbos was no problem. He could read his driver’s license number from    three paces, backward, upside down, with either eye or both—without   glasses. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He’d been sharp for two hours before he started driving, but an   hour after his last belt, the one first kicked in with the drugs and   compounded his usual buzz. Seeing Vera as more dangerous than the road,   he sped recklessly despite the hazardous conditions. He had no idea anyone       wanted to kill him for anything other than his flagrant infidelities.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e            To his right, the black depths of the East River was a fatal attraction.   He could be a loser on two counts, but there was a third alternative, the   loser’s hat trick--call strike-three without a swat to stay alive. His own   worst enemy, he knew they might find him dead before dawn on all three   counts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  “Bastards,” he grumbled, cursing his so called buddies who let   him get behind the wheel after he had been pumping drinks for hours. Their   names escaped him. So much for clarity. Sharp as a rose thorn? he  wondered. My ass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  Where were those faceless nonentities? They were friends enough to   buy his fourth drink in a dingy saloon, yet, they had turned their backs when   he squinted to read the address on his parking stub. Had they callously   watched him stumbling to his Porsche trying to get the himself home?  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So much for twenty-twenty fucking vision, he thought. Vera will kill   me if I’m not out of  here.  What time you got, Pal? I can’t read my damn   watch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e        His mind and car sped out of control at a mile a minute. The East   River beckoned. Who could ever see clearly in a dim twilight between  happy hour and an untimely death?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  He shrugged and imagined seeing his own hands clutching the   steering wheel but saw no flesh, only bone. In the rearview mirror, he caught   the malicious grins of three Mexican capungos, bandits   who’d kill as soon as spit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e","brand":"Xlibris US","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47173942214896,"sku":"9781456805845","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/9781456805845_p0.jpg?v=1763863846","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/9781456805845","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}