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Summary
Summary
During a 1974 holdup in a Boston bank by a revolutionary group calling itself the Dread Scott Brigade, Emily Gordon, a visitor cashing traveler's checks, is shot and killed. Despite security-camera photos and a letter from the group claiming responsibility, nobody saw who shot her, and the perpetrators have remained at large for three decades. Emily's daughter, decides she needs closure regarding her mother's death, and she turns to Spenser to unravel the thirty-year-old mystery.
Author Notes
Robert Brown Parker was born in Springfield, Massachusetts, on September 17, 1932. He received a B.A. from Colby College in 1954, served in the U.S. Army in Korea, and then returned to receive a M. A. in English literature from Boston University in 1957. He received a Ph.D. in English literature from Boston University in 1971.
Before becoming a full-time writer in 1979, he taught at Lowell State College, Bridgewater State College and Northwestern University.
In 1971, Parker published The Godwuff Manuscript, as homage to Raymond Chandler. The character he created, Spencer, became his own detective and was featured in more than 30 novels. His Spencer character has been featured in six TV movies and the television series Spencer: For Hire that starred Robert Urich and ran from 1985 to 1988.
He is also the author of the Jesse Stone series, which has been made into a series of television movies for CBS, and the Sunny Randall series. His novel Appaloosa (2005) was made into a 2008 movie directed by and starring Ed Harris. He has received numerous awards for his work including an Edgar Award for Best Novel in 1977 for The Promised Land, Grand Master Edgar Award for his collective oeuvre in 2002, and the Gumshoe Lifetime Achievement Award in 2008. He died of a heart attack on January 18, 2010 at the age of 77.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Spenser's respectable 30th outing (he debuted 30 years ago in The Godwulf Manuscript) finds the veteran Boston PI teaming briefly with Jesse Stone, the cop hero of a newer Parker series (Death in Paradise, etc.). The move works because Parker plays it low-key, presenting Stone as just one of many characters who cross Spenser's path as the PI-hired by a friend of his adoptive son, Paul, for the princely sum of six Krispy Kremes-digs into the 28-year-old murder of a woman during a bank robbery; the friend is the slain woman's daughter and wants closure. Before Spenser bumps into Stone, the top cop in Paradise, Mass., he connects the killing to the daughter of big time Boston mobster Sonny Karnofsky, an old foe. When Spenser won't back off, Karnofsky threatens Spenser's girlfriend, Susan, then orders a hit on the PI. Enter as protection longtime sidekick Hawk; other series vets make appearances too on Spenser's behalf, including cops Belsen and Quirk and shooter Vinnie Morris. An interesting new character, a Jewish FBI agent, also helps out. The repartee between Spenser and Hawk is fast and funny; the sentiment between Spenser and Susan and the musings about Spenser's code are only occasionally cloying; and there's a scattering of remarkable action scenes including a tense shootout in Harvard Stadium. Series fans will enjoy this mix of old and new, but the title kind of says it all: this series, probably the finest and most influential PI series since Chandler, could use some forward momentum. (Mar. 10) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Spenser, the highly literate, street-smart private eye, has had a 30-year run through the criminal byways of Boston since the publication of The Godwulf Manuscript. His latest adventure, the twenty-ninth, showcases the strengths of the series: well-developed characters, a deftly constructed plot, dialogue that is witty and crisp without sounding pretentious, evocative settings, and that Parker extra, a clearly defined and beautifully executed moral code. Paul Giacomon, the throwaway kid that Spenser rescued and raised, is now an actor in his thirties. He asks Spenser to investigate a really cold case, the murder of a friend's mother 28 years before in a 1970s revolutionary raid on a Boston bank. Reflecting both his terse wit and well-muscled ethics, Spenser replies, "How enticing," when he's informed that his remuneration for this case will be a carton of Krispy Kremes. Part of the pleasure of this Spenser is watching him gumshoe his way through a series of offices (including the Boston Police Department and the FBI) and homes (ranging from Beantown apartments to an old hippie crib in San Diego), skewering the inhabitants of each with his dead-on perceptions. This Spenser moves. Once he launches his investigation, he discovers that both the FBI and the Mob want the case to remain unsolved, and he's regularly assailed by threats and physical violence. A chase scene through the woods and a hair-raising climax in an Ivy League football stadium are trademark Parker in their well-choreographed creepiness. A terrific addition to the Spenser canon. --Connie Fletcher
Library Journal Review
Spenser's back to help a friend of his protg, Paul, track down the men who killed her mother years ago in a holdup. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 It was a late May morning in Boston. I had coffee. I was sitting in my swivel chair, with my feet up, looking out my window at the Back Bay. The lights were on in my office. Outside, the temperature was 53. The sky was low and gray. There was no rain yet, but the air was swollen with it, and I knew it would come. Across Boylston, on the other side of Berkeley Street, I saw Paul Giacomin walking with a dark-haired woman. They stopped at the light and, when it changed, came on across toward my office. They both moved well, like people who'd been trained. I'd have to see her close-up to confirm, but from here I thought the woman looked good. I was pleased to see that Paul was carrying a paper bag. I swiveled my chair back around and, by the time they got up to my office, I was standing in the doorway. Paul smiled and handed me the bag. "Krispy Kremes?" I said. "Like always," he said. I put the bag on my desk and turned back and hugged Paul. "This is Daryl Silver," Paul said. "My real name is Gordon," she said. "Silver is my professional name." We shook hands. Daryl was, in fact, a knockout. Eagle-eye Spenser. I opened the paper bag and took out a cardboard box of donuts. "They haven't got these yet in Boston," Paul told Daryl. "So whenever I come home, I bring some." "Will you join me?" I said to Daryl. "Thanks," she said. "I'd love to." "That's a major compliment," Paul said to her. "Usually he goes off in a corner and eats them all." I poured us some coffee. Paul was looking at the picture on top of the file cabinet of Susan, Pearl, and me. "I'm sorry about Pearl," Paul said. "Thank you." "You okay?" I shrugged and nodded. "Susan?" I shrugged and held out the box of donuts. "Krispy Kreme?" I said. The rain arrived and released some of the tension in the atmosphere. It rained first in small, incoherent splatters on the window, then more steadily, then hard. It was very dark out, and the lights in my office seemed warm. "How did it go in Chicago?" I said. "The play got good notices," Paul said. "You read them?" "No. But people tell me." "You like directing?" "I think so. But it's my own play. I don't know if I'd want to direct something written by somebody else." "How's rehearsal going here?" "We've done the play too often," Paul said. "We're having trouble with our energy." "And you're in this?" I said to Daryl. "Yes." "She's gotten really great reviews," Paul said. "In Chicago, and before that in Louisville." "I have good lines to speak," she said. "Well, yeah," Paul said. "There's that." With the rain falling, the air had loosened. Below my window, most of the cars had their lights on, and the wet pavement shimmered pleasantly. The lights at Boylston Street, diffused by the rain, looked like bright flowers. "Daryl would like to talk to you about something," Paul said. "Sure," I said. Paul looked at her and nodded. She took in a deep breath. "Twenty-eight years ago my mother was murdered," she said. After twenty-eight years, "I'm sorry" seemed aimless. "1974," I said. "Yes. In September. She was shot down in a bank in Boston, by people robbing it." I nodded. "For no good reason." I nodded again. There was rarely a good reason. "I want them found." "I don't blame you," I said. "But why now, after twenty-eight years?" "I didn't know how to do it or who to ask. Then I met Paul and he told me about you. He said you saved his life." "He might exaggerate a little," I said. "He said if they could be found, you could find them." "He might exaggerate a little." "We lived in La Jolla," Daryl said. "We were visiting my mother's sister in Boston. My mother just went into the bank to cash some traveler's checks. And they shot her." "Were you with her?" I said. "No. The police told me. I was with my aunt." "How old were you when your mother died?" "Six." "And you still can't let it go," I said. "I'll never let it go." I drank some coffee. There were two Krispy Kremes left in the box. I had already eaten one more than either of my guests. "Either of you want another donut?" I said. They didn't. I felt the warm pleasure of relief spread through me. I didn't take a donut. I just sipped a little coffee. I didn't want to seem too eager. "I remember it," I said. "Old Shawmut Bank branch in Audubon Circle. It's a restaurant now." "Yes." "Some sort of revolutionary group." "The Dread Scott Brigade." "Ah, yes," I said. "You know of them?" "Those were heady times," I said, "for groups with funny names." I reached over casually, as if I weren't even thinking about it, and took one of the donuts. "I can't pay you very much," she said. "She can't pay you anything," Paul said. "Solve a thirty-year-old murder for no money," I said. "How enticing." Daryl looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I know," she said. "Awhile ago, I did a thing for Rita Fiore," I said to Paul, "and last week her firm finally got around to paying me." "A lot?" "Yes," I said. "A lot." Paul grinned. "Timing is everything," he said. "Does that mean you'll help me?" Daryl said. "It does," I said. --from Back Story: A Spencer Novel by Robert B. Parker, Copyright © 2003 by Robert B. Parker, Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, a member of the Penguin Group (USA), Inc., All Rights Reserved, Reprinted with Permission from the Publisher. Excerpted from Back Story by Robert B. Parker All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
