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Summary
Summary
"Suspense that never stops. If you like Michael Connelly's novels, you will gobble up Jonathan Moore's The Dark Room." --James Patterson
A heart-pounding thriller from an "electrifying"* author that shows what happens when our deepest secrets are unburied.
*Stephen King
Gavin Cain, an SFPD homicide inspector, is in the middle of an exhumation when his phone rings. San Francisco's mayor is being blackmailed and has ordered Cain back to the city; a helicopter is on its way. The casket, and Cain's cold-case investigation, must wait.
At City Hall, the mayor shows Cain four photographs he's received: the first, an unforgettable blonde; the second, pills and handcuffs on a nightstand; the third, the woman drinking from a flask; and last, the woman naked, unconscious, and shackled to a bed. The accompanying letter is straightforward: worse revelations are on the way unless the mayor takes his own life first.
An intricately plotted, deeply affecting thriller that keeps readers guessing until the final pages, The Dark Room tracks Cain as he hunts for the blackmailer, pitching him into the web of destruction and devotion the mayor casts in his shadow.
Author Notes
JONATHAN MOORE is an attorney and the author of three previous novels, including The Poison Artist and Redheads , which was short-listed for the Bram Stoker Award.
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
At the start of this intricate thriller from Moore (The Poison Artist), Insp. Gavin Cain of the San Francisco PD is in a Monterey County cemetery, watching the exhumation of a coffin connected to a cold case dating to the mid-1980s, when he's abruptly reassigned. Back in San Francisco, Mayor Harry Castelli has received an anonymous letter with four photographs showing a young woman recoiling in terror, cause unknown. The letter writer suggests the mayor kill himself, or four more photos will go to the media. The exhumation, which finds two bodies in the same coffin, turns out to be linked to the blackmailing of the mayor. Later, Castelli's art student daughter gives Cain a different photograph from the same series, which she found at age 10 in her father's study. Moore, a terrific stylist, provides telling procedural details (a computer-expert friend helps identify the clothing and jewelry in the decades-old photos) and makes good use of the Bay Area setting. The elaborate plot, though, at times strains the reader's ability to suspend disbelief. Agent: Alice Martell, Martell Agency. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
Moore's (The Poison Artist, 2016, etc.) complex and often deeply disturbing crime noir set in the City by the Bay delves into dark subjects and the insidious nature of true evil.Two things happen almost simultaneously to San Francisco Police Inspector Gavin Cain: as he and his newly minted partner, Grassley, stand at the grave of Christopher Hanley, a young boy who died years ago, and watch as the casket is exhumed, following up on a tip, he's summoned to tackle a new challenge. His lieutenant has him flown by helicopter to City Hall to consult with the mayor, Harry Castelli, concerning a series of photographs and a note he received. The photos show a beautiful blonde woman who is clearly terrified, but even more disturbing is the note, which indicates that more photos will come unless Castelli kills himself. Castelli says he doesn't know the woman in the photographs and has no idea why anyone would urge him to commit suicide. Cain and FBI agent Karen Fischer struggle to identify the mysterious and apparently doomed blonde in the black-and-white photos, which they believe were taken 30 years earlier. Meanwhile, Cain, whose personal life is already complicated enoughhis girlfriend, Lucy, hasn't left her home in four yearsis stunned to discover that Christopher Hanley's casket contained not only the corpse of the dead teen, but also the desiccated body of a woman who, judging by the evidence, was buried alive. Moore sketches Cain with a spare pen, leaving the reader to fill in most of the blanks, but his knowledge of police procedure and the nature of the job is immaculate. Moody and macabre with an Edgar Allan Poe feel to it, this book leaves an uncomfortable, indelible impression that can't be shaken by simply putting it down. The featureless Cain and his search for the woman in the casket are irresistible.San Francisco has never been so menacing. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* A dying man's video confession leads to exhuming a body buried in 1985, with horrifying results: lying on top of the embalmed corpse is the body of a woman who was buried alive. San Francisco PD Inspector Gavin Cain is pulled off this case to work one involving Mayor Harry Castelli, who has just received several incriminating photographs of a woman, with a note promising more unless he kills himself. The mayor claims no knowledge of the woman in the photos, but since Cain's boss has hitched her star to the mayor, Cain is immediately assigned to the Castelli case, while still keeping an eye on the exhumation. Inevitably, the two cases become intertwined; meanwhile, Cain's delving into the nefarious activities of an outlawed Berkeley fraternity in the 1980s puts those dearest to him at great risk. Former medical examiner Henry Newcomb, a major player in Moore's spellbinding psychological thriller The Poison Artist (2016), plays a small but key role here, as forensics puts the seal on dogged police work. Moore calls this book the center panel in a triptych that started with The Poison Artist. With this second electrifying noir thriller, readers won't want to wait until 2018, when the third, The Night Market, is scheduled for publication.--Leber, Michele Copyright 2016 Booklist
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 It was after midnight, and Cain and his new partner, Grassley, watched as the excavator's blade went into the hole, emerging seconds later with another load of earth to add to the pile growing next to the grave. On the phone that afternoon, the caretaker of El Carmelo Cemetery had asked if they could do this at night. There were burials scheduled all day, and he didn't want to upset anyone. The time of day hadn't made any difference to Cain. Staying up all hours was his business. He just wanted this done. After three more scoops with the backhoe, the caretaker rotated the arm out of the way and his assistant jumped down into the hole with a long-handled spade. As he did that, the van from the medical examiner's office arrived. As it came up the access road, its headlights scanned across Cain and Grassley, and then paused over the exhumation. The caretaker's assistant climbed out of the hole, blinking against the bright light. Then he took the lifting straps from his boss and jumped back into the open grave. Cain watched the technicians coming up the hill. A man and a woman, young, no more than a few years out of college. Grassley's phone rang, and he checked the screen before he answered. He looked at Cain and took a few steps back. "Yes, ma'am," he said, and then he paused a while to listen. "No, we're out at El Carmelo, in Pacific Grove -- you know, the Hanley thing?" Now Grassley was listening again, pressing his finger into his free ear to dull the excavator's diesel rumble. "He's right here. Hold on." Grassley handed him the phone. "It's the lieutenant," he said. "She wants to talk to you." He took the phone, stepping through the long shadows of the headstones toward the cypress trees at the top of the hill, where he would be farther from the excavator's idling engine. "This is Cain," he said. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" "Something came up. I need to reassign you." "We're right in the middle of something." "I wouldn't pull you off if I had a choice," she said. "But I don't. Grassley can take Hanley from here." "We're two hours south." "That's not a problem," the lieutenant said. "You're -- Where exactly are you?" "El Carmelo," he said. "The cemetery." "Hold on, Cain." He knew she was checking her computer, pulling up a map. There was too much noise on the hilltop to hear her keystrokes. In less than twenty seconds she was back to him. "There's a golf course," she said. "Right next to you. They can set down, pick you up." "They?" "The CHP unit." "You're sending a helicopter?" "It'll be there in ten minutes," she said. "What's going on?" His mind went first to Lucy, but the lieutenant wouldn't have called about her. She didn't even know about Lucy. "We'll talk when you get here, face to face. Not over the phone. Now give me Grassley. I need another word with him." He started toward Grassley, then stopped when he saw the hole. He had to try one more time. He cupped his hand over the phone's mouthpiece, so she'd hear him clearly. "I spent three weeks setting this up." "It's a wild goose chase, Cain. One that's been sitting thirty years. I've got a problem that's less than an hour old. Now it's your problem. Put Grassley on." He came back to Grassley and handed him the phone. It wasn't any use wondering why the lieutenant was pulling him away. Instead, he walked to the edge of the excavated grave and looked down, shining the flashlight he'd been carrying. The caretaker's assistant was kneeling on top of the casket. He'd dug trenches along its sides and was reaching down to fasten the lifting straps. Three decades underground, the kid wouldn't weigh much, at least. And from what Cain understood, by the time he'd finally died, there hadn't been all that much to put in the casket anyway. The assistant climbed out of the hole again and handed the ends of the four straps to his boss. Cain checked up the hill and saw Grassley standing under the tree, one finger in his left ear to block the noise as he talked to their lieutenant. "Inspector Cain?" He turned around, putting his hand up to block the light shining in his face. "That's me." The woman from the ME's office lowered her light and came around to stand next to him. She leaned over to look down into the hole. "You're riding back with us in the van?" she asked. "We heard something like that." "Not me," Cain said. "I just got reassigned." He gestured up the hill toward Grassley. "He'll have to go. You or your partner can follow in his car." "Reassigned? It's two a.m. and we're --" She stopped, following Cain's eyes to look at the light coming toward them from the north. When the helicopter broke out of the clouds and into clear air, they could hear the whump of its rotors. Cain pointed up the hill toward his partner. "That's Inspector Grassley," Cain said. "Make sure he gets in the van, that he rides with one of you. He might want to drive back on his own, but don't let him. We need the chain of custody. You understand. I don't want any problems later, some defense lawyer picking us apart." "I get it," the woman said. "I've got to go," Cain said. He looked back into the hole, shining his light on the casket's black lid. "Let's get this one right." He paused on the way down the hill and looked back up at Grassley. They met each other's eyes and nodded, and that was all. Then he hurried across the access road, toward the long fairway that stretched between the graveyard and Del Monte Boulevard. When he reached the golf course and felt the short grass under his feet, he checked the sky to the north and saw that the helicopter was less than a minute away. He took out his cell phone and dialed Lucy's number. "Gavin?" "Sorry -- I didn't mean to -- I thought I'd get your voicemail." "I was up." He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past two. The grass on the fairway was slick with dew, and he could smell the ocean. "You're okay?" "I'm fine." "You're feeling sick again," he said. He could hear it in her voice. "It's not such a big deal," she said. "Really." "Okay." "Where are you?" she asked. "Down south, near Monterrey. For Hanley." "Hanley?" "The video we got, the guy who --" "That's enough," she said. "I remember. I can't stomach it right now." "No more," he said. "I promise." "Are you coming soon?" "Something came up," he said. "They're sending a helicopter, but I don't know what's going on." "You have to hurry?" He glanced up at the helicopter, saw it swing around as it lined up for the fairway. "I ought to go." "Then call when you can," she said. "Or better yet, just come." "As soon as I can," he said. "Be careful," she said. "Gavin, I mean it." "Try and get some sleep." They hung up and he put the phone away. Then the helicopter came in just above the line of trees, and when it was hovering over the fairway, its spotlight lit up. He walked toward the white circle, one hand in the air to call the CHP pilot in. Excerpted from The Dark Room by Jonathan Moore 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.