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Zusatztext 82557375 Informationen zum Autor Reed Farrel Coleman , called “a hard-boiled poet” by NPR’s Maureen Corrigan and the “noir poet laureate” in The Huffington Post , is the Edgar-nominated author of twenty-three novels and three novellas, including the critically acclaimed Moe Prager series. A three-time winner of the Shamus Award, he has also won the Anthony, Macavity, Barry, and Audie Awards. Coleman lives with his family on Long Island. Klappentext Nominated for the 2017 Edgar Award for Best Novel From the critically acclaimed and award-winning author comes a gritty, atmospheric new series about the other side of Long Island, far from the wealth of the Hamptons, where real people live-and die. Gus Murphy thought he had the world all figured out. A retired Suffolk County cop, Gus had everything a man could want: a great marriage, two kids, a nice house, and the rest of his life ahead of him. But in the course of a single deadly moment, his family is blown apart, and he is transformed from a man who believes he understands everything into a man who understands nothing. Now divorced and working as a courtesy van driver for a run-down hotel, Gus has settled into a mindless, soulless routine. But his comfortable waking trance comes to an end when ex-con Tommy Delcamino asks him for help. Four months earlier, the battered body of Tommy's son TJ was discovered in a wooded lot, yet the Suffolk County PD doesn't seem interested in pursuing the killers. In desperation, Tommy seeks out the only cop he ever trusted-Gus Murphy. Gus reluctantly agrees to see what he can uncover, and as he begins to investigate, he finds that Tommy was telling the truth. Everyone involved with the late TJ Delcamino-from his best friend, to a gang enforcer, to a Mafia capo, and even the police-has something to hide, and all are willing to go to extreme lengths to keep it hidden. It's a dangerous favor Gus has taken on as he claws his way back to take a place among the living, while searching through the sewers for a killer.***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2016 Reed Farrel Coleman One (Monday Night) Some people swallow their grief. Some let it swallow them. I guess there’s about a thousand degrees in between those extremes. Maybe a million. Maybe a million million. Who the fuck knows? Not me. I don’t. I’m just about able to put one foot before the other, to breathe again. But not always, not even most of the time. Annie, my wife, I mean, my ex-wife, she let it swallow her whole and when it spit her back up, she was someone else, something else: a hornet from a butterfly. If I was on the outside looking in and not the central target of her fury and sting, I might understand it. I might forgive it. I tell myself I would. But I’d have to forgive myself first. I might as well wish for Jesus to reveal himself in my side view mirror or for John Jr. to come back to us. At the moment, my wishes were less ambitious ones. I wished for the 11:38 to Ronkonkoma to be on time. I should have wished for it to be early. I checked the dashboard clock as I pulled into the hotel courtesy van parking spot out in front of the Dunkin Donuts shop at the station. 11:30, eight minutes to spare . But spare time was empty time and I had come to dread it because empty was pretty much all I was anymore. Two years steeped in emptiness and I still didn’t know how to fill it up. My shrink, Dr. Rosen, says not to try, that I should let myself fully experience the void. That if I don’t give myself permission to feel the depth of the abyss, the slipperiness of its walls, I’ll never climb out. The thing is, you have to want to climb out, don’t you? Even a spare minute was chance enough to relive the last two years. Took forever to live it. Takes only seconds to ...
