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Zusatztext Praise for Two Dollar Bill “Fast-paced! glossy! and always entertaining.”— Booklist “A smooth and solid thriller.”— News-Leader (Springfield! MO) More Praise for Stuart Woods “Stuart Woods is a no-nonsense! slam-bang storyteller.”— Chicago Tribune “A world-class mystery writer...I try to put Woods’s books down and I can’t.”— Houston Chronicle “Mr. Woods! like his characters! has an appealing way of making things nice and clear.”— The New York Times “Woods certainly knows how to keep the pages turning.”— Booklist “Since 1981! readers have not been able to get their fill of Stuart Woods’ New York Times bestselling novels of suspense.”— Orlando Sentinel “Woods’s Stone Barrington is a guilty pleasure...he’s also an addiction that’s harder to kick than heroin.”— Contra Costa Times (California) Informationen zum Autor Stuart Woods Klappentext In this thriller in the #1 New York Times bestselling series! Manhattan cop-turned-lawyer Stone Barrington is back on his home turf caught between a filthy rich conman and a beautiful prosecutor... Not long after Stone and his ex-partner Dino make the acquaintance of Billy Bob-a smooth-talkin' Texan packing a wad of rare two-dollar bills-someone takes a shot at them. Against his better judgment! Stone offers Billy Bob a safe haven for the night but almost immediately regrets it. The slippery out-of-towner has gone missing and someone has been found dead-in Stone's town house no less. Now! Stone is now stuck between a stunning federal prosecutor and a love from his past! a con man with more aliases than hairs on his head! and a murder investigation that could ruin them all. 1 ELAINE’S, LATE. For some reason no one could remember, Thursday nights were always the busiest at Elaine’s. Stone Barrington reflected that it may have had something to do with the old custom of Thursday being Writer’s Night, an informal designation that began to repeat itself when a lot of the writers who were regular customers gathered on Thursdays at the big table, number four, to bitch about their publishers, their agents, the size of their printings and promotion budgets, their wives, ex-wives, children, ex-children, dogs and ex-dogs. The custom had withered with the imposition of smoking rules, when Elaine figured that number four needed to be in the smoking section, and since the new, no-smoking-at-all law came into effect, Writer’s Night had never been revived. Anyway, Stone figured, every night was Writer’s Night at Elaine’s, and that was all right with him. On this particular night, every table in the main dining room was jammed, and the overflow of tourists and nonregulars had filled most of the tables in Deepest Siberia, which was the other dining room. The only times Stone had ever sat in that room were either when Elaine had sold the main dining room for a private party, or when he was in deep shit with Elaine, something he tried to avoid. Tonight, however, Elaine was fixing him with that gaze that could remove varnish. He had been to a black tie dinner party and had stopped by for a drink afterward, just in time to secure his usual table, the last available. Now he was sitting there, sipping a brandy, and not eating dinner. Elaine strongly preferred it if, when one sat down at a table, especially on a night as busy as this, one ordered dinner. She didn’t much care if you ate it or not, as long as it got onto the bill. To make matters worse, Dino had wandered in, having also dined elsewhere, and had sat down and also ordered only a brandy. Suddenly, Elaine loomed over the table. “You fucking rich guys,” she said. “Huh?” Stone asked, as if he didn’t know what she meant. She explained it to him. “You go out and eat somewhere el...
