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Praise for The Prince of Beverly Hills “Woods’s sturdy, self-assured crime thriller is satisfying enough to expand an already immense fan base.”— Publishers Weekly “Woods writes with smooth confidence as famous names add spice to a diverting summer read that simmers but never gets hard-boiled.”— Kirkus Reviews 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 Informationen zum Autor Stuart Woods was the author of more than ninety novels, including the #1 New York Times bestselling Stone Barrington series. A native of Georgia and an avid sailor and pilot, he began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs , his debut in 1981, won the Edgar Award. Woods passed away in 2022. Klappentext Brash detective Rick Barron enters the infamous Hollywood fast lane in this thriller from the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Stone Barrington series. Los Angeles, 1939. It's Hollywood's Golden Age, and Rick Barron is a suave and sharp detective on the Beverly Hills force. After a run-in with his captain, he finds himself demoted, but soon lands a job on the security detail for Centurion Pictures, one of the hottest studios. The white knight of such movie stars as Clete Barrow, the British leading man with a penchant for parties, and Glenna Gleason, a peach of a talent on the verge of superstardom, Rick is dubbed "the Prince of Beverly Hills" by society columnists. But when he unearths a murder cover-up and a blackmail scam, he finds himself up against West Coast wise guys whose stakes are do-or-die... 1 RICK BARRON HEARD THE HOWL of the engine from at least a block away. He was not happy to be sitting in a patrol car at the corner of Sunset and Camden at two A.M. on a summer evening in 1939; he was not happy to be wearing a badge with the rank designation of Police Officer, instead of the detective’s badge he had worn until the day before; and he was not happy to be in a uniform, instead of a suit. The stiff, new cloth itched. He looked to his right, toward Ciro’s and the Mocambo and the rest of the clubs on the Strip. At this hour, Sunset was devoid of traffic, except for one set of large headlights rushing toward him at a high rate of speed. Rick started the patrol car. This might be fun, he thought. Then he saw the other car. It was a Model A Ford coupe, and it was across the boulevard, coming toward him down Camden, about to stop at Sunset. Only it didn’t stop. The little car drove right through the stop sign, moving slowly, toward the safety of Camden on the other side of Sunset. Rick’s mouth dropped open; this couldn’t be happening. He looked at the oncoming speeder and had just enough time to identify it as a Mercedes-Benz SSK, top down, before it struck the little coupe broadside. The powerful sports car had been doing at least sixty, Rick thought, and it had never even braked. The coupe collapsed as if it had been made of tinfoil, absorbing nearly the entire force of the crash, then spun toward the side of the road and came to rest, hard, against a telephone pole. The Mercedes was not stopped, only deflected. It skidded sideways toward the opposite side of the street, struck the curb and rolled over, flinging its driver into a high oleander hedge before coming to rest in an upright position. Rick picked up the microphone. “This is...
