Dying billionaire Trevor Stone hires private detectives Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaroto find his missing daughter. Grief-stricken over the death of her mother and the impending death of her father, Desiree Stone has been missing for three weeks. So has the first investigator Stone hired to find her: Jay Becker, Patrick's mentor.
Patrick and Angie are led down a trail of half-truths and corruption into a world in which a therapeutic organization may be fronting for a dangerous and seductive cult, a high-tech private investigation firm may be covering up lethal crimes, and a stolen cache of millions in illegal funds may be tied to both disappearances and a tanker full of heroin. Nothing is what it seems as the detectives travel from the windblown streets of Boston to the rum-punch sunsets of Florida's Gulf Coast. And the more Patrick and Angie discover, the more they realize that on this case any wrong step will certainly be their last . . .
Snappy dialogue, explosive action scenes, and original characters have become Dennis Lehane's trademarks. With Sacred, Lehane confirms his status as today's hottest young author of first-rate mysteries that are also smartly written literary novels.
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1 . Great twist a la Shutter Island
Posted April 08, 2010 by MARIAN , CLARKSVILLE, TNYes, I figured it out before the final pages, BUT it was still cool to see if it was going to be as I thought. The characters follow along, running after hunches, being less than clever until that denouement. Fun read. Not as psycholigically deep as Shutter Island, but still clever. Love these characters.
June 01, 1998
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Excerpt from Sacred by Dennis Lehane
A piece of advice: If you ever follow someone in my neighborhood, don't wear pink.
The first day Angie and I picked up the little round guy on our tail, he wore a pink shirt under a gray suit and a black topcoat. The suit was double-breasted, Italian, and too nice for my part of town by several hundred dollars. The topcoat was cashmere. People in my neighborhood could afford cashmere, I suppose, but usually they spend so much on the duct tape that keeps their tail pipes attached to their '82 Chevys, that they don't have much left over for anything but that trip to Aruba.
The second day, the little round guy replaced the pink shirt with a more subdued white, lost the cashmere and the Italian suit, but still stuck out like Michael Jackson in a day care center by wearing a hat. Nobody in my neighborhoodýor any of Boston's inner-city neighborhoods that I know ofýwears anything on their head but a baseball cap or the occasional tweed Scally. And our friend, the Weeble, as we'd come to call him, wore a bowler. A fine-looking bowler, don't get me wrong, but a bowler just the same.
"He could be an alien," Angie said.
I looked out the window of the Avenue Coffee Shop. The Weeble's head jerked and then he bent to fiddle with his shoelaces.
"An alien," I said. "From where exactly? France?"
She frowned at me and lathered cream cheese over a bagel so strong with onions my eyes watered just looking at it. "No, stupid. From the future. Didn't you ever see that old Star Trek where Kirk and Spock ended up on earth in the thirties and were hopelessly out of step?"
"I hate Star Trek."
"But you're familiar with the concept."
I nodded, then yawned. The Weeble studied a telephone pole as if he'd never seen one before. Maybe Angie was right.
"How can you not like Star Trek?" Angie said.
"Easy. I watch it, it annoys me, I turn it off."
"Even Next Generation?"
"What's that?" I said.
"When you were born," she said, "I bet your father held you up to your mother and said, 'Look, hon, you just gave birth to a beautiful crabby old man.'"
"What's your point?" I said.