BETWEEN A COLD WAR
Shane Scully has found his footing while his partner is going down in flames and a serial murderer rattles L.A.. Each corpse has been mysteriously defiled. Then, in the middle of the hunt, Scully gets an idea that may cost him his life.
AND COLD, HARD TRUTHS...
Scully suspects that someone with inside information has neatly "hidden" one murder inside this messy serial killer case. His copycat theory ignites a crossfire between LAPD and the Feds.
IS A WHITE-HOT CASE OF MURDER.
Now Scully knows he has a ten-year-old cop-killing to clear, while two street-smart detectives lead him into a secret world of international espionage and a powerful counter-terrorism chief from the top of the U.S. government warns him away. To do his job, Scully must risk everything--unraveling the mystery of a Cold War act of betrayal, a brutal street crime, and a killer just waiting to hit again...
"As the case spirals outward from local crime to international espionage dating back to the 1980s, the action rarely lets up. When it does, we're reintroduced to the back story that is one of the pleasures of reading the Scully series."--Los Angeles Times
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
St. Martin's Press
August 01, 2006
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from Cold Hit by Stephen J. Cannell
Chapter Onenbsp; 2:30 a.m.nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp;nbsp; nbsp; The phone jack-hammered me up out of a tangled dream. nbsp; “Detective Scully?” a woman’s voice said. “This is Homicide Dispatch. You just caught a fresh one-eighty-seven. The DB is on Forest Lawn Drive one block east of Barham Boulevard, under the bridge. nbsp; “In the L.A. River again?” I sat up and grabbed my pants. nbsp; “Yes sir. The patrol unit is there with the respondents. The blues say it looks like another homeless man so the duty desk at Homicide Special told us to give you the roll out.” nbsp; “Isn’t that in Burbank? Have you notified BPD?” nbsp; “According to the site map, it’s just inside L.A., so there’s no jurisdictional problem. I need to give patrol an ETA.” nbsp; “It’s gonna take me forty-five minutes.” I started to hang up, but hesitated, and added, “Have you notified my partner, Detective Farrell?” nbsp; “We’ve been trying,” she replied carefully, then paused and said, “He’s not picking up.” nbsp; There was doubt and concern in her tone. Damn, I thought. Did even the civilian dispatchers in the Communications Division know Zack Farrell had become a lush? nbsp; “Keep trying,” I said, and hung up. nbsp; I rolled out of bed, trying not to wake my wife, dressed quickly in fresh clothes, and went into the bathroom where I did my speed groom: head in the faucet, towel dry, hair comb with fingers, Lavoris rinse, no shave. I checked myself for flaws. There were plenty. I’m in my late-thirties and look like a club fighter who’s stayed in the ring a few years too long. nbsp; I snapped off the bathroom light, crossed to the bed, and kissed Alexa. Aside from being my wife, she’s also my boss and heads the Detective Services Group at LAPD. nbsp; “Wazzzzit?” she mumbled, rolling toward me and squinting up through tousled, black hair. nbsp; “We got another one.” nbsp; Coming up to a sitting position immediately alert, she said, “Son of a bitch is six days early.” nbsp; Even in the half-light, Alexa took my breath away. Dark-eyed, with glossy hair and the high cheekbones of a model, she could have easily made a living on the covers of fashion magazines. Instead, she was down at Parker Center, in the biggest boys club on earth. Alexa was the only staff rank female officer on the sixth floor of the Glass House. She was an excellent commander, and deft at politics, while managing to avoid becoming a politician. nbsp; “The L.A. River?” she asked. nbsp; “Yeah, another homeless guy dumped in the wash near Barham just inside our jurisdiction. I don’t know if the fingertips have been clipped off like the other two, but since it’s almost a week off his timeline, I’m praying it’s not our unsub.” nbsp; Unsub stood for Unknown Subject, what law enforcement called perpetrators who hadn’t been identified. We used to use words like him or his, but with more and more female perps, it no longer made sense to use a pronoun that eliminated half the population. nbsp; “If the vic’s homeless and is dumped in the river, then it’s our unsub,” she said. “I better get downtown. Did dispatch call Tony?” nbsp; Police Chief Tony Filosiani was known affectionately by the troops as the Day-Glo Dago, a term earned because he was a kinetic fireplug from Brooklyn. The chief was