The Deadliest Sins by Rick Reed Book Tour and Giveaway :)
The Deadliest Sins
Jack Murphy
Thriller #7
by
Rick Reed
Genre: Mystery, Thriller
Pub
Date: 10/16/18
“Reed
writes as only a cop can.” —Nelson DeMille
Jack
Murphy Won’t Back Down
The
headlines scream the ghastly news of an abandoned truck filled with
murdered immigrants. Detective Jack Murphy and his partner Liddell
Blanchard are on the case. They’ve got a lone survivor, rumors of a
witness, and the feds getting in their way. Jack’s gut tells him
there’s a connection with a local killing—and the bloodshed is
far from over. He’s going up against a butcher who commits the
unspeakable in the name of protecting America. Some say the worst
crime is to look the other way. Jack Murphy only looks for justice .
. .
Chapter 1
The “Coyote” sat in the booth,
drinking stale coffee, eating a crust of cherry pie, and writing in a
five- by nine-inch ring notebook. He had to record his thoughts, his
feelings. That’s what his shrink said. His shrink was an asshole,
but at two Benjamins a session Coyote didn’t want to waste the
advice. The gray-haired waitress shuffled over
in dirty house shoes. She was wearing faded gray sweat pants and a
shirt with stains and smudges of flour. “Coffee?” she asked. Coyote looked around the shabby café.
It was narrow, with a six-foot counter on one side and two ramshackle
booths on the other—one of those had duct tape holding a leg
together. There were no other customers. The varnished seat of the
booth had turned to a gummy residue, but the top was worn smooth.
Mounted in one corner of the ceiling was a defunct surveillance
camera, its wires disconnected and hanging. The coffee in the bottom
of the carafe was black and thick as syrup. She calls this drain
cleaner coffee? He was polite. “No,” he said. His
voice was gruff, deep for a man barely five and a half feet tall. He
was wearing a charcoal-colored Burberry coat, black leather gloves,
black Western Stetson, crisp white shirt with imitation-pearl snap
buttons, creased blue jeans, and Western boots. He wasn’t a big man
by any standard, but only a few men had made the mistake of seeing
him as “small.” The woman said, “Closing in five.” He ignored her as her shoes scuffed
across the stained black-and-white tiles. He dug deep in a pocket and
pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. He slid the twenty under his
cup and read what he’d written so far: I’m tired. Tired of everything and
everyone. People disgust me. Food doesn’t taste good. No happiness
anywhere for me. I see people pretending to sing, their words full of
hate and anger and violence. They dance with faces showing hate and
confrontation. What are they so unhappy about? Why do they want to
disrespect everything they got for free? They won’t work. They
think they can be rich and happy taking drugs. They dishonor their
parents and each other. They fight from a safe distance with texts
and computers and phones. Cowards. Everyone is out for themselves and
the only thing they can agree on is that their elders were wrong,
racist, or homophobic. They don’t see why “elders” always talk
about the past, about the lessons that took a lifetime to learn. They
are confused about who they are, who anyone else is, angry that their
elders didn’t give them more. Why should they take any blame or
responsibility? This is where my mind goes when I’m
on the road. Alone, thank God. My dreams are visions, premonitions of
things to come. Slackers, drug addicts, and alcoholics,
irresponsible, arrogant pretenders surround me. They have created a
world where they matter. They don’t. If the last three or four
generations were wiped from the face of the earth, we wouldn’t
notice. They contribute nothing. They do nothing. They want
everything. They’re using my air. “Time,” the old woman said. Coyote got up. He couldn’t wait to
leave. The smell of putrid coffee mixed with the odor of fried onions
was enough incentive to go. He walked out the door, his boots
crunching on rock salt. He pulled his coat tighter against the frigid
air, looked down the street at the car with the fogged-up windshield.
The asshole had made Coyote wait. Coyote respected that. He tugged the coat collar up around his
neck and face. He pulled a cigarette from inside his jacket and lit
it. Holding it between his lips, he slipped his hands into his
pockets and turned down the alleyway.
Sergeant Rick Reed (Ret.) is a twenty-plus-year veteran police detective. During his career he successfully investigated numerous high-profile criminal cases, including a serial killer who claimed thirteen victims before strangling and dismembering his fourteenth and last victim. He recounted that story in his acclaimed true-crime book, Blood Trail. Reed spent his last three years on the force as the Commander of the police department’s Internal Affairs Section. He obtained a Masters Degree and upon retiring from the police force, took a fulltime teaching position with a community college. He currently teaches Criminal Justice and writes thrillers. He lives in Evansville, Indiana, with his dog, Belle, and his two cats, Hannibal and Clarice.
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