The Puppet Master by Ronald S. Barak Book Tour and Giveaway :)
The
Puppet Master
by
Ronald S. Barak
Genre:
Thriller, Suspense
What
would YOU do if they took everything you had, your family, your home,
your business, your dignity, even—perhaps—your sanity?
S.
Barak's latest, The
Puppet Master,
prequel to The
Amendment Killer,
and the second in the Brooks/Lotello Thriller Series, is a gripping
story of a political system gone awry—and those who feel compelled
to fix it. “Have
you ever killed anyone? I have. I’ll do it again. If I need
to.” Three
prominent political leaders in Washington, D.C., murdered in as many
days.
Not a plausible story premise? What about the real world
villain who recently mailed a series of pipe bombs to a number of
prominent political figures? Ripped from the headlines? Barak gives
new meaning to the word "timely." The
Puppet Master isn't
ripped from the headlines; written first, it forecast the headlines
that followed!
The
Puppet Master begins
with a bang. Literally. Three of them. Not a page wasted. Capitol
Hill panics. Who will be next? Others whisper that our political
leaders are only getting what they deserve. Anxious to see who will
be next. And why.
Crafty D.C. homicide detective Frank Lotello
is tasked to find the killer. Cliff Norman, a local businessman with
ample motive, is arrested. Politicians breathe a sigh of relief.
However, when Lotello discovers a disturbing White House connection,
he suspects Norman may not be what he appears to be. Things may not
be what they appear to be.
Norman's trial commences in the
courtroom of savvy D.C. trial court judge Cyrus Brooks. An angry
nation rallies behind Norman. The jury debates whether Norman's
actions may be legally justified by a rampant abuse of political
trust, and threatens to unravel the very fabric of our dysfunctional
government.
In an unprecedented and questionable manner that
may destroy their respective careers, Lotello quietly approaches
Brooks and they form a secret alliance to uncover the truth in this
classic whodunnit mystery. Before it's too late.
Blurring
fiction and reality, The Puppet Master will have you dangling from
the first page to the very last.
“One
of the year’s best thrillers!”
–Best
Thriller Magazine
“First The
Amendment Killer,
now The
Puppet Master, whenever
Barak brings it, the result is always the same, tense, timely and
terrific!”
–Lee
Child, #1 New York Times Bestselling author of the Jack
Reacher novels
PROLOGUE
Undated
There
are 117 sitting trial court judges in Washington, DC. Judge Cyrus
Brooks always thought of himself as among the best of them. Lately,
however, he was beginning to wonder. It
used to be if you were unhappy about something, you’d write to your
congressman. If he ignored you, then you wouldn’t vote for him the
next time around. You’d vote for the other guy. Maybe, you’d
even campaign for the other guy. But
what if the problem you’re unhappy about is your
congressman? What if you think he isn’t doing his job? What if you
think he’s on the take, corrupt? And what if the other guy is just
as bad? Then what? Brooks
knew you couldn’t just go out and shoot someone because you’re
unhappy. Let alone shoot a bunch of
other people. People you don’t even know. Or
could you? More
and more, there are those today who seem quite willing to do
precisely that, to kill complete strangers just . . . because. That
was the crux of what had been troubling Brooks of late. What if one
of those killers was arrested, and ended up in his courtroom? Could
he assure both the people of Washington, DC and the accused alike a
fair and proper trial? Could he remain impartial, and objective? Brooks
wondered if all his recent doubts meant it was time for him to step
down, to retire. Pass the baton to someone else. But
he waited too long.
Chapter 1
Thursday,
February 5, 7:20 p.m.
US
Senator Jane Wells had also been wondering. Whether tonight might be
the night. Her
last two companions had been disappointing, downright boring.
In every respect.
Almost as boring as her political constituents. And having to pretend
she actually cared about them. Being
single again definitely had its benefits. More or less. No longer
back home in dull, sedate Kansas. But things were still pretty
boring. Maybe she just found it more exciting sampling the other
merchandise when she was stillmarried.
She hoped tonight would prove more fulfilling. Wells
glanced in the mirror opposite her desk, making sure everything was
in order. Not
too bad for a fifty-year-old strawberry blonde in a bottle. Well,
admittedly with a little help from Dr. Nip N’ Tuck. Looks
had never been her problem. Or maybe that was her
problem. Tall
and curvaceous, she still managed to fill out her power suit in all
the right places. Wells closed her briefcase and walked from her
lavish private office out into the spacious and well-appointed
reception area. She carried herself in a way that was not easy for
anyone to miss. “Night,
Jimmy,” Wells said to her new legislative aide, boyishly
good-looking James Ayres. She considered his sandy brown locks and
piercing hazel eyes—kind of a younger, chiseled version of Robert
Redford—imagining for more than just a second what a frolic in the
hay with Ayres might be like. Probably
a lot more virile than my somewhat more successful, but older, recent
partners. Difficult
not to imagine that hard body of his gliding back and forth across
mine. Certainly one way to get better acquainted with the staff! She
tucked that picture away in the not-so-hidden recesses of her mind
for further consideration. Wells’
mind shifted unintentionally from Ayres to her parents. How
disappointed they would be if they knew her real interest—like
that of most of the other members of the WSOC—was not to manage
Wall Street, but to be rewarded by Wall
Street for not really
managing it at all. She also couldn’t help but wonder how her
parents would feel if they knew about her . . . lifestyle. Actually,
she didn’t really wonder at all. She knew precisely how they’d
feel. She didn’t feel much better about it herself. “Good
night, Senator,” Ayres replied, bringing Wells back into the
moment. He summoned the elevator for her. “Robert’s here to drive
you home. He’ll pick you up again in the morning at 9:30 and get
you to the WSOC hearings on schedule.” Wells nodded and stepped
into the elevator.
*
* *
Ayres
stood there, staring at the closing elevator doors. He had followed
Wells to Washington from Kansas after her election. Can’t
fathom how the voters could ever have chosen someone like her over
me. He
shook his head in dismay, turned, and walked back into his office.
*
* *
As
always, good old dependable Robert Grant was right there, waiting for
Wells as the elevator deposited her into the underground parking
garage. “Evening, Senator. How are you tonight?” “Okay,
Robert, bit of a long day. You?” “Fine,
Senator. Thanks for asking. Let’s get you home, then.” That
was pretty much how it was with Grant every night, just a warm and
fuzzy ride home, someone harmless with whom to make small talk. Wells
had occasionally confided in Grant about her dates. He just listened,
didn’t judge. Riding
home, Wells thought about the next day’s hearings, to consider
whether possible Wall Street malfeasance had contributed to the
country’s economic collapse. The hearings were not going to be fun.
With increasing pressure and hostility from both the media and
various public interest groups, it was becoming more and more
difficult to keep up appearances without actually doing much
of anything. Lately, she felt as if she—rather than Wall Street—was
being placed under the microscope and scrutinized. The
job was taking a greater toll on Wells every day. What
do people expect of me? Why are they so damn naïve? Life was clearly
a lot easier when I was just a Midwestern farmer’s daughter looking
to find myself a rich husband and settle down. Maybe that simple life
would not have been so bad after all. Wells’
mind returned to the present. She had a premonition that someone was
watching her. A lump gathered in her throat. She glanced back over
her shoulder and spotted a car that looked like it was watching and
following her. The driver’s eyes seemed to dart nervously away. Did
I put him on guard? Wells
tried to convince herself that she was just being silly, imagining
that someone was actually following her. But she couldn’t help
herself. Her heart was beating. Her breathing was becoming labored. After
another minute, she found herself looking back over her shoulder
again. “Robert, do you see a car back there that seems to be
following us?” She tried to be nonchalant, but her voice gave her
away. Robert
must think I’m nuts. By definition, any car behind us is following
us! Grant
looked in his rearview mirror. “Don’t see anything unusual,
Senator.” They drove on in silence. A few minutes later, Grant
pulled his car into the rotunda outside the townhouse project where
Wells lived. “Here we are, Senator. I’ll walk you to your door.” Somewhat
calmer now, Wells resisted giving into her anxiety any further. She
knew Grant must be concerned about her, but she was far more worried
about the awkwardness that would result if Grant saw her guest for
the evening possibly already waiting at her front door. “Not
necessary, Robert,” she said as she slid out of the limo. “I’m
fine, thanks. See you in the morning.”
*
* *
Grant
watched Wells walk off through the outside lobby entrance to the
townhouse project. He shrugged, and peeked at his watch. Still
time to make it home before the Lakers–Wizards game comes on.
*
* *
He
watched Wells punch in her identification code, pass through the
interior lobby security door and head off down the densely-landscaped
path toward her individual townhouse unit. Seeing no one else in the
lobby, he quickly wedged his foot in the security door before it
fully closed behind her. He slipped quietly through the door,
carefully allowing Wells to put a little distance between the two of
them. He
saw Wells turn. Shit,
did she spot me? She
didn’t show any outward sign of seeing him, but she did reach into
her briefcase, take out her keys, and increase her pace. Moments
later, Wells looked back again. He could tell that this time she
definitely did notice him, his face. She looked directly into his
eyes, recognized him. And probably saw the gloves on his hands as
well. She
seemed more surprised than alarmed. She started to speak. “What are
you . . .” He
had intended to kill Wells only once she was inside her townhouse.
But now she left him no choice. She might start screaming, or run
off. He had to act now. Before
Wells finished her sentence, he got off two shots, muffled by the
silencer attached to his gun. Wells looked confused. She reached for
her chest, where the blood was already spreading. But it was too
late. She was already dead. He
pocketed his weapon and grabbed Wells before she collapsed to the
ground. He grasped the keys still in her hand, opened the front door
of her townhouse, and got both of them inside. He
set her down in the entryway and checked her pulse. There wasn’t
any. He went back outside, turning on a small flashlight he’d
extracted from his pocket. He surveyed the surroundings, mentally
noting every visible splatter of blood. Using the special blood
remover he had found on Google, he cleaned up all of the blood he
could see. The bottled cleaner seemed to do the job nicely. He
picked up Wells’ briefcase and went back inside the townhouse,
setting it down on the entry table and locking the front door. He
lifted her body, carried it into the bedroom, and placed it on the
bed. He
removed and scattered all of her clothing around the room, donned not
one but two condoms, and then proceeded to violate her defenseless
corpse. His intention was to make it appear that the killer was
completely deranged, that he had somehow gained entrance to Wells’
townhouse, killed her, and only then .
. . raped her already-dead body. No
one would suspect anyone of sound mind doing anything like that! Twenty
minutes later, after still one more thorough inspection, he was
satisfied with appearances, how smoothly things had gone, in spite of
his last-minute need to improvise. He allowed himself a moment to
gloat over how well he had carried out this first step in his
plans. Just
the first step. More will follow. Soon. He
was more confident than ever. Even the racking pain in his head was
receding. He quietly left the townhouse and made his way out of the
complex, again reflecting on how well things had seemed to go.
*
* *
And
he would have been right, if not for the couple of minuscule drops of
blood that remained behind at the edge of the front porch. And the
one pair of eyes that peered out at him from the nearby shadows,
watching him as he headed for the exit.
Described
by his readers as a cross between Agatha Christie, Lee Child, and
John Lescroart, bestselling author Ron Barak keeps his readers
flipping the pages into the wee hours of the night. While he mostly
lets his characters tell his stories, he does manage to get his licks
in too.
Barak
derives great satisfaction in knowing that his books not only
entertain but also stimulate others to think about how things might
be, how people can actually resolve real-world problems. In
particular, Barak tackles the country's dysfunctional government
representatives--not just back-seat driving criticism for the sake of
being a back-seat driver, but truly framing practical remedies to the
political abuse and corruption adversely affecting too many people's
lives today. Barak's extensive legal background and insight allow him
to cleverly cross-pollinate his fiction and today's sad state of
political reality.
Ron
and his wife, Barbie, and the four-legged members of their family
reside in Pacific Palisades, California.
Follow
the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!
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