Atkins Robert B. Parker's Bye Bye Baby

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-0-85730-500-8
Verlag: No Exit Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 50, 256 Seiten

Reihe: A Spenser Novel

Carolina Garcia-Ramirez is a rising star in national politics, taking on the establishment with her progressive agenda. Tough, outspoken, and driven, the young congresswoman has ignited a new conversation in Boston about race, poverty, health care, and the environment. Now facing her second campaign, she finds herself not only fighting a tight primary with an old guard challenger but also contending with numerous death threats coming from hundreds of suspects. When her chief of staff reaches out to Spenser to help find the culprits behind the most credible threats, Garcia-Ramirez is less than thrilled. Since her first grassroots run, she's used to the antipathy and intimidation women of color often face when seeking power. To her, it's all noise. But it turns out an FBI agent disagrees, warning Spenser that Garcia-Ramirez might be in real danger this time. It doesn't take long for Spenser to cross paths with an extremist group called The Minutemen, led by a wealthy Harvard grad named Bishop Graves. A social media sensation pushing an agenda of white supremacy and toxic masculinity, he denies he's responsible. As the primary nears and threats become a deadly plot, it's up to Spenser, Hawk, and a surprise ally to ensure the congresswoman is safe. This is Spenser doing what he does best, living by a personal code and moral compass that can't ever be broken.

Ace Atkins is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-seven books, including ten books in his Quinn Colson series. Handpicked by the Robert B. Parker Estate nearly a decade ago to continue the Spenser series, he's written nine novels about the iconic private eye. He lives and works in Oxford, Mississippi.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Atkins, Ace

Leseproben

1

The reelection headquarters for Carolina Garcia-Ramirez was deep in Roxbury at the corner of Proctor and Mass, wedged between an all-night liquor store and a Honduran restaurant that advertised the best pollo frito in Boston.

That afternoon, I was dressed appropriately for the dog days of summer. A lightweight khaki summer suit, white linen shirt, and polished wingtips sans socks. I caught a glimpse in the office window and thought I might give George Raft a run for his money.

‘May I help you?’ the receptionist said.

Despite my stunning entrance, the woman had yet to look up from her computer screen.

‘Can you vouch for the Honduran place on the corner?’ I said. ‘Is the pollo frito really the best in the city?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Never been there.’

‘Seems worth investigating.’

‘Soul food joint down on Blue Hill’s much better,’ she said. ‘If you’re into that kind of thing.’

The woman was of a plus size, with long black cornrows and large brown eyes. I smiled, offering half-wattage so as not to distract her from her duties. She had on a white silk top with blue polka dots, a nifty little bow at the neck.

She hadn’t smiled since I walked in the door. Women usually swoon or fall onto the floor with convulsions when I appear.

‘Are you here to see someone?’ the woman said. ‘Or just strolling around asking random-ass questions?’

‘Might as well do both,’ I said. ‘The congresswoman is expecting me.’

‘The congresswoman isn’t here,’ she said. ‘Is there something else I can help you with?’

‘My name is Spenser,’ I said. ‘Kyle Rosen arranged a meeting.’

‘Spenser?’ she said. ‘Is that your first name or last?’

‘Last.’

She asked me my first name and I told her. The woman stopped clicking the keyboard and picked up the phone, speaking so quietly I could barely understand what was being said. After a few moments, she nodded and pointed out a group of vinyl chairs that looked to have been swiped from a Ramada Inn lobby.

‘Gonna be a minute.’

I took a seat by a large plate-glass window. The chair’s split seams had been repaired with silver duct tape.

As I waited, a staff of a dozen or so milled about second-hand desks and wobbly chairs. The paneled wood walls brightened with posters of Congresswoman Carolina Garcia-Ramirez looking as bold and confident as Che Guevara. change, now, and for the people written in block lettering. It sounded like most of the staff was cold-calling potential voters about next month’s primary.

One exasperated young man kept repeating the congresswoman’s name before finally relaying the sad news: Tip O’Neill had died long ago.

Fifteen minutes later, I spotted Kyle Rosen through the plate-glass window. We had never actually met, but I’d seen his picture and read his profile in The Globe.

I watched him crawl from a black SUV and hold the door open for another passenger. I stood as Carolina Garcia-Ramirez stepped out, dressed in a black pantsuit, hair in a tight bun, with a phone firmly clamped on her ear. She was tall, black, and striking. Even if you didn’t know who she was, she looked like somebody.

Another man, small and thin, with hair bleached nearly as white as Tedy Sapp’s, followed from the front passenger seat, carrying a very large leather bag. He struggled to get ahead and open the door.

I looked to the receptionist. She smiled and nodded in their direction.

‘Mr Spenser,’ Rosen said. ‘I’m sorry we’re late. The flight from D.C. was delayed twice.’

Rosen was a young guy, late twenties or early thirties, with wild, frizzy brown hair and black-framed glasses that hadn’t been hip since Buddy Holly died. He was medium height and skinny, wearing jeans and an oversized black T-shirt that said be the change.

I followed Rosen into a private conference room filled with floor-to-ceiling boxes and large stacks of posters. A long oval table was cluttered with coffee cups and fast-food containers, a few legal notepads and office supplies. A sign on the wall read i’m not your mother, kids. please clean up your damn mess.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Rosen said.

‘Any friend of Rita’s.’

‘I met Miss Fiore at a fundraiser last month,’ he said. ‘What a dynamite lady. She told me there’s no one better at what you do.’

‘Besides having a pair of million-dollar legs, she also happens to have a top-notch legal mind.’

The mention of Rita’s legs caused Kyle to flush. Although tough and sexy as hell, she was probably the same age as his mother.

‘Please excuse our offices,’ he said. ‘When you have a reelection every two years, no one wants to sign a long-term lease.’

‘I once had an office in the Combat Zone.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘I’ve heard stories.’

‘Grown men still weep recalling the Teddy Bare Lounge.’

Carolina Garcia-Ramirez walked into the room and stopped cold before tucking her cell back into her purse. When Rosen introduced me, she seemed a bit confused.

‘I thought we covered this,’ she said.

Rosen held up a hand to ask her to let him speak. He got as far as opening his mouth.

‘I do not want, nor do I need, a bodyguard.’

‘Carolina.’

‘Damn it, Kyle,’ she said. ‘I’m exhausted. Our schedule is backed up for the rest of the week. And I don’t have the time.’

Rosen took in a long breath and seemed to be seeking a moment of Zen. He offered me a reassuring smile as he himself appeared to be slightly less assured.

I smiled back. Good ole friendly Spenser.

‘Mr Spenser does a lot more than just security.’

‘I’m also a song-and-dance man,’ I said. ‘May I serenade you with a bit of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered”?’

The congresswoman offered a sour expression. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

The congresswoman was tall and athletic, with light coppery skin, a delicate bone structure, and a longish neck. She was what many would call pretty if it were not offensive to judge a lawmaker solely based on her appearance. Her black pantsuit was stylish and neat, an American flag pin on the collar. She wore gold jewelry subtle enough that even Susan Silverman would approve. The toes of her pumps pointed enough to strike fear in cockroaches everywhere.

‘I really think you need to hear us out,’ Kyle said.

‘I’ve heard all of you and I said no.’

‘Well,’ I said, shrugging. ‘It’s been a delight.’

‘Carolina, please,’ Rosen said. ‘If you’re going to win this thing, you need to focus on the damn issues and quit having to look over your shoulder every five minutes.’

‘How am I supposed to explain personal security to my donors?’ she said. ‘That’s an extravagance we can’t afford right now.’

‘We will work it out,’ he said.

‘And, damn it, it makes me look weak,’ she said.

Rosen wrapped his arms tight around his body and screwed up his mouth to show it was tightly shut. He looked to me and then to Carolina. I looked back and forth to both of them. I felt like a kid standing between feuding parents. I leaned...