- File Size: 4217 KB
- Print Length: 300 pages
- Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited
- Publisher: White Bird Publications, LLC (January 13, 2014)
- Publication Date: January 13, 2014
- Sold by: Amazon Digital Services LLC
- Language: English
- ASIN: B00HEXFJ7K
- Text-to-Speech: Enabled
- Word Wise: Enabled
- Lending: Enabled
- Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #1,899,447 Paid in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Paid in Kindle Store)
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"Bones Don't Lie" by Melinda Leigh
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After he and Deborah part ways, Corcoran becomes a successful private detective until a divorce lawyer engages him to sort out the finances of Olly Jensen, husband of his client Sara. During this assignment a relationship develops between Sara and Corcoran, ending when he finds her murdered, a crime Corcoran is accused of committing. Although he’s cleared of the crime, Corcoran’s career plummets and he spends increasing amounts of time with his “friend” Jack Daniels. Ten years later Corcoran receives a late night call from Deborah. We learn who Corcoran’s friends really are and what happens. A lot does, including rebounds!
If you’re a fan of Dashiel Hammett’s and Raymond Chandler’s detective stories, you’re going to like Rebound.
Springboarding off Zenith Rising, his first novel, Goodell again launches us on a whiplash-inducing scramble through Detroit and its tony eastern environs. It’s an eye-opener: Once again, behind the majestic façade of some of Grosse Pointe’s finest homes, “things aren’t quite what they seem.” There are scumbags that you would sell your house to avoid, dark secrets perhaps best left to moulder away in those walnut-paneled studies.
Goodell’s avatar seems an unlikely tour guide: Discredited as a detective “… you’re washed up … out of practice … reflexes too slow … instincts are shot,” (and this from his best friend); pursued by bill collectors; often half in the bag courtesy of his other best friend, Jack Daniel’s Tennessee sour mash whiskey; his head the frequent recipient of blunt force trauma. Being pulled in two different directions by two very different hotties doesn’t exactly help matters, though there are moments when he doesn’t mind much. Yet three things qualify him: He understands cops; outmanned, outgunned, outfoxed, he never gives up; and he has his gumshoes in both worlds, the high and mighty and the 99 percent.
Call him the un-James Bond if you wish (Does he even get to shoot anybody? Is he ever going to get a cell phone?), Corcoran knows how to navigate a wine list and can order Salmon en Croute in places where you just write your member number, but he’s more at home where they sling chili cheese fries with a rocks glass of JD.
Goodell claims not to be a “literary writer, “ yet his prose often rises to the level of poetry. Tucked in and between the lines is a grudging tribute, if not exactly an epitaph or a paean, for that struggling ex-motor metropolis (“Little pockets of life clinging to the edges of the cliff.”) You have to feel for the place, as beaten down as his anti-hero. His stuff has the punch and authentic street smarts of an Elmore Leonard (this on how big-town cops handle a B&E: “They go over, dust for prints … then punt it to the back of the file cabinet.”) Yet he avoids talking down to his audience: He expects you to know what crepuscular and ersatz and gobsmacked mean, who Dalton Trumbo was and how butterflies figure into chaos theory.
The author obviously had fun with this one, sprinkling among the mayhem tips on how to trap a straying spouse, the care and feeding of multiple concussions, and a kind of reverse Preppy Handbook with guidelines on the harsh realities of country club pecking order and what not to drive and how not to dress while visiting the more rarified Pointe eyries.
And throughout there is the stuff of a gripping detective novel: old and new scores to settle, homicides both past and morgue-fresh to investigate, shocks in store for even the most hardbitten, and a mysterious Mr. Big, chuckling in the shadows as he presides over the ultimate murder, the drug-induced poisoning of a city.
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