By Brian McGrory
A reporter's hunt for the reality turns into a race for survival during this 3rd acclaimed Jack Flynn mystery from nationwide bestselling writer Brian McGrory. useless LINE After a months-long dearth of leads, newspaperman Jack Flynn gets an incendiary tip -- the once-in-a-career form of info that each reporter craves. without warning he is immersed in an explosive tale of the Irish mob, the estranged son of mayor Daniel Harkins, and an audacious museum heist. yet no faster does The Boston list put up his revelations than a stunning younger lady, the mysterious whistleblower, is murdered. Shattered through his function within the demise of an blameless, wondering the integrity of his selected career, Jack needs to now additionally worry for his personal lifestyles as he tears the lid off a perilous citywide conspiracy. And with a narrative of this value, there isn't any turning back....
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Extra resources for Dead Line
She was much too good for me. I called out, “Hello,” the single word, happy at its core, just drifting into the vacant air of the room. I thought to myself what a shame it was that she couldn’t answer. Of course, if she could, I’d be facing imminent arrest, so I guess I wasn’t in any great position to complain. The entry was in the middle of the apartment. To my right, the back end, was where she slept, so noted because that’s where the aforementioned bed was, with a soft down comforter tossed haphazardly on top of it, as if she had overslept that morning and rushed into a day that would unknowingly be her last.
First, what kind of jug-head calls himself “Mayor” even to his own staff? ” Second, it obviously meant that she was in the employ of the city, probably as a lawyer in the corporation counsel’s office. Third, it might well indicate that the reason the FBI was investigating her death was because the Feds were probing the mayor on some other issue and were searching for a link to the Kane murder. All of it was interesting, but not terribly conclusive. Still, the nagging got louder, almost to the point of shrillness.
We’re going to have to ask you to leave,” an FBI agent, one of the guys in my face, said. ” My tax dollars at work. I’m trying to remember what the good faculty at the Columbia School of Journalism advised in these situations. Of course, since I instead matriculated at the School of Hard Knocks, I had absolutely no idea. ” I said this dismissively, as if I was running out of patience, and I was. I was. ” “The crime,” I replied, “occurred down the street, in the parking garage. ” Actually, I didn’t really say that last part, not because it wasn’t true, but because if I did, I probably would have been the recipient of a deserved haymaker from this antsy agent hanging all over my space.
Dead Line by Brian McGrory