Before the New York Times bestselling success of Defending Jacob, William Landay wrote this critically acclaimed first novel of crime and suspense—perfect for fans of John Grisham, Scott Turow, and Dennis Lehane.
“Landay writes with eloquent intensity.”— The New York Times Book Review
By a shimmering lake in western Maine, a body lies sprawled in a deserted cabin. The dead man was an elite D.A. from Boston whose beat was the city’s toughest neighborhood: Mission Flats. For local police chief Ben Truman, investigating the murder will mean leaving his quiet home and joining a vengeful manhunt in a world of hard streets and harder bargains. The cops have zeroed in on a suspect, a ruthless predator targeted for prosecution by the murdered D.A. But Ben distrusts the Boston police—especially when he uncovers a secret history of murder and retribution stretching back twenty years. As past and present collide, as tribal loyalties threaten to lynch an innocent man—or let a guilty one go free—one thing remains certain: The most powerful revelations are yet to come.
Includes an excerpt of Defending Jacob
“A crackling debut that answers the question: Who will be the next Grisham?”— Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“An inventive, gripping suspense debut . . . Landay deals out pertinent details with the finesse of a poker player. . . . A rich, harrowing and delightful read.”— Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“[Landay’s] tale is reminiscent of his fellow Beantown writer Dennis Lehane, which is a true compliment.”— Rocky Mountain News
“Waiting for a new Landay novel is like waiting for a guy from Cremona to build a violin: anxious but worth it.”—Lee Child
Winner of the CWA John Creasey Memorial Dagger Award for Best First Crime Novel
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|Title of eBook: Mission Flats|
|Release Date: 08-26-2003|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||Mission Flats|
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Maurice Oulette tried to kill himself once but succeeded only in blowing off the right side of his jawbone. A doctor down in Boston was able to construct a prosthetic jaw, with imperfect results. The surgery left Maurice's face with a melted appearance, and he went to great lengths to hide it. When he was younger (the accident happened when Maurice was nineteen), he wore a bandanna around his face like a bank robber in an old western. This gave Maurice, who was otherwise a mousy and unromantic sort of guy, a dashing appearance he seemed to enjoy for a while. Eventually he got tired of the bank-robber mask, though. He was always lifting it up to catch a breath of fresh air or to take a drink. So he simply discarded the thing one day, and since then Maurice has been about as unself-conscious as a jawless man can be.
Most people in town accept Maurice's deformity as if it were no more unusual to be jawless than to be nearsighted or left-handed. They are even a little protective of him, taking care to look him in the eye, call him by name. If the summer people stare, as even the adults invariably do, you can bet they'll catch an icy stare right back, from Red Caffrey or Ginny Thurler or anyone else who happens to be around, a look that says, Eyes front, mister. Versailles is a nice town that way. I used to think of this place as an enormous Venus's-flytrap with glue-sticky streets and snapping wings that snared young people like me and held us here until it was too late to ever live anywhere else. But these people have stuck by Maurice Oulette and they've stuck by me too.
They appointed me chief of police when I was twenty-four. For a few months I, Benjamin Wilmot Tr