A songbird is silenced ... by murder.
With her soulful voice and delicate beauty, Starr Hendrix seemed destined to live up to her name and hit it big as a jazz singer. But her career ended before it began, and Mali's father offered Starr a second chance by giving her top billing as singer for his popular jazz band's latest show. Mali isn't surprised when Starr doesn't show — but everyone is shocked when the troubled woman is found savagely murdered....
The prime suspect is a low-life pimp with a grudge against Starr. But then the pimp stops a bullet — and everyone suspects Starr's devastated father of exacting his own revenge. Mali vows to use her experience as a former cop to find the real killer. Her search will take her in and out of the "three B's" of Harlem: the beauty shops, barbershops, and the bars. But it will also lead Mali directly into the path of a killer — one who, if not stopped, will almost surely strike again....
From the Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Do or Die||Series: A Mali Anderson Mystery, , #4|
|Release Date: 02-02-2011|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
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|Parent title||Do or Die|
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Do or Die
Dad could have taken the limo home as he sometimes does after a gig but since I was with him, he wanted to walk. And since he was so angry, he needed to talk.
The air at 4 a.m. held a close, almost sweet smell, not like the salty mist that had bathed us yesterday when we'd leaned over the port-side railing of the QE2. I usually noticed this sweet fragrance after a heavy downpour but it had not rained, at least not since we'd returned to New York.
Late yesterday afternoon we'd stepped from the gangway of a jazz cruise and Dad, after jamming on board and at the Newport Jazz Festival for the last seven days, had grabbed a few hours sleep, then showered, dressed, and left for his regular gig at the Club Harlem.
Music is my father's life but I don't want it to be the death of him. He's in his sixties and I see small nicks of fatigue cutting into the smoothness of his dark handsome face. Lines that weren't there yesterday seemed to have incubated overnight around the edge of his smile. I once suggested (and only once) that he try to slow down, and he huffed and puffed and nearly blew me through the wall.
"Slow down? Hell no. Lionel Hampton's old as water and still moving. Cecil Payne's still blowing baritone and Max Roach's still on the skins. Give me a break, Mali!"
Which I did. And said nothing when he left for the gig, but an hour later, I showed up at the club just to keep an eye on him. At the first hint of exhaustion, I had intended to drag him off stage, even if he killed me when we got home, but he and his guys sailed through both sets, smiled through the applause, and afterward moved easily through the crowd.
"Good show, Anderson," someone called...