John March walked away from his family’s merchant bank for the life of a rural deputy sheriff–a life that would explode in personal tragedy and professional disaster. Three years later, March is back in New York City, working as a private investigator and still running from his grief and guilt. When he takes the case of Rick Pierro, a wealthy investment banker threatened by blackmail, March is swiftly drawn into a web of Wall Street insiders and outcasts, and back to a world he thought he’d left behind. The more he learns about Pierro’s connections to a notorious international bank that made billions in blood-money, the darker the terrain becomes. Soon March’s own life is in danger, as he follows a trail of blood and shattered lives to a ruthless and depraved extortionist.
In this thrilling and intelligent debut, Peter Spiegelman illuminates the dark underside of the financial world and introduces one of the most compelling fictional detectives of the new millennium.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Black Maps|
|Release Date: 12-18-2007|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Knopf Publishing Group|
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|Parent title||Black Maps|
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Everyone was in a bad mood. It was a palpable thing in midtown, as pungent as the bus exhaust on the cold evening air and as loud as the traffic. The streets were awash in it. Cars and trucks and taxicabs were locked in mortal combat, surging forward by inches, then rocking to a halt, their drivers cursing and leaning on their horns, their passengers fuming. Surly streams of people poured from office towers and washed into the gridlock, adding their own fulminations to the angry grind. Sharp elbows and rude gestures were everywhere.
Maybe it was the season that brought it on—a week before Thanksgiving, the cusp of the holidays. Maybe it was the prospect of Christmas shopping, or of all that family time, bearing down like a freight train. Maybe it was the gnawing obsession with this year’s bonus—assuming there was one—or the corrosive dwelling on the next round of layoffs. Maybe everyone was battle fatigued—edgy from the latest terror alerts, strung-out from life in the crosshairs. Or maybe it was just another hellish rush hour. Whatever, it was some nasty karma.
At seven p.m. I was threading my way through these wretches, headed up Park Avenue toward 52nd Street. The intersection was a particular mess. Sawhorses and traffic cones were scattered across it, and in the middle of the street was a trench that belched steam. Steel plates only partly covered the excavation, and I wondered if anyone had yet disappeared into its depths. I crossed 52nd, threading between two taxis, and pushed against a wave of people into the lobby of Mike’s building. I crossed the marble floor to the guard station, produced half a dozen pieces