Introducing the newest series by the creator of the hugely successful Counterfeit Lottery books. A sympathetic, but seemingly dependent protagonist; a dead American Indian actor who turns out to be Italian; a small-town rife with corruption; and a set of characters, all looking guilty—what could go wrong?
Everyone thinks crime photographer Meggie Monahan is back home in Weyburn, Massachusetts to rebuild her father’s playhouse—until the dead body of an American Indian crashes through the playhouse’s door in the middle of winter. Then the tables turn: Could she really be the link between hundreds of dead undocumented sex-slave workers and the local mob, hoping to help her husband take over the action?
After a deadly fire that demolishes the playhouse, the kidnapping of her sister, and the passionate love of an ex-police detective, no one is sure of anything except that Meggie is uncovering way too much, way too fast. The fatalities are inexplicable—no motives, a knife as a murder weapon, and no suspects.
Could one person really be responsible for all these unthinkable crimes? Meggie intends to find out—if she lives to tell the tale.
He was someone I had never seen before in my life. But I knew who it was. I leaned back in the seat, hugging my dog close to my chest.
“Mort Sicarro,” the man said suddenly turning and offering his hand to me. “I used to be a pretty good friend of your husband’s. But now we need to talk. ‘Missy’ is it?”
“Meg,” I corrected him. “Meg Monahan.”
Mort Sicarro was an older man—dapper, but built like a fire hydrant. His suit was obviously expensive and fit him well. The muscle bulge through his well- tailored jacket looked like he worked out in a gym at least three times a week. His shoes were shiny black oxfords. He obviously took pride in his appearance. He rested his arm across my seat and looked comfortable. Then he lit a cigar and Chewy lapped at the smoke. I took in a shallow breath, then coughed. I was sitting with a gangster, the head of a powerful crime family, in his car.
“Let me tell you something, missy,” he began, and let out a long plumb of smoke. “This county brings in a half a billion—that’s with a ‘b’”—dollars a year with human smuggling.”
He glanced over at me casually, like he’d just told me the score to the Knicks game. Probably wanted to see if I was taking in the information. I was.
“We are seeing five to seven thousand dollars per person, and as the numbers go up, those profits are going to turn into two and a half billion or more this year alone.” He smiled at me, neither a happy smile nor a sarcastic one.
“Big business,” I said, stupidly. “And you’re winning right now, aren’t you?”
“Yep. We are.”