The fog coiled up around his calves, tentatively touching the hem of his khaki raincoat. He moved only one enormous hand, delivering a thin brown cigarette to his lips. The acrid smoke drifted through the night’s damp to where Raina Manhardt hid in the recessed doorway. She digested his presence,...
It was not long before he discovered why his surveillance expert had not reported on schedule—she was dead, shot sometime between three and four o’clock this morning. Crossing his arms, Bosa mulled. Her murder explained the lapse before her most recent e-mailed report. Whoever had written it had ...