Hire a Hangman - Collin Wilcox - ebook
Opis

A surgeon is gunned down in the street - but who is the woman who wanted him dead? Brice Hanchett is a brilliant surgeon, and those who work alongside the man consider him either godlike or devilish. After years of success, he has begun to believe his own legend, and soon goes too far - toying not just with life and death, but with the heart of every woman he meets. He has a wife and a mistress, as well as the attention of all the nurses in the hospital. One of them is waiting for him when he goes out to his Jaguar, a gun in her hand. It takes only two shots to remind Brice Hanchett that even the finest surgeon cannot cheat death. Investigating the case falls to Lieutenant Frank Hastings and the boys in San Francisco Homicide. Learning that the killer was female should narrow the search, but with a victim like Hanchett, any woman - in scrubs or out - could be a suspect.

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Liczba stron: 351

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Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Monday, September 10

Tuesday, September 11

Wednesday, September 12

Thursday, September 13

Friday, September 14

Saturday, September 15

Looking for more suspense?

Cover

Begin Reading

About the Book

A surgeon is gunned down in the street- but who is the woman who wanted him dead?

Brice Hanchett is a brilliant surgeon, and those who work alongside the man consider him either godlike or devilish. After years of success, he has begun to believe his own legend, and soon goes too far - toying not just with life and death, but with the heart of every woman he meets. He has a wife and a mistress, as well as the attention of all the nurses in the hospital. One of them is waiting for him when he goes out to his Jaguar, a gun in her hand. It takes only two shots to remind Brice Hanchett that even the finest surgeon cannot cheat death.

Investigating the case falls to Lieutenant Frank Hastings and the boys in San Francisco Homicide. Learning that the killer was female should narrow the search, but with a victim like Hanchett, any woman - in scrubs or out - could be a suspect.

About the Author

Collin Wilcox (1924–1996) was an American author of mystery fiction. Born in Detroit, he set most of his work in San Francisco, beginning with 1967’s The Black Door - a noir thriller starring a crime reporter with extrasensory perception. Under the pen name Carter Wick, he published several standalone mysteries including The Faceless Man (1975) and Dark House, Dark Road (1982), but he found his greatest success under his own name, with the celebrated Frank Hastings series.

Hire a Hangman

A Lt. Hastings Mystery

Collin Wilcox

 

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

 

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

 

 

Copyright © 2015 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

 

For the original edition:

Copyright © 2013 by The Mysterious Press, LLC, 58 Warren Street, New York, NY. U.S.A.

 

Copyright © 1991 by Collin Wilcox

 

Project management: Lori Herber

Cover adaptation: Christin Wilhelm, www.grafic4u.de

Cover design by Michel Vrana

 

E-book production: Jouve Germany GmbH & Co. KG

 

ISBN 978-3-95859-589-7

 

www.bastei-entertainment.com

 

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this e-book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Pete and Carolyn,

my old friends

Monday, September 10

9:45 PM

HANCHETT TURNED TO HIS right side, glanced at the bedside clock. By ten-thirty he should be home. But first he must kiss her, stroke her, partially arouse her. Promises made, promises to keep. Then he could leave her bed. Ten minutes to shower and dress. Bringing him to ten o’clock. Another ten minutes, fifteen, perhaps, to kiss her again, stroke her again, keep the flame burning low. Then the drive home: fifteen minutes, portal-to-portal, her place to his.

If Barbara didn’t awaken, he could be asleep by eleven. Seven hours to restore the body, let the heart rest, let the organs relax. Then a new day would begin. Tomorrow, Tuesday, September eleventh. The struggle would begin anew: life, struggling against the inevitability of death, his stock-in-trade.

The struggle that made men rich.

As the hours of September eleventh passed, the sexual pulse, already waxing, would begin to throb: that beat, growing stronger—and stronger. Until he returned here, to her bed. Lying beside her. Beginning. Once more, beginning. He and Carla. Burning bright.

He knew that now, just now, she would speak. It was predictable. After three months together, it was predictable.

It was also predictable that when she spoke it would be preemptive—the predictable, preempting the predictable:

“I know,” she said. “You’re running late.”

“Ah …”He turned toward her, smiled. “You noticed.”

“I like a man who takes his domestic responsibilities seriously.”

“Is that a fact?” He touched her stomach, just above the navel. Her stomach was wonderfully taut. The tennis, the aerobics, the daily sessions on the stationary bike—all of it compounding to gratify his touch, determination defeating flab. Aware that he was quickening, he moved his hand lower. God, the wonder of her body. It was poetry. Pure, sweet poetry.

“I’d appreciate it,” she said, “if you wouldn’t do that. Not unless you intend to put your organ where your hand is.”

He chuckled, withdrew his hand. It wasn’t only her body. It was her élan—her don’t-give-a-damn-flair. Carla was brash. And smart. And essentially ruthless. His kind of woman.

He chuckled again, kissed her, pushed away, slid out of bed. “I do have responsibilities, you know. While you’re working on your forehand tomorrow, I’ll be at the office.”

“I’d rather work on my foreplay. And your foreplay, come to think about it. We mustn’t forget your foreplay. Must we?”

10:07 PM

It was as if she were awakening from a dream to discover the dream incarnate: this same quiet street, these trees, the street-lamp high overhead. Yes, there was his car, a tan Jaguar. To make sure, there was the personalized license plate: BRICE H.

“Check the license plate,” she’d rehearsed, “just to make sure. Absolutely sure.”

And, meek as a little girl, herself so long ago, she’d nodded. Yes, she would check the license plate.

Soon, she knew, he would come to her. It was promised, that he would come to her. The door of the small apartment building across the street would open, and he would begin walking toward his car. He would most certainly pass within a few feet of where she now stood, close beside a large, tall tree. The branches of the tree arched high overhead: dark, mysterious shapes against the night-blue sky. Sometimes dark shapes in the night frightened her. Witches’ wings, overspreading.

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!