Fiona Fitzgerald Mystery #2 : A beautiful young woman dressed in white is found at the bottom of the Duke Ellington Memorial Bridge. Was it a suicide or murder? Fiona Fitzgerald, possessed by a painful personal dilemma, is determined to find out, even if her demons might drive her from the police force. As Fiona goes deeper into the fire, a sexual conspiracy is uncovered involving six men from the highest offices in the country - a great American Sextet!

Críticas

"High-class suspense." -- The New York Times on American Quartet *
"Adler's a dandy plot-weaver, a real tale-teller." -- Los Angeles Times *on American Sextet
"Adler's depiction of Washington - its geography, social whirl, political intrigue - rings true."-- Booklist on Senator Love *
"A wildly kaleidoscopic look at the scandals and political life of Washington D.C." -- ** Los Angeles Times *on Death of A Washington Madame ****

Nota de la solapa

A beautiful young woman dressed in white is found at the bottom of the Duke Ellington Memorial Bridge. Was it a suicide or murder? Fiona FitzGerald, Washington D.C. homicide detective and Senator's daughter, is assigned to the case, and she becomes obsessed with the young victim's death and haunted by her tragic demise. As Fiona delves deeper into the crime, a sexual conspiracy is uncovered involving six men from the highest offices in the country - a great American Sextet!

Biografía del autor

Warren Adler is best known for The War of the Roses , his masterpiece fictionalization of a macabre divorce turned into the Golden Globe and BAFTA nominated dark comedy hit starring Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner, and Danny DeVito. In addition to the success of the stage adaptation of his iconic novel on the perils of divorce, Adler has optioned and sold film rights to more than a dozen of his novels and short stories to Hollywood and major television networks. Random Hears (starring Harrison Ford and Kirsten Scott Thomas), The Sunset Gang (starring Jerry Stiller, Uta Hagen, Harold Gould, and Doris Roberts), Private Lies , Funny Boys , Madeline's Miracles , Trans-Siberian Express , and his Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series are only a few titles that have forever left Adler's mark on contemporary American authorship from page to stage to screen.

Extracto. © Reimpreso con autorización. Reservados todos los derechos.

Fiona's heels sank into the soft earth as she moved across the marsh to the edge of the creek. Her thin raincoat offered little comfort against the persistent drizzle that threw a gloomy chill over the gray morning. She heard Cates's shoes making squishing sounds as he followed close behind her toward the two policemen in shiny slickers. Above her loomed the great brownish arches of the Calvert Street Bridge, recently renamed the Duke Ellington Bridge, over which stretched a symmetrical string of lighted globes.

The body rested precariously on the creek's rim against a rocky outcrop that kept it from slipping into the rushing water.

The early April rain had churned up the ground, stripping away the last vestiges of winter and releasing the earth's pungent odors. After being with Clinton, everything seemed good again—colors deeper, odors richer, sounds clearer. He had crept beside her earlier than usual this morning, but she was instantly awake at his touch. She still tingled with the afterglow of having been with him.

Now, beneath the bridge, she slipped and fell on the damp soil, her nostrils tickled by the manurey smell.

"You okay?" Cates asked, offering his hand. She grabbed it, allowing him to lift her. Struggling upward, she felt a tear in her raincoat, covered now with a coat of mud. Her pantyhose had been ripped along the knees. One thing about being a cop, she thought. It was hard as hell on pantyhose.

She let Cates go ahead of her now, guiding the way along the slippery ground to where the body had landed. As they arrived, the policemen pointed their flashlight beams on the sprawled lifeless heap that was once a young woman. They kneeled beside her, studying the body in the play of light. She was blonde, mid-twenties, Fiona guessed.

"Makes a mess," one of the policemen muttered as Fiona touched the body, lifting an arm. It wriggled, then, when released, fell like a length of heavy rope. On impact, a jumper became crushed bones in a blubbery bag of bruised flesh. Fiona sniffed as her nostrils picked up the body's odor, the stench of death strong enough to mask any natural competition. One of the policemen handed her an alligator purse.

"I didn't open it," he said. She wondered briefly if he had rifled the wallet. The woman's driver license identified her as Dorothy Curtis, born December 8, 1958. The shock of similarity made her wince. Fiona was also born on December 8, six years earlier. The photo on the license showed a remarkably pretty woman. Fiona bent down again to confirm her identity. Except for the mouth, set irrevocably in a tight-lipped smile, it wasn't easy. The body had hit face first.