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Buy As Gift. Overview Special deal! Pre-orders included Who knew that a career in video documentaries could lead to crime? Such is the fate of Chicago's Ellie Foreman whose shoots hook her up with misdeeds past and present. Here she is producing a video about foster children that's being financed by a successful Chicago real estate developer. Her plans get thrown for a loop when a mysterious package appears at her door one winter night. Inside she finds a surveillance video showing the murder of a young woman.
Who was this woman and what is her connection to Ellie? The cops shunt her aside, but the urgency she feels to find answers, coupled with her professional knowledge of film, compel her to sleuth despite the difficulties borne from a complex history with her lover, David. A little digging reveals that the murder victim was a courier with a dark history forged in Eastern Europe at the time of the Soviet Union's collapse.
And a little more digging reveals dark happenings here at home, money laundering, and the deadly price of dealing in diamonds Back home the wind made noise. This quiet was unnerving. She cornered the house. A chain-link fence marked the edge of the property. Beyond it was a field with spindly clumps of grass poking through gritty snow. A tire lay on its side. The field was so flat, civilization seemed to stop at the fence line. This part of the world was like that, she recalled. Something to do with a glacier.
Perhaps she would fall off the edge of the world. She found a second door on the side of the house. She pressed her face against the glass, but a window shade blocked her view. She shifted her feet. In the thin, flat shoes she was wearing, her toes were already numb. She looked around. No movement. No sound. Nothing to indicate a human presence. She grabbed the doorknob and turned.
The door opened easily, and a gust of warm air blew over her. She slipped inside, squeezing her eyes shut in pleasure. She might never have felt anything this good. It was a plain but clean room. Wood paneling on three walls, a white linoleum floor flecked with brown. Two chairs sat beside a low table. She took off her glasses and sank into a chair, kneading her fingers. Without the thick leather band, her tattoo was plainly visible.
The one window in the room was covered with the same flimsy material as the door, but a thin strip of light seeped around its edges.
Enough to make out a light switch on the opposite wall. She went to it and flipped it on.
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She tried the knob; it was locked. On the ceiling, rows of square, spongy tiles looked soft enough to punch her fist through. She tracked the squares to a corner where the ceiling and the wall met. A small black box was anchored to the wall. A camera? She had heard the stories about Chicago. Al Capone. Crime-ridden streets.
Maybe there was some truth to them. Her stomach growled. A muffled sound escaped her throat. They had to be expecting her. Why else leave the door unlocked?
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No response. If no one came soon, she would have to leave. But where would she go? The woman in the airport bathroom said a man had been asking about her outside the door. He claimed to be her brother, the woman said. She told the woman it was her husband, that she was running away from his abuse. The woman clucked sympathetically and let Arin buy her scarf to use as a disguise. Now, she threw her coat on a chair and sat in her cotton t-shirt and jeans. She should be home with Tomas. Cooking his supper.
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Helping him with his studies. She should never have left home. A few days in the hot sun seemed like a gift. How could she have known he would be there? That he was behind it, all of it? She held her head in her hands. She should have figured it out. Years of uneventful transactions had dulled her instincts. A noise from outside startled her. Then a whisper. They had come. She felt almost weak with relief.
As the door started to open, the scalloped edge of the grimy window shade trembled in the incoming draft.
A sudden image of delicate cotton doilies sprang into her mind. With embroidery around the edges. Her grandmother promised they would be hers one day. Ricki Feldman is the type of woman best admired from a distance—if you get too close, you might find some of your body parts missing.
We were seated in a private dining room with dark wood beams, stucco walls, and terra cotta floor tiles. Huge arrangements of fresh flowers—a significant feat in the middle of January—surrounded us. Who knew that a career in video documentaries could lead to crime?
Related An Image of Death: The Ellie Foreman Mystery Series (The Ellie Foreman Mysteries Book 3)
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