Download Dead Irish (Dismas Hardy, Book 1) by John Lescroart PDF

By John Lescroart

In his new existence as a bartender on the Little Shamrock, Dismas Hardy is simply hoping for a bit peace. He's left either the police strength and his legislation profession at the back of. regrettably it's no longer as effortless to depart at the back of the reminiscence of a shattering own loss-but at the moment, he can continuously take the sting off with a stiff drink and around of darts. but if the scoop of Eddie Cochran's demise reaches him, Hardy is propelled again into every little thing he used to be attempting to break out. Now he needs to untangle an online of outdated secrets and techniques and uncooked passions, for the sake of Eddie's pregnant widow Frannie-and for the others whose lives should be at risk.

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Dead Irish (Dismas Hardy, Book 1)

In his new lifestyles as a bartender on the Little Shamrock, Dismas Hardy is simply hoping for a bit peace. He's left either the police strength and his legislations profession at the back of. regrettably it's now not as effortless to depart at the back of the reminiscence of a shattering own loss-but in the mean time, he can regularly take the sting off with a stiff drink and around of darts.

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Additional resources for Dead Irish (Dismas Hardy, Book 1)

Sample text

You’re a dead man, Bolitar. You hear me? ” I said. ” “Oh, good, because if I were a deaf man, I wouldn’t be able to hear you. ” The horn sounded. ” “Dead man,” he said one more time. ” but he had already spun away. I watched him. He had that confident, slow swagger, shoulders back, arms swaying a tad too much. I was going to yell out something stupid when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned. It was Ali, Jack’s mother. ” Ali asked. Ali had these big green eyes and this cute, wide-open face I found fairly irresistible.

I thought maybe he’d been crying. He was beyond terrified—this from a man I never saw remotely scared before. ” Her eyes were wet now. Terese clasped her hands prayerlike, resting her fingertips on the bridge of her nose. ” I sat back, frowned. ” Terese was not one for hyperbole either. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. ” I asked. ” I nodded. ” “I don’t know that either. ” This was not going to be easy. ” Her hand shook as she picked up the coffee cup and brought it to her lips. ” She kept the cup up, as though using it for protection.

She was not. We said our good-byes, but that hadn’t been the end of us. Terese helped me when I needed it most, eight years ago, and then she vanished back into her hurt. Now she was back. For eight years, Terese Collins had been gone not only from me but from public view. In the nineties, she had been a popular TV personality, CNN’s top anchorwoman, and then, poof, gone. The plane landed and taxied to the gate. I grabbed my bag—no need to check luggage when it was for only a couple of nights— and wondered what awaited me.

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