By R. D. Wingfield
A serial killer is terrorizing the senior electorate of Denton, and the neighborhood police are succumbing to a flu epidemic. drained and demoralized, the strength has to deal with a likely excellent younger couple discomfort arson assaults and loss of life threats, a suspicious suicide, burglaries, pornographic video clips, poison-pen letters...
In doubtful cost of the investigations is Detective Inspector Jack Frost, crumpled, slapdash and foul-mouthed as ever. He attempts to manage regardless of insufficient back-up, yet there's by no means sufficient time; the unsolved crimes pile up and the vicious killings pass on. So Frost has to chop corners and take hazards, figuring out that his Divisional Commander will throw him to the wolves if something is going flawed. And for Frost, issues regularly cross wrong...
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Additional info for Night Frost
Example text
When he saw me he got up and took a Sig Sauer pistol from the table, stuffing it into his waistband, the grip hanging over the lip of his drawstring pants. We shook hands and he walked me over to my bike. He straddled it, started it up, and rode the throttle in neutral. He yelled over the engine, “That Spectre pistol Core's selling you? ” “Mommy. That's too much for a pistol, Bird. It was me I'd charge you three hundy” “That's cool of you, dude, but he ain't budging. ” I stuck my chin at the bike.
Or get shot here and let my partners waste him? Or hope one of them gets a clean line on him right this second? Or lie down and try to stay out of the way of everyone's bullets that were sure to puncture the Monte Carlo any second? Or, or, or … drop the keys? Yes, drop the keys. If I was going to die, then he was going to die too. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and let them fall into the footwell. ” “Motherfucker—” I leaned forward and Provestgaard did too. Mellor, who was closest to the passenger's side of the car, stuck his revolver in the rear window gap and emptied it.
Shoot, in that year, 1987, he probably even had his own computer. It didn't appeal to me. The bullet put the rush of the streets in me and through me. It guaranteed I'd never direct anything but myself, and convinced me that large desks were for castrated dummies. I thought, Fuck that, I'm gonna be an undercover. ” AUGUST 2001—JANUARY 2002 IF ANYTHING, THE shooting proved that my job, and therefore my life, was not glamorous in any way. Pathetically, I'd imagined that undercover life would be like Miami Vice—full of cigarette boats, fast cars, expensive clothes, and perfect tens in bikinis sitting in my lap while I negotiated with drug kingpins.