DreadfulWater Shows Up
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From award-winning literary author Thomas King (aka Hartley GoodWeather) comes a stylish mystery debut featuring ex-California cop Thumps DreadfulWater, a smart and savvy Cherokee Indian whose witty exterior belies a clever, stubborn sleuth.
With his cop life officially behind him, Thumps now makes his living as a fine-arts photographer in Chinook -- a western town snuggled up against a reservation that's struggling for economic independence via investment in a glitzy new resort and casino complex called Buffalo Mountain. It's a slow-paced, good life for Thumps and his eccentric cat, Freeway. Most of the time. But when a dead body turns up in one of the just-completed luxury condos, things change fast -- and not for the better. Photographing corpses is not part of Thumps's master plan.
He can't help getting involved, especially when he realizes that the number one suspect is Stanley "Stick" Merchant, anticondo protestor and wayward son of Claire Merchant, head of the tribal council and Thumps's onetime love. If it affects Claire, it affects Thumps.
It seems that Stick disappeared just about the time of the murder. Coincidence? Or just bad timing? Thumps knows that the police often shoot smart-ass teenagers first and ask questions later. He doesn't want that to happen to Stick. But can Thumps find Stick in time? And can Thumps find a killer before a killer finds Thumps?
DreadfulWater Shows Up marks the arrival of a detective with a difference. With energy and verve and a very special voice, Thomas King and Hartley GoodWeather create an engaging and original page-turner that zings with memorable characters and biting social commentary.
bag. “You want a sandwich?” “I’ll mention that to the sheriff when I see him.” “No time like the present.” “Hockney?” “He’s at the computer building.” The cop in Thumps was suddenly wide awake. “Thought he was on his way back to town.” “He was,” said Cooley, “and then most of New York City showed up.” “What?” “In a helicopter, no less.” Cooley gestured toward the casino. “Corporate types. Old Duke is probably kissing their asses right now.” “You know who they are?” “Nope. Rich white
Takashi called the company about the possibility of the computer being sabotaged.” “Compromised,” said Beaumont. “Couple of days before he was killed.” Hockney lowered his eyes. Thumps knew that Duke didn’t believe in coincidences any more than he did. And right now, the only people who appeared to have anything to gain from “compromising” the computer were the Red Hawks. And the only person with the prerequisite knowledge to keep the computer from going on-line was Stanley Merchant. “Takashi
at it from a different angle. Now it looked fine. He rolled the chair back the other way. It looked fine from here, too. He rolled the chair slowly back toward the main keyboard. There it was. The bad paint job. You could see it only when the wall caught the light in a particular way, from a particular angle. Maybe it was the murders. Maybe it was the shootout at the Songbird Trailer Park. Maybe it was exhaustion. Whatever the reason, Thumps had the strong urge to find a can of paint and a
the bluff all the way to the end. “I think this is what got Takashi killed.” Thumps thought he detected a nervous twitch pass Beaumont’s lips. Traynor put her napkin on the table and nodded. “Then we’d better talk with George.” Thumps picked up the disk. “Maybe I should just give this to the sheriff, and let him figure it out.” “Let’s do both,” said Traynor. “Give George a crack at it. If he can figure out what it is, it’ll save the sheriff some work.” “But you did look at it.” There was
salaries because of the competition. The world of computer technology and technical services is a nasty place. If a company knew how much we were paying our top people, they’d try to buy them off.” “And if our top people knew what other folks made,” said Beaumont, “they’d want to be paid at least as much.” “It’s like sports,” said Traynor. “You pay for your stars and try to keep the ball away from the other team.” Somehow Thumps couldn’t picture Virginia in shorts and a jersey, running the