Murder, D.C.: A Sully Carter Novel
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“The test of a crime series is its main character, and Sully is someone we’ll want to read about again and again. . . . When the murder victim in the novel is identified as the young scion of one of the city’s most wealthy and influential African American families, the story expands its themes of race and class, which lend it dimension.” —Lisa Scottoline, The Washington Post
Reporter Sully Carter returns in a thrilling murder mystery of race, wealth, and family secrets
When Billy Ellison, the son of Washington, D.C.’s most influential African-American family, is found dead in the Potomac near a violent drug haven, reporter Sully Carter knows it’s time to start asking some serious questions—no matter what the consequences. With the police unable to find a lead and pressure mounting for Sully to abandon the investigation, he has a hunch that there is more to the case than a drug deal gone bad or a tale of family misfortune. Riding the city's backstreets on his Ducati 916, Sully finds that the real story stretches far beyond Billy and into D.C.’s most prominent social circles.
A hard drinker still haunted by his years as a war correspondent in Bosnia, Sully now must strike a dangerous balance between D.C.’s two extremes—the city’s violent, depraved projects and its highest corridors of power—while threatened by those who will stop at nothing to keep him from discovering the shocking truth. The only person he can trust is his old friend Alexis, a talented photographer and fellow war zone junkie, who is as sexy as she is fearless, but even Alexis can't protect Sully from everyone who would rather he give up the story.
Following the acclaimed first Sully Carter novel, The Ways of the Dead, this gritty mystery digs deeper into Sully's past while revealing how long-held secrets can destroy even the most powerful families.
From the Hardcover edition.
going to turn out to be another drug shooting in a city that had averaged almost a homicide every day of every week of every month, all year round. For John, that likely meant another unsolved killing. For Sully, it translated as a fuckall story that was going to take too long and add up to not much. He stopped a few feet from the water. He slid the backpack off his left shoulder, pulled the notebook out of the backpack, and then reached around inside it, looking for a pen. When he found one, he
Melissa said. Sully gave it up. The family, first and foremost, on the drugs angle. Elliot, firsthand and on the record, on the gay thing. John Parker, firsthand and on the record, on where he was found. Tony Hall, firsthand and (this would be a surprise to him) on the record about Billy appearing in the Bend, complete with the homophobic slur. Kenneth, the bouncer, firsthand but off record. And another drug dealer, just as background, but off the record. This was Sly, and Sully did not want
shadows moving from trees in a light breeze, they appeared as Jackson Pollock splotches. Weaver led them up the steps. He went through the door first. The sergeant at arms buzzed them through a locked door, a half-interested flicker across his face when he saw Sully, looking him up and down to assess whether the blood was his or someone else’s. Figuring the latter, he went back to the paperwork. Weaver led him upstairs to the second floor, the detectives’ room, the place smelling of stale
studying their fingernails now. “Did you read the story?” Sully said. “Did we not have a meeting on this subject prior to publication? Jesus, man. If Shellie Stevens had a suicidal client, he should have said so.” Almost imperceptibly, R.J.’s left hand, on the chair arm next to him, rose and fell, rose and fell, a gesture of caution, of warning. “So how did this meeting with Stevens end?” Eddie said. “I thanked him for the intel and said that the death of the sole heir to one of the city’s
passenger door. Sully, wearing a black two-button Versace suit and carrying a leather briefcase, got out and walked smartly into the house like he was ten minutes late. Sly and Lionel pulled out of the drive. They would tool around the neighborhood until Sully paged them. Then they’d circle back through and he had better be there when they did. The house was lovely. He liked it. He really did. Stevens—or more likely his wife, or even more likely her decorator—had good taste, you had to give