Right As Rain: A Derek Strange Novel (Derek Strange Novels)
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Derek Strange is a black ex-cop in Washington D.C. who now makes a living running his own private detective agency. He is hired to investigate the killing of an off-duty black policeman by a white police officer -- a killing that was supposedly accidental, but that has opened difficult questions about racism on the force. In the course of that investigation the white officer, Terry Quinn, becomes Strange's friend and then his partner. Together they try to uncover what really happened that night, when Quinn came upon a confusing and treacherous crime scene. Along the way they confront the kingpins of a flourishing drug trade and some of the most implacable, dead-eyed killers ever to grace the pages of a novel.
street,” said the black man. “And don’t even think of lyin’ about it, ’cause I saw you holdin’ your little pecker plain as day.” The man was broad, “like a weight lifter,” and taller than Kane by a head. Later, Kane would be told that the man’s name was Chris Wilson and that he was an out—of—uniform cop. Kane said here that he detected the strong smell of alcohol on Chris Wilson’s breath. When a man had been drinking, even one beer, thought Strange, it would be difficult to smell alcohol on
her, Ray.” Big—Ass Angelo went “ssh, ssh, ssh,” his shoulders jiggling hard. Earl ignored him and said, “That’ll do it, then. We’ll be on our way.” Ray stood. “I’ll call you. We’ll be back with that first load in a couple of days. Then you can come on out and get the rest.” “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be makin’ the trip personally, Ray. I’m gonna send out a po—lice escort, make it nice and official.” “You’re gonna send that guy Madonna?” Coleman chuckled. “Sure, Ray. I’ll send Madonna.” “All
patiently beside her. A Lexus finally pulled up on Quintana in front of her house, and when she saw her son emerge from the car, Janine said, “Thank the Lord.” Strange knew Lionel had been smoking herb, or doing something other than just drinking, as soon as he walked through the front door. Lionel’s pupils were dilated, his movements awkward and slow. He didn’t look his mother in the eye as he greeted them with a “Hey” and tried to get past them and up the stairs without another word. “Hold on
the bedroom. Lionel was standing, looking through his window, which gave to a view of the street. Strange crossed the room and stood beside him. Lionel turned to face him. “Lionel?” “What?” “You know your mother loves you, right?” “Sure.” “When she asks you where you been all night, it’s just her way of lettin’ off a little steam. She’s been sittin’ down in that living room, worried sick about you, for the last two hours, and you come through that door, she’s got to give you a taste of what
pee, too.” “Now that you mention it.” “You see our boy when he came out?” “I saw him.” “Another little punk with a big dog.” Kane had walked his tan pit bull halfway down the block an hour earlier while Strange took photographs with his long—lensed AE—1. Kane, medium height, blond, and thin, was wearing a thermal vest under a parka, a knit watch cap, and oversized jeans worn low on his hips. He had a hint of a modified goatee on his bony face. “Tryin’ to be an honorary black man,” said