Lucas Davenport's going to be lucky to get out of this one alive.Ī Minnesota political fixer has hit the jackpot - or so he thinks. Murder, scandal, political espionage and an extremely dangerous woman. Tubbs dropped his feet off the couch, thinking, Neighbor.**Don't miss John Sandford's brand-new thriller Ocean Prey – out now**Ī Lucas Davenport thriller by internationally bestselling novelist John Sandford Not the buzzer from outside, which was a raucous ZZZZTTT, but the doorbell. Then his doorbell blipped: a quiet ding-dong. He frowned, sat up, listening, smacked his lips his mouth tasted like a chicken had been roosting in it, and the room smelled of cold chili. He’d had any number of visitors at three-fifteen, but to get through the apartment house’s front door, they had to buzz him. TUBBS REACHED OUT for his cell phone, punched the button on top, checked the time: three-fifteen in the morning. A sixty-inch LED screen hung on the living room wall opposite the couch where he’d been napping. There were three small thirty-inch televisions in his office, all fastened to the wall above the desk, so he could work on the iMac and watch C-SPAN, Fox, and CNN all at once. He had two printers, one a heavy-duty Canon office machine, the other a Brother multiple-use copy/fax/scan/print model. One was taken up with current employment and tax files, and the others were occupied by office junk: envelopes, stationery, yellow legal pads, staplers, rubber bands, thumb drives, Post-it notes, scissors, several pairs of fingernail clippers, Sharpies, business cards, dozens of ballpoints, five or six coffee cups from political campaigns and lobbyist groups, tangles of computer connectors. They’d been saved by simple negligence: he no longer knew what was on any of them. Boxes of old three-and-a-half-inch computer disks sat on bookshelves over the radiator. A disassembled Mac Pro body and a cinema screen hunkered on the floor to one side of the desk, along with an abandoned Sony desktop. An Apple iMac sat in the middle of his desk, surrounded by more stacks of paper. The other was a chaotic office, the floor stacked with position papers and reports and magazines, with four overflowing file cabinets against one wall. TUBBS SLEPT, USUALLY, in the smaller of his two bedrooms. Several times-like just now-a nervous, semi-competent blackmailer. He was a political and frequently, a fixer. He’d started with Jimmy Carter in ’76, when he was eighteen, stayed pure until he jumped to the Jesse Ventura gubernatorial revolt in ’98, and then it was back to the Democrats. He didn’t have a particular job, most of the time, though sometimes he did: an aide to this state senator or that one, a lobbyist for the Minnesota Association of Whatever, a staffer for so-and-so’s campaign. In his case, political wasn’t an adjective, but a noun. The squeak wasn’t so much consciously felt, as understood: he had a visitor. The overhead light was still on, and when he’d collapsed on the couch, he’d been too tired to get up and turn it off. Tubbs was half-asleep on the couch, his face covered with an unfolded Star Tribune. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. China Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England For more information about the Penguin Group visit Copyright © 2013 by John SandfordĪll rights reserved.Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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