Burn
Burn
“An exceptionally well-crafted and well-told tale of arson, police work, misplaced zeal, bad relationships, good relationships, family bonds and, oh yes, exercise videos. Quirky, compelling, intelligent, and funny … If you like Elmore Leonard, do yourself a favor and pick up
Burn
.”
—
“Sean Doolittle has been winning high praise from crime fiction readers, and
Burn
will show you why—it's deftly written, tense and intelligent, and bound to make you scramble to find his other work.”
—-Jan Burke, author of
“A cult writer for the masses—hip, smart and so mordantly funny that the casual reader might be laughing too hard to realize just how thoughtful Doolittle's work is. Get on the bandwagon now.”
—Laura Lippman, author of
“[A] twist-filled crime caper.”
—
“Dryly funny … [a] writer to watch.”
—
“Sean Doolittle combines wit, good humor, and a generosity of spirit rare in mystery fiction to create novels
that are both engrossing and strangely uplifting. He deserves to take his place among the best in the genre.”
—-John Connolly, author of
“Doolittle's prose style is smooth, his plotting fast-paced and addictive.”
—
(Best Crime Fiction of 2003 pick)
“A pleasure to read.”
—
“Textured and tasty … far beyond the typical thrillers … Doolittle is a true Crimedog, and
Burn
is his thesis. And you can see it all over this nine millimeter of a novel that his best is yet to come.”
—
“Doolittle expertly weaves [his] themes into a tight plot populated by memorable characters…. Having read hard-boiled mysteries for over thirty years, it has been exciting to watch young turks become grand masters. I certainly hope that Sean Doolittle has a long, exciting career.”
—
“Doolittle has managed a somewhat genre-bending feat in the mystery realm—he's written a feel-good hard-boiled mystery … that is wholly original. Smooth and stylish, combining wit and intelligence … Doolittle is adept at balancing a suspenseful, well-paced mystery story with realistic and humanistic characters.”
“The cast of characters [here] is second to none in diversity, peculiarity, and hilarity. The dialogue is sharp and energetic, and the narrative is spare and spot-on…. Sean Doolittle shrugs off the sophomore curse without so
much as a stuttering blink. … If you want something new to read, something fun, something
good,
then your search is over.
Burn
is the book for you. Highly recom mended.”
—
“An estimable addition not only to the publisher's list but also to crime fiction … Doolittle delivers a briskly plotted, hard-boiled mystery that has its roots in the El-more Leonard school of dark comedy.”
—
Winner of the gold medal in the mystery category of
ForeWord Magazine's
Book of the Year Award.
Dirt
“Uproarious.”
—
“It's very rare for a first novel to be perfect; to have a great story, sparkling writing, interesting layered characters, a carefully balanced and realized setting, a beautifully modulated pace, and not a single misstep. This first novel comes very close…. Doolittle is a writer with a story to tell and the skills to tell it well—clearly a writer to watch.”
—
“A really top-notch thriller … the book is a delight.”
—
“Doolittle gives us a great comic-noir romp … one of the best noir novels of the year. It's a creative and quirky tour de force.”
—
“[Doolittle] balances realism and authenticity with the twists and turns of a mystery thriller….”
—
“Ferocious, smart, original and funny. What more do you want?”
—-Jack Ketchum, author of
“In a passionate flurry of curious motives, seedy characters, and a touch of the heroic, Doolittle delivers an A+ effort that should be considered one of the top crime novels of the year…. Highly recommended.”
—
An
Amazon.com
Top 100 Editor's Pick.
To my parents, for making me lucky.
Chorus:
And have frail mortals now the flame-bright fire?
Prometheus:
Yea, and shall master many arts thereby.
—
Love is a burning thing.
—
12:29
P.M.
I 103.6°F
THE
morgue felt nice.
Detective Adrian Timms lingered in the bracing chill before pushing on into the long afternoon ahead. He stood beside the cold steel tray and pondered the fresh Y stitching the dead man's torso closed. He thought:
that's not maximum health.
On his way out, Timms found the deputy coroner eating lunch at his cluttered office desk.
“This is the preliminary tox?”
The county M.E.'s man, an intuitive stickler named Washburn, looked over his Hunan chicken at the stapled pages Timms held in his hands.
“Yep.”
“No blood alcohol.”
“Nope, ” Washburn said. “So?”
Timms hadn't intended to think aloud. He pulled the
next sheet from the folder and slipped the toxicology report behind it.
Washburn pointed with his chopsticks. “Vic worked for Doren Lomax? That what I'm hearing?”
“Used to.” Timms met Washburn's grin. “Yeah. I know.”
The victim's name was Gregor Tavlin. He'd stopped breathing at forty-seven years of age, a Los Angeles County resident, a former Olympic decathlete, and a fitness guru of national renown. Timms had known of the man; his first ex-wife had owned all of Tavlin's aerobics videos. And you could still find barroom pundits around town who believed that back in the summer of 1976, Gregor Tavlin would have brought home Bruce Jenner's gold if a blown anterior cruciate ligament hadn't scuttled the young star's trip to the games in Montreal.
Cut to Mandeville Canyon, ten days ago, where Gregor Tavlin was discovered with a broken neck, a shattered pelvis, a collapsed rib cage, and dead tree branches in his eyes.
“Entertain me, ” Washburn said. “It's been nothing but heat-rage GSWs around here.”
Timms chuckled, but he didn't have much to offer. He knew this so far:
On the morning of August 2, a forest ranger named Dean Barrow had lifted his respirator and motioned to a Los Angeles Fire Department captain standing next to him. The LAFD vet immediately rounded up the nearest three guys from a team of fifteen tending a controlled burn between the ridgeline and the embankment below the unimproved stretch of road known as Dirt Mulholland.
This sweat-streaked, ash-caked group of five had made their way as quickly as possible through the dense
underbrush of the valley floor. The flashes Barrow had spotted two hundred yards in the distance could have been an injured hiker signaling with a pocket reflector.
What could have been an injured hiker turned out to be the wreckage of a vintage-model Alfa Romeo convertible. Barrow had glimpsed the car's twisted side-view mirror glinting in the sun.
The team found neither driver nor passenger in the remains of the shelled two-seater, which hadn't rested on the spot long. Long enough to get a nice 325-gallon rinse from the sky courtesy of the California Department of Forestry's big red Huey tanker, but not long enough for the surrounding chaparral to heal from the crash.
Barrow had been the one who discovered the broken body of a middle-aged Caucasian male tangled in a nearby deadfall.
It was plain lucky, the ranger had told Adrian Timms, that the wind had shifted when it did.
We were about to pull back.
Barrow had explained how the gusts had broken the northern edge of their fire line, driving the flames too far too fast.
Down in the corridors like that, you get that wind tunnel effect, you're on the losing end. Another couple hours, nobody ever would have found this guy.
Timms didn't know if “lucky” was the term for it, but he tried to look on the bright side: At least they'd been able to ID the victim without hunting up dental records.
“This, ” Timms said, pointing at a page. “This is SID's prelim?”
“Mm.”
“And this, ” Timms said, pointing again, “is what you're saying?”
“All I'm saying, ” the deputy coroner said, “is the guy
somehow managed to leak blood and cerebrospinal fluid all over his own trunk.”
Timms looked at the draft report, not really reading. He said, “Wonder how he managed that.”
“Hey.” Washburn scooped rice into his mouth. “You're the detective. You tell me.”
COMMON
sense told Andrew Kindler that a surprise visitor at the beach house didn't necessarily mean bad news. Instinct changed his mind long before the stranger with the sport coat on his arm got around to showing his badge.
“Hello up there.”
Andrew hadn't realized he'd dozed off in the lounge chair until the voice startled him awake. He sat up and blinked against the sunlight, slowly regaining his sense of place. After all these weeks, he still sometimes woke up disoriented. He'd gotten to like the feeling.
Most of the time.
“Sorry. Over here.”
Andrew looked toward the owner of the voice, who stood near the top of the long run of stairs leading up to the deck. When the stranger saw that he'd gotten Andrew's attention, he raised a rolled newspaper in greeting. “Anybody home?”
Andrew looked at his watch. Not quite nine o'clock. He reached to turn down the radio, suddenly wishing he had a dog.
“Morning, ” he said.
“Morning, ” said the stranger. “I rang the bell but nobody answered. Heard the radio, noticed the gate was open, thought I'd poke my head around. Mind if I come up?”
A German shepherd,
Andrew thought.
Maybe a Dober-man.
“Watch that top step, ” he said. “It's cracked through the middle.”
The guy acknowledged the tip with a short wave of the newspaper and a long stride over the offending tread. He strolled across the deck, scuffed cowboy boots sounding a hollow knock that echoed beneath the planks. Andrew watched from the lounge chair, evaluating possibilities.
Besides the gulls, and the occasional gutsy pelican, he didn't get many callers here. His cousin Caroline dropped by every so often with one of her foil-wrapped care packages, usually something new she'd learned in her gourmet cooking class. Andrew had begun to grow optimistic that anybody else who had reason to look for him probably would have found him before now.
The guy coming toward him wore rolled shirtsleeves and black denim slacks in spite of the heat wave in progress. He carried the sport coat over the crook of one elbow. Andrew saw big shoulders, weathered features, and a clean-shaved jaw. He guessed mid-forties, but the sunglasses made it hard to tell.
“Your paper was in a bush around back, ” the guy said, holding out the morning
Times.
“I knew that kid's aim was improving. Thanks.”
On the radio, the morning jock had just launched the hour with the daily Hot Spot report. Andrew leaned over and turned the volume back up a notch.
It had been almost two weeks since air and ground crews had reined in an out-of-control brush fire that had blackened nearly 2, 500 acres of state parkland a few miles up the coast. According to the radio, smoldering pockets had flared up again during the night.
Meanwhile, farther north, separate wildfires in Topanga and Calabasas had been devouring parched scrub since late yesterday afternoon. Hot, dry Santa Ana gusts threatened to drive one fire into the other, pushing both through the mountain passes toward Malibu. Andrew had taken to spending his mornings on the deck, watching the forest department planes pass overhead on tag-team runs.
The stranger listened along for a moment, turning to gaze at the thick brown haze parked above Topanga Canyon to the north.