{"product_id":"deaths-little-helpers-isbn-9781400033607","title":"Death's Little Helpers","description":"In this masterful follow-up to Peter Spiegelman’s stunning debut \u003ci\u003eBlack Maps\u003c\/i\u003e, private investigator John March finds himself drawn into a web of corruption that extends from the halls of high finance to the dark underworld of organized crime. Gregory Danes, a Wall Street analyst has gone missing, and his ex-wife, a fashionable painter, calls March to track him down. She just wants him to sign her  alimony checks, but as March soon discovers, she’s not the only one looking for him. Danes was once an industry hot shot, but has  lost his touch. His biggest gains lately, it seems, had been in enemies–including a few members of the Russian mob. When March receives a threat upon his own family, he realizes Danes had been involved in something far more dangerous than insider trading.\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Mordant, action-packed [and] knowledge-filled. . . . Breaks new ground in detective  fiction. . . . A bang-up novel.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"[An] elegantly written thriller.  . . . A stylish take on the perennial private-eye tale.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"[Black Maps]\u003c\/i\u003e was a tough act to follow, and Spiegelman has done it with stunning  skill. [He] has the heart, head and writing skills to make his setting explode with  rare light and excitement.\" —\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"A fine story told well [that ends]  with a satisfying bang. March is a man to watch.\" —\u003ci\u003eDaily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003ePeter Spiegelman is the author of Black Maps. He worked on Wall Street for twenty years developing software systems for international banking institutions and retired in 2001 to devote himself to writing. He lives in Connecticut.\"As a husband, he was a lying, selfish prick,\" Nina Sachs said, and  lit yet another cigarette. Her silver lighter caught the late-April  sun as it came through the big windows. She flicked a strand of  auburn hair away from her face and blew a plume of smoke at the high ceiling. \"And as a father, he's no better. But he's our meal ticket,  Billy's and mine, and if something's happened to him--if the cash is going to stop--I want to know about it sooner, not later.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina Sachs was a few inches over five feet tall, and wiry. Her short straight hair was pulled into a blunt ponytail, away from a pale elfin face that was full of motion. Grins and frowns and ironic  twists flickered by, and I saw a lot of her teeth, which were uneven but not unattractive. Her hands were quick and so were her hazel eyes. Nina Sachs was close to forty, but despite the chain-smoking  she looked ten years younger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What makes you think something's happened to him?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe crossed her legs and uncrossed them and regarded her small bare feet and her toenails, which were painted apple green. She crossed her legs once more and finally tucked them beneath her. She fiddled with one of her silver earrings and picked with a thumbnail at a fleck of paint on her black yoga pants. She took another hit off the  Benson \u0026amp; Hedges.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I've got a picture of him somewhere,\" she said, and uncurled herself from the green leather sofa. She crossed the loft with quick steps, opened the center drawer of an ebony desk, and began rummaging.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn't need a photograph to recognize her ex-husband. Though he hadn't been on television much lately, anyone who watched the cable business channels over the past few years had seen plenty of Gregory Danes. Still, I let her go on searching. I was happy for the distance.  Between the smoking and the fidgeting, she was making me edgy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What makes you think something's happened?\" I asked again. She pulled the desk drawer out and dumped its contents on the desktop.  She sifted through the pile, her back to me as she spoke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Five weeks ago--right before he was supposed to pick up Billy for the weekend--he called to say he couldn't make it. He was all pissy about something and said he was taking time off--going away  someplace--and had to postpone.\" A box of paper clips slid off the  heap and scattered on the floor. Nina cursed and kept searching.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He's canceled last-minute plenty of times, so I wasn't shocked. I said Fine, whatever, and we rescheduled for three weeks later. So three weeks comes, and we're here waiting for him to get Billy, and  he's a no-show. No call, no message--no word at all. I tried his  place, but there was no answer. I left messages on his machine and  got nothing back.\" She turned to look at me and took another long  drag on her cigarette. \"That was nearly two weeks ago. Since then,  I've tried his cell phone, his office, left more messages . . . and  heard nothing.\" She ran her fingers across the base of her throat.  \"Maybe he just doesn't want to come back, or maybe . . . I don't know what. That's why I'm talking to you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What did they say at his office?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina snorted. \"At Pace-Loyette? They didn't say shit. All they gave me was a runaround and a weird vibe.\" Some envelopes and matchbooks joined the paper clips on the floor. She stared at them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Weird how?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina turned back to the desk and started picking through the heap again. \"My lawyer told me you were a cop before this PI thing,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I was a sheriff's deputy--an investigator--upstate. What kind of weird vibe did you get from Pace-Loyette?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina Sachs laughed. \"Deputy John March, huh? Get out of Dodge by sundown and all that?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Just like that. Weird how, Nina?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It was . . . I don't know . . . weird. I called his direct number--figuring I'd get his voice mail or his secretary--and instead I get bounced to some woman named Mayhew, in Corporate  Communications, she says, who tells me Mr. Danes is away and I can leave a message with her. When she found out who I was, she got all freaked and transferred me to some legal guy. He started asking questions and finally it dawned on me: They don't know where Greg is either.\" Her cigarette was down nearly to the filter. She squinted at it and stubbed it out in a small metal bowl on the desk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He didn't say anything to you about where he was going?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina shook her head and fished her cigarettes and lighter from a pants pocket. \"He doesn't tell me shit like that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He ever do anything like this before--just take off?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina shrugged. \"I guess so.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI waited for more but it didn't come. \"Care to elaborate?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There were a couple of times. Once, right after we were separated, he split for maybe ten days. And after the divorce was final he did it again, for two weeks. And I guess there was a third time a few years back--not long after the SEC people first called him in--he  took off for a week or so.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And each of those times he just up and left--with no notice and no word to anyone?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He didn't say jackshit to me, I know that, and he didn't call either. He just went away for a while, and then he came back.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So what's different about this?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shrugged once more. \"Maybe nothing, but . . . he's never been away this long before. And before, he called to cancel with the kid--he's never just been a no-show.\" Nina turned to the desk again and started pushing the mess around. \"How'd you get from upstate to down here?\" she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sighed. I'd been through all this two days ago, when her lawyer,  Maggie Lind, had phoned me to set up this meet. But what the hell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm from down here. I came back when I was done with being a cop.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How come you're not a cop anymore?\" she asked. \"You get into trouble?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I quit.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I knew it was around here,\" she said. She padded across the floor,  trailing smoke, and handed me a photograph. She perched again at the  end of the sofa.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a Polaroid, ridged and faded, and it showed Nina and Danes side by side at a glass-topped table, under a big striped umbrella.  There were palm trees and leafy plantings and part of a swimming pool in the background. Danes was dressed in canvas pants and a guayabera,  and Nina wore a gauzy caftan over a wet tank suit. Her hair was longer and her face was fuller and less interesting--more conventionally and forgettably pretty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDanes looked much as he did on television, the same wayward  straw-colored hair, the same regular, somehow unfinished features, the same shadowed eyes and thin lips and vaguely mocking smile: the  same overall impression of precocity and arrogance. His hand was on  Nina's shoulder and she didn't seem to mind, and I figured the photo was at least ten years old--taken before the divorce, before Danes had become the head of equity research at Pace-Loyette and ubiquitous on the business channels, before his long slide down. I looked at  Nina.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How about his friends or family?\" I asked. \"Have you been in touch with them?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I wouldn't know who to try,\" she said. \"He didn't have a lot of  friends back when we were married, and I bet he has less now. And I  sure as hell don't know any of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And as far as family goes, Billy and me are pretty much it. Greg's old man died when he was five. His mother remarried, but she and the  stepfather died just after Greg got out of B school. He's got a  creepy half brother somewhere in Jersey, but I don't know when Greg last spoke to him.\" She smiled and blew out some smoke. \"Pathetic, isn't it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You said he sounded pissy the last time you spoke. Any idea what about?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shook her head again. \"We don't exactly confide in each other, you know? We don't have that kind of relationship.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What kind of relationship do you have?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina got no farther than a smirk when a cell phone chirped. She cursed and tracked the sound to the kitchen, beneath some sections of the Times that were spread on the counter. She bent her head and spoke in low tones. I got up and stretched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWindows covered one wall of the loft, from floor to ceiling. The metal-framed glass was thick and clouded, and some of the panes opened on a pivot. I pushed on one, and a small breeze came in.  Sachs's place was in Brooklyn, on the third floor of an old factory  building off Water Street, tucked between the Brooklyn and the Manhattan bridges and near enough to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway  that I could hear the rush and rumble of traffic. The outside air was  warm, tinged with exhaust and soot and the sour, salty smell of the  harbor and the East River. Even so, it was better than the heavy  cloud of cigarette smoke and paint and old food that hung inside. I  took a deep breath and looked down at the cobbled streets. They were quiet on a Monday morning. The loading docks across the way were empty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce upon a time, I'd roamed this neighborhood on a regular basis. It was twenty years ago, and I was in the eighth grade and hanging with a kid named Jimmy Farrelly. Jimmy lived in Brooklyn Heights, in a brownstone near the Promenade, and we'd ride the subway from  Manhattan after school and walk to the river from the Clark Street stop. If the neighborhood had a name back then we didn't know it, and if any artists lived there we didn't care. We were drawn by the derelict factories and abandoned warehouses, by the rotting piers and the lattice of stone and ironwork overhead, and by a consuming  interest in smoking dope, drinking beer, and learning, from Jimmy's  neighbor Rita and her friend Angela, the finer points of French-kissing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA lot of artists had moved to the area since those days, looking to homestead after being priced out of places like SoHo and TriBeCa and the East Village. The developers had followed them, and then came the  realtors--who bestowed a name on our old playground: dumbo, for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. With the name had come  immaculate art galleries, like the one downstairs, sleek coffee bars, like the one across the street, and designer grocery stores, like the  one around the corner. The march of progress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf she hadn't been an early homesteader, then Nina had paid a fortune for her place. She had an entire floor--an easy 4,000 square  feet--with good light and a swatch of downtown Manhattan skyline in sight, if you craned your neck. The walls were unadorned brick, faded  to a warm rose color, and the floors were cement, finished and sealed  so that they were smooth and wet-looking. The high ceilings were hung with new ductwork.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe loft was divided into four distinct areas. At one end, behind white Sheetrock walls, were bedrooms and a bath. Next to these was an open kitchen, with pale wood cabinets, steel counters, and an armor-clad oven. Tatami mats defined the living area, which was dominated by a sleek L-shaped leather sofa, some matching chairs, a green glass coffee table, and tall freestanding shelves. The other end of the loft, walled off by unpainted Sheetrock and a white fabric  scrim, was Nina's studio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe space was impressive and also a mess. Besides the small havoc Nina had created around the desk, there was a collapsed stack of dog-eared art journals near the sofa and another on one of the  chairs. There was an empty bottle of merlot on the coffee table, with  two sticky-looking glasses beside it. Two more bottles were on the  kitchen counter, along with the remains of several meals. The sink was full of dirty dishes, and everywhere the ashtrays were brimming.  A mess--but a grown-up one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI walked slowly around the living room, and nowhere did I see traces of Billy. There were no schoolbooks or comic books, no video games or  backpacks, no sneakers or skateboards. And while there was clothing strewn about, on the backs of chairs, on countertops, and crumpled at  the base of an overloaded coatrack, none of it seemed to belong to a twelve-year-old boy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina was still muttering into the phone, and I drew back the white  curtain and stepped into her studio. It was a larger space than the  living room, and more sparsely equipped. A big drafting table and two  elaborate easels stood in the center of the room. Three metal  trolleys were parked nearby, laden with brushes, tubes of paint,  solvents, palettes, and other tools of her trade. There was a steel  utility sink along the opposite wall, and to one side of it some  metal shelves and more supplies. A gilt-framed mirror--eight feet  high at least--leaned against the wall on the other side. A  commercial fan and two reflecting lights stood in one corner, near a  scruffy armchair and a pint-sized stereo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy comparison with the rest of the place, Nina's studio was  immaculate. The supplies on the shelves and trolleys were organized  and tidy. The floor was bare and clean. The sink was empty but for a  half-dozen brushes drying in a precise row at its edge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome pencil sketches were taped to the Sheetrock on my right: two of  a female nude draped in an armchair, a third of the same figure  kneeling, with head inclined, and two more of something that looked  like the Flatiron Building, set on a bluff over a churning sea. They  were nicely done, with a sure delicate touch. There was a canvas on  one of the easels, and I walked around to take a look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd done a little online homework before my meeting with Nina and knew she had enjoyed some success as an artist. She'd had exhibitions in New York and Boston and London that were--insofar as I could  decrypt the reviews--well received. Her work had been acquired by  some notable private and corporate collections, and recently she'd  been picked up by museums in Chicago and Dallas and LA. But I'd not actually seen any of her paintings, and I didn't know what to expect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was striking. The canvas was about three feet high by two feet  wide, and the painting was in oil, with blues and grays predominant.  I recognized the subjects from the sketches on the wall. The  triangular building was at the right of the picture, set back, and  the angry sea swirled in the foreground and to the left. The bowed  kneeling figure appeared in a window, halfway up the side of the  building.","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300369256677,"sku":"NP9781400033607","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400033607.jpg?v=1742919875","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/deaths-little-helpers-isbn-9781400033607","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}