The Concrete Kiss

By David Grace

“Set in the modern day, this straightforward, fast-paced detective novel cages a truly twisted villain.”

“The reader is thrust into a page-turning, clever narrative that continually morphs from police procedural, thriller, courtroom drama, and gritty evaluation of a serial rapist and killer.”

“...the relentless pace allows for little introspection.”

“Grace relishes the accurate and disturbing details, providing top-quality entertainment....”

“...a relentless story.”

“Well-written, engaging and sure to keep you up.”

--- Kirkus Reviews

Homicide Detective Ned Danes discovers that an ambitious Deputy D.A. has concealed evidence of an accused murderer's innocence in order to secure a headline-grabbing conviction. Danes is warned that a smart guy would keep his mouth shut. More interested in being a good guy than a smart one, Danes torpedoes the corrupt Deputy D.A.'s case, and for his honesty, Danes is exiled to the tiny basement office of the Cold Case Squad.

Working in his forgotten outpost Danes becomes obsessed with finding the real killer who the Deputy D.A.’s scheme has allowed to run free. But just as he seems to be closing in Danes receives a plea for help from an old friend.

FBI agent Phillip Abbott has been put on leave for his last sixty days before his forced retirement. He has that long to catch a drug-cartel hit man whose specialty is murdering entire families. Completely alone, Abbott needs a courageous cop like Ned Danes to back him up.

While Danes knows that Abbott has a seventeen-year-old adopted daughter named Jessica, it is only after Danes agrees to help catch the killer that he discovers that the hit man murdered Jessica's entire family.

While Danes knows that Abbott has a seventeen-year-old adopted daughter, it is only after Danes agrees to help Abbott catch the killer that he discovers that the hit man murdered the girl’s entire family. Abbott promised her that he would get the monster no matter what it took and Danes soon learns that Abbott is willing to do anything, including breaking the law and possibly going to prison, to keep that promise.

And after Danes and Abbot do all that, Ned still has a killer of his own to catch.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Grace
• Release date: Jun 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476172651

David Grace

David Grace is an internationally acclaimed speaker, coach, and trainer. He is the founder of Kingdom International Embassy, a church organization that empowers individuals to be agents of peace, joy, and prosperity, and Destiny Club, a personal development training program for university students. He is also the managing director of Results Driven International, a training, motivational, and coaching company that mentors private, parastatal, and government agencies throughout Botswana.

Book preview

Chapter One

Leonard Berg and fifty other young lawyers eking out a hand-to-mouth existence on low-rent evictions and battered-wife divorces had put their names on the County’s Indigent Appeal roster. On the day that Edward James Anderson was found guilty of murder Leonard Berg’s name was at the top of the list. Through random chance or luck or fate, when Berg finished the appeal and barged into the Homicide-Squad bullpen Ned Danes was the only detective still there. Shifting the grimy banker’s box clutched to his chest, Berg made his way across the room.

Hey, Detective, Berg said dropping the box on the edge of Danes’ desk. I was appointed to write the Anderson appeal. Danes glanced briefly at the bulging cardboard box then up at Berg. I gave it to the clerk today, so, well, I brought back my copy of the PD’s file. I’m supposed to turn it in for shredding or whatever.

That’s Finley’s case, Danes said, staring at the trespassing box.

I know, but he’s on vacation—

Family leave, Danes interrupted. His father’s got Alzheimer’s.

Sure, I mean, anyway he’s not here and I’m supposed to return this after I finish with the appeal. It has to go back into the system.

Danes gave the box another glance, then shrugged.

OK, I’ll have somebody sign it in tomorrow.

Thanks, detective. If you ever need something, you give me a call. Berg held out a thin, white card: Leonard Berg, Esq. Attorney At Law.

You bet, Danes said, slipping the twenty-for-a-dollar scrap of paper into his shirt pocket.

Berg smiled, took half a step, then turned back. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s something in there that doesn’t belong. It looks like it got misfiled from another case.

Berg pulled off the cover and, one at a time, stacked half a dozen manila folders on Danes’ desk.

Got it, he said, holding up a plastic box containing a single, unlabeled CD. It’s some kind of a surveillance video. Berg placed the disc at Danes’ right hand. All I know is that it’s got nothing to do with my guy’s case. Maybe it’ll mean something to you. Danes flipped the container over but the backside was as blank as the front. Berg gave Danes an awkward smile and a little wave and two seconds later was gone.

Danes stared at the disc a moment longer then slipped it into his computer. Colored static speckled the screen then resolved itself into wide-angle shot of the inside of a convenience store. An ID strip ran along the bottom of the picture. The date was November 17th, about fifteen months ago. The address line listed a store in Highland Hills just outside the city limits on the east side of town. The front door opened and a big man in a black wool coat and a wool hat entered, paused and looked nervously around. The guy stood there for a couple of seconds then turned his back to the camera and bent over the magazine rack up against the front window. Thirty seconds later he handed the clerk a rolled-up magazine. The kid flattened it out to scan the price — All Natural Babes. A big-breasted woman with white-blonde hair and empty eyes stared out from the cover.

Six ninety-five, the clerk said and the customer handed over a wrinkled bill. The kid gave him his change and, hunched over, the guy hurried out the door. The screen went black. Danes backed it up and studied the man — white, puffy face, ears flat to the skull, rounded shoulders, almost no neck. He looked familiar but Danes couldn’t remember where from. He knew that face from someplace. Danes closed his eyes but the answer hovered just out of reach. He put the CD back into the case, dropped it in his bottom drawer and headed for the door.

It was dark outside and an icy wind off the lake tore at Danes’ coat. Christmas and New Year’s were long gone and now only cold, gray weeks of snow and skies like the bottom of an old plate lay ahead. About six feet tall with slab-sided cheeks below a ruff of short, black hair going gray, Ned Danes would have looked at home in Warsaw, Trieste, Cologne, Turin or any of a hundred other cites anywhere from Germany through Belarus. Had some ancestor entered Ellis Island as Bogdan Dansiwitz, Dankowski, or Danestelli and exited as Bob Danes? Ned neither knew nor cared. He was only interested in the relatives he actually knew. His grandfather was Walter Danes, a master cabinetmaker, who had married Sarah Nedrick. They had had four kids, the oldest of which was Franklin Danes, his father. Ned had been named Nedrick after his grandmother though it was inevitable that he was going to end up being called either Ned or Rick. Ned had won.

Danes got into his Escape and slipped it into four-wheel drive mode until it cleared the iced-over lot. Some of the guys bought RAV4s and CRVs, even a few Volvos, but Ned always bought American, even when GM was making mostly crap. We’re Americans; we buy American, his dad always said, and that was good enough for Ned. When he turned onto Decker he noticed that the red neon n over Vinnie’s front window was flickering worse than ever. Ned thought about stopping and picking up a meatball sub for Jake’s lunch tomorrow, but with a little shake of his head he cruised on past.

You don’t get stuff by wanting it, Ned, his dad always told him. You gotta earn it. And Jake had been screwing up a little lately. His grade-point average was slipping down into B-minus territory and that Schomberg kid he had started hanging around with was a corner-cutter if Danes had ever seen one. He and Janis hadn’t worked this hard to raise their son right only to have him get the idea that taking the easy way out was the smart play. You did things the right way or you didn’t do them at all. Danes thanked God he had had a father who had taught him that if you did right by people that they would do right by you. He’d be damned if some punk kid was going to teach Jake the wrong lessons. His dad’s voice echoed in Ned’s ears: When you cheat other people, Ned, you’re only cheating yourself. Little treats for Jake could wait until he got his grades, and his choice of friends, headed in the right direction.

Ned pulled into his garage a little before six.

Hey, Dad, Jake called without looking up from his iPad.

Hey, Jake . . . Jan, I’m home. Danes headed for the kitchen.

We’re having pizza, Janis told him as she grabbed a stack of plates from the cabinet. Sorry, I had to work late, reports. She turned and gave him a quick kiss. It should be here in about fifteen minutes.

No problem. It’ll give me time to catch the news.

Jake was sitting Indian fashion in the middle of the couch. Ned tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to slide down. Jake glanced up and when Ned turned on the big LG Jake plugged in a pair of earphones. A picture of flames and smoke filled the screen.

. . . fire was brought under control by nine this morning. Sixteen tenants have been moved to a temporary shelter. The fire department has not yet determined the cause of the blaze.

The image of a forties-something white man with thinning hair and perfect teeth filled the screen. Behind him flashed a graphic of a silhouetted body beneath a length of crime-scene tape.

The trial of accused killer, Howard Fraschetti, concluded its twelfth day of testimony this afternoon with the prosecution’s final witness, the gas station attendant who was the last person known to have seen Angela Anders alive. The graphic changed to a clip of the defendant being led into court for his arraignment over six months before. Howard Fraschetti’s attorney, Samuel Mortensen, is scheduled to call his first witness tomorrow morning. It is not known if the defendant will testify.

Dad, can I borrow mom’s Fusion on Saturday? Jake asked, pulling off one of his earphones. Not getting an answer, he looked away from his iPad to find his father staring at an image frozen on the TV. Is it broken? he asked.

I paused it, Danes said, staring at the picture.

Is he one of your guys? I mean, did you arrest him? Jake pointed at Howard Fraschetti’s sad-eyed face.

No, Danes said, standing and moving closer to the set. There it was, the same no-neck, bowling-ball head, the same pale cheeks, the same puffy lips. Danes moved closer. He recognized the close-set ears and the droopy eyelids. This was the same guy whose face he had seen not half an hour before on the surveillance video. The video that had been in the Anderson file. Fraschetti was accused of murdering Angela Anders. Anders, Anderson, Danes thought. Can you get Google on that thing? Danes asked, pointing at Jake’s iPad.

Sure, why?

Can you find out the date and time that Angela Anders was killed?

Jake was about to ask why but one look at his father’s intent expression drove the question from his mind. Sure, give me a sec. Danes had always found typing on a touch screen much harder than on a keyboard but years of text messaging had turned Jake into something of a savant. OK, . . . it looks like she was killed on November 17th, the year before last . . . umm . . . the time of death was between seven-fifteen and eight forty-five p.m. Danes stared blankly at the image frozen on the TV. You need anything else, dad?

What? No, no that’s good. Danes paused for a long moment then headed for the hallway. Jan, something’s come up. I’ve—

What? his wife called from upstairs.

I’ve got to go back to the office. There’s something I’ve got to check.

Danes pulled on his coat and hurried out to the garage, his mind spinning. Angela Anders had last been seen at six-thirty in Brighton, west of town, when she filled up her car after cheerleader practice. Her body was found in a ditch fourteen miles farther west around eleven that night. If Howard Fraschetti had been in the mini-mart in Highland Hills at 7:55 there was no way he could be the killer. If the video was real, Howard Fraschetti was an innocent man, which meant that Angela Anders’ murderer was still on the loose.

Danes turned right on Hardwick and pressed a little harder on the gas.

Chapter Two

When Ned Danes was thirteen years old his father was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. The doctors had advised him to put his affairs in order and gave him four to six months to live. Frank refused to go. My boy’s starting high school in the fall, Frank told the oncologist. You have to keep me alive until he finishes. The doctor, Lawrence Hammel, stared at Danes and thought, if wishes were fishes. . . .

Mr. Danes, we’ll do all we can, but our options are limited.

I need you to keep me alive until Ned graduates high school, Frank Danes insisted.

Well, Hammel shrugged, We’ll do the best we can.

Over the next four years Frank Danes had four surgeries, three courses of chemo and two courses of radiation. His body was cut, poisoned and burned, but on the day that Ned graduated from high school Frank Danes was there to see it and on that afternoon he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Frank hung on until mid-November, four days after Ned graduated from boot camp and became a full-fledged United States Marine. Convinced that he had finally done his duty and seen his son into manhood, Frank Danes released his tenuous hold on life and allowed the world to slip away. Frank Danes’ determination and his courage were lessons Ned never, ever forgot.

It was around seven-thirty when Danes got back to the deserted squad room and again loaded the surveillance video. This time he went through it almost frame-by-frame. There was a 7-Up-logo clock above the front door and its time matched the video code to within three minutes. It was dark outside, clearly p.m. rather than a.m.

Danes took a tape measure over to the big, county map on the back wall and measured the distance from the store to the mall where they figured Angela had been kidnapped and from there to where her body had been found, then he ran the numbers again to see if there was any way Fraschetti could have killed her within the medical examiner’s time line and still have been in the mini-mart at 7:55. No matter how he figured it, short of driving through city streets at a sustained speed of about seventy miles an hour there was no way Fraschetti could have done it. So, why had the case ever been set for trial? Danes opened the department directory.

Art Wayman had been the lead detective. Involuntarily, Danes frowned. Wayman had about as much imagination as a carrot. If you wanted a plodder who would put one foot in front of the other until he marched right off a cliff Art Wayman was your man. Danes dialed Wayman’s home number. It was answered on the fourth ring.

Art, Ned Danes. You got a minute?

A short minute, Wayman snapped.

This is about the Anders case—

That’s in the hands of the D.A.

Yeah, Art, I know that. The trial was on the news tonight.

So, why are you calling me?

Danes bit back a curse and took a deep breath.

There was a video of your guy, Fraschetti, in a mini-mart. Do you remember that?

Yeah, so what?

Wasn’t it taken around the time of the murder?

No, he had plenty of time, and, anyway, what’s that to you?

It’s just that—

Do I call you and complain about the way you handle your cases?

I’m not complaining, Art, I’m—

It sounds like complaining to me.

Art—

Look, we ran the case just like any other case. I turned all that stuff over to the D.A., Worthington. If you have any questions, call him. We’re just sitting down to dinner here.

OK, Al— the phone clicked and went dead.

Ned Danes stared at the phone and a slow fire began to burn in his gut. With forced calm Danes pulled Terrence Worthington’s home number from the office directory.

Yes? a woman, District Attorney Alphonse Gagliardi’s daughter, Marie, answered. It had been the biggest wedding of the season, the joining of handsome, Princeton Law School grad, Terrence Worthington, and Marie Gagliardi, the D.A.’s sweet but plain daughter. A trophy husband for her, a guaranteed career for him. This year, felony prosecutor and with a couple of big cases under his belt in no time at all he was going to be Assemblyman Worthington, then maybe Congressman Worthington, then, who knew how far a photogenic man with all the right connections might go?

Hello, this is Detective Ned Danes. Can I speak with Mr. Worthington please? It’s about the Anders case.

Danes? What’s up? Worthington asked a moment later.

I’m down in the squad room. I ran across something from your case. It looks like it was misfiled. I thought you might need it.

Oh? What’s that?

A surveillance tape of the defendant in a mini-mart. I thought if you’re going to put that into evidence—

Evidence? No, that’s, uhh, bogus. Worthless.

What’s wrong with it?

What’s your interest in this, Detective? I don’t recall seeing your name on the investigators’ list.

I just ran across it and I thought it might be important. But, now that you mention it, why is it bogus?

Not that it’s any of your business, but we determined that the video camera’s clock was off. That’s actually a tape of the defendant the day before the murder. We considered putting it in to show the defendant’s state of mind, you know, that he got all excited looking at that porno mag and that worked him up into doing the killing, but we figured we wouldn’t be able to get it past Judge Kling.

So, the defendant’s attorney’s seen this?

Since when do I answer to you, Detective? Look, you just do your job and I’ll do mine. Was there anything else or are you done sticking your nose into my case?

Sorry to bother you counselor. I just thought you might need this for court, that’s all.

The phone went dead. The camera’s date was off? Danes ran the clip back to the beginning then forward at half speed. Ten seconds into the sequence Fraschetti approached the magazine display. Against the near side of the shelves was a newspaper rack. Danes froze the picture and zoomed in. The top paper was the afternoon Tribune. The headline was fuzzy but he could read it: Four Killed In South-Side Crash.

Danes opened the Tribune’s website and clicked on Archives. The headline for November 16th was Mayor Denies Charges and for the 18th it was Missing Girl’s Body Found. The headline for the 17th was Four Killed In South-Side Crash.

The newspaper’s headline in the video matched the one for the date on the recording. Worthington was full of shit. Which meant that he’d probably never delivered the clip to the defense attorney. No wonder he was so pissed. He obviously thought that the video had been safely dumped in the Anderson file, that he was off the hook if anyone ever found out that he had never given it to the defense, that he had knowingly prosecuted an innocent man.

Danes popped the disk from the machine. Five cents worth of plastic — a man’s life — a killer still free to kill again. He could put it back in the drawer. Technically, he had done his duty. He had called the D.A. and been told that everything that needed to be done had been done. Technically, he was off the hook. Or, he could blow up the trial, maybe wreck Worthington’s career, make a mortal enemy of the D.A. and probably get himself demoted or fired. Danes considered his options for about two seconds. It wasn’t even a close call.

He used the department computer to get Samuel Mortensen’s home number. It took several repetitions of the words urgent to finally get Fraschetti’s lawyer on the line.

I assume you’ve got a good reason for this call, Detective, Mortensen said in an irritated voice.

I’m calling to ask you for a favor.

I’m in the middle of a murder trial and you want a favor? There was a long silence, then, in a suspicious tone, Mortensen asked, What favor?

It occurs to me that you may be planning to subpoena me to testify tomorrow as a defense witness in the Fraschetti case. I would prefer that if you’re going to serve me with a subpoena duces tecum that you not do it at my home. I’m going to be at Vinnie’s Pizzeria on Decker in exactly one hour so maybe your process server can get me there.

A subpoena duces tecum, Mortensen mused after a long pause. And the . . . material . . . that I would want you to bring to court?

"Oh, just the usual, what you guys always put in a subpoena, ‘You are instructed to appear in such and such a department at such and such a time and to bring with you all writings, materials, recordings and videos in your possession or under your control which may pertain to the guilt or innocence of the defendant.’ The standard language."

"Certainly, the standard language. Videos, yes, I guess I would want any videos that might prove my client is innocent, wouldn’t I?"

I would think you would.

Uh, huh. Thank you, detective. I mean that. Thank you.

I’m just doing my job, counselor.

It took Mortensen a little over an hour to prepare the subpoena and race from his house all the way to Vinnie’s. Danes waited for him over the remnants of the dinner he had missed at home.

Detective, Mortensen said, half out of breath. May I . . . . Danes waved toward the empty seat across from him.

Would you like some pizza? I’ve had all I want. The wife had to work late tonight so . . . . Danes spread his hands over the remains of a pepperoni and mushroom pie.

Mortensen stared hard at Danes in a vain attempt to figure out what the hell was going on, then gave up and handed over the subpoena. Danes unfolded it and read it carefully.

I guess I’ve been served.

I guess you have.

Well, the law’s the law. I’ll see you in court.

Before Danes could stand Mortensen grabbed the detective’s hand.

Please.

Danes had intended to say nothing in the vain hope that he would somehow be able to cover his ass with the claim that he was just obeying a court order, but he couldn’t ignore the desperate expression painting Mortensen’s face.

Danes pulled a CD carrier from his inside pocket and handed it over.

That’s a copy. I’ll bring the original tomorrow. For the record, Worthington claims that he’s already given that to you so, theoretically, you already have it.

What the hell is it? What am I supposed to ask you when I put you on the stand tomorrow?

Qualify me as a homicide detective with almost thirty years on the force, then ask me if I have any evidence indicating that your client is innocent.

"Evidence that my client might be innocent?"

Evidence that he is factually innocent.

And what will you say?

I will say that I do. Then you’ll ask what that evidence is and I’ll hand you the original CD and you’ll play it for the jury and then the charges against Mr. Fraschetti will be dismissed.

What the hell is on this?

Proof that your client couldn’t possibly have killed Angela Anders. Proof that Terry Worthington has had in his pocket all along.

Mortensen stared at the CD, twisting it in his hand so that it reflected the light like a Christmas tree ornament, then carefully placed it on the table and stared at Danes.

You know what they’ll do to you, don’t you?

I’m just obeying a subpoena. I’m just doing my job, upholding the Law. The way Danes said the word it began with a capital L.

Mortensen shook his head and waved his hand as if dispersing a cloud of smoke.

Crap, Detective. They’ll hang you for this. Worthington is Alphonse Gagliardi’s son-in-law. You screw him over and as far as Gagliardi’s concerned it’s the same as screwing over his daughter, and Al Gagliardi would do anything for his little girl. You know he’s got your Chief in his pocket. Gagliardi says ‘Jump’ and Jaworski asks ‘How high?’ They’re going to kick you off the force for this, or, at best, bust you back to parking patrol.

What choice do I have? Danes asked with all sincerity.

What choice do you have? Do you have some kind of a vendetta against Worthington? Did he do something to piss you off and now you’re getting even?

I barely know the guy.

Mortensen shook his head in frustration, then tried again.

Look, detective, I need to know what I’m getting into the middle of here. I need to know what’s going to come out of the bushes to bite me in the ass. If you’ve got some— he started to say scam or plot but bit off the words. If you’ve got some ulterior motive here, Mortensen continued in a more restrained voice, I need to know about it. A man doesn’t give up his job, his career, for no reason.

It’s not for no reason, Danes said.

Fine, what’s the reason then?

Your client is innocent. The killer is still free. Mortensen just stared at him, confused. It’s my job to catch the bad guys, not conspire to send innocent men to prison. . . . I need to do the right thing here, Danes said, finally.

Detective, I appreciate what you’re doing, but I have to tell you, I think you’re a damn fool. And I thank God for fools like you. If you ever need anything from me, within reason of course, you call me.

Thanks.

Don’t mention it. By the way, do you have any friends who might be able to help you find a new job?

Are you serious?

If I were you, detective, I would call them before I went to bed tonight, because my guess is that by sundown tomorrow you’re going to be unemployed. Are you sure you want to go through with this?

I don’t have any choice.

Do you ever watch the old movies, detective? Mortensen asked as he stood and buttoned his overcoat.

"Sometimes. I’m not a big fan of black and white, except for High Noon. That’s one of my favorites."

No surprise there, I’m sure. Well, here’s a line from another old movie, slightly modified: ‘Fasten your seat belt. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.’

Mortensen gave Danes’ hand a brief, but sincere shake, then tucked the CD inside his coat and, smiling for the first time in weeks, marched out the door.

Chapter Three

Ned and Janis had converted their spare bedroom into a shared office where he could spread out his case files and she could work on her evaluation reports. When he got back from Vinnie’s Ned closed the door, settled behind his desk and uneasily glanced at the digital clock — 10:08. It was really too late to call Phil Abbott but Mortensen’s words had drawn blood. Chances were that by this time tomorrow he’d be on unpaid leave and they weren’t going to be able to survive on Janis’ salary alone.

Last year FBI Special Agent in Charge Phillip Abbott had given Danes his cell number in case of an emergency. Ned thought about it for a few seconds and decided that the imminent end of his career probably qualified. He squinted at the ballpoint number jotted on the back of the card that read: Special Agent In Charge, Phillip Abbott, Federal Bureau of Investigation - Major Crimes Unit and started dialing.

* * *

Phillip Breckenridge Abbott looked like the actor Central Casting would have picked to play the CEO of an old-line bank or insurance company, someone whose chiseled face and perfect teeth matched an undergraduate degree from Yale, summers on Martha’s Vineyard and money old enough to pre-date the invention of the telephone. And that was just as it should be because Phillip Abbott was all of those things. The Abbott family had founded its fortune on the sale of beans and canned beef to the Union Army and then parlayed those profits into investments in the Union Pacific Railroad and a strategic marriage to Abigail Breckenridge whose father was the principal shareholder in the Northeastern Bank & Trust. By the turn of the century the bank had given birth to an industrial fire and casualty company and from there on the Abbotts and the Breckenridges had never looked back.

By the late ’50s a habit of sending their boys off to war and a diminished gene pool had reduced the hopes for the continuation of the Abbott line to only two candidates, Phillip Breckenridge Abbott, and his younger brother, Harrison Tyler Abbott. In every way Phillip was the family’s fair-haired boy — handsome, charming, intelligent, as honorable as an archbishop if you believed his friends, and as dangerous as a pit bull, if you believed his enemies. In fact, both descriptions were true.

It was assumed that after graduation from Harvard Law, Phillip would go through a suitable apprenticeship and eventually replace his father, Sterling Abbott, at the helm of the family empire. Phillips’ announcement that he had decided to join the FBI was therefore greeted in certain quarters with not a little consternation and gnashing of teeth, especially by Phillip’s mother, Elaine Symington Abbott.

Philly, you can’t be serious, she had said in that voice she used when she heard something that just positively could not be true. Phillip smiled and recalled the last time he had heard her use that tone:

A peanut farmer from Alabama?

Georgia, dear, Sterling corrected her.

How could anyone think that this country would elect a Georgia peanut farmer as its President? This all has to be some wretched joke.

It’s not a joke, mom. He’s really running for President. He might even win.

Nonsense. I refuse to believe it.

Phillip pulled his mind back to the present and gave his mother his best smile.

I’ve already filed my application and it’s been accepted, he told her.

Then unfile it. They’ll just have to make do with some, oh, I don’t know, fireman’s son or a football player whose knee doesn’t work right anymore.

I’m sorry, mom, but I leave for Quantico next month.

Quantico? It sounds like some kind of a skin cream. Why would you want to be a policeman anyway? What if you get shot? Then what will I do?

I’ll do my best not to get shot, I promise.

But, why Phillip, why a policeman?

Mom, you’d only laugh if I told you.

I could use a good laugh right now, Philly.

Abbott took a little breath. I want to do something with my life. All my life I’ve had a free ride. What good have I done? Who have I helped? What’s the point of just putting more zeros in a bank account someplace?

Oh, Philly, such nonsense! When you run the company you’ll help lots of people. We have thousands of employees. Someone needs to look after them, and there’s always charity. You can establish a foundation or something, give money away left and right if you want.

A dozen replies flitted through Abbott’s brain, none of which his mother would understand.

Mom, he said finally, taking her in his arms, surprised at how frail she felt. I’ll do good work and I will make you all proud. Think about it. We’ve never had an FBI agent in the family. Imagine that when one of your friends talks about her son fixing a broken leg or building a new sewage treatment plant and you tell her that last week your son arrested a gang of crooks just before they could knock over First National Trust and steal all their jewels and platinum watches. That’ll get their attention don’t you think?

Oh, Philly, Elaine said, trying to smile while she held back her tears. You will be careful, won’t you? You’re not going to get yourself into any shootouts or whatever it is they call them are you?

It will be strictly white-collar crime for me, mother, I promise. It won’t be so bad. I’ll wear a suit and tie every day.

A nice suit, Elaine insisted, pushing Phillip back to look him in the eye. Tailored, tasteful, a nice gray pinstripe perhaps. Nothing off-the-rack like those policeman on the television wear.

I promise, mother, nothing off-the-rack. I’ll be the image of sartorial propriety. All right?

Well, if you must, I suppose you must. Perhaps you’re right. And, if it doesn’t work out you can always resign. I’m sure that with a little effort your father could get you appointed as a federal judge someplace or other.

We’ll call that Plan B. Now, I’ve got to tell Harrison he’s going to be stuck running the company. Do you want to come with me when I give him the bad news?

Oh, Philly, Elaine laughed and circled his waist with her arm.

In point of fact, Phillip Abbott zoomed through the ranks of the FBI. With old money, a brilliant mind, an insane work ethic and a marriage to Kimberly Danberry, the only child of former U.S. Senator Roger Danberry, Abbott sped through the FBI bureaucracy as if he was coated with pig fat. Before long they wanted to send him to Washington and make him a paper-pusher. He was fine with the Washington part but refused to become a bureaucrat. Instead he spent six months arguing for the establishment of the Bureau’s equivalent of a Major Case Squad. There was already a precedent, the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the BAU, which chased down serial killers out of its headquarters in Quantico.

The Major Crimes Unit, the MCU, Abbott argued, will have the same structure as the BAU and the same strategy. It will go after the biggest threats, the biggest gangs, the worst offenders, people whose actions stretch beyond a single field office, whose crimes are so serious that they require a dedicated, high-impact, team approach.

It took all of Abbott’s powers of persuasion, every favor he had ever earned, every political connection the Abbotts and the Danberrys together could muster, but, in the end, he got what he wanted. The MCU was established, based out of headquarters in Washington, D.C. And, of course, its first commander was Phillip Breckenridge Abbott.

Ned Danes knew none of this. To him, Phil Abbott was just the Special Agent in charge of a team that had been tracking down an interstate gang of bank robbers who had paused long enough in Upstate New York to knock over the Lincoln Trust Company and, in the process, kill the night security guard, a murder that Ned Danes had been charged with solving. Ned and Phil Abbott had gotten along well, seemed to click, though Danes had no idea why Abbott had gone out of his way to befriend him. It was simple, really. Phil Abbott had a habit of grabbing hold of every honest, decent, courageous cop he would find and adding them to his secret list of men he could trust to do the right thing. So Abbott had told Danes to call him if he was ever in need of a friend, because Abbott knew that what goes around comes around and that someday a favor given might well become a favor received.

At ten after ten that Tuesday night Phil Abbott looked at the caller ID, pressed the answer button and said, Ned, what can I do for you?

Phil, I’m sorry to call so late, but something’s come up and I could use some advice, well, more like a referral I suppose.

Tell me about it.

Danes spent five minutes laying out what he had learned, his anger growing second by second. And so they picked this poor sap, Fraschetti, as their patsy. I checked him out. Forty years old, still lives with his parents, IQ about 85. He works as a minimum-wage stock-boy at the local market. He doesn’t own a car. He’s never even had a driver’s license. Their story is that he stole his store’s delivery truck to do the crime. They’ve got some crap video of some similar kind of truck in the area of the dumpsite but it’s nothing more than a gray blur. Fraschetti’s a perfect fall guy to clear the case. He looks a little odd and he’s not bright enough to really understand what’s happening to him. The sons of bitches!

And tomorrow you’re going to blow up their case?

"Damn straight, I mean, what choice do I have? The bastards! . . . Sorry, well, anyway, it looks like I’m going to need to start looking for a new job. I’m guessing that I’m too old for the Bureau to want me but I was hoping that you might know somebody who could use my training, maybe in

Reviews for The Concrete Kiss

[tmtrvlr · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Detective Ned Danes is in a bind. He can keep quiet and an innocent man will go to jail or report misplaced information to the DA, make an enemy, and lose his job. Fortunately, he has an old friend, FBI Agent Phil Abbot, who can help him out. The bond that develops between these two men is an "I've got your back" friendship.I liked the character of Ned Danes, and his work with cold cases drew me right in to the story. I was a little disappointed when Ned fell into the background and Phil Abbot's story came to the front, but was pleased as the story progressed and the two of them teamed up again.The character of Phil is an FBI agent who has adopted an autistic child with a tragic past. She is able to communicate through her computer and uses her hacking talents to find a killer. During Phil’s investigation a situation arises in which he now needs Ned’s help. The back and forth with these two characters was a major theme of the book. Just when I thought the story was wrapping up, Ned stumbles upon the answer to another cold case. Although I had a problem believing that FBI Agent Phil would allow his child to be involved with some of the illegal hacking, I still think The Concrete Kiss is another great book by David Grace.

[brknhrt_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Detective Ned Danes is in a bind. He can keep quiet and an innocent man will go to jail or report misplaced information to the DA, make an enemy, and lose his job. Fortunately, he has an old friend, FBI Agent Phil Abbot, who can help him out. The bond that develops between these two men is an "I've got your back" friendship.I liked the character of Ned Danes, and his work with cold cases drew me right in to the story. I was a little disappointed when Ned fell into the background and Phil Abbot's story came to the front, but was pleased as the story progressed and the two of them teamed up again.The character of Phil is an FBI agent who has adopted an autistic child with a tragic past. She is able to communicate through her computer and uses her hacking talents to find a killer. During Phil’s investigation a situation arises in which he now needs Ned’s help. The back and forth with these two characters was a major theme of the book. Just when I thought the story was wrapping up, Ned stumbles upon the answer to another cold case. Although I had a problem believing that FBI Agent Phil would allow his child to be involved with some of the illegal hacking, I still think The Concrete Kiss is another great book by David Grace.