Ties That Blind. Zachary Klein

      

      Praise for Zachary Klein’s Matt Jacob series

      STILL AMONG THE LIVING

      “Matt Jacob, a private eye from Boston, makes his debut in a novel that offers rich characterizations…if he can resist the impulse to turn Matt Jacob too straight too soon, the author can keep his singular detective on good cases for a long time.”

      —The New York Times

      “I’d call it one of the best and certainly the most off-center detective novels I’ve read…Klein’s is a terrific idea—have Jacob work on two very different mysteries at once, the deep human disorders disturbing him and the case he’s called upon to solve…Klein’s private eye and his prickly prose are original. Savor ‘Still Among the Living’ and pray this is not the last we will read of Matt Jacob.”

      —Boston Globe

      “Matt Jacob is a terrific character with a lot of life in him beyond this book.”

      —Globe and Mail

      TWO WAY TOLL

      “Entertaining…Matt Jacob comes across as a heartfelt creation…A refreshing character in a genre rife with male posturing and two dimensional psychology.”

      –The New York Times

      “[A] real payoff…The return of Matt’s whole entourage guarantees pleasure for fans of Klein’s first.”

      —Kirkus Reviews

      “Klein returns with another compelling tale featuring private detective Matt Jacob.”

      —Publishers Weekly

      NO SAVING GRACE

      “Like Phillip Marlowe, Matt seems to take every case as an invitation to look deeper inside himself.”

      —Kirkus Reviews

      “Jacob is a man in search of himself as much as he is in search of solutions. When the perpetrators are revealed, the surprise is real and discomfiting; as the title states, the truth offers No Saving Grace.”

      –Hadassah Magazine

      The Matt Jacob series by Zachary Klein

      Still Among the Living

      Two Way Toll

      No Saving Grace

      To Susan Goodman whose faith in me has withstood the test of time. Life without you would be no life at all.

      And a special dedication to my cousin Hank Ashen; his life was a reminder that refusing to risk is refusing to really live. I miss you.

      Finally I’d like to acknowledge Sherri Frank whose time, help, and support were instrumental in the writing of this book. Thank you.

      

      Lovemaking had slammed my ass to sleep. A good sleep, deep enough that I hadn’t heard the ring of Boots’s cell phone, not so deep that I couldn’t feel her body crawl across my own. I lifted my hands to stroke her buttocks, grew confused when she twisted out of reach, then dimly understood when she grabbed the phone. Still, I turned to hide my disappointment. A disappointment that instantly disappeared when she poked me with the cell.

      “It’s Lou,” she said, worry flooding her hazel eyes and smooth face. “And he sounds serious.”

      I couldn’t ignore the belly-dread. Lou was my dead wife’s father, the money-half of our partnership in two attached six-flats we both called home. It was much too late for the call to be about the buildings.

      “Why didn’t he call my phone?”

      “He knows you keep it off—now take the damn thing!”

      “Lou? Are you all right?” I stared blankly as Boots swung out of bed and bent her lean, limber body to pull on a pair of thigh-high jeans while I tried to push the image of Mrs. S.’s funeral out of my head.

      “I’m fine,” Lou wheezed. “I hate to bother you this time of night, but I need a mitzvah.”

      I closed my eyes with relief and didn’t notice Boots trying to get my attention until she tugged my arm. “Is Lou okay?” she whispered. “He called me Boots, not Shoes.”

      I raised my eyebrows and shrugged.

      “Matty,” Lou continued anxiously, “Lauren’s son is on the other telephone line bleeding from knife wounds. She’ll keep him on the telephone until you pick him up and bring him to the hospital.”

      “Who are you talking about?”

      “I’ll explain, but please, first will you do what I asked?”

      I shook my head in bewilderment. “Okay.You know where he is?”

      “At a bar in The Plain. Jimmy’s on Washington, near Forest Hills Station. The boy says he’s standing in an old fashioned phone booth, one with a door.”

      I hadn’t thought any of those were left in our new digital age. “Lou, an ambulance makes more sense.”

      “Sense doesn’t matter here, the kid won’t deal with anyone in a uniform. You can understand that. And you’ll have to bring him to Beth Israel. He won’t go anywhere else.”

      “Why doesn’t his mother pick him up?”

      “We’re at Lauren’s house on the North Shore. It will take too long to get there.”

      “He’ll come with me?” I took one of the lit cigarettes Boots was holding and dragged deeply, my initial fear and Forest Hills’s cemetery receding into nervous apprehension.

      “Lauren promises by the time you get there she’ll have him ready and willing.” He paused then added proudly, “She’s not wrong about much, boychick, she won’t be wrong about this. Anyway, you look shaggy enough for him to trust.”

      His tone troubled me more than the words. “Lou, if the kid was stabbed someone has to call the cops.”

      There was a momentary pause. “Matty, he did this to himself.”

      After a long moment I quietly asked again, “Who are these people?”

      This time it was the words, not his tone, that got to me.

      “He called her his ‘squeeze,’” I said, wrestling into my pants. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

      Boots sat cross-legged on the bed, her back pressed against the modern metal headboard. By now she was wearing a beige tank top that left a strip of her flat, tan stomach exposed. “Squeeze means girlfriend. You’re not that out of touch.”

      “I know the definition, smart-ass. Only Lou’s never mentioned a girlfriend. I’ve never even heard of this lady.”

      “You keep calling her ‘this lady.’ She has a name, doesn’t she?”

      I stopped tying my sneaks and glanced up. “Lauren. Her name is Lauren. Where’s the dope?”

      Boots frowned, raising slight ridges on her forehead. “You’ve been pretty good, Matt. Why not wait until you get back?”

      “I don’t know if I’m coming back. I might have to take Lou home or something.”

      “You don’t have weed at your apartment?”

      I returned her smile with a quick, worried grin of my own. “Then light me another cigarette, okay?”

      The ride across town was a smooth sail—no post 9/11 twenty-four, seven patrol cars, detours, or potholes..—Other than the cops,