Cover image for Dance for the dead
Title:
Dance for the dead
Author:
Perry, Thomas, 1947-
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
Old Saybrook, CT : Tantor Audio, [2009]

℗2009
Physical Description:
10 audio discs (approximately 12 hr.) : digital ; 4 3/4 in.
Summary:
In author Thomas Perry's second mystery featuring Jane Whitefield, a Seneca Indian who helps desperate individuals disappear, Jane is tasked with hiding eight-year-old Timothy Decker after his parents are brutally murdered. However, Jane is distracted by the growing needs of Mary Perkins, a desperate woman who is being stalked by a brutal murderer. Trying to flip-flop between case, Jane discovers that Timothy and Mary are fleeing from the same man.
General Note:
Title from web page.

Unabridged.

Compact discs.

Duration: 12:00:00.
Language:
English
Geographic Term:
Added Author:
ISBN:
9781400110216
Format :
Audiobook on CD

Available:*

Library
Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Status
Item Holds
Searching...
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
Searching...
Searching...
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
Searching...
Searching...
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
Searching...
Searching...
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Central Closed Stacks
Searching...
Searching...
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Being fixed/mended
Searching...
Searching...
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
Searching...
Searching...
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
Searching...
Searching...
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
Searching...

On Order

Summary

Summary

When eight-year-old Timothy Decker finds his parents brutally murdered, it's clear the Deckers weren't the intended victims: Timothy's own room--ransacked, all traces of his existence expertly obliterated--is the shocking evidence. Timothy's nanny, Mona, is certain about only one thing. Timmy needs to disappear, fast.

Only Jane Whitefield, a Native American "guide" who specializes in making victims vanish, can lead him to safety. But diverting Jane's attention is Mary Perkins, a desperate woman with S&L fraud in her past. Stalking Mary is a ruthless predator determined to find her--and the fortune she claims she doesn't have. Jane quickly creates a new life for Mary and jumps back on Timmy's case...not knowing that the two are fatefully linked to one calculating killer.


Author Notes

Thomas Perry was born in Tonawanda, New York, in 1947. He graduated from Cornell University in 1969 and earned a Ph. D. in English Literature from the University of Rochester in 1974.

Perry's novels, successful both critically and with the public, are suspenseful as well as comic. Butcher's Boy received an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for Best First Novel in 1983, and another one of his novels has been adapted in the movie, The Guide (1999). His other novels include: Death Benefits, Nightlife, Fidelity, and Strip.

(Bowker Author Biography) Won an Edgar for The Butcher's Boy, and Metzger's Dog was a New Yor Times Notable book of the Year. Vanishing Act was chosen as one of the 100 Favorite Mysteries of the century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. Perry's other works include: Death Benefits, The Face Changers, Shadow Woman, Dance for the Dead, and Blood Money. He lives in Southern California with his wife and two daughters.

(Publisher Provided)


Reviews 3

Booklist Review

Jane Whitefield has an uncommon career as a freelance "disappearer." When someone is in a jam and needs a safe haven, Jane finds it for them. Jane's newest case involves an eight-year-old who will inherit millions as long as he remains alive until the will is probated. The villains after his fortune have already killed his parents, his nanny, and a lawyer and are hot on the trail of the kid. Then Jane encounters smart, attractive Mary Perkins, a former banker and consummate con artist who has stolen a cool $50 million in a savings-and-loan scam. So far, Mary has managed to keep herself hidden from the folks who want the money back, but she's running out of time and disguises, and she figures only Jane can help. In a plot with more action than an Indiana Jones adventure, more suspense than Psycho, and more clever twists and tricks than a James Bond flick, Perry keeps his readers on the edges of their seats for more than 300 pages. A taut, tense, superbly written thriller that will satisfy even the most demanding reader. (Reviewed Feb. 15, 1996)0679449116Emily Melton


Publisher's Weekly Review

As usual, Perry (The Butcher's Boy) cuts to the chase. In the opening scene of this riveting mystery thriller, Jane Whitefield, an expert at helping people in danger disappear, slugs it out with three brawny hoodlums in an L.A. courthouse. At that point, she has traveled across half the country trying to protect Timmy Phillips, an eight-year-old heir to millions, from the stop-at-nothing professional killers on their trail. The same criminals, led by a powerful ex-cop named Barraclough, murdered Timmy's adoptive parents. Now they want Mary Perkins, a fugitive savings-and-loan fleecer who also asks Whitefield for help. Perry launches a complex pursuit, during which Whitefield relies on her Seneca heritage for insight and on friends for crucial assistance. A love interest highlights the personal price Whitefield pays for doing her secretive, dangerous work. The nail-biting climax takes place on a snowy night in a location that seems tailor-made for film: the rusting remains of a huge steel mill near Buffalo. The denouement may strike some readers as too neat, but it's a minor quibble. With his distinctive protagonist, thoroughly amoral villains and the unrelenting action, Perry scores again. 75,000 first printing; major ad/promo. (Apr.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Library Journal Review

Jane's attempt to help an orphan boy overlaps with her work for a woman accused of stealing $50 million in Perry's (Vanishing Act, LJ 12/94) latest thriller. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

1   The tall, slim woman hastily tied her long, dark hair into a knot behind her head, planted her feet in the center of the long courthouse corridor, and waited. A few litigants and their attorneys passed her, some of them secretly studying her, more because she was attractive than because she was standing motionless, forcing them to step around her on their way to the courtrooms. Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths as though she had been running, and her eyes looked past them, having already dismissed them before they approached as she stared into the middle distance.   She heard the chime sound above the elevator thirty feet away. Before the doors had fully parted, three large men in sportcoats slipped out between them and spun their heads to stare up the hallway. All three seemed to see her within an instant, their eyes widening, then narrowing to focus, and then becoming watchful and predatory, losing any hint of introspection as they began to move toward her, one beside each wall and one in the middle, increasing their pace with each step.   Several bystanders averted their eyes and sidestepped to avoid them, but the woman never moved. She hiked up the skirt of her navy blue business suit so it was out of her way, took two more deep breaths, then swung her shoulder bag hard at the first man's face.   The man's eyes shone with triumph and eagerness as he snatched the purse out of the air. The triumph turned to shock as the woman slipped the strap around his forearm and used the momentum of his charge to haul him into the second man, sending them both against the wall to her right. As they caromed off it, she delivered a kick to one and a chop to the other to put them on the floor. This bought her a few heartbeats to devote to the third man, who was moving along the left wall to get behind her.   She leaned back and swung one leg high. The man read her intention, stopped, and held up his hands to clutch her ankle, but her back foot left the ground and she hurled her weight into him. As her foot caught him at thigh level and propelled him into the wall, there was the sickening crack of his knee popping. He crumpled to the floor and began to gasp and clutch at his crippled leg as the woman rolled to the side and sprang up.   The first two men were rising to their feet. Her fist jabbed out at the nearest one and she rocked him back, pivoted to throw an elbow into the bridge of his nose, and brought a knee into the second man's face.   There was a loud slapping sound and the woman's head jerked nearly to her left shoulder as a big fist swung into her cheekbone. Strong arms snaked around her from behind, lifted her off her feet to stretch her erect, and she saw the rest as motion and flashes. The first two men rushed at her in rage, aiming hard roundhouse punches at her head and face, gleeful in the certainty that she saw the blows coming but could do nothing to block them or even turn to divert their force.   Two loud, deep voices overlapped, barking for dominance. "Police officers! Freeze!" "Step away from her!" When her opponents released her and stepped away, she dropped to her knees and covered her face with her hands. In a moment, several bystanders who had stood paralyzed with alarm seemed to awaken. They were drawn closer by some impulse to be of use, but they only hovered helplessly nearby without touching her or speaking.     The judge's chambers were in shadow except for a few horizontal slices of late-afternoon sunlight that shone through the blinds on the wood-paneled wall. Judge Kramer sat in his old oak swivel chair with his robe unzipped but with the yoke still resting on his shoulders. He loosened his tie and leaned back, making the chair's springs creak, then pressed the PLAY button on the tape recorder.   There were sounds of chairs scraping, papers shuffling, and a garble of murmured conversation, so that the judge's empty chamber seemed to be crowded with invisible people. A female voice came from somewhere too close to the microphone. "This deposition is to be taken before Julia R. Kinnock, court stenographer at 501 North Spring Street, Los Angeles, California, at ten ... seventeen A.M. on November third. The court's instructions were that if there is an objection to the use of a tape recorder, it will be turned off." There was silence. "Will the others in the room please identify themselves."   "David M. Schoenfeld, court-appointed counsel to Timothy Phillips." Schoenfeld's voice was smooth, and each syllable took too long to come out. Judge Kramer could almost see him leaning into the microphone to croon.   "Nina Coffey, Department of Children's Services, Los Angeles County, in the capacity of guardian for a minor person." Kramer had read her name on a number of official papers, but he had never heard her voice before. It was clear and unapologetic, the words quick and clipped, as though she were trying to guard against some kind of vulnerability.   "Kyle Ambrose, Assistant District Attorney, Los Angeles." As usual, the prosecutor sounded vaguely confused, a pose that had irritated Kramer through six or seven long trials.   Then came the low, monotone voices that were at once self-effacing and weighty, voices of men who had spent a lot of time talking over radios. They started quietly and grew louder, because the last part of each name was the important part.   "Lieutenant James E. Bates, Los Angeles Police Department."   "Agent Joseph Gould, Federal Bureau of Investigation."   There was some more shuffling of papers and then Julia Kinnock said, "Mr. Ambrose, do you wish to begin?"   Ambrose's parched, uncertain voice came in a beat late. "Will you state your name for the record, please?"   There was some throat clearing, and then the high, reedy voice of a young boy. "Tim ... Timothy John Phillips."   Schoenfeld's courtroom voice intoned, "Perhaps it would be a good idea to ask that the record show that Lieutenant Bates and Agent Gould here present have verified that the deponent's fingerprints match those of Timothy John Phillips, taken prior to his disappearance."   The two voices muttered, "So verified," in the tone of a response in a church. Amen, thought Kramer. Schoenfeld had managed to sidestep onto the record with the one essential fact to be established in the case from Schoenfeld's point of view.   Ambrose's voice became slow and clear as he spoke to the boy. "You are to answer of your own accord, You are not to feel that you are in any way obligated to tell us things you don't want to." Judge Kramer could imagine Ambrose's dark eyes flicking to the faces of Schoenfeld, the lawyer, and Nina Coffey, the social worker. It was a confidence game, as Ambrose's legal work always was. The kid would have to answer all of the questions at some point, but Ambrose was trying to put the watchdogs to sleep. "Mr. Schoenfeld is here as your lawyer, so if you have any doubts, just ask him. And Mrs. Coffey will take you home if you're too tired. Do you understand?"   The small, high-pitched voice said, "Yes."   "How old are you?"   "Eight."   "Can you tell me, please, your earliest recollections?" Judge Kramer clenched his teeth.   "You mean, ever?"   "Yes."   "I remember ... I guess I remember a lot of things. Christmas. Birthdays. I remember moving into our house in Washington."   "When was that?"   "I don't know."   A male voice interjected, "The lease on the Georgetown house began four years ago on January first. That was established during the murder investigation. He would have been four." The voice would be that of the F.B.I. agent, thought the judge.   "Do you remember anything before that, in another house?"   "No, I don't think so."   "When you moved in, was Miss Mona Turley already with you?"   "I don't know. I guess so."   "Who lived there?"   "My parents, me, Mona."   "Did you have relatives besides your parents? Cousins or uncles?"   "No, just my grandma."   "Did you ever see her?"   "Not that I remember. She lived far away. We used to send her a Christmas card every year."   "Did you?" There was the confusion again, as though Ambrose were hearing it for the first time and trying to fathom the implications.   "Yeah. I remember, because my daddy would put my handprint on it. He would write something, and then he would squish my hand onto a stamp pad and press it on the card, because I couldn't write yet."   Ambrose hesitated, then said gently, "Do you remember anybody else? Any other grown-ups that, you were with?"   "You mean Mr. and Mrs. Phillips?"   "Yes."   "I know about them. I don't think I ever saw them."   "So when you say your 'parents' you mean Raymond and Emily Decker?"   "They were my mother and father."   Judge Kramer's brows knitted in distaste. This was typical of Ambrose. Get on with it, he thought. An eight-year-old's distant recollections weren't going to get Ambrose anything in a criminal investigation. Such meticulous, redundant questioning had bought him an inflated reputation as a prosecutor--laying the groundwork for an unshakable, brick-hard case. It looked like magic to juries, but to Judge Kramer and the opposing attorneys who knew where he was going, it was like watching an ant carrying single crumbs until he had a hero sandwich.   Excerpted from Dance for the Dead by Thomas Perry All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.