Dead Irish (Dismas Hardy, Book 1) by John Lescroart

By John Lescroart

In his new existence as a bartender on the Little Shamrock, Dismas Hardy is simply hoping for a bit peace. He's left either the police strength and his legislations occupation in the back of. regrettably it's now not as effortless to go away at the back of the reminiscence of a shattering own loss-but in the meanwhile, he can continuously take the sting off with a stiff drink and around of darts. but if the inside track of Eddie Cochran's dying reaches him, Hardy is propelled again into every part he used to be attempting to break out. Now he needs to untangle an online of outdated secrets and techniques and uncooked passions, for the sake of Eddie's pregnant widow Frannie-and for the others whose lives should be at risk.

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Extra resources for Dead Irish (Dismas Hardy, Book 1)

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Turgut Bora of Istanbul University. My great hope in making this story public is that it may find at least one reader who will understand it for what it actually is: a cri de coeur. To you, perceptive reader, I bequeath my history. Oxford, England January 15, 2008 Part One How these papers have been placed in sequence will be made manifest in the reading of them. All needless matters have been eliminated, so that a history almost at variance with the possibilities of later-day belief may stand forth as simple fact.

I’ve seen pictures of that. You could say she’s a sort of ghost—she probably lives in a very small village. ” I kept my face glued to the window. No more ghosts appeared, but I didn’t miss a single view of the miracle that did: Ragusa, far below us, an ivory city with a molten, sunlit sea breaking around its walls, roofs redder than the evening sky inside their tremendous medieval enclosure. The city sat on a large round peninsula, and its walls looked impenetrable to sea storm and invasion, a giant wading off the Adriatic coast.

Emona was built on Bronze Age pilings along a river now lined with art-nouveau architecture. During the next day or two, we would walk past the mayor’s mansion, past seventeenth-century town houses trimmed with silver fleurs-de-lis, past the solid golden back of a great market building, its steps leading down to the surface of the water from heavily barred old doors. For centuries, river cargo had been hoisted up at that place to feed the town. And where primitive huts had once proliferated on the shore, sycamores—the European plane tree—now grew to an immense girth above the river walls and dropped curls of bark into the current.

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