By Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

In a parking storage within the middle of Rio de Janeiro, company govt Ricardo Carvalho is located useless in his vehicle, a bullet in his head, his pockets and briefcase lacking. Inspector Espinosa is named in to enquire the obvious theft and homicide, however the world-weary Espinosa understands that issues usually are not consistently as they appear. Carvalho’s lately got one-million-dollar lifestyles insurance coverage and the next disappearance of his secretary Rose complicate matters—as does Espinosa’s allure to Carvalho’s appealing widow, one of many suspects. And whilst extra humans ensue useless, Espinosa needs to accelerate his research sooner than a person else turns into a casualty.

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The Silence of the Rain: An Inspector Espinosa Mystery

In a parking storage within the heart of Rio de Janeiro, company government Ricardo Carvalho is located lifeless in his vehicle, a bullet in his head, his pockets and briefcase lacking. Inspector Espinosa is named in to enquire the plain theft and homicide, however the world-weary Espinosa is aware that issues aren't regularly as they appear.

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You work for the Foreign Office on secondment to the EULEX mission in Kosovo. ’ That sounded mostly right. Like seeing the film of a book you’d read. Some things skipped or not quite right, others changed for no apparent reason. She peered at him. ’ ‘Norris, from the embassy here. Podgorica. ’ It came out of nowhere, surprising her as much as him. How did I know that? The brown eyes narrowed. ’ ‘Yes. No. I don’t …’ She struggled, trying to articulate it. ‘I know some things. When you say words like “British Embassy” or “Kosovo” or “holiday”, it makes sense.

Wait,’ she heard Norris say. ’ But they wouldn’t give her a chance. Strong hands clamped around her arm and a sharp point slid into her flesh. The monitor slowed its runaway pace. Then there was silence. ’ The metronome beat of the monitor was stable now, a gentle andante. They’d sat Abby up in her bed, though she couldn’t move much more. A plaster cast covered her right arm and shoulder, entombing her chest and most of her stomach. Somewhere underneath, she’d been told, was the bullet wound. You were shot.

One of my sons, apparently. Something wraps around me like a cold current in the sea, though I don’t flinch. My face betrays nothing. Neither does his. Without warning, he tosses me something. My body’s grown slow and cumbersome, but I still have my reflexes. I catch it one-handed, then open my fist. ’ It’s a necklace, about the size of my palm. An intricate web surrounding Constantine’s X-P monogram, the bright new gold studded with red glass beads. A broken chain shows where it was ripped off someone’s neck.

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