Excerpt from Fortune Favors the Dead by Stephen Spotswood , plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"What made you determine that?" she asked. "From how much he's paying me. Also, he wouldn't spend two bits for a shave but dropped at least five for a gaff watch."

"A gaff?"

"A fake, a phony."

"How do you know it's fake?"

"No way is this guy buying gold."

There was something in her eyes then. The same look Mys terio got right before he sawed his lovely assistant in half.

"Do you have his phone number in case of emergencies?" she asked.

"Yeah, sure. But he said not to use it unless something's really gone sideways."

"Something has indeed gone sideways, Miss ..."

"No Miss. Just Parker," I told her. "Willowjean Parker. Everyone calls me Will."

"Please call Mr. McCloskey, Will. Tell him there's an intruder and she won't leave. Tell him she's asking about a gold watch."

It was an easy call to make, since it was the truth. After I hung up, the woman—who still hadn't introduced herself, and don't think I wasn't a little annoyed at that lapse in basic manners—asked me how he'd sounded.

I told her he'd sounded normal at first—sleep drugged and annoyed. But when I mentioned the watch, a thread of something like panic had come into his voice. He said he'd be right over and not to let this woman go anywhere in the mean time.

She gave a small, satisfied nod, then sat down on the cot, back straight, gloved hands holding her cane across her lap. She closed her eyes, calm as my great-aunt Ida praying in church. She reminded me of pictures of Okie wives I'd seen in issues of Life, a weatherworn face waiting patiently for the coming storm.

I thought about asking her what this was all about. Or at least her name. She had mine, after all. But I decided I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. So I stood there and waited with her.

After ten minutes of silence she suddenly opened her eyes and said, "I think it would be best, Will, if you were to leave out the Eighth Avenue exit. There is a station house about twelve blocks south."

"You want me to get the cops?"

"Ask them to call Lieutenant Nathan Lazenby. Tell them there's been a murder and that Lillian Pentecost says to come at once. Unless they wish to read about it in the Times."

I opened my mouth, but she flashed me a look that said it was no use arguing, so I dashed out and toward Eighth Avenue but stopped before I reached the gate.

Like I said, there's no love lost between me and authority figures, especially those who carry guns and billy clubs and aren't afraid to do some judicious clobbering of their own. Besides, what did this woman think would happen? I drop her name and a whole squad of dicks come running?

Lillian Pentecost. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway?

Instead, I quietly retraced my steps around the pit. Before I'd gotten back to the shack the shriek of old brakes on Forty-second Street announced McCloskey's arrival.

I hurried to the rear of the rickety structure and crouched down. The walls were thin and I could hear everything. I fig ured that worked in reverse, so I kept still and quiet.

There was the sound of footsteps double-timing it across hard dirt, then of the door creaking open. "Hey. Who are you? Where's the little carny?"

"I've sent Will away, Mr. McCloskey. I thought it best if we had this conversation in private."

"What conversation? What's the deal? Who are you?"

"I am Lillian Pentecost." There was a little inhale there. Apparently he recognized the name and wasn't too happy about it. "And the deal is that you are wearing a murdered man's watch."

"What are you talking about? That's a lie. I bought this watch. From a guy at a bar. Twenty bucks, it cost."

I shook my head. Apparently nobody'd taught him that adding too many details was the quickest way to foul a grift.

From Fortune Favors the Dead: A Novel by Stephen Spotswood, published by Doubleday, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright (c) 2020 by Stephen Spotswood.