Letters in Blood: and Other Tom Larkin Mysteries

Tom Larkin paid fifty grand for his brilliant red casket months before they planned a sailor's funeral for him that night. His coffin cruised at 120 mph with its dash lit like a jet's cockpit, where the most-important reading to Larkin glowed on his Porsche's digital clock--4:00 AM. Perhaps it was his darkest moment before dawn, but he had other plans. He drove recklessly, hydroplaning northbound on Manhattan's flooded FDR Drive through sheets of pouring rain.

The drive home took an hour, but, with minimal visibility in a torrential downpour, the flooded Harlem River Drive leading to the George Washington Bridge concealed potholes rattling the fine suspension of his German-made wet dream. Larkin's greater problem-DWI-was a given they had counted on. Still, they drugged his last sour mash at Rao's, just to up the prelude's tempo to an evening dirge. With the bad weather, his inebri- ation, and hallucinations from a subtle drug taking hold of his senses, the distance between Larkin and home lengthened as time became his enemy. Vera, his wife, told him she'd kill him the next time he stumbled in after daybreak. It was no idle threat. He knew she could kill in a crime of

passion, especially him. Death lurked at the start and finish of his race homeward, but, with two strikes against him, only he could fathom the third --his bent to self destruction.

If all went as planned, Harbor Police would find Tom Larkin dead behind the wheel after hitting the muddy bottom of the East River, or any other river. They just wanted him gone, stateside or overseas, no matter what.

Larkin still felt sharp an hour after downing his third double Jack Daniels. In his mind, past, present, and future were clear. Remembering his hat size, Social Security number, and the measurements of a dozen bimbos was no problem. He could read his driver's license number from three paces, backward, upside down, with either eye