After being fired from his job of thirty-three years, a reticent financial analyst returns to work the following day and murders his boss. He then makes his escape and effectively vanishes without a trace.
Five years later, Frank Taylor, an African-American private investigator, who once worked as a security guard for the same company, receives a call from the new CEO. The proposition: find the killer and bring him in for justice.
With the offer of a large sum of money, plus the prospect of earning a reputation in the field, Frank is lured into a spiraling black hole of vengeance and betrayal.
With valuable assistance from his cyberspace love interest, and a disgruntled NYPD detective, Frank goes on a hunt for the killer. But he soon discovers that he too is being hunted. And as the bodies begin to pile up, Frank realizes that his time is quickly running out....
Set in New York City and Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, ON THE RUN, is a complex descent into a treacherous world where justice and revenge are synonymous.
Michael Martin lives and works in New York City. He has written several novels and short stories, including DEADBEAT, which also features private investigator Frank Taylor. He is currently working on the next book in this series called MIDNIGHT BLACK.
Buy your copy!
Barnes & Noble.com
Buy Books on the Web
On The Run
Frank waited until business hours before calling Barbara McGuire's office. He questioned the wisdom of calling so soon after Grenfeld’s murder, mainly because he didn’t want to be the first one to tell her about it if she didn’t already know. God only knew how much he didn’t want to be the one. But there was a possibility that he had seen the man who did it and he needed to ask her about that. Did she know any of Grenfeld’s friends who may have worn a brown sports coat and fit the very skimpy description that he was able to put together? White male, late thirties, average height, brown sports coat. Not much of a description, but a skimpy description was better than no description.
The call to Barbara McGuire’s number was answered by a male voice with a flat mid-western twang. The voice was cautious, hesitant.
“May I ask who's calling, sir?”
“My name is Frank Taylor. Tell her I’m the guy from Moshe's Deli, she'll remember.” She’ll remember? The woman was a neurotic wreck. He wondered if she could remember her own name at this point.
“Uh…sir…” The voice stammered slightly, then wavered uneasily. “Miss McGuire is no longer with us, sir.”
“Really? I just spoke with her a few days ago.”
“Yes, I understand, sir. But she’s no longer with us, sir.”
“That's too bad.” He wasn’t surprised. He didn't think she could hold down a job very long at the rate she was going. The woman looked like a psychiatrist’s delight.
“Any idea where I can reach her? It's pretty important.”
“Uh...I'm sorry, sir. She's no longer.…”
“I can’t hear you, buddy,” Frank said with mild annoyance. “Can you speak a little louder?”
A breathless pause on the other end, then in a sudden hushed rush of words, “There’s been an accident....”
There was silence first, then the long fading hiss of breath like steam escaping from a kettle, then dying into silence. The voice on the other end said, “Miss McGuire is dead, sir. Last night. She was murdered, sir.”
Frank sat there holding the phone stunned, motionless.
“We just found out a little while ago, sir. Someone saw it on the television, on the news. We’re trying to get in touch with her family to find out more.”
Frank remained quiet not knowing what to say. The person on the other end of the line sniffled, but remained composed.
“As you might imagine, sir, we’re all pretty disturbed by this here.”
Frank hung up the phone. He stood there staring at it for a long time before he realized he was staring and standing and doing nothing. He went to the closet and grabbed his jacket. He had no idea where he was going, but he had to go somewhere. He had no idea what to do and he hated that feeling because it was the most truly humbling emotion that anyone could experience; this realization that ultimately we have no control over the arbitrary consequences presented by fate. If that was what it was. Fate.
He stopped at the door and went back to the phone. He picked it up and made the call before he had a chance to think about it or possibly change his mind.