By John D. MacDonald
From a loved grasp of crime fiction, Cinnamon epidermis is one of the vintage novels that includes Travis McGee, the hard-boiled detective who lives on a houseboat.
In the Florida Keys, a houseboat explodes in an enormous white flash, immediately killing the honeymooners onboard. Travis McGee’s ally, Meyer, loses not just his domestic and each unmarried factor in it yet his final dwelling relative. Now he desires solutions. And he and McGee plan to get them—or die trying.
“To diggers 1000 years from now, the works of John D. MacDonald will be a treasure at the order of the tomb of Tutankhamen.”—Kurt Vonnegut
If Travis McGee hadn’t prepared a lecture journey for his buddy, Meyer will be useless. because it used to be, Meyer lent the loo Maynard Keynes to his just-married niece, Norma, and her husband, Evan, hoping to provide them the fitting honeymoon. as a substitute: tragedy. while a bunch of Colombian terrorists take accountability for the brutal act, Meyer and McGee go back and forth to Mexico to hunt justice. Or payback.
Once south of the border, Meyer and McGee realize many stuff: Evan’s seedy prior, a stunning neighborhood named Barbara, a deadly drug cartel, and, maybe, even Meyer’s lengthy misplaced braveness. yet does Meyer, continually content material in McGee’s shadow, have what it takes to avenge the killing of the individual he enjoyed most?
Features a brand new advent by way of Lee baby
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Additional resources for Cinnamon Skin (Travis McGee, Book 20)
Like this case that had brought him out to Colorado. He could see potential leads, looming problems, possible solutions where others didn’t. He had always been an “unusual” FBI agent. Hell, that was why they said they had recruited him out of NYU Law. During his interviews he’d been told that the Bureau wanted him because they were too straitlaced and traditional, and therefore too predictable. He was supposed to represent a new, evolved kind of agent. And he sure had! For a while, anyway. They had sold hard on the idea of breaking out of the envelope, working outside the box; but once he was inside the organization, he discovered that the FBI really didn’t want to change very much.
She’d been hanging on to the top of a tree for hours, hidden in thick branches. At least she hoped she was hidden. She tried to be still. Silent, too. Invisible, three. Max was shivering, and the whole thing was crashing out of control. She really, really wished Matthew was with her. They would give each other strength and hope and words of wisdom. It had always been that way with the two of them. They were inseparable at the School. Mrs. Beattie, the only truly nice one there, called them “inseparable at birth,” and the “Bobbsey Twins”—whoever the heck they were.
They hurried the infant inside. There was a high degree of excitement in the air, exultation, almost glee. The head doctor at the School was on premises for the exam and watched closely, supervising, lecturing at times. Heart rate, respiration, skin color, muscle tone, reflex responses were checked. Baby Hutton scored a perfect 10. The boy’s length and weight were checked. Tests were performed to check for cardiac murmur, heart engorgement, subconjunctival hemorrhage, jaundice, asexuality, hip dysplasia, clavicle fractures, skin mottling.