About the Book
Title: Gold Coast Blues
Author: Marc Krulewitch
Genre: Mystery
In Marc Krulewitch’s gritty new mystery, perfect for readers of Robert Crais and Marcia Muller, a beautiful missing woman and a mysterious wine lead Chicago shamus Jules Landau straight toward a killer with very bad taste.
Jules Landau’s father was mobbed up, as was his father before him. Jules takes a different path: He’s a licensed private eye, currently collecting his paycheck in cash from a young ex-con looking for his missing girlfriend, Tanya. But as Jules scours Chicago’s North Side, he realizes that any number of people might want to make sure Tanya stays gone. At the heart of her disappearance seems to be a thriving black market for expensive French wine—a vintage so lucrative that Tanya may have paid for it with her life.
Following a trail of cash and power with more twists than a corkscrew, Jules traces a criminal conspiracy back to a corrupt New Jersey cop. With nobody telling the truth, Jules knows he has to act fast . . . because a perfect crime only gets better with age.
Author Bio
Marc Krulewitch’s Jules Landau mysteries take place in Chicago, where he was born and where his family has lived for generations. He now resides in Colorado.
Links
Website: http://marckrulewitch.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/makkrul
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marckrulewitch
Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/Marc-Krulewitch/e/B00494ET3W
Buy the Book:
Penguin Random House
Exclusive Excerpt!
The late morning rush at the Kutaisi Georgian Bakery on Devon Avenue was winding down as I parked in front of the place. Six months had passed since the owner had been arrested, along with Chicago’s deputy director of the department of revenue and two Russian gangsters, for their roles in murder, human trafficking, prostitution, and money laundering. The cousin of one of the murder victims now owned and operated the thriving bakery. In the course of my investigation, we had become intimate. Gradually, the bakery wedged us apart. Yesterday, she left a message asking me to stop by.
Tamar, a petite woman with jet-black hair framing a beautiful, slightly Asiatic face, flitted through the kitchen and prep room, absorbed in her endless duties. I watched from the counter, curious how long it would take for my presence to break the spell. The apron and silly hat did nothing to diminish Tamar’s loveliness. She approached me, obviously distracted, offering nothing in the way of intimate recognition.
“I should’ve told you to call first,” Tamar said.
Before I could respond, she grabbed an employee’s arm, spoke in her ear while taking off her apron and hat, then motioned for me to follow her to a table.
“I’m sorry I didn’t offer you anything,” she said after we sat. She looked about to cry.
“You look sad.”
She sort of nodded her head. “I don’t think I have the time or energy right now.”
“For me.”
“For us. Until I find people I can trust to help me run this place. It’s not fair to you.”
It’s not you, it’s me.
Disheartening scenes should be brief. “Call me when you feel more settled,” I said.
“Thank you,” Tamar said, then looked over to the kitchen where several employees were peering into the huge brick-domed oven. “I better get back; we’ll talk soon.”
Halt and catch fire, said the female computer to her boyfriend. We wouldn’t talk soon, but that was beside the point. I watched Tamar put the apron and hat back on, quickly give directions to subordinates, then disappear into the prep room. Just in case my visit hadn’t depressed me enough, I still had one more stop before beginning the fancy wine bar search.
Men called “associates” took care of Dad. They shopped, cooked, cleaned, and generally made sure Dad’s life was agreeable. These perks were not from regularly paid insurance premiums, but from favors accumulated over decades of loyal service to individuals and organizations operating as a de facto syndicate. Sixteen years spent keeping his mouth shut in a medium security prison was worth a quality long-term disability plan.
Dad rarely left his apartment in the 3700 block of Pine Grove, which is why I didn’t bother calling. Through the door’s oval glass, Arthur, a big bear of a man with a heart of gold, trudged toward me. By the look on his face, I could tell it had been a rough morning.
“What happened?” I said when he opened the door, then heard Dad shout, “Goddamn it!”
The two of us hurried back to his bedroom, where Dad sat in a recliner watching an old Bonanza rerun. “What’s wrong, Bernie?” Arthur said.
“The goddamn snakes are back! Look at ’em in the corner, slithering all over each other. I told you to get rid of them goddamn snakes!”
I pulled Arthur out of the room. “When did this start?”
“About two weeks ago he began seeing snakes. And then there was a hole in the back door, and a guy on the porch, in a black coat and black hat, was dumping the snakes through the hole.”
“Has he seen a doctor?”
Arthur nodded as Dad shouted, “What the hell are you two talking about?”
“It’s a type of dementia,” Arthur said. “Lewy-something.”
“Can they give him anything for the hallucinations?”
“They’re trying different drugs but it takes time to work.”
I returned to Dad’s room and sat on the corner of the bed, next to the recliner. Dad sat slack-jawed, staring at Little Joe on the television. “Hi, Dad. It’s Jules.”
Dad turned to me. “Hey! Did you see the snakes? A whole pile of ’em.”
“No, I didn’t see them.”
Dad eyeballed me. “Goddamn Arthur. Telling me there’re no snakes.”
“He’s a nice guy and he works hard for you.”
Dad looked back at the television. “I don’t even know who all those people are. Do you know those people?”
“What people?”
“They’re all over the place. I don’t know who the hell they are. Are you hungry?”
“No—”
“Arthur!” Dad shouted. “Make Julie a salami sandwich.”
“No thanks, Arthur. I’m not hungry.”
Dad eyeballed me again. “What’s the matter with you? Why’re you so down in the dumps?”
His sudden shift to sanity surprised me. “I’m fine. Just got another case. Missing person.”
“That’s nice. You need any money?”
“I’m fine.”
Dad turned back to Bonanza. I peered out the door. Arthur sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. When I looked back at Dad, his eyes were closed.
