It was the bright yellow tape that finally convinced me my sister was dead.

It is cold at six-forty in the morning on a March day in Paris, and seems even colder when a man is about to be executed by firing squad.

We were about to give up and call it a night when somebody dropped the girl off the bridge.

When the phone rang, Parker was in the garage, killing a man.

When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.