House of Secrets: A Novel
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Senator Andrew Foster has it all: charm to spare, a loving wife, a beautiful daughter, and a fast-track career that will surely land him one day in the White House. And with the sudden resignation of the vice president, that track may have gotten a lot faster.
But there’s a problem.
There are people who know that Andy Foster’s charm can get the better of him, and they have bugged the Shelter Island bungalow where he is enjoying a midnight tryst with a beautiful campaign adviser. But all hell breaks loose when a man carrying an iron pipe comes crashing through the bedroom’s sliding glass door. Within seconds, the young woman lies bloodied, dead on the sheets, and Foster has fled in panic.
And it’s all on tape.
As momentum builds for Foster’s likely selection as the next vice president, the senator’s only hope of keeping his involvement with the murdered woman secret is to locate his blackmailers. But even they don’t have their hands on the devastating images. The man they used for the job has turned the tables and is blackmailing them.
All the while, Foster’s personal life is collapsing. His wife, Christine, senses that something is terribly wrong. Unhappy about their daughter’s living in a political fishbowl, Christine is also worried that she and her husband have drifted away from each other. Little does she know that power-hungry politicians and brutal gangsters are ready to rip her family utterly apart.
From the rarefied halls of Washington to the briny boardwalks of Brighton Beach, Richard Hawke pulls back the curtain to reveal what is taking place inside the hearts and minds of the powerful people we read about every day in the news. With House of Secrets, Hawke has delivered a pulse-pounding thriller that ignites the fatal mixture of politics, arrogance, and lust.
precaution sufficient to qualify as overkill. Outside the arts center in Garrison, three federal SWAT units were gathered, their members poring over topographic maps of the area. The Smallwood house was marked with a red O. The small barn behind the house was awarded the X. The red light on a black metal box in the command van began to blink, and several seconds later a dozen satellite photos called up from the previous winter’s area mapping began to emerge soundlessly from the brushed nickel
house was to forgo locks, forgo keys. The house had always been that sort of refuge from the otherwise restrictive and wary world. A place to let down your guard. Yes. The keys were in the car. As Smallwood turned to confront the house, echoes of the long-ago voices of his cousins and himself swirled deliciously in his head, and with no difficulty at all he could see Cousin Joy making one of those explosive leaps they all enjoyed making from the front porch, her ponytail rising behind her like
With each digit she pressed she felt like she was setting off little bombs. A pair of early morning jetliners were crossing overhead, reflecting the softly bruised sky so completely as to be nearly indistinguishable from it. Detective Megan Lamb stood at the barrier wall of the rooftop lot, watching the planes and also the windows of the buildings along the New Jersey side of the Hudson igniting with golden light. She felt like a dope. The APB from the day before had alerted law enforcement
his cousin.” “His what?” “It was Joy Resnick, Andy.” She watched her husband closely for his reaction to the name. Christine had met Joy Resnick on any number of occasions during the course of the campaign. The two had even embraced on election night. Andy’s gaze remained vacant. Christine continued. “The police are saying it was Joy’s own cousin who murdered her. It was something like a week or so ago. Out on the island. The woman they found in the van yesterday was her assistant.” “Joy
bourbon bit his tongue and sent a liquid warmth into his bloodstream. He knew it was utterly foolish to be drinking at all, let alone so early in the day. “What are you planning to do about Lillian? I don’t think poor Jenny’s got enough weeds out there to keep herself busy all day and night.” Hoyt looked out the window. His wife was down on her knees, digging the trowel in the soft dirt. He tapped his glass against Andy’s. “I’m leaving Lillian in your and Christine’s hands, Andrew. If Chrissie