Download Proof Positive (Amanda Jaffe, Book 3) by Phillip Margolin PDF
By Phillip Margolin
Safeguard legal professional Doug Weaver believes his customer, Jacob Cohen, is innocent--but the forensic proof proves past the shadow of a doubt that the meek, mentally unwell homeless guy killed and dismembered a girl . . .
Hired to shield gangster artwork Prochaska opposed to fees that he murdered an informer, legal professional Amanda Jaffe and her father, Frank, have their paintings lower out for them--because, as inconceivable because it turns out, the forensic clues scream that Prochaska is in charge . . .
And now individuals are death inexplicably--as Amanda and Doug subscribe to forces to discover solutions hidden someplace within the darkest corners of crime scene research, the place a god-playing madman holds the deadly energy to change the truth.
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Extra info for Proof Positive (Amanda Jaffe, Book 3)
Hollingdale asked with a sarcastic smile. ‘I’m against any creature having its throat cut. ’ Hollingdale was silent for a long time. ’ ‘Not everybody. ’ ‘I bet you can. By the way, Miss Hollingdale,’ added Baird. ’ She started, as if in pain, and her expression hardened. ‘Nobody will tell me. ’ Loki was dressed in extravagantly varied fabrics, sewed together into a shapeless tunic over baggy white cotton trousers. His red hair was knotted into dreadlocks which hung down over his back at stiff angles, like giant pipe cleaners.
Opening the cat food at arm’s length, I filled Anatoly’s bowl and shoved it and him out of the back door. A breath of air blew a whiff of the tuna and rabbit in jelly back into my face, provoking a heaving cough and memories of seasickness. How could something like that be good even for a cat? I washed up Elsie’s bowl and mug from breakfast, and made myself a cup of instant coffee with water that hadn’t properly boiled, so the granules floated to the surface. Outside, rain dripped on to my waterlogged garden; the pink hyacinths that I’d been so excited about yesterday had tipped sideways in the rubbly soil, and their rubbery petals looked grimy.
She removed her gloves and clutched them in her left hand. There was a smell, now. It was heavy and sweet. It reminded her of something. The smell of a barnyard. No, inside. A barn maybe. Each morning at eight-thirty precisely Mrs Ferrer would nod a good-morning at Mrs Mackenzie, click past her across the polished wood of the Mackenzies’ hallway, turn right down the stairs into the basement, remove her coat, collect her vacuum cleaner from the utility room and spend an hour in an anaesthetized fog of noise.