“Ebullient entertainment. ” — Time A hotshot reporter is dead. He'd gone to take a look-see at “Miami North”—little Wheaton, Massachusetts—the biggest cocaine distribution center above the Mason-Dixon line. Did the kid die for getting too close to the truth . . . or to a sweet lady with a jealous husband? Spenser will stop at nothing to find out. Praise for Robert B. Parker's Spenser novels “Like Philip Marlowe, Spenser is a man of honor in a dishonorable world. When he says he will do something, it is done. The dialogues zings, and there is plenty of action . . . but it is the moral element that sets them above most detective fiction.” — Newsweek “Crackling dialogue, plenty of action and expert writing . . . Unexpectedly literate—[Spenser is] in many respects the very exemplar of the species.” — The New York Times   “They just don’t make private eyes tougher or funnier.” — People   “Parker has a recorder’s ear for dialogue, an agile wit . . . and, strangely enough, a soupçon of compassion hidden under that sardonic, flip exterior.” — Los Angeles Times   “A deft storyteller, a master of pace.” — The Philadelphia Inquirer   “Spenser probably had more to do with changing the private eye from a coffin-chaser to a full-bodied human being than any other detective hero.” — The Chicago Sun-Times   “[Spenser is] tough, intelligent, wisecracking, principled, and brave.” — The New Yorker "Like Philip Marlowe, Spenser is a man of honor in a dishonorable world. When he says he will do something, it is done. The dialogues zings, and there is plenty of action... but it is the moral element that sets them above most detective fiction." --"Newsweek Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, novels featuring Chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole/Everett Hitch westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, Parker died in January 2010. 1     The sun that brief December day shone weakly through the west-facing window of Garrett Kingsley’s office. It made a thin yellow oblong splash on his Persian carpet and gave up.   “Eric Valdez was a good reporter,” Kingsley was telling me, “and a good man, but if he’d been neither he wouldn’t deserve to die.”   “Most people don’t,” I said.   “The people that killed Eric do,” Kingsley said.   “Depends on why they killed him,” I said.   “They killed him to keep the lid on the biggest cocaine operation in the East.”   Kingsley was short and sort of plump. He needed a haircut and his big gray moustache was untrimmed. He had on a green and black plaid woolen shirt and a leather vest. His half glasses were halfway down his nose so he could stare over them while he talked. He looked like an overweight Titus Moody. He owned and edited the third largest newspaper in the state, and he had more money than Yoko Ono.   “In Wheaton, Mass?” I said.   “That’s right, in Wheaton, Mass. Population 15,734, of whom nearly 5,000 are Colombians.”   “My grandmother came from Ireland,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I deal potatoes.”   “Potatoes aren’t selling for $170,000 a pound,” Kingsley said.   “Good point,” I said.   “After the war, some guy ran a clothing factory in Wheaton had relatives in Colombia in a town called Tajo. He started recruiting people from the town to work in the factory. After a while there were more people in Wheaton from Tajo than there were in Tajo.”   Kingsley took a corncob pipe from one of his vest pockets and a pouch of Cherry Blend tobacco from another pocket. He filled the pipe, tamping the tobacco in with his right forefinger, and lit the pipe with a kitchen match from another vest pocket that he scratched into flame with his thumbnail. I shall return.   “Then a couple things happened,” Kingsley said. “The clothing business in Wheaton went down the toilet—there’s only one factory still operating—and cocaine passed coffee as Colombia’s number one export.”   “And Tajo is one of the major centers of export,” I said.   Kingsley smiled. “Nice to see you keep up,” he said.   “And Wheaton became Tajo north,” I said.   “Colombians have been dealing with cocaine since your ancestors were running around Ireland with their bodies painted blue,” Kingsley said. He took a long inhale on the pipe and eased the smoke out.   “Corncob’s great,” he said. “Don’t have to break it in and when they get gummy you throw ’em away and buy another one.”   “Go with the rest of the look too,” I said.   Kingsley leaned back and put his duck boots up on the desk. There was a glitter of sharp amusement in his eyes.   “You better fucking believe it,” he said.   “Probably drive a Jeep Wagoneer,” I said. “Or a Ford pickup.”   “Un huh,” Kingsley said, “and drink bourbon, and cuss, and my wife has to tie my bow ties for me.”   “Just folks,” I said.   “