NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR “Lescroart never ceases to amaze his fans. The wit, the timing, the dialogue—everything combines to give this author yet another bestseller and provide readers with a fast-paced, memorable thriller.” — Suspense Magazine “The narrative flows effortlessly and includes a Perry Mason–worthy moment when Hardy manifests a bit of courtroom magic. Lescroart is a perfect choice for readers who enjoy great ensemble casts.” — Booklist In John Lescroart’s latest thriller, San Francisco attorney Dismas Hardy is called upon to investigate the murder of a wealthy man whose heirs are all potential suspects. Dismas Hardy is looking forward to easing into retirement and reconnecting with his family after recovering from two glancing gunshot wounds courtesy of a recent client. But this plan is cut short when, against his wife’s wishes, he is pulled back into the courtroom by the murder of Grant Wagner, the steely owner of a successful family business. The prime suspect is Wagner’s bookkeeper, Abby Jarvis, a former client of Hardy’s who had been receiving large sums of cash under-the-table from the company—but she insists that she’s innocent and Dismas wants to believe her. As he prepares for trial, Dismas probes deeply into the Wagner clan’s history, discovering dark secrets, jealous siblings, gold-digging girlfriends, startling betrayals, and menacing blackmailers. Suspense builds as the trial date looms, and the closer Dismas gets to the Wagners, the clearer it becomes that he has a large target painted on his back. With John Lescroart’s razor-sharp dialogue, intricate plotting and relentless pacing, Poison is a nail-biter that will keep you guessing until the very last page. “POISON by John Lescroart is a marvelous mystery” —The Associated Press “Lescroart never ceases to amaze his fans. The wit, the timing, the dialogue—everything combines to give this author yet another bestseller and provide readers with a fast-paced, memorable thriller.” — Suspense Magazine "The narrative flows effortlessly and includes a Perry Mason–worthy moment when Hardy manifests a bit of courtroom magic. Lescroart is a perfect choice for readers who enjoy great ensemble casts." — Booklist "Today’s best legal thriller series.” —Lee Child “Lescroart is a master of legal suspense.” —Associated Press “Deserves to be considered alongside Turow and Grisham.” — Chicago Sun-Times “Unfolds like a classic Law & Order .” — Entertainment Weekly “Blistering courtroom sequences.” — Providence Sunday Journal “The work of a master at the top of his game.” — William Kent Krueger John Lescroart is the author of twenty-eight previous novels, including the New York Times bestsellers The Ophelia Cut , The Keeper , The Fall , and Fatal . His books have sold more than ten million copies and have been translated into twenty-two languages. He lives in Northern California. Poison 1 IF OPENING DAY wasn’t the happiest landmark in Dismas Hardy’s year, he didn’t know what was. From the time he was eleven—when the Giants had arrived in San Francisco—until he was eighteen—the year before his father died—he had never missed attending the yearly ritual with his dad, first at Seals Stadium and then at Candlestick Park. Adding to the mystique, in an era that pretty much ignored the concept of father-son bonding, Hardy’s father had considered this time he spent with his only son a major priority, far more important than the vicissitudes of everyday life, including his own job or his son’s time in the classroom. The renegade in Joe Hardy had believed that a man must keep his priorities straight, and some rules were made to be broken. He had no problem declaring Opening Day a de facto holiday, regardless of the opinion of the administrators at his son’s schools. He would pass this flexibility along to his son. For Dismas, those days in the company of his father, watching big-league baseball in person, were among the most cherished experiences of his young life. It didn’t matter that they had occurred in the cramped bandbox of Seals Stadium or the freezing wind tunnel that was Candlestick Park. Great as those days had been, he thought that this one was better. Part of it, of course, was AT&T Park, which to his mind was essentially the platonic ideal of the ballpark. (Although, of course, how could Plato have known?) His seats, courtesy of a client who’d moved to Oregon and sold his season tickets to Hardy to keep or sell off as he saw fit, were as good as it got—in the last row on the Club Level, fifty feet from the broadcast booths, shaded from the sun and occasional drizzle, mere steps from the closest bar. He looked down at the sun-drenched field, warm and windless at the moment, a half hour to go until game time. Five minutes ago, the band Train had sung “Save Me, San Francisco” and now attendants were clearing the bandstand from the