AN INSTANT USA TODAY BESTSELLER Police Chief Jesse Stone investigates the mystery behind a dead body found strewn with photos of murder victims and placed on top of $2 million in cash, before a mob of hit men converge on Paradise. Just another day in Paradise . . . Chief of Police Jesse Stone is on his way home from a long shift when a call comes in for a welfare check on an elderly resident of the wealthy seaside town of Paradise, Massachusetts. Inside a house packed with junk and trash is a man’s dead body. It’s a sad, lonely end, but nothing criminal . . . until Jesse finds the photos of murder victims strewn around the corpse, on top of a treasure trove of $2 million in cash. Jesse takes on the case and finds a trail leading to an aging mobster who will do whatever it takes to keep the past from coming to light. Before long, Jesse has a price on his head as hit men converge on Paradise to take back the cash and destroy any remaining evidence. But the real danger might be coming from inside his own department. Jesse Stone must unearth the truth buried under the wreckage of a dead man’s life . . . before he winds up in the ground himself. A Publisher's Weekly Bestseller "Make no mistake, Buried Secrets is a classic Parker novel, filled with sharp dialogue, compelling characters, and a trademark tightly woven plot. Fans of the series won’t be disappointed." — New York Post "[An] entertaining tale . . . This is Farnsworth’s first entry in the series created by Robert Parker, and fans will be pleased. So, Paradise isn’t paradise, and the Parker legacy lives on." — Kirkus Reviews Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the 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, he died in January 2010. Christopher Farnsworth worked as a reporter in Arizona and California before selling his first screenplay. He now pens successful crime and thriller novels. His books have been published in a dozen countries, and translated into ten languages, and optioned for film and television. A loyal reader of Robert B. Parker since his high school days, Farnsworth currently resides in Los Angeles with his family. One Jesse Stone was on his way home when his deputy chief, Molly Crane, interrupted him on the radio for a welfare check. "A guy is worried about his friend. Says he hasn't seen him in a couple weeks and now he won't answer the door," Molly told him. "Can't someone else do it?" It had already been a long day. Three of his officers were out sick-COVID again-which was why Molly was covering dispatch. Jesse himself had been on multiple patrol calls and was looking forward to sitting down and watching whatever ESPN had to offer. "Suit's breaking up a fight at the Scupper. Everyone else is busy," Molly said. "Serve and protect. It's in the job description." "Yeah, but I'm the chief. I'm supposed to tell you what to do." "It's adorable that you think that," Molly said. "Anyway, it's not like you had plans. Your girlfriend left you for The New York Times." "You know, I can fire you anytime I want," Jesse said. "Good luck. You'd be lost without me." "Fine. Where is it?" "See?" Molly read him the address. The house was in a nice neighborhood on the good side of Paradise, but it had seen better days. The paint was peeling, and the wood was splintered and rotting in places. The lawn was mostly weeds and crabgrass. Deferred maintenance, Jesse had heard it called. When the people inside the house had to choose between upkeep and property taxes. Even in a place with a median income as high as Paradise's, it happened to some of the older residents as their lives extended past their savings accounts. As Jesse drove up, he saw a younger man in the driveway, his worried face framed by a thin beard. He wore a leather jacket, black jeans, and boots, despite the early-spring warmth. He looked like he was late for a club opening somewhere. "Are you the police?" he asked, as Jesse got out of his Explorer. Not from around here, Jesse figured. "I'm Chief Stone," Jesse said, showing the young man his badge. He looked at the badge and then at Jesse, as if trying to make up his mind. True, Jesse didn't really dress like a cop. Perks of being the chief of a twelve-person force. He wore jeans and a polo shirt and sneakers and a ball cap with paradise pd printed on it. Usually a jacket to hide the Glock on his hip, too, but again, today was warm. "This is the part where you tell me your name," Jesse said helpfully. "Oh, right," the man said. "Sorry. I'm Matthew. Matthew Peebles." "Can I see some ID?" Jesse said. Peebles? Really? Matthew Peebles appeared taken aback. "Why do you need to see my ID?" "It's a cop thing." Jesse shrugged. "We like to mak