Spenser may have uncovered an explosive secret that threatens the career of a controversial figure, in this latest installment of Robert B. Parker’s beloved series. Vic Hale isn’t anyone’s idea of a father figure. He is one of the biggest – and loudest -- podcasters in the nation and got there by spewing overheated rhetoric that’s reviled by some but loved by even more. His particular brand of “entertainment” is so successful, he’s about to sign the biggest contract in the history of online broadcasting. Vic’s riding high...until he gets a visit from Spenser, who specializes in bringing guys like Hale back down to Earth. Spenser is there on behalf of Daniel Lopez, a young man who believes Hale may be his father. It’s a potentially explosive revelation for a man in the podcaster’s position and it might even be enough to blow up his massive new deal. That could explain the bodies that start popping up – bodies connected in one way or another with the mystery surrounding Daniel’s birth. There are a lot of questions remaining, and Spenser’s going to have to find the answers before someone shuts Hale or Daniel up for good. Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the novels featuring Police Chief Jesse Stone, the acclaimed Virgil Cole-Everett Hitch Westerns, and 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. Mike Lupica is a Hall of Fame sports columnist and New York Times bestselling author of more than forty works of fiction and nonfiction, in addition to being a frequent co-writer with James Patterson. A longtime friend to Robert B. Parker, he was selected by the Parker estate to continue the Spenser series, after having previously done the same with the Sunny Randall series, and with Jesse Stone. One Hawk was stretched out on the couch in my office, where I sometimes thought he had been since right after the Puritans had arrived. He was wearing black exercise pants, Hoka sneakers with more colors in them than the Pride flag, and a Caitlin Clark T-shirt. When I'd asked him about the T-shirt, he'd said, "Just my way of showing solidarity with that bad, bad girl." The book he was currently reading-The Wingmen, about the friendship between Ted Williams and John Glenn-was currently closed and bookmarked across Caitlin Clark's No. 22. I'd long since accepted the fact that Hawk, when the spirit moved him, viewed my office as his personal reading room. Out of friendship, I felt it more flattering than calling him a squatter. I pointed at his book now and said, "You don't even like baseball." "Not reading it for the baseball shit, reading it for the war shit," he said. "I always thought I would have been the ass as a fighter pilot." "You're assuming the Marines would have gotten past your rap sheet?" I said. "Only if they wanted to win," Hawk said. I sipped more coffee from the temperature-controlled mug Susan Silverman had bought for me, having figured out just this morning how to keep the coaster charged, and already knowing that I probably wouldn't stay with it for the long haul. When I'd phoned to tell her that I finally did have it working the way it was supposed to, I'd also mentioned that it was a good thing, since I liked my coffee the way I liked my women: hot. Susan had said, "The twenty-first century just called, big boy. They're still holding a table for you." I didn't get the chance to ask what she was wearing, as I so often did, because she'd already ended the call. To Hawk now I said, "You're at least aware that Ted Williams was considered the greatest hitter of all time, right?" "Only reason I am," he said, "is on account of it having sunk in after the first thousand damn times you told me." "They called him the Splendid Splinter, you know," I said. "Also the Thumper. And Teddy Ballgame." Hawk turned slightly toward me on the couch, his eyes looking so hooded I thought he might be on the verge of a nap even though it was only midmorning. But he'd pointed out on more than one occasion that baseball talk from me often acted as a powerful sedative for him. "And down the rabbit hole we go," he said. I had finally given in to peer pressure from him, even though Hawk constantly told me he had no peers, and purchased a longer couch, mostly so his feet no longer had to hang over the edge when he was reclining the way he was now. To my way of thinking, that made me at least as good a wingman as either Ted Williams or John Glenn had been. In my dreams, a larger couch also might be more functional in the future if I could ever again talk Susan into us using it for a midday flight of heavenly transport. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I had been slowly making my way through The Globe while Hawk had been reading his book. I still liked having a newspaper in my hands. But then, I was someone who co