Eddie Wenske has gone missing. A popular investigative reporter renowned for both his gay-coming-out memoir and a frightening book on drug cartels, Wenske vanishes while investigating a gay media conglomerate with a controversial owner and dodgy business practices. Albany PI Don Strachey’s perilous search for Wenske takes him to Boston and to New York City, and finally to California and a media world that’s as deadly as it is unglamorous. In The Last Thing I Saw, Strachey fends off hired killers, but can he survive Hey Look Media?
“Entertaining and delectably complex.”
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“As much travel memoir as mystery, this tenth in a series spanning three decades is supremely satisfying as both.”
Copyright 2012 by Richard Stevenson
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I said, “What makes you think Eddie is dead, Marva? His mother in Albany just described him as missing. Uncharacteristically out of touch for a couple of months, and that’s why she hired me.”
“Have you read the book?”
“Read it. Then you’ll know that they killed him.”
“Read the book. Here. It’s what they do to people who cross them.”
Marva Beers heaved herself up out of her office chair, stretched up, and took down a trade paperback book from one of the upper shelves next to her desk. She teetered and then caught herself, a good one-eighty in a pretty Mayan huapili, a heap of fluffy gray hair flopping in synch with her bosoms. She smelled faintly of hyacinth with a distant undertone of chardonnay. Behind her was an open window looking down on Hudson Street, and a friendly warm breeze, unusual for late March in New York, blew in and rattled the papers on the literary agent’s desk.
I recognized most of the authors’ names on the spines of the other titles on the shelves, all books, I assumed, by Beers’s other clients. Most were well known gay-lit figures, like the now missing Edward Wenske, whose 1995 memoir of coming out in the eighth grade in the not very enlightened Albany suburb of East Greenbush had won awards and racked up sales at the tail end of the post-Stonewall gay publishing boom. The book Beers handed me was not of that type. Against a marijuana leaf with blood dripping down it was the title
that’s more important, her accounts being tidy, than Eddie probably shoved through a wood chipper on Cape Cod somewhere and dumped in a swamp.”