I was wearing a plain white T-shirt and cutoff jeans that used to fit before I lost too much weight. I'm a city boy, but I was really getting into the country stuff, the sky and all that, and I finally found the Big Dipper a few weeks ago.
The sun was low on the western horizon, which was where it belonged at 6:45 P.M. From where I sat, I could see south across a sloping green lawn to the Great Peconic Bay. The porch is an old-fashioned wraparound, circling three sides of an 1890s Victorian farmhouse, all shingle and gingerbread, turrets, gables, the whole nine yards. It occurred to me that the problem with doing nothing is not knowing when you're finished. I, John Corey by name, convalescing cop by profession, was sitting on my uncle's back porch, deep in a wicker chair with shallow thoughts running through my mind. Labor Day weekend had gone, and Indian summer was coming, whatever that is. It was late summer, not meaning late August, but meaning September, before the autumnal equinox. I put down my binoculars and popped a Budweiser. The women had on teensey-weensey little bottoms and no tops, and one of the guys was standing on the bow, and he slipped off his trunks and stood there a minute hanging hog, then jumped in the bay and swam around the boat. There were two thirtyish couples aboard, having a merry old time, sunbathing, banging down brews and whatever. Through my binoculars, I could see this nice forty-something-foot cabin cruiser anchored a few hundred yards offshore.
Ultimately, through his understanding of the murders, John Corey comes to understand himself.įast-paced and atmospheric, marked by entrancing characters, incandescent storytelling, and brilliant comic touches, Plum Island is Nelson DeMille at his thrill-inducing best. During his journey of discovery, he meets two remarkable women, Detective Beth Penrose and Mayflower descendant Emma Whitestone, both of whom change his life irrevocably. His investigations lead him into the lore, legends, and ancient secrets of northern Long Island - more deadly and more dangerous than he could ever have imagined.
John Corey doesn’t like mysteries, which is why he likes to solve them.
The local police chief, Sylvester Maxwell, wants Corey’s big-city expertise, but Maxwell gets more than he bargained for. Tom and Judy Gordon, a young, attractive couple Corey knows, have been found on their patio, each with a bullet in the head. Wounded in the line of duty, NYPD homicide detective John Corey convalesces in the Long Island township of Southold, home to farmers, fishermen - and at least one killer. CELEBRATING THE 20th ANNIVERSARY WITH A NEW FOREWORD BY THE AUTHOR
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