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Summary
Summary
Charged with misconduct in a high-profile solicitation of murder case, Scully is forced to resign from the LAPD or face criminal prosecution. In order to make a living, Scully seeks employment where he can: the Haven Park, California PD. The department is known for its corruption, in effect the Mayor's personal goon squad and collection agency. As Scully gets involved, he learns that things are rarely what they seem.
Summary
Charged with felony misconduct in a high-profile solicitation of murder case, Scully is faced with an impossible decision: either quietly resign from his job as a detective for the LAPD or face criminal prosecution. His wife, Alexa, the chief of detectives, leaves him, seeking a divorce for his dalliance with the accused in the case, a well-known Hollywood actress. His son Chooch won't even speak to him. Life as Scully knows it is over. Or so it seems... In order to make a living the only way he knows how, Shane seeks employment from a police department that has been known to hire rejects from other departments: the Haven Park PD. The department is a hotbed of corruption, in effect the personal goon squad and collection agency of the town's mayor, Cecil Bratano. Ushered into the department by his new partner, Shane takes his lessons from one of the dirtiest cops around. But things in L.A. are hardly ever what they seem. Relentlessly harassed by an overzealous FBI agent and under the constant, violent, and hyper paranoid scrutiny of his new comrades-at-arms, Shane finds himself in a snare. His estranged wife may be the only one who can get Shane out of this mess alive. The question is: Is she willing to?
Author Notes
Stephen J. Cannell was born in Los Angeles, California on February 5, 1941. He was dyslexic and struggled through school. After graduating from the University of Oregon, he drove a truck for his father's home-decorating business and wrote TV scripts at night and on the weekends. His first writing successes were story ideas sold to Mission Impossible. Four years later, he sold a script for It Takes a Thief. In 1966 a script he submitted for Adam 12 so impressed the producers at Universal that they offered him the position of head writer. At Universal he wrote and helped create several TV shows including The Rockford Files, Baretta, and Baa Baa Black Sheep.
He started his own production company in 1979, generating The A-Team, Riptide, Hunter, and 21 Jump Street. Other credits include Wiseguy, Renegade, and Silk Stalkings. He has scripted over 1,500 TV episodes and created or co-created over 40 programs.
His first novel, The Plan, was published in 1995. During his lifetime, he wrote more than 15 novels including Final Victim, King Con, and the Shane Scully series. He died of complications associated with melanoma on September 30, 2010 at the age of 69.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (2)
Publisher's Weekly Review
The endlessly and endearingly flawed Det. Shane Scully finds himself in hot water after being charged with felony misconduct in a murder case. He flails until he lands a position with a reject-welcoming police department that may just be the death of him. The only person who can offer him any sign of help is his estranged wife-but will she? As familiar as it all sounds, Scott Brick's performance transforms the lackluster content into a suspenseful story filled with unforeseen twists and turns. Brick's characters are all layered and complex even if they weren't necessarily written that way. A St. Martin's hardcover (Reviews, Oct. 20). (Jan.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Library Journal Review
Why is Lt. Shane Scully on the force of sleazy Haven Park, CA? Accused of misconduct in a case and in bed with a movie star, he's been dumped by both the LAPD and his wife. With a national tour. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
CHAPTER 1 Just an hour before my whole life turned upside down, I was making love to my wife, Alexa, in our little house on the Grand Canal in Venice, California. It was the first week of May and a spring storm was washing across the L.A. Basin, filling gutters and runoffs with dirty brown water, pushing a slanting rain against our bedroom window, blurring the view. I knew the police department was about to charge me with a criminal felony, I just didn't know exactly when. I had chosen to make love to my wife partially to ease a sense of impending doom, and partially because I knew it was going to be our last chance. The Tiffany Roberts mess was already in full bloom, leaking toxic rumors about me through the great blue pipeline down at Parker Center, turning my life and entire twenty-year police career radioactive. Why do I seem to keep volunteering for these things? So doom and dread hovered as knowledge of what lay ahead turned our lovemaking bittersweet, changing the tone like a low chord that announces the arrival of a villain. We were lying in an uncomfortable embrace, listening to the rain on the windows, when the doorbell sounded. "That's probably it," I said. "Guess so," Alexa replied, her voice as dead as mine. I got up, found my waiting clothes folded neatly over the bedroom chaise. I skinned into a pair of faded jeans and a USC Trojans sweatshirt that I'd grabbed from my son Chooch's room, then padded barefoot to the front hall and unlatched the lock without bothering to look through the peephole. I already knew who was going to be there. The door opened into a whipping rain. Standing on my front steps were three uniformed police officers in transparent slickers. "I'm Lieutenant Clive Matthews, Professional Services Bureau," the cop in the center said. I'd seen him before, mostly in restaurants around Parker Center. He was an IAD deputy commander. A big guy with a drinker's complexion. He was supposed to be in AA, but the exploded capillaries on his ruddy face were a death clock that told me the cure hadn't taken. "What's up, Loo?" I said, my voice flat. "Charge sheet." He thrust three typed yellow forms at me. A PSB charge sheet lists the crimes being filed against you by Internal Affairs. It's basically an accusation of misconduct which starts a lengthy disciplinary process that usually ends at a career-threatening Board of Rights Trial, which is in effect a police administrative hearing. The fact that a deputy commander in uniform was personally delivering the goods was representative of the gravity of my predicament. Matthews handed me a sealed envelope. "Your letter of transmittal." The document confirmed the delivery of the charge sheet and started the clock on an array of procedural administrative events. "You have to sign the top copy for me. Keep the other," he instructed. "You guys couldn't wait until tomorrow?" I looked past him at the two stone-faced IOs standing a foot back, one on each side of the lieutenant. Water droplets had gathered on the plastic shoulders of their see-through raincoats. "Nope," the lieutenant replied. "Chief Filosiani and the city attorney request your presence in his office at Parker Center immediately." "I get to contact my Police Officers Association steward before answering these charges at a Skelly hearing," I said. "That right is guaranteed me under rule six of the city charter. The chief knows that, so what's with this midnight meeting?" "It's not a command performance. The chief is extending you a courtesy. Your POA steward has been notified. If it was up to me, I'd just body-slam you like the piece of shit you are." He said it without raising his voice or putting any inflection on it. "You might want to get your shoes and jacket. It's pretty wet out here. You can ride with us." "What is it, Shane?" Alexa was coming out of the bedroom, walking down the hall. I turned to look at her. Breathtakingly beautiful. Black hair framing a fashion model's cheekbones. Incredible blue eyes that were locked on me. She was belting her robe, her black hair tousled with the memory of sex. I knew these might be the last friendly words we would speak. "IA. They have a charge sheet. They want me to come with them." "It's almost midnight," she said, standing behind me. "Can't it wait until morning?" She should have demanded the circumstances. It was a mistake; but then, I knew she was as upset about all this as I was. "You might also want to come with us, Lieutenant Scully," Matthews said, glancing at Alexa. "The chief is waiting in his office with several people. I think you both need to hear what he has to say." So that's what we did. Alexa got dressed. I was in the bedroom with her for a minute to get my nylon windbreaker out of the closet. I looked over and saw that she was putting on her sixth-floor attire--dark pantsuit, blouse, gun and badge. "So it begins," she said, her voice lifeless. "Yep." I went into the bathroom to run a razor over my chin. A consideration to this late-night meeting with the chief. For a minute I saw my reflection in the mirror staring back. A familiar stranger with battered eyebrows scarred in countless forgotten brawls. The face of an unruly combatant. My brown eyes looked back at me startled by the sudden confusion I felt. Five minutes later I was in Lieutenant Matthews's car with the two IOs. One was named Stan. I didn't catch the other guy's name. Not much talk as we headed to Parker Center, with Alexa following us in her silver BMW a few car lengths behind. I had fallen from respected member of society and guardian of the public trust to detestable scum in the eyes of the three men riding in that maroon Crown Vic with me. In their eyes, I was a turncoat. A cop gone bad. I thought I knew what to expect, but the truth was I had little idea of what lay before me, little understanding of the mess I had so willingly stepped into. But that's life. I guess if you could see all the dead ends and blind turns, it wouldn't be as interesting. At least that's what I kept telling myself. The windshield wipers on the detective plain-wrap slapped at the rain as we rushed along the 10 Freeway in the dead of night, the tires singing in the rain cuts. No red light, no siren. Just a maroon Ford with four stone-faced cops. All of us in the diamond lane, heading toward the end of my career at breakneck speed. Excerpted from On the Grind by Stephen J. Cannell. Copyright 2008 by Stephen J. Cannell. Published in January 2009 by St. Martin's Press All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher. Excerpted from On the Grind by Stephen J. Cannell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.