Items related to The Gravedigger's Ball (Mike Coletti Novels, Book...
[This is the MP3CD audiobook format.]
[Read by Cary Hite]
The next thrilling novel in the 'Coletti' series from acclaimed author Solomon Jones.
Just weeks after tracking down a killer known as the Angel of Death, Detective Mike Coletti stands at Mary Smithson's grave, mourning the woman whose betrayal nearly cost him his life. He's joined there by Mary's beautiful half sister, Lenore. Moments later, a gunshot splits the air, placing Coletti on a collision course with the Gravedigger, a killer hell-bent on deciphering the secret of life and death. As bodies drop and tensions mount, clues are plucked from the victims, and one thing is abundantly clear--Lenore is the killer's ultimate target. But to stop the Gravedigger, Coletti and his partners must go beyond protecting Lenore. They must go to the one place where life and death routinely meet. They must go back to the grave.
[*Produced by Buck 50 Productions]
[Read by Cary Hite]
The next thrilling novel in the 'Coletti' series from acclaimed author Solomon Jones.
Just weeks after tracking down a killer known as the Angel of Death, Detective Mike Coletti stands at Mary Smithson's grave, mourning the woman whose betrayal nearly cost him his life. He's joined there by Mary's beautiful half sister, Lenore. Moments later, a gunshot splits the air, placing Coletti on a collision course with the Gravedigger, a killer hell-bent on deciphering the secret of life and death. As bodies drop and tensions mount, clues are plucked from the victims, and one thing is abundantly clear--Lenore is the killer's ultimate target. But to stop the Gravedigger, Coletti and his partners must go beyond protecting Lenore. They must go to the one place where life and death routinely meet. They must go back to the grave.
[*Produced by Buck 50 Productions]
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
SOLOMON JONES is the Essence bestselling author of the critically acclaimed novels Payback, C.R.E.A.M., The Bridge, Ride or Die, and Pipe Dream, as well as the short-story collection Keeping Up with the Jones. He is a columnist for the Philadelphia Daily News and a spoken-word artist. He teaches creative writing at Temple University and is currently at work on his next novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
CHAPTER 1
It was 9 A.M. on a Wednesday, and a late autumn breeze swept in off the Schuylkill River as Detective Mike Coletti strode through the Fairgrounds Cemetery.
As he passed between centuries-old crypts, Coletti thought of his young partner, Charlie Mann, whose crack marksmanship had saved Coletti from the serial killer who was now buried there.
In some ways, Coletti wished that Mann had allowed him to die in the showdown with the killer. That way, Coletti wouldn’t be wrestling with a loss no one could understand, or walking toward a grave he didn’t want to see.
But Coletti knew, deep down, that the grief he felt was just another in a long line of enemies that he’d spent his life fighting—enemies that in many ways were extensions of himself.
In his youth, Coletti had struggled against his desire to cross the line between cops and criminals on South Philly’s mob-controlled streets. In the department, he’d struggled against authority, and in doing so, he’d crippled his career. In private, he’d struggled against the demons of pride, rebellion, and apathy.
Today, Coletti would confront his demons, and he would do it where they lived—in his heart. He would either win the battle that raged within him or he would die fighting, but Coletti couldn’t allow his demons to consume him. Not anymore.
He cut an unusual figure as he crossed the sprawling cemetery. His dark Mediterranean features were topped by salt-and-pepper hair. His pants and rumpled trench coat were accented by coffee stains. But it was his facial expression—grim and determined, angry even—that set him apart from the mourners that usually visited the cemetery.
When he finally caught sight of the grave he’d come to visit, he saw something odd out of the corner of his eye. It was a brightly colored vinyl banner strung on the cemetery’s wrought iron gate. It looked out of place among the acres of headstones.
“Gravedigger’s Ball,” it read. “November 14th. A black-tie fund-raiser at Tookesbury Mansion. Go to Fairgroundscemetery.com for ticket information.”
Coletti had heard of the annual fund-raiser that helped to maintain the historic graveyard where burials were now a rarity, but he’d never paid attention, and in truth, he didn’t care about it now.
He looked once more at the banner and kept walking. Then he felt someone’s eyes at his back. He turned around and saw two women standing near a grave. The younger one was staring at him as the cemetery’s swirling wind blew her blond hair across her face.
Coletti turned away from her, scowling as he thought of the things that had happened the last time a woman had looked at him that way. He thought of the confession in the art gallery, the bodies in the churches, the clues in the prophecy, the Angel of Death.
He thought of the way he’d looked past all those things to stare back at that woman. He thought of the resultant carnage.
Coletti couldn’t afford to be distracted anymore. He’d come to the graveyard for a purpose, and he was going to accomplish it.
As he drew nearer to the grave, the dead leaves in the cemetery crunched beneath his feet. He smiled at the way they crackled and split. The sound reminded him of his heart.
Of course, no one knew the true depths of Coletti’s heartbreak, and if he could help it, no living person ever would. Where Coletti came from, you didn’t pour out your heart. Not if you were pushing sixty. Men from Coletti’s generation kept their feelings to themselves, or they whispered them in confessional booths to priests. They didn’t tell their wives. They didn’t tell their children. They didn’t tell anyone. They simply lived with it.
That wouldn’t work for Coletti this time. He’d seen too much misery while investigating the string of killings that had almost cost him his life. But in all he’d witnessed, he didn’t see the thing that mattered most. He didn’t see her lies.
Coletti could live with many things, but he couldn’t live with that, so he walked through the cemetery and stopped at the grave of the woman whose deception had almost killed him.
He stood there and took a deep breath as he looked at the small, flat stone that marked Mary Smithson’s grave. Then he bent down and placed a white rose upon it as he whispered the words that he’d thus far kept to himself.
“You spit on my heart,” he said bitterly. “But at least I know I have a heart now. That’s more than I could say before I met you.”
Coletti glanced over his shoulder self-consciously. He wasn’t used to speaking to the dead, but he was here now, and he was determined to get it all out, no matter how awkward it felt.
“I guess the worst part is that I trusted you,” he said, looking down at the tiny grave marker. “I let my guard down, and you hit me so fast and so hard I didn’t even know it until it was too late.”
He shook a Marlboro loose from a near-empty pack and lit it as his heart filled with grief, then with pain, then with regret. Taking a long drag, he released the acrid smoke into the air and stood there, savoring his first and only cigarette of the day.
For a long time, he stared at the grave, his mind filled with a mixture of love and hate so volatile he felt as if it would explode. “You lied to me, Mary. But I lied to myself too, didn’t I? I lied when I told myself a young, smart woman like you would want a lonely old cop like me. I lied while you kept on killing, and the craziest part of it all, the part that eats me up every time I think about it...” He paused as the anger and grief welled up inside him. “The part that kills me is that I loved you anyway.”
Coletti took another drag of the cigarette. Then he plucked it away and stood at the grave as the autumn breeze whispered through his unkempt hair.
“But that’s all in the past, isn’t it?” He looked down at the ground with a sorrow he’d been holding on to for months. “If I didn’t learn anything else from all this, I learned that it doesn’t pay to hold on to the past.”
But the past was all he had, so he stood at her grave and closed his eyes and tried to picture her. Not as the crazed killer who’d perished in the abandoned warehouse, but as the woman he’d loved almost from the moment they met. He wanted to remember her smiling and full of life, with a sparkle in her eye and a laugh that was almost musical.
Maybe if he remembered her that way he could stop being so angry at her. Maybe he could even forgive himself.
When finally he opened his eyes, he saw something curious. About thirty feet to his left, the young woman he’d seen earlier was walking toward him, taking each step with a sense of purpose that was vaguely familiar. She didn’t sashay with the self-awareness of a woman who knew she was being watched. Rather, she moved in fits and starts, with the confused look of someone who was searching for something.
As she moved toward him, Coletti saw that her lips, bow-shaped and thin, were set in a perplexed line, and her brow was furrowed in a look of determination. None of this was particularly interesting to Coletti. When he saw her eyes, however, his curiosity quickly morphed into something between anxiety and fear.
This woman, with eyes that were at once intense and alluring, was a younger version of Mary. She had the same pale skin and wide face, the same sensuality and windswept hair, the same sense of purpose that had driven Mary to the grave. Yet something in this woman’s face was different.
As she drew closer, Coletti saw what it was. She was worried about something, and worry was an expression he’d never seen on Mary’s face.
Unable to speak, think, or move, the old detective just stared. Before he knew it, she was beside him, and though he wanted to stop himself from looking at her, he couldn’t. She didn’t seem to care.
Standing there next to him, she silently looked down at the grave for a full minute before she even acknowledged his presence.
“You’re Detective Coletti,” she said, looking up at him with the same blue eyes that had instantly drawn him to Mary Smithson. “I read a lot about you right after Mary died.”
“I, uh...” He stumbled for the words before finally blurting out, “You look a lot like her.”
The woman smiled sadly. “She was my sister—genetically, at least.”
“You must’ve been closer to her than the rest of the family. I talked to her father after she died, and none of them had any interest in coming here to stand for her burial.”
“I’m not surprised,” the woman said, glancing at the grave once more. “They’re an insular bunch. They don’t like to be questioned, and they don’t take too kindly to outsiders.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“I do.” She extended her hand. “My name is Lenore Wilkinson. Mary and I shared a father, but not much else.”
Coletti reached out and shook her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth, but her grip was surprisingly strong. “Mary mentioned you,” Coletti said.
“Mostly angry accusations, I bet. Let’s see.... My mother was a whore who stole Mary’s father and embarrassed her mom in front of the fifty-nine people who lived in that sprawling metropolis called Dunmore.”
“You sound a little angry yourself,” Coletti said.
“Maybe a little. Wouldn’t you be angry if people hated you just for being born?”
“I guess you’ve got a point.”
Lenore looked down at the grave marker. “That’s what makes this whole thing such a struggle for me. On the one hand, I hate Mar...
It was 9 A.M. on a Wednesday, and a late autumn breeze swept in off the Schuylkill River as Detective Mike Coletti strode through the Fairgrounds Cemetery.
As he passed between centuries-old crypts, Coletti thought of his young partner, Charlie Mann, whose crack marksmanship had saved Coletti from the serial killer who was now buried there.
In some ways, Coletti wished that Mann had allowed him to die in the showdown with the killer. That way, Coletti wouldn’t be wrestling with a loss no one could understand, or walking toward a grave he didn’t want to see.
But Coletti knew, deep down, that the grief he felt was just another in a long line of enemies that he’d spent his life fighting—enemies that in many ways were extensions of himself.
In his youth, Coletti had struggled against his desire to cross the line between cops and criminals on South Philly’s mob-controlled streets. In the department, he’d struggled against authority, and in doing so, he’d crippled his career. In private, he’d struggled against the demons of pride, rebellion, and apathy.
Today, Coletti would confront his demons, and he would do it where they lived—in his heart. He would either win the battle that raged within him or he would die fighting, but Coletti couldn’t allow his demons to consume him. Not anymore.
He cut an unusual figure as he crossed the sprawling cemetery. His dark Mediterranean features were topped by salt-and-pepper hair. His pants and rumpled trench coat were accented by coffee stains. But it was his facial expression—grim and determined, angry even—that set him apart from the mourners that usually visited the cemetery.
When he finally caught sight of the grave he’d come to visit, he saw something odd out of the corner of his eye. It was a brightly colored vinyl banner strung on the cemetery’s wrought iron gate. It looked out of place among the acres of headstones.
“Gravedigger’s Ball,” it read. “November 14th. A black-tie fund-raiser at Tookesbury Mansion. Go to Fairgroundscemetery.com for ticket information.”
Coletti had heard of the annual fund-raiser that helped to maintain the historic graveyard where burials were now a rarity, but he’d never paid attention, and in truth, he didn’t care about it now.
He looked once more at the banner and kept walking. Then he felt someone’s eyes at his back. He turned around and saw two women standing near a grave. The younger one was staring at him as the cemetery’s swirling wind blew her blond hair across her face.
Coletti turned away from her, scowling as he thought of the things that had happened the last time a woman had looked at him that way. He thought of the confession in the art gallery, the bodies in the churches, the clues in the prophecy, the Angel of Death.
He thought of the way he’d looked past all those things to stare back at that woman. He thought of the resultant carnage.
Coletti couldn’t afford to be distracted anymore. He’d come to the graveyard for a purpose, and he was going to accomplish it.
As he drew nearer to the grave, the dead leaves in the cemetery crunched beneath his feet. He smiled at the way they crackled and split. The sound reminded him of his heart.
Of course, no one knew the true depths of Coletti’s heartbreak, and if he could help it, no living person ever would. Where Coletti came from, you didn’t pour out your heart. Not if you were pushing sixty. Men from Coletti’s generation kept their feelings to themselves, or they whispered them in confessional booths to priests. They didn’t tell their wives. They didn’t tell their children. They didn’t tell anyone. They simply lived with it.
That wouldn’t work for Coletti this time. He’d seen too much misery while investigating the string of killings that had almost cost him his life. But in all he’d witnessed, he didn’t see the thing that mattered most. He didn’t see her lies.
Coletti could live with many things, but he couldn’t live with that, so he walked through the cemetery and stopped at the grave of the woman whose deception had almost killed him.
He stood there and took a deep breath as he looked at the small, flat stone that marked Mary Smithson’s grave. Then he bent down and placed a white rose upon it as he whispered the words that he’d thus far kept to himself.
“You spit on my heart,” he said bitterly. “But at least I know I have a heart now. That’s more than I could say before I met you.”
Coletti glanced over his shoulder self-consciously. He wasn’t used to speaking to the dead, but he was here now, and he was determined to get it all out, no matter how awkward it felt.
“I guess the worst part is that I trusted you,” he said, looking down at the tiny grave marker. “I let my guard down, and you hit me so fast and so hard I didn’t even know it until it was too late.”
He shook a Marlboro loose from a near-empty pack and lit it as his heart filled with grief, then with pain, then with regret. Taking a long drag, he released the acrid smoke into the air and stood there, savoring his first and only cigarette of the day.
For a long time, he stared at the grave, his mind filled with a mixture of love and hate so volatile he felt as if it would explode. “You lied to me, Mary. But I lied to myself too, didn’t I? I lied when I told myself a young, smart woman like you would want a lonely old cop like me. I lied while you kept on killing, and the craziest part of it all, the part that eats me up every time I think about it...” He paused as the anger and grief welled up inside him. “The part that kills me is that I loved you anyway.”
Coletti took another drag of the cigarette. Then he plucked it away and stood at the grave as the autumn breeze whispered through his unkempt hair.
“But that’s all in the past, isn’t it?” He looked down at the ground with a sorrow he’d been holding on to for months. “If I didn’t learn anything else from all this, I learned that it doesn’t pay to hold on to the past.”
But the past was all he had, so he stood at her grave and closed his eyes and tried to picture her. Not as the crazed killer who’d perished in the abandoned warehouse, but as the woman he’d loved almost from the moment they met. He wanted to remember her smiling and full of life, with a sparkle in her eye and a laugh that was almost musical.
Maybe if he remembered her that way he could stop being so angry at her. Maybe he could even forgive himself.
When finally he opened his eyes, he saw something curious. About thirty feet to his left, the young woman he’d seen earlier was walking toward him, taking each step with a sense of purpose that was vaguely familiar. She didn’t sashay with the self-awareness of a woman who knew she was being watched. Rather, she moved in fits and starts, with the confused look of someone who was searching for something.
As she moved toward him, Coletti saw that her lips, bow-shaped and thin, were set in a perplexed line, and her brow was furrowed in a look of determination. None of this was particularly interesting to Coletti. When he saw her eyes, however, his curiosity quickly morphed into something between anxiety and fear.
This woman, with eyes that were at once intense and alluring, was a younger version of Mary. She had the same pale skin and wide face, the same sensuality and windswept hair, the same sense of purpose that had driven Mary to the grave. Yet something in this woman’s face was different.
As she drew closer, Coletti saw what it was. She was worried about something, and worry was an expression he’d never seen on Mary’s face.
Unable to speak, think, or move, the old detective just stared. Before he knew it, she was beside him, and though he wanted to stop himself from looking at her, he couldn’t. She didn’t seem to care.
Standing there next to him, she silently looked down at the grave for a full minute before she even acknowledged his presence.
“You’re Detective Coletti,” she said, looking up at him with the same blue eyes that had instantly drawn him to Mary Smithson. “I read a lot about you right after Mary died.”
“I, uh...” He stumbled for the words before finally blurting out, “You look a lot like her.”
The woman smiled sadly. “She was my sister—genetically, at least.”
“You must’ve been closer to her than the rest of the family. I talked to her father after she died, and none of them had any interest in coming here to stand for her burial.”
“I’m not surprised,” the woman said, glancing at the grave once more. “They’re an insular bunch. They don’t like to be questioned, and they don’t take too kindly to outsiders.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“I do.” She extended her hand. “My name is Lenore Wilkinson. Mary and I shared a father, but not much else.”
Coletti reached out and shook her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth, but her grip was surprisingly strong. “Mary mentioned you,” Coletti said.
“Mostly angry accusations, I bet. Let’s see.... My mother was a whore who stole Mary’s father and embarrassed her mom in front of the fifty-nine people who lived in that sprawling metropolis called Dunmore.”
“You sound a little angry yourself,” Coletti said.
“Maybe a little. Wouldn’t you be angry if people hated you just for being born?”
“I guess you’ve got a point.”
Lenore looked down at the grave marker. “That’s what makes this whole thing such a struggle for me. On the one hand, I hate Mar...
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- PublisherUrban Audiobooks and Blackstone Audio
- Publication date2011
- ISBN 10 1455125423
- ISBN 13 9781455125425
- BindingMP3 CD
- Rating
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The Gravedigger's Ball (Mike Coletti Novels, Book 2)
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Blackstone Audio, Inc. and Buck 50 Productions, LLC, UNITED STATES
(2011)
ISBN 10: 1455125423
ISBN 13: 9781455125425
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