Mystery
![Ace Atkins - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001H6Q2YY.jpg)
Robert B. Parker's Bye Bye Baby (Spenser)
Boston PI Spenser takes on a new case in this installment in Robert B. Parker's iconic New York Times bestselling series.
Carolina Garcia-Ramirez is a rising star in national politics, taking on the establishment with her progressive agenda. Tough, outspoken, and driven, the young congresswoman has ignited a new conversation in Boston about race, poverty, health care, and the environment. Now facing her second campaign, she finds herself not only fighting a tight primary with an old guard challenger but also contending with numerous death threats coming from hundreds of suspects.
When her chief of staff reaches out to Spenser for security and help finding the culprits of what he believes to be the most credible threats, Garcia-Ramirez is less than thrilled. Since her first grassroots run, she's used to the antipathy and intimidation women of color often face when seeking power. To her, it's all noise. But it turns out an FBI agent disagrees, warning Spenser that Garcia-Ramirez might be in real danger this time.
It doesn't take long for Spenser to cross paths with an extremist group called The Minutemen, led by a wealthy Harvard grad named Bishop Graves. Although Graves is a social media sensation, pushing an agenda of white supremacy and toxic masculinity, he denies he's behind the attacks. As the primary nears and threats become a deadly plot, it's up to Spenser, Hawk, and a surprise trusted ally to ensure the congresswoman is safe. This is Spenser doing what he does best, living by a personal code and moral compass that can't ever be broken.
Carolina Garcia-Ramirez is a rising star in national politics, taking on the establishment with her progressive agenda. Tough, outspoken, and driven, the young congresswoman has ignited a new conversation in Boston about race, poverty, health care, and the environment. Now facing her second campaign, she finds herself not only fighting a tight primary with an old guard challenger but also contending with numerous death threats coming from hundreds of suspects.
When her chief of staff reaches out to Spenser for security and help finding the culprits of what he believes to be the most credible threats, Garcia-Ramirez is less than thrilled. Since her first grassroots run, she's used to the antipathy and intimidation women of color often face when seeking power. To her, it's all noise. But it turns out an FBI agent disagrees, warning Spenser that Garcia-Ramirez might be in real danger this time.
It doesn't take long for Spenser to cross paths with an extremist group called The Minutemen, led by a wealthy Harvard grad named Bishop Graves. Although Graves is a social media sensation, pushing an agenda of white supremacy and toxic masculinity, he denies he's behind the attacks. As the primary nears and threats become a deadly plot, it's up to Spenser, Hawk, and a surprise trusted ally to ensure the congresswoman is safe. This is Spenser doing what he does best, living by a personal code and moral compass that can't ever be broken.
Editorial Reviews
"A crime yarn laced with tension and wit."--Kirkus Reviews
"Atkins continues his very successful stewardship of the late Robert B. Parker's beloved Spenser series. . . This fast-moving and suspenseful thriller is also laced with clever banter. . . Spenser lives and lives well!"--Booklist
"Bye Bye Baby is classic Spenser. . . Atkins captures the essence of the Spenser novels, complete with beloved characters."--Crime Fiction Critic
"Atkins continues his very successful stewardship of the late Robert B. Parker's beloved Spenser series. . . This fast-moving and suspenseful thriller is also laced with clever banter. . . Spenser lives and lives well!"--Booklist
"Bye Bye Baby is classic Spenser. . . Atkins captures the essence of the Spenser novels, complete with beloved characters."--Crime Fiction Critic
Readers Top Reviews
Marian L.Tina R.
Like other reviewers, I waited anxiously for the next Spencer - always one of my favorites. After just a few pages of the woke BS propaganda, I sadly realized that Mr Atkins had sacrificed an American literary icon like Spencer to the wacko left. Honestly, I don’t care one iota about Mr Atkins political views, and I don’t want them shoved down my throat under the guise of fiction. If the series is to continue under another author, I hope it’s back to business as usual with the apolitical, tough, wise guy Spencer we all loved.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
The reelection headquarters for Carolina Garcia-Ramirez was deep in Roxbury at the corner of Proctor and Mass, wedged between an all-night liquor store and a Honduran restaurant that advertised the best pollo frito in Boston.
That afternoon, I was dressed appropriately for the dog days of summer. A lightweight khaki summer suit, white linen shirt, and polished wingtips sans socks. I caught a glimpse in the office window and thought I might give George Raft a run for his money.
"May I help you?" the receptionist said.
Despite my stunning entrance, the woman had yet to look up from her computer screen.
"Can you vouch for the Honduran place on the corner?" I said. "Is the pollo frito really the best in the city?"
"I don't know," she said. "Never been there."
"Seems worth investigating."
"Soul food joint down on Blue Hill's much better," she said. "If you're into that kind of thing."
The woman was of a plus size, with long black cornrows and large brown eyes. I smiled, offering half-wattage so as not to distract her from her duties. She had on a white silk top with blue polka dots, a nifty little bow at the neck.
She hadn't smiled since I walked in the door. Women usually swoon or fall onto the floor with convulsions when I appear.
"Are you here to see someone?" the woman said. "Or just strolling around asking random-ass questions?"
"Might as well do both," I said. "The congresswoman is expecting me."
"The congresswoman isn't here," she said. "Is there something else I can help you with?"
"My name is Spenser," I said. "Kyle Rosen arranged a meeting."
"Spenser?" she said. "Is that your first name or last?"
"Last."
She asked me my first name and I told her. The woman stopped clicking the keyboard and picked up the phone, speaking so quietly I could barely understand what was being said. After a few moments, she nodded and pointed out a group of vinyl chairs that looked to have been swiped from a Ramada Inn lobby.
"Gonna be a minute."
I took a seat by a large plate-glass window. The chair's split seams had been repaired with silver duct tape.
As I waited, a staff of a dozen or so milled about secondhand desks and wobbly chairs. The paneled wood walls brightened with posters of Congresswoman Carolina Garcia-Ramirez looking as bold and confident as Che Guevara. Change, Now, and For the People written in block lettering. It sounded like most of the staff was cold-calling potential voters about next month's primary.
One exasperated young man kept repeating the congresswoman's name before finally relaying the sad news: Tip O'Neill had died long ago.
Fifteen minutes later, I spotted Kyle Rosen through the plate-glass window. We had never actually met, but I'd seen his picture and read his profile in The Globe.
I watched him crawl from a black SUV and hold the door open for another passenger. I stood as Carolina Garcia-Ramirez stepped out, dressed in a black pantsuit, hair in a tight bun, with a phone firmly clamped on her ear. She was tall, black, and striking. Even if you didn't know who she was, she looked like somebody.
Another man, small and thin, with hair bleached nearly as white as Tedy Sapp's, followed from the front passenger seat, carrying a very large leather bag. He struggled to get ahead and open the door.
I looked to the receptionist. She smiled and nodded in their direction.
"Mr. Spenser," Rosen said. "I'm sorry we're late. The flight from D.C. was delayed twice."
Rosen was a young guy, late twenties or early thirties, with wild, frizzy brown hair and black-framed glasses that hadn't been hip since Buddy Holly died. He was medium height and skinny, wearing jeans and an oversized black T-shirt that said be the change.
I followed Rosen into a private conference room filled with floor-to-ceiling boxes and large stacks of posters. A long oval table was cluttered with coffee cups and fast-food containers, a few legal notepads and office supplies. A sign on the wall read I'm Not your Mother, Kids. Please Clean Up Your Damn Mess.
"Thank you for coming," Rosen said.
"Any friend of Rita's."
"I met Miss Fiore at a fund-raiser last month," he said. "What a dynamite lady. She told me there's no one better at what you do."
"Besides having a pair of million-dollar legs, she also happens to have a top-notch legal mind."
The mention of Rita's legs caused Kyle to flush. Although tough and s...
The reelection headquarters for Carolina Garcia-Ramirez was deep in Roxbury at the corner of Proctor and Mass, wedged between an all-night liquor store and a Honduran restaurant that advertised the best pollo frito in Boston.
That afternoon, I was dressed appropriately for the dog days of summer. A lightweight khaki summer suit, white linen shirt, and polished wingtips sans socks. I caught a glimpse in the office window and thought I might give George Raft a run for his money.
"May I help you?" the receptionist said.
Despite my stunning entrance, the woman had yet to look up from her computer screen.
"Can you vouch for the Honduran place on the corner?" I said. "Is the pollo frito really the best in the city?"
"I don't know," she said. "Never been there."
"Seems worth investigating."
"Soul food joint down on Blue Hill's much better," she said. "If you're into that kind of thing."
The woman was of a plus size, with long black cornrows and large brown eyes. I smiled, offering half-wattage so as not to distract her from her duties. She had on a white silk top with blue polka dots, a nifty little bow at the neck.
She hadn't smiled since I walked in the door. Women usually swoon or fall onto the floor with convulsions when I appear.
"Are you here to see someone?" the woman said. "Or just strolling around asking random-ass questions?"
"Might as well do both," I said. "The congresswoman is expecting me."
"The congresswoman isn't here," she said. "Is there something else I can help you with?"
"My name is Spenser," I said. "Kyle Rosen arranged a meeting."
"Spenser?" she said. "Is that your first name or last?"
"Last."
She asked me my first name and I told her. The woman stopped clicking the keyboard and picked up the phone, speaking so quietly I could barely understand what was being said. After a few moments, she nodded and pointed out a group of vinyl chairs that looked to have been swiped from a Ramada Inn lobby.
"Gonna be a minute."
I took a seat by a large plate-glass window. The chair's split seams had been repaired with silver duct tape.
As I waited, a staff of a dozen or so milled about secondhand desks and wobbly chairs. The paneled wood walls brightened with posters of Congresswoman Carolina Garcia-Ramirez looking as bold and confident as Che Guevara. Change, Now, and For the People written in block lettering. It sounded like most of the staff was cold-calling potential voters about next month's primary.
One exasperated young man kept repeating the congresswoman's name before finally relaying the sad news: Tip O'Neill had died long ago.
Fifteen minutes later, I spotted Kyle Rosen through the plate-glass window. We had never actually met, but I'd seen his picture and read his profile in The Globe.
I watched him crawl from a black SUV and hold the door open for another passenger. I stood as Carolina Garcia-Ramirez stepped out, dressed in a black pantsuit, hair in a tight bun, with a phone firmly clamped on her ear. She was tall, black, and striking. Even if you didn't know who she was, she looked like somebody.
Another man, small and thin, with hair bleached nearly as white as Tedy Sapp's, followed from the front passenger seat, carrying a very large leather bag. He struggled to get ahead and open the door.
I looked to the receptionist. She smiled and nodded in their direction.
"Mr. Spenser," Rosen said. "I'm sorry we're late. The flight from D.C. was delayed twice."
Rosen was a young guy, late twenties or early thirties, with wild, frizzy brown hair and black-framed glasses that hadn't been hip since Buddy Holly died. He was medium height and skinny, wearing jeans and an oversized black T-shirt that said be the change.
I followed Rosen into a private conference room filled with floor-to-ceiling boxes and large stacks of posters. A long oval table was cluttered with coffee cups and fast-food containers, a few legal notepads and office supplies. A sign on the wall read I'm Not your Mother, Kids. Please Clean Up Your Damn Mess.
"Thank you for coming," Rosen said.
"Any friend of Rita's."
"I met Miss Fiore at a fund-raiser last month," he said. "What a dynamite lady. She told me there's no one better at what you do."
"Besides having a pair of million-dollar legs, she also happens to have a top-notch legal mind."
The mention of Rita's legs caused Kyle to flush. Although tough and s...
