Thrillers & Suspense
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The Maze (8) (A John Corey Novel)
#1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille returns with a blistering thriller featuring his most popular series character, former NYPD homicide detective John Corey, called out of retirement to investigate a string of grisly murders much too close to home.
In his dazzling #1 bestseller, Plum Island, Nelson DeMille introduced readers to NYPD Homicide Detective John Corey, who we first meet sitting on the back porch of his uncle's waterfront estate on Long Island, convalescing from wounds incurred in the line of duty. A visit from the local Chief of Police results in the legendary Detective Corey becoming involved in the investigation of the murders of a married couple who were scientists at the top-secret biological research facility on Plum Island.
Fast forward through six more bestselling John Corey novels and The Maze opens with Corey on the same porch, but now in forced retirement from his last job as a Federal Agent with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. Corey is restless and looking for action, so when his former lover, Detective Beth Penrose, appears with a job offer, Corey has to once again make some decisions about his career-and about reuniting with Beth Penrose.
Inspired by, and based on the actual and still unsolved Gilgo Beach murders, The Maze takes the reader on a dangerous hunt for an apparent serial killer who has murdered nine-and maybe more-prostitutes and hidden their bodies in the thick undergrowth on a lonely stretch of beach.
As Corey digs deeper into this case, which has made national news, he comes to suspect that the failure of the local police to solve this sensational case may not be a result of their inexperience and incompetence-it may be something else. Something more sinister.
The Maze features John Corey's politically incorrect humor, matched by his brilliant and unorthodox investigative skills along with the surprising and shocking plot twists that are the trademark of the #1 New York Times bestselling author, Nelson DeMille.
In his dazzling #1 bestseller, Plum Island, Nelson DeMille introduced readers to NYPD Homicide Detective John Corey, who we first meet sitting on the back porch of his uncle's waterfront estate on Long Island, convalescing from wounds incurred in the line of duty. A visit from the local Chief of Police results in the legendary Detective Corey becoming involved in the investigation of the murders of a married couple who were scientists at the top-secret biological research facility on Plum Island.
Fast forward through six more bestselling John Corey novels and The Maze opens with Corey on the same porch, but now in forced retirement from his last job as a Federal Agent with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. Corey is restless and looking for action, so when his former lover, Detective Beth Penrose, appears with a job offer, Corey has to once again make some decisions about his career-and about reuniting with Beth Penrose.
Inspired by, and based on the actual and still unsolved Gilgo Beach murders, The Maze takes the reader on a dangerous hunt for an apparent serial killer who has murdered nine-and maybe more-prostitutes and hidden their bodies in the thick undergrowth on a lonely stretch of beach.
As Corey digs deeper into this case, which has made national news, he comes to suspect that the failure of the local police to solve this sensational case may not be a result of their inexperience and incompetence-it may be something else. Something more sinister.
The Maze features John Corey's politically incorrect humor, matched by his brilliant and unorthodox investigative skills along with the surprising and shocking plot twists that are the trademark of the #1 New York Times bestselling author, Nelson DeMille.
Editorial Reviews
"A tough, unsolved murder case with interlocking crimes and suspects that ends in a fiery finish. . . . A well-done crime yarn." -Kirkus Reviews
Readers Top Reviews
glitterfishLinda
I didn’t make it past the first 30 pages, pale male overview of his sappy life and narration about woman was nauseating. I expect way way more from an author of this caliber. This is the 8th of a series with this character? Quite the unpleasant deja vù to prehistoric time.
MBCglitterfishLin
This book is classic John Corey and I loved it!! DeMille never disappoints. Corey is laugh out loud funny, but also a great Hero for the greater good--or at least HIS good anyway. :)
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
You can't drink all day unless you start in the morning.
It was 11 A.M. on a sunny June day, and I was sitting with a cold Bud in a deep wicker chair on the back porch of my uncle Harry's big Victorian house overlooking the Great Peconic Bay. The uniform of the day-every day-was shorts and T-shirt. My bare feet were propped on the porch rail, and on my lap were a pair of old binoculars and the New York Times crossword puzzle.
I'd been chilling here for about three weeks, and as I'd said the last time I was borrowing Harry's summer house, the problem with doing nothing is not knowing when you're finished.
I put my beer down on a side table next to my 9mm Glock.
It was a cool day with a nice salty breeze coming off the water. I'm a city boy, but I can get used to nature in small doses. I focused my binocs on a cabin cruiser out in the bay, a few hundred feet from shore. The boat was not running, but neither was it at anchor. It was drifting, and the incoming tide and wind were taking it toward the rocky beach at the end of the sloping lawn. No one was visible in the wheelhouse or on deck. Odd. I put the Glock on my lap.
If they were coming for me, they'd probably come at night. But a surprise daytime attack was also possible. For all I knew, the hit team was already inside the empty house, in cell phone contact with the boat, which had fixed my position. My cell phone, unfortunately, was sitting on the kitchen counter, charging.
My only escape would be to grab my gun, vault over the porch rail, and sprint across the lawn to the bay, then start swimming along the shoreline, where the water was too shallow for the cabin cruiser to get close. The hit team in my kitchen would not have anticipated my dash to the sea, and they'd be frantically trying to figure out what to do as they charged out of the house onto the porch and saw me swimming, then coming ashore and disappearing into the thick bulrushes.
And then what? Make my way to safety? Or execute a flanking maneuver to come around their rear and take them out one by one? They wouldn't expect that. But they should know that John Corey does the unexpected.
After the hit team were all dead on the back lawn, I'd flip the bird to their backup team on the boat, then go in the house and call the police and the town dump. Why the dump? Because, as we used to say in the NYPD: A single death is a tragedy; multiple deaths are a sanitation problem.
Clearly, I was going nuts. In fact, people often ask me, "Are you crazy?" I was glad there was still some doubt.
Anyway, as I said, I'm John Corey, former NYPD Homicide detective. After I left the job on a line-of-duty three-quarter disability-the result of three bullet wounds-I took a job as a contract agent with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I left the ATTF under unusual circumstances and landed another Federal gig, this one with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, which terminated last month-also under unusual circumstances. I was also once an adjunct professor at JJC-John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan. Now I am NYU-New York Unemployed.
I put my Glock back on the side table, took a swig of beer, and glanced at the newspaper on my lap. Today was June 21, the summer solstice and the longest day of the year. The sun was still in the eastern sky and the migrating birds were mostly settled in, as were the odd ducks from the city who had weekend homes around here.
I noticed the cabin cruiser was now at anchor, and two couples were fishing. That's what assassins do before they strike.
I'm not totally nuts, by the way, or unreasonably paranoid. I have acquired a number of enemies over the years, including my former FBI bosses in the ATTF, and also my former colleagues in the CIA. Most recently, I have pissed off my superiors in the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. Going way back, I guess I also pissed off some of my NYPD bosses. But I didn't think any of those people actually wanted me dead… well, maybe the CIA did. I know too much.
Aside from my former colleagues, I have some real enemies, starting with the perps who I'd put behind bars in my NYPD days. Then there were the Islamic terrorists whose pals I had capped or captured when I was with ATTF. Those A-holes definitely wanted my head separated from my body. But perps and terrorists are mostly stupid, and I didn't lose any sleep worrying about them. The real pros were the guys I tangled with when I was with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group-the guys from SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the equivalent of our CIA, and the successors of the Soviet KGB. Those b...
You can't drink all day unless you start in the morning.
It was 11 A.M. on a sunny June day, and I was sitting with a cold Bud in a deep wicker chair on the back porch of my uncle Harry's big Victorian house overlooking the Great Peconic Bay. The uniform of the day-every day-was shorts and T-shirt. My bare feet were propped on the porch rail, and on my lap were a pair of old binoculars and the New York Times crossword puzzle.
I'd been chilling here for about three weeks, and as I'd said the last time I was borrowing Harry's summer house, the problem with doing nothing is not knowing when you're finished.
I put my beer down on a side table next to my 9mm Glock.
It was a cool day with a nice salty breeze coming off the water. I'm a city boy, but I can get used to nature in small doses. I focused my binocs on a cabin cruiser out in the bay, a few hundred feet from shore. The boat was not running, but neither was it at anchor. It was drifting, and the incoming tide and wind were taking it toward the rocky beach at the end of the sloping lawn. No one was visible in the wheelhouse or on deck. Odd. I put the Glock on my lap.
If they were coming for me, they'd probably come at night. But a surprise daytime attack was also possible. For all I knew, the hit team was already inside the empty house, in cell phone contact with the boat, which had fixed my position. My cell phone, unfortunately, was sitting on the kitchen counter, charging.
My only escape would be to grab my gun, vault over the porch rail, and sprint across the lawn to the bay, then start swimming along the shoreline, where the water was too shallow for the cabin cruiser to get close. The hit team in my kitchen would not have anticipated my dash to the sea, and they'd be frantically trying to figure out what to do as they charged out of the house onto the porch and saw me swimming, then coming ashore and disappearing into the thick bulrushes.
And then what? Make my way to safety? Or execute a flanking maneuver to come around their rear and take them out one by one? They wouldn't expect that. But they should know that John Corey does the unexpected.
After the hit team were all dead on the back lawn, I'd flip the bird to their backup team on the boat, then go in the house and call the police and the town dump. Why the dump? Because, as we used to say in the NYPD: A single death is a tragedy; multiple deaths are a sanitation problem.
Clearly, I was going nuts. In fact, people often ask me, "Are you crazy?" I was glad there was still some doubt.
Anyway, as I said, I'm John Corey, former NYPD Homicide detective. After I left the job on a line-of-duty three-quarter disability-the result of three bullet wounds-I took a job as a contract agent with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I left the ATTF under unusual circumstances and landed another Federal gig, this one with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, which terminated last month-also under unusual circumstances. I was also once an adjunct professor at JJC-John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan. Now I am NYU-New York Unemployed.
I put my Glock back on the side table, took a swig of beer, and glanced at the newspaper on my lap. Today was June 21, the summer solstice and the longest day of the year. The sun was still in the eastern sky and the migrating birds were mostly settled in, as were the odd ducks from the city who had weekend homes around here.
I noticed the cabin cruiser was now at anchor, and two couples were fishing. That's what assassins do before they strike.
I'm not totally nuts, by the way, or unreasonably paranoid. I have acquired a number of enemies over the years, including my former FBI bosses in the ATTF, and also my former colleagues in the CIA. Most recently, I have pissed off my superiors in the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. Going way back, I guess I also pissed off some of my NYPD bosses. But I didn't think any of those people actually wanted me dead… well, maybe the CIA did. I know too much.
Aside from my former colleagues, I have some real enemies, starting with the perps who I'd put behind bars in my NYPD days. Then there were the Islamic terrorists whose pals I had capped or captured when I was with ATTF. Those A-holes definitely wanted my head separated from my body. But perps and terrorists are mostly stupid, and I didn't lose any sleep worrying about them. The real pros were the guys I tangled with when I was with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group-the guys from SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the equivalent of our CIA, and the successors of the Soviet KGB. Those b...
