Black man, late 30s, with freckled face, wearing a long camel hair coat and glasses.
Blood Work, Michael Connelly (Warner Books)
When he was finished with the door and reasonably assured of security, McCaleb looked down at his bare feet on the salon's Berber carpet. For the first time he realized that the rug was wet. He then remembered how the marina lights had shone off the body of the intruder as he had stood near the door.
Two days before he'd ducked out of the helicopter, under the blade and into the washroom, forearms shaking against the side of the toilet as he managed to burp out a request for ginger ale. Had he forgotten what it felt like that day, to gum a salami sandwich the 45 minutes it took for his head to slow, when he boarded the boat out to sea, away from any horizon, the current stirring his underbelly.
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