She figured when it turned dark it would be difficult to see anything. And then she decided to hurry because it had just occurred to her that the place might not have electricity. Gibson steered her mommy van south down Interstate 64 East, and then worked her way through surface roads to US 17 that sling-shotted her across the burly James River. Next, she turned north, passing through what had once been the hog-slaughtering Gibson looked at her son, whose expression told her all she needed to know. She ran for it and reached the toilet just in time to hold him over the bowl while simultaneously hitting a button on her headset to place the call on mute. Tommy managed somehow to miss the toilet completely and instead puked on the toilet paper holder and her pair of slippers. Gibson had left them there earlier after attempting to use the bathroom. Then she’d heard a crash somewhere and found Tommy sitting on the kitchen floor, covered with most of the wet dirt from a potted plant. She’d stripped the boy and thrown his clothes directly into the washing machine. Gibson had wanted to toss him in, too, only she didn’t relish a visit from Child Services. But she’d forgotten the slippers. And her urge to pee. He hadn’t done it at her wedding, for reasons he had made clear to his daughter prior to Gibson’s walking down the aisle.

Gibson took out her iPad from her bag and turned on the video feature. She had no idea of the floor plan here, but since the place was nearly as large as a small shopping mall, this was not going to be a single afternoon’s worth of work. She started in the foyer, where there were two suits of armor standing about eight feet tall and still looking dwarfed by the immense space.Not only does the arms dealer not exist but the murder victim turns out to be Harry Langhorne, a man with mob ties who used to be in Witness Protection. What’s more, no one named Arlene Robinson works at ProEye. There was a large dining room fully, if incompatibly, outfitted with Baroque pieces and a Chippendale sideboard. Gibson had become something of an expert about such things while hunting the assets of the rich and shifty over the last couple years. On the walls were oil paintings mostly consisting of colonial scenery and waterfront landscapes. She didn’t think they were originals,

mudslingers. And there were so many of these monied deadbeats that ProEye and thus Gibson were flooded with work. This is the 48th book by this author that I've read. I've read more of his books than those of any other author. I am a huge fan. BUT...of late, he has been a solid 3 stars.David Baldacci has been writing since childhood, when his mother gave him a lined notebook in which to write down his stories. (Much later, when David thanked her for being the spark that ignited his writing career, she revealed that she’d given him the notebook to keep him quiet, "because every mom needs a break now and then.”) A twisting new psychological thriller in which two women—one a former detective, the other a dangerous con artist—go head-to-head in an electrifying game of cat and mouse. In this novel, Baldacci brings together two unique protagonists with deep intelligence and strengths; yet, at the same time real weaknesses and flaws that drive the storylines forward. As usual, his writing style was fluid and each chapter hummed along at a fast pace, most ending in a surprise cliffhanger that easily kept you intensely reading into the next one. There was no slowing down most of the time and he kept you fully immersed in the plotlines and twists and turns along the way. For me, this was a very enjoyable holiday weekend read.

There weren't a lot of characters in the novel but everyone had two, sometimes three, different names. Baldacci includes lots of dialogue and internal monologue - two of my pet hates. Baldacci cuts everyone’s grass – Grisham’s, Ludlum��s, even Patricia Cornwell’s – and more than gets away with it’ People Well, time apparently caught up to Novak. Everything has now gone belly-up in the last couple of months.” When she secretly took and passed the written and physical exams to enter the police academy, her mother had thrown a Reading this book is actually painful; possibly Baldacci’s worst, and it is not recommended. Fans of Baldacci will be disappointed and will look forward to the next novel he actually writes. Baldacci novels usually get five stars; this one deserves no more than two.Gibson had been across the Bay Bridge-Tunnel a few times and had never cared for the experience. It was over seventeen miles long, with artificial islands built along the route, and the bridge seemed to disappear right into the middle of the bay where the road entered the tunnels. It was like the highway was executing a suicidal dive into the water, taking all traffic with it. While Baldacci is usually an excellent storyteller, this story is convoluted, long-winded, and frankly a bit boring. The characters are quite well developed, but they are not exciting, and there were several times that it got mundane to the point of putting the book down for good. There are several sub-plots that aren’t really necessary. Baldacci fans are used to his ability to tie the sub-plots together; that doesn’t happen in this novel. In fact, after the dénouement, the book seems to be like an Energizer bunny and keeps on going, and going, and going ad nauseum with a sappy conclusion. And maybe I’ll find some British ghosts living in the old mansion. She slowed as she saw the stone monuments on either side of a driveway. The plaque on one of the monuments read: Stormfield. See? It pays to have someone who knows the local geography.” “I’m surprised no one has been there before now.” Okay, that gives me some context. The short route includes a ferry, so that would take me about an hour or so and that’s if I hit the boat schedule dead-on. The long route will have me drive south through Newport News, cross the James River Bridge, head to Smithfield, and then it’s about eight miles above that, like making a horseshoe. All told that’s about an hour, too, depending on traffic, so that’s the way I’ll go.”

She punched her flashlight on and adjusted the beam so it was concentrated. Her other hand rested on the butt of her Beretta. Four steps in she saw the source of the sound and airflow. A battery powered fan had been set on the floor within feet of the opening. She kept going. who made his money in railroad, timber, and mining. He owned a mansion in Colorado, a five-story town house in New York, and this place in Virginia. It’s on land where a British Lord built his home; it was later burned down during the Revolutionary War.” She added in a joking manner, “So there might be a ghost or two around.” Gibson said, “That part I know very well. It was before my time, but the firm has never forgotten it. It’s part of the company lore. They even tell it to you during orientation as a warning sign against complacency and not going the extra mile.” is what I was told. And they’d like you to go out today if possible. You can talk to Zeb if you want, but I know he’s in a meeting now. And they really wanted to get you out there fast. It sounded to me like there might be a nice field bonus in there for you, too.” Please, make it Arlene. Here’s the thing, and it’s a little different but I was told to call and run it past you.”

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From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The 6:20 Man comes a twisting new psychological thriller in which two women—one a former detective, the other a dangerous con artist—go head-to-head in an electrifying game of cat and mouse. She parked in front and got out. The only sound was the breeze and the occasional bird opening its beak in anticipation of the dawning springtime. The tree canopies were still relatively bare, and the gloomy sky did not provide much light in the afternoon. All I needed to know going into Simply Lies was that it was written by David Baldacci. He is a prolific author who needs no introduction. I cannot get enough of his twisty tales and realistic characters. This is a stand-alone book, although I can see it being the beginning of a new series. capital of the world at Smithfield. Her nav system showed it was another seven miles to the remnants of Rutger Novak’s shattered empire. The whole journey would be less than fifty miles, but that was a long way in the tightly constricted parameters of this part of coastal Virginia. It was filled with military footprints, underwater tunnels, bridges, the ocean with wide sandy beaches, and the delicate lines of inland waterways that either crept along the earth like capillaries under the skin or gushed across it like fat arteries. One day she gets a call from another ProEye representative, working with Gibson’s boss, requesting Gibson to complete a new assignment that just came up. Gibson is asked to go inventory the home and assets of an arms dealer that just took off after cheating other ProEye clients. Once Gibson arrives at the old mansion out in the country, and starts inspecting, she discovers a secret room., and then a dead body to go with it.