By Stuart Woods

Forties Hollywood comes alive during this sequel to The Prince of Beverly Hills.

Rick Barron—former Beverly Hills cop, now head of creation of Centurion pictures—returns in a web page turning novel of homicide, political intrigue, and betrayal. Set in Nineteen Forties Hollywood, it's the period of the "Red Scare"—when nearly an individual can be suspect.

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Additional resources for Beverly Hills Dead (Rick Barron, Book 2)

Example text

I am asking you to present a false face to your hosts, and an honest man should pause before taking on such a role. But remember, Bruno, whenever you feel the wrench between conscience and duty, your care should always be for the greater good. ” He looked puzzled. ” I was silent for a moment while he regarded me through narrowed eyes. “We do not punish men for their beliefs here, Bruno. Her Majesty once eloquently declared that she had no desire to make windows into men’s souls, and nor do I. ” I asked pointedly.

But you must be careful, my friend—he collected many of these manuscripts of ancient magic during the destruction of the monastic libraries, and he is called a necromancer and worse for it, not just by the common people. And he is a native Englishman, and the queen’s own astrologer too. ” He stepped back and looked at me with curiosity. ” “When I was living in Paris, I learned that it was brought out of Florence at the end of the last century and, if my adviser spoke the truth, it was taken by an English collector to one of the great libraries here, where it lies unremarked because no one who has handled it has understood its significance.

He pressed into my hand a small bone-handled dagger in a leather sheath. I looked at him in surprise. “It was a gift from my father,” he whispered. “You will have more need of it than I, where you are going. And now, sbrigati. ” The narrow window of our cell was just large enough for me to squeeze myself onto the ledge, one leg at a time. We were on the first floor of the building, but about six feet below the window the sloping roof of the lay brothers’ reredorter jutted out enough for me to land on it if I judged the fall carefully; from there I could edge my way down a buttress and, assuming I could make it across the garden without being seen, climb the outside wall of the monastery and disappear into the streets of Naples under cover of darkness.

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