Date Published: May 29, 2019
Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
PI Red Farlow is on the hunt to find $300 million a Florida insurance executive has bilked out of family and friends.
Woody Cunningham stashed the money in safe havens around the world before disappearing. Has he been done in by one of his enemies? Or did he skip town with his girlfriend to live off the ill-gotten wealth? If that’s the case, where is he?
Farlow must quickly learn how and why people hide their money in offshore accounts if he's to find out what happened to Cunningham.
When a tough guy from Farlow's past resurfaces, wanting to settle an old score, Farlow discovers he also has links to the missing man. Clues lead him across Georgia and Florida, and Europe, to find the answers.
Is Woody Cunningham dead, or just rich and gone?
I READ THIS BOOK SOME MONTHS AGO AND LOVED IT. RED FARLOW IS THE ULTIMATE CHARACTER. I HOPE YOU'LL TAKE THE TIME TO READ MY REVIEW.
read an excerpt...
I walked through the rest of the house, with Julie behind me. I turned down a long hallway, at the end of which glowed light from what we found to be the master bedroom. I stepped cautiously to the door and looked inside. The horrible scene instinctively sent me bringing my gun out and at the ready. But instead of proceeding, I turned around and pulled Julie back down the hall.
“What is it?” “You don’t need to see this, Julie.” She paused and put her hands over her face. She stood there a moment, dropped her hands, and said, “Red, I’m a reporter. I’ve probably seen worse.”
“Lord, lady, I hope not.”
With that, she stood beside me to look into the bedroom. Her scream wasn’t nearly as loud as I expected, but it echoed throughout the house. She screamed again, and yet again. I put an arm around her shoulder. She sank into me.
In the room, Rye Whitworth’s body sprawled face up across his bed. The sheets, which likely started out white, bore a strong resemblance to a ritual slaughter pit. Blood soaked into the covers and mattress. Rye’s right hand dangled over the bed over a large pool of blood. Someone had stabbed him repeatedly.
Uncannily, though, the scene told a story of horror beyond death and bloody gore. In his mouth, the killer had placed two unfired twelve-gauge shotgun shells.
“It’s time we call the cops,” I told Julie. We retreated to the living room. I hit 9-1-1 on my cell and spoke to a dispatcher.
In a matter of perhaps a minute, sirens sounded in the distance, breaking the silence of the suburban neighborhood.
We walked outside and waited as a police cruiser rolled up, followed by EMTs.
“Did you make the call?” the young officer asked after he jumped out of the car.
“Yes. He’s in the master bedroom in back,” I told them.
The cop and his partner disappeared around the house. I held Julie as the scene unfolded, so familiar to me and yet, always so dreaded.
About the Author
W.F. Ranew is a former newspaper reporter, editor, and communication executive. He started his journalism career covering sports, police, and city council meetings at his hometown newspaper, The Quitman Free Press. He also worked as a reporter and editor for several regional dailies: The Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle, The Florida Times-Union, and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
Ranew has written two previous novels: Schoolhouse Man and Candyman’s Sorrow.
He lives with his wife in Atlanta and St. Simons Island, Ga.