The Kennedy Secret, by Steve Richer

    Wow, Steve approached me to review his book, a thriller, and what a gift it was. It was one of those books I could NOT put down, and it came to me after my own little thrilling adventure.  

     I finally was asked out on a date, and it wasn’t prearranged by my mother. P.I Sean leaned over my desk at lunch when the office was empty asked me to go to dinner with him. In the office, shh, we’re not suppose to fraternize, but he was being brave and I was stupid, and said yes, with it in the back of mind, I can’t afford to lose my what puts the bacon on the table.  

     So, we secretly made our date. We’d meet, at a new uptown Italian restaurant. P.I Sean is a brave man. It’s dangerous to ask an Italian, whose family spends every Sunday arguing sauce to an Italian restaurant, no matter the reviews.

 I kept my nose to grind stone all day, until the last minute, left the office, headed to my cousin

Henry’s apartment where I changed. Even though it was hot as hell, or hotter, since I’m not really sure how hot hell is, Henry told me to wear simple black. He works in the fashion industry and his advice is golden. I had black mid thigh A-line, short sleeves, a silver necklace, hoop earrings, with a KK ponytail. He wasn’t home but left me an adorable pair of black CL stilettos, brand new. I hailed a cab to the restaurant. Anyhoo, P.I Sean was there when I got there, and into the restaurant we went. The atmosphere was wonderful, the food smelled great, the wine impressive and I was starving.
     I had studied the menu, and was just about ready to go for the ravioli, when suddenly P.I Sean grabbed my hand, and says in a hushed whisper, “We’ve got to go.”

     “What?”

     “Go, I just saw a guy I’ve been tailing for his wife, and he’s he just left with another woman.”

     “What?” It was becoming the only word in my vocabulary.

    He grabbed my hand, threw down a few bucks on the table, I’m thinking mushroom ravioli, and he’s dragging me out the door, in my new stilettos. We ran outside to parking where he had his motorcycle. Yes, a motorcycle, and I was expected to climb on it, with my cute little black dress, and those stilettos. He climbs on, nods to me to follow and hands me a helmet that barely fits over my ponytail. I was a gremlin running for the cliff to dive off, and I climbed on. The ‘subject’, (family of cops I know the lingo) passed us in a car, and off we went with me hanging on for dear life, as my little black dress, slowly crept up to my waist. Soon I was riding down mid-town, zigzagging in and out of traffic. I’m sure with my butt very much exposed to the elements, and public. I’m praying that none of my relatives were on duty to arrest me for indecent exposure. No ravioli, no wine, no date, other than riding around after some car, with two people in it, that P.I Sean was hired on the side, to tail. We rode through a very large puddle of dirty water created by an open fire hydrant. The motorcycle started to wobble, and I put my foot down with P.I Sean, my shoe tore right off, and a huge splash went up as a passing car flew through the dark water. I was covered from head to butt with nasty stinky dirty NYC water as we came to a stop. The only thing not wet was my hair, and that was because of the helmet.  

    My hair is ruined, my dress is embarrassingly up around my waist, that’s only future is in the trash. I’m covered in greasy road slush, and he looked over his shoulder to me and asked, “You hungry?”

    I was, but not anymore. Mushroom ravioli is a distant memory. P.I Sean dropped me in front of Henry’s, where I took off my one shoe and threw it in the trash. For a moment, I didn’t think the doorman would let me in, because he didn’t recognize me at first. Before I went through the door, P.I Sean asked, if we could have a rain check. Not sure. Maybe, he is very adorable. 
    Henry was home when I got upstairs. He handed me a plastic bag, and ordered everything to go in it. I showered for two hours, to get the shit off me, and wore a pair of Henry’s P.J’s, went to bed. I don’t think I’m meant to be spy or P.I or anything like that…

    Oh, but I digress. Steve’s book opens the days before Robert Kennedy is assassinated. The senator receives a mysterious key that is the key to the mystery. The two main characters are unlikely friends, Donovan lost his wife in a car accident, which at that time he goes into the CIA and becomes an assassin. He has orders to kill an attorney, Michael Beecher, who is a very skilled lawyer and conman. One of the funniest moments in the book Donovan fails at his mission. The first time he misses a mark. Because Michael fights back, in some unique ways, and has only one leg, but manages to get away from Donovan. This all happens the night Robert Kennedy is killed. When the pair realizes the senator is dead, they start to connect the dots to the murder, especially Michael who in the weeks prior had delivered a package of money to Sirhan Sirhan. The two go on a mission to discover who is behind wanting Michael dead, as they slowly put together who might really be behind the death of Robert Kennedy.
     Steve drew in some historic characters into his book, such Robert Kennedy, Jimmy Hoffa and some famous mobsters, and others. This was a page turner. I couldn’t put it down. I’m passing it along to my Grandpa Boyle who has a similar background as Donovan in the years during the Korean and Vietnam war when special forces was a fairly new part of the army. Grandpa Boyle became NYPD, not CIA.  
     I’d rank Steve's writing up there with some of the best thriller authors today. It was interesting, thrilling and fun read.

     If my numbers went higher, I would have given it a #20, because a #10, is just not enough. This was a way, way, way bitch’n read! I read it at home, on the treadmill, watching Firemen Frank's ass, in the broom closet, at lunch, in the heat, with annoying rats with wings, on the subway and even at my cousin’s deli, when my power went out. I was desperate, and he had air.