Pulse en una miniatura para ir a Google Books.
Cargando... False Conception: A John Marshall Tanner Novel (1994)por Stephen Greenleaf
Ninguno Cargando...
Inscríbete en LibraryThing para averiguar si este libro te gustará. Actualmente no hay Conversaciones sobre este libro. sin reseñas | añadir una reseña
Pertenece a las seriesJohn Marshall Tanner (book 10)
Performing a background check on a prospective surrogate mother for childless tycoons Millicent and Stuart Colbert, detective John Marshall Tanner uncovers terrible secrets when the surrogate disappears two months into her pregnancy. No se han encontrado descripciones de biblioteca. |
Debates activosNingunoCubiertas populares
Google Books — Cargando... GénerosSistema Decimal Melvil (DDC)813.54Literature English (North America) American fiction 20th Century 1945-1999Clasificación de la Biblioteca del CongresoValoraciónPromedio:
¿Eres tú?Conviértete en un Autor de LibraryThing. |
Tanner is hired by his friend, Russell, an attorney, to investigate a surrogate. Seems some very wealthy clients of his, the Colberts, scions of a wealthy fashion empire, who wish to remain completely anonymous, want to implant an embryo in Stuart Colbert’s former secretary (for $100,000). At least that’s the story. It gets complicated because Russell must write up a contract without knowing the the law will be regarding surrogate rights and those of the biological parents. Russell needs Tanner to check out the former secretary without her knowledge and especially without her finding out who the the parents are of the child she will bear. The parents want to make sure no one will ever find out how the conception was brought to fruition, not realizing they are being manipulated by Stuart’s father.
As is axiomatic in Greenleaf and Ross MacDonald, the investigation turns over piles of corruption, hatred, and incest and once the links are connected hidden motives pop to the fore.
The reader is treated to passages such as this, “Because it was his office, Stuart Colbert looked comfortable and self-possessed and bursting with something to say. From the heat in his eyes and the flush to his face, I guessed it wouldn’t be pleasant. He was wiry and small, with an aesthete’s high forehead, a lizard’s bulbous eyes, and a languid smirk that declared he was master of all he surveyed. He struck me as a cold fish—judgmental, sanctimonious, arrogant, didactic—and a trifle jejune underneath. All to be expected, I suppose, given that his only source of early nourishment had come from a silver spoon. “
Excellent. Really hard to put this one down. ( )