The Maze

The Maze

by Nelson DeMille

Narrated by Scott Brick

Unabridged — 15 hours, 42 minutes

The Maze

The Maze

by Nelson DeMille

Narrated by Scott Brick

Unabridged — 15 hours, 42 minutes

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Overview

#1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille returns with a “genuinely thrilling” (The New York Times) suspense novel featuring his most popular character, former NYPD homicide detective John Corey, called out of retirement to investigate a string of grisly murders-inspired by the actual Gilgo Beach murders.

In his #1 New York Times bestseller Plum Island, Nelson DeMille introduced readers to NYPD Homicide Detective John Corey, who we first met on the back porch of his uncle's waterfront mansion on Long Island, recovering from wounds incurred in the line of duty.

Six novels later, The Maze finds Corey on the same porch, having survived new law enforcement roles and romantic relationships-wiser and more sarcastic than ever. Corey is restless and looking for action, so when his former lover Detective Beth Penrose appears with a job offer, Corey has to once again make some decisions about his career-and about reuniting with Beth.

Inspired by the real-life Gilgo Beach murders, The Maze takes us on a dangerous hunt for an apparent serial killer who has murdered nine-and maybe more-sex workers and hidden their bodies in the thick undergrowth on a lonely stretch of beach.

As Corey digs deeper into this case, he comes to suspect that the failure of the local police to solve this sensational mystery may not be a result of their incompetence-it may be something else. Something more sinister.

Featuring John Corey's politically incorrect humor and brilliant, unorthodox investigative skills, The Maze “finally gives DeMille's readers the John Corey fix they've been craving,” along with the shocking plot twists that are the trademark of the bestselling author Nelson DeMille, “the master of smart, entertaining suspense” (Bookreporter).

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

08/22/2022

Bestseller DeMille’s ponderous eighth John Corey novel (after 2015’s Radiant Angel) drags Corey—former NYPD detective, former contract agent with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force, former member of the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, and former adjunct professor at John Jay College of Criminal Justice—out of his enforced retirement. One of Corey’s former lovers, Det. Beth Penrose of the Suffolk County Homicide Squad, urges him to take a job with a private investigation firm on Long Island called Security Solutions. After much dithering, Corey finally succumbs to Beth’s entreaties and winds up in a treacherous maze of vice, graft, and blackmail, and on the trail of a serial killer. Fortunately, the dirty cops and lowlifes employed by the detective agency are as old-school as Corey, who ends up looking for incriminating evidence among Security Solutions’ recent videocassettes and paper ledgers, which are stored in a basement secured by a padlock. Armed with his trusty Glock, a crowbar, and unlimited cockiness, Corey manfully succeeds in fighting crime. This is for die-hard fans only. Agents: Sloan Harris and Jennifer Joel, ICM Partners. (Oct.)

From the Publisher

PRAISE FOR THE MAZE

"Genuinely thrilling." The New York Times

“A tough, unsolved murder case with interlocking crimes and suspects that ends in a fiery finish. . . . A well-done crime yarn.” —Kirkus Reviews

“A complete success.” —Booklist

"The Maze finally gives DeMille’s readers the John Corey fix they’ve been craving. There’s no other character in modern literature like him. . . . kudos to Nelson DeMille, the master of smart, entertaining suspense." —Book Reporter

Library Journal

01/01/2022

In Bentley's Tom Clancy Zero Hour, Jack Ryan Jr. is interviewing a Campus prospect in Seoul when North Korea's leader is devastatingly injured, prompting a power struggle among sleeper agents in South Korea. In Berry's The Omega Factor, UNESCO investigator Nicholas Lee is following a lead to the long-missing 12th panel of the relentlessly plundered Ghent Altarpiece when he stumbles upon a centuries-old conflict between some no-nonsense nuns called the Maidens of Saint-Michael and the Vatican, desperate to grab a secret the maidens guard (200,000-copy first printing). Having appeared in six best-selling DeMille novels, retired NYPD Homicide Detective John Corey is hanging out at his uncle's waterfront estate on Long Island when he heeds a call to help find a serial killer who is dispatching prostitutes and burying them along the beach in The Maze (originally scheduled for June 2021; 500,000-copy first printing). Pulled from the icy Pacific and presumed dead, a revived Elle can remember little except her name in Dodd's stand-alone, Point Last Seen, but it surely looks to rescuer Adam like someone tried to kill her (75,000-copy paperback and 10,000-copy hardcover first printing). What could be Red on the River in the next exemplar of Romantic suspense from Feehan, which is set in the Sierra Nevada mountains? When tomb raiders kill archaeologist Riley Smith's father after he discovers the burial site of Helen of Troy, Riley seeks revenge while asking forensic sculptor Eve Duncan to reconstruct A Face To Die For (100,000-copy first printing). Marshals Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch have their hands full in Knott's Robert B. Parker's Opium Rose when the daughter of Virgil's half-brother arrives in Appaloosa, having fled San Francisco following the death of her lawyer husband; apparently, he was involved in a big opium operation. In Escape, a follow-up to Patterson's Black Book, a rich-as-Croesus crime lord breaks out of jail and leaves a taunting note for crack Chicago detective Billy Harney, who he knew would be called to the scene (300,000-copy first printing). In Quirk's Red Warning, CIA officer Sam Hudson is nearly blown up in Geneva as he obsessively tracks Russian mole Konstanin, then dodges bombs back in Washington, DC, when Konstanin follows him home (125,000-copy first printing).

DECEMBER 2022 - AudioFile

A string of deaths that has confounded federal and state law enforcement is the ideal backdrop for the latest Nelson DeMille thriller. It especially shines as an audiobook performed by Scott Brick. Brick’s on-point ability to time every phrase perfectly highlights NYPD Detective John Corey’s distinct personality. DeMille’s other characters are also well defined, particularly Detective Beth Penrose, whose romantic advances help bring Corey out of retirement. Another memorable character as portrayed by Brick is seductive secretary Amy Lang, who works for the detective agency that appears to be at the center of the murders. Brick ties the story together by enhancing the dialogue and maintaining a pace that keeps the book moving. D.J.S. © AudioFile 2022, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

2022-07-08
Book 8 in DeMille’s John Corey series unlocks a complex murder mystery set on Fire Island.

The jokes start right away: “You can’t drink all day unless you start in the morning.” Corey is a former NYPD homicide detective, and he's currently "NYU—New York Unemployed." He has plenty of enemies, like the Russian SVR intelligence service, which wants him dead—but waiting for that plotline to develop is like waiting for Godot. Ex-lover Det. Beth Penrose conveys an offer that he become a consultant to Security Solutions Investigative Services, “a very tacky private investigative agency” located on Suffolk County farmland with a giant hedge maze as a neighbor. Though Beth doesn't say so, the plan seems to be that Corey will be her confidential informant, getting inside Security Solutions to learn if it has any connection to the killings of nine young Long Island women. Security Solutions is a fun-loving outfit, with after-hours parties like Thirsty Thursdays. You’ve got your booze, your broads with names like Tiffany, your cops both present and ex, your politicians, a disbarred lawyer—fertile and dangerous grounds for Corey’s snooping. Like the maze, the plot has “twisting paths with lots of dead ends,” but “you have to wake up real early to pull one over on John Corey.” But before the guns start blasting, he fires his “pocket rocket” into a willing woman, a suspect named Amy. “Emission accomplished,” he later muses. Ah yes, Corey has a million sex jokes that would have teenagers TikTok-ing “ROFLMAO.” Are there nude beaches in Bermuda? He’d love to check out the Bermuda triangles. Is tonight “poker night? Or poke her night?” And why do strippers have names like Tiffany and not Best Buy? Anyway, Corey hasn’t settled down with a woman: “Ospreys mate for life,” he states. “But are they happy?” Oh yes, again with the plot: There’s a tough, unsolved murder case with interlocking crimes and suspects that ends in a fiery finish.

A well-done crime yarn but not for the straight-laced or those prone to fantods.

Product Details

BN ID: 2940177383408
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Publication date: 10/11/2022
Series: John Corey Series , #8
Edition description: Unabridged
Sales rank: 396,406

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
You can’t drink all day unless you start in the morning.

It was 11 A.M. on a sunny June day, and I was sitting with a cold Bud in a deep wicker chair on the back porch of my uncle Harry’s big Victorian house overlooking the Great Peconic Bay. The uniform of the day—every day—was shorts and T-shirt. My bare feet were propped on the porch rail, and on my lap were a pair of old binoculars and the New York Times crossword puzzle.

I’d been chilling here for about three weeks, and as I’d said the last time I was borrowing Harry’s summer house, the problem with doing nothing is not knowing when you’re finished.

I put my beer down on a side table next to my 9mm Glock.

It was a cool day with a nice salty breeze coming off the water. I’m a city boy, but I can get used to nature in small doses. I focused my binocs on a cabin cruiser out in the bay, a few hundred feet from shore. The boat was not running, but neither was it at anchor. It was drifting, and the incoming tide and wind were taking it toward the rocky beach at the end of the sloping lawn. No one was visible in the wheelhouse or on deck. Odd. I put the Glock on my lap.

If they were coming for me, they’d probably come at night. But a surprise daytime attack was also possible. For all I knew, the hit team was already inside the empty house, in cell phone contact with the boat, which had fixed my position. My cell phone, unfortunately, was sitting on the kitchen counter, charging.

My only escape would be to grab my gun, vault over the porch rail, and sprint across the lawn to the bay, then start swimming along the shoreline, where the water was too shallow for the cabin cruiser to get close. The hit team in my kitchen would not have anticipated my dash to the sea, and they’d be frantically trying to figure out what to do as they charged out of the house onto the porch and saw me swimming, then coming ashore and disappearing into the thick bulrushes.

And then what? Make my way to safety? Or execute a flanking maneuver to come around their rear and take them out one by one? They wouldn’t expect that. But they should know that John Corey does the unexpected.

After the hit team were all dead on the back lawn, I’d flip the bird to their backup team on the boat, then go in the house and call the police and the town dump. Why the dump? Because, as we used to say in the NYPD: A single death is a tragedy; multiple deaths are a sanitation problem.

Clearly, I was going nuts. In fact, people often ask me, “Are you crazy?” I was glad there was still some doubt.

Anyway, as I said, I’m John Corey, former NYPD Homicide detective. After I left the job on a line-of-duty three-quarter disability—the result of three bullet wounds—I took a job as a contract agent with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I left the ATTF under unusual circumstances and landed another Federal gig, this one with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, which terminated last month—also under unusual circumstances. I was also once an adjunct professor at JJC—John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan. Now I am NYU—New York Unemployed.

I put my Glock back on the side table, took a swig of beer, and glanced at the newspaper on my lap. Today was June 21, the summer solstice and the longest day of the year. The sun was still in the eastern sky and the migrating birds were mostly settled in, as were the odd ducks from the city who had weekend homes around here.

I noticed the cabin cruiser was now at anchor, and two couples were fishing. That’s what assassins do before they strike.

I’m not totally nuts, by the way, or unreasonably paranoid. I have acquired a number of enemies over the years, including my former FBI bosses in the ATTF, and also my former colleagues in the CIA. Most recently, I have pissed off my superiors in the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. Going way back, I guess I also pissed off some of my NYPD bosses. But I didn’t think any of those people actually wanted me dead... well, maybe the CIA did. I know too much.

Aside from my former colleagues, I have some real enemies, starting with the perps who I’d put behind bars in my NYPD days. Then there were the Islamic terrorists whose pals I had capped or captured when I was with ATTF. Those A-holes definitely wanted my head separated from my body. But perps and terrorists are mostly stupid, and I didn’t lose any sleep worrying about them. The real pros were the guys I tangled with when I was with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group—the guys from SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the equivalent of our CIA, and the successors of the Soviet KGB. Those bastards are tough and they’re good at what they do. And what they do is kill people. Which a few of them tried to do to yours truly. I’m still here. They’re not. The SVR would like to settle that score. And I’d like to see them try it.

Also on my enemies list are two unknown gentlemen who pumped fourteen or fifteen rounds at me on West 102nd Street seven years ago, when I was an NYPD detective working a homicide case. Those myopic A-holes managed only three hits at thirty feet and would not have qualified at the Police Academy pistol range. Not that I’m complaining. Anyway, I spent a month at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital and a few weeks at my Manhattan condo before I accepted Uncle Harry’s kind offer to convalesce here at his waterfront summer house, which he rarely uses. And here I am again, not convalescing this time but decompressing, which is a lot better than decomposing.

In the category of my frenemies are my ex-wife, Robin, and my future ex-wife, Kate Mayfield.

Robin, a successful criminal defense attorney, came to visit me when I was at Columbia-Pres, even though we were then separated. She once stepped on my oxygen hose, but I’m sure that was an accident. The second time I’m not so sure. FYI, Robin has reclaimed her maiden name, which is Paine, and which is so her. Robin has never remarried, but every time I run into her in New York, she has a new guy, making me think she’s had more fresh mounts than a Pony Express rider.

As for FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield, my estranged wife, I haven’t seen her since last October, when she transferred from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force office at 26 Federal Plaza in New York to FBI Headquarters in DC. But we keep in touch by text and e-mail, and even phone now and then. Neither of us has actually filed for divorce, meaning, I guess, that a reconciliation is possible, though not probable, given that she’s probably fucking Tom Walsh, our former FBI boss at ATTF, who has also conveniently transferred to DC.

I should have had Walsh brought up on misconduct charges, but that would have hurt Kate’s career, so I didn’t. I will, however, settle with Mr. Walsh at the first opportunity. Or should I thank him?

Also regarding my love life, there is Tess Faraday, who was my partner when I was working what turned out to be my last assignment with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group: the case of the killer Russians. Tess, who was undercover for State Department Intel, got under the covers for John Corey, but unfortunately, our relationship has transitioned from romantic to platonic. Not sure how that happened, but it happens, though she sometimes hints that benefits are still available if I were divorced or in the process thereof. Meanwhile, I haven’t had sex in so long I can’t remember who brings the handcuffs.

I worked on the Times crossword awhile—a seven-letter word starting with “u” that means ointment... “Up yours”? No, “unguent.” I finished my beer and contemplated lunch. Or did I just drink lunch?

I looked south, out at the bay, sparkling in the sunlight. Uncle Harry’s summer house is located in the hamlet of Mattituck, Town of Southold, which is on the North Fork of Long Island, about a hundred road miles east of Manhattan. Across the bay is the South Fork, the trendy Hamptons, populated every summer by A-listers, many of whom are actually A-holes. Here on the North Fork, the full-time residents are fairly normal people—farmers, fishermen, butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. Also, in recent years, vineyards have sprung up on what were once potato farms. The wineries attract tourists who like to talk about wine. I mean, do I talk about beer? It’s beer. Drink it and shut up.

Anyway, property values have skyrocketed here, so Uncle Harry’s house and land are worth about a million bucks. Harry had actually sold this place after my convalescent stay here, but the deal fell through, and he took that as a sign that he should keep the house. Good move. It’s now worth double what it was then. He keeps offering to sell it to me, like I have a million bucks. He wants to “keep it in the family.” Wrong family, Harry.

Harry lives in the city, Upper East Side, not far from my condo. If you ask him what he does for a living, he says, “I’m in organized crime,” then adds, “Wall Street.” Gets a laugh every time.

When I was a kid, Uncle Harry, who is my mother’s brother, and Harry’s late wife, June, would invite his poor city relatives out here for two weeks every summer—me, my parents, and my brother and sister. This was a nice break from our tenement on the Lower East Side. I have a lot of good memories here, and lots of great photos of those summers with my cousins, Harry Jr. and Barbara. As for me buying this place, I recall what the local Southold police chief, Sylvester Maxwell, once advised: “If it flies, floats, or fucks, rent it.”

Max, as he’s called by his friends, gave me this good advice right here on this back porch when I was convalescing from my gunshot wounds. He’d stopped by to see if the legendary John Corey was interested in helping him on a double homicide that had just landed in his lap. I wasn’t. But the victims were Tom and Judy Gordon, an attractive married couple who I knew and liked. The Gordons were PhDs, biologists who worked at nearby Plum Island, a.k.a. Anthrax Island, where the Department of Agriculture does research on animal diseases. It’s also a place where people say that biological warfare research is on the secret agenda. So that got my attention.

Anyway, I had agreed to go with Chief Maxwell to the Gordons’ house, which was the scene of the crime. And before I knew it, I was up to my Glock in some strange and dangerous stuff. No good deed goes unpunished. But, on the plus side, the Plum Island case gave me the opportunity to meet two nice women—Emma Whitestone, a local girl, and Detective Beth Penrose of the Suffolk County Homicide Squad. But that’s another story. A complicated story.

Flash-forward seven years and Uncle Harry had just informed me that he’d rented this house to another Wall Street guy and his wife for July and August—for sixty large. I would have liked to stay for the summer, but I couldn’t match that offer, so it was time to move on. Maybe back to my condo on East 72nd. Summer in the city.

Now I had to make an important decision. Should I get up and grab another beer? Or sit here until I have to pee?

The decision was made for me when I heard a noise through the open kitchen window behind me. I grabbed my Glock as I stood and faced the door, my butt on the porch rail in case I had to do a backflip into the rosebushes and come up firing. My adrenaline pump kicked in and I was ready for action.

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