The Summer of Dead Toys

Category: 
Fiction - Mystery & Detective
BISAC Cat: 
Fiction - Mystery & Detective - General
Order Form Cat: 
MYSTERY
Page Count:
368
Trim Size:
6-1/8 x 9-1/4
Spine/Depth:
37/32
Carton Count:
12
Format Description: 
HARDCOVER
Load Group: 
0204
Prod Type: 
Crown HC Fiction

Publicist: 
Sarah C. Breivogel
Marketing Contact: 
Rachel Meier
National review and feature attention National advertising campaign
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Inspector Hector Salgado is a transplanted Argentine living in Barcelona. He's got a fiery temper, a runaway wife, and would rather be watching his beloved films than interacting with people. He's also a brilliant cop.

When a young boy falls to his death from a balcony in one of Barcelona's ritzier neighborhoods, Salgado is brought on to investigate, despite having been on probation for an unfortunate moment of violence. As he begins to piece together the life and world of the victim, Salgado is thrust into the seedy underbelly of Spain's most popular city where he's brought face-to-face with human trafficking, voodoo, and shady characters that send shivers down even the most weathered cops. But Hector lives for this kind of case--dark, violent, and seemingly unsolvable. Whether or not this fierce, complex detective can withstand all of that as well as the hot Barcelona sun is the ultimate test.

INTERNATIONAL SENSATION:
This novel--Antonio Hill's first--was a huge bestseller in Spain and has sold in 10 European countries so far. It will be published in the UK by Transworld in May 2012.

EVERYONE LOVES A CRANKY DETECTIVE:
Inspector Hector Salgado is mean, violent . . . and brilliant. He joins the ranks of such favorites as Henning Mankell's Kurt Wallander, Jo Nesbo's Harry Hole, Neil Cross's Luther, and Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie.

SULTRY LOCALE:
Hill's depiction of Barcelona is enough to sell this one alone: sexy, colorful, and full of life. He'll do for Barcelona what John Burdett has done for Bangkok and Donna Leon for Venice.

Author Residence:
Barcelona, Spain
ANTONIO HILL
lives in Barcelona. He is a professional translator of English-language fiction into Spanish and speaks fluent English.

It’s been a long time since I thought of Iris or the summer she died. I suppose I tried to forget it all, in the same way I overcame nightmares and childhood fears. And now, when I want to remember her, all that comes to mind is the last day, as if these images have erased all the previous ones. I close my eyes and bring myself to that big old house, this dormitory of deserted beds awaiting the arrival of the next group of children. I’m six years old, I’m at camp and I can’t sleep because I’m scared. No, I lie. That very early morning I behaved like a brave boy: I disobeyed my uncle’s rules and faced the darkness just to see Iris. But I found her drowned, floating in the pool, surrounded by a cortège of dead dolls.

He turned off the alarm clock at the first buzz. Eight a.m. Although he’d been awake for hours a sudden heaviness overcame his limbs and he had to force himself to get out of bed and go to the shower. The stream of water cleared his sluggishness and along with it some of the effects of jet lag. He had arrived only hours before, after an interminable Buenos Aires–Barcelona flight which was prolonged further in the Lost Luggage office at the airport. The assistant, who had definitely been one of those sadistic British schoolmistresses in a previous life, consumed his last shred of patience, looking at him as if the suitcase were a being with free will and had opted to trade in this owner for one less moody-looking.

He dried himself vigorously and noticed with annoyance that sweat was already appearing on his brow: that was summer in Barcelona. Humid and sticky as a melted ice-cream. With the towel wrapped round his waist he looked at himself in the mirror. He should shave. Fuck it. He went back to the bedroom and rummaged in the half-empty wardrobe for some underwear. Luckily the clothes in the lost suitcase were winter ones, so he had no problems finding a short-sleeved shirt and trousers. Barefoot, he sat on the bed. He took a deep breath. The long journey was taking its toll and he was tempted to lie back down, close his eyes and forget about the meeting he had at ten o’clock sharp, although deep down he knew he was incapable of doing so. Héctor Salgado never missed a meeting. Even if it might be with his executioner, he said to himself and smiled ironically.

His right hand searched for his mobile phone on the nightstand. Very little battery life remained and he remembered that the charger was in the damn suitcase. The day before he’d felt too wrecked to speak to anyone. He looked up Ruth’s number in the phonebook and stayed looking at the screen for a few seconds before pressing the green button. He always called her on her mobile, surely in an attempt to ignore the fact that she had another landline. Another house. Another partner. Her voice, somewhat hoarse, just awake, whispered in his ear:

“Héctor . . .”
“Did I wake you?”
“No . . . Well, a bit.” He heard a stifled laugh in the background. “But I had to get up anyway. When did you get back?”

“Sorry. I arrived yesterday morning, but those idiots lost my bag and I was in the airport for half the day. My mobile is about to run out of battery. I just wanted you to know that I’d arrived safely.”

Suddenly he felt stupid. Like a child talking too much. “How was the flight?”
“Calm,” he lied. “Listen, is Guillermo asleep?”
Ruth laughed.
“Your accent always changes when you come back from Buenos Aires. Guillermo’s not here, didn’t I tell you? He’s spending a few days at the beach, at a friend’s house. But I’m sure he’ll be sleeping at this time,” she added immediately.