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The Hundred Percent Squad - EW Count
1990 American hardcover stated 1st edition, Warner, New York
A near fine book in near fine unclipped dust jacket
No names, inscriptions or stamps etc
Tightly bound and square, clean contents and cloth
The jacket has no loss or tears
A hard-hitting police novel, great stuff and a good author who deserves greater recognition outside the USA
A clean tidy example
For Sale at £7.50 (approx $13) *B4 - Delivery Information ~ Free & Subsidised ~ Please Check

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Synopsis
Detective Lieutenant Flynn's newest squad member, Ron Pastore, rushed through the squad room so fast that he left a jet trail in the air. His sharply creased, perfectly aged blue jeans probably bleached out another shade. He found his boss in the coffee room, filling his oversize mug from the glass pot. Pastore had made a name for himself in the precinct's anticrime unit, where his only problem had been converting his fresh-scrubbed look into that of a shady street person. He still had a little trouble believing his promotion, just a few months old, to Flynn's celebrated command. No squad except Flynn's had ever racked up a hundred percent homicide clearance, let alone racked il up two years going on three. And Flynn had only been commander of the Twenty-ninth Precinct detectives since '82. "Double stabbing." Pastore's voice came out louder than he intended in the cubbyholelike space. "One twenty West One oh five Street." Flynn squinted at him with a half-smile, like he knew a secret. "Who's catching?" "Holy shit—I am." Pastore now had a homicide of his own to investigate for the first time, He'd have settled for just a plain single, especially with the squad going for their third hundred percent. All the same, he hoped to hell Flynn wouldn't reassign the case to a more experienced man. "There's always someone dealing outta that building," Pastore volunteered, "terrorizing the regular tenants. Narcotics can't keep up with it. Uniform does vertical patrol in there all the time." "Back when I was in plainclothes, that was a decent place to live," Flynn said. Wisps of steam rose from his mug of coffee, abandoned on a desk as he and Pastore shrugged on their trench coats and slammed out the squad room's swinging door. By now Pastore knew that, unlike your standard-issue NYPD lieutenant, Flynn didn't make his men play chauffeur. "Boss," the young detective said as he got into the blue Chrysler on the

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