A New York detective is recovering from a bomb blast and uncovering a semiprivate doom.
Just ask Detective Shelly Lowenkopf, who passed on to the other side—at least for a moment or two. It all began with a mob boss who was taking tennis lessons. His new stepson wanted in on the rackets, while his real son was on the lam—until an explosion took him and Lowenkopf out of the picture.
The question is: How far out of the picture? While Lowenkopf began his recuperation at St. Jude South Coast Hospital, the criminals got busy. A drug business, some missing sperm, a very-much-alive Mafia son, and James Dean’s hair comb all found their way to Lowenkopf’s bedside, one way or another. And with all that, who could blame him for temporarily copping out?