After Johnny Careless, the “fast-moving classic crime novel” (John Sandford), comes the lively next installment in the Jeep Mullane series from veteran screenwriter and Blue Bloods showrunner Kevin Wade.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from One Good Eye by Kevin Wade, which releases on August 11th 2026.
As a hurricane makes landfall on Long Island’s Gold Coast, Police Chief Jeep Mullane responds to a plea for help at the estate of his longtime friend Jenny Racine, who has been violently assaulted in a home invasion. Jenny was the girl next door growing up, is now a rich and famous entrepreneur, and has always been a compelling, infuriating, and magnetic presence in his life.
Though Jenny is adamant she wants no investigation of the incident, Jeep sets off on a lonely and dangerous path to find out who attacked her. As he makes alarming discoveries, he must pry open the secrets of Jenny’s ex-military ex-husband, a fugitive police captain, officious federal agents, steely blue-blooded women, and two local biker gangs, casting aside his protocol as a police chief to challenge the criminals himself.
All this unfolds across five action-packed days and twenty-five years of shared past as Jeep must grapple with his complicated history with Jenny, the thorny customs and secrets of his homeland, and a long-buried truth that leads him to the painful resolution.
Chapter One
The official hurricane season was halfway over without so much as a sloppy kiss for Long Island, so the meteorologists were in full cry when Tropical Depression Kyle was upgraded to a Tropical
Storm. On the television, grim Todds and tense Allisons fidgeted by their maps with telegenic alarm, chirping about “European models” and “fluid scenarios” and “Cat One potential” and all with a steady backbeat of “we’re all gonna die!” driving the updates. No one glued to the news at home dared touch that dial, and the ones on the road and tuned to all-news radio even let the “Kars4Kids” jingle play out without stabbing the volume button to mute.
Except for Chief Jeep Mullane, who scored a personal best by silencing that earworm before the second note was plucked. He was at the wheel of his unmarked department-issued Chevy Tahoe, finishing up a “good neighbor” tour of his home turf on Long Island’s North Shore. He was checking in on elderly friends of his parents and old friends of his own, doling out bottled water and batteries and advice on how to manage the drain on home generators to the fortunate ones who had them. He was on the clock as the Centre Brookville Chief of Police but also on the job as You Know Jeep, cruising the area like a trusty utility infielder. It was a role he’d grown into over his thirty-nine years of living a largely local life. It was a blessing and a curse, but he’d mostly made his peace with it. Plus, he was taking this opportunity to walk the walk for the men and women under his command; the sign on his office door read: There is no limit to what you can do if you don’t mind who gets the credit.
Jeep’s phone came alive with text alerts chiming in. He clocked the times and realized he’d been out of service for the last twenty-two minutes.
He immediately radioed in to headquarters; their comms were up and had not been interrupted. He exhaled some.
He did a retail check of his messages; there were some bulletin updates from the Nassau County PD, the usual self-serving hype from the County Executive, and nothing from his on-and- off girlfriend, Niven.
And five words from Jenny Racine’s driver, Nicole: need you at the house.
Jenny Racine was the only famous person Jeep knew. He’d known her since she was just the girl who’d moved in down the block the summer before sophomore year of high school, so keeping it real came naturally to him. A good half dozen of the usual teenage firsts, they’d made together. And after the accident, it was Jeep who had nicked her as “Pirate Jenny.” Jeep had always been pretty good at nicknames, but only that one had needed to be translated into other languages.
He called Nicole’s cell. He got her voicemail before the first ring sounded and hung up. He texted her back: on my way.
As the swinging stoplight changed to green, Jeep upped the Tahoe’s windshield wipers to max and booked down the last mile of Bayville Avenue before it turned into the main road bisecting Centre Island, where Jenny had built her trophy house, a term she loathed. It had been almost two years under construction, and he knew from pals in the trades that it was finished and furnished. But he did not know she’d moved in.
Jeep was driving east on the last stretch through his modest, working-class hometown before it segued into the emerald tunnel of old-growth trees that wound past the waterfront estates of Centre Island. He was leaving behind the taverns and markets of a usual place and crossing over to a highly unusual one; a peninsula with about four hundred residents living in about two hundred multi-million-dollar houses and where the only place you could buy food or drink or find a restroom was the members-only Triton Yacht Club, where you were not getting in.
But Tropical Storm Kyle had nothing for exclusivity. Kyle was dealing tree limbs onto beater Fords in Bayville and onto Bentleys on Centre Island without fear or favor. Kyle pushed the waters of the Sound into tired split-ranch basements with one hand and roiled the yacht club’s picturesque anchorage with the other, bumping elegant Hinckleys and vintage Chris-Crafts into the docks or each other. Kyle didn’t care how much money you had, how famous you were, or what your lineage was.
Jeep drove past the open gates to Jenny’s spread and crawled the Tahoe around some downed limbs and along the quarter mile of crushed-shell two-track that led to the house.
Her land was a waterfront ten acres she’d bought from the neighboring Peel family. Just under two acres of it was buildable; the rest was a swath of salt marshes, spartina paddies and shallow tributaries that would be a last resort for refugees or fugitives much less second-home shoppers of discerning taste and fat wallets. But the tidal scenery was magnificent and Jenny had fallen in love with the idea of her very own, very private safe harbor. It didn’t hurt that, per local legend, Captain Kidd’s wife, Sarah, had holed up in the area, back in the real pirate days. Jenny took great pride in being slyly on-brand. The house itself, considered delightful by passing boaters and obscene by its horrified Centre Island neighbors, was modeled on the forms of an eighteenth-century galleon. The master suite and study, in the back of the house and closest to the water, was the most literal and spectacular element: two bowed stories replicating the stern of a pirate ship right out of an illustrated Treasure Island or Peter Pan. Viewed from the water at night, its mullioned windows would glow amber with custom lighting that replicated the flickering warmth of oil lamps and candles.
Everything about the place, as in everything about Jenny Racine’s life by that point, was curated, positioned and presented for effect.
Everything, that is, except for the stricken look on Nicole’s face as she stepped into the drive with her hands out front pushing stop. He braked and powered down the window as she rushed over.
“You can’t tell her I texted you,” she said.
Nicole was a square-bodied woman with a diamond nose stud and hooded eyes that served her well in her chosen career as a professional shadow. She was in her late forties and had worked for Jenny for over a decade as driver, logistics coordinator, salaried friend and devil’s advocate. Jeep had nicknamed her Oddjob after the lethal bodyguard in an old James Bond movie, but that was frowned upon and rarely employed.
“Copy that. Why am I here?” Jeep said.
“You were checking on people and thought to do a drive-by on the house,” she said.
“No. Why am I here?”
“Someone was inside and beat her up on his way out the back. She doesn’t want cops,” she said.
“I’m a cop,” Jeep said.
“You’re also her oldest friend. She’s upstairs in the master,” she said.
“Is the house clear?” Jeep said.
Nicole was ex-Suffolk County PD and had a concealed carry permit.
“Clear,” she said, and tapped the roof and waved him on like she was still on the Job herself.
