According to the New York Times, prolific author Donald E. Westlake "collapsed, apparently from a heart attack, as he headed out to New Year’s Eve dinner while on vacation in San Tancho, Mexico, said his wife, Abigail Westlake."
I feel as if I've only scratched the surface of Westlake's body of work. We never met, but despite the number and breadth of his stories, I feel I got to know him in every one I read—a tribute to his talent for and dedication to narrative voice.
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