Evidence: An Alex Delaware Novel($12.00Value)

Description

#1 New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Kellerman writes unforgettable tales of crime and detection that expose the shadowy side of glittering Los Angeles. And in Evidence , readers are once again in the dexterous grip of a master storyteller and stylist equally skilled at teasing your brain and taking your breath away. In the half-built skeleton of a monstrously vulgar mansion in one of L.A.’s toniest neighborhoods, a watchman stumbles on the bodies of a young couple–murdered in flagrante and left in a gruesome postmortem embrace. Though he’s cracked some of the city’s worst slayings, veteran homicide cop Milo Sturgis is still shocked at the grisly sight: a twisted crime that only Milo’s killer instincts–and psychologist Alex Delaware’s keen insights–can hope to solve. While the female victim’s identity remains a question mark, her companion is ID’d as eco-friendly architect Desmond Backer, who disdains the sort of grandiose superstructure he’s found dead in. And the late Mr. Backer, it’s revealed was also notorious for his power to seduce women. The rare exception is his ex-boss, Helga Gemein, who’s as indifferent to Desmond’s death as she apparently was to his advances. Though Milo and Alex place her on their short list of suspects, the deeper they dig for clues the longer the list grows. An elusive prince who appears to harbor decidedly American appetites, an eccentric blueblood with an ax to grind, one of Desmond’s restless ex-lovers and her cuckolded husband–all are in the homicidal mix spiced with eco-terrorism, arson, blackmail, conspiracy, and a vendetta that runs deep. But when the investigation veers suddenly in a startling direction, it’s the investigators who may wind up on the wrong end of a cornered predator’s final fury. From the Hardcover edition. “Jonathan Kellerman’s novels are an obsession; once started it is hard to quit.”— Orlando Sentinel   “Kellerman really knows how to keep those pages turning.” — New York Times Book Review   “Kellerman doesn’t just write psychological thrillers—he owns the genre.”— Detroit Free Press From the Paperback edition. Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to numerous bestselling tales of suspense (which have been translated into two dozen languages), including his acclaimed Alex Delaware novels; The Butcher’s Theater , a story of serial killing in Jerusalem; and The Conspiracy Club , which features a young psychologist, Dr. Jeremy Carrier, thrust into a chilling hunt for a twenty-first-century Jack the Ripper. Kellerman’s new Alex Delaware novel is Therapy . He is also the author of numerous essays, short stories, and scientific articles, two children’s books, and three volumes of psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have four children. Chapter One I tell the truth. They lie. I'm strong. They're weak. I'm good. They're bad. This was a zero job but Doyle was getting paid. Why anyone would shell out fifteen bucks an hour, three hours a day, five times a week, to check out the empty shell of a rich-idiot monster-house was something he'd never get. The look-see took fifteen minutes. If he walked slow. Rest of the time, Doyle sat around, ate his lunch, listened to Cheap Trick on his Walkman. Thinking about being a real cop if his knee hadn't screwed up. The company said go there, he went. Disability all run out, he swallowed part-time, no benefits. Paying to launder his own uniform. One time he heard a couple of the other guys talking behind his back. Gimp's lucky to get anything. Like it was his fault. His blood level had been .05, which wasn't even close to illegal. That tree had jumped out of nowhere. Gimp made Doyle go all hot in the face and the chest but he kept his mouth shut like he always did. One day . . . He parked the Taurus on the patch of dirt just outside the chainlink, tucked his shirt tighter. Seven a.m., quiet except for the stupid crows squawking. Rich-idiot neighborhood but the sky was a crappy milky gray just like in Burbank where Doyle's apartment was. Nothing moving on Borodi Lane. As usual. The few times Doyle saw anyone it was maids and gardeners. Rich idiots paying to live here but never living here, one monster-mansion after another, blocked by big trees and high gates. No sidewalks, either. What was that all about? Every once in a while, some tucked-tight blonde in Rodeo Drive sweats would come jogging down the middle of the road looking miserable. Never before ten, that type slept late, had breakfast in bed, massages, whatever. Laying around in satin sheets, getting waited on by maids and butlers before building up the energy to shake those skinny butts and long legs. Bouncing along in the middle of the road, some Rolls-Royce comes