{"product_id":"evidence-isbn-9780345495198","title":"Evidence","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe iconic thriller series that inspired the upcoming streaming show on Prime Video\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003ein development now!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a half-built mansion in Los Angeles, a watchman stumbles onto the bodies of a young couple—murdered and left in a gruesome postmortem embrace. Veteran homicide cop Milo Sturgis is shocked at the sight: a twisted crime that only Milo and psychologist Alex Delaware can hope to solve. While the female victim’s identity remains in question, her companion is ID’d as eco-friendly architect Desmond Backer, notorious for his power to seduce women. The deeper Milo and Alex dig for clues, the longer the list of suspects grows. 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.“Jonathan Kellerman’s novels are an obsession; once started it is hard to quit.”—\u003ci\u003eOrlando Sentinel \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Kellerman really knows how to keep those pages turning.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Kellerman doesn’t just write psychological thrillers—he owns the genre.”—\u003ci\u003eDetroit Free Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJonathan Kellerman\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of more than three dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, \u003ci\u003eThe Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eTwisted, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e True Detectives\u003c\/i\u003e. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored \u003ci\u003eDouble Homicide \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Capital Crimes\u003c\/i\u003e. With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored the first book of a new series, \u003ci\u003eThe Golem of Hollywood\u003c\/i\u003e. He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including \u003ci\u003eSavage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars\u003c\/i\u003e. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California, New Mexico, and New York.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tell the truth. They lie.\u003cbr\u003eI'm strong. They're weak.\u003cbr\u003eI'm good.\u003cbr\u003eThey're bad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was a zero job but Doyle was getting paid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThinking about being a real cop if his knee hadn't screwed up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe company said go there, he went.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDisability all run out, he swallowed part-time, no benefits. Paying to launder his own uniform.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne time he heard a couple of the other guys talking behind his back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGimp's lucky to get anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike it was his fault. His blood level had been .05, which wasn't even close to illegal. That tree had jumped out of nowhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGimp made Doyle go all hot in the face and the chest but he kept his mouth shut like he always did. One day . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe parked the Taurus on the patch of dirt just outside the chainlink, tucked his shirt tighter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeven a.m., quiet except for the stupid crows squawking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRich-idiot neighborhood but the sky was a crappy milky gray just like in Burbank where Doyle's apartment was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing 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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBouncing along in the middle of the road, some Rolls-Royce comes speeding down and kaboom. Wouldn't that be something?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoyle collected his camouflage-patterned lunch box from the trunk, made his way toward the three-story plywood shell. The third being that idiot castle thing-the turret. Unfinished skeleton of a house that would've been as big as a . . . as a . . . Disneyland castle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFantasyland. Doyle had done some pacing, figured twenty thousand square feet, minimum. Two-acre lot, maybe two and a half.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFramed up and skinned with plywood, for some reason, he could never find out why, everything stopped and now the heap was all gray, warping, striped with rusty nail-drips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCrappy gray sky leaking in through rotting rafters. On hot days, Doyle tucked himself into a corner for shade.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOut behind in the bulldozed brown dirt was an old Andy Gump accidentally left behind, chemicals still in the john. The door didn't close good and sometimes Doyle found coyote scat inside, sometimes mouse droppings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he felt like it, he just whizzed into the dirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone paying all that money to build Fantasyland, then just stopping. Go figure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd brought a good lunch today, roast beef sandwich from Arby's, too bad there was nothing to heat the gravy with. Opening the box, he sniffed. Not bad. He moved toward the chain-link swing gate . . . what the-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStupid thing was pulled as wide as the chain allowed, which was about two, two and a half feet. Easy for anyone but a fat idiot to squeeze through.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe chain had always been too long to really draw the gate tight, making the lock useless, but Doyle was careful to twist it up, make it look secure when he left each day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome idiot had monkeyed with it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd told the company about the chain, got ignored. What was the point of hiring a professional when you didn't listen to his advice?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSidling through the gap, he rearranged the chain nice and tight. Leaving his lunch box atop raw-concrete steps, he began his routine. Standing in the middle of the first floor, saying, \"Hel-lo,\" and listening to his voice echo. He'd done that first day on the job, liked the echo, kinda like honking in a tunnel. Now it was a habit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDidn't take long to see everything was okay on the first floor. Space was huge, big as a . . . as a . . . some rooms framed up but mostly pretty open so you had clear views everywhere. Like peeking through the skeleton bones of some dinosaur. In the middle of what would've been the entry hall was a humongous, swooping, double staircase. Just plywood, no railings, Doyle had to be careful, all he needed was a fall, screw up some other body part.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere we go, pain with every step. Stairs creaked like a mother but felt structurally okay. You could just could imagine what it would be like with marble on it. Like a . . . big castle staircase.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNineteen steps, each one killed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe second floor was just as empty as the first, big surprise. Stopping to rub his knee and take in the western treetop view, he continued toward the rear, stopped again, kneaded some more but it didn't do much good. Continuing to the back, he reached the smaller staircase, thirteen steps but real curvy, a killer, tucked behind a narrow wall, you had to know where to find it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhoever had paid for all this was some rich idiot who didn't appreciate what he had. If Doyle had a hundredth-a two-hundredth of something like this, he'd thank God every day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd asked the company who the owner was. They said, \"Don't pry.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClimbing the curvy staircase, every step crunching his knee,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe pain riding up to his hip, he began counting out the thirteen stairs like he always did, trying to take his mind off the burning in his leg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he called out \"Nine,\" he saw it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh Jesus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHeart thumping, mouth suddenly dry as tissue paper, he backed down two steps, reached along the right side of his gear belt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTouching air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow he was the idiot, there'd been no gun for a long time, not since he stopped guarding jewelry stores downtown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCompany gave him a flashlight, period, and it was in the trunk of the Taurus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe forced himself to look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one else, one good thing about the turret, it was round, mostly open to the sky, nowhere to hide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoyle kept looking, felt his guts heave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe way they were lying, him on top of her, her legs up, one hooked around his back, it was pretty clear what they'd been doing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoyle felt short of breath, like someone was choking him. Struggling to regain his air, he finally succeeded. Reached for his phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRight in his pocket. At least something was going okay.#1 New York Times bestselling author; Author of Deception","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304718717157,"sku":"NP9780345495198","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345495198.jpg?v=1767726499","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/evidence-isbn-9780345495198","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}