{"product_id":"the-art-of-detection-isbn-9780553588330","title":"The Art of Detection","description":"In this thrilling new crime novel that ingeniously bridges Laurie R. King’s Edgar and Creasey Awards—winning Kate Martinelli series and her bestselling series starring Mary Russell, San Francisco homicide detective Kate Martinelli crosses paths with Sherlock Holmes–in a spellbinding dual mystery that could come only from the “intelligent, witty, and complex” mind of \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Laurie R. King….\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKate Martinelli has seen her share of peculiar things as a San Francisco cop, but never anything quite like this:  an ornate Victorian sitting room straight out of a Sherlock Holmes story–complete with violin, tobacco-filled Persian slipper, and gunshots in the wallpaper that spell out the initials of the late queen. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePhilip Gilbert was a true Holmes fanatic, from his antiquated décor to his vintage wardrobe.  And no mere fan of fiction’s great detective, but a leading expert with a collection of priceless memorabilia–a collection some would kill for.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd perhaps someone did: In his collection is a century-old manuscript purportedly written by Holmes himself–a manuscript that eerily echoes details of Gilbert’s own murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, with the help of her partner, Al Hawkin, Kate must follow the convoluted trail of a killer–one who may have trained at the feet of the greatest mind of all times.\"Fans of Martinelli will find much to enjoy.... [Martinelli's] contented home life contrasts nicely with the grim details of her job.\"—\u003ci\u003eSeattle Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] cohesive, compelling, wildly original narrative.... King works the story-within-a-story concept exceptionally well. But the best thing about \u003cb\u003eThe Art of Detection \u003c\/b\u003eis Kate [Martinelli].... and the book's upbeat and hugely satisfying ending reminds us that there are simply not enough Kate Martinelli books to go around.\"—\u003ci\u003eMiami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sometimes a mystery takes one’s breath away with its impeccable, inexorable logic. King makes two such tales here, whose wheels interlock with a perfect, audible click.... A tour-de-force and a great read.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eLaurie R. King\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of thirteen Mary Russell mysteries, five contemporary novels featuring Kate Martinelli, the Stuyvesant \u0026amp; Grey novels \u003ci\u003eTouchstone\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Bones of Paris\u003c\/i\u003e, and the acclaimed \u003ci\u003eA Darker Place, Folly, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Keeping Watch\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in Northern California.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Earlier that morning, the call had come while Inspector Kate Martinelli of  the San Francisco Police Department was in the middle of a highly volatile  negotiation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'll hurt myself,\" the person on the other side of the room threatened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Now, that's no good.\" Kate's response employed the voice of patient reason  that she had clung to for the last few minutes, as she desperately wished  that the official negotiator would return and take command.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yes it is good.\" Her opponent saw with crystal clarity that  self-destruction was a powerful weapon against Kate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Now, think about it, sweetie. If you hurt yourself, it's going to hurt.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The mop of curly yellow hair went still as the green eyes narrowed in  thought, and Kate's soul contracted with the weird mixture of stifled  laughter and heart-wrenching submission that had welled up inside ten  thousand times over the past three years and ten months: The child was so  like her mother--her looks, her intelligence, her innate sensitivity--she  might have been a clone. Kate pushed the sensation away from her throat and  said, still reasonable, \"We'd all be sad if you were hurt, but you would be  the one that was hurting. Now, if you let me lift you down from there, we'll  talk about whether you're old enough and careful enough to play with those  things.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'm careful,\" the child insisted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You come down, and then we'll talk about it,\" Kate repeated. A good  negotiator only retreated so far, then stood firm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It worked. Nora's chubby little arms went out and Kate moved quickly forward  before her daughter tumbled off the high shelf. The arms clung to her  fiercely, giving lie to the small person's declaration of fearlessness;  Kate's arms clung just as hard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Then she set the child firmly down and bent to look directly into those  large, bright eyes, arranging her face so she would look very serious.  \"Nora, you must never do that again. It really would make me very, very sad  if you hurt yourself falling down.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"And Mamalee.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yes, and Mama Lee, too.\" In fact, Kate was wondering if it might even be  possible to negotiate her way into an agreement with Nora that Lee not be  told about this little episode, but voices in the hallway and the sounds of  the front door, followed by the approach of Lee's uneven footsteps, told her  that it wasn't going to happen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    And indeed, the moment Lee cleared the doorway Nora popped out from behind  Kate and informed her mother, \"I climbed up high and Mamakay said that if I  comed down we'd talk about if I could play with the dollies.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I had to pee,\" Kate explained guiltily. \"Thirty seconds, and when I came  out the little monkey was up on the sideboard.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There ensued a protracted discussion as to the nature of trust, which was  Lee's current teaching concept, and Kate had to admit, the child seemed to  follow most of what her PhD, psychotherapist mother had to say on the  matter. After she'd put her two cents' worth in, telling Lee about Nora's  willingness to harm herself if it got her the delicate Russian nesting  dolls, the discussion turned to the evils of blackmail. That, however,  seemed to exhaust the child's patience, and she interrupted to demand that  she be given the dolls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Not today,\" Lee said firmly. And over the protest, she explained, \"If you  hadn't climbed up high after them, if you'd just asked us about it, we might  have said yes. But because you didn't, you're going to have to wait until  tomorrow.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was scary, Kate reflected not for the first time, how reasonable the  child was: She pouted for a count of five, then allowed Lee to take her hand  and lead her to the kitchen for a discussion of the weekend itinerary. Kate  watched the two blond heads, the two slim bodies, the two sets of unreliable  legs--one pair made so by youth, the other by a bullet--as her partner and  their daughter settled in to discuss the relative lunchtime merits of turkey  versus peanut butter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Only then did she remember the phone call that she'd been on her way to  answer when she'd glanced up to see the little body clambering high above  the hardwood floor. She went over and punched the playback on the machine,  and heard the dispatcher ask for her to call back, then add that she was  going to call Al Hawkin as well. Kate didn't bother calling Ops, just hit  Al's number on the speed dial. From the sound of the background noise when  he picked up, he was in the car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Hawkin.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Hey, Al,\" she said. \"What did the Ops center want?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"There's a body in the park--but it's the other side of the bridge.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"In Marin? So why call us?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Jurisdiction over there's an absolute bitch, but the vic lives over here  and it looks like the park's just the dump site. So until we find the murder  site, the Park Police investigator, and his supervisor, thought we should be  brought in early, in case it ends up in our hands. They've already called  our Crime Scene out for the site.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Marin's going to have a fit.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Our side's going to have the fit. I'd say, if you're doing anything, don't  break up your Saturday.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"No, I should come if you're going, and I think Lee's finished with her  clients for the day. Let me just check with her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Why don't you call me if you don't want me to come by? I'm about twenty  minutes out.\" Which meant he'd not been home when he got the call--he lived  about an hour south of the city, but knowing Al, he had his full kit with  him wherever he'd been, briefcase, forms, gun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Will do. Do you want anything to eat?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Jani and I had a big breakfast, so no thanks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Twenty minutes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Oh, and Kate? The guy said to wear sturdy shoes and a warm coat.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Thanks for the warning.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Lee scowled at the news that Kate would be leaving, but she'd known that  Kate was on call, and she'd been with Kate long enough to know that  sometimes life came first, and sometimes death did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Can you call if you're not going to be home for dinner? I told Nora we'd  make pizza.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Nora was neatly distracted from the disappointment of Kate's departure by  the reminder. \"Yay, pizza!\" she cried with a jubilant dance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"It should be fine, it may not even be our case, depending on how the lines  are drawn on jurisdiction, but the d.b. lived here, so they offered us a  look-in.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Oh, what a treat,\" Lee said dryly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What's a deebee?\" Nora piped up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kate gave her partner an apologetic glance and opened her mouth to try for  an explanation about dead bodies that would satisfy the child without  planting macabre images in her impressionable mind, but Lee had already  begun with, \"Well, you see, sweetheart . . .\" Kate slipped away, letting Lee  deal with that particular matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Seventeen minutes later, Kate was out in front of the house, waiting for Al  Hawkin's car to round the corner. A neighbor came along the sidewalk at a  snail's pace, a dog leash in one hand and a toddler's hand in the other. She  greeted Kate, reminding Kate of the planning meeting the following week at  the preschool, inquiring about the acupuncturist Lee had mentioned a while  ago, and tossing out ideas for the upcoming street fair. The entire  conversation was held with the woman moving slowly past, never quite coming  to a halt while dog and toddler explored the street; the trio continued at  the same pace until the corner, when they turned toward the park.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kate smiled, and raised a hand to wave to another neighbor. She and Lee had  lived in the Noe Valley neighborhood for nearly eight years, and never had a  place felt more like home. Kate rarely thought anymore about the magnificent  house on tony Russian Hill where they had once lived, cop and therapist  rubbing shoulders with the city's cream of socialites and politicos. That  place had been Lee's, an inheritance from her overbearing and disapproving  mother, and had looked out on two incomparable bridges, San Francisco Bay,  Alcatraz Island, and Mount Tamalpais in the background. When Lee finally  decided to put the house on the market, it had sold before the print was dry  on the advertisement, for more money than Kate could envision.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They had traded the gorgeous, intricately constructed Arts and Crafts-style  house with the million-dollar view for a tumbledown Victorian whose chief  virtue in their eyes was also, as far as the listing agent was concerned,  its chief drawback: The elderly couple who had lived in the house all the  five decades of their married life, unwilling to abandon the upper levels  but increasingly unable to negotiate the stairs, had hacked up the back  rooms and put in a tiny elevator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kate turned to gaze affectionately at the house. Most buyers would have been  daunted by the enormous expense of ripping out the mechanism and restoring  the rooms to their previous condition, but for Kate, the one-person elevator  had been her personal deciding factor in its favor: Lee would never have  agreed to its installation, but if it was here anyway, well, why not make  use of it? The personal lift, just large enough for the wheelchair during  Lee's bad times, was an unvoiced recognition that the effects of the bullet  through Lee's spine, twelve years before, would never completely leave them;  it had made their lives infinitely simpler.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The enormous price brought by the Russian Hill house had enabled them to  make other renovations, from new carpeting and fresh paint to a complete  rebuilding of the kitchen. Lee had also set up her therapy rooms in the  front and was seeing clients again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Most of all, however, what they had gained with the move was a thing that  neither had known they needed: a community. They had traded socialites for  Socialists, politicos for legal-aid lawyers, middle-aged white faces for a  rainbow coalition of young families. Of the seven people Kate saw as she  passed down the front walk that morning, she knew five of them by name, and  had eaten dinner with three of those. Two doors down lived Nora's best  friend, an eight-year-old girl from China, the oldest of three multiracial  children adopted by a bank manager and his aromatherapist wife. Lee's  long-time caregiver lived with his new family three blocks away. The woman  in the big corner house had recently opened up a Montessori-style child-care  facility, which meant that Nora could spend two afternoons a week with her  friends. Typically, last summer the neighborhood association had voted to  close the street one Sunday so everyone could hold a block party.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Small-town life in the big city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Al's car appeared around the corner. Kate waved one last time, to the woman  she sometimes went jogging with (who this morning was out running with her  black Lab instead), tossed her coat and briefcase into the backseat, and  hopped in beside him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"How's the kid?\" he asked before her buckle had latched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Perfect, as always. And yours?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"They're all fine. Jules has a major crush, I quote, on her lab partner,  Maya is thinking about a summer camp run entirely in Latin, and Daniel has  discovered guns.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Oh, Jani must be pleased about that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"The genetic inclination of boys, I suppose, to make weapons out of  anything. Sticks, Legos, organic vegetarian hot dogs.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I know, I see it all the time at Nora's preschool.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Still, he's also into sports--he's wants to try out for Little League next  year. That's where I was, throwing balls for the second-graders.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Al was enjoying his second trip through parenting, at the same time his  grandchildren were coming along. He sounded more than happy about the whole  thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"So, speaking of boys and their guns, what's with this one up at Point  Bonita?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Philip Gilbert, white male, fifty-three. And no guns there, not at first  sight.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"But Mr. Gilbert didn't just walk up there and die?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"There's a scalp wound, but the coroner says it doesn't look massive enough  to kill him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Coroner? Not ME?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Marin caught it and declared death, the Park people didn't think they  needed to call in our ME as well. Seemed to think Marin wouldn't mind  transporting the body to us.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kate looked at the side of his face, but neither needed to say it: The San  Francisco ME wasn't going to be pleased with the arrangement. \"So,\" she  said, \"the vic was shooting up out in the woods? Or maybe a little sex play  that got rougher than he'd intended?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"If so, he drove in wearing his pajamas, and barefoot. In January,\" Al added  unnecessarily. \"The rangers say he wasn't a park resident and he wasn't at  either of the last two conferences held there. Once they have a picture  they'll take it around and ask if anyone knew him, but in the meantime, like  I told you, they're pretty sure he was dumped. No sign of the car DMV has  registered to him, so I sent a uniform to drive past his home address, see  if it's there.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"But who's got the case? And why isn't it just Marin's?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Interesting question. From the little I could get out of the Park  investigator I talked to, they need to look at a satellite GPS to decide  just what slice of the park the body's in--if it's a federal area, that's  one thing; if it's found in a place that used to be owned by the state  before the park was glued together, that's another. I'd say most likely it's  up to the loudest voice. Which sounds like the Park Police supervisor. Who  wants to give it to us.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kate had been peripherally involved with the issue before, when it came to  prosecuting in a park murder in the late nineties. The Golden Gate National  Recreation Area--Ocean Beach, the Presidio, various forts, Crissy Field, and  the lump of headland across the Golden Gate Bridge--was an anomaly on the  face of the National Parks Service, the only national park located within  the boundaries of a city. Some crimes were handled by the Park's own  Criminal Investigations Branch, located in the Presidio. Others,  particularly the major crimes, were given over to other law enforcement  entities.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Who got jurisdiction often depended on historical definitions: A major crime  taking place in areas that had been under local control before the GGNRA  would be handed to the local force; if that same crime took place in a part  that had been an Army base, it might well go directly to the FBI. It was a  constant headache, and although cooperative statements such as the recent  Interagency Agreement went far to smooth things out, in practice the work  just went ahead and got done by whoever got there first. Or, as Al said, who  had the loudest voice.","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302546755813,"sku":"NP9780553588330","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553588330.jpg?v=1767738150","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-art-of-detection-isbn-9780553588330","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}