{"product_id":"the-ghost-orchid-isbn-9780593861806","title":"The Ghost Orchid","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • The iconic thriller series that inspired the upcoming streaming show on Prime Video\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003ein development now!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePsychologist Alex Delaware and Detective Milo Sturgis confront a baffling, vicious double homicide that leads them to long-buried secrets worth killing for in this riveting novel from the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling “master of suspense” (\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLAPD homicide lieutenant Milo Sturgis sees it all the time: Reinvention’s a way of life in a city fueled by fantasy. But try as you might to erase the person you once were, there are those who will never forget the past . . . and who can still find you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pool boy enters a secluded Bel Air property and discovers two bodies floating in the bright blue water: Gio Aggiunta, the playboy heir to an Italian shoe empire, and a gorgeous, even wealthier neighbor named Meagin March. A married neighbor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn illicit affair stoking rage is a perfect motive. But a “double” in this neighborhood of gated estates isn’t something you see every day. The house is untouched. No forced entry, no forensic evidence. The case has “that feeling,” and when that happens, Milo turns to his friend, the brilliant psychologist Alex Delaware.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Milo and Alex investigate both victims, they discover two troubled pasts. And as they dig deeper, Meagin March’s very identity begins to blur. Who was this glamorous but conflicted woman? Did her past catch up to her? Or did Gio’s family connections create a threat spanning two continents?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChasing down the answers leads Alex and Milo on an exploration of L.A.’s darkest side as they contend with one of the most shocking cases of their careers and learn that that some secrets are best left buried in the past.“[Jonathan] Kellerman delivers clever twists alongside the lived-in banter between his leads that sets this series apart. It’s both a treat for longtime fans and a great entry point for newcomers.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Kellerman continues to surprise and shock us.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Like all the Alex Delaware novels, this one is fast-moving fun.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Jonathan Kellerman has created one of the most enduring and acclaimed series in suspense fiction. . . . [His] prose is fast-paced without being in any way hurried or abrupt, and Delaware and Sturgis play off one another exceptionally well. The characters are as comfortable as old slippers, fictional friends whose company and adventures readers have enjoyed for decades. \u003ci\u003eThe Ghost Orchid\u003c\/i\u003e is another excellent addition to a series full of excellent editions.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJonathan Kellerman\u003c\/b\u003e has lived in two worlds: clinical psychologist and #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of more than fifty crime novels. His unique perspective on human behavior has led to the creation of the Alex Delaware series,\u003ci\u003e The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted, True Detectives,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Murderer’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored \u003ci\u003eDouble Homicide\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCapital Crimes\u003c\/i\u003e. With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored \u003ci\u003eThe Burning, Half Moon Bay, A Measure of Darkness, Crime Scene, The Golem of Hollywood,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Golem of Paris\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\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWith Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars\u003c\/i\u003e. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Psychological Association, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNearly getting killed can change your life in interesting ways.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s the physical healing, but that’s tedious to think about. What fascinates me is how people behave when they know you’ve come close to death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome you haven’t heard from in a while get in touch out of obligation. Most of the time they have no idea what to say or do and you end up assuring them you’re fine and trying to make them feel better. Or maybe that was just me, reverting to the psychologist’s role.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m close to only two people on the planet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman I live with handled the whole thing beautifully, pulling off the perfect balance of caring for me and allowing me space when I needed it. Even more impressively, when Robin allowed herself to get angry at me for being in danger in the first place, she was able to talk about it reasonably.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy best friend, a homicide detective, was overcome with guilt. I’d been working with Milo when a lunatic nearly crushed me to death. No one’s fault, reasonable precautions had been taken. Just one of those things that happen. But, still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’d worked hard at keeping the guilt in check but I could tell. Our conversations began ebbing into long silences, terminating when he told me I needed to rest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEventually, his visits tapered off, though he tried to keep up with regular phone calls. But he avoided talking about work, which peppered the calls with awkward silences.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWorst of all, he stopped calling me in on cases. The “different ones” where he tends to overestimate my talent. When I brought up the subject, he claimed the two new murders he’d taken on were open and shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour months after being injured I sat with Robin on the second-story terrace that fronts our house, eating and drinking and enjoying the weather that keeps people in L.A., and said, “Still nothing from Big Guy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said, “Can you blame him?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I think he’s overdoing it. Objectively, he did nothing wrong.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who’s ever objective, Alex?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI poured myself another finger of Chivas—the pricey gold stuff I’d never buy for myself. A guilt offering from Milo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNeither of us talked for a while and I resumed rubbing the big, knobby head of our little blond French bulldog, Blanche. She’s also been perfect. Sitting next to me as I knitted, silent and patient, careful not to touch the torn muscles in my chest. She’s always been a wonderful companion, intuitive, perceptive, more keyed in to nonverbal cues than any human could hope to be. But this was more. She knew something was different and she cared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRobin said, “All those custody cases came in but you’re still bored.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I could use some variety.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Know what you mean.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat surprised me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said, “Why do you think I do what I do, baby? Every instrument’s different, it’s not like I’m making the same armchair over and over.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “So you wouldn’t mind if I diversified. Maybe got into macramé?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe grinned and placed her small, strong hand over mine. Her hair’s thick, auburn, and curly and when she’s not in her studio, she wears it loose to the midpoint of her back. Tonight, the moon was medium strength and it gilded all those curls and limned her oval face, her pointy chin. The slightly oversized milk-white incisors that had attracted me in the first place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Would I prefer if you never got involved in all the ugly stuff? Part of me would. But I’d be living with a very unhappy man.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Unhappy fool.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe laughed. “Don’t tempt me. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll call when he really needs you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe poured herself another half glass of Zinfandel. Daintily polished off a stuffed grape leaf. Greek takeout, tonight. Blanche had scored bits of rice and lamb. Everyone happy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExcept me. I’d been faking serenity for a while, had never stopped feeling incomplete.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt took another two weeks for that to finally change.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eChapter 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe call came in at nine a.m. on a glorious Sunday. The familiar voice, tight with battle readiness but tinged with uncertainty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Too early for you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, been up for a while.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How you feeling?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Great.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well . . . I’ve got one, been here since seven thirty, I figured maybe . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Also,” he said, “not far from you. If you’re feeling up for it. Back in the old days you probably coulda run over here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Give me the address.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe trip was four point eight miles from my house in Beverly Glen. A feasible run B.C.—before crushing—but even then I’d have driven because I like to get to scenes fast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wheeled the Seville down the nameless former bridle path that winds down treacherously from our half acre, drove south on Beverly Glen past the skinny chockablock houses that line the road in our neighborhood, and transitioned to the grand estates just north of Sunset Boulevard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt Sunset I hooked right and continued to the western gate of Bel Air, sped up Bellagio Road before turning onto a series of serpentine side streets. Reversing the process: eight-figure palaces followed by progressively more modest houses on limited woodsy lots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery crime scene’s unique but there’s also a sameness to them. The procedures, the activities of those who’ve chosen to work with worst-case scenarios. The emotional tone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first thing you see is what I’ve come to think of as Death’s Parking Lot: detectives’ unmarked sedans, patrol cruisers, crypt vans, hybrid compacts driven by coroner’s investigators.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBehind all that, the inevitable yellow tape. Canary-bright and sadder for that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was my first crime scene in four-plus months and simply arriving tweaked my brain and made me feel alive. No point wondering what that said about me. I was imagining, wondering, lasering the layout.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis lot was so thickly wooded that no structure was visible from the street. To the right of the vehicles, a burly young officer stood guard. The foliage hid neighboring properties, as well, creating an illusion of forest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCruelly peaceful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUsually, Milo informs the cops that I’m coming and they lift up the yellow strand. Sometimes they even smile and welcome me by name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis time I had to show my I.D. to Burly, who looked to be allergic to smiling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe examined my driver’s license as if it were written in hieroglyphics, re-read, checked me out squint-eyed, stepped away and made a call. Returning, he favored me with a lemon-sucking frown, said, “Okay,” reluctantly, and left me to lift my own damn tape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrying not to read too much into any of it, I ducked under and picked up my pace, ignoring the twinges in my ribs that followed each footfall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAiming myself toward the old days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe forest turned out to be little more than a poorly trimmed amalgam of ficus and eugenia backed by huge, shaggy silver dollar eucalyptus. Decades ago, a plague had killed off most of the eugenia hedges in Southern California but a few survivors remain. The ficus tack-on said someone had settled for a quick fix in lieu of re-landscaping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGetting past the greenery landed me in front of a small, flat lawn fronting a one-story, cedar-sided ranch house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a suburban setting, another dated sixties throwback. In Bel Air, five million bucks if you hired the right real estate agent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA second tape barrier ran across the front door. A black Maserati convertible sat in a gravel driveway to the left of the house. Newer model, the name of a Beverly Hills dealer framing the license plate. Littered with dust and leaves. Tennis racquet and balls on the passenger seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the driveway reached the house, it converted to concrete and continued, ungated, toward the rear of the property.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe only feasible entry this morning. I walked along the house. Thought about easy access to a killer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo sign of Milo or anyone else until I reached the end of the drive and turned right and there he was along with a pair of techs, a C.I., and half a dozen uniforms with nothing to do but look official.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMilo looked the same; why wouldn’t he? Tall, mastiff-jowled, top-heavy above oddly thin legs, he wore wrinkled khakis, pink-soled desert boots, a spinach-green sport coat, a white wash ’n’ wear shirt with a defeated collar, and a skinny black tie patterned with something hard to make out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSunlight waged a full-on assault on his pale, pocked face, having its way with every pit and lump. His black hair, slicked down hours ago, had rebelled and bristled. A limp flap in front diagonaled a brow the texture of cottage cheese.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was on his phone, saw me and nodded. Grimly, I thought. But maybe not. Who cared, anyway? He’d called. Time to focus and not get sidetracked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI got close enough to see the tie pattern. Goose heads. Rows of beaks pointing to the right. He clicked off and said, “Thanks for coming.”#1 New York Times bestselling author","brand":"Random House Large Print","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301158572261,"sku":"NP9780593861806","price":32.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593861806.jpg?v=1767739503","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-ghost-orchid-isbn-9780593861806","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}