{"product_id":"alex-delawareisbn-9780593103456","title":"Alex Delaware","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • The most enduring detectives in American crime fiction are back in this electrifying thriller of art and brutality from the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling master of suspense.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLos Angeles is a city of stark contrast, the palaces of the affluent coexisting uneasily with the hellholes of the mad and the needy. That shadow world and the violence it breeds draw brilliant psychologist Dr. Alex Delaware and Detective Milo Sturgis into an unsettling case of altruism gone wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On a superficially lovely morning, a woman shows up for work with her usual enthusiasm. She’s the newly hired personal assistant to a handsome, wealthy photographer and is ready to greet her boss with coffee and good cheer. Instead, she finds him slumped in bed, shot to death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The victim had recently received rave media attention for his latest project: images of homeless people in their personal “dream” situations, elaborately costumed and enacting unfulfilled fantasies. There are some, however, who view the whole thing as nothing more than crass exploitation, citing token payments and the victim’s avoidance of any long-term relationships with his subjects.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Has disgruntlement blossomed into homicidal rage? Or do the roots of violence reach down to the victim’s family—a clan, sired by an elusive billionaire, that is bizarre in its own right?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then new murders arise, and Alex and Milo begin peeling back layer after layer of intrigue and complexity, culminating in one of the deadliest threats they’ve ever faced.“This is Kellerman at his very best. Just the dialogue between Sturgis and Delaware is worth it. But also, the depiction of Los Angeles is always the star.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMystery \u0026amp; Suspense \u003c\/i\u003emagazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Still one of the most talented authors working today, Kellerman dials up yet another page-turning adventure starring Alex Delaware. Riveting and full of twists and turns that’ll keep you glued to the pages, I found this to be one of Kellerman’s best books to date . . . and that’s really saying something when you look at his extraordinary body of work.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Real Book Spy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Readers] are in the confident hands of a real artist.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kellerman, a trained psychologist, brings authenticity to his thoughtful protagonist, as well as a genuine touch of humanity. . . . This long-running series is still going strong.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eCHAPTER 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I go to crime scenes, I’m ready to focus on terrible things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI end up at crime scenes because my best friend, a homicide lieutenant, thinks I have something to offer on the cases he calls “different.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe rarely gives me details, wanting me to form my own impressions. As I pulled up to the yellow tape on a Monday morning just after ten, I knew nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo evidence markers outside. Whatever had happened was limited to the interior of a navy-blue, two-story stucco building.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI gave my name to a uniform guarding the tape and was allowed to park in a red zone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe blue building sat on the north side of Venice Boulevard, perched on a grubby corner, the entrance on a side street. At the back was a parking area, also taped, with the rear end of a black Prius just visible. Beyond the alley was a residential block; seventy-year-old apartments and a few straggling bungalows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA little pocket of L.A. that had managed to elude Culver City when borders were drawn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe automotive mix out front was the usual. Black-and-whites plus vehicles dispatched from the crypt on North Mission Road. Two vans for transporting techs and their gear, meaning lots of scraping and sampling; one for transporting bodies; a Chevy Volt sedan used by coroners’ assistants as they traveled around the county ministering to dead people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo signage on the blue building. Rust-crusted security bars grilled two narrow windows on each floor. So narrow they evoked castle bow-slits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slipped under the tape and headed for the front door, a gray metal slab left slightly ajar. No one had told me to glove up but I covered my hand with a corner of my blazer and prepared to nudge. Before I made contact, the door swung open and Milo Sturgis came out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wore a pessimistic black suit, a beige shirt stretched tight over his gut, and a skinny brown tie whose origins could be traced to a chemistry lab. Paper booties covered his desert boots. He had gloved up and latex glistened as it strained over hands the size of strip steaks. His black hair alternated between gelled obedience and random flight. His face was chalky in the sunlight, UV rays advertising pits and lumps that harked back to teenage acne.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing to interpret; his default pallor. Startling green eyes remained calm but his mouth was set in a sour frown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnnoyed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Ready to put on your therapist hat?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“For who?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“C’mon, I’ll show you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door opened to a blank white wall. To the right was an alarm keypad. Less wall than knock-up partition; pebbled, whitewashed fiberboard, no ability to mute sound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLots of sound from behind the wall. Moans and gasps and sobs then a moment of breath-catching quiet during which a woman said, “Try to relax,” with no great sincerity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore sobbing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Someone’s having a bad day.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMilo said, “Not compared with the decedent. Hopefully you can calm things down so I can \u003ci\u003econcentrate\u003c\/i\u003e on the decedent.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCHAPTER 2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy the time I reached the crying woman, I knew the decedent’s name and hers after Milo showed me her California driver’s license.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelissa Lee-Ann Gornick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But,” said Milo, “she goes by \u003ci\u003eMelissande\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe license pegged her as twenty years old, five-four, ninety-eight pounds, BRN eyes and hair. Why DMV bothers to record hair color has always mystified me and Melissande Gornick proved my point with a hot-pink, teased-up do. Since being photographed three years ago, she’d also added steel piercings to her left eyebrow, her left cheek, her right nostril, and the soft spot between lower lip and chin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor all that, both ears remained untouched by metal. Maybe that was now a\u003ci\u003e thing\u003c\/i\u003e. My patients are generally well below the piercing age so I sometimes miss out on current events.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelissande Gornick rocked back and forth in a chair and gripped the sides of her face with black-nailed hands. Her spare frame barely impacted the seating, an oversized love seat of brick-colored tweed. One of half a dozen pieces of furniture strewn randomly in cold, white space. Two techs worked in corners, scraping, bottling, bagging, labeling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs we approached, she let out three gulping sobs then switched to high-pitched keening whistles. Then back to crying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike a teapot undecided if brewing was complete.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMilo’s look said, \u003ci\u003eSee what I mean.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe female officer stationed behind Gornick said, “Try to relax,” with even less enthusiasm than a moment ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen you’re all strung up, there’s nothing less helpful than being told to calm down. But cops aren’t therapists and confronting anxiety kicks in their own fears of madness and impulse. So they keep saying it and getting nowhere and the beat goes on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelissande Gornick wailed louder. The uniform rolled her eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMilo said, “We’re okay, Officer Bourget.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBourget’s look said he was Santa and she’d been a good girl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yessir.” She trotted away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelissande Gornick seemed unaware of her surroundings. Rosy, welt-like marks striped her cheeks where her nails had taken hold. I wondered if she was prone to self-injury. A long-sleeved black jersey and gray skinny jeans blocked diagnosis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMilo bent close to her. “So sorry you had to go through this.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUsing the ideal tone, soft and nonthreatening, but nothing indicated she’d heard. He shook his head, stepped away, and waved me forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d been checking out the white space. The entire ground floor of the building was a single open area with an iron spiral staircase tucked in the rear right corner. Walls were blank, cement floors painted glossy black. The mismatched furniture—chairs, table, an old desk—ranged from gently used to stuff that looked as if it had been rescued from the curb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe only clue to the building’s function was a section, rear and central, lit by overhead tracks and containing a single, straight-backed chair, three high wooden Victorian armoires, a trio of silver light baffles, and two cameras on tripods, one of which looked antique.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRobin has a camera like that, a Hasselblad she inherited from her father and has never used. Neither of us photographs much. Robin because she prefers to draw and paint, I because there are enough images in my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBlack drapes hung from a ring of metal pipe running high near the ceiling of the posing area. A curtain capable of blocking the front was furled, leaving the space open to view.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI approached Melissande Gornick. Her soundtrack changed and she began hyperventilating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn movies, heroes use paper bags to treat hyperventilation, but it’s an iffy technique at best and can sometimes be dangerous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGearing up my hypnosis voice—soft, rhythmic, and, most important, monotonous—I said, “You’re doing fine . . . ​if you feel like it, slow your breathing . . . ​not a lot, just a bit.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe continued to gulp. Caught her breath. Arched her back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo success but I said, “Excellent . . . ​keep doing that . . . ​just breathe . . . ​you’re in charge . . . ​that’s it . . . ​great . . . ​perfect . . . ​breathe nice and easy . . . ​great . . . ​think you can slow down a tiny bit more?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe tensed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Or not. Up to you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe loosened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Excellent. Now see if you can breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI timed her respiration with my watch. Good old analog Omega with a second hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother couple dozen respirations before her rate had slowed to just above normal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Fantastic, so whatever you need to do.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe exhaled. Sat still. Stared straight ahead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Good job, Melissande.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I felt like I was . . . ​gonna . . .” Her chest rose and fell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure,” I said. “You’ve been through something tough.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBRN eyes widened. “What . . . ​now?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone else might’ve said, \u003ci\u003eTry to stay relaxed.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Do whatever you need to.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat confused her, which was the point. The power of constructive distraction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stared at me. Her hands dropped from her face, wrists and forearms vibrating. If she’d had a fleshier face, it would’ve jiggled. This face was narrow, delicately boned, the sweaty skin stretched drum-tight, and it remained still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMilo fidgeted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelissande Gornick said, “I don’t . . . ​f**k, I don’t . . . ​know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Know . . . ?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What to do.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You don’t have to do anything, Melissande.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnsatisfactory answer. She grimaced and tightened up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Do whatever it takes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll never get through this!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s a terrible thing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s—f**ked up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Totally.”","brand":"Random House Audio","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304963559653,"sku":"NP9780593103456","price":45.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593103456.jpg?v=1730758969","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/alex-delawareisbn-9780593103456","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}