{"product_id":"half-moon-bay-isbn-9780525620105","title":"Half Moon Bay","description":"\u003cb\u003eDeputy Coroner Clay Edison discovers that buried secrets can be deadly in this riveting thriller from a father-son team of bestselling authors who write “brilliant, page-turning fiction” (Stephen King).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAn ID Book Club Selection\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Clay Edison has his hands full. He’s got a new baby who won't sleep. He’s working the graveyard shift. And he’s trying, for once, to mind his own business. Then comes the first call. Workers demolishing a local park have made a haunting discovery: the decades-old skeleton of a child. But whose? And how did it get there? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No sooner has Clay begun to investigate than he receives a second call—this one from a local businessman, wondering if the body could belong to his sister. \u003ci\u003eShe went missing fifty years ago\u003c\/i\u003e, the man says. \u003ci\u003eOr at least I think she did\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eIt’s a little complicated\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And things only get stranger from there. Clay’s relentless search for answers will unearth a history of violence and secrets, revolution and betrayal. Because in this town, the past isn’t dead. It’s very much alive. And it can be murderous.\u003cb\u003ePraise for the Clay Edison series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “As for the keen sense of drama, it must be a genetic trait. . . . Unlike most crime writers (not to mention most of their readers), who revel in the bloody aftermath of a violent encounter, the Kellermans show compassion for the survivors, including conscientious officials like Edison.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Edison is an interesting protagonist, a good man for whom finding the truth is more important than anything else, including his own safety. He’s gentle and strong, compassionate and ruthless, methodical and impulsive.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise for Jonathan and Jesse Kellerman\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Jonathan Kellerman’s psychology skills and dark imagination are a potent literary mix.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Los Angeles Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[Jesse] Kellerman has a gift for creating compelling characters as well as for crafting an ingenious plot that grabs the reader and refuses to let go.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJonathan Kellerman \u003c\/b\u003eis the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of more than forty crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, \u003ci\u003eThe Butcher’s Theater\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBilly Straight\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Conspiracy Club\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTwisted\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTrue Detectives\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Murderer’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e. With his wife, Faye Kellerman, he co-authored \u003ci\u003eDouble Homicide \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eCapital Crimes\u003c\/i\u003e. With his son, Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored \u003ci\u003eCrime Scene\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eA Measure of Darkness\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Golem of Hollywood\u003c\/i\u003e, and\u003ci\u003e The 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\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 the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Psychological Association. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California and New Mexico.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eJesse Kellerman\u003c\/b\u003e won the Princess Grace Award for best young American playwright and is the author of \u003ci\u003eSunstroke\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTrouble\u003c\/i\u003e (nominated for the ITW Thriller Award for Best Novel), \u003ci\u003eThe Genius\u003c\/i\u003e (winner of the Grand Prix des Lectrices de \u003ci\u003eElle\u003c\/i\u003e), \u003ci\u003eThe Executor\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003ePotboiler \u003c\/i\u003e(nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel). He lives in California.On a damp Saturday, just last year, the sixties finally died in Berkeley.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn Sunday, I came for the bones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe end began the day after Christmas, at dawn. With a wrecking crew standing by, a team of University of California police officers entered People’s Park to rouse the two dozen bodies curled limp in the bushes, pressed against tree trunks, atop and under benches, ordering them to vacate the premises.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe third sweep in as many days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach time, the park residents who’d been kicked out at six a.m. came back at ten p.m. to bed down, as though returning from a long day at the office.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA week prior, the university had installed a chain-link fence around the perimeter. It had been scaled, sheared open, knocked down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA month before that, campus cops had circulated through the neighborhood, handing out flyers giving notice of the demolition and verbally notifying those who refused the paper or threw it back, in one instance using it first to wipe an ass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe previous year, the architecture firm contracted for the project had erected large multicolored signs along Dwight Way and Haste Street depicting a pristine six-story dormitory alongside detached ground-floor units of supportive housing for the homeless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eModern. Clean. Green. The drawings showed faceless humanoids gliding through streak-free glass doors. It was impossible to tell the students from the homeless. Everyone was wearing a backpack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithin days, Berkeley Fire found the signs ablaze in a dumpster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArticles about the closure of the park and op-eds either lamenting or celebrating its demise had been a fixture of local media for four years running. There’d been a public hearing, two lawsuits, multiple town halls, and city council meetings too numerous to count.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNobody could claim they hadn’t been warned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe run-up to Demolition Day was a continuation of a fifty-year tug-of-war, begun when a group of hippies wielding gardening implements converged on a muddy, disused lot owned by the university and claimed it in the name of The People.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs far as sacred spaces go, it ain’t much to look at.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree scrubby acres, few natural features, murals flaking, vegetation in perpetual decline, the province of drifters, addicts, and the mentally ill. An average day sees the cops summoned five times. There’s a playground, but not one you’d knowingly take a child to. Not long ago, a nanny short on context, common sense, or both brought a two-year-old boy to the swings. A parkie sauntered up and shoved a “Tootsie Roll” into his mouth. It turned out to be meth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNobody who cares about Berkeley looks at the park and sees the existing reality. They see what it represents.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove Not War. Food Not Bombs. Freedom of Speech. Respect Mother Earth. Heritage. Progress. Hope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe housing crisis. The mental health crisis. The opioid epidemic. Crime. Corruption. Waste.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn that damp December morning, what remained of The People stood behind sawhorses at the corner of Bowditch and Haste: nine aging Boomers waving cardboard signs. They looked invigorated, passing around a joint between chants.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhose Park?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur Park.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA bulldozer started up, drowning them out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne protester began to weep. Others cast about in search of the cavalry. Nobody was coming. It was too chilly. Too early. Undergrads had decamped for winter break. And to them, People’s Park meant nothing but a chronic shortage of dorm beds and an inconvenient detour walking home from the library at night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe construction foreman unlocked the fence gate and spread it wide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first bulldozer rolled over the sidewalk and lumbered toward the western side of the park, lowering its blade as it advanced on the Free Speech Stage. Mist clung to the lawns. Over the growl of the diesel engine rose a wet, mealy crunch, steel teeth chewing plywood and paint. Depending on whom you asked, it was either a dagger through the heart of a dream, or a stake driven into a corpse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t count The People out just yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy late the next morning, the crowd behind the sawhorses had swelled to over a hundred. Demolition noise still outpowered the chants, but not by much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eU-C police!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe see fascists!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe People 2.0 were environmental activists, housing activists, transit activists, vegans, freegans, black-bloc types in Guy Fawkes masks. Plus the one-offs: A trance-dancing nudist with nipples erect in the cold. An emaciated man with a skull-like face who let out a bloodcurdling shriek whenever the tree trimmers lopped off a branch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the other end of the site was a smaller counterprotest, fifteen strong. They’d driven in from Alamo and Santa Clara, bringing American flags, coolers, a charcoal grill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNa na na na they sang.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNa na na na.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHey heeeeey—goodbye!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmack between them, the media.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnder the operations tent, a UC police lieutenant named Florence Sibley was keyed up and pacing. This was her show, an unwelcome chance at stardom. For every professional reporter or cameraman on hand, she assumed, three amateurs were livestreaming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo far, so good. Minimal resistance from the parkies. No violence from the protesters. The mood was taut but not incendiary. How long could she keep it that way?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe had Alameda County Sheriff’s on standby if things got out of hand. But her superiors had made it clear that asking for help would constitute an embarrassment for the department.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePut on your big-boy pants.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSibley looked at the protesters. The nudist twirled in ecstatic circles. Purple body paint on her back spelled out l o v e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the counterprotester camp, lots of taunts and burger chomping. One man had stripped off his shirt and was slapping his bare belly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho said the two sides couldn’t find common ground?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of Sibley’s sergeants, Brodie Ford, jogged up. “You need to come see something.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What something?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord didn’t reply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSibley thought: Not part of the plan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe foreman was a man in his midfifties named Nestor Arriola. He wore a hard hat, a reflective vest, and a black polo shirt emblazoned with the construction firm logo of a derrick. He’d been up since six a.m., just like every morning of his working life since age fifteen. He met Sibley and Ford at the southwest pedestrian gate, handed them each a hard hat and a reflective vest, and led them to the vicinity of the former Free Speech Stage, now a hexagonal pit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDebris had been cleared, and the excavator operator had begun peeling back Mother Earth in layers. The driver was a young white guy with sunken cheeks and a tall brow wearing his hat crookedly, like a mushroom cap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It sort of caught the sun, you know?” he said. He glanced apprehensively at his boss, as if to apologize for being observant. “Got my attention.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It” was an eyeball. Nestled in a mound of rich dark soil, about ten feet from the pit’s edge, it stood out like a boil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSibley said, “You did right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNestor Arriola told the driver, “Go take ten,” and the guy hustled off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArriola turned to Sibley. “Looks fake to me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was probably right. The stage had stood on that spot for decades. No way an eyeball wouldn’t decompose. But probably wasn’t for sure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSibley scooted down into the pit and walked over, stooping to examine the eyeball. It was cartoonishly large, with a bright-blue iris. She had never married or had kids, but she did have nephews. She’d bought them tons of gifts over the years, before they hit adolescence and morphed into—her sister’s words—“uber-assholes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePoint being, Sibley knew a doll eye when she saw one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe flashed a thumbs-up at Arriola. “Fake.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turned to fetch Mushroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was then that Florence Sibley made the first of two consequential decisions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said, “Hang on a sec.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArriola, impatient to get back on schedule, said, “What for?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSibley didn’t have a ready answer. She didn’t know what she expected to find. More fake eyes? Who cared? But she was having second thoughts, and she motioned Brodie Ford into the pit. He looked as skeptical as Arriola.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSibley said, “We’ll just do a quick sift.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe two of them knelt, pawing with their bare hands, cold hard rock and the moist squish of earthworms and beetles, digging elbow-deep. Sibley began to feel foolish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord said, “Hold up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSurfacing in the dirt, another speck of blue, the same garish shade as the fake iris.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe worked his fingers in and tugged out the corner of a blanket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrimy, edged in satin. Sibley could picture the matching teddy bear. The items would have come as a set. Maybe monogrammed, initials or a first name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBrodie Ford continued to scrape away at the ground, revealing more of the blanket, bundled up and packed down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ah, shit,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis breathing had gone fast and shallow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe reached.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSibley grabbed his wrist. “Leave it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bundle of blankets had become disturbed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom one end protruded the sharp tip of a broken bone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCradled in a fold was a tiny, dirt-smeared tooth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe noonday sun fell frigid on Sibley’s neck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNestor Arriola stood at the pit edge, wearing the defeated sag of a man who answers the door to find an unloved relative toting suitcases.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFlorence Sibley stood up, knees cricking, and made her second consequential decision of the day.New York Times bestselling authors","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301999202533,"sku":"NP9780525620105","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525620105.jpg?v=1767728623","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/half-moon-bay-isbn-9780525620105","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}