{"product_id":"triptych-isbn-9780804180283","title":"Triptych","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • “Crime fiction at its finest.”—Michael Connelly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWATCH WILL TRENT ON ABC\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Atlanta’s wealthiest suburbs to its stark inner-city housing projects, a killer  has crossed the boundaries of wealth and race. And the people who are chasing him  must cross those boundaries, too. Among them is Michael Ormewood, a veteran detective  whose marriage is hanging by a thread—and whose arrogance and explosive temper are  threatening his career.   And Angie Polaski, a beautiful vice cop who was once Michael’s lover before she became his enemy.  But unbeknownst to both of them, another player  has entered the game: a loser ex-con who has stumbled upon the killer’s trail in  the most coincidental of ways—and who may be the key to breaking the case wide open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In this gritty, gripping firecracker of a novel, the author of the bestselling Grant  County, Georgia, series breaks thrilling new ground, weaving together the threads  of a complex, multilayered story with the skill of a master craftsman.  Packed with  body-bending switchbacks, searing psychological suspense and human emotions, \u003ci\u003eTriptych\u003c\/i\u003e ratchets up the tension one revelation at a time as it races to a shattering and  unforgettable climax.\"Slaughter's gift for building multi-layered tension while deconstructing damaged personalities gives this thriller a nerve-wracking finish.\"—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Excellent.... Karin Slaughter is not afraid to show the absolute worst in people, as well as the best.\"—\u003ci\u003eFt. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[Karin Slaughter] writes with a razor...\u003cb\u003eTriptych\u003c\/b\u003e elevates her to the top of my list of favorite crime writers.\"—\u003ci\u003eCleveland Plain Dealer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Volcanic heroes and villians, who act both surprisingly and logically.... Slaughter has the courage to detonate her biggest bombshells early on, keeping even the wariest readers off-balance.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eKarin Slaughter\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and #1 internationally bestselling author of numerous thrillers, including \u003ci\u003eCop Town, Unseen, Criminal, Fallen, Broken, Undone, Fractured, Beyond Reach, Triptych,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eFaithless, \u003c\/i\u003eand the e-original short stories “Snatched” and “Busted.” She is a native of Georgia.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFebruary 5, 2006\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDetective Michael Ormewood listened to the football game on the radio as he drove down DeKalb Avenue toward Grady Homes. The closer he got to the projects, the more tension he felt, his body almost vibrating from the strain by the time he took a right into what most cops considered a war zone. As the Atlanta Housing Authority slowly devoured itself, subsidized communities like Grady were becoming a thing of the past. The in-town real estate was too valuable, the potential for kickback too high. Right up the road was the city of Decatur, with its trendy restaurants and million-dollar houses. Less than a mile in the other direction was Georgia’s gold-encrusted capitol dome. Grady was like a worse-case scenario sitting between them, a living reminder that the city too busy to hate was also too busy to take care of its own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the game on, the streets were fairly empty. The drug dealers and pimps were taking the night off to watch that rarest of miracles occur: the Atlanta Falcons playing in the Super Bowl. This being a Sunday night, the prostitutes were still out making a living, trying to give the churchgoers something to confess next week. Some of the girls waved at Michael as he drove past, and he returned the greeting, wondering how many unmarked cars stopped here during the middle of the night, cops telling Dispatch they were taking a ten-minute break, then motioning over one of the girls to help blow off some steam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBuilding nine was in the back of the development, the crumbling red brick edifice tagged by the Ratz, one of the new gangs that had moved into the Homes. Four cruisers and another unmarked car were in front of the building, lights rolling, radios squawking. Parked in the residents’ spaces were a black BMW and a pimped out Lincoln Navigator, its ten-thousand-dollar razor rims glittering gold in the streetlights. Michael fought the urge to jerk the steering wheel, take some paint off the seventy-thousand-dollar SUV. It pissed him off to see the expensive cars the bangers drove. In the last month, Michael’s kid had shot up about four inches, outgrowing all his jeans, but new clothes would have to wait for Michael’s next paycheck. Tim looked like he was waiting for a high tide while Daddy’s tax dollars went to help these thugs pay their rent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of getting out of his car, Michael waited, listening to another few seconds of the game, enjoying a moment’s peace before his world turned upside down. He had been on the force for almost fifteen years now, going straight from the army to the police, realizing too late that other than the haircut, there wasn’ t that much difference between the two. He knew that as soon as he got out of his car it would all start up like a clock that was wound too tight. The sleepless nights, the endless leads that never panned out, the bosses breathing down his neck. The press would probably catch on to it, too. Then he’d have cameras stuck in his face every time he left the squad, people asking him why the case wasn’t solved, his son seeing it on the news and asking Daddy why people were so mad at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCollier, a young beat cop with biceps so thick with muscle he couldn’t put his arms down flat against his sides, tapped on the glass, gesturing for Michael to roll down his window. Collier had made a circling motion with his meaty hand, even though the kid had probably never been in a car with crank windows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael pressed the button on the console, saying, “Yeah?” as the glass slid down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who’s winning?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not Atlanta,” Michael told him, and Collier nodded as if he had expected the news. Atlanta’s previous trip to the Super Bowl was several years back. Denver had thumped them 34–19.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCollier asked, “How’s Ken?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He’s Ken,” Michael answered, not offering an elaboration on his partner’s health.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Could use him on this.” The patrolman jerked his head toward the building. “It’s pretty nasty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael kept his own counsel. The kid was in his early twenties, probably living in his mother’s basement, thinking he was a man because he strapped on a gun every day. Michael had met several Colliers in the Iraqi desert when the first Bush had decided to go in. They were all eager pups with that glint in their eye that told you they had joined up for more than three squares and a free education. They were obsessed with duty and honor, all that shit they’d seen on TV and been fed by the recruiters who plucked them out of high school like ripe cherries. They had been promised technical training and home-side base assignments, anything that would get them to sign on the dotted line. Most of them ended up being shipped off on the first transport plane to the desert, where they got shot before they could put their helmets on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTed Greer came out of the building, tugging at his tie like he needed air. The lieutenant was pasty for a black man, spending most of his time behind his desk basking in the fluorescent lights as he waited for his retirement to kick in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe saw Michael still sitting in the car and scowled. “You working tonight or just out for a drive?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael took his time getting out, sliding the key out of the ignition just as the halftime commentary started on the radio. The evening was warm for February, and the air-conditioning units people had stuck in their windows buzzed like bees around a hive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreer barked at Collier, “You got something to do?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCollier had the sense to leave, tucking his chin to his chest like he’d been popped on the nose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fucking mess,” Greer told Michael. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Some kind of sick perv got ahold of her.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael had heard as much when he’d gotten the call that pulled him off his living-room couch. “Where is she?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Six flights up.” Greer folded the handkerchief into a neat square and tucked it into his pocket. “We traced the nine-one-one call to that phone.” He pointed across the street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael stared at the phone booth, a relic of the past. Everybody had cell phones now, especially dealers and bangers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Woman’s voice,” Greer told him. “We’ll have the tape sometime tomorrow.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How long did it take to get somebody out here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thirty-two minutes,” Greer told him, and Michael’s only surprise was that it hadn’t taken longer. According to a local news team investigation, response times to emergency calls from Grady averaged around forty-five minutes. An ambulance took even longer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreer turned back to the building as if it could absolve him. “We’re gonna have to call in some help on this one.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael bristled at the suggestion. Statistically, Atlanta was one of the most violent cities in America. A dead hooker was hardly an earth-shattering development, especially considering where she was found.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe told Greer, “That’s all I need is more assholes telling me how to do my job.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This asshole thinks it’s exactly what you need,” the lieutenant countered. Michael knew better than to argue—not because Greer wouldn’ t tolerate insubordination, but because he’d agree with Michael just to shut him up, then turn around and do whatever the hell he wanted to anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreer added, “This one’s bad.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They’re all bad,” Michael reminded him, opening the back door to his car and taking out his suit jacket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Girl didn’t have a chance,” Greer continued. “Beat, cut, fucked six ways to Sunday. We got a real sick fuck on our hands.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael put on his jacket, thinking Greer sounded like he was auditioning for HBO. “Ken’s out of the hospital. Said come by and see him anytime.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreer made some noises about being real busy lately before trotting off toward his car, looking back over his shoulder as if he was afraid Michael would follow. Michael waited until his boss was in his car and pulling out of the lot before he headed toward the building.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCollier stood at the doorway, hand resting on the butt of his gun. He probably thought he was keeping watch, but Michael knew that the person who had committed this crime wasn’t going to come back for more. He was finished with the woman. There was nothing else he wanted to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCollier said, “The boss left fast.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks for the news flash.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael braced himself as he opened the door, letting the damp, dark building slowly draw him in. Whoever had designed the Homes hadn’t been thinking about happy kids coming home from school to warm cookies and milk. They had focused on security, keeping open spaces to a minimum and covering all the light fixtures in steel mesh to protect the bulbs. The walls were exposed concrete with narrow windows tucked into tight little corners, the safety wire embedded in the glass looking like uniform cobwebs. Spray paint covered surfaces that had been painted white once upon a time. Gang tags, warnings and various pieces of information covered them now. To the right of the front door, someone had scrawled, \u003ci\u003eKim is a ho! Kim is a ho! Kim is a ho\u003c\/i\u003e!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael was looking up the winding staircase, counting the six flights, when a door creaked open. He turned to find an ancient black woman staring at him, her coal dark eyes peering out around the edge of the steel door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Police,” he said, holding up his badge. “Don’t be afraid.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door opened wider. She was wearing a floral apron over a stained white T-shirt and jeans. “I ain’t afraid’a you, bitch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClustered behind her were four old women, all but one of them African-American. Michael knew they weren’t here to help. Grady, like any small community, thrived on gossip and these were the mouths that fed the supply line.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill, he had to ask, “Any of y’all see anything?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey shook their heads in unison, bobbleheads on the Grady dashboard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s great,” Michael said, tucking his badge back into his pocket as he headed toward the stairs. “Thanks for helping keep your community safe.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe snapped, “That’s your job, cocksucker.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stopped, his foot still on the bottom stair as he turned back toward her, looking her straight in the eye. She returned the glare, rheumy eyes shifting back and forth like she was reading the book of his life. The woman was younger than the others, probably in her early seventies, but somehow grayer and smaller than her companions. Spidery lines crinkled the skin around her lips, wrinkles etched from years of sucking on cigarettes. A shock of gray streaked through the hair on the top of her head as well as the ones corkscrewing out of her chin like dreadlocks. She wore the most startling shade of orange lipstick he had ever seen on a woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe asked, “What’s your name?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer chin tilted up in defiance, but she told him, “Nora.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Somebody made a nine-one-one call from that phone booth outside.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I hope they wash they hands after.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael allowed a smile. “Did you know her?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We all knowed her.” Her tone indicated there was a lot more to be told but she wasn’t the one who was going to tell it to some dumb-ass white cop. Obviously, Nora didn’t exactly have a college degree under her belt, but Michael had never set much store by that kind of thing. He could tell from her eyes that the woman was sharp. She obviously had street smarts. You didn’t live to be that old in a place like Grady by being stupid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael took his foot off the step, walking back toward the cluster of women. “She working?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNora kept her eye on him, still wary. “Most nights.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe white woman behind her provided, “She an honest girl.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNora tsked her tongue. “Such a young little thing.” There was a hint of challenge in her voice when she said, “No kind of life for her, but what else could she do?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael nodded like he understood. “Did she have any regulars?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey all shook their heads, and Nora provided, “She never brought her work home with her.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael waited, wondering if they would add anything else. He counted the seconds off in his head, thinking he’d let it go to twenty. A helicopter flew over the building and car wheels squealed against asphalt a couple of streets over, but no one paid attention. This was the sort of neighborhood where people got nervous if they didn’t hear gunshots at least a couple of times a week. There was a natural order to their lives, and violence—or the threat of it—was as much a part of it as fast food and cheap liquor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All right,” Michael said, having counted the seconds to twenty-five. He took out one of his business cards, handing it to Nora as he told her, “Something to wipe your ass on.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe grunted in disgust, holding the card between her thumb and forefinger. “My ass is bigger than that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe gave her a suggestive wink, made his voice a growl. “Don’t think I hadn’t noticed, darlin’.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe barked a laugh as she slammed the door in his face. She had kept the card, though. He had to take that as a positive sign.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichael walked back to the stairs, taking the first flight two at a time. All of the buildings at Grady had elevators, but even the ones that worked were dangerous. As a first-year patrolman, Michael had been called out to the Homes on a domestic disturbance and gotten caught in one of the creaky contraptions with a busted radio. He had spent about two hours trying not to add to the overwhelming smell of piss and vomit before his sergeant realized he hadn’t reported in and sent somebody to look for him. The old-timers had laughed at his stupidity for another half hour before helping get him out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWelcome to the brotherhood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Michael started on the second flight of stairs, he felt a change in the air. The smell hit him first: the usual odor of fried foods mingled with beer and sweat, cut by the sudden but unmistakable stench of violent death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe building had responded to the fatality in the usual way. Instead of the constant thump of rap beating from multiple speakers, Michael heard only the murmur of voices from behind closed doors. Televisions were turned down low, the halftime show serving as background noise while people talked about the girl on the sixth floor and thanked the Lord it was her this time and not their children, their daughters, themselves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this relative quiet, sounds started to echo down the stairwell: the familiar rhythms of a crime scene as evidence was gathered, photos taken. Michael stopped at the bottom of the fourth-floor landing to catch his breath. He had given up smoking two months ago but his lungs hadn’t really believed him. He felt like an asthmatic as he made his way up the next flight of stairs. Above him, someone barked a laugh, and he could hear the other cops join in, participating in the usual bullshit bravado that made it possible for them to do the job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDownstairs, a door slammed open, and Michael leaned over the railing, watching two women wrangle a gurney inside the foyer. They were wearing dark blue rain jackets, bright yellow letters announcing “MORGUE” on their backs.New York Times bestselling author","brand":"Dell","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304303218917,"sku":"NP9780804180283","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780804180283.jpg?v=1767742965","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/triptych-isbn-9780804180283","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}