{"product_id":"victims-isbn-9780345505729","title":"Victims","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe iconic thriller series that inspired the upcoming streaming show on Prime Video\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003ein development now!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With his latest, [Jonathan Kellerman] not only brings his ‘A’ game but also ratchets it up a notch or three. . . . \u003ci\u003eVictims\u003c\/i\u003e will keep you up at night.”—Bookreporter\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAcid-tongued Vita Berlin hadn’t a friend in the world, but whom did she cross so badly as to end up meticulously arranged in such a gruesome murder scene? One look prompts LAPD detective Milo Sturgis to summon his expert in homicidal maniacs, Alex Delaware. But even Alex is stymied when more slayings occur in the same ghastly fashion—with no apparent connection among the victims. And the only clue left behind—a blank page bearing a question mark—seems to be both a menacing taunt and a chilling cry for help from a tortured, savage soul. To end the bloody spree and prevent citywide panic, Alex navigates the secretive world of mental health treatment, from the sleek office of a Beverly Hills therapist to a shuttered mental institution where he once learned his craft. As each jagged piece of the puzzle fits into place, a portrait emerges of a sinister mind at its most unimaginable—and an evil soul at its most unspeakable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Expertly crafted, judiciously paced and echoing with larger social concerns.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Star-Ledger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“The combination of Alex Delaware [and] Detective Milo Sturgis . . . makes for the most original whodunit duo since Watson and Holmes.”—\u003ci\u003eForbes\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t miss the excerpt of Jonathan Kellerman’s \u003ci\u003eGuilt\u003c\/i\u003e in the back of the book.\u003cb\u003eJonathan Kellerman\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of more than thirty bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, \u003ci\u003eThe Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eTwisted, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e True Detectives\u003c\/i\u003e. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored \u003ci\u003eDouble Homicide \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Capital Crimes\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 has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California, New Mexico, and New York.CHAPTER 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis one was different.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first hint was Milo's tight-voiced eight a.m. message, stripped of details.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething I need you to see, Alex. Here's the address.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn hour later, I was showing I.D. to the uniform guarding the tape. He winced. \"Up there, Doctor.\" Pointing to the second story of a sky-blue duplex trimmed in chocolate-brown, he dropped a hand to his Sam Browne belt, as if ready for self-defense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNice older building, the classic Cal-Spanish architecture, but the color was wrong. So was the silence of the street, sawhorsed at both ends. Three squad cars and a liver-colored LTD were parked haphazardly across the asphalt. No crime lab vans or coroner's vehicles had arrived, yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, \"Bad?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe uniform said, \"There's probably a better word for it but that works.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eu\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMilo stood on the landing outside the door doing nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo cigar-smoking or jotting in his pad or grumbling orders. Feet planted, arms at his sides, he stared at some faraway galaxy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis blue nylon windbreaker bounced sunlight at strange angles. His black hair was limp, his pitted face the color and texture of cottage cheese past its prime. A white shirt had wrinkled to crepe. Wheat- colored cords had slipped beneath his paunch. His tie was a sad shred of poly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked as if he'd dressed wearing a blindfold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs I climbed the stairs, he didn't acknowledge me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I was six steps away, he said, \"You made good time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Easy traffic.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sorry,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"For what?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Including you.\" He handed me gloves and paper booties.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI held the door for him. He stayed outside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman was at the rear of the apartment's front room, flat on her back. The kitchen behind her was empty, counters bare, an old avocado- colored fridge free of photos or magnets or mementos.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo doors to the left were shut and yellow-taped. I took that as a Keep Out. Drapes were drawn over every window. Fluorescent lighting in the kitchen supplied a nasty pseudo-dawn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman's head was twisted sharply to the right. A swollen tongue hung between slack, bloated lips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLimp neck. A grotesque position some coroner might label \"incompatible with life.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBig woman, broad at the shoulders and the hips. Late fifties to early sixties, with an aggressive chin and short, coarse gray hair. Brown sweatpants covered her below the waist. Her feet were bare. Unpolished toenails were clipped short. Grubby soles said bare feet at home was the default.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbove the waistband of the sweats was what remained of a bare torso. Her abdomen had been sliced horizontally below the navel in a crude approximation of a C-section. A vertical slit crossed the lateral incision at the center, creating a star-shaped wound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe damage brought to mind one of those hard-rubber change purses that relies on surface tension to protect the goodies. Squeeze to create a stellate opening, then reach in and scoop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe yield from this receptacle was a necklace of intestines placed below the woman's neckline and arranged like a fashionista's puffy scarf. One end terminated at her right clavicle. Bilious streaks ran down her right breast and onto her rib cage. The rest of her viscera had been pulled down into a heap and left near her left hip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pile rested atop a once-white towel folded double. Below that was a larger maroon towel spread neatly. Four other expanses of terry cloth formed a makeshift tarp that shielded beige wall-to-wall carpeting from biochemical insult. The towels had been arranged precisely, edges overlapping evenly for about an inch. Near the woman's right hip was a pale blue T shirt, also folded. Spotless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoubling the white towel had succeeded in soaking up a good deal of body fluid, but some had leaked into the maroon under-layer. The smell would've been bad enough without the initial stages of decomp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of the towels beneath the body bore lettering. Silver bath sheet embroidered Vita in white.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLatin or Italian for \"life.\" Some monster's notion of irony?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe intestines were green-brown splotched pink in spots, black in others. Matte finish to the casing, some puckering that said they'd been drying for a while. The apartment was cool, a good ten degrees below the pleasant spring weather outside. The rattle of a wheezy A.C. unit in one of the living room windows was inescapable once I noticed it. Noisy apparatus, rusty at the bolts, but efficient enough to leach moisture from the air and slow down the rot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut rot is inevitable and the woman's color wasn't anything you'd see outside a morgue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIncompatible with life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI bent to inspect the wounds. Both slashes were confident swoops unmarred by obvious hesitation marks, shearing smoothly through layers of skin, subcutaneous fat, diaphragmatic muscle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo abrasions around the genital area and surprisingly little blood for so much brutality. No spatter or spurt or castoff or evidence of a struggle. All those towels; horribly compulsive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGuesses filled my head with bad pictures.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExtremely sharp blade, probably not serrated. The neck-twist had killed her quickly and she'd been dead during the surgery, the ultimate anesthesia. The killer had stalked her with enough thoroughness to know he'd have her to himself for a while. Once attaining total control, he'd gone about choreographing: laying out the towels, tucking and aligning, achieving a pleasing symmetry. Then he'd laid her down, removed her T shirt, careful to keep it clean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanding back, he'd inspected his prep work. Time for the blade.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen the real fun: anatomical exploration.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDespite the butchery and the hideous set of her neck, she looked peaceful. For some reason, that made what had been done to her worse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI scanned the rest of the room. No damage to the front door or any other sign of forced entry. Bare beige walls backed cheap upholstered furniture covered in a puckered ocher fabric that aped brocade but fell short. White ceramic beehive lamps looked as if they'd shatter under a finger-snap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dining area was set up with a card table and two folding chairs. A brown cardboard take-out pizza box sat on the table. Someone-probably Milo-had placed a yellow plastic evidence marker nearby. That made me take a closer look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo brand name on the box, just PIZZA! in exuberant red cursive above the caricature of a portly mustachioed chef. Curls of smaller lettering swarmed around the chef's fleshy grin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFresh pizza!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLotta taste!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOoh la la!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYum yum!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBon appétit!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe box was pristine, not a speck of grease or finger-smudge. I bent down to sniff, picked up no pizza aroma. But the decomp had filled my nose; it would be a while before I'd be smelling anything but death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf this was another type of crime scene, some detective might be making ghoulish jokes about free lunch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe detective in charge of this scene was a lieutenant who'd seen hundreds of murders, maybe thousands, yet chose to stay outside for a while.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI let loose more mental pictures. Some fiend in a geeky delivery hat ringing the doorbell then managing to talk himself inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWatching as the prey went for her purse? Waiting for precisely the right moment before coming up behind her and clamping both his hands on the sides of her head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eQuick blitz of rotation. The spinal cord would separate and that would be it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoing it correctly required strength and confidence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat and the lack of obvious transfer evidence-not even a shoe impression-screamed experience. If there'd been a similar murder in L.A., I hadn't heard about it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDespite all that meticulousness, the hair around the woman's temples might be a good place to look for transfer DNA. Psychopaths don't sweat much, but you never know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI examined the room again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpeaking of purses, hers was nowhere in sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRobbery as an afterthought? More likely souvenir-taking was part of the plan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEdging away from the body, I wondered if the woman's last thoughts had been of crusty dough, mozzarella, a comfy barefoot dinner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doorbell ring the last music she'd ever hear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stayed in the apartment awhile longer, straining for insight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe terrible competence of the neck-twist made me wonder about someone with martial arts training.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe embroidered towel bothered me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVita. Life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad he brought that one but taken the rest from her linen closet?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYum. Bon appétit. To life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe decomp reek intensified and my eyes watered and blurred and the necklace of guts morphed into a snake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDrab constrictor, fat and languid after a big meal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could stand around and pretend that this was anything comprehensible, or hurry outside and try to suppress the tide of nausea rising in my own guts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot a tough choice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCHAPTER\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eM\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eilo hadn't moved from his position on the landing. His eyes were back on Planet Earth, watching the street below. Five uniforms were moving from door to door. From the quick pace of the canvass, plenty of no- one-home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe street was in a working-class neighborhood in the southeastern corner of West L.A. Division. Three blocks east would've made it someone else's problem. Mixed zoning allowed single-family dwellings and duplexes like the one where the woman had been degraded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePsychopaths are stodgy creatures of routine and I wondered if the killer's comfort zone was so narrow that he lived within the sawhorses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI caught my breath and worked at settling my stomach while Milo pretended not to notice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah, I know,\" he finally said. He was apologizing for the second time when a coroner's van drove up and a dark-haired woman in comfortable clothes got out and hurried up the stairs. \"Morning, Milo.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Morning, Gloria. All yours.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, boy,\" she said. \"We talking freaky-bad?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I could say I've seen worse, kid, but I'd be lying.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Coming from you that gives me the creeps, Milo.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Because I'm old?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tsk.\" She patted his shoulder. \"Because you're the voice of experience.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Some experiences I can do without.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople can get used to just about anything. But if your psyche's in good repair, the fix is often temporary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoon after receiving my doctorate, I worked as a psychologist on a pediatric cancer ward. It took a month to stop dreaming about sick kids but I was eventually able to do my job with apparent professionalism. Then I left to go into private practice and found myself, years later, on that same ward. Seeing the children with new eyes mocked all the adaptation I thought I'd accomplished and made me want to cry. I went home and dreamed for a long time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHomicide detectives get \"used\" to a regular diet of soul-obliteration. Typically bright and sensitive, they soldier on, but the essence of the job lurks beneath the surface like a land mine. Some D's transfer out. Others stay and find hobbies. Religion works for some, sin for others. Some, like Milo, turn griping into an art form and never pretend it's just another job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman on the towels was different for him and for me. A permanent image bank had lodged in my brain and I knew the same went for him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNeither of us talked as Gloria worked inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, I said, \"You marked the pizza box. It bothers you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Everything about this bothers me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No brand name on the box. Any indies around here deliver?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe drew out his cell phone, clicked, and produced a page. Phone numbers he'd already downloaded filled the screen and when he scrolled, the listings kept coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Twenty-eight indies in a ten-mile radius and I also checked Domino's and Papa John's and Two Guys. No one dispatched anyone to this address last night and nobody uses that particular box.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If she didn't actually call out, why would she let him in?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Good question.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who discovered her?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Landlord, responding to a complaint she made a few days ago. Hissing toilet, they had an appointment. When she didn't answer, he got annoyed, started to leave. Then he thought better of it because she liked things fixed, used his key.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Where is he now?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pointed across the street. \"Recuperating with some firewater down in that little Tudor-ish place.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI found the house. Greenest lawn on the block, beds of flowers. Topiary bushes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Anything about him bother you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not so far. Why?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"His landscaping says he's a perfectionist.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's a negative?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This case, maybe.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well,\" he said, \"so far he's just the landlord. Want to know about her?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sure.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Her name's Vita Berlin, she's fifty-six, single, lives on some kind of disability.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Vita,\" I said. \"The towel was hers.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The towel? This bastard used every damn towel she had in her linen closet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Vita means 'life' in Latin and Italian. I thought it might be a sick joke.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Cute. Anyway, I'm waiting for Mr. Belleveaux-the landlord-to calm down so I can question him and find out more about her. What I've learned from prelim snooping in her bedroom and bathroom is if she's got kids she doesn't keep their pictures around and if she had a computer, it was ripped off. Same for a cell phone. My guess is she had neither, the place has a static feel to it. Like she moved in years ago, didn't add any newfangled stuff.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I didn't see her purse.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"On her nightstand.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You taped off the bedroom, didn't want me in there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I sure do, but that'll wait until the techies are through. Can't afford to jeopardize any aspect of this.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The front room was okay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I knew you'd be careful.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis logic seemed strained. Insufficient sleep and a bad surprise can do that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, \"Any indication she was heading to the bedroom before he jumped her?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, it's pristine. Why?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI gave him the delivery tip scenario.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Going for her purse,\" he said. \"Well, I don't know how you'd prove that, Alex. Main thing is he confined himself to the front, didn't move her into the bedroom for anything sexual.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, \"Those towels make me think of a stage. Or a picture frame.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Meaning?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Showing off his work.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Okay . . . what else to tell you . . . her wardrobe's mostly sweats and sneakers, lots of books in her bedroom. Romances and the kinds of mysteries where people talk like Noël Coward twits and the cops are bumbling cretins.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wondered out loud about a killer with martial arts skills and when he didn't respond, went on to describe the kill-scene still bouncing around my brain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe said, \"Sure, why not.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgreeable but distracted. Neither of us focusing on the big question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy would anyone do something like this to another human being?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGloria exited the apartment, looking older and paler.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMilo said, \"You okay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm fine,\" she said. \"No, I'm lying, that was horrible.\" Her forehead was moist. She dabbed it with a tissue. \"My God, it's grotesque.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Any off-the-cuff impressions?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nothing you probably haven't figured out yourself. Broken neck's my bet for COD, the cutting looks postmortem. The incisions look clean so maybe some training in meat-cutting or a paramedical field but I wouldn't put much stock in that, all kinds of folk can learn to slice. That pizza box mean something to you?\"#1 New York Times bestselling author of Guilt","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299771011301,"sku":"NP9780345505729","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345505729.jpg?v=1767743433","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/victims-isbn-9780345505729","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}