A Cold Heart: An Alex Delaware Novel
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NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
LAPD homicide detective Milo Sturgis summons his friend psychologist-sleuth Alex Delaware to a trendy gallery where a promising young artist has been brutally garroted on the night of her first major showing. The details of the murder scene immediately suggest to Alex not an impulsive crime of passion but the meticulous and taunting modus operandi of a serial killer.
“No one does psychological suspense as well as Jonathan Kellerman.”—Detroit Free Press
Delaware’s suspicions are borne out when he and Milo find a link between the artist’s death and the murder of a noted blues guitarist. The twisting trail leads from halfway houses to palatial mansions, from a college campus to the last place Alex ever expected: the doorstep of his ex-lover Robin Castagna. As more killings are discovered, unraveling the maddening puzzle assumes a chilling new importance—stopping a vicious psychopath who’s made cold-blooded murder his chosen art form.
Marcus in Beverly Hills and splurged on a half-price Vestimenta soft wool number. Silk-lined lapels, ticket pocket cut on the bias, strong shoulders, pegged trousers. Powder blue. She wore it that night and drew shocked looks from the other detectives. One wiseass covered his eyes, as if shielding himself against glare. Another said, “Nice, Petra.” A couple of others whistled, and she grinned at the lot of them. Before anyone else could crack wise, phones began ringing, and the squad room
on his ass. Slid feetfirst into the blood pool. His camera landed on the asphalt and rattled ominously, but that wasn’t Petra’s concern. Crimson splotches and speckles decorated her pants. Both trouser legs ruined. The photographer lay there, stunned. Petra did nothing to help him, muttered something sharp that widened his eyes and everyone else’s. She stamped away from the scene. Her own damn fault, going for color. 3 Petra worked the case hard, doing all the usual procedural things
they liked that. Petra had thought she liked it. But working with Stahl was proving to be a trying experience. The guy never spoke unless spoken to, and even then, he drew upon his verbal bank account one scroogy syllable at a time. Now here they were, driving away from the meeting with Milo and Alex, when there should’ve been animated discussion. Stahl just stared out the passenger window, inert as dirt. What? Looking for another stolen car? He’d spotted two GTAs in one week, and the second
tell you. The family almost never comes in.” “How long have you been working here, Ms. Tyler?” “Two years.” “During that time have you ever met Randolph Drummond?” “Who’s he?” “A relative,” said Petra. “Publishing, huh?” said Tyler. “The police . . . what, some kind of porno—no, don’t answer that.” She laughed, ran a finger across her mouth. “I don’t want to know.” They had her call Franklin Drummond’s cell phone, but the attorney didn’t answer. “Sometimes,” she said, “he turns it off
great shakes being in this family. They’re both bums. My Ed and his brother.” “Donald?” “Who else.” “Where’s your sister-in-law?” “Six feet under,” said Brooklyn Colette. “Where’s Donald?” “Who knows, who cares?” “Not a nice guy.” “A bum,” she said. “Like Ed.” “Could I talk to Ed?” “You could if you were six feet under.” “Sorry,” said Stahl. “Don’t be. We weren’t close.” “You and your husband?” “Me and any of them. When Ed was alive, he beat the hell out of me. I finally got some