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.
this you-know-how.” “How?” She smiled. “Once upon a time, we’d be doing the two-backed beast. That’s how we always ended up dealing with stress.” “I can think of worse ways to cope.” “Definitely,” she said. She lowered herself onto my lap and we kissed for a long time. I touched a breast. She emitted a low, sad sound, reached for me. Stopped herself. “I’m so sorry,” she said, as she ran for the door. I got to my feet but remained in place. “Nothing to be sorry for.” “Lots to be sorry
She remembers realizing Julie’d been gone for a while just before she checked. But the two of them had been busy cleaning. Finally, she had to go herself, made her way back there and knocked on the bathroom door and when Julie didn’t answer, she opened it.” “Self-locking bathroom?” He thought. “Yeah, one of those push-button dealies.” “So the killer chose not to lock up.” “Or forgot.” “Someone who brings gloves and ambushes his victim would remember.” He rubbed his face. “Okay, so what’s
filled with struggling begonias ran along the front facade. A man in an oversized red flannel shirt, baggy blue jeans, and grubby sneakers sat on the planter ledge, sucking on a cigarette. As I approached him, he said, “You made good time,” without looking up. “Motivation,” I said. He studied me, and I returned the favor. Paul Brancusi had changed less than Christian Bangsley. Still scrawny and sallow, he wore his hair long and uncombed, had tinted the natural dishwater color bronze. His
Kevin chose his moments. She showed Kevin Drummond’s DMV picture to Santos. Blurred picture, five years old. Skinny kid with dark hair and a nondescript face. Brown and brown, 6’2″, 150, needs corrective lenses. “That’s him,” said Santos. “Tall—he wears glasses. Not such good skin—some zits here and here.” Touching her jawline and her temple. “Like he had it bad when he was younger, you know, and it didn’t all heal up?” Six-two fit Linus Brophy’s description of Baby Boy’s killer. Would a
questions several times. Rephrasing, alternating between sympathy and aloofness. Probing for details, pressing for a Murphy-Drummond link. The Drummonds denied it—denied everything. No anxiety. I believed them. Believed they knew little about their son. At some point, a certain looseness entered the conversation. Low voices all around. Discouragement all around. We’d learned nothing vital, and they had a missing son. Terry said, “That poor woman. You say she was homeless?” “Yes, ma’am,” said