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Internationally bestselling husband and wife Jonathan and Faye Kellerman team up for a powerful one-two punch with Capital Crimes, a gripping pair of original crime thrillers.
MY SISTER’S KEEPER: BERKELEY
Some of progressive state representative Davida Grayson’s views have made her unpopular. Although her foes are numerous no one suspects that any buttons Davida might push could evoke deadly force.
But now Davida lies brutally murdered in her office, and Berkeley homicide detectives Will Barnes and Amanda Isis must unravel Davida’s complex, before the killer pulls off a repeat performance.
MUSIC CITY BREAKDOWN: NASHVILLE
Baker Southerby was a child prodigy performer. But something leads him to become a Nashville cop. His partner, Lamar Van Gundy, is a would-be studio bassist who earned himself a detective’s badge. As part of Nashville PD's elite Murder Squad, they catch a homicide that’s high-profile even for a city where musical celebrity is routine.
Capital Crimes is page-turning, psychologically resonant suspense–just what we’ve come to expect from two of the world’s most successful crime writers.
you hear shit.” “Either way,” said Decker, “Ricky’s gone. You’re saying that makes you the big guy?” Bledsoe started to smile, cut it short, stayed silent. Decker said, “How did it feel having someone like Moke muscle in on your authority?” “Right.” Bledsoe huffed. “Ricky was a peon.” “So correct me, Marshall. Tell me what you know about the ransacking of the synagogue—straighten me out.” “I don’t know shit about it, never followed any of that. And since Moke is dead and Golding was popped,
line.” “So he couldn’t have done it,” said Barnes. Minette didn’t reply. He pressed her: “Who else had a key to your condo?” “Lucille Grayson,” Minette said. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she did it.” Amanda acted as if she took that seriously. “Why would she do that?” “To piss me off. I told you the woman hates me.” Barnes said, “Sorry, that night she was at the club with some friends. We know for a fact.” “Well…that’s what her friends would say.” “She was identified by dozens
Park, originally conceived as a monument to free speech but reduced to a square block of homeless encampments and ad hoc soup kitchens. Good intentions in the abstract, but the brown rectangle reeked of unwashed bodies and decaying food and on hot days anyone not blessed by nasal congestion kept a wide berth. Not far from the park was the Gourmet Ghetto, the foodie mecca that typified Berkeley’s mix of hedonism and idealism. And dominating it all, the UC. It was these contrasts that gave the
to be around the police. Baker interjected, “It’s about Jack Jeffries.” Looking a little relieved, Jeremy Train nodded. “Sure…uh, wanna step outside so I can take a smoke?” “That would work,” Baker said. Once outside, Jeremy lit up and offered the detectives a Marlboro. Both declined with a shake of the head. “Bad habit,” he said. “Just think of it as helping the southern economy,” Baker said. “I liked what you had to say about Jack.” “It sucked, man…” He shook his head in disgust. “I can’t
with fury. “The bastard touched me here.” Gret fingered the bottom of her chin. “Chucked it, you know? Like I was some baby, some stupid little baby thing.” Another shiver. If she was faking her emotion, she was Oscar-quality. “Then he said, ‘I know you didn’t come from me because you got no talent. You sing like shit and I’d rather listen to nails on a chalkboard than to hear you screech like a crow. I knew Janis and she’s the lucky one, being dead so she didn’t have to be subjected to that