Death Angel (Alex Cooper)
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New York City. Central Park. For thousands of residents and tourists who fill it every day, it’s an enormous urban sanctuary. For one killer it’s the perfect hunting ground.
A young girl has been found dead in the Ramble, a secluded section of the park made up of winding paths, dense woods, and dead ends. Is she the first victim of a psychopath? Or a clue to other missing women in years past whose remains have never been found?
For the answer, Assistant DA Alexandra Cooper and Detective Mike Chapman follow a twisting trail of evidence that takes them deep into the city’s dark history—and deeper into the mind of killer whose work has only just begun.
with simply the capital letter B after it. The authorized list of signatures, which Jarvis also showed to me, had Bernice’s full name printed out and signed. The person who’d written her name on June 8th had a much firmer hand than Bernice. “Bernice Wicks,” I said, “is one of Lavinia Dalton’s housekeepers.” “Then that makes sense,” Jarvis said. “But the signatures don’t appear to match, Mr. Jarvis. And no one seemed to require Mrs. Wicks’s full name on this June 8th record.” I
aficionados all seemed to be stopped in their tracks, trying to figure out the cause of the commotion below. This time I took the two-tiered staircase—the eastern one—more slowly than my first descent minutes ago. I looked around at the stunning landscape and the water of the calm Lake sparkling with morning sunlight, but my eyes darted from tree to tree as figures—some in blue uniforms but mostly civilians in exercise gear—appeared on every path and in each leafy opening, like characters in
category?” “Russian literature.” “I’m screwed again. Make it a double, Ken.” “The answer was something about a Russian nobleman and poet whose great-grandfather was African.” “Who is Doctor Zhivago?” Mike said. “And he would be a fictional character,” I said. “Like Alice in Wonderland, Mother Goose, and Norman Bates.” “You don’t know either, really?” Mike said. “Two nights running? That’s not possible.” “Don’t humor him, Alex,” Mercer said. “He can deal with it.”
they?” “Exactly. It’s interesting, but I don’t know that it gives us much.” Mike was looking due north, and I took my place next to him. We were even with East 73rd Street, though much closer to Central Park West. “To the north,” he said, “all you can see is the Ramble. It’s tree covered and so steep that anything—or anyone—up there would be obscured from viewing this place or being in sight range. There could be a connection, of course, or it could be where the killer came from—”
home, but for the nights Lavinia isn’t doing well, I do keep a room here.” Mike seemed to perk up. “So you were on the staff when Lucy was kidnapped?” Jillian Sorenson’s back stiffened. “I thought your interest was in the silver, Mr. Chapman. I hope you don’t intend to bring Lucy’s name up in front of Lavinia.” “It is about the silver, but—” “And I wasn’t considered staff,” she said, responding rather archly, “like the other servants were. I was in charge of all Lavinia’s business