Items related to Rage
In a host of consecutive bestsellers, Jonathan Kellerman has kept readers spellbound with the intense, psychologically acute adventures of Dr. Alex Delaware–and with excursions through the raw underside of L.A. and the coldest alleys of the criminal mind. Rage offers a powerful new case in point, as Delaware and LAPD homicide detective Milo Sturgis revisit a horrifying crime from the past that has taken on shocking and deadly new dimensions.
Troy Turner and Rand Duchay were barely teenagers when they kidnapped and murdered a younger child. Troy, a remorseless sociopath, died violently behind bars. But the hulking, slow-witted Rand managed to survive his stretch. Now, at age twenty-one, he’s emerged a haunted, rootless young man with a pressing need: to talk–once again–with psychologist Alex Delaware. But the young killer comes to a brutal end, that conversation never takes place.
Has karma caught up with Rand? Or has someone waited for eight patient years to dine on ice-cold revenge? Both seem strong possibilities to Sturgis, but Delaware’s suspicions run deeper . . . and darker. Because fear in the voice of the grownup Rand Duchay–and his eerie final words to Alex: “I’m not a bad person”–betray untold secrets. Buried revelations so horrendous, and so damning, they’re worth killing for.
As Delaware and Sturgis retrace their steps through a grisly murder case that devastated a community, they discover a chilling legacy of madness, suicide, and multiple killings left in its wake–and even uglier truths waiting to be unearthed. And the nearer they come to understanding an unspeakable crime, the more harrowingly close they get to unmasking a monster hiding in plain sight.
Rage finds Jonathan Kellerman in phenomenal form–orchestrating a relentlessly suspenseful, devilishly unpredictable plot to a finale as stunning and thought-provoking as it is satisfying.
Troy Turner and Rand Duchay were barely teenagers when they kidnapped and murdered a younger child. Troy, a remorseless sociopath, died violently behind bars. But the hulking, slow-witted Rand managed to survive his stretch. Now, at age twenty-one, he’s emerged a haunted, rootless young man with a pressing need: to talk–once again–with psychologist Alex Delaware. But the young killer comes to a brutal end, that conversation never takes place.
Has karma caught up with Rand? Or has someone waited for eight patient years to dine on ice-cold revenge? Both seem strong possibilities to Sturgis, but Delaware’s suspicions run deeper . . . and darker. Because fear in the voice of the grownup Rand Duchay–and his eerie final words to Alex: “I’m not a bad person”–betray untold secrets. Buried revelations so horrendous, and so damning, they’re worth killing for.
As Delaware and Sturgis retrace their steps through a grisly murder case that devastated a community, they discover a chilling legacy of madness, suicide, and multiple killings left in its wake–and even uglier truths waiting to be unearthed. And the nearer they come to understanding an unspeakable crime, the more harrowingly close they get to unmasking a monster hiding in plain sight.
Rage finds Jonathan Kellerman in phenomenal form–orchestrating a relentlessly suspenseful, devilishly unpredictable plot to a finale as stunning and thought-provoking as it is satisfying.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Jonathan Kellerman has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to 23 New York Times bestselling tales of suspense. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony Awards, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Kellerman lives in California and New Mexico with his wife, novelist Faye Kellerman. Visit his website at www.jonathankellerman.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
CHAPTER 1
On a slow, chilly Saturday in December, shortly after the Lakers overcame a sixteen-point halftime deficit and beat New Jersey, I got a call from a murderer.
I hadn’t watched basketball since college, had returned to it because I was working at developing my leisure skills. The woman in my life was visiting her grandmother in Connecticut, the woman who used to be in my life was living in Seattle with her new guy—temporarily, she claimed, as if I had a right to care—and my caseload had just abated.
Three court cases in two months: two child-custody disputes, one relatively benign, the other nightmarish; and an injury consult on a fifteen-year-old girl who’d lost a hand in a car crash. Now all the papers were filed and I was ready for a week or two of nothing.
I’d downed a couple of beers during the game and was nearly dozing on my living room sofa. The distinctive squawk of the business phone roused me. Generally, I let my service pick up. Why I answered, I still can’t say.
“Dr. Delaware?”
I didn’t recognize his voice. Eight years had passed.
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“Rand.”
Now I remembered. The same slurred voice deepened to a man’s baritone. By now he’d be a man. Some kind of man.
“Where are you calling from, Rand?”
“I’m out.”
“Out of the C.Y.A.”
“I, uh . . . yeah, I finished.”
As if it had been a course of study. Maybe it had been. “When?”
“Coupla weeks.”
What could I say? Congratulations? God help us?
“What’s on your mind, Rand?”
“Could I, uh, talk to you?”
“Go ahead.”
“Uh, not this . . . like talk . . . for real.”
“In person.”
“Yeah.”
The living room windows were dark. Six forty-five p.m. “What do you want to talk about, Rand?”
“Uh, it would be . . . I’m kinda . . .”
“What’s on your mind, Rand?”
No answer.
“Is it something about Kristal?”
“Ye-ah.” His voice broke and bisected the word.
“Where are you calling from?” I said.
“Not far from you.”
My home office address was unlisted. How do you know where I live?
I said, “I’ll come to you, Rand. Where are you?”
“Uh, I think . . . Westwood.”
“Westwood Village?”
“I think . . . lemme see . . .” I heard a clang as the phone dropped. Phone on a cord, traffic in the background. A pay booth. He was off the line for over a minute.
“It says Westwood. There’s this big uh, a mall. With this bridge across.”
A mall. “Westside Pavilion?”
“I guess.”
Two miles south of the village. Comfortable distance from my house in the Glen. “Where in the mall are you?”
“Uh, I’m not in there. I kin see it across the street. There’s a . . . I think it says Pizza. Two z’s . . . yeah, pizza.”
Eight years and he could barely read. So much for rehab.
It took awhile but I got the approximate location: Westwood Boulevard, just north of Pico, east side of the street, a green and white and red sign shaped like a boot.
“I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty minutes, Rand. Anything you want to tell me now?”
“Uh, I . . . can we meet at the pizza place?”
“You hungry?”
“I ate breakfast.”
“It’s dinnertime.”
“I guess.”
“See you in twenty.”
“Okay . . . thanks.”
“You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me before you see me?”
“Like what?”
“Anything at all.”
More traffic noise. Time stretched.
“Rand?”
“I’m not a bad person.”
CHAPTER 2
What happened to Kristal Malley was no whodunit. The day after Christmas, the two-year-old accompanied her mother to the Buy-Rite Plaza in Panorama City. The promise of MEGA-SALE!!! DEEP DISCOUNTS!!! had stuffed the shabby, fading mall with bargain-hunters. Teenagers on winter break loitered near the Happy Taste food court and congregated among the CD racks of Flip Disc Music. The black-lit box of din that was the Galaxy Video Emporium pulsed with hormones and hostility. The air reeked of caramel corn and mustard and body odor. Frigid air blew through the poorly fitting doors of the recently closed indoor ice-skating rink.
Kristal Malley, an active, moody toddler of twenty-five months, managed to elude her mother’s attention and pull free of her grasp. Lara Malley claimed the lapse had been a matter of seconds; she’d turned her head to finger a blouse in the sale bin, felt her daughter’s hand slip from hers, turned to grab her, found her gone. Elbowing her way through the throng of other shoppers, she’d searched for Kristal, calling out her name. Screaming it.
Mall security arrived; two sixty-year-old men with no professional police experience. Their requests for Lara Malley to calm down so they could get the facts straight made her scream louder and she hit one of them on the shoulder. The guards restrained her and phoned the police.
Valley uniforms responded fourteen minutes later and a store-by-store search of the mall commenced. Every store was scrutinized. All bathrooms and storage areas were inspected. A troop of Eagle Scouts was summoned to help. K-9 units unleashed their dogs. The canines picked up the little girl’s scent in the store where her mother had lost her. Then, overwhelmed by thousands of other smells, the dogs nosed their way toward the mall’s eastern exit and floundered.
The search lasted six hours. Uniforms talked to each departing shopper. No one had seen Kristal. Night fell. Buy-Rite closed. Two Valley detectives stayed behind and reviewed the mall’s security videotapes.
All four machines utilized by the security company were antiquated and poorly maintained, and the black-and-white films were hazy and dark, blank for minutes at a time.
The detectives concentrated on the time period immediately following Kristal Malley’s reported disappearance. Even that wasn’t simple; the machines’ digital readouts were off by three to five hours. Finally, the right frames were located.
And there it was.
Long shot of a tiny figure dangling between two males. Kristal Malley had been wearing sweatpants and so did the figure. Tiny legs kicked.
Three figures exiting the mall at the east end. Nothing more; no cameras scanned the parking lot.
The tape was replayed as the D’s scanned for details. The larger abductor wore a light-colored T-shirt, jeans, and light shoes, probably sneakers. Short, dark hair. From what the detectives could tell, he seemed heavily built.
No facial features. The camera, posted high in a corner, picked up frontal views of incoming shoppers but only the backs of those departing.
The second male was shorter and thinner than his companion, with longer hair that appeared blond. He wore a dark-colored tee, jeans, sneakers.
Sue Kramer said, “They look like kids to me.”
“I agree,” said Fernie Reyes.
They continued viewing the tape. For an instant, Kristal Malley had twisted in her captor’s grasp and the camera caught 2.3 seconds of her face.
Too distant and poorly focused to register anything but a tiny, pale disk. The lead detective, a DII named Sue Kramer, had said, “Look at that body language. She’s struggling.”
“And no one’s noticing,” said her partner, Fernando Reyes, pointing to the stream of shoppers pouring in and out of the mall. People flowed around the little girl as if she were a piece of flotsam in a marina.
“Everyone probably figured they were horsing around,” said Kramer. “Dear God.”
Lara Malley had already viewed the tape through tears and hyperventilated breathing, and she didn’t recognize the two abductors.
“How can I?” she whimpered. “Even if I knew them, they’re so far away.”
Kramer and Reyes played it for her again. And again. Six more times. With each viewing, she shook her head more slowly. By the time a uniform entered the security room and announced “The father’s here,” the poor woman was nearly catatonic.
Figuring the video arcade attracted kids to the mall, the detectives brought in Galaxy’s owner and the two clerks who’d been on duty, brothers named Lance and Preston Kukach, acned, high-school dropout geeks barely out of their teens.
It took only a second for the owner to say, “The tape stinks but that’s Troy.” He was a fifty-year-old Caltech-trained engineer named Al Nussbaum, who’d made more money during three years of renting out video machines than a decade at the Jet Propulsion Labs. That day, he’d taken his own kids horseback riding, had come in to check the receipts.
“Which one’s Troy?” said Sue Kramer.
Nussbaum pointed to the smaller kid in the dark T-shirt. “He comes in all the time, always wears that shirt. It’s a Harley shirt, see the logo, here?”
His finger tapped the back of the tee. To Kramer and Reyes, the alleged winged logo was a faint gray smudge.
“What’s Troy’s last name?” said Kramer.
“Don’t know, but he’s a regular.” Nussbaum turned to Lance and Preston. The brothers nodded.
Fernie Reyes said, “What kind of kid is he, guys?”
On a slow, chilly Saturday in December, shortly after the Lakers overcame a sixteen-point halftime deficit and beat New Jersey, I got a call from a murderer.
I hadn’t watched basketball since college, had returned to it because I was working at developing my leisure skills. The woman in my life was visiting her grandmother in Connecticut, the woman who used to be in my life was living in Seattle with her new guy—temporarily, she claimed, as if I had a right to care—and my caseload had just abated.
Three court cases in two months: two child-custody disputes, one relatively benign, the other nightmarish; and an injury consult on a fifteen-year-old girl who’d lost a hand in a car crash. Now all the papers were filed and I was ready for a week or two of nothing.
I’d downed a couple of beers during the game and was nearly dozing on my living room sofa. The distinctive squawk of the business phone roused me. Generally, I let my service pick up. Why I answered, I still can’t say.
“Dr. Delaware?”
I didn’t recognize his voice. Eight years had passed.
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“Rand.”
Now I remembered. The same slurred voice deepened to a man’s baritone. By now he’d be a man. Some kind of man.
“Where are you calling from, Rand?”
“I’m out.”
“Out of the C.Y.A.”
“I, uh . . . yeah, I finished.”
As if it had been a course of study. Maybe it had been. “When?”
“Coupla weeks.”
What could I say? Congratulations? God help us?
“What’s on your mind, Rand?”
“Could I, uh, talk to you?”
“Go ahead.”
“Uh, not this . . . like talk . . . for real.”
“In person.”
“Yeah.”
The living room windows were dark. Six forty-five p.m. “What do you want to talk about, Rand?”
“Uh, it would be . . . I’m kinda . . .”
“What’s on your mind, Rand?”
No answer.
“Is it something about Kristal?”
“Ye-ah.” His voice broke and bisected the word.
“Where are you calling from?” I said.
“Not far from you.”
My home office address was unlisted. How do you know where I live?
I said, “I’ll come to you, Rand. Where are you?”
“Uh, I think . . . Westwood.”
“Westwood Village?”
“I think . . . lemme see . . .” I heard a clang as the phone dropped. Phone on a cord, traffic in the background. A pay booth. He was off the line for over a minute.
“It says Westwood. There’s this big uh, a mall. With this bridge across.”
A mall. “Westside Pavilion?”
“I guess.”
Two miles south of the village. Comfortable distance from my house in the Glen. “Where in the mall are you?”
“Uh, I’m not in there. I kin see it across the street. There’s a . . . I think it says Pizza. Two z’s . . . yeah, pizza.”
Eight years and he could barely read. So much for rehab.
It took awhile but I got the approximate location: Westwood Boulevard, just north of Pico, east side of the street, a green and white and red sign shaped like a boot.
“I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty minutes, Rand. Anything you want to tell me now?”
“Uh, I . . . can we meet at the pizza place?”
“You hungry?”
“I ate breakfast.”
“It’s dinnertime.”
“I guess.”
“See you in twenty.”
“Okay . . . thanks.”
“You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me before you see me?”
“Like what?”
“Anything at all.”
More traffic noise. Time stretched.
“Rand?”
“I’m not a bad person.”
CHAPTER 2
What happened to Kristal Malley was no whodunit. The day after Christmas, the two-year-old accompanied her mother to the Buy-Rite Plaza in Panorama City. The promise of MEGA-SALE!!! DEEP DISCOUNTS!!! had stuffed the shabby, fading mall with bargain-hunters. Teenagers on winter break loitered near the Happy Taste food court and congregated among the CD racks of Flip Disc Music. The black-lit box of din that was the Galaxy Video Emporium pulsed with hormones and hostility. The air reeked of caramel corn and mustard and body odor. Frigid air blew through the poorly fitting doors of the recently closed indoor ice-skating rink.
Kristal Malley, an active, moody toddler of twenty-five months, managed to elude her mother’s attention and pull free of her grasp. Lara Malley claimed the lapse had been a matter of seconds; she’d turned her head to finger a blouse in the sale bin, felt her daughter’s hand slip from hers, turned to grab her, found her gone. Elbowing her way through the throng of other shoppers, she’d searched for Kristal, calling out her name. Screaming it.
Mall security arrived; two sixty-year-old men with no professional police experience. Their requests for Lara Malley to calm down so they could get the facts straight made her scream louder and she hit one of them on the shoulder. The guards restrained her and phoned the police.
Valley uniforms responded fourteen minutes later and a store-by-store search of the mall commenced. Every store was scrutinized. All bathrooms and storage areas were inspected. A troop of Eagle Scouts was summoned to help. K-9 units unleashed their dogs. The canines picked up the little girl’s scent in the store where her mother had lost her. Then, overwhelmed by thousands of other smells, the dogs nosed their way toward the mall’s eastern exit and floundered.
The search lasted six hours. Uniforms talked to each departing shopper. No one had seen Kristal. Night fell. Buy-Rite closed. Two Valley detectives stayed behind and reviewed the mall’s security videotapes.
All four machines utilized by the security company were antiquated and poorly maintained, and the black-and-white films were hazy and dark, blank for minutes at a time.
The detectives concentrated on the time period immediately following Kristal Malley’s reported disappearance. Even that wasn’t simple; the machines’ digital readouts were off by three to five hours. Finally, the right frames were located.
And there it was.
Long shot of a tiny figure dangling between two males. Kristal Malley had been wearing sweatpants and so did the figure. Tiny legs kicked.
Three figures exiting the mall at the east end. Nothing more; no cameras scanned the parking lot.
The tape was replayed as the D’s scanned for details. The larger abductor wore a light-colored T-shirt, jeans, and light shoes, probably sneakers. Short, dark hair. From what the detectives could tell, he seemed heavily built.
No facial features. The camera, posted high in a corner, picked up frontal views of incoming shoppers but only the backs of those departing.
The second male was shorter and thinner than his companion, with longer hair that appeared blond. He wore a dark-colored tee, jeans, sneakers.
Sue Kramer said, “They look like kids to me.”
“I agree,” said Fernie Reyes.
They continued viewing the tape. For an instant, Kristal Malley had twisted in her captor’s grasp and the camera caught 2.3 seconds of her face.
Too distant and poorly focused to register anything but a tiny, pale disk. The lead detective, a DII named Sue Kramer, had said, “Look at that body language. She’s struggling.”
“And no one’s noticing,” said her partner, Fernando Reyes, pointing to the stream of shoppers pouring in and out of the mall. People flowed around the little girl as if she were a piece of flotsam in a marina.
“Everyone probably figured they were horsing around,” said Kramer. “Dear God.”
Lara Malley had already viewed the tape through tears and hyperventilated breathing, and she didn’t recognize the two abductors.
“How can I?” she whimpered. “Even if I knew them, they’re so far away.”
Kramer and Reyes played it for her again. And again. Six more times. With each viewing, she shook her head more slowly. By the time a uniform entered the security room and announced “The father’s here,” the poor woman was nearly catatonic.
Figuring the video arcade attracted kids to the mall, the detectives brought in Galaxy’s owner and the two clerks who’d been on duty, brothers named Lance and Preston Kukach, acned, high-school dropout geeks barely out of their teens.
It took only a second for the owner to say, “The tape stinks but that’s Troy.” He was a fifty-year-old Caltech-trained engineer named Al Nussbaum, who’d made more money during three years of renting out video machines than a decade at the Jet Propulsion Labs. That day, he’d taken his own kids horseback riding, had come in to check the receipts.
“Which one’s Troy?” said Sue Kramer.
Nussbaum pointed to the smaller kid in the dark T-shirt. “He comes in all the time, always wears that shirt. It’s a Harley shirt, see the logo, here?”
His finger tapped the back of the tee. To Kramer and Reyes, the alleged winged logo was a faint gray smudge.
“What’s Troy’s last name?” said Kramer.
“Don’t know, but he’s a regular.” Nussbaum turned to Lance and Preston. The brothers nodded.
Fernie Reyes said, “What kind of kid is he, guys?”
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- PublisherPenguin Books
- Publication date2005
- ISBN 10 0718148312
- ISBN 13 9780718148317
- BindingPaperback
- Edition number1
- Number of pages400
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Book Description Trade Paperback. Condition: Very Good. Trade Paperback. 365 pages. *** PUBLISHING DETAILS: Michael Joseph, London, 2005. *** CONDITION: This book is in very good condition. More specifically: Covers have no creasing. Edges of covers have superficial wear. Spine is uncreased. . Pages are reasonably tanned. *** ABOUT THIS BOOK: 'On a slow chilly Sunday in January, shortly after the Lakers overcame a sixteen point halftime deficit and beat New Jersey, I got a call from a murderer.' It was a tragic case, and one that psychologist Alex Delaware had hoped he'd never have to think about again. For eight years earlier he'd been asked to evaluate two teenage boys who were charged with the brutal murder of a young child. Now, Rand Duchay, one of those teenage boys, is out of prison, and he wants to meet with Alex. He wants to prove 'I am not a bad person'. But Rand doesn't make his meeting with Alex - and the next day his body is found in a notoriously dangerous park in LA. A bullet hole through his temple. Has he simply been the victim of a mugging? Or does his violent end have something to do with his terrible crime . . .? As Alex and Detective Milo Sturgis dig deeper into the case, they reveal an even more shocking catalogue of deaths, that all began with the murder of a little child all those years ago . . . *** Quantity Available: 2. Category: Fiction; Crime; ISBN: 0718148312. ISBN/EAN: 9780718148317. Inventory No: 13070288. The photo of this book is of the actual book for sale. Seller Inventory # 13070288
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Book Description Paperback. Condition: Good. 365 pages. Cover wornTroy Turner and Rand Duchay were barely teenagers when they kidnapped and murdered a younger child. Troy, a remorseless sociopath, died violently behind bars. But the hul king, slow witted Rand managed to survive his stretch. Now, at ag e twenty-one, he's emerged a haunted, rootless young man with a p ressing need to talk once again with psychologist Alex Delaware. But the young killer comes to a brutal end, that conversation nev er takes place. Or has someone waited for eight patient years to dine on ice-cold revenge? Both seem strong possibilities to Sturg is, but Delaware's suspicions run deeper and darker. Because fear in the voice of the grownup Rand Duchay, and his eerie final wor ds to Alex I'm not a bad person betray untold secrets. Buried rev elations so horrendous, and so damning, they're worth killing for . As Delaware and Sturgis retrace their steps through a grisly mu rder case that devastated a community, they discover a chilling l egacy of madness, suicide, and multiple killings left in its wake , and even uglier truths waiting to be unearthed. And the nearer they come to understanding an unspeakable crime, the more harrowi ngly close they get to unmasking a monster hiding in plain sight. Seller Inventory # 2535v
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Book Description Paperback. Condition: Good. 365 pages. Cover wornTroy Turner and Rand Duchay were barely teenagers when they kidnapped and murdered a younger child. Troy, a remorseless sociopath, died violently behind bars. But the hul king, slow witted Rand managed to survive his stretch. Now, at ag e twenty-one, he's emerged a haunted, rootless young man with a p ressing need to talk once again with psychologist Alex Delaware. But the young killer comes to a brutal end, that conversation nev er takes place. Or has someone waited for eight patient years to dine on ice-cold revenge? Both seem strong possibilities to Sturg is, but Delaware's suspicions run deeper and darker. Because fear in the voice of the grownup Rand Duchay, and his eerie final wor ds to Alex I'm not a bad person betray untold secrets. Buried rev elations so horrendous, and so damning, they're worth killing for . As Delaware and Sturgis retrace their steps through a grisly mu rder case that devastated a community, they discover a chilling l egacy of madness, suicide, and multiple killings left in its wake , and even uglier truths waiting to be unearthed. And the nearer they come to understanding an unspeakable crime, the more harrowi ngly close they get to unmasking a monster hiding in plain sight. Seller Inventory # 2672z
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Book Description Paperback. Condition: Good. 400 pages. In a host of consecutive bestsellers, Jonathan Kel lerman has kept readers spellbound with the intense, psychologica lly acute adventures of Dr. Alex Delaware-and with excursions thr ough the raw underside of L.A. and the coldest alleys of the crim inal mind.Rage offers a powerful new case in point, as Delaware a nd LAPD homicide detective Milo Sturgis revisit a horrifying crim e from the past that has taken on shocking and deadly new dimensi ons. Troy Turner and Rand Duchay were barely teenagers when the y kidnapped and murdered a younger child. Troy, a remorseless soc iopath, died violently behind bars. But the hulking, slow-witted Rand managed to survive his stretch. Now, at age twenty-one, he's emerged a haunted, rootless young man with a pressing need: to t alk-once again-with psychologist Alex Delaware. But the young kil ler comes to a brutal end, that conversation never takes place. Has karma caught up with Rand? Or has someone waited for eight p atient years to dine on ice-cold revenge? Both seem strong possib ilities to Sturgis, but Delaware's suspicions run deeper . . . an d darker. Because fear in the voice of the grownup Rand Duchay-an d his eerie final words to Alex: I'm not a bad person-betray unto ld secrets. Buried revelations so horrendous, and so damning, the y're worth killing for. As Delaware and Sturgis retrace their st eps through a grisly murder case that devastated a community, the y discover a chilling legacy of madness, suicide, and multiple ki llings left in its wake-and even uglier truths waiting to be unea rthed. And the nearer they come to understanding an unspeakable c rime, the more harrowingly close they get to unmasking a monster hiding in plain sight. Rage finds Jonathan Kellerman in phenomen al form-orchestrating a relentlessly suspenseful, devilishly unpr edictable plot to a finale as stunning and thought-provoking as i t is satisfying. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly Psych ologist Dr. Alex Delaware stars again after playing second fiddle to Hollywood homicide detective Petra Connor in last year's Twis ted. It's been eight years since Alex provided a psychiatric eval uation of two teenagers, Troy Turner and Rand Duchay, who confess ed to abducting and killing a two-year-old girl. Troy is now dead , murdered in prison, and Rand has been released--and he promptly calls Alex to tell him he has some important information. Alex a grees to a meeting, but Rand's not where he said he'd be; shortly thereafter he's found dead. Kellerman always fashions fiendishly complicated cases, both literally and psychologically, for Alex to unravel, and this one is no different. During the course of th e investigation, he and longtime pal L.A. police lieutenant Milo Sturgis encounter a host of wayward children, a foster family fro m hell, infidelities that have to be charted to be kept straight and a serial killer who's the exact opposite of the genre's usual madman slasher but just as deadly. The action occurs mostly in t he calculating brains of the two detectives as they turn and sift evidence piece by piece, working every angle until they finally come up with a coherent picture. It's an impressive piece of dete ction, and readers who enjoy watching the delicate untangling of a Gordian knot-like plot will find this one a winner. (May) Copy right ? Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier In c. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the hardcover editi on. From Booklist It has been eight years since two-year-old Kri stal Malley was brutally murdered by two young teenage boys, and Alex Delaware has pushed his role in the drama out of his mind. T hen a phone call from one of the boys, Rand Duchay, now released at age 21, brings the sad, sordid circumstances back. When Rand i s found murdered--with Delaware's phone number in his pocket--the cops come knocking, in the person of Delaware's friend, Lieutena nt Milo Sturgis. Delaware and Sturgis take on the f. Seller Inventory # 842e
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Rage
Published by
Michael Joseph
(2005)
ISBN 10: 0718148312
ISBN 13: 9780718148317
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Softcover
Quantity: 1
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Book Description Condition: Good. 2005. Paperback. Good clean copy with some shelf wear. Despite this it is in good condition. . . . . Books ship from the US and Ireland. Seller Inventory # KAK0000079
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Stock Image
Rage
Published by
Michael Joseph
(2005)
ISBN 10: 0718148312
ISBN 13: 9780718148317
Used
Softcover
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Condition: Very Good. 2005. Paperback. Good clean copy. . . . . Books ship from the US and Ireland. Seller Inventory # KSG0016806
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US$ 19.69
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