AUDACIOUS THEFT FROM CAIRO MUSEUM
ATTEMPT TO SELL BOGUS TUT STATUES
From Los Angeles the revelation:
PROSECUTOR UNVEILS ELABORATE FRAUD IN SPINOVA MURDER TRIAL, COCONSPIRATOR ON THE LAM
Rashid’s eyes raced over the newsprint trying to absorb the full impact of the words. Adrenaline flooded his heart as glimpses of his fate revealed themselves here and there in the words on the page—“golden knockoffs”—“North Korean dictator”—“unsuspecting buyers”—“fraud”—“murder,” the last of which seemed to be the least of Rashid’s worries. In that instant, the man who had called himself Samir Rashid knew that he would never leave North Korea alive.
It is true what they say: justice is a funny thing. It comes in many different forms.
JEFFERY DEAVER
VS
JOHN SANDFORD
Combining Lincoln Rhyme and Lucas Davenport in a single adventure seemed an insurmountable problem. Rhyme, the hero of Jeffery Deaver’s series that began with The Bone Collector (1997), is a quadriplegic and, of necessity, sticks close to home in New York City. Davenport, the star of John Sandford’s Prey series, is an ace investigator living in Minnesota — working presently for that state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.
How could the two ever meet?
Fortunately, Davenport’s talents as a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners cop have transported him to the Big Apple before. In Silent Prey (1992), NYPD Detective Lily Rothenburg enlisted Davenport’s aid in nailing the psychotic killer Dr. Michael Bekker, who was prowling the streets of Manhattan. Rhyme, too, has a partner, Detective Amelia Sachs, so Jeff and John decided it was a natural fit for this foursome to join forces to tackle the case of a murderous sculptor for whom art and death are inextricably — and gruesomely — intertwined.
The combination of these four was particularly harmonious since Lucas Davenport and Lily Rothenburg are known for their streetwise policing and skill at psychological profiling — while Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs ply the complementary skill of forensic science. Together, they take on the task of figuring out who’s doing what and why to victims in Lower Manhattan’s chic art scene.
The process of writing this story was seamless. Both John and Jeff are experienced at this sort of thing. Together, they developed an outline, comprising about eight scenes, then divided up the task of writing each one. Jeff handled the crime scene and forensics-oriented portions, John the undercover and street investigations. Rather than writing serially — one section after the other, sending the finished portions to each other — amazingly, they worked simultaneously. When the rough story was finished, they each polished the completed manuscript, combined edits, and, voila, they had a story.
It’s a chilling tale, one filled with each author’s trademark reversals and twists. You’ll think twice about ever walking into an art gallery again.
And heaven help you if you ever strike up a conversation with a stranger in a bar.
Rhymes with Prey
The night was hot, and close, and the midsummer perfume of Central Park West — the odor of melted bubble gum, mixed with discarded cheese pretzels and rotten bananas, or something just like that — seeped into the backseat of the taxi as it cleared Fifty-seventh Street and headed north.
The taxi driver was Pakistani, from Karachi, he said, a slender, mild-mannered man who smelled lightly of cumin with an overlay of Drakkar Noir cologne. He listened to what might have been Pakistani jazz, or Afghani rap, or something even more exotic; the couple in the backseat wouldn’t have known the difference, if there was any difference. When the male passenger asked how big Karachi was, the driver said, “More big than New York City, but more small than New York City if includes the suburgers.”
The woman said, “Really,” with an edge of skepticism.
The Pakistani picked up the skepticism and said, “I look in Wiki, and this is what Wiki say.”
The male passenger was from Minnesota and, not knowing any better, or because he was rich and didn’t care, overtipped the driver as he and the woman got out of the cab. As it moved away, he said to her, “I could use a suburger right now. With catsup and fries.”
“You just don’t want to deal with Rhyme,” she said. “He makes you nervous.”
Lucas Davenport looked up at Lincoln Rhyme’s town house, a Victorian pile facing the park, with a weak, old-fashioned light over the doorway. “I’m getting over it. When I first went in there, I had a hard time looking at him. That pissed him off. I could feel it, and I feel kinda bad about it.”
“Didn’t have any trouble looking at Amelia,” said Lily Rothenburg.
“Be nice,” Lucas said, as they walked toward the front steps. “I’m happily married.”
“Doesn’t keep you from checking out the market,” Lily said.
“I don’t think she’s on the market,” Lucas said. He made a circling motion with an index finger. “I mean, can they—?”
“I don’t know,” Lily said. “Why don’t you ask? Just wait until I’m out of there.”
“Maybe not,” Lucas said. “I’m getting over it, but I’m not that far over it. And he’s not exactly Mr. Warmth.”
“Somebody might say that about you, too,” Lily observed.
“Hey. Nobody said that to me while getting busy in my Porsche.”
Lily laughed and turned a little pink. Way back, back before their respective marriages, they’d dallied. In fact, Lucas had dallied her brains loose in a Porsche 911, a feat that not everyone thought possible, especially for people their size. “A long time ago, when we were young,” she said, as they climbed the steps to Lincoln’s front door. “I was slender as a fairy then.”
Lucas was a tall man, heavy in the shoulders, with a hawk nose and blue eyes. His black hair was touched with a bit of silver at the temples and a long thin scar ran from his forehead across his brow ridge and down onto his cheek, the product of a fishing accident. Another scar, on his throat, was not quite as outdoorsy, though it happened outdoors, when a young girl shot him with a piece-of-crap .22 and he almost died.
Lily was dark-haired and full-figured, constantly dieting and constantly finding more interesting things to eat. She never gained enough to be fat, couldn’t lose enough to be thin. She’d never been a fairy. She was paid as a captain in the NYPD, but she was more than that: one of the plainclothes influentials who floated around the top of the department, doing things meant to be invisible to the media. As someone said of her, she was the nut cutter they called when nuts seriously needed to be cut.
Like now. She’d brought Lucas in as a “consultant” from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, because she didn’t know who she could trust in her own department. They might have a serial-killer cop on the loose — or even worse, a bunch of cops. And if that was right, the cops wouldn’t be out-of-control dumbass flatfoots, but serious guys, narcotics detectives who’d become fed up with the pointlessness and ineffectiveness of the war on drugs.
The four dead were all female, all illegal Mexicans, all had been tortured, and all had some connection to drug sales — although with two of them, Lucas thought, the connection was fairly thin. Still, if they were dealing with the cartels, and if there was a turf war going on, they could have been killed simply as warnings. And torture was something the cartels did as other people might play cards.