The promise

Review by New York Times Review

DR. KAY SCARPETTA, who keeps US coming back to Patricia Cornwell's sprawling crime novels, is one tough broad. As chief medical examiner for the state of Massachusetts, she has no trouble dealing with the gory sights and smells of dead bodies and violent crimes. "A select few of us come into this world not bothered by gruesomeness," she says. "In fact we're drawn to it, fascinated, intrigued." What she can't handle are threats to the person she loves best in the world, her brilliant, prickly niece, Lucy. In DEPRAVED HEART (Morrow/ HarperCollins, $28.99), Scarpetta is on the scene at the "accidental" death of a movie mogul's daughter when she receives a disturbing surveillance video shot in 1997 by Carrie Grethen, Lucy's mentor (and first love) at the F.B.I. Academy in Quantico, Va. Because it suggests that Lucy was in possession of an illegal firearm, Scarpetta worries herself sick that Carrie, a malicious psychopath, will use the clip to undermine her niece's career. But for fuzzy reasons, Scarpetta keeps her worries to herself, unwilling to share them with her husband, an F.B.I. profiler, or her cop friend, Pete Marino. Not even when the F.B.I. comes down on Lucy. Once Scarpetta decides to ferret out Lucy's secrets, the novel becomes more of a psychological thriller than a crime drama, although that suspicious death isn't entirely forgotten. Scarpetta follows the autopsy on her computer screen and even wades into the murky waters of "invisibility technology," hoping to learn how "augmented reality or optical camouflage" might have figured in the case. But the real focus is on Scarpetta's obsession with Carrie: "For years she'd invaded my psyche I waited for her to torture and murder someone- I constantly looked for her when I was with Lucy and when I wasn't. Then I stopped." And then she started again. CHARLES FINCH'S VICTORIAN whodunits, with their resolutely aristocratic sensibility, can be a guilty pleasure for the more plebeian reader. His gentleman sleuth, Charles Lenox, is a partner in a London detective agency, but he's also the brother of a baronet and is married to the daughter of an earl. In HOME BY NIGHTFALL (Minotaur, $25.99), a sterling addition to this well-polished series, all of London is talking about the renowned German pianist who disappeared from his dressing room after a concert. But before Lenox can apply his wits to that locked-room puzzle, he must head to the family estate in Sussex, hoping to console his grief-stricken brother after the sudden death of his wife. A series of odd, mysterious thefts in the nearby town of Markethouse prove the perfect distraction for Sir Edmund Lenox, as well as a chance for Finch to dazzle us with his amusing studies of country folk and his offbeat approach to historical particulars. So while we're treated to all the showy details of an elaborate ball at an ancestral manor, we're also beguiled by tidbits about the importance in Victorian society of wearing a hat and the remarkable contributions of the era's fanatical amateur geologists to the field of natural science. OUTSIDE of a Marvel comic book, can a crime story have too many heroes - even if they're all great guys? Absolutely, and Robert Crais's latest novel, THE PROMISE (Putnam, $27.95), is a case in point. His go-to protagonist, the California private eye Elvis Cole, is first on the job when an executive at a company that manufactures the chemical ingredients for heavy explosives hires him to find its top engineer, a woman who has gone looking for answers after her son was killed in a terrorist bombing. You don't want to fool around with chemical weaponry, international terrorists or a vengeful mother, so Cole recruits his scary friend, Joe Pike, a soldier of fortune who brings along his own scary friend, a "professional warrior" named Jon Stone. These big boys do so much heavy lifting that we almost lose sight of two other heroes, first met in Crais's previous book, the K-9 officer Scott James and his partner, Maggie, a German shepherd with more personality than all of them put together. THE KELLERMANS ARE on the march. In THE THEORY OF DEATH (Morrow/HarperCollins, $26.99), Faye Kellerman writes with her usual sensitivity about troubled teenagers and young adults like Eli Wolf, a math genius whose naked body is found in the woods not far from his college in Greenbury, N.Y. Detective Peter Decker, who relocated to this upstate burg after a more eventful career as a Los Angeles cop, is too conscientious to write off Eli's lonely death as a suicide, but when he opens an investigation it lands him in the snake pit of academic politics. Writing to her strengths, Kellerman shows her customary compassion for isolated souls like Eli and social outliers like his Mennonite farm family. Kellerman's husband, Jonathan, and their son, Jesse, team up in THE GOLEM OF PARIS (Putnam, $27.95) on something truly off the wall - a classically constructed detective story featuring the tormented hero of a previous book ("The Golem of Hollywood") that morphs into a supernatural thriller combining elements of Jewish legend, religious mysticism and pagan mythology. While the novel's paranormal elements don't mesh easily with the procedural work, it's hard to resist a protagonist who does battle with demonic giants and is in thrall to a woman who's part angel and part bug.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [November 15, 2015]

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Review by Booklist Review

Elvis Cole is joined by his longtime sidekick, Joe Pike; Pike's pal Jon Stone; and the stars of Cole's Suspect (2013), Scott James and K-9 wonder Maggie, on his latest case, a sure treat for Crais' enormous following. Cole is tracking Amy Breslyn, a missing chemical engineer who develops fuel for the Department of Defense. According to her boss (and Elvis' client), Amy has changed dramatically since her son was killed in a terrorist attack abroad. Now, Amy has a shady new boyfriend and has seemingly disappeared. Elvis follows his only lead to a house where he finds a dead gangbanger and a cache of black-market explosives, which he's sure are linked to his missing chemist, but now he has a new problem: clearing himself as a suspect in the gangbanger's murder. Crais revisits K-9 Officer James' compelling relationship with his canine partner, Maggie, when a death threat forces him to choose between following orders and trusting Cole. The World's Greatest Detective is as quick-witted as ever, and the timely link to al-Qaeda terrorist factions adds both balancing gravitas and suspenseful kick.--Tran, Christine Copyright 2015 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

MWA Grandmaster Crais is at the top of his game in his 16th Elvis Cole novel (after 2012's Taken). When the L.A. PI goes looking for chemical engineer Amy Breslyn, who has absconded with $460,000 from her company, Woodson Energy Solutions, he learns that Amy's motive involves her journalist son, who died in a terrorist bombing in Nigeria 16 months earlier. The investigation takes Cole to a house in Echo Park crammed with explosives-a locale that also attracts LAPD K-9 officer Scott James and his German shepherd Maggie (the protagonists of 2013's Suspect). At the house, a criminal mastermind eludes the team, but when the crook realizes that James can identify him, he determines to eliminate the K-9 officer. Meanwhile, the Major Crimes squad becomes suspicious of Cole, who calls on his partner, the ultracryptic Joe Pike, for help. Pike in turn enlists the talents of former Delta Force op Jon Stone, now a mercenary. The resolution of the complicated conspiracy is both clever and touching. Agent: Aaron Priest, Aaron M. Priest Literary Agency. (Nov.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Los Angeles private investigator Elvis Cole is joined by K-9 cop Scott James and his battle-scarred German shepherd, Maggie, in the search for a woman out to avenge the killing of her son in a suicide bombing in Nigeria. The woman, Amy Breslyn, is a chemical production engineer working for the government who disappeared with $460,000 in company money and a newly purchased gun. Cole is directed to a bungalow in Echo Park, where James encounters him after a man is beaten to death inside, surrounded by a stash of munitions and explosives. We learn that Amy has infiltrated the arms-dealing culture hoping to get close to people who know the identity of her son's murderers. Persecuted by the LAPD, Cole and his taciturn partner, Joe Pike, slowly unravel bad information and false identitieshelped by James reluctantly at first, since he's not sure Cole isn't dirty, and then wholeheartedly after attempts on the lives of both the K-9 officer and his Afghanistan-traumatized dog (introduced in the 2013 stand-alone Suspect). After 20 novels, Crais remains one of crime fiction's smartest and most effortless plotters. The story unfolds with supreme ease, energized by the enigmatic presence of mercenary Jon Stone. James' undying love for Maggie can be a bit much, as can Crais' decision to narrate a nightmare sequence from the dog's point of view. But the book speeds along at an agreeable clip, lifted by the author's command of the setting, and those military canines do deserve their plaudits. Not Crais' deepest or thorniest mystery but another solid outing with a host of involving characters. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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CHAPTER 1: Mr. Rollins The woman stood in the far corner of the dimly lit room, hiding in shadows like a fish in gray water. She was small, round,  and dumpy. The fringed leather jacket probably made her seem rounder,  but she'd never been a looker.  She reminded  Mr. Rollins of an overripe peach, and the peach was clearly afraid. A steady rain fell from the overcast night. The dingy, one-bedroom bungalow west of Echo Park reeked of bleach and ammonia, but the windows  were closed, the shades were  down, and the doors were locked. A single yellow twenty-five-watt lamp provided the only light. The chemical smell gave Mr. Rollins  a headache, but he could not open the windows. They were screwed shut. Rollins wasn't his real name, but the man and the woman probably weren't using their true names, either. Amy and Charles. Amy hadn't  said three words since they arrived. Charles did the talking and Charles was getting impatient. "How long does this take?" The chemist's answer was resentful. "Two minutes,  dude. Relax. Science takes time." The chemist was a juiced-up, sleeved-out rock pile hunched over the coffee table. A hiker's LED headlamp blazed on his forehead. He was heating the contents of a glass jar with a small torch while watching two meters  that looked like swollen  TV remotes. Rollins had found him cooking  meth  eight years ago and used him often. Charles  was a trim man in his forties with neat brown hair and the tight build of a tennis player. Mr. Rollins had made three buys off Charles in the past year, and all had gone well. This was why Mr. Rollins let him bring the woman,  only now, seeing her, Rollins wondered why she wanted to come. She damned near pissed herself when Rol- lins searched her and made them put on the gloves. He made everyone who entered the house wear vinyl gloves. Rollins did not allow food or drinks. No one could chew gum or smoke cigarettes. The list was pretty long. Mr. Rollins had rules. He smiled as he adjusted  his gloves. "They make your hands sweat, don't they, Amy? I know it's a pain, but we're almost finished." Charles answered for her. "She's fine. Tell your man to finish up so we can get out of here." The chemist mumbled without looking up. "Fuck off." Rollins smiled at Amy again and glanced at the round plastic container beside the chemist. It was filled with a material that looked like yogurt and felt like modeling clay. "Where'd you get this?" Charles stepped on her answer again. "I told you where we got it." Rollins considered pushing his pistol up Charles's ass and popping a cap, but he did not let his feelings show. "I'm just making conversation. Amy seems nervous." Charles glanced at Amy. "She's fine." Amy's voice was whisper-soft when she finally  spoke. "I made it." The chemist snorted. "Yeah. Right." Then the chemist sat up and gazed at Rollins. "Whoever made it did a righteous job. It's the real deal, brother." Charles crossed his arms. Smug. "You see?" Rollins was impressed. The material in the Tupperware was not easy to come by. Charles claimed the woman had two hundred kilo- grams. "What about tags?" The chemist turned off the torch and unplugged the meters. "Ethylene test shows zero. I'll know parts per million when I run a sample at home, but the stuff is clean, bro. No tags. Untraceable." Rollins thanked the chemist, who packed his equipment into a green backpack and let himself out through the kitchen. A light win- ter shower pattered the roof. Charles said, "So now what? Are we in business?" Rollins  sealed the lid on the Tupperware. "The buyer will test it himself. If his results are the same, we're golden." Amy spoke again and this time she sounded anxious. "I'll make more for the right buyer. I can make all they want." Charles took her arm, trying to turn her away. "Let's see their money first." Amy did not move. "I have to meet them, you know. That's a requirement." "Not now." Charles steered her toward the front door like a shopping  cart. Rollins quickly stopped them. "Back door, Charles. Never the front." Charles swung  the woman around and aimed her toward  the kitchen. After insisting she come, Charles couldn't get her out of the house fast enough. Rollins opened the back door and asked for their gloves. He gave Amy a gentle smile. "Buyers don't like to be met, but they'll make an exception for you, Amy. I promise." She seemed ready to cry, but Charles pulled her out and they dis- appeared into the rain. Rollins locked the kitchen door and hurried  to the front door, where he peered through  a peephole. When Charles and Amy reached the street, he returned to the kitchen and opened the back door to air the place out. The tiny backyard was dark and hidden from neighbors by overgrown bushes and a sprawling  avocado tree. Rollins stood in the door breathing air that didn't stink of ammo- nia and called his buyer. "Good news." A coded way of saying the tests were positive. "Very good. I will send someone." "Tonight." "Yes. Now." "You have the other things here, too. I've told you for a week to come get this stuff." "I am sending someone." "I want it gone. All of it." "He will take it." Rollins put the Tupperware in the bedroom with the other things and returned to the kitchen. He still wore his gloves and would wear them until he left. He took a one-liter spray bottle from beneath the sink and sprayed bleach on the kitchen counters and floor and door. He sprayed the coffee table where the chemist had done his work and the stool on which the chemist had sat. He sprayed the living room floor and the doorjamb between the kitchen and living room. Rollins believed the bleach would destroy the enzymes and oils left in fingerprints or spit and erase DNA evidence. He wasn't convinced this was true, but it seemed sensible, so he bleached out the house whenever he used it. When Mr. Rollins acquired the house, he made several changes to better serve his needs, like screwing shut the windows and installing peepholes. Nothing  fancy, nothing  expensive, and nothing  to attract the neighbors' attention, none of whom knew him, had met him or, hopefully, seen him.  Rollins did only enough maintenance  to prevent the house from becoming an eyesore. He let people stay from time to time, never anyone he personally knew and only long enough so the neighbors would think the house was a rental.  Mr. Rollins had not built a fortress when he acquired the house, just a place of relative safety from which to do his crime. Rollins put away the bleach, returned  to the living room, and turned off the lamp. He sat in the darkness, nose burning  as he lis- tened to the rain. 9:42 p.m. 2142 hours. 1742 Zulu Time. Mr. Rollins hated to wait, but there was big money at stake if Charles and Amy were real. Rollins wondered if Charles beat her. He seemed like the type.  She seemed like the type, too. Rollins's older sister married  a man who abused her for years until  Rollins  killed  him. Rollins checked the time again. 9:51. Rollins put his pistol on the couch. He rested his hand on the gun, checked the time, and closed his eyes. 9:53. The rain stopped. 10:14. Someone knocked at the front door. Rollins jerked to his feet and moved quickly into the kitchen. The buyer's man would  never use the front door. That was a rule. Every- one used the back. Rollins quietly  closed and locked the kitchen door as knocking came from the front. Knock knock knock. Rollins slipped off his shoes and hurried  to the front. Knock knock knock. Mr. Rollins peered through  the peephole and saw an adult male in a dark rain shell. The hood was back and the unzipped shell exposed a loud patterned shirt. Average height, Anglo, dark hair. The man pressed the bell, but the bell didn't work, so he knocked again. Rollins  held his pistol  close as he watched. The man waited a few seconds and finally  walked  away. Rollins watched for another two minutes. Cars passed and a cou- ple went by huddled beneath an umbrella even though  the rain no longer fell. The world appeared normal,  but a siren wailed in the dis- tance. Rollins had a bad feeling. 10:32. Rollins phoned the buyer again. "The person you sent, he knows to go to the back?" "Yes. Of course. He has been there before." "If you sent someone, he didn't show." "Hold on. I will find out." A second siren was screaming. Closer. The man's voice returned. "He should have been there. This is not right." "I'm jammed up here, man. I want to leave." "Bring the material to me. Not here. Someone will meet you by MacArthur Park, there on the northeast corner." Rollins felt a flash of anger, but kept his voice cool. Rollins had made a fortune  off this man and stood to make more. "You know the rules, Eli. I'm not driving around with your things in my car. Come get this crap." Rollins was pocketing his phone when he heard a wet crunch in the yard and pounding on the back door. Rollins hurried to the kitchen,  checked the peephole, and saw a face he recognized. Carlos, Caesar, something  like that. His eyes were bright and he was breathing hard when Rollins opened the door. Rollins scratched gloves from his pocket. "Put on the gloves, you idiot." Carlos ignored the gloves and ran to the living room, trailing mud and grass. He peeked out the nearest window,  bare fingers touching the shade. A helicopter passed overhead  so low the little house shook. "Fuck your gloves. You hear that? The police are on me, bro. Ain't this fuckin' cool? I smoked their blue ass!" The helicopter rumbled away, but circled the area. Rollins felt a burst  of fear. Thoughts of mud, grass, and fingerprints on the shade vanished. He touched  aside the shade and saw a blazing searchlight sweep the next street. "You brought the police." Carlos turned away, laughing. "I lost them, bro. I could be anywhere." Rollins felt as if his head were filling with angry maggots. The helicopter orbited overhead, lighting up the shades. The chop of the rotor moved away and slowly circled. "How the fuck did this happen?" "They made my face. I got warrants, y'know? Relax." Carlos flopped onto the couch, giggling, wired on adrenaline and chemicals. His muddy  shoes were on the cushions. "They don't know where I am. They gonna roll over us and keep right on rollin'." Rollins  gathered his thoughts. The house  was now lost. The goods in the bedroom were history. The mud and the grass no longer mattered. Rollins could not allow himself to be found here with the material in the bedroom and this giggling idiot on the couch. Rollins accepted these facts and the acceptance brought  calm. The pistol was no good to him now. Rollins returned to the cabi- net where he kept the bleach and took out a rusted,  fourteen-inch pipe wrench. The wrench easily weighed three or four pounds. Carlos was still stretched on the couch when Mr. Rollins went back to the living room. He strode directly to Carlos without  saying a word and brought the wrench down hard. He felt the head go on the first blow, but gave it two more. Rollins dropped the wrench and put on a fresh  pair of gloves. He pressed the pistol into Carlos's hands, both hands so it would look like Carlos had handled the gun, and dropped it beside the wrench. If Rollins was picked up, he did not want a gun in his possession. The helicopter  passed again. The shades flashed  into blinding white rectangles and once more filled with black. Rollins trotted to the front door and looked through the peep- hole. A police officer  passed on the sidewalk  and another  spoke with people across the street. Rollins  closed his eyes. He took slow, mea- sured  breaths  as he counted to one hundred. He put his eye to the peephole again. The policemen were gone. Rollins returned to the kitchen. He wore a dark sport coat and slacks. There would be blood splatter, but the blood would be difficult to see at night on the dark fabric. He had a nylon rain shell, but de- cided not to put it on. The sport coat was better. The police were looking for a young Latin guy in a black T-shirt,  not an older, well- dressed Anglo.  His car was several blocks away. If Rollins could get away from the house and beyond the police perimeter, he still might survive. The light returned and slid away again. Rollins moved in the moment of darkness. He opened the kitchen door, peeled off his gloves, and stepped out. A cop and a German shepherd were in the backyard. The dog was a deep-chested brute with angry eyes and fangs like daggers. The cop shouted as the dog charged. Excerpted from The Promise by Robert Crais All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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