The Clinic (Alex Delaware Series #11)

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Professor Hope Devane’s male-bashing pop-psych bestseller created a storm of controversy on the talk-show circuit. Now she is dead, brutally slashed on a quiet street in one of L.A.’s safest neighborhoods. The LAPD’s investigation has gone cold, and homicide detective Milo ...
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Professor Hope Devane’s male-bashing pop-psych bestseller created a storm of controversy on the talk-show circuit. Now she is dead, brutally slashed on a quiet street in one of L.A.’s safest neighborhoods. The LAPD’s investigation has gone cold, and homicide detective Milo Sturgis turns to his friend Dr. Alex Delaware for a psychological profile of the victim—and a portrait of a killer.
“Engrossing . . . mines new realms of psychological terror . . . holds the reader riveted.”—Playboy
Hope Devane had very different public and private faces. The killer could be any one of the millions who read her book, or someone from the personal life she kept so carefully separate. As Alex and Milo dig deeper into her shadowy past, they will set an elaborate trap for her killer . . . and reveal the unspeakable act that triggered a dark chain of violence.

On the heels of Jonathan Kellerman's eleventh consecutive New York Times bestseller, The Web, comes an Alex Delaware novel to rival his best. When the LAPD is stumped by the murder of the author of a scathing bestseller that bashes men, Detective Milo Sturgis brings in psychologist Alex Delaware to look behind the victim's public facade. Deware interrogates a colorful cast of characters close to the case , and Kellerman delivers as only he can in this entertaining whodunit.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Kellerman doesn’t just write psychological thrillers—he owns the genre.”—Detroit Free Press
“Quite possibly the best of the series—and that’s saying quite a lot.”—Chicago Tribune
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
PW gave a starred review to this thriller about a psychologist's entanglement in a murder case.
Library Journal
In Kellerman's latest Alex Delaware novel (e.g., The Web), the psychologist is again called upon by his detective friend Milo Sturgis to help solve a murder. This time the victim is another psychologist, Hope Devane. Devane had recently gone from relative obscurity as a faculty member of a large California university to national recognition as the author of a best seller, a scathing criticism of men. The list of suspects, mostly male, include the victim's husband, colleagues, and students. When the lack of hard evidence fails to reveal the guilty party, Delaware uses his expertise to delve into the psychological aspects of the case. As in previous novels in the series, the maze-like plot twists sometimes lead nowhere, but eventually revelations about the backgrounds and relationships of victim and suspects emerge. John Rubinstein's reading is consistently even-paced and controlled, with well-defined characterizations. A must for Kellerman fans and a good choice for collections of mystery and suspense.
-- Catherine Swenson, Norwich University Library, Northfield, Vermont
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345540195
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 3/26/2013
  • Series: Alex Delaware Series , #11
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 464
  • Sales rank: 229,916
  • Product dimensions: 4.10 (w) x 7.40 (h) x 1.30 (d)

Meet the Author

Jonathan Kellerman

Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to more than thirty bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted, and True Detectives. With his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored the bestsellers Double Homicide and Capital Crimes. He is the author of numerous essays, short stories, scientific articles, two children’s books, and three volumes of psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children, as well as the lavishly illustrated With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California, New Mexico, and New York. Their four children include the novelists Jesse Kellerman and Aliza Kellerman.


"I like to say that as a psychologist I was concerned with the rules of human behavior," Jonathan Kellerman has said. "As a novelist, I'm concerned with the exceptions." Both roles are evident in Kellerman's string of bestselling psychological thrillers, in which he probes the hidden corners of the human psyche with a clinician's expertise and a novelist's dark imagination.

Kellerman worked for years as a child psychologist, but his first love was writing, which he started doing at the age of nine. After reading Ross MacDonald's Lew Archer novels, however, Kellerman found his voice as a writer -- and his calling as a suspense novelist. His first published novel, When the Bough Breaks, featured a child psychologist, Dr. Alex Delaware, who helps solve a murder case in which the only apparent witness is a traumatized seven-year-old girl. The book was an instant hit; as New York's Newsday raved, "[T]his knockout of an entertainment is the kind of book which establishes a career in one stroke."

Kellerman has since written a slew more Alex Delaware thrillers; not surprisingly, the series hero shares much of Kellerman's own background. The books often center on problems of family psychopathology—something Kellerman had ample chance to observe in his day job. The Delaware novels have also chronicled the shifting social and cultural landscape of Los Angeles, where Kellerman lives with his wife (who is also a health care practitioner-turned-novelist) and their four children.

A prolific author who averages one book a year, Kellerman dislikes the suggestion that he simply cranks them out. He has a disciplined work schedule, and sits down to write in his office five days a week, whether he feels "inspired" or not. "I sit down and start typing. I think it's important to deromanticize the process and not to get puffed up about one's abilities," he said in a 1998 chat on Barnes & "Writing fiction's the greatest job in the world, but it's still a job. All the successful novelists I know share two qualities: talent and a good work ethic."

And he does plenty of research, drawing on medical databases and current journals as well as his own experience as a practicing psychologist. Then there are the field trips: before writing Monster, Kellerman spent time at a state hospital for the criminally insane.

Kellerman has taken periodic breaks from his Alex Delaware series to produce highly successful stand-alone novels that he claims have helped him to gain some needed distance from the series characters. It's a testament to Kellerman's storytelling powers that the series books and the stand-alones have both gone over well with readers; clearly, Kellerman's appeal lies more in his dexterity than in his reliance on a formula. "Often mystery writers can either plot like devils or create believable characters," wrote one USA Today reviewer. "Kellerman stands out because he can do both. Masterfully."

Good To Know

Some outtakes from our interview with Jonathan Kellerman:
"I am the proud husband of a brilliant novelist, Faye Kellerman. I am the proud father of a brilliant novelist, Jesse Kellerman. And three lovely, gifted daughters, one of whom, Aliza, may turn out to be one of the greatest novelists/poets of this century. "

"My first job was selling newspapers on a corner, age 12. Then I delivered liquor, age 16 -- the most engaging part of that gig was schlepping cartons of bottles up stairways in building without elevators. Adding insult to injury, tips generally ranged from a dime to a quarter. And, I was too young to sample the wares. Subsequent jobs included guitar teacher, freelance musician, newspaper cartoonist, Sunday School teacher, youth leader, research/teaching assistant. All of that simplified when I was 24 and earned a Ph.D. in psychology. Another great job. Then novelist? Oh, my, an embarrassment of riches. Thank you, thank you, thank you, kind readers. I'm the luckiest guy in the world.

"I paint, I play the guitar, I like to hang out with intelligent people whose thought processes aren't by stereotype, punditry, political correctness, etc. But enough about me. The important thing is The Book."

More fun facts:
After Kellerman called his literary agent to say that his wife, Faye, had written a novel, the agent reluctantly agreed to take a look ("Later, he told me his eyes rolled all the way back in his head," Kellerman said in an online chat). Two weeks later, a publisher snapped up Faye Kellerman's first book, The Ritual Bath. Faye Kellerman has since written many more mysteries featuring L.A. cop Peter Decker and his wife Rina Lazarus, including the bestsellers Justice and Jupiter's Bones.

When Kellerman wrote When the Bough Breaks in 1981, crime novels featuring gay characters were nearly nonexistent, so Alex Delaware's gay detective friend, Milo Sturgis, was a rarity. Kellerman admits it can be difficult for a straight writer to portray a gay character, but says the feedback he's gotten from readers -- gay and straight -- has been mostly positive.

In his spare time, Kellerman is a musician who collects vintage guitars. He once placed the winning online auction bid for a guitar signed by Don Henley and his bandmates from the Eagles; proceeds from the sale were donated to the Jewish Federation of Greater Dallas.

In addition to his novels, Kellerman has written two children's books and three nonfiction books, including Savage Spawn, about the backgrounds and behaviors of child psychopaths.

But for a 1986 television adaptation of When the Bough Breaks, none of Kellerman's work has yet made it to screen. "I wish I could say that Hollywood's beating a path to my door," he said in a Barnes & chat in 1998, "but the powers-that-be at the studios don't seem to feel that my books lend themselves to film adaptation. The most frequent problem cited is too much complexity."

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    1. Hometown:
      Beverly Hills, California
    1. Date of Birth:
      August 9, 1949
    2. Place of Birth:
      New York, New York
    1. Education:
      B.A. in psychology, University of California-Los Angeles; Ph.D., University of Southern California, 1974
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt



Few murder streets are lovely. This one was.

Elm-shaded, a softly curving stroll to the University, lined with generous haciendas and California colonials above lawns as unblemished as fresh billiard felt.

Giant elms. Hope Devane had bled to death under one of them, a block from her home, on the southwest corner.

I looked at the spot again, barely exposed by a reluctant moon. The night-quiet was broken only by crickets and the occasional late-model well-tuned car.

Locals returning home. Months past the curious-onlooker stage.

Milo lit up a cigarillo and blew smoke out the window.

Cranking my window down, I continued to stare at the elm.

A twisting trunk as thick as a freeway pylon supported sixty feet of opaque foliage. Stout, grasping branches appeared frosted in the moonlight, some so laden they brushed the ground.

Five years since the city had last pruned street trees. Property-tax shortfall. The theory was that the killer had hidden under the canopy, though no hint of presence other than bicycle tracks, a few feet away, was ever found.

Three months later, theory was all that remained and not much of that.

Milo’s unmarked Ford shared the block with two other cars, both Mercedeses, both with parking permits on their windshields.

After the murder, the city had promised to trim the elms. No follow-through yet.

Milo had told me about it with some bitterness, cursing politicians but really damning the cold case.

“A couple of news stories, then nada.”

“Current events as fast food,” I’d said. “Quick, greasy, forgettable.”

“Aren’t we the cynic.”

“Professional training: aiming for rapport with the patient.”

That had gotten a laugh out of him. Now he frowned, brushed hair off his forehead, and blew wobbly smoke rings.

Edging the car up the block, he parked again. “That’s her house.” He pointed to one of the colonials, smallish, but well-kept. White board front, four columns, dark shutters, shiny fittings on a shiny door. Three steps up from the sidewalk a flagstone path cut through the lawn. A picket gate blocked the driveway.

Two upstairs windows were amber behind pale curtains.

“Someone home?” I said.

“That’s his Volvo in the driveway.”

Light-colored station wagon.

“He’s always home,” said Milo. “Once he gets in he never leaves.”

“Still mourning?”

He shrugged. “She drove a little red Mustang. She was a lot younger than him.”

“How much younger?”

“Fifteen years.”

“What about him interests you?”

“The way he acts when I talk to him.”


“Unhelpful. Paz and Fellows thought so, too. For what that’s worth.”

He didn’t think much of the first detectives on the case and the common ground probably bothered him as much as anything.

“Well,” I said, “isn’t the husband always the first suspect? Though stabbing her out on the street doesn’t sound typical.”

“True.” He rubbed his eyes. “Braining her in the bedroom would have been more marital. But it happens.” Twirling the cigar. “Live long enough, everything happens.”

“Where exactly were the bicycle tracks?”

“Just north of the body but I wouldn’t make much of those. Lab guys say they could have been anywhere from one to ten days old. A neighbor kid, a student, a fitness freak, anyone. And no one I talked to when I did the door-to-door noticed an unusual biker that whole week.”

“What’s an unusual biker?”

“Someone who didn’t fit in.”

“Someone nonwhite?”

“Whatever works.”

“Quiet neighborhood like this,” I said, “it’s surprising no one saw or heard anything at eleven p.m.”

“Coroner said it’s possible she didn’t scream. No defense wounds, no tentatives, so she probably didn’t struggle much.”

“True.” I’d read the autopsy findings. Read the entire file, starting with Paz and Fellows’s initial report and ending with the pathologist’s dictated drone and the packet of postmortem photos. How many such pictures had I seen over the years? It never got easier.

“No scream,” I said, “because of the heart wound?”

“Coroner said it could have collapsed the heart, put her into instant shock.”

He snapped thick fingers softly, then ran his hand over his face, as if washing without water. What I could see of his profile was heavy as a walrus’s, pocked and fatigued.

He smoked some more. I thought again of the preautopsy photos, Hope Devane’s body ice-white under the coroner’s lights. Three deep purple stab wounds in close-up: chest, crotch, just above the left kidney.

The forensic scenario was that she’d been taken by surprise and dispatched quickly by the blow that exploded her heart, then slashed a second time above the vagina, and finally laid facedown on the sidewalk and stabbed in the back.

“A husband doing that,” I said. “I know you’ve seen worse but it seems so calculated.”

“This husband’s an intellectual, right? A thinker.” Smoke escaped the car in wisps, decaying instantly at the touch of night air. “Truth is, Alex, I want it to be Seacrest for selfish reasons. ’Cause if it’s not him, it’s a goddamn logistical nightmare.”

“Too many suspects.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, almost singing it. “Lots of people who could’ve hated her.”



A self-help book changed Hope Devane’s life.

Wolves and Sheep wasn’t the first thing she published: a psychology monograph and three dozen journal articles had earned her a full professorship at thirty-eight, two years before her death.

Tenure had given her job security and the freedom to enter the public eye with a book the tenure committee wouldn’t have liked.

Wolves made the best-seller lists for a month, earning her center ring in the media circus and more money than she could have accumulated in ten years as a professor.

She was suited to the public eye, blessed with the kind of refined, blond good looks that played well on the small screen. That, and a soft, modulated voice that came across confident and reasonable over the radio, meant she had no trouble getting publicity bookings. And she made the most of each one. For despite Wolves’s subtitle, Why Men Inevitably Hurt Women and What Women Can Do to Avoid It, and its indicting tone, her public persona was that of an intelligent, articulate, thoughtful, pleasant woman entering the public arena with reluctance but performing graciously.

I knew all that but had little understanding of the person she’d been.

Milo had left me three LAPD evidence boxes to review: her resume, audio- and videotapes, some newspaper coverage, the book. All passed along by Paz and Fellows. They’d never studied any of it.

He’d told me about inheriting the case the night before, sitting across the table from Robin and me at a seafood place in Santa Monica. The bar was crowded but half the booths were empty and we sat in a corner, away from sports on big-screen and frightened people trying to connect with strangers. Midway through the meal Robin left for the ladies’ room and Milo said, “Guess what I got for Christmas?”

“Christmas is months away.”

“Maybe that’s why this is no gift. Cold case. Three months cold: Hope Devane.”

“Why now?”

“ ’Cause it’s dead.”

“The new lieutenant?”

He dipped a shrimp in sauce and put the whole thing in his mouth. As he chewed, his jaw bunched. He kept looking around the room even though there was nothing to see.

New lieutenant, same old pattern.

He was the only acknowledged gay detective in the LAPD, would never be fully accepted. His twenty-year climb to Detective III had been marked by humiliation, sabotage, periods of benign neglect, near-violence. His solve record was excellent and sometimes that helped keep the hostility under the surface. His quality of life depended upon the attitude of the superior-of-the-moment. The new one was baffled and nervous, but too preoccupied with a dispirited postriot department to pay too much attention to Milo.

“He gave it to you because he thinks it’s a low-probability solve?”

He smiled, as if savoring a private joke.

“Also,” he said, “he figures Devane might have been a lesbian. ‘Should be right up your . . . ahem ahem . . . alley, Sturgis.’ ”

Another shrimp disappeared. His lumpy face remained static and he folded his napkin double, then unfolded it. His necktie was a horrid brown-and-ochre paisley fighting a duel with his gray hounds-tooth jacket. His black hair, now flecked with white, had been chopped nearly to the skin at the sides, but the top had been left long and the sideburns were still long—and completely snowy.

“Is there any indication she was gay?” I said.

“Nope. But she had tough things to say about men, so ergo, ipso facto.”

Robin returned. She’d reapplied her lipstick and had fluffed her hair. The royal-blue dress intensified the auburn, the silk accentuated every movement. We’d spent some time on a Pacific island and her olive skin had held on to the tan.

I’d killed a man there. Clear self-defense—saving Robin’s life as well as mine. Sometimes I still had nightmares.

“You two look serious,” she said, slipping into the booth. Our knees touched.

“Doing my homework,” said Milo. “I know how much this guy enjoyed school, so I thought I’d share it.”

“He just got the Hope Devane murder,” I said.

“I thought they’d given up on that.”

“They have.”

“What a terrifying thing.”

Something in her voice made me look at her.

“More terrifying,” I said, “than any other murder?”

“In some ways, Alex. Good neighborhood like that, you go for a walk right outside your house and someone jumps out and cuts you?”

I placed my hand on top of hers. She didn’t seem to notice.

“The first thing I thought of,” she said, “was she was killed because of her views. And that would make it terrorism. But even if it was just some nut picking her at random, it’s still terrorism in a sense. Personal freedom in this city kicked another notch lower.”

Our knees moved apart. Her fingers were delicate icicles.

“Well,” she said, “at least you’re on it, Milo. Anything so far?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Situation like this, what you do is start fresh. Let’s hope for the best.”

In the kindest of times optimism was a strain for him. The words sounded so out-of-character he could have been auditioning for summer stock.

“Also,” he said, “I thought Alex might be able to help me. Dr. Devane being a psychologist.”

“Did you know her, Alex?”

I shook my head.

The waiter came over. “More wine?”

“Yes,” I said. “Another bottle.”

The next morning, Milo brought me the boxes and left. On top was the academic resume.

Her full name was Hope Alice Devane. Father: Andre. Mother: Charlotte. Both deceased.

Under marital status, she’d typed married, but she hadn’t listed Philip Seacrest’s name.

children: none.

She’d been born in California, in a town I’d never heard of called Higginsville. Probably somewhere in the center of the state, because she’d graduated from Bakersfield High School as class valedictorian and a National Merit Scholar before enrolling at UC Berkeley as a Regent’s Scholar. Dean’s list every quarter, Phi Beta Kappa, graduation with a summa cum laude degree in psychology, then continuation at Berkeley for her Ph.D.

She’d published her first two papers as a graduate student and moved to L.A. for clinical training: internship and postdoctoral fellowship, crosstown, in the Psychiatry Department at County General Hospital. Then an appointment as a lecturer in women’s studies at the University and a transfer, the following year, to the Psychology Department as an assistant professor.

Next came ten pages of society memberships, scholarly publications, abstracts, papers delivered at conferences. Her first research topic had been differential achievement in girls and boys on mathematics tests, then she’d shifted gears to sex roles and child-rearing methods, and, once again, to sex roles as they affected self-control.

An average of five articles a year in solid journals—premium gas for a Ferrari on the tenure fast track. It could have been any C.V., until I came to the tail end of the bibliography section where a subheading entitled Nonpeer Review Publication and Media Work gave an inkling of the turn she’d taken during the year before her death.

Wolves and Sheep, along with its foreign editions, followed by scores of radio and TV and print interviews, appearances on afternoon talk shows.

Shows with titles like FIGHT BACK! Dogging the Predator, The New Slaves, The Testosterone Conspiracy.

The final section was Departmental and Campus Activities and it brought things back to dusty academia.

As an assistant professor she’d sat on four committees. Scheduling and Room Allocation, Graduate Student Orientation, Animal-Subject Safety—the kind of drudgery I knew well—then, six months before her death, she’d chaired something called Interpersonal Conduct that I’d never heard of.

Something to do with sexual harassment? Exploitation of students by faculty? That was something with hostility potential. I placed a check next to the notation and moved on to Wolves and Sheep.

The book jacket was matte red with embossed gold letters and a small black graphic between author and title: silhouettes of the eponymous animals.

The wolf’s mouth was crammed with fangs and its claws reached out for the undersized sheep. On the back was Hope Devane’s color photo. She had an oval face and sweet features, wore a beige cashmere suit and pearls and sat very straight in a brown suede chair backed by shelves of books in soft focus. Mont-Blanc pen in hand, sterling inkwell within reach. Long fingers, pink-polished nails. Honey-blond hair swept back from fine bones, the cheeks accentuated by blush. Light brown eyes clear and wide and direct, soft without being weak. A confident, possibly ironic smile on nacreous lips.

The pages were dog-eared and Milo’s yellow underlining and pen scrawl were all over the margins. I read the book, drove two miles down Beverly Glen and over to the University, where I played with the Biomed library computers for a while.

Interesting results. I returned home, watched the talk-show tapes.

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Table of Contents

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 38 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 38 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 24, 2004

    Fine line between a good book and a trashy one

    I read Jonathan Kellerman's 'The Clinic'; it captured my attention, UNTIL I came upon the racist word 'Nigger' listed in his book not ONCE but TWICE (page 421 and 423) It should be noted that author Jonathan Kellerman, mentions NO other race, save for the ones which he calls NIGGERS and he does so TWICE both in a negative and derogatory context. I had to re-read the passage twice just to make sure that what I was reading was correct. On page 421, the character, written by the author uses the word and describes them as individuals who are only on welfare (which statistics would prove otherwise; especially in the time the character was referring to. On page 423, we read that niggers are individuals who rape (and this is a mild word compared to what the author wrote) children (once again statistics would prove otherwise). These words could DEFINITELY have been avoided but the author purposely and willfully chose to only to include them but to associate them with VILE definitions/examples. I definitely will NEVER read any of Jonathan Kellerman's books again and will continue to tell everyone about this authors flagrant disregard, disrespect and discrimination of minorities through his books. I would give this book 0 star, but 1 was the lowest I could go; the same goes for the author.

    4 out of 8 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 22, 2008

    Really bad one

    I do like the Alex Delaware books but this one was probably one of the worst: trashy, too many 'unexpected' twists, not a great story. Jonathan Kellerman is a fun author to read but not on this one!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 5, 2002

    Not one of his best

    I've read a lot of Kellerman's books. I thought that this one wasn't very plausible at all. I had to force myself to finish it. I didn't care about the 'victim,' Hope Devane, enough to become engaged in the story.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 9, 2000

    Just an 'o.k.' book

    This was my first Kellerman read and while I wasn't totally impressed, I wasn't scared off either. This book just moved very slowly. I've read other Kellerman books since and have enjoyed them more. If it's given to you, read it. Otherwise.......

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 16, 2009

    Jonathan Kellerman

    His writing is always fascinating, well done, have not tired of the characters through the 11 books. it's been interesting seeing the character development through the years

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 8, 2014

    Love the Alex Delaware series.

    I have now finished all 29 Alex Delaware novels. I enjoy him and all the usual characters that appear. I had missed this one. Did Hope DeVane deserve what happened ? Story was good and kept me guessing.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 1, 2013

    Is this the doctors room?

    Because i would like to be a docter here at the clinic

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 29, 2013

    Dr. Song

    Yep did that

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 29, 2013


    First make a office the empty officescare page 2 reasults 5 and 6

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 31, 2013

    Very good.

    I liked the part where Milo brought treats for Spike.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 14, 2012

    the clinic

    Very good reading

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 5, 2002

    Lots of twists and turns!!!!!

    This is an amazing book. The plot is verry good and it makes you wonder what is going to happen next. This book kept me up all night turning pages.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 31, 2001

    Great Book

    This was truly, a Kellerman masterpiece. The plot was good, but the character development was the best part of the novel. Only thing I didn't like was the book was left unfinished, & I would surely give it 5 stars if the Kellerman had found a way to throw the killer in jail.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 23, 2000

    Wonderful Story

    This was the first book by Jonathan Kellerman that I read. Not bad at all! It kept me guessing till the end. The story had a great plot. I like it.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 24, 2012

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 15, 2011

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 26, 2012

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 28, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 31, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 25, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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