Dead Sleep

( 82 )

Overview

They are called "The Sleeping Women." A series of unsettling paintings in which the nude female subjects appear to be not asleep, but dead. Photojournalist Jordan Glass has another reason to find the paintings disturbing...The face on one of the nudes is her own-or perhaps the face of her twin sister, who disappeared and is still missing. At the urging of the FBI, Jordan becomes both hunter and hunted in a search for the anonymous artist-an obsessed killer who seems to know more about Jordan and her family than ...

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Overview

They are called "The Sleeping Women." A series of unsettling paintings in which the nude female subjects appear to be not asleep, but dead. Photojournalist Jordan Glass has another reason to find the paintings disturbing...The face on one of the nudes is her own-or perhaps the face of her twin sister, who disappeared and is still missing. At the urging of the FBI, Jordan becomes both hunter and hunted in a search for the anonymous artist-an obsessed killer who seems to know more about Jordan and her family than she is prepared to face...

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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
Gripping, suspenseful, exciting these are just a few of the praises earned by Iles's previous best-selling books, and they also describe his new one. Photojournalist Jordan Glass is still recovering from the disappearance of her twin sister when, in a Hong Kong museum, she comes face to face with a painting of what may be her sister's dead body. The painting is part of a collection by an anonymous artist made up entirely of nude portraits of women who are missing. Jordan's discovery puts in motion a sequence of events that forces her to confront long-buried secrets and finally deal with the fallout. Iles's obvious ability to plot is strongly supported by fully developed characters, particularly Jordan, and background stories that work as far more than filler. The appearance of the FBI's Daniel Baxter and Dr. Arthur Lenz from Mortal Fear is not just an arbitrary device but a well-thought-out inclusion that will appeal to fans while furthering a complex, fast-paced story. For popular fiction collections. Jane Jorgenson, Madison P.L., WI Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Another top-notch tale of suspense from Iles (24 Hours, 2000, etc.), who this time around finds the clues to a series of grisly murders in an art gallery. The heroine is one Jordan Glass, a photojournalist who is taking some time off from her job in the hopes of getting over the trauma of her sister's murder in New Orleans the year before. On vacation in Hong Kong, Jordan visits the Museum of Chinese Art to see a controversial exhibition of female nudes. The controversy of the paintings is not related to the nudity of the subjects, however-it's a question of whether the women in the paintings (by an unknown artist) were posing alive or dead. It's a macabre scene, to be sure, but what makes things even worse is the reaction of the other museumgoers to Jordan: They stare at her as if she were a ghost as soon as she enters the gallery. When she gets to the end of the show, she sees why: One of the portraits is of her dead sister. Now the time for forgetting is past, and Jordan sets off with the FBI to track down her sister's murderer. Since he is probably a serial killer, there are more lives at stake, and Jordan works under an increasing sense of dread as she pursues her quarry from Hong Kong to New York to New Orleans to the Caribbean. As in all good mysteries, Jordan discovers a few secrets about herself in the process, not to mention plenty of family skeletons she had never imagined. But there's more to defend this time than her family's reputation-or hers. A nice, sharply drawn plot that never goes slack and reaches a surprising conclusion in good time.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780451206527
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
  • Publication date: 7/2/2002
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reissue
  • Pages: 496
  • Sales rank: 150,365
  • Product dimensions: 4.38 (w) x 7.60 (h) x 1.05 (d)

Meet the Author

Greg Iles
Greg Iles was born in 1960 in Germany. He founded the band Frankly Scarlet, plays guitar for the Rock Bottom Remainders, and is the New York Times bestselling author of nine novels, including Blood Memory and 24 Hours. He lives in Natchez, Mississippi.

Biography

Greg Iles has led a sort of double life as a novelist. His first books, based on extrapolations from real events in World War II, earned him an initial following, but his very modern crime novels are what currently hold his -- and his readers' -- focus. His tight pacing and chilling, innovative concepts have made him especially attractive to Hollywood, which has optioned and/or expressed interest in several of his books.

Iles's first novel, Spandau Phoenix, was about the secret escape of a Nazi soldier and the chilling plot related in his discovered diaries. It was a mixed success critically, earning praise for its premise but low marks on style. Since then, Iles has clearly developed as a novelist, and branched out in themes too.

With his second novel, Black Cross, Iles displayed more of a voice and more streamlined plotting in his story of a conspiracy to use the Nazi's own weapons against them. Those first two titles did become bestsellers; but by the time Iles shifted gears to write crime thrillers set in his native Mississippi, he found himself getting even more attention -- and better reviews. His next two books, Mortal Fear and The Quiet Game, remain his personal favorites. Iles was born in Stuttgart, Germany, where his father was in charge of the medical clinic at the U.S. Embassy, in 1961. He graduated from the University of Mississippi in 1983 and played guitar in a rock band for several years before trying his hand at writing novels.

Moving from screenplays to thrillers to speculative historical fiction, Iles continues to stretch as a writer. He also indulges his love for music (he once played guitar in the band Frankly Scarlet) by performing with the Rock Bottom Remainders, an author side project that includes writers Stephen King, Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson, and Amy Tan

Good To Know

After graduation from college, Iles worked as an x-ray and lab technician for his father, dug ditches, and worked as a professional guitarist and singer.

Iles has the ability to be gloomily prophetic, but not intentionally. In an online chat in 1997, a fan pointed out that some real-life Internet-related murders had followed his Mortal Fear. Iles responded: "A lot of my books have been that way. My World War II thriller about Sarin gas [Black Cross] was published two months before the Sarin attack in the Japanese subway. There are very weird coincidences out there. And I do have one surefire plot I have not and probably never will write, because of my fear someone will carry it out."

Iles's wife is a high-school sweetheart whom he married when he was 29.

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    1. Hometown:
      Natchez, Mississippi
    1. Date of Birth:
      November 30, 1960
    2. Place of Birth:
      Stuttgart, Germany
    1. Education:
      B.A., University of Mississippi, 1983
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

Dead Sleep, Chapter One

1.

I stopped shooting people six months ago, just after I won the Pulitzer Prize. People were always my gift, but they were wearing me down long before I won the prize. Still, I kept shooting them, in some blind quest that I didn't even know I was on. It's hard to admit that, but the Pulitzer was a different milestone for me than it is for most photographers. You see, my father won it twice. The first time in 1966, for a series in McComb, Mississippi. The second in 1972, for a shot on the Cambodian border. He never really got that one. The prizewinning film was pulled from his camera by American marines on the wrong side of the Mekong River. The camera was all they found. Twenty frames of Tri-X made the sequence of events clear. Shooting his motor-drive Nikon F2 at five frames per second, my dad recorded the brutal execution of a female prisoner by a Khmer Rouge soldier, then captured the face of her executioner as the pistol was turned toward the brave but foolish man pointing the camera at him. I was twelve years old and ten thousand miles away, but that bullet struck me in the heart.

Jonathan Glass was a legend long before that day, but fame is no comfort to a lonely child. I didn't see my father nearly enough when I was young, so following in his footsteps has been one way for me to get to know him. I still carry his battle-scarred Nikon in my bag. It's a dinosaur by today's standards, but I won my Pulitzer with it. He'd probably joke about the sentimentality of my using his old camera, but I know what he'd say about my winning the prize: Not bad, for a girl.

And then he'd hug me. God, I miss that hug. Like the embrace of a great bear, it swallowed me completely, sheltered me from the world. I haven't felt those arms in twenty-eight years, but they're as familiar as the smell of the sweet olive tree he planted outside my window when I turned eight. I didn't think a tree was much of a birthday present back then, but later, after he was gone, that hypnotic fragrance drifting through my open window at night was like his spirit watching over me. It's been a long time since I slept under that window.

For most photographers, winning the Pulitzer is a triumph of validation, a momentous beginning, the point at which your telephone starts ringing with the job offers of your dreams. For me it was a stopping point. I'd already won the Capa Award twice, which is the one that matters to people who know. In 1936, Robert Capa shot the immortal photo of a Spanish soldier at the instant a fatal bullet struck him, and his name is synonymous with bravery under fire. Capa befriended my father as a young man in Europe, shortly after Capa and Cartier-Bresson and two friends founded Magnum Photos. Three years later, in 1954, Capa stepped on a land mine in what was then called French Indochina, and set a tragic precedent that my father, Sean Flynn (Errol's reckless son), and about thirty other American photographers would follow in one way or another during the three decades of conflict known to the American public as the Vietnam War. But the public doesn't know or care about the Capa Award. It's the Pulitzer they know, and that's what makes the winners marketable.

After I won, new assignments poured in. I declined them all. I was thirty-nine years old, unmarried (though not without offers), and I'd passed the mental state known as "burned out" five years before I put that Pulitzer on my shelf. The reason was simple. My job, reduced to its essentials, has been to chronicle death's grisly passage through the world. Death can be natural, but I see it most often as a manifestation of evil. And like other professionals who see this face of death-cops, soldiers, doctors, priests-war photographers age more rapidly than normal people. The extra years don't always show, but you feel them in the deep places, in the marrow and the heart. They weigh you down in ways that few outside our small fraternity can understand. I say fraternity, because few women do this job. It's not hard to guess why. As Dickey Chappelle, a woman who photographed combat from World War II to Vietnam, once said: This is no place for the feminine.

And yet it was none of this that finally made me stop. You can walk through a corpse-littered battlefield and come upon an orphaned infant lying atop its dead mother and not feel a fraction of what you will when you lose someone you love. Death has punctuated my life with almost unbearable loss, and I hate it. Death is my mortal enemy. Hubris, perhaps, but I come by that honestly. When my father turned his camera on that murderous Khmer Rouge soldier, he must have known his life was forfeit. He shot the picture anyway. He didn't make it out of Cambodia, but his picture did, and it went a long way toward changing the mind of America about that war. All my life I lived by that example, by my father's unwritten code. So no one was more shocked than I that, when death crashed into my family yet again, the encounter shattered me.

I limped through seven months of work, had one spasm of creativity that won me the Pulitzer, then collapsed in an airport. I was hospitalized for six days. The doctors called it post-traumatic stress disorder. I asked them if they expected to be paid for that diagnosis. My closest friends-and even my agent-told me point-blank that I had to stop working for a while. I agreed. The problem was, I didn't know how. Put me on a beach in Tahiti, and I am framing shots in my mind, probing the eyes of waiters or passersby, looking for the life behind life. Sometimes I think I've actually become a camera, an instrument for recording reality, that the exquisite machines I carry when I work are but extensions of my mind and eye. For me there is no vacation. If my eyes are open, I'm working.

Thankfully, a solution presented itself. Several New York editors had been after me for years to do a book. They all wanted the same one: my war photographs. Backed into a corner by my breakdown, I made a devil's bargain. In exchange for letting an editor at Viking do an anthology of my war work, I accepted a double advance: one for that book, and one for the book of my dreams. The book of my dreams has no people in it. No faces, anyway. Not one pair of stunned or haunted eyes. Its working title is "Weather."

"Weather" was what took me to Hong Kong this week. I was there a few months ago to shoot the monsoon as it rolled over one of the most tightly packed cities in the world. I shot Victoria Harbor from the Peak and the Peak from Central, marveling at the different ways rich and poor endured rains so heavy and unrelenting that they've driven many a roundeye to drunkenness or worse. This time Hong Kong was only a way station to China proper, though I scheduled two days there to round out my portfolio on the city. But on the second day, my entire book project imploded. I had no warning, not one prescient moment. That's the way the big things happen in your life.

A friend from Reuters had convinced me that I had to visit the Hong Kong Museum of Art, to see some Chinese watercolors. He said the ancient Chinese painters had achieved an almost perfect purity in their images of nature. I know nothing about art, but I figured the paintings were worth a look, if only for some perspective. Boarding the venerable Star Ferry in the late afternoon, I crossed the harbor to the Kowloon side and made my way on foot to the museum. After twenty minutes inside, perspective was the last thing on my mind.

The guard at the entrance was the first signpost, but I misread him completely. As I walked through the door, his lips parted slightly, and the whites of his eyes grew in an expression not unlike lust. I still cause that reaction in men on occasion, but I should have paid more attention. In Hong Kong I am kwailo, a foreign devil, and my hair is not blond, the color so prized by Chinese men.

Next was the tiny Chinese matron who rented me a Walkman, headphones, and the English-language version of the museum's audio tour. She looked up smiling to hand me the equipment; then her teeth disappeared and her face lost two shades of color. I instinctively turned to see if some thug was standing behind me, but there was only me-all five-feet-eight of me-thin and reasonably muscular but not much of a threat. When I asked what was the matter, she shook her head and busied herself beneath her counter. I felt like someone had just walked over my grave. I shook it off, put on the Walkman, and headed for the exhibition rooms with a voice like Jeremy Irons's speaking sonorous yet precise English in my headphones.

My Reuters friend was right. The watercolors floored me. Some were almost a thousand years old, and hardly faded by the passage of time. The delicately brushed images somehow communicated the smallness of human beings without alienating them from their environment. The backgrounds weren't separated from the subjects, or perhaps there was no background; maybe that was the lesson. As I moved among them, the internal darkness that is my constant companion began to ease, the way it does when I listen to certain music. But the respite was brief. While studying one particular painting-a man poling along a river in a boat not unlike a Cajun pirogue-I noticed a Chinese woman standing to my left. Assuming she was trying to view the painting, I slid a step to my right.

She didn't move. In my peripheral vision, I saw that she was not a visitor but a uniformed cleaning woman with a feather dust mop. And it wasn't the painting she was staring at as though frozen in space, but me. When I turned to face her, she blinked twice, then scurried into the dark recesses of the adjoining room.

I moved on to the next watercolor, wondering why I should transfix her that way. I hadn't spent much time on hair or makeup, but after checking my reflection in a display case, I decided that nothing about my appearance justified a stare. I walked on to the next room, this one containing works from the nineteenth century, but before I could absorb anything about them, I found myself being stared at by another blue-uniformed museum guard. I felt strangely sure that I'd been pointed out to him by the guard from the main entrance. His eyes conveyed something between fascination and fear, and when he realized that I was returning his gaze, he retreated behind the arch.

Fifteen years ago, I took this sort of attention for granted. Furtive stares and strange approaches were standard fare in Eastern Europe and the old Soviet Union. But this was post-handover Hong Kong, the twenty-first century. Thoroughly unsettled, I hurried through the next few exhibition rooms with hardly a glance at the paintings. If I got lucky with a cab, I could get back to the ferry and over to Happy Valley for some sunset shots before my plane departed for Beijing. I turned down a short corridor lined with statuary, hoping to find a shortcut back to the entrance. What I found instead was an exhibition room filled with people.

Hesitating before the arched entrance, I wondered what had brought them there. The rest of the museum was virtually deserted. Were the paintings in this room that much better than the rest? Was there a social function going on? It didn't appear so. The visitors stood silent and apart from one another, studying the paintings with eerie intensity. Posted above the arch was a Lucite plaque with both Chinese pictographs and English letters. It read:

nude women in repose
Artist Unknown

When I looked back into the room, I realized it wasn't filled with "people"-it was filled with men. Why men only? I'd stayed a week in Hong Kong on my last visit, and I hadn't noticed a shortage of nudity, if that was what they were looking for. Every man in the room was Chinese, and every one wore a business suit. I had the impression that each had been compelled to jump up from his desk at work, run down to his car, and race over to the museum to look at these paintings. Reaching down to the Walkman on the waistband of my jeans, I fast-forwarded until I came to a description of the room before me.

"Nude Women in Repose," announced the voice in my headset. "This provocative exhibit contains seven canvases by the unknown artist responsible for the group of paintings known popularly as the 'Sleeping Women' series. The Sleeping Women are a mystery in the world of modern art. Nineteen paintings are known to exist, all oil on canvas, the first coming onto the market in 1999. Over the course of the nineteen paintings, a progression from vague Impressionism to startling Realism occurs, with the most recent works almost photographic in their accuracy. Though all the paintings were originally believed to depict sleeping women in the nude, this theory is now in question. The early paintings are so abstract that the question cannot be settled with certainty, but it is the later canvases that have created a sensation among Asian collectors, who believe the paintings depict women not in sleep but in death. For this reason, the curator has titled the exhibit 'Nude Women in Repose' rather than 'Sleeping Women.' The four paintings that have come onto the market in the past six months have commanded record prices. The last offering, titled simply Number Nineteen, sold to Japanese businessman Hodai Takagi for one point two million pounds sterling. The Museum is deeply indebted to Mr. Takagi for lending three canvases to the current exhibit. As for the artist, his identity remains unknown. His work is available exclusively through Christopher Wingate, LLC, of New York City, USA."

I felt a surprising amount of anxiety standing on the threshold of that roomful of men, silent Asians posed like statues before images I could not yet see. Nude women sleeping, possibly dead. I've seen more dead women than most coroners, many of them naked, their clothes blasted away by artillery shells, burned off by fire, or torn away by soldiers. I've shot hundreds of pictures of their corpses, methodically creating my own images of death. Yet the idea of the paintings in the next room disturbed me. I had created my death images to expose atrocities, to try to stop senseless slaughter. The artist behind the paintings in the next room, I sensed, had some other agenda.

I took a deep breath and went in.

My arrival caused a ripple among the men, like a new species of fish swimming into a school. A woman-especially a roundeye woman-clearly made them uncomfortable, as though they were ashamed of their presence in this room. I met their fugitive glances with a level gaze and walked up to the painting with the fewest men in front of it.

After the soothing Chinese watercolors, it was a shock. The painting was quintessentially Western, a portrait of a nude woman in a bathtub. A roundeye woman like me, but ten years younger. Maybe thirty. Her pose-one arm hanging languidly over the edge of the tub-reminded me of the Death of Marat, which I knew only from the Masterpiece board game I'd played as a child. But the view was from a higher angle, so that her breasts and pubis were visible. Her eyes were closed, and though they communicated an undeniable peace, I couldn't tell whether it was the peace of sleep or of death. The skin color was not quite natural, more like marble, giving me the chilling feeling that if I could reach into the painting and turn her over, I would find her back purple with pooled blood.

Sensing the men close behind me edging closer, I moved to the next painting. In it, the female subject lay on a bed of brown straw spread on planks, as though on a threshing floor. Her eyes were open and had the dull sheen I had seen in too many makeshift morgues and hastily dug graves. There was no question about this one; she was supposed to look dead. That didn't mean she was dead, but whoever had painted her knew what death looked like.

Again I heard men behind me. Shuffling feet, hissing silk, irregular respiration. Were they trying to gauge my reaction to this Occidental woman in the most vulnerable state a woman can be in? Although if she was dead, she was technically invulnerable. Yet this gawking at her corpse by strangers seemed somehow a final insult, an ultimate humiliation. We cover corpses for the same reason we go behind walls to carry out our bodily functions; some human states cry out for privacy, and being dead is one of them. Respect above all is called for, not for the body, but for the person who recently departed it.

Someone paid two million dollars for a painting like this one. Maybe even for this one. A man paid that, of course. A woman would have bought this painting only to destroy it. Ninety-nine out of a hundred women, anyway. I closed my eyes and said a prayer for the woman in the picture, on the chance that she was real. Then I moved on.

The next painting hung beyond a small bench set against the wall. It was smaller than the others, perhaps two feet by three, with the long axis vertical. Two men stood before it, but they weren't looking at the canvas. They gaped like clubbed mackerel as I approached, and I imagined that if I pulled down their starched white collars, I would find gills. No taller than I, they backed quickly out of my way and cleared the space before the painting. As I turned toward it, a premonitory wave of heat flashed across my neck and shoulders, and I felt the dry itch of the past rubbing against the present.

This woman was naked as well. She sat in a window seat, her head and one shoulder leaned against the casement, her skin lighted by the violet glow of dawn or dusk. Her eyes were half open, but they looked more like the glass eyes of a doll than those of a living woman. Her body was thin and muscular, her hands lay in her lap, and her Victorian-style hair fell upon her shoulders like a dark veil. Though she had been sitting face-on to me from the moment I looked at the canvas, I suddenly had the terrifying sensation that she had turned to me and spoken aloud. The taste of old metal filled my mouth, and my heart ballooned in my chest. This was not a painting but a mirror. The face looking back at me from the wall was my own. The body, too, mine: my feet, hips, breasts, my shoulders and neck. But the eyes were what held me, the dead eyes-held me and then dropped me through the floor into a nightmare I had traveled ten thousand miles to escape. A harsh burst of Chinese echoed through the room, but it was gibberish to me. My throat spasmed shut, and I could not scream or even breathe.

—Reprinted from Dead Sleep by Greg Iles by permission of Signet, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2002, Greg Iles. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 82 )
Rating Distribution

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(41)

4 Star

(27)

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(7)

2 Star

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(3)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 82 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 24, 2012

    One of my favorites!

    Greg Isles is an AMAZING author! Loved this book from the start! He pulls you in until the last words! Another GREAT book from this talented writer! Mystery, drama, and romance all in one captivating book! Can't wait to read his other books!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 30, 2011

    Great book!

    This book was recommended to me at a hospital book sale, by a worker there. I' d never read a book by Greg Iles b4, but couldn't put this 1 down. Never boring, intriguing and keeps you guessing.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 28, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Phycological thriller

    Intriguing story that keeps you turning the pages. Loved all the characters especially Jordan the main character. The love she holds for her family takes her on journeys across continents that finally brings her peace. Very touching.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 9, 2006

    Audio version of book is a bore...

    After reading the glowing reviews of the book I ordered the tapes from library to listen to at work...Yikes...the narrator must do a diservice to the book as I find her to be a boring and plodding read. As it is now I don't even think I can read the book..tape one side 2 and I give up! NO excitement to draw a listener in. But I loved one of his other books-Turning Angel...I only thought it just went on a little too long though.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 27, 2004

    Another winner from Greg Iles!

    What a great idea for a story! The characters are unforgetable. The author's abilities made them easy to 'see'. This is only my second book by Greg Iles and he's definitely one of the best author's I've read. (The first one was The Quiet Game, which I liked even more.) I will definitely read some of his other books and this one is certainly worth reading.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 21, 2014

    Great book

    Well thought out and fast paced plot. Loved this book.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 19, 2013

    Super good read

    Greg Iles is my new obsession. Love everything I have read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 18, 2013

    fantastic

    sends you chills down your spine

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  • Posted November 28, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    CD/abridged: Twinkies saved the day! I'm serious. Just weeks af

    CD/abridged: Twinkies saved the day! I'm serious. Just weeks after Twinkies were pronounced deceased by Hostess, I'm listening to a book were Twinkies save the day.
    First, this book gained points with me because I was expecting Dick Hill narrating it. However, Susie Breck read it instead. She did a really good job as the voice of Jordan Glass.
    Jordan is a loner and photographer who travels the world. While in Asia, she sees an art exhibit of the "Sleeping Women". Rumor and conjecture is that the pictures are really of dead woman. Then Jordan recognizes one of the women. It's herself...or her twin sister.
    I liked that the book went in another direction than I expected. It was easy on the brain and I recommend it.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 8, 2012

    Dead Sleep Greg Illes

    Fast pace good storyline.

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  • Posted March 25, 2012

    Very Greg Isles

    Suspenseful storytelling characterizes this effort. Unusual premise makes this a page turner.

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  • Posted June 2, 2011

    Fantastic!

    Greg Iles does it again with this book. If you're a fan of Greg Iles, I would highly recommend this book.

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  • Posted April 26, 2011

    Another winner!

    Greg Iles is one of my favorite authors and once again, he nails it! Great book.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 14, 2010

    Absorbing and Ingenious......

    A fast paced, suspense filled work of thrills, filled with thought based characters, and a remarkable plot. Totally absorbing and ingenious.

    J. Carroll Author of
    Silver Threads.to Gold

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  • Posted November 14, 2010

    Absorbing & Ingenious...........

    A fast paced, suspense filled work of thrills, filled with thought based characters, and a remarkable plot. Totally absorbing and ingenious.

    J. Carroll Author of
    Silver Threads.to Gold

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted June 5, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Dead Sleep

    I have never read any of Greg Iles works before. So I decided while I was at the book fair to take a chance. I didn't expect that much, but what I got was incredible novel, and author.

    Dead Sleep is about 11 New Orleans women who disappear. And the FBI, is trying to figure out who is doing the kidnapping and why are they painting these women?

    I barely could put the book down, his writings are captivating, suspenseful, chilling, entertaining and a MUST READ!!!

    I really did enjoy his writing, and I will continue to read more of his work!!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 17, 2009

    So good!!

    This book had me hooked after reading the first sentence! I couldn't get through this book fast enough, it was so good! One suggestion though, if you're a new reader to his novels try to read them in order. I'd already read True Evil so knew what happened between the two main characters. Pick it up for a fast, exciting, and thrilling read!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 6, 2009

    Love any book by this author

    Another great book by Greg Iles.

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  • Posted February 23, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    What a Book!!

    This was one of the best Greg Iles' book I have ever read. The suspense kept you wanting to read more. The way he wrote the book was remarkable! One of my favorite books thus far! =)

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 3, 2008

    Perfect for a long flight

    A friend of mine gave me this book to read to pass the time during a long airplane trip. I was unable to finish it only because the guy sitting next to me was a 'talker' - but I was very disappointed that I had to wait until later that night at my hotel to finish the book!

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