Fear Nothing (Detective D. D. Warren Series #7)

Fear Nothing (Detective D. D. Warren Series #7)

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by Lisa Gardner
     
 

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THE NEW DETECTIVE D.D. WARREN NOVEL BY THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES "MASTER OF PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE" (The Associated Press)

BOUND BY BLOOD


They were daughters of a monster—a father who slaughtered eight prostitutes before dying himself. Dr. Adeline Glen left the nightmare behind, and now she specializes in pain management. Her sister,See more details below

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Overview

THE NEW DETECTIVE D.D. WARREN NOVEL BY THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES "MASTER OF PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE" (The Associated Press)

BOUND BY BLOOD


They were daughters of a monster—a father who slaughtered eight prostitutes before dying himself. Dr. Adeline Glen left the nightmare behind, and now she specializes in pain management. Her sister, Shana Day, followed in her father’s violent footsteps, first killing at age fourteen and being incarcerated for more than twenty-five years.

After a brutal attack, Boston Detective D. D. Warren needs Adeline’s professional help to recover physically. But when a new psychopath known as the Rose Killer begins a reign of terror, D.D. must also consult the insane Shana—who claims she can help catch the madman.

D.D. may not yet be back on the job, but she is back on the hunt. Because the Rose Killer isn’t just targeting lone women; he is targeting D.D. And D.D. knows there is only one way to take him down.…

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Lisa Gardner’s work has the chills and thrills to excite, and the heart to draw you in.”—Sandra Brown

“No one owns this corner of the genre the way Lisa Gardner does.”—Lee Child

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF LISA GARDNER

Fear Nothing

Fear Nothing rushes off on a dead sprint and never lets up.”—The Providence Journal

“An intelligent, sophisticated psychological thriller.…Gardner continues to show us why she is on the short list of top thriller writers today.”—Suspense Magazine

“Absorbing.…Gardner repeatedly ratchets up the tension.”—Publishers Weekly

“Gardner retains her place on thrillerdom’s top tier. Gardner has a reserved seat on most bestseller lists, and she’ll be claiming her spot once again.”—Booklist

Touch & Go

“The suspense crackles.”—People

“A total pleasure.”—The Associated Press

“No-holds-barred…suspense builds as the action races to a spectacular conclusion.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“[A] thrill ride.”—Kirkus Reviews

“Whip-crack taut.”—Daily Mail (UK)

“Pitch-perfect.…No one writes this kind of modern horror tale better than Gardner, no one.”—The Providence Journal

Catch Me

“Frighteningly real.”—People

“Full of twists and turns.…If you have not been a reader of Gardner’s fiction in the past, this is the time to jump in.”—The Huffington Post

“One of the best psychological thriller writers in the business…a ‘must read’ for any suspense aficionado.”—The Associated Press

“Grab Catch Me…more than a fair share of thrills for readers.”—San Jose Mercury News

“Gardner pulls out all the stops in Catch Me.”—BookReporter.com

“Irresistible high-wire melodrama.”—Kirkus Reviews

“A page-turner…will definitely appeal to the lovers of psychological thrillers.”—Mystery Tribune

“Lisa Gardner is one of the best thriller writers around, and this latest…really ratchets up the tension. It grabs you from the first page and never lets up until the final shocking conclusion. I could not put Catch Me down—highly recommended.”—Fresh Fiction

“This scare-your-socks-off thriller is a grand slam.…Fans of Michael Connelly and Harlan Coben will delight in Gardner’s scarefest.”—Library Journal (starred review)

“Well-wrought suspense.”—Publishers Weekly

“A pulse-pounding, earth-shattering thriller that will take you on the ride of your life. But pay close attention, because not everything is as it appears to be. This is, without a doubt, Lisa Gardner at her finest.”—The Best Reviews

Kirkus Reviews
★ 2014-01-07
Recovering from a nasty fall down a flight of stairs, Detective D.D. Warren, of Boston Homicide, tangles with a pair of sisters who put her pain in a whole new perspective. Forty years ago, Harry Day, about to be arrested for killing eight prostitutes, got his wife to slit his wrists before the police closed in. He left behind two young daughters: Shana, a sociopath who followed so closely in her father's footsteps that she was jailed for life when she killed a neighborhood boy at age 14, and Adeline, not quite a year old when her father died, who's grown up cursed by an inability to feel physical pain. Naturally, Adeline went to medical school and became a psychiatrist specializing in pain management, and it's in that capacity that D.D. consults her after an accident at a blood-soaked crime scene leaves her with an impressive set of injuries. Christine Ryan, the victim who's been smothered and flayed by someone who left behind a bottle of champagne, a pair of fur-lined handcuffs and a long-stemmed rose, is followed distressingly quickly by a second victim, occupational therapist Regina Barnes. Even worse, the handiwork of the Rose Killer is gruesomely linked to the criminal careers of Harry Day, dead these 40 years, and his daughter Shana, who's been in the Massachusetts Correctional Institute for over 25 years. Alternating as usual between third-person chapters following D.D.'s investigation and first-person chapters dramatizing Adeline's point of view, Gardner (Touch & Go, 2013, etc.) paints an indelible portrait of two troubled sisters so closely bound together by blood that they agree: "Blood is love." If you think Gardner pulled out all the stops in D.D.'s previous cases (Catch Me, 2012, etc.), you ain't seen nothing yet. Better fasten your seat belt for this roller-coaster ride through family hell.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780698148529
Publisher:
Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date:
01/07/2014
Series:
Detective D. D. Warren Series , #7
Sold by:
Penguin Group
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
480
Sales rank:
2,449
File size:
1 MB
Age Range:
18 Years

Read an Excerpt

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof.***

Copyright © 2014  by Lisa Gardner, Inc. 

Hello darkness, my old friend . . . The body was gone, but not the smell. This kind of scene, Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren knew, would hold the stench of blood for weeks, even months to come. The crime scene techs had removed the top mattress but still . . . Blood had a life of its own. Once freed from its human vessel, it could seep into dry wall, slip behind wooden trim, pool between floor boards. If the landlord ever wanted to rent this unit again, it would involve a total gut of the master bedroom. Not to mention the neighbors moving far, far away and never saying a word.

Twenty-eight year old Tara Blythe used to have approximately

4.7 liters of blood pumping through her veins. Now, most of it stained this grim, shadowy space.

I’ve come to talk with you again . . .

The call had come in shortly after nine a.m. Good friend Midge Roberts had grown concerned when Tara hadn’t answered the knocks on her front door or the texts to her cell phone. Tara was the responsible kind. Didn’t oversleep, didn’t run off with a cute bartender, didn’t come down with the flu without providing a heads up to her best bud, who picked her up promptly at seven thirty each weekday morning for their commute to a local account­ing firm.

Midge had contacted a few more friends. All agreed no one had heard from Tara since ten the night before. Midge gave into in­stinct, summoned the landlord.

Who finally agreed to open the door. Then vomited all over the upstairs hall upon making the find.

Midge hadn’t come up the stairs. Midge had stood in the foyer of the narrow duplex, and, as she’d reported to D.D.’s squadmate Phil, she’d known. Just known. Probably, even from that distance, she’d caught the first unmistakable whiff of drying blood.

Hello darkness, my old friend . . .

Upon arrival, the scene had immediately struck D.D. with its marked contrasts. The young, female victim, sprawled spread eagle on her own bed, staring up at the ceiling with sightless blue eyes. Pretty features nearly peaceful, shoulder-length brown hair pooling softly upon a stark white pillow.

Except then, from the neck down . . .

Skin, peeled off in thin, curling ribbons. D.D. had heard of such things. At eleven this morning, she got to see them first hand. A young woman, flayed in her own bed. With a bottle of cham­pagne on her nightstand, and a single red rose placed across her bloody abdomen.

I’ve come to talk with you again . . .

Next to the bottle of champagne, Phil had discovered a pair of handcuffs. The kind purchased in high end sex shops and fur-lined for a willing partner’s comfort. Taking in the cuffs, the sparkling wine, the red rose . . .

Lovers tryst gone awry, Phil had theorized. Or, given the level of violence, a jilted boyfriend’s final act of vengeance. Tara had broken up with some sorry sucker, and last night, sorry sucker had returned to prove once and for all who was in charge.

But D.D. hadn’t been on board. Yes there were handcuffs, but not on the victim’s wrists. Yes there was uncorked champagne, but not a single glass for drinking. Finally, sure, there was the rose, but not in a florist’s wrap for gifting.

The scene felt too . . . deliberate to her. Not a crime of passion or a falling out between consenting adults. But a carefully staged production that involved months, years, maybe even a lifetime of careful planning and consideration.

In D.D.’s opinion, they weren’t just looking at a crime scene. They were looking at a killer’s deepest, darkest fantasy.

And while this might be the first scene they were investigating, a homicide this heavily ritualized was probably not the last.

Hello darkness, my old friend . . .

D.D.’s squad, the crime techs techs, the ME’s office, not to mention of a plethora of other investigators had spent six hours working the scene. They’d documented, dusted, diagramed, and discussed until the sun had set, dinner commute was on, and stom­achs were growling, not to mention tempers flaring. As lead detec­tive D.D. had finally sent everyone home with orders to refresh, then regroup. Tomorrow was another day, when they could search federal databases for other homicides matching this description, while building the profiles of their victim and killer. Plenty to do, many angles to investigate. Now get some rest.

Everyone had listened. Except, of course, D.D.

It was nearly ten o’clock now. She should be returning home. Kissing her husband hello. Checking in on her three-year old son, already tucked into bed at this late hour. Working on her own good night’s sleep.

But she couldn’t do it. Some instinct—question? Insight?—had driven her back to this tragic space in this too quiet duplex. For most of the day, she and her fellow detectives had stood here and debated what they saw. Now, she stood with the lights out, in the middle of a blood-scented room, and waited for what she could feel.

I’ve come to talk with you again . . .

Tara Blythe had already been dead before the killer had made his first cut. That much they could tell from the lack of anguish stamped into her pale face. The victim had died relatively easily. Then, most likely as her heart emitted a final few pumps, the killer had delivered his first downward slash across her right flank.

Meaning murder hadn’t been about the victim’s pain, but about. . .

Presentation? Staging? The ritual itself? A killer with a compul­sion to skin. Maybe started with small animals or family pets, then, when that still wasn’t enough, the fantasy refused to abate . . .

The ME would check for hesitation marks, if determining jag­ged edges was even possible given the mounds of thin, curling skin. Check for vaginal bruising, swab for semen.

But once again, D.D. had nagging sense of discomfort. Those elements were the things a criminal investigator could see. And deep inside, D.D. already suspected that was the wrong track. In­dulging, in fact, in exactly what the killer wanted them to do.

Why stage things just so, if not to manipulate your audience into seeing exactly what you wanted them to see?

Then it came to her. The thought she’d had in the back of her head. The first and foremost question worth pursuing and the rea­son she now stood in the dark, her vision deliberately obscured: Why set a scene?

A sound. The duplex’s front door, easing carefully open? A creak of the stair riser as a heavy foot found the first step? The groan of a floorboard just down the hall?

A sound. She heard a sound and that quickly, Sergeant Detec­tive D.D. Warren realized something she should’ve figured out fifteen minutes ago. That song, the tune she’d been humming by Simon and Garfunkel without really even being aware of it . . . That song wasn’t coming from solely inside her head.

Someone else was singing it, too. Softly. Outside the bedroom. From elsewhere in the dead woman’s apartment.

Hello darkness, my old friend . . .

D.D.’s hand shot to her sidearm, unsnapping the shoulder hol­ster, drawing her Sig Saur. She whirled, dropping into a crouch as her gaze scanned the shadows for sign of an intruder. No shifts in the blackness, no shadows settling into the shape of a human form.

But then, she heard it again.

I’ve come to talk to you again . . .

Quickly, she crept from the bedroom into the darkened hall, leading with her weapon. The narrow corridor didn’t offer any over­head lights. Just more shadows caused by the light from neighbors’ apartments casting through the duplex’s uncovered windows. A wash of lighter and darker shades of gray dancing across the hard­wood floor.

But she knew this house, D.D. reminded herself, easing care­fully forward. She’d already tread this hall, judiciously avoiding the pools of vomit, while noticing every pertinent detail . . .

She reached the top of the stair case, still looking side to side, then peering down, into the pool of inky black that marked the landing below. The humming had disappeared. Worse than the singing was the total silence.

Then suddenly, a voice, whispering in the same lilting tone: “Detective D.D. Warren, my old friend . . .”

D.D. halted. Her gaze ping-ponged reflexively, trying to deter­mine the location of the voice as it continued, slow and mocking:

“I’ve come to talk with you again . . .”

She got it then. Felt her own blood turn to ice as the full impli­cation sank in. Why do you stage a scene? Because you’re looking for an audience. Or maybe, one audience member in particular. Detective D.D. Warren. Darkness, my old friend.

Still holding her drawn Sig Sauer, she reached belatedly for her cell.

Just as a fresh noise registered directly behind her.

She spun. Eyes widening. But where, how . . .

The hulking figure, looming out of the shadows: “Hello, Detec­tive . . .”

Instinctively, D.D. stepped back. Except she’d forgotten about the top of the staircase. Her left foot, searching for traction, found only open space . . .

No! Her cell, clattering down. Her Sig Sauer, coming up. Try­ing belatedly to lean forward, regain her balance.

And then . . . The shadow moving. Herself falling.

Just like that. Down, down, down.

At the last second, D.D. squeezed the trigger. An instinctive act of self-preservation. Boom, boom, boom. Though even she knew, it was too little, too late

Her head connected with the hard wood landing. A crack. A shooting pain.

And then the sound of silence . . .

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What People are saying about this

From the Publisher
“Lisa Gardner, the master of the psychological thriller, has delivered another tour de force with Touch & Go, which exposes the raw nerves of a family imploding, and an investigator trying to escape her past….Gardner does an amazing job of creating realistic situations and characters with emotional resonance. The constant surprises will shock even the most jaded thriller reader.” –Associated Press on Touch & Go

“Gardner’s sixth Det. D.D. Warren thriller grabs from the get-go.”
People on Catch Me

“Lisa Gardner is a writer who gets better and better with each new book...[Catch Me] is full of twists and turns, but best of all, it is filled with fascinating characters who come to life on her pages.”
Huffington Post on Catch Me

“New York Times best-selling author Gardner always plays in the big leagues, but this scare-your-socks-off thriller is a grand slam, packed with enigmatic characters (some good, some crazily evil), expert procedural detail, and superb storytelling.”
Library Journal on Catch Me

“Gardner has become one of the best psychological thriller writers in the business. The compelling characters, the shocking plot and the realistic atmosphere of how police operate make this a "must read" for any suspense aficionado.”
— Associated Press on Catch Me
 

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