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Prisoner of Memory
     

Prisoner of Memory

5.0 1
by Denise Hamilton
 

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Denise Hamilton, hailed by the Chicago Sun-Times as "one of the brightest new stars in the mystery world," delivers a riveting new novel in her critically acclaimed series featuring her uniquely appealing heroine -- sassy, street-smart Los Angeles Times reporter Eve Diamond.

Set in L.A.'s vibrant Russian immigrant community, where new money and raw

Overview

Denise Hamilton, hailed by the Chicago Sun-Times as "one of the brightest new stars in the mystery world," delivers a riveting new novel in her critically acclaimed series featuring her uniquely appealing heroine -- sassy, street-smart Los Angeles Times reporter Eve Diamond.

Set in L.A.'s vibrant Russian immigrant community, where new money and raw power collide with hidden agendas left over from the Cold War, Prisoner of Memory confirms Hamilton's reputation as one of the most astute writers of engrossing, atmospheric crime fiction, illuminating the social realities of contemporary Los Angeles.

While investigating the sighting of a mountain lion in L.A.'s Griffith Park, Eve comes across the body of a teenage boy who has been shot to death execution-style. The son of a Russian émigré scientist, the victim was an exemplary student with no ties to gangs or drugs. Was his murder a random act of violence, the result of a teenage love triangle, or the work of the Russian Mafia? Eve, also the child of Russian immigrants, feels an instant rapport with the boy's grief-stricken father, Sasha Lukin, a cultured old-world gentleman who she senses is not telling her all he knows about his son's murder.

Forced to partner on the story with her newsroom rival, police reporter Josh Brandywine, whose interest in her turns disconcertingly personal, Eve uncovers connections between the victim's family and a fascinating, chameleon-like FBI agent and a brutal Russian mobster who warns Eve not to pry into the teenager's death. Complicating Eve's pursuit of the story is the arrival at her door of a young Russian man who claims to be her long-lost cousin. Is he truly a link to the family she thought she'd lost or an impostor sent by the Russian mob to spy on her?

As the violence surrounding the Lukin family escalates to encompass Eve, and as she moves closer to unraveling the motives of a brilliant, vengeful killer, Prisoner of Memory races to a thrilling resolution that holds surprising personal revelations about Eve herself.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Like Raymond Chandler, Hamilton describes California in gritty, lyrical prose; like Sue Grafton, she shows a tough-skinned,tenderhearted heroine breaking a few rules." — Publishers Weekly

"First-class, suspense-filled.... Hamilton captures Los Angeles in a way that's comparable to the skills of Michael Connelly and Robert Crais." — Sun-Sentinel (Ft. Lauderdale, FL)

Publishers Weekly
Eve Diamond, having investigated Southern California's Asian and Latino communities, tackles the Russians in Hamilton's entertaining, well-researched fifth thriller to feature the ambitious L.A. Times reporter (after 2005's Savage Gardens). Eve is following reports of a mountain lion in Griffith Park when she discovers the bullet-ridden body of Dennis Lukin, the teenage son of recent Russian emigres. That night, Eve is visited by Mischa Tsipin, an illegal Russian immigrant running from gangsters to whom he owes money and claiming to be a cousin of Eve's (her mother was Russian). At considerable personal risk, the indefatigable Eve sorts through false identities and changing alliances, confronting old and new Russian migr s and their mafia as well as her own family history. Lending support are FBI agent Thomas Clavendish, an intractable cold warrior, and her reporter colleague, Josh Brandywine. As usual, Hamilton richly evokes seething, polyglot L.A., but the reader's suspension of disbelief may sag by the final shootout under the weight of too many coincidences and subplots. (Apr.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Now that she's cleaned up the City of Angels (Savage Garden, 2005, etc.), Hamilton's bulldog reporter plunges into the history of the Cold War and her own family. Finally assigned to the Metro section of the L.A. Times, Eve Diamond is sent to Griffith Park to check out a mountain-lion sighting. But the corpse she finds has been dispatched by a bullet. Nobody has a bad word to say for the victim, surfer Dennis Lukin. In fact, nobody-not his grieving parents, not his best friend, not his older brother Nicolai-wants to say much at all to Eve, even though somebody (the Mafia? the KGB? the CIA?) is evidently bent on destroying his terrified father's family. What secret from the past is so dire that Sasha Lukin would rather see his sons die than reveal it? Eve works her contacts to the bone in her attempt to get the story, even though she's distracted by the unwelcome attention of two very different men, flirtatious Times reporter Josh Brandywine and Mischa Tsipin, a voluble illegal immigrant who assures her in charmingly fractured English that he's her long-lost cousin. In the end, when Eve has morphed from canny reporter to nitwit damsel-in-distress, salvation will come from an unexpected quarter. As always, the search for the truth will mean digging deep into the suspects' lives. Readers may wonder, however, why the reporter's stories increasingly turn out to be all about Eve.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781451613360
Publisher:
Gallery Books
Publication date:
07/13/2010
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
448
Product dimensions:
5.90(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.10(d)

Read an Excerpt

Prisoner of Memory

A Novel
By Denise Hamilton

Scribner

Copyright © 2006 Denise Hamilton
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0743261941

Chapter 1

The mountain lion had marked his territory, powerful claws shredding the bark of a sturdy oak tree just yards from where the chaparral gave way to terraced backyards.

Standing on a hiking trail in Griffith Park, I wondered where the big cat was now and felt a primal twitch of fear. In the sudden stillness, every sound seemed amplified: the high, clear voices of children echoing off the canyon. The agitated bark of a dog. The drunken buzzing of bees harvesting the last dregs of nectar before winter settled in for good in Southern California.

Beside me, California Fish and Game tracker Jeff Knightsbridge fingered the bill of his baseball cap and cleared his throat. Placing my sharpened pencil against my notepad, I inhaled the tang of wood shavings and waited.

"He's not after humans," Knightsbridge said. "He's after the deer. Let me emphasize that, because I don't want to open my paper tomorrow and see a sensational story about mountain lions stalking hikers in Griffith Park. Your average puma goes out of its way to avoid people."

Knightsbridge scuffed a booted toe on the trail, and a plume of dust rose into the milky light. It had been a long, scorching autumn in the City of FallenAngels, but the heat had eased into a brittle cold as the holidays approached.

"Can you tell how old those marks are? Or how big he was?" I asked.

The furrows started ten feet up the trunk. I imagined the mountain lion rearing up, muscles rippling under tawny skin, the explosive crackle of dry wood as he put his weight into it. What such claws might do to human flesh.

From far away, children's cries resounded off the rock escarpments. Bees droned, an atavistic murmur from the hive-mind.

Knightsbridge ran his hand along the defiled trunk. The deep scratches exposed the pale fibrous innards of the tree, its amber tears.

He shrugged. "Three days, give or take."

Lifting his chin, he scanned the brush. "Can you smell that?"

"What?" Looking up at the sky, where charcoal clouds were swiftly overtaking the blue, I wondered if he meant rain. As a hopeless city slicker, I'd benefit from a wilderness survival course that taught me to sniff out a storm and navigate by the North Star. But in my line of work, a martial arts class in self-defense was way more practical.

I was a journalist for the Los Angeles Times and this was my first day as a downtown Metro reporter. But instead of a juicy investigation, I'd drawn mountain lion patrol after commuters spotted a big cat grooming himself under the snowflakes and candy cane decorations of Hillcrest Avenue, where the asphalt met the urban wilderness of Griffith Park. In a city bedeviled by crime and corruption, distraction was a drug and now everyone was breathlessly fixated on a 160-pound feline. And I wasn't about to leave Griffith Park without a killer story.

"Not rain." Knightsbridge wrinkled his nose. "Like meat that's gone bad. I caught it again just now on the wind. Over there."

I turned in the direction of his outstretched finger and took a deep breath. Through the dust we had kicked up, beyond the resinous scent of anise and sage, I thought I detected it, a faint, sweet charnel house smell.

"If it killed recently," Knightsbridge was saying, "the puma will hang around. And it will perceive anything that gets too close as threatening its meal." His hand went to the gun at his waist. "C'mon."

He set off through the scrub, and I scrambled to follow.

The buzzing grew louder. I paused, shrank back. There must have been a hive nearby.

Looking down, I saw the San Fernando Valley sprawl, arteries already starting to clog with afternoon traffic, commuters getting a jump-start on their holiday shopping. A thin layer of brown haze blanketed everything. Winter often brought the clearest light. But not today.

Knightsbridge had stopped too. He sniffed the air like a bloodhound. In the distance, a black cloud rose and swayed off the trail. The angry humming grew louder. I grabbed his arm.

"Are those...bees?"

"No," he said, his voice taking on an urgency I didn't like.

Knightsbridge set off for the cloud, with me tagging reluctantly behind.

He disappeared around a bend. Then came a disembodied shout. He came staggering back, face white, bandanna clasped to his mouth.

"What?"

But he only fumbled for a radio at his belt.

"Cat didn't do this," he said, his face a rictus of disbelief.

I pushed past him. I didn't care about getting stung anymore. The smell of decomposing flesh grew stronger.

As I rounded the bend, what I saw made me avert my eyes and breathe through my mouth, but it was too late, the stench already seeping into my lungs. A body lay facedown at the edge of the dirt trail. A black cloud of flies hovered, swaying and rippling with each breeze. I couldn't look. I couldn't not look. Tearing my eyes away, I focused on the dirt trail and tried not to hyperventilate. Among the rocks and footprints and tread marks from mountain bikes, a bullet casing twinkled in the afternoon light.

* * *

A wave of nausea swept over me, and I bent to retch, but only dry-heaved.

It was the flies that put me over. That revolting black mass swarming over the head and nearby ground, dark where something had spilled and dried.

But even in my sorry state, I recognized that Knightsbridge was right. Mountain lions don't leave bullet casings behind.

I could hear him panting into the radio, announcing his coordinates, then a mumbled, "Oh Jesus, hold on," and a roar as churning liquid splattered. Then as he recovered, the matter-of-fact recitation.

"Griffith Park. Off the horse trail, on the Valley side. A half mile up the trailhead. Yeah. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

Notepad still in hand, I steeled myself to look at the corpse. It's odd how the brain absorbs death in layers. At first I had seen an indistinct shape, my mind fastened in primal disgust on the flies. The second time I'd noted the darker stains on the ground, the bullet glinting like a malevolent jewel. Now I threw a rock, dislodging the flies, and took in the scene methodically.

Long, baggy beige cargo shorts, exposing tanned legs with golden hairs. Thin but muscular calves. A red, long-sleeve T-shirt with fancy lettering that said Val Surf. The body was scrunched where it had fallen. I saw a clunky metallic watch around one wrist. Short blond curls matted with dried black blood. Skin soft, hairs barely sprouting on his chin. Maybe seventeen.

I wrote it down. Knightsbridge hitched the radio back onto his belt and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Despite the cool air, sweat beaded his temples.

"Whoo," Knightsbridge said, flapping his arms. "Seen plenty of dead animals in my day. Do the autopsy, then head off for lunch. Never blink an eye. But this..." His hand twitched near his throat and he hunched his shoulders. I thought he might be getting ready to heave again. He took two shallow breaths, straightened. "Never seen a dead person before. Not used to it."

"You don't get used to it," I said, unable to resist the impulse to look around and make sure there was nobody crouched behind a rock or bush, pointing a gun at us. Some bozo out hunting human prey. In the Los Angeles hills, you had more to fear from two-legged predators than those on four.

"Homicide," Knightsbridge said.

I looked at the body on the ground. "How can you rule out suicide?"

"You see a gun?"

I looked around. Unless the kid had fallen on it, Knightsbridge was right.

The Fish and Game man again put his bandanna to his mouth and hiked closer. The flies lifted, hovered. He unzipped the boy's fanny pack and bent over it.

"Um, I don't think you're supposed to do that."

But I held my pencil ready just in case.

Do it.

"Oh." A disappointed pause. "I guess you're right." He straightened, backed away. "I just thought I'd call in his ID if I found any."

I shrugged. "Won't do him much good now."

"Somewhere he's got family. Parents. They'll be in shock."

"Who do you think he is?" I said.

Knightsbridge hiked to the edge of the hillside and looked down.

"We're about to find out," he said. "Here they come."

A woman and three men picked their way carefully along the trail. They hauled a stretcher, metal boxes, cameras and lights, enough to shoot a film. Two of them were armed. One wore a red Santa hat.

I walked over to Knightsbridge and we stood at attention. The crew fanned around the perimeter, marking off quadrants, putting up yellow tape, squatting low to the ground.

"Bullet casing over there," I said, indicating the chapparal, but Santa's helper was already bagging it. With its jaunty pom-pom, the man's hat seemed disrespectful, but I guess when you work around death all day, it's important to keep your spirits up.

"Hope we didn't mess up the scene too much," Knightsbridge called out.

An LAPD honcho walked up, squinting against the winter glare. I got the feeling he was sizing us up.

"Touch anything?" he said.

"Not me," I said.

Knightsbridge introduced us, told the cop how we had come across the body.

The cop turned to me, wrinkling his nose as though he had just smelled something worse than the body. "Media, huh? Go give your statement to Jones over there," he said, pointing to a uniformed officer. "Then you'll have to leave."

I told Knightsbridge we could continue the tour another day and he bobbed his shaggy head in agreement.

For the next ten minutes, I answered questions about how we came across the body. The policeman said forensics would call if they needed an imprint of my hiking-boot sole and that I was now free to go. He went off to get a statement from Knightsbridge and I stood and watched the crime techs, hoping to pick up a useful tidbit for my story. They wore rubber gloves as they inventoried, carrying things back to a stainless-steel table they had set up to tag and bag evidence.

"What's the best way down?" I asked a uniformed woman.

Without lifting her head from the red lanyard key chain she was examining, she hooked a thumb back down the trail.

I wondered how she'd look with it tied around her neck in a big Christmas bow. Real tight.

I threw up my hands. "Look, I just don't want to disturb any evidence on the hike back."

One of the cops brought over the fanny pack that Knightsbridge had started to open. With gloved hands, he placed it on the metal table. Another tech reached into the pack and pulled out a purple-and-gray Velcro wallet with a lightning bolt across the front. Inside were four twenty-dollar bills and three ones.

"They weren't after money," I said, hoping to start a conversation.

But the woman was pulling out a California driver's license. It showed a blond-haired boy with straight white teeth, freckles, and blue eyes smiling into the camera.

The woman put the ID on the stainless-steel table and filled out a form on her clipboard. I leaned in for a better look.

Dennis Lukin, it read, with an address in Studio City. I jotted it down and memorized it too, just in case. I looked some more. He did not have to wear corrective lenses. He did not have a class-A license that would allow him to drive an eighteen-wheeler. He was seventeen.

"Hey," the top cop said, walking over. "I thought I told you to get out of here."

"I was just asking for directions back down the trail."

He looked from the driver's license to me, then back again. He extended his hand.

"Give it," he said.

"What?"

"Whatever notes you just took."

I thought about saying no, then realized it didn't matter. Wordlessly, I tore the page out of my notebook and handed it over.

He glanced at my scribbles, snorted, then crumpled the paper and shoved it into his pants pocket.

I turned to go.

"If I see you at that house before we break the news, so help me God, I'll make sure you'll spend the rest of your career writing calendar listings."

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll be parked across the street until you leave."

I stopped to say good-bye to Knightsbridge so I could take one more look at the body, now framed and set off by yellow police tape.

I didn't know what I was searching for -- needle marks or tattoos, piercings, brown roots to the blond hair, a school ring, hickies. Anything that would give me an inkling of who Dennis Lukin was. What teen tribe he pledged allegiance to. He wore a necklace made of tiny white shells. Puka. Add in the tan, the sun-bleached hair, and the shirt advertising a famous surfboard shop in the Valley and there was little doubt: Dennis Lukin was a surfer. My eye went to the oversize watch again. Probably one of those waterproof jobs for when he sat bobbing in the swells, waiting for that perfect wall of water. But what was that symbol on the face? I bent over the yellow plastic tape to get a better view and recognized the hammer and sickle. How odd. It was a Soviet army watch. I hadn't seen one in years, not since the USSR collapsed and flea markets around the world had been flooded with these clunky souvenirs of a dead empire. I frowned. Examined the boy again. Something didn't track. The surfer clothes. The deep tan and puka shells. This kid, who'd barely been born when the Soviet Union fell apart.

"Get away from that crime scene or I'll have you arrested," the head cop yelled, breaking my reverie. I straightened.

"Sorry," I said absently, filing this detail away for later. Maybe the kid had just come back from Russia on a student exchange. Maybe he collected timepieces. Maybe someone had traded it to him in exchange for weed.

I hiked down, glad I wouldn't have to break the news to Dennis Lukin's family myself. It was the part I hated most about newspapering. Let the cops be the bad-news messenger. My job was jackal.

Wheeling the car out of Griffith Park and onto the 101 Freeway, I called the City Desk.

"Feliz Navidad," sang Jose Feliciano's exuberant voice on the radio, wishing us a Merry Christmas from the bottom of his heart.

I turned it down.

"We found a body on the trail," I said when Assistant City Editor Jon Trabuco came on.

I heard the intake of breath, followed by the rapid click of keys.

"Holy shit, this is front page all the way. There hasn't been a mountain lion killing in L.A. County for years," my new editor said with mounting excitement. "Start dictating."

"It wasn't a cat."

"Then what the hell was it?"

"Unless mountain lions have learned how to use guns."

I filled him in.

"Jeez, Eve. You had me all excited there for a minute. I was already writing the damn headline. Now it's just another dead body."

"Isn't a dead body still news in this town?"

"Yeah, but if the perp was a cat, I could have gotten you forty-five inches and a sidebar. Wildlife killings are huge. It upsets the natural order."

"So do dead teenagers. I'm on my way to talk to the family now," I said. "Be right behind the cops."

Trabuco grunted in approval. "By the way, some guy called and left an urgent message for you. He had an accent."

"This is L.A., Jon. They all have accents."

"He said he was related to you."

I winced, glad Trabuco couldn't see my face. I didn't have much family, and it was a sore point.

"He wishes," I said.

"Want the number?"

"Are you kidding?" I said. "I'm on deadline."

Copyright 2006 by Denise Hamilton



Continues...


Excerpted from Prisoner of Memory by Denise Hamilton Copyright © 2006 by Denise Hamilton. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Denise Hamilton is a writer-journalist whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Cosmopolitan, and The New York Times and is the author of five acclaimed Eve Diamond crime novels, Prisoner of Memory, Savage Garden, Last Lullaby, Sugar Skull, and The Jasmine Trade, all of which have been Los Angeles Times bestsellers. She is also the editor of and a contributor to the short story anthology Los Angeles Noir, winner of the Southern California Independent Booksellers Association Award for Best Mystery of 2007. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two young children. Visit her at www.denisehamilton.com.

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Prisoner of Memory 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
harstan More than 1 year ago
Los Angeles Times reporter Eve Diamond accompanies California Fish and Game Tracker Jeff Knightsbridge as he investigates the reported sightings of a mountain lion in Griffith Park. Instead of a puma, they find a corpse of a teenage boy apparently executed. LAPD find a driver¿s license on the victim, Dennis Lukin of Studio City. Eve notices the kid wore a watch with the old Soviet symbol on it --- The why seems odd as the victim was not a drug user, was doing well in school, and lived with caring educated parents. Denny¿s father Russian émigré scientist Sasha Lukin is grieving his loss, but though feeling a connection perhaps because her family are Russian émigrés too, Eve feels he hides something critical to the homicide. Partnered with her rival police reporter Josh Brandywine who seems more interested in Eve than the story, she keeps digging for the truth though what she learns seems odd compounded by a man insisting he is her cousin and claiming that Russian mafia wants him. Even worse s the fact that the teen murder just does not intersect with anything else Eve uncovers even as a disgraced FBI agent, his KGB siren and a Russian gangster warn Eve to back off or else. --- The fifth Diamond investigative tale is a terrific entry as much of the case seems personal to the heroine though it is a different Russian family than her own. The story line is action-packed with readers wondering like Eve what is the link between the Fed, the femme fatale, the scientist, the Russian Mafia, and the dead teen as the latter does not seem to fit in with the other pieces of the puzzle. Fans will enjoy learning about Eve¿s personal life as she makes inquiries into the PRISONER OF MEMORY. --- Harriet Klausner