Shrink Rap

by Robert B. Parker Narrated by Deborah Raffin

Overview

Beautiful, smart, and cool-headed P.I. Sunny Randall is on the road, charged with protecting Melanie Joan Hall, an author on a book signing tour from a stalker-Melanie's psychotherapist ex-husband. After an incident that leaves the author unconscious and the ex bloodied, Sunny realizes things aren't as innocuous as they may seem. To crack the case, she enters therapy, putting her life at risk and discovering some disturbing truths about herself.

Editorial Reviews

The Barnes & Noble Review
The third outing for Robert B. Parker's female private eye, Sunny Randall, is indeed a charm -- provided your idea of charm is a three-dimensional heroine, expertly barbed dialogue, shrewdly sculpted suspense, and some lightly tossed jabs at the publishing world. Sunny -- a cross between the author's two other series protagonists, the wisecracking P.I. Spenser (Widow's Walk) and the somber police chief Jesse Stone (Death in Paradise) -- is hired to protect bestselling romance author Melanie Joan Hall from her domineering ex-husband during a national book tour. When Sunny investigates Mr. Wrong -- prominent psychiatrist Dr. John Melvin -- and learns he may be molesting several of his female clients, she goes undercover as a patient. It's a risky move; as she discovers, Melvin's manipulative analytical skills hold a powerful sway, especially where the unresolved relationship with her own ex-husband, Richie, is concerned. The thoughtful and intense "shrink rap" here between Sunny and the two sounding boards -- Melvin and Hall -- is put to excellent use as Sunny's lifestyle and personal family life is explored from the inside out. As usual, Parker manages to balance suspense and violence with keen psychological acumen. Powered by an intense character portrait that will leave the reader enlightened and moved, and a humorous milieu that deftly undercuts the serious nature of the novel's themes, Parker turns in another cunningly crafted story that transcends the standard P.I. fare and strikes an unforgettable, resonant chord. Tom Piccirilli

People

This 37th mystery from Parker zips by more quickly than a 50-minute hour on the couch.

Kirkus Reviews

Not even a first printing of 750,000 and a ten-city tour can protect romance novelist Melanie Joan Hall from John Melvin, MD, the ex-husband who's stalking her, harassing her at a signing in Cleveland and leaving bloody smears on a window in Cincinnati. But money and her publisher's solicitude for a $10-million property about to become a movie franchise can buy Melanie Joan some quality time with Sunny Randall, despite Sunny's insistence that "I'm not really suited to bodyguard anyway. I'm a detective." Well, maybe, but she actually thinks like a proactive avenger. When the women return to Boston, Sunny decides that it's not enough to protect her client from a menace that could go on forever; she needs to dig up something on Melvin, a psychiatrist whose practice seems limited to attractive women, that will put him away throughout Melanie Joan's peak earning years. Unfortunately, one of the good doctor's clients she approaches has just died; a second soon follows; and Melvin's male friends respond to Sunny's inquiries-framed in Parker's trademark killer dialogue-by sending her threatening photos and painting her windshield black. The only way to get the goods on Melvin is to stake herself out as bait; but Sunny, who let men do the heavy lifting for her in Perish Twice (2000), frets endlessly whether she should accept help from her own ex, mobbed-up Richie Burke, on this dangerous assignment. Despite Sandy's profession, none of her adventures has been marketed as a mystery. Good thinking. File her third under self-help.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940192953266
Publisher:	Phoenix Books, Inc.
Publication date:	09/01/2005
Series:	Sunny Randall Series
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

I ALWAYS LOVED Richie's hands. They looked like such man's hands. I knew that I was guilty of gross gender stereotyping, but I kept my mouth shut about it, and no one knew. His hands rested on the table between us, the right one on top of the left. They were still. Richie was always still. It was one of the things that had made it hard to be married to him. I knew intellectually that he loved me, but he was so contained and interior that I used to crave even the most unseemly display of feeling. He was still now, sitting across the table from me, telling me he'd met someone else. We were divorced. It was fine for him to see other people. I saw other people too. But this was a somebody else he'd met. This was more than seeing other people. This made me feel like my center had collapsed.

"Somebody, like walk into the sunset?" I said.

"She wants to get married," Richie said. "She has a right to that."

"And you?"

Richie shrugged. "I'm thinking about it."

"Three kids and a house in the western suburbs?"

"We haven't talked about that," Richie said.

"What about Rosie?" I said.

"She likes dogs."

I looked at the hamburger I had ordered. I didn't want it.

"Rosie would still want to visit," I said.

"I love Rosie," Richie said.

"Has Ms. Right met her?" I said.

"Yes."

"They get along?"

"Very well," Richie said. "Rosie loves her."

She does not.

"Rosie will remain my dog," I said.

Richie smiled at me. "We're not going to have a custody fight over a goddamn bull terrier, are we?"

"Not as long as we remember she's mine."

"She's ours," Richie said.

"But not hers."

"No. Mine and yours," Richie said. "She lives with you and visits me."

I nodded. Richie was quiet.

"How long have you been seeing Ms. Right?" I said.

"About three months."

"Three months."

Richie nodded.

"You're sleeping with her," I said.

"Of course."

"Do you love Ms. Right?" I said.

"Her name is Carrie."

"Do you love Carrie?"

"I don't know."

"And how are you going to find out?" I said.

"I don't know."

Richie had ordered a club sandwich, on whole wheat, toasted. He hadn't eaten any of it. The waitress stopped at our table.

"Is everything all right?" she said.

"Fine," Richie said.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"No," Richie said. "Check will be fine."

"Do you want me to have your food wrapped?" the waitress said.

"No thank you," Richie said.

The waitress looked at me. I shook my head. She put a check on the table and went away looking regretful. Richie and I looked at each other.

"Whaddya think?" he said.

I shook my head.

"I know," Richie said.

He looked at the check and took some bills out of his wallet and put them on the table.

"The thing is," he said, "I can't get past you."

"Oh?"

"I mean, we're sort of spinning our wheels."

"You could call it that," I said.

"I mean this is a nice woman, and she's happy with who and what I am."

I nodded.

"But I can't get past you," Richie said.

"I face somewhat the same problem," I said.

"We need some kind of resolution, Sunny."

"I thought the divorce was supposed to be some kind of resolution," I said.

Richie smiled quietly. "I did too," he said.

"But it wasn't," I said.

"No. It wasn't."

"So what are we supposed to do?" I said.

"I'm serious about this woman."

I nodded. It was difficult for me to speak. The room around me seemed insubstantial, as if I were drifting in space.

"But," he said, "I can't imagine a life without you in it."

"So," I said. "What the hell is this, a warning that you're going to try?"

"I guess it is," Richie said.

The room was nearly empty. There was only one other table occupied, by three people calmly having lunch. The waitress stayed away from us. Discreet. I looked at the money that Richie had stacked neatly on top of the bill.

"I miss Rosie," Richie said.

"She misses you."

I was quiet. Richie was perfectly still, his hands folded motionless on the table. We were so silent that I was aware of his breathing across the table.

"Are we really talking about the dog here?" Richie said.

"No," I said, "we goddamned sure are not."

—from Shrink Rap by Robert Parker, Copyright © September 2002, Putnam Pub Group, a member of Penguin Putnam, Inc., used by permission.

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