![]() I returned to the bathroom, sat on the rim of the tub munching and drew up a vague plan for the day: a leisurely soak, a cursory scan of the morning paper, perhaps a jog down the canyon and back, a shower, a visit to The doorbell jarred me out of my reverie. Obviously I'd had it in me from the beginning. It had been almost half a year since my premature retirement and I was still amazed at how easy it was to make the transition from compulsive overachiever to self - indulgent bum. ![]() Ten - twenty on a Monday morning with nowhere to go and nothing to do. I put up coffee, and the fly and I shared an onion bagel. I shuffled to the bathroom and began filling a tub, then made my way to the kitchen to scavenge, taking the fly with me. What finally got me up was the invasion of a housefly who alternated between searching my sheets for carrion and dive - bombing my head. Feeling lazy and sated, I propped myself on my elbows, drew up the covers and stared at the caramel layers of sunlight streaming through French doors. I had slept alone with the windows open - burglars and neoMansonites be damned - and awoke at ten, naked, covers thrown to the floor in the midst of some forgotten dream. On a good day - like today - the place came with an ocean view, a cerulean patch that peeked timidly above the Palisades. Art's loss had been my gain by way of L.A. The house had been designed by and for a Hungarian artist who went broke trying to peddle oversized poly chromatic triangles to the galleries on La Cienega. In the suburbs it might be a shack up here in the hills it's a rural retreat - nothing fancy, but lots of terraces, decks, pleasing angles and visual surprises. The place itself is eighteen hundred square feet of silvered redwood, weathered shingles and tinted glass. It's a neighborhood of Porsches and coyotes, bad sewers and sequestered streams. My house is nestled in the foothills just north of Bel Air, situated atop an old bridle path that snakes its way around Beverly Glen, where opulence gives way to self - conscious funk. The last thing I wanted to hear about was murder.Ī cool Pacific current had swept its way across the coastline for two days running, propelling the pollution to Pasadena. It was shaping up as a beautiful morning. Which is where child psychologist Alex Delaware comes in - and takes the first step into a maelstrom of atrocities…A breathtaking novel about the sewer of perversion and corruption lying below the glittering surface of California cool. There was only one witness: but little Melody Quinn can't or won't say a word. It began with a double murder: particularly vicious, particularly gruesome. Series: Alex Delaware When The Bough Breaks Jonathan Kellerman
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |