Thrillers & Suspense
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Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • Psychologist Alex Delaware and detective Milo Sturgis search for answers to a brutal, decades-old crime in this electrifying psychological thriller from the master of suspense.
LAPD homicide lieutenant Milo Sturgis is a master detective. He has a near-perfect solve rate and he's written his own rule book. Some of those successes-the toughest ones-have involved his best friend, the brilliant psychologist Alex Delaware. But Milo doesn't call Alex in unless cases are "different."
This murder warrants an immediate call. Milo's independence has been compromised as never before, as the department pressures him to cater to the demands of a mogul: a hard-to-fathom, megarich young woman who is obsessed with reopening the coldest of cases-the decades-old death of the mother she never knew.
The facts describe a likely loser: a mysterious woman found with a bullet in her head in a torched Cadillac that has overturned on infamously treacherous Mulholland Drive. No physical evidence, no witnesses, no apparent motive. And a slew of detectives have already worked the case and failed. But as Delaware and Sturgis begin digging, the mist begins to lift. Too many coincidences. Facts turn out to be anything but. And as they soon discover, very real threats lurking in the present.
This is Delaware/Sturgis at their best: traversing the beautiful but forbidding place known as Los Angeles and exhuming the past in order to bring a vicious killer to justice.
LAPD homicide lieutenant Milo Sturgis is a master detective. He has a near-perfect solve rate and he's written his own rule book. Some of those successes-the toughest ones-have involved his best friend, the brilliant psychologist Alex Delaware. But Milo doesn't call Alex in unless cases are "different."
This murder warrants an immediate call. Milo's independence has been compromised as never before, as the department pressures him to cater to the demands of a mogul: a hard-to-fathom, megarich young woman who is obsessed with reopening the coldest of cases-the decades-old death of the mother she never knew.
The facts describe a likely loser: a mysterious woman found with a bullet in her head in a torched Cadillac that has overturned on infamously treacherous Mulholland Drive. No physical evidence, no witnesses, no apparent motive. And a slew of detectives have already worked the case and failed. But as Delaware and Sturgis begin digging, the mist begins to lift. Too many coincidences. Facts turn out to be anything but. And as they soon discover, very real threats lurking in the present.
This is Delaware/Sturgis at their best: traversing the beautiful but forbidding place known as Los Angeles and exhuming the past in order to bring a vicious killer to justice.
Readers Top Reviews
Ian O.Lillian
This is a twist on the usual Alex Delaware and Milo Sturgis cases, but it's ripping good yarn.Milo gets given a cold case and he and Alex are drawn into a historical web of intrigue. I loved this as much as all the previous 35 Alex Delaware novels - brilliantly written stories with a human touch.
Longsuffering
Slow paced, as usual interesting plot,well laid out, no surprises. Four stars Johnathan, you can get another one if you can remember how to do suspense,and edge and Oh yes !emotion !
Gill ElliottParis
My how these books have changed since the beginning of the Alex Delaware series when they were usually a gripping thriller full of tension and drama that was usually centred around Alex’s work as a psychologist where Milo was brought in to help him, now they all seem to be about Milo bringing in Alex and I’m finding that formula incredibly boring, which is a great shame as Jonathan Kellerman is a great writer. It seems to me that the author has a set draft and then just changes the odd name here or there and that it’s possible that he’s completely bored with the whole thing. We hear all about Milo’s penchant for food, the bad clothes the repeated dry face washing, Robin is in the workshop, the driving up and down the canyon! It’s all be done before, sorry! I’m afraid I need more.
Seattle ReaderMagicb
I almost stopped reading this one. Which is something because I've read all the Delaware novels and love the series. The first few chapters feel like someone else wrote them. The dialogue is stilted with some phrases (e.g. "go know") used by everyone. Foliage is described in excruciating detail. The paragraphs are short and choppy. Eventually things settle into Kellerman's rhythm and it gets much better with his usual twists and turns.
Kindle
I have read Jonathan Kellerman's Alex Delaware series for years. But the last few have been, frankly not very good. While it makes sense to bring his children into the family business, I blamed the weaker books on a different, more youthful feeling rather than the sophisticated snark his main character delivers. Serpentine brought back the clever dialogue, strong character interaction missing from his last few books. This is a very good mystery and Milo and Alex are in top form They are also two grown ups who reflect the attitudes of their generation, not the " woke" one. Thank God! If an author is good enough to write a book on his own, why add another writer ? It changes the tone of the book and a lot of the popular ,successful mystery writers are doing this. I wish they would stop because I, for one, will not buy a father/son, father/daughter, or brothers collaboration.
Short Excerpt Teaser
CHAPTER 1
My best friend, a seasoned homicide detective, is a master of discontent.
Some say Milo Sturgis enjoys the cold comfort of a sour mood.
Grumbling, grimacing, and mumbled curses peak during the muddled middle of murder investigations, when promising leads break their promises. He always gets past it; his solve rate is near-perfect. Which is why his bosses tolerate the biliousness, messages ignored, memos tossed in the trash unread.
I've come to think of Milo as allergic to obedience, wonder if it's rooted in his rookie days when gay cops didn't "exist" in the department and he had to look over his shoulder and write his own rulebook.
But I could be wrong. Temperament's a strong factor in determining personality so it could just be the way he is. I wonder what his baby pictures look like. Imagine him as one of those infants who look as though they've been weaned on sour pickles.
Like a lot of things, we don't talk about it.
He doesn't call me in on all of his cases, just the ones he terms "different" once he's gotten his bearings. This time, he didn't wait.
I picked up his phone message when I returned from an eight a.m. run up Beverly Glen. "Misery lusts for company, I'm coming over. If it's a problem, text me."
I left the door unlocked and headed for the shower. Before I took two steps, the bell rang.
He'd called from the road.
"Open."
He barreled through, convex gut leading the way, head lowered, bulky shoulders piled up around his neck like a muscular shawl.
A charging bull if a bull could find an aloha shirt that fit.
He took a moment to stoop and pat the head of my little French bulldog, Blanche, murmured, "At least someone's smiling," and continued toward the kitchen.
Blanche cocked her head and looked up at me, expecting clarification. When I shrugged and followed him in, she gave a world-weary sigh and padded along.
Milo's usual thing is to raid the fridge and assemble snacks worthy of construction permits. This time he filled a coffee cup, sat down heavily at the table, and tugged at the aloha shirt as if aerating his torso. The shirt was sky-blue polyester patterned inexplicably with cellos and bagels. He wore it tucked into baggy khaki cargo pants that puddled over scuffed desert boots.
My true love is a master artisan. She'd designed the kitchen to be sunlit from the south, and this morning's glow was kind to Milo's pallid, pockmarked face. But nothing could mask the cherry-sized lumps rolling up and down his jawline.
I filled a mug and settled across from him. "Now I'm scared."
"By what?"
I pointed to his cup. "No food."
"Sorry for defying your expectations." His lips curled but the end product wasn't a smile. "Maybe I had a big breakfast? Maybe I'm showing discretion?"
"Okay."
"That was a shrink okay if I've ever heard one-which is fine, I need therapy."
I said nothing.
He said, "There it is, the old strategic-silence bit . . . sorry, I'll dial it down." He breathed in and out. Pressed mitt-like palms together. "Namaste or whatever. Glad I caught you." Sip. "Hoping you're free today." Sip. "Are you?"
"Appointments from two to five."
"That'll work." He picked up his cup, put it down. "I plead guilty to acute petulance. But it's called for."
"Tough case."
"It should be so simple." Sausage fingers drummed the table. Another long inhale–exhale. "Okay, here's the deal. Just got a mega-loser shoved in my face like I'm a goddamn rookie. Thirty-six-year-old unsolved. We're talking freezer burn."
"There's a new cold-case campaign?"
"No, there's just this. Listen to the chain of command, Alex. An equally rich buddy of Andrea Bauer-remember her?-sits next to a relative of the victim at a rich persons' thing. Bauer butts in, she's connected to the cops, can help. Instead of calling me directly, Bauer contacts a state assemblyman. He hands off to the mayor who can't even clear the goddamn sidewalks of garbage, couple of cops downtown just got typhus at a homeless encampment."
He pushed his cup to the side. Lowered a fist to the table but stopped short of contact.
"City's returning to the Dark Ages but Handsome Jack's got time to personally contact the chief who punts to Deputy Chief Veronique Martz who calls me yesterday just as I'm about to go off-shift. Important meeting, her office, can't be handled over the phone. I drive eighty-six minutes downtown, cool my heels in her waiting room for another twenty, finally get ushered into her sanctum for the ninety seconds it takes for her to give me the victim's name and the basics and warn me not to argue."
I said, "Thin file?"
"She didn't have ...
My best friend, a seasoned homicide detective, is a master of discontent.
Some say Milo Sturgis enjoys the cold comfort of a sour mood.
Grumbling, grimacing, and mumbled curses peak during the muddled middle of murder investigations, when promising leads break their promises. He always gets past it; his solve rate is near-perfect. Which is why his bosses tolerate the biliousness, messages ignored, memos tossed in the trash unread.
I've come to think of Milo as allergic to obedience, wonder if it's rooted in his rookie days when gay cops didn't "exist" in the department and he had to look over his shoulder and write his own rulebook.
But I could be wrong. Temperament's a strong factor in determining personality so it could just be the way he is. I wonder what his baby pictures look like. Imagine him as one of those infants who look as though they've been weaned on sour pickles.
Like a lot of things, we don't talk about it.
He doesn't call me in on all of his cases, just the ones he terms "different" once he's gotten his bearings. This time, he didn't wait.
I picked up his phone message when I returned from an eight a.m. run up Beverly Glen. "Misery lusts for company, I'm coming over. If it's a problem, text me."
I left the door unlocked and headed for the shower. Before I took two steps, the bell rang.
He'd called from the road.
"Open."
He barreled through, convex gut leading the way, head lowered, bulky shoulders piled up around his neck like a muscular shawl.
A charging bull if a bull could find an aloha shirt that fit.
He took a moment to stoop and pat the head of my little French bulldog, Blanche, murmured, "At least someone's smiling," and continued toward the kitchen.
Blanche cocked her head and looked up at me, expecting clarification. When I shrugged and followed him in, she gave a world-weary sigh and padded along.
Milo's usual thing is to raid the fridge and assemble snacks worthy of construction permits. This time he filled a coffee cup, sat down heavily at the table, and tugged at the aloha shirt as if aerating his torso. The shirt was sky-blue polyester patterned inexplicably with cellos and bagels. He wore it tucked into baggy khaki cargo pants that puddled over scuffed desert boots.
My true love is a master artisan. She'd designed the kitchen to be sunlit from the south, and this morning's glow was kind to Milo's pallid, pockmarked face. But nothing could mask the cherry-sized lumps rolling up and down his jawline.
I filled a mug and settled across from him. "Now I'm scared."
"By what?"
I pointed to his cup. "No food."
"Sorry for defying your expectations." His lips curled but the end product wasn't a smile. "Maybe I had a big breakfast? Maybe I'm showing discretion?"
"Okay."
"That was a shrink okay if I've ever heard one-which is fine, I need therapy."
I said nothing.
He said, "There it is, the old strategic-silence bit . . . sorry, I'll dial it down." He breathed in and out. Pressed mitt-like palms together. "Namaste or whatever. Glad I caught you." Sip. "Hoping you're free today." Sip. "Are you?"
"Appointments from two to five."
"That'll work." He picked up his cup, put it down. "I plead guilty to acute petulance. But it's called for."
"Tough case."
"It should be so simple." Sausage fingers drummed the table. Another long inhale–exhale. "Okay, here's the deal. Just got a mega-loser shoved in my face like I'm a goddamn rookie. Thirty-six-year-old unsolved. We're talking freezer burn."
"There's a new cold-case campaign?"
"No, there's just this. Listen to the chain of command, Alex. An equally rich buddy of Andrea Bauer-remember her?-sits next to a relative of the victim at a rich persons' thing. Bauer butts in, she's connected to the cops, can help. Instead of calling me directly, Bauer contacts a state assemblyman. He hands off to the mayor who can't even clear the goddamn sidewalks of garbage, couple of cops downtown just got typhus at a homeless encampment."
He pushed his cup to the side. Lowered a fist to the table but stopped short of contact.
"City's returning to the Dark Ages but Handsome Jack's got time to personally contact the chief who punts to Deputy Chief Veronique Martz who calls me yesterday just as I'm about to go off-shift. Important meeting, her office, can't be handled over the phone. I drive eighty-six minutes downtown, cool my heels in her waiting room for another twenty, finally get ushered into her sanctum for the ninety seconds it takes for her to give me the victim's name and the basics and warn me not to argue."
I said, "Thin file?"
"She didn't have ...
