Thrillers & Suspense
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Unnatural History: An Alex Delaware Novel
The most enduring detectives in American crime fiction are back in this electrifying thriller of art and brutality from the #1 New York Times bestselling master of suspense.
Los Angeles is a city of stark contrast, the palaces of the affluent coexisting uneasily with the hellholes of the mad and the needy. That shadow world and the violence it breeds draw brilliant psychologist Dr. Alex Delaware and Detective Milo Sturgis into an unsettling case of altruism gone wrong.
On a superficially lovely morning, a woman shows up for work with her usual enthusiasm. She's the newly hired personal assistant to a handsome, wealthy photographer and is ready to greet her boss with coffee and good cheer. Instead, she finds him slumped in bed, shot to death.
The victim had recently received rave media attention for his latest project: images of homeless people in their personal "dream" situations, elaborately costumed and enacting unfulfilled fantasies. There are some, however, who view the whole thing as nothing more than crass exploitation, citing token payments and the victim's avoidance of any long-term relationships with his subjects.
Has disgruntlement blossomed into homicidal rage? Or do the roots of violence reach down to the victim's family-a clan, sired by an elusive billionaire, that is bizarre in its own right?
Then new murders arise, and Alex and Milo begin peeling back layer after layer of intrigue and complexity, culminating in one of the deadliest threats they've ever faced.
Los Angeles is a city of stark contrast, the palaces of the affluent coexisting uneasily with the hellholes of the mad and the needy. That shadow world and the violence it breeds draw brilliant psychologist Dr. Alex Delaware and Detective Milo Sturgis into an unsettling case of altruism gone wrong.
On a superficially lovely morning, a woman shows up for work with her usual enthusiasm. She's the newly hired personal assistant to a handsome, wealthy photographer and is ready to greet her boss with coffee and good cheer. Instead, she finds him slumped in bed, shot to death.
The victim had recently received rave media attention for his latest project: images of homeless people in their personal "dream" situations, elaborately costumed and enacting unfulfilled fantasies. There are some, however, who view the whole thing as nothing more than crass exploitation, citing token payments and the victim's avoidance of any long-term relationships with his subjects.
Has disgruntlement blossomed into homicidal rage? Or do the roots of violence reach down to the victim's family-a clan, sired by an elusive billionaire, that is bizarre in its own right?
Then new murders arise, and Alex and Milo begin peeling back layer after layer of intrigue and complexity, culminating in one of the deadliest threats they've ever faced.
Editorial Reviews
"This is Kellerman at his very best. Just the dialogue between Sturgis and Delaware is worth it. But also, the depiction of Los Angeles is always the star."-Mystery & Suspense magazine
"Still one of the most talented authors working today, Kellerman dials up yet another page-turning adventure starring Alex Delaware. Riveting and full of twists and turns that'll keep you glued to the pages, I found this to be one of Kellerman's best books to date . . . and that's really saying something when you look at his extraordinary body of work."-The Real Book Spy
"Still one of the most talented authors working today, Kellerman dials up yet another page-turning adventure starring Alex Delaware. Riveting and full of twists and turns that'll keep you glued to the pages, I found this to be one of Kellerman's best books to date . . . and that's really saying something when you look at his extraordinary body of work."-The Real Book Spy
Short Excerpt Teaser
CHAPTER 1
When I go to crime scenes, I'm ready to focus on terrible things.
I end up at crime scenes because my best friend, a homicide lieutenant, thinks I have something to offer on the cases he calls "different."
He rarely gives me details, wanting me to form my own impressions. As I pulled up to the yellow tape on a Monday morning just after ten, I knew nothing.
No evidence markers outside. Whatever had happened was limited to the interior of a navy-blue, two-story stucco building.
I gave my name to a uniform guarding the tape and was allowed to park in a red zone.
The blue building sat on the north side of Venice Boulevard, perched on a grubby corner, the entrance on a side street. At the back was a parking area, also taped, with the rear end of a black Prius just visible. Beyond the alley was a residential block; seventy-year-old apartments and a few straggling bungalows.
A little pocket of L.A. that had managed to elude Culver City when borders were drawn.
The automotive mix out front was the usual. Black-and-whites plus vehicles dispatched from the crypt on North Mission Road. Two vans for transporting techs and their gear, meaning lots of scraping and sampling; one for transporting bodies; a Chevy Volt sedan used by coroners' assistants as they traveled around the county ministering to dead people.
No signage on the blue building. Rust-crusted security bars grilled two narrow windows on each floor. So narrow they evoked castle bow-slits.
I slipped under the tape and headed for the front door, a gray metal slab left slightly ajar. No one had told me to glove up but I covered my hand with a corner of my blazer and prepared to nudge. Before I made contact, the door swung open and Milo Sturgis came out.
He wore a pessimistic black suit, a beige shirt stretched tight over his gut, and a skinny brown tie whose origins could be traced to a chemistry lab. Paper booties covered his desert boots. He had gloved up and latex glistened as it strained over hands the size of strip steaks. His black hair alternated between gelled obedience and random flight. His face was chalky in the sunlight, UV rays advertising pits and lumps that harked back to teenage acne.
Nothing to interpret; his default pallor. Startling green eyes remained calm but his mouth was set in a sour frown.
Annoyed.
"Thanks for coming," he said. "Ready to put on your therapist hat?"
"For who?
"C'mon, I'll show you."
The door opened to a blank white wall. To the right was an alarm keypad. Less wall than knock-up partition; pebbled, whitewashed fiberboard, no ability to mute sound.
Lots of sound from behind the wall. Moans and gasps and sobs then a moment of breath-catching quiet during which a woman said, "Try to relax," with no great sincerity.
More sobbing.
I said, "Someone's having a bad day."
Milo said, "Not compared with the decedent. Hopefully you can calm things down so I can concentrate on the decedent."
CHAPTER 2
By the time I reached the crying woman, I knew the decedent's name and hers after Milo showed me her California driver's license.
Melissa Lee-Ann Gornick.
"But," said Milo, "she goes by Melissande."
The license pegged her as twenty years old, five-four, ninety-eight pounds, BRN eyes and hair. Why DMV bothers to record hair color has always mystified me and Melissande Gornick proved my point with a hot-pink, teased-up do. Since being photographed three years ago, she'd also added steel piercings to her left eyebrow, her left cheek, her right nostril, and the soft spot between lower lip and chin.
For all that, both ears remained untouched by metal. Maybe that was now a thing. My patients are generally well below the piercing age so I sometimes miss out on current events.
Melissande Gornick rocked back and forth in a chair and gripped the sides of her face with black-nailed hands. Her spare frame barely impacted the seating, an oversized love seat of brick-colored tweed. One of half a dozen pieces of furniture strewn randomly in cold, white space. Two techs worked in corners, scraping, bottling, bagging, labeling.
As we approached, she let out three gulping sobs then switched to high-pitched keening whistles. Then back to crying.
Like a teapot undecided if brewing was complete.
Milo's look said, See what I mean.
The female officer stationed behind Gornick said, "Try to relax,...
When I go to crime scenes, I'm ready to focus on terrible things.
I end up at crime scenes because my best friend, a homicide lieutenant, thinks I have something to offer on the cases he calls "different."
He rarely gives me details, wanting me to form my own impressions. As I pulled up to the yellow tape on a Monday morning just after ten, I knew nothing.
No evidence markers outside. Whatever had happened was limited to the interior of a navy-blue, two-story stucco building.
I gave my name to a uniform guarding the tape and was allowed to park in a red zone.
The blue building sat on the north side of Venice Boulevard, perched on a grubby corner, the entrance on a side street. At the back was a parking area, also taped, with the rear end of a black Prius just visible. Beyond the alley was a residential block; seventy-year-old apartments and a few straggling bungalows.
A little pocket of L.A. that had managed to elude Culver City when borders were drawn.
The automotive mix out front was the usual. Black-and-whites plus vehicles dispatched from the crypt on North Mission Road. Two vans for transporting techs and their gear, meaning lots of scraping and sampling; one for transporting bodies; a Chevy Volt sedan used by coroners' assistants as they traveled around the county ministering to dead people.
No signage on the blue building. Rust-crusted security bars grilled two narrow windows on each floor. So narrow they evoked castle bow-slits.
I slipped under the tape and headed for the front door, a gray metal slab left slightly ajar. No one had told me to glove up but I covered my hand with a corner of my blazer and prepared to nudge. Before I made contact, the door swung open and Milo Sturgis came out.
He wore a pessimistic black suit, a beige shirt stretched tight over his gut, and a skinny brown tie whose origins could be traced to a chemistry lab. Paper booties covered his desert boots. He had gloved up and latex glistened as it strained over hands the size of strip steaks. His black hair alternated between gelled obedience and random flight. His face was chalky in the sunlight, UV rays advertising pits and lumps that harked back to teenage acne.
Nothing to interpret; his default pallor. Startling green eyes remained calm but his mouth was set in a sour frown.
Annoyed.
"Thanks for coming," he said. "Ready to put on your therapist hat?"
"For who?
"C'mon, I'll show you."
The door opened to a blank white wall. To the right was an alarm keypad. Less wall than knock-up partition; pebbled, whitewashed fiberboard, no ability to mute sound.
Lots of sound from behind the wall. Moans and gasps and sobs then a moment of breath-catching quiet during which a woman said, "Try to relax," with no great sincerity.
More sobbing.
I said, "Someone's having a bad day."
Milo said, "Not compared with the decedent. Hopefully you can calm things down so I can concentrate on the decedent."
CHAPTER 2
By the time I reached the crying woman, I knew the decedent's name and hers after Milo showed me her California driver's license.
Melissa Lee-Ann Gornick.
"But," said Milo, "she goes by Melissande."
The license pegged her as twenty years old, five-four, ninety-eight pounds, BRN eyes and hair. Why DMV bothers to record hair color has always mystified me and Melissande Gornick proved my point with a hot-pink, teased-up do. Since being photographed three years ago, she'd also added steel piercings to her left eyebrow, her left cheek, her right nostril, and the soft spot between lower lip and chin.
For all that, both ears remained untouched by metal. Maybe that was now a thing. My patients are generally well below the piercing age so I sometimes miss out on current events.
Melissande Gornick rocked back and forth in a chair and gripped the sides of her face with black-nailed hands. Her spare frame barely impacted the seating, an oversized love seat of brick-colored tweed. One of half a dozen pieces of furniture strewn randomly in cold, white space. Two techs worked in corners, scraping, bottling, bagging, labeling.
As we approached, she let out three gulping sobs then switched to high-pitched keening whistles. Then back to crying.
Like a teapot undecided if brewing was complete.
Milo's look said, See what I mean.
The female officer stationed behind Gornick said, "Try to relax,...
