James Patterson, with Maxine Paetro - Latest in Women's Murder Club - Club Members Threatened!

 

AS HE DROVE at the residential speed limit of twenty miles an hour, Blackout’s immediate plan had been to get off Taylor as fast as he reasonably could. He had taken the first left at Filbert, then turned up onto Leavenworth, passing the house where Catherine and Josie Fleet had lived. A man he recognized as Catherine’s husband, Brad Fleet, had been coming down the front steps. He’d looked both ways and, not seeing his wife and daughter, had no doubt assumed that Catherine and Josie were still in the park. Poor bastard. 

As police cars, sirens screaming, could be heard on the street below, Blackout proceeded to the location for his most important scene. Now, hours later, safe at home, he thought how long that drive had seemed with the woman and baby tucked away inside the trunk. And he’d had a few thoughts about the senior citizen who’d seen too much, lying dead on Taylor between two parked vehicles. 

He’d charged up his video glasses in the car as he drove and later, filmed the perfect ceremony for his victims—without interference. He’d felt peaceful. Reverent. That part, the end of their story, was one long four-minute shot that might be even more bittersweet with music. Something classical, he thought. Albinoni’s “Adagio in G Minor.” Better yet, Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess. 

Yes, that was more appropriate, a fitting homage to a killer he’d often thought of as a teacher, almost a friend. He was sure his mentor would like the results of the day’s work and pictured him now: a superior executioner confined to a cell at San Quentin. A man named Evan Burke.

~~~

The main thought that continues in my mind at the ending of this new book was that here was a group of women, and men, who truly cared for others... And truly were committed to ensure their lives continue in this world where evil is constantly striving to win... The caring, sharing, ongoing contact within this team of those committed to various parts related to the legal system is written so well that we readers also feel empathically what is taking place in one of the most extraordinary novels for this series. Which is already a best seller.

I remember I read the first book or two of the series, but was so busy with requested reviews that I stopped reviewing for major authors... In fact, most of those major authors have been side-lined given the wealth of writers that are out there today, who, however, may have not yet won name identity... You will find many of those talked about, though, here at Book Readers Heaven. Just a thought! Take a risk, try some of the new writers out there as well... You will be pleasantly surprised with the quality of their writing!

Serial killers exist in reality; however, even more in novels... One of the reasons I spotlight the writers' spotlighting emotional involvement of the characters is because, the level of violence in the world is rising and, suddenly, we are more aware of how the level of violence, itself, is intensifying.

Patterson and Paetro have garnered both my appreciation for, and compliments for softening the novel through the characters fighting evil. For, surely, as we see two separate serial killers spotlighted, we find the callous disregard for human life... Too much of a "bad thing" is not necessarily good. To illustrate what I mean, I refuse to read true crime books, I have stopped watching Criminal Minds on television. The competition to see which writer can create the most heinous crimes has gone, in my opinion, too far. Too far in exploring the details that really don't need to be exposed as viewers root for the good guy over the bad buy, don't you think?

One of the members of the Women's Murder Club, has just released her book which is an authorized biography of a convicted serial killer, You Never Knew Me. It was Evan Burke who contacted Cindy Thomas, a local crime reporter, to write his story. Thomas was proud of her book; however, the actual interaction with Burke had been a traumatic experience for her, as she had to listen to all that he had done--and felt about it. Crime fiction is something I won't read, nor watch on TV... Cindy was repeatedly shocked by Burke’s ruthlessness, the pleasure he took in killing. Unable to wall herself off from the sickening details of his crimes, Cindy had come to know Evan Burke too well. And that knowledge had changed her. In fact, this is the very reason I won't expose myself to this type of writing.

Nevertheless, Cindy had taken on the project and needed to follow through with it, through the normal book tour process. At the first signing, there was a woman who began by questioning Cindy's position on the book.

“Open it,” she said. I clicked. The email was blank so I downloaded the video. Like the one Blackout had shot from the back seat of Hammer’s Camry, this was also as seen through the killer’s eyes. “Body cam?” I said. “Video glasses,” said Alvarez. “So says Rich’s tech.” “There,” I said, putting my finger on my computer screen just above a woman in a red tracksuit jogging toward the camera. There was sound: birds, wind through leaves, then, Blackout’s digitized voice, which was pulsing but clear. He said, “This is the kind of girl we like. Twenties. Limber. Strong.” 

I said, “We? Who is we?” Blackout called out to the runner, “Excuse me. I think I’m lost.” The young woman stopped running a few yards from Blackout, caught her breath, walked closer. She had chin-length, wavy brown hair, a pretty face. She asked Blackout, “Where do you want to go?” “Brooks Avenue,” said Blackout. “Where’d I go wrong?” Behind my shoulder Alvarez was watching as I reacted to the scene playing out on-screen. 

“Oh-my-God, oh-my-God,” I said. “This is last night’s victim.” The runner was looking at a map on Blackout’s phone, pointing out that he’d passed Brooks Avenue, tracing the correct direction on the screen. Our view changed. Blackout was looking up and around, as if he was visualizing the route, giving us a panoramic view of the Fuller Theological Seminary campus. There were lawns. Winding paths. Park benches. Sabal palms. But this was not a sightseeing tour for my benefit. Blackout was making sure the way was clear. His gloved hand dipped into the pocket of his black windbreaker and came out clenched around a small canister. The runner looked at it, puzzled. She didn’t know what it was. The gloved hand aimed the nozzle at her eyes and pressed the lever with his thumb. The woman shrieked, tried to clear her eyes with her hands and sleeves, but she had no chance against this man who reached for her. She backed up, stumbled, and dropped to the pavement. 

I gripped the edge of my desk as she cried out, but all I could see of the scuffle that followed was Blackout’s right hand clapped over her mouth, his left arm angling her into a carotid restraint hold. He formed a right angle with her neck in the crux between his forearm and biceps. He used his full weight to subdue her—and he squeezed. Alvarez and I watched in shock as the woman’s writhing and kicking stopped. The leather-gloved hand came off her mouth and she didn’t cry out. She was lifeless. Dead. Blackout stood, and again panned the campus before walking out the way he came. 

Sound came up, classical music I recognized as “Adagio for Strings.” Soft. Mournful. A dramatic bass line. Blackout’s view shifted upward as if he were looking through palm fronds overhead. In his digitized voice he said, “Dedicated to you, Mr. Burke.” The image of palm trees backlit by an indigo sky froze. Then faded to black.

~~~

While Cindy continued her tour, a second serial killer, calling himself Blackout, was responding to every book signing with a murder. Each action was caught on video, provided with sound and sent to Lindsay Boxer, homicide detective, who was lead on the case and who tells the story, first person.

It was very clear that Blackout was a fan of Evan Burke and was copying his life style, but with a clearly electronic upgrade... With each video that was sent, classical music apropo of that individual chosen was added as background.

This continued until the beginning of the ending... and Cindy herself was kidnapped! And Blackout's deal was that if Cindy started talking and telling him all that she knew about Burke, he would let her live...

And while all that was going on Yuki, the prosecutor of a domestic violence case was seeking attempted murder charges against the victim's husband. An appropriate twist, post the period beginning with Lolita, for example, of the inclusion of "being rough" during sex was explored, proved to create a gripping trial dialogue between the two lawyers, with Yuki of the Women's Murder club, getting the maximum decision from the jury...

Tension was getting higher, Lindsey even took time to visit with Dr. Greene, her psychiatrist. This discussion, actually more of a dialogue, allows us to see the personal turmoil, anger and rising temper as she's trying to deal with one of her best friends being captured and, undoubtedly, torture... And knowing the entire team was also sifting through every inch of information, trying to find out who the Hell was Blackout...

My line rang again. Bobby, manning the desk outside Brady’s office, called the radio room. He motioned to me, spinning a finger like a reel of tape on a spool. I understood. They’re on it. Blackout said, “Sergeant?” “Yes.” And I rephrased my last question to Blackout. “How’s Cindy?” 

“She’s not talking,” he said. It was an ambiguous answer, and I didn’t like it. I gave Conklin’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “She’ll talk to me if you let her,” I said. He didn’t reply. Instead, he talked about Cindy. “I read the book she wrote with Evan Burke. I read her first book, too. She was a remarkable writer.” Was? The past-tense usage was either deliberate or unconscious. Or both. 

“What are you saying?” I asked, as Conklin lunged toward the screen. “I envied her, you know,” he said. “I would have liked to be with Evan all those months she spent with him. What a lucky thing for her. Anyway. I’ve got to go.” There was the click of the phone hanging up, but the video still rolled. Blackout put on his glasses, looked at the shabby sofa. 

I caught a glimpse of Cindy but then she disappeared from the frame. Music came up, a dressed-up symphonic rendition of a pop song I remembered from childhood. My father sang it at odd times, in the car, around the house; singer Peggy Lee’s version of “Is That All There Is?” The lyrics were about disillusionment after important personal events. House fire. Circus. Falling in love. The second line of each chorus: “If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing.” 

I’m a literal person and I wanted a literal answer, not an enigma wrapped in an old-time tune. Was Blackout saying he’d killed Cindy and that it was a big disappointment? Or that every life is a disappointment and that included Cindy’s? 

I looked at Alvarez. She shrugged sadly as the video feed cut out. 

A title card appeared on-screen. It was in a large bold Arial font, white letters centered on a black ground. It read, 

“Blackout out.”