NYC chief assistant district attorney Butch Karp faces a difficult case when a serial killer begins stalking the homeless, a situation that is complicated when his daughter volunteers at the shelters where the murders are occurring. Tanenbaum's new Butch Karp/Marlene Ciampi novel opens with a bang. Two NYPD cops on a stakeout spot a snitch at the wheel of a stolen SUV. After a high-speed chase with bullets flying, the snitch is dead, and the hero cop who did the shooting insists it was self-defense: the snitch tried to ram the police car. It's an election year, so everyone but Karp is inclined to accept that explanation. Politics colors other cases too: the trial of a young black street hustler for the murder of a Jewish diamond merchant, and the search for a murderer who's stalking homeless people. Karp and Ciampi's daughter, Lucy, is doing volunteer work with "the unhoused," and Karp is afraid she'll be caught at the wrong place at the wrong time. Meanwhile, Marlene is celebrating the money she's made on technology stocks. She's officially out of the security business until a plea for help from a female rock star drags her back. Vintage Tanenbaum, sure to appeal to fans and likely to increase their numbers. Mary Carroll Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Robert K. Tanenbaum is one of the country's most respected and successful trial lawyers and has never lost a felony case. He has held such prestigious positions as homicide bureau chief for the New York District Attorney's Office and deputy chief counsel to the congressional committee investigations into the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. He is teaching Advanced Criminal Procedure at his alma mater, the University of California at Berkeley, Boalt Hall School of Law and conducting continuing legal education (CLE) seminars for practicing lawyers in California, New York, and Pennsylvania. His previous works include True Justice, Act of Revenge, and Reckless Endangerment. This is his thirteenth novel. Chapter 1 They were having lunch at four in the morning, sitting in the unmarked, a black Dodge Fury double-parked on the south side of Forty-seventh Street just west of Tenth. Nash, in the driver's seat, had a couple of chili dogs and a can of Pepsi. Next to him, Cooley was eating an Italian hero and drinking a large white coffee. It was early March and chilly, with a persistent rain, and they had left the engine running and turned on the wipers and the defroster. The car was warm, the windows were clear. Infrequently, for it was a Sunday night, a car came down the street, slowing to pass the unmarked, and when that happened, both men stopped eating. Nash checked the rearview, and Cooley craned his neck and looked behind him and followed the vehicle as it splashed past. They were looking for a particular car, a van actually, dark blue with white lettering. It belonged to a guy -- whom some other guy had told a third guy about -- who was planning to run in tonight from Virginia with a big load of pistols and automatic rifles to a place on Forty-seventh between Ninth and Tenth. Three other cars were stationed at various places around this part of Manhattan, so that if the guy slipped past the anticrime team that was setting up to make the grab, and ran, there would be cars in position to block the escape. Nash stole a glance at his partner, who had not said five words since coming back to the car from the all-night joint with their meal. Cooley's brow was flexed, and his jaw was working rather more than crushing an Italian hero strictly required, indicating a certain tension. Cooley did not like being in a blocking car. No, Detective Cooley preferred to be the first one through the door, pistol out, yelling "Freeze, freeze!" or some other hearty police exclamation. While Willie Nash considered himself as brave as it was necessary for an NYPD detective to be, and while no one had ever accused him of not pulling his load, he freely conceded that his partner was in a different class altogether in the guts department. Not exactly crazy, because Nash, who had a wife and three, would not have worked with a nut, but definitely on the unusual side. At thirty-two, Nash, though four years older than Cooley, operated as the junior partner, which he did not mind, really. It suited his flamboyant personality, and he liked the reflected glory and the lush collars you got when you hung around Cooley. Nash told himself that his part of the deal was watching Brendan's back -- a full-time job in itself -- and keeping something of a lid on the younger man's more outrageous impulses. He wondered now if Cooley was pissed at him for not doing something about the Firmo disaster, that failure being one reason why they were not on point tonight, but really, Nash thought, as he completed his first chili dog, what could he have done? First of all, Cooley had been -- "Jesus! That's him. There's that mother