NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • 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. “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 “[Readers] are in the confident hands of a real artist.” — BookPage “Kellerman, a trained psychologist, brings authenticity to his thoughtful protagonist, as well as a genuine touch of humanity. . . . This long-running series is still going strong.” — Publishers Weekly Jonathan Kellerman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than forty crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, The Butcher's Theater , Billy Straight , The Conspiracy Club , Twisted , True Detectives , and The Murderer's Daughter . With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored Double Homicide and Capital Crimes . With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored Half Moon Bay , A Measure of Darkness , Crime Scene , The Golem of Hollywood , and The Golem of Paris . He is the author of two children's books and numerous nonfiction works, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children and With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars . He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Psychological Association, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California. 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