Twisted: The Collected of Jeffery Deaver
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New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver has long thrilled fans with tales of masterful villains and their nefarious ways, and the brilliant minds who bring them to justice. Now the author of the Lincoln Rhyme series has collected for the first time his award-winning, spine-tingling stories of suspense -- stories that will widen your eyes and stretch your imagination.
A beautiful woman goes to extremes to rid herself of her stalker; a daughter begs her father not to go fishing in an area where there have been a series of brutal killings; a contemporary of the playwright William Shakespeare vows to avenge his family's ruin; and Jeffery Deaver's most beloved character, criminalist Lincoln Rhyme, is back to solve a chilling Christmastime disappearance.
Diverse, provocative, eerie and inspired, this collection of Jeffery Deaver's best stories exhibits the amazing range and signature plot twists that have earned him the title "master of ticking-bomb suspense" (People). With nods to O. Henry and Edgar Allan Poe, these beautifully crafted pieces, never before compiled in one volume, pulse with subtle intrigue and Deaver's incomparable imagination.
“Stunned not hysterical.” Carolyn nodded. Then he leaned forward and gripped her neck hard, pulled her lips to his. She kissed back, just as hard. She enjoyed a kinky little shiver, feeling the gloves on her neck. Maybe she’d have to play dress-up sometime with Don. Or some other lover. Maybe leather would be fun. . . . He released her and she looked into his eyes. “Good luck,” she said. He climbed out, crouched beside the car, looked around. The street was deserted. Still hunched over, he ran
proceedings but the lords, in their leniency, had allowed Margaret Cooper, the prisoner’s wife, to be in attendance. A handsome woman otherwise, Bolt observed, her face was as white as her husband’s and her eyes red from tears. At the table for the defense was a man Bolt recognized as a clever lawyer from the Inns of Court and another man in his late thirties, about whom there was something slightly familiar. He was lean, with a balding pate and lengthy brown hair, and dressed in shirt and
Sir Robert Murtaugh on Temple wharf for reasons of undiscerned enmity. We have witnesses to this violent and unprovoked event.” “Call them forth.” Bolt nodded to the lackey Henry Rawlings, who rose and, his oath being sworn, gave his deposition, “I, sir, was making my way to the Temple wharf when a man did bid me come running. He said, ‘Behold, there is mischief before us, for that is Sir Robert Murtaugh.’ Faith, sirs, before our eyes the prisoner there in the dock was challenging Sir Murtaugh
fake Rolex.” Because no crook was dumb enough to wear a three-thousand-dollar watch on a job—too easy to get messed up or lost. “And he’s a pool player.” “You know that?” “I know that.” Because whatever the detectives from downtown thought, Tony knew it’d been cue chalk dust that Pitkin had seen on his hands. No drug dealer or junkie’d be so careless with coke or smack that he’d get visible residue on his hands. And if he did, he’d lick them clean in a second. That’s why Tony was here—he
work, her lunch hours, the nights she and Patty (well, she claimed it was Patty) would stay in the city after shopping and a play . . . The phone rang. Was it her? he wondered. He grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?” There was a pause. Sid Farnsworth said, “Den? You okay?” “Not really, no.” He explained what he’d found. “Just a . . . You said it was blank?” “Oh, you bet it was.” “And it wasn’t addressed to anybody?” “Nope. That’s the point. That’s what makes it so bad.” Silence. Then his friend