An electrifying new thriller that brings back the complex, strong-willed, often-maverick FBI agent—Ana Grey—whom we first met in the author’s stunning debut novel, North of Montana.
This time Special Agent Grey is working on a kidnapping case—a fifteen-year-old named Juliana has been abducted in Santa Monica. Grey’s counterpart in the Santa Monica Police Department is Detective Andrew Berringer. They’ve worked together before—and they’ve been more than just working together ever since.
It’s Ana’s job “to know the victim as if she were my own flesh and blood.” But when Juliana turns up—traumatized into a state of total and paralyzing terror—it becomes clear that Ana has gone too far: she is viewing her own life from the perspective of Juliana’s blasted emotional terrain. And in a moment of passion (Andrew has betrayed her) and panic (is it possible that he also means to harm her?) Ana points a gun at him and shoots.
Now she is both criminal investigator and criminal as she breaks her bail agreement to continue tracking the abductor, torn between her powerful emotional connection with Juliana and the fraying connection she has to her own common sense and to the truths she knows about Andrew—and about herself.
Psychologically acute and unstoppably suspenseful—Good Morning, Killer is a searing, addictive read.
From the Hardcover edition.
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|Title of eBook: Good Morning, Killer||Series: An Ana Grey Mystery, , #2|
|Release Date: 04-22-2003|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
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|Parent title||Good Morning, Killer|
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Good Morning, Killer
Proof of Life
It was winter and I was swimming laps in the rain.
I have found it a privilege to swim outside in the rain, a perk you get in return for living in Los Angeles that not many appreciate. You have to like being extremely wet, and enjoy the feeling of smug superiority because the canyon air is forty degrees and you're in a relatively warm bath. You have to appreciate the subtle play of vanished circles on the water and the dance of droplets off your goggles, blurring the shapes of redtail hawks resting on a telephone pole and deer moving close to the houses.
I did not know about the girl.
I was doing the backstroke, looking up at the clouds, trying not to get pushed into the lane lines by the county lifeguard who was working out beside me, with the tapered legs and the chest of a manatee. He was gray-haired, with a stroke so smooth it never seemed to break water, as if propelled by some internal muscular power known only to yogis. In fact the lifeguard was a kind of spiritual seeker and would speak of "the breath" as if it were a living thing.
My personal meditation that day was on a briefing with the senior superintendent from the Hong Kong Police Force. It would be a lunch with twenty other folks, a long ungainly table in Distefano's, everyone trying to look spiffy and smart-a total waste of time when I had to get my files in order for an upcoming ninety-day file review, an assessment of open cases as pleasant as a cross between a migraine headache and spring cleaning. When you work the kidnap squad you find a lot of cases-mostly missing children-stay open forever.
When the red hand on the workout clock brushed