Crush (Karen Vail) by Alan Jacobson

By Alan Jacobson

Clean off the main difficult case of her profession, The seventh Victim heroine and popular FBI profiler Karen Vail returns in an explosive mystery set opposed to the backdrop of California’s wine nation.   Hoping to discover solace from the demons that hang-out her, Vail makes her first journey to the Napa Valley. But presently after arriving, a sufferer is located within the inner most reaches of the unique wine cave, the paintings of a unprecedented unpredictable serial killer. From the outset, Vail is pissed off via her lack of ability to profile the offender-until she realizes why: the Behavioral research Unit has no longer formerly come across a killer like him.   As Vail and the duty strength paintings round the clock to spot and find him, they’re stuck in an internet of knotted with secretive companies, a decades-long feud among popular wine households, and frequent corruption that leads Vail to ask yourself whom, if somebody, she will trust. Meanwhile, because the sufferer count number rises, Vail can’t shake the gnawing experience that whatever isn’t correct.   With the killer’s activities threatening the Napa Valley’s multi-billion greenback undefined, the stakes have by no means been larger, and the race to discover the killer by no means extra urgent. And via all of it, a shock lurks… person who Karen Vail by no means sees coming.
Meticulously researched in the course of years of labor wit the FBI profiling unit and wide interviews with wine pros, bestselling writer Alan Jacobson can provide a excessive speed mystery that includes the type of edge-of-your-seat finishing that encouraged Nelson DeMille to name him “a hell of a writer.”

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Sample text

I dont get out there much, of course. I went at Christmas. You know. They left word at the Eagles for me to call one time and I dont know. Come to dinner sometime. You know. I didnt want to go out there. I dont blame you for that. The uncle shifted a little in his chair. Well, it’s not that I dont get along with them really. I just … You just cant stand them nor them you. A funny little smile crossed the uncle’s face. Well, he said. I dont think I’d go so far as to say that. Now of course they’ve never done me any favors.

He came back for his supper and went out again and stayed until past dark. Just before midnight she heard him leave the house again. He listened at her door and then went on to the front room where he sat on the daybed and donned his shoes. Then he was out in the warm August night, lush and tactile, the door set shut with a faint cry of the keeperspring, down the path through the gate and into the lane. When he came out on the pike he could feel the day’s warmth from the macadam through his thin shoesoles and he could smell it, musky and faintly antiseptic.

Down there in grots of fallen light a cat transpires from stone to stone across the cobbles liquid black and sewn in rapid antipodes over the raindark street to vanish cat and countercat in the rifted works beyond. Faint summer lightning far downriver. A curtain is rising on the western world. A fine rain of soot, dead beetles, anonymous small bones. The audience sits webbed in dust. Within the gutted sockets of the interlocutor’s skull a spider sleeps and the jointed ruins of the hanged fool dangle from the flies, bone pendulum in motley.

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