You Fit the Pattern (A Julia Gooden Mystery, Band 4) - Hardcover

Haseldine, Jane

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1496710983 ISBN 13: 9781496710987

Verlag: Kensington, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

In this gritty, riveting new novel, Detroit reporter Julia Gooden tracks down a serial killer—only to realize she has become his obsession . . .
 
Crime writer Julia Gooden has just completed the most important story of her life—a book about her beloved brother’s childhood abduction and how she found his killer after thirty years. But that hasn’t taken her focus off her day job—especially with what looks to be a serial killer terrorizing the city. Female runners are being snatched off jogging trails, then slaughtered in abandoned churches.
 
As Julia begins investigating, with help from Detective Raymond Navarro, she realizes just how personal this case has become. The murders, planned and executed with uncanny precision, are of women who share traits with Julia. Now he’s contacting her directly, insisting things will get much worse unless Julia makes him famous through her writing.
 
But no matter how skillfully she plays along, her opponent’s ultimate goal is clear. And only by unraveling the threads that link a killer’s twisted mind to her own dark past can Julia prevent herself from becoming his final victim . . .

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jane Haseldine is a journalist, former crime reporter, columnist, and newspaper editor, who also worked in politics as the deputy director of communications for a governor. Jane resides in Southern California. Readers can visit her website at www.janehaseldine.com.

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You Fit the Pattern

By Jane Haseldine

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2019 Jane Haseldine
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4967-1098-7

CHAPTER 1

Heather Burns coiled her perfectly highlighted blond hair into a tight bun and frowned as she gave her face a brutal inspection in the mirror of her parked yellow Range Rover.

Dissatisfied with her appearance, Heather pulled the skin back from the corners of her jawline and took in the wistful reminder of what she used to look like when age meant nothing because the onset of its ravages hadn't yet struck.

God, getting older really was the ultimate bitch, the thirty-nine-year-old thought, and scanned the empty parking lot of Mayberry State Park in Northville, a suburb of Detroit, where she and her teenage daughter, Carly, lived.

Heather gave up on her face momentarily and spun around to the backseat to make sure she remembered the four FIND YOUR NEW HOME HERE! signs dotted with cheerful red-house emojis for her nine AM open house, her day's next order of business after her early-morning run. Satisfied when she spotted the signs poking out from underneath her briefcase, Heather took to the rearview mirror to resume her search for any new wrinkles.

She needed new headshots for her latest batch of business cards and beat her French-manicured fingernails against the dashboard as she fretted over the stone-cold fact that a pretty face sold more houses and raked in bigger commissions. She had learned early on that looking good was a job requirement for a successful Realtor. And Heather had already bore catty witness to a younger crop of thinner and blonder girls already jockeying at her RE/MAX office for a chance to snag her clients.

Heather dug her hand deep inside her bag and retrieved a business card her friend had given her over drinks at a downtown Detroit bar during a recent girls' night out. Heather studied the phone number on the card and recalled how her friend swore to her with the enthusiasm of an infomercial host that if Heather just made an appointment, she'd feel so much better about herself. Presto chango, renewed self-esteem courtesy of a couple syringes of Botox and assorted fillers stuck in her face.

Heather tossed the card back in her bag and decided she'd stick with her crow's-feet. At least for now.

The sharp bite of the early-October Michigan morning hit Heather as she exited the Range Rover and she began to shiver. Heather worked through her usual series of stretches and felt a renewed pang of guilt for giving Carly a new phone. Her daughter had ultimately worn her down, complaining about the sheer humiliation of being the only person in her group that had a flip phone. Carly had hammered home the injustice that even elementary-school kids had iPhones, and there she was, a ninth grader, forced to use a relic.

Carly was a good girl, a straight-A student, and a solid athlete who excelled on her county-rec baseball and soccer league teams, despite the grenade Heather's dad had thrown into their lives after he walked out on his family to take up with a pharmaceutical sales rep he met at his physician's practice. After her ex had bailed on his latest weekend with Carly, Heather had caved on the phone as some sort of half-baked consolation prize to make her daughter feel better.

She was sure her good girl would never abuse the privilege of the phone. But three weeks later, Heather soon learned that phones with cameras, where images could be quickly snapped and texted to boys or girls who fluidly changed their allegiance of friendship in a teenage hormonal nanosecond, were dangerous toys, not modern-day commodities for kids to communicate.

One stupid slip of judgment and the selfie of Carly in her underwear had spread like wildfire around the school. But Heather would make it right. She hated confrontation and usually choked under pressure, her voice melting into a quaking stutter when she had to face down a hostile encounter. But this was for her little girl, so Heather had made an appointment to talk to the principal after the open house.

Moms would go to any length for their kids.

A cool gust of wind sent the fall leaves scattering like a swirl of bright copper pennies across the ground. Heather ignored her chattering teeth and took a quick glance at her watch: 6:00 AM. Her Range Rover was still the only car in the parking lot. But Heather wasn't worried about running alone. The park was an old friend, one that she had discovered during her sophomore year of high school when she first ran track. A sad smile played on her lips as she recalled the state record she set senior year for the eight-hundred-meter race, a crowning residual jewel she sometimes pulled out as a reminder of a time when she believed the world was brimming with endless possibilities just waiting for her with a beckoning hand.

Glory days, baby.

Heather's feet found their pace as she started her run. She completed her first loop around the lake, the one-mile mark of her four-mile run, and pushed herself faster and harder for her second round.

Running for Heather was like meditation. Her mind was usually clear of any worries or regrets when she ran, and the sound of her sneakers slapping against the pavement was a soothing white noise, a temporary respite from memories of her last date with her ex-husband who announced over a plate of shared pasta puttanesca that he wanted a divorce.

She discovered later that his new lady was at the restaurant waiting for him, watching the scene unfold from a seat at the bar.

Heather felt the tears come, but she forced herself not to cry. She was fine. Just fine.

The sun crested its way up to the top of the tree line and Heather checked her watch again: 6:45. Time to head home for a quick shower and to make Carly lunch before she went to school. Heather slowed her pace to a fast walk and made her way back to the empty parking lot, where she spotted another vehicle cutting around the corner, breaking her solitude.

As the car got closer, Heather could see that it was an older-model tan Buick driven by a gray-haired woman, who gave Heather a quick, friendly wave with a mittened hand as she passed. The Buick stopped at the other end of the park by the duck pond, where Heather frequently saw a group of people from the senior center do tai chi.

Heather did her usual routine and headed to the public restroom before she left the park. She always downed a large bottle of water before she ran, so the women's room was her final stop before her twenty-minute car ride home.

The door to the women's room creaked as she opened it. Heather hurried inside, grabbed a handful of brown paper towels from a dispenser near the sink so she wouldn't have to touch the icky bathroom door handle, and entered the stall closest to the door.

Heather began to come up with her strategy on how she could steady her nerves during her meeting with Carly's principal, when the bathroom door opened, the rough screak, screak, screak of its hinges sounding like a rusty nail being dragged across the floor.

Plodding footsteps thumped past Heather and then a stall door banged shut on the far side of the room.

Heather flushed the toilet with the toe of her sneaker and approached the sink. She did a quick look in the mirror and saw the reflection of someone's feet planted underneath a stall. The wearer had on a set of black orthopedic shoes and tan pantyhose that poked out from the elastic bottom of a pair of gray sweatpants, the outfit likely belonging to the older lady in the Buick, Heather figured.

Heather finished washing her hands and decided to...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Kensington
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2019
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1496710983
• ISBN 13: 9781496710987
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Dietmar Rusche; 15110751138; rusche.dietmar@gmx.de; ; Dr.-Willi-Bergmann-Str. 13; St. Andreasberg; 37444; Deutschland