Available:*
Library | Call Number | Status |
---|---|---|
Searching... Hardwood Creek Library (Forest Lake) | FICTION GER | Searching... Unknown |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
New York Times-bestselling author Gerritsen delivers another electrifying thriller in her popular series that started with The Surgeon, featuring medical examiner Maura Isles and police detective Jane Rizzoli.
Author Notes
Tess Gerritsen was born on June 12, 1953 in San Diego, California. She received a bachelor's degree from Stanford University and a M.D. from the University of California, San Francisco. While on maternity leave from her work as a physician, she began to write fiction. Her first novel, Call After Midnight was published in 1987. It was followed by eight more romantic suspense novels. She also wrote the screenplay, Adrift, which aired as a 1993 CBS Movie of the Week starring Kate Jackson.
Her first medical thriller, Harvest, was published in 1996. She is the author of the Rizzoli and Isles series, which was adapted into a television show. She has won several awards including the Nero Wolfe Award for Vanish and the Rita Award for The Surgeon. She retired from the medical field and writes full-time. Her other novels include Presumed Guilty, Harvest, Gravity, The Bone Garden, and Playing with Fire.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Bestseller Gerritsen's at times lackluster series heroines prove they can shine in her solid seventh thriller to feature Det. Jane Rizzoli and Dr. Maura Isles (after The Mephisto Club). When medical examiner Isles studies an X-ray scan of Madame X, which everyone assumes is a newly discovered Egyptian mummy, at Boston's Crispin Museum, she realizes the mummy isn't a priceless artifact but a recent murder victim, gruesomely preserved. Rizzoli focuses the police investigation on Dr. Josephine Pulcillo, a young archeologist recently hired by the museum who may have something to hide. More victims soon turn up, including a tsantsa (shrunken head) in a hidden museum chamber and a corpse resembling a well-preserved bog body in Pulcillo's car. After Pulcillo disappears, Rizzoli and Isles must scramble to find her before she becomes another trophy in the killer's growing collection. As usual, Gerritsen delivers an intricate plot that will keep readers guessing. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
Boston medical examiner Maura Isles gets a bit of a shock when a mummy, assumed to be several thousand years old, turns out to be a recently murdered woman but what was she doing in the storage room of a museum, wrapped in ancient bandages, and how did she get there? Maura and her frequent collaborator, Detective Jane Rizzoli, soon learn that the mysterious Madam X is not the only victim, and they race against time to stop a homicidal maniac before he ups the ante. This very popular series keeps rolling smoothly along, the formula well established and familiar: after introducing a bewildering mystery and an assortment of characters (who range from shady to downright villainous), Gerritsen stands back and lets Isles and Rizzoli do their thing. There's nothing especially remarkable about the book it's no better or worse than its predecessors, and in many ways, it's exactly the same. But Gerritsen does what she does efficiently and with considerable craft, and she has created a couple of strong protagonists more than capable of keeping this franchise going for quite a while.--Pitt, David Copyright 2008 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Dr. Maura Isles is intrigued by an offer to observe the X-raying of a mummy--until she discovers that the mummy is a contemporary murder victim. With a seven-city tour on request. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One He is coming for me. I feel it in my bones. I sniff it in the air, as recognizable as the scent of hot sand and savory spices and the sweat of a hundred men toiling in the sun. These are the smells of Egypt's western desert, and they are still vivid to me, although that country is nearly half a globe away from the dark bedroom where I now lie. Fifteen years have passed since I walked that desert, but when I close my eyes, in an instant I am there again, standing at the edge of the tent camp, looking toward the Libyan border and the sunset. The wind moaned like a woman when it swept down the wadi. I still hear the thuds of pickaxes and the scrape of shovels, can picture the army of Egyptian diggers, busy as ants as they swarmed the excavation site, hauling their gufa baskets filled with soil. It seemed to me then, when I stood in that desert fifteen years ago, as if I were an actress in a film about someone else's adventure. Not mine. Certainly it was not an adventure that a quiet girl from Indio, California, ever expected to live. The lights of a passing car glimmer through my closed eyelids. When I open my eyes, Egypt vanishes. No longer am I standing in the desert gazing at a sky smeared by sunset the color of bruises. Instead I am once again half a world away, lying in my dark San Diego bedroom. I climb out of bed and walk barefoot to the window to look out at the street. It is a tired neighborhood of stucco tract homes built in the 1950s, before the American dream meant mini-mansions and three- car garages. There is honesty in the modest but sturdy houses, built not to impress but to shelter, and I feel safely anonymous here. Just another single mother struggling to raise a recalcitrant teenage daughter. Peeking through the curtains at the street, I see a dark- colored sedan slow down half a block away. It pulls over to the curb, and the headlights turn off. I watch, waiting for the driver to step out, but no one does. For a long time the driver sits there. Perhaps he's listening to the radio, or maybe he's had a fight with his wife and is afraid to face her. Perhaps there are lovers in that car with nowhere else to go. I can formulate so many explanations, none of them alarming, yet my skin is prickling with hot dread. A moment later the sedan's taillights come back on, and the car pulls away and continues down the street. Even after it vanishes around the corner, I am still jittery, clutching the curtains in my damp hand. I return to bed and lie sweating on top of the covers, but I cannot sleep. Although it's a warm July night, I keep my bedroom window latched, and insist that my daughter, Tari, keeps hers latched as well. But Tari does not always listen to me. Every day, she listens to me less. I close my eyes and, as always, the visions of Egypt come back. It's always to Egypt that my thoughts return. Even before I stood on its soil, I'd dreamed about it. At six years old, I spotted a photograph of the Valley of the Kings on the cover of National Geographic, feeling instant recognition, as though I were looking at a familiar, much- beloved face that I had almost forgotten. That was what the land meant to me, a beloved face I longed to see again. And as the years progressed, I laid the foundations for my return. I worked and studied. A full scholarship brought me to Stanford, and to the attention of a professor who enthusiastically recommended me for a summer job at an excavation in Egypt's western desert. Excerpted from The Keepsake: A Novel by Tess Gerritsen All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.