2007, ISBN: 9780312984830

Gebundene Ausgabe

St. Martin's Press. Good. 10.01 x 6.46 x 1.08 inches. Hardcover. 2003. 320 pages. Spine faded. Inscription on ffep.<br>Take a trip down the Jersey Turnpike to the irresistible … Mehr…

St. Martin's Press. Good. 10.01 x 6.46 x 1.08 inches. Hardcover. 2003. 320 pages. Spine faded. Inscription on ffep.<br>Take a trip down the Jersey Turnpike to the irresistible world of Stephanie Plum-w here America's favorite bounty hunter gets into more trouble than ever. This time, Stephanie, Lula, and Grandma have a Vegas-sized problem on their hands. The pursuit of a skip brings Stephanie t o Las Vegas, and three mob guys want to make sure it's a one-way ticket. Once there, Stephanie meets up with Sally Sweet as well a s a whole cast of characters who could only exist in a place like Vegas. With Joe Morelli making a surprise visit and Ranger doing his own kind of surveillance, Stephanie's nights have never been hotter. This ninth Stephanie Plum novel is Janet Evanovich's wil dest, wackiest, and most suspenseful yet. Editorial Reviews Fro m Publishers Weekly My same is Stephanie Plum and I was born and raised in the Chambersburg section of Trenton, where the top male activities are scarfing pastries and pork rinds and growing ass hair. Within pages of this elegant introduction to the latest ins tallment in Evanovich's bestselling numbered series, the less-tha n-stellar bounty hunter Stephanie Plum has managed to haul in a f at, naked and, yes, furry skip who has greased himself up with Va seline to literally give her the slip. In the midst of taking him to the police station, however, Plum drops everything to help he r beloved Grandma Mazur, who calls to say that Stephanie's mom lo cked herself in the bathroom to escape the craziness of the Plum family. Finally, Plum checks in at the office, where her employer and cousin, the bailbondsman Vinnie, assigns her back-up duty on the thorny case of a missing Indian man, Samuel Singh. Vinnie pr eviously wrote a bond ensuring that Singh would leave the country when his visa expired, so the latter's disappearance drives Vinn ie to call in the devastatingly attractive Ranger, his star enfor cer, and assign Stephanie to help him. As fans know, the mysterio us Ranger has long competed with the equally sexy Morelli to be t he object of Plum's desire, so his presence-just as Plum has temp orarily moved in with Morelli-keeps the sexual tension high. An a wkward plot that takes Plum to Vegas is the weakest course in thi s meal. Yet Evanovich's many fans will be more than happy with th eir latest serving of Stephanie Plum-that cute, bumbling, irresis tibly average Jersey girl-who just happens to have more laughs, m ore sizzling sexual tension, and more nonstop, zany adventure tha n anybody else around. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist *Starred Review* Stephanie Plum is a Jersey G irl, a bounty hunter, and a resident of a part of Trenton where y ou can still go to Mom's for dinner and your cop boyfriend Morell i's grandmother has visions that include you in a coffin. Stephan ie is on the trail of an Indian contract worker named Singh who d isappeared when his visa was up. When she interviews a McDonald's employee who knew him, he's shot as she stands there. Then rose- and-carnation bouquets with very sinister notes start appearing i n Stephanie's apartment and in her e-mail, and a few more bodies turn up with bullet holes. Meanwhile, Stephanie's sister, Valerie , is about to give birth; her sidekick, Lula, goes on the loudest diet ever written; and a trip to Vegas--yes, it's business--invo lves both Elvis and Tom Jones impersonators. Evanovich, and Steph anie, are at the top of their form here: laugh-out loud moments j ostle with sticky, visceral terror; Stephanie's mentor, Ranger, a nd Morelli don't so much vie for her favors as bestow them in tur n. Ever smarter, funnier, sexier, scarier. GraceAnne DeCandido Co pyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Abou t the Author Bestselling author Janet Evanovich is the recipient of the Crime Writers Association's John Creasy Memorial, Last Lau gh, and Silver Dagger awards, as well as the Left Coast Crime's L efty award, and is the two-time recipient of the Independent Myst ery Booksellers Association's Dilys award. She lives in New Hamps hire, where she is at work on her next Stephanie Plum adventure.B ox 5487, Hanover, NH 03755. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER 1, PART 1 My name is Stephanie Plum and I was born and raised in the Chambersburg section of Trenton where men pretty much only drop their drawers in private. Thank God for small favors because the top activities for men in the Bu rg are scarfing pastries and pork rinds and growing ass hair. The pastry and pork rind scarfing I've seen first hand. The ass hair growing is for the most part rumor. The first butt I saw up clo se and personal belonged to Joe Morelli. Morelli put an end to my virgin status and showed me an ass that was masculine perfection ...smooth and muscular and blemish free. Back then Morelli thoug ht a long term commitment was twenty minutes. I was one of thousa nds who got to admire Morelli's bare ass as he pulled his pants u p and headed for the door. Morelli's been in and out of my life since then. He's currently in and he's improved with age, butt in cluded. So the sight of a naked ass isn't exactly new to me, bu t the one I was presently watching took the cake. Punky Balog had an ass like Winnie the Pooh ...big and fat and furry. Sad to say , that was where the similarity ended because, unlike Pooh bear, there was nothing endearing or cuddly about Punky Balog. I knew about Punky's ass because I was in my new sunshine yellow Ford Es cape, sitting across from Punky's dilapidated row house, and Punk y had his huge Pooh butt plastered against his second story windo w. My sometimes partner, Lula, was riding shotgun for me and Lula and I were staring up at the butt in open mouthed horror. Punk y slid his butt side to side on the pane and Lula and I gave a co llective, upper lip curled back eeyeuuw! Think he knows we're ou t here, Lula said. Think maybe he's trying to tell us something. Lula and I work for my bail bonds agent cousin, Vincent Plum. V innie's office is on Hamilton Avenue, his front window looking in to the Burg. He's not the world's best bonds agent. And he's not the worst. Truth is, he'd probably be a better bondsman if he was n't saddled with Lula and me. I do fugitive apprehension for Vinn ie and I have a lot more luck than skill. Lula mostly does filing . Lula hasn't got luck or skill. The thing Lula has going for her is the ability to tolerate Vinnie. Lula's a plus size black woma n in a size seven white world and Lula's had a lot of practice at pulling attitude. Punky turned and gave us a wave with his John son. That's just so sad, Lula said. What do men think of? If you had a lumpy little wanger like that would you go waving it in pu blic? Punky was dancing now, jumping around, wanger flopping, d oodles bouncing. Holy crap, Lula said. He's gonna rupture someth ing. It's gotta be uncomfortable. I'm glad we forgot the binocu lars. I wouldn't want to see this up close. I didn't even want t o see it from a distance. When I was a 'ho I used to keep myself from getting grossed out by pretending men's privates were Muppe ts, Lula said. This guy looks like an anteater Muppet. See the li ttle tuft of hair on the anteater head and then there's the thing the anteater snuffs up ants with... Except ol' Punky here's gott a get real close to the ants on account of his snuffer isn't real big. Punky's got a pinky. Lula was a 'ho in a previous life. On e night while plying her trade she had a near death experience an d decided to change everything but her wardrobe. Not even a near death experience could get Lula out of spandex. She was currently wearing a skin tight hot pink mini-skirt and a tiger print top t hat made her boobs look like big round over-inflated balloons. It was early June and mid-morning and the Jersey air wasn't cooking yet, so Lula had a yellow angora sweater over the tiger top. Ho ld on, Lula said. I think his snuffer is growing. This produced another eeyeuuw from us. Maybe I should shoot him, Lula said. N o shooting! I felt the need to discourage Lula from hauling out h er Glock, but truth was, it seemed like it'd be a public service to take a potshot at Punky. How bad do we want this guy? Lula as ked. If I don't bring him in, I don't get paid. If I don't get p aid, I don't have rent money. If I don't have rent money, I get k icked out of my apartment and have to move in with my parents. S o we want him real bad. Real bad. And he's wanted for what? Gr and theft auto. At least it's not armed robbery. I'm gonna be ho ping the only weapon he's got, he's holding in his hand right now ...on account of this don't look like much of a threat to me. I guess we should go do it. I'm ready to rock and roll, Lula said . I'm ready to kick some Punky butt. I'm ready to do the job. I turned the key in the ignition. I'm going to drop you at the corn er so you can cut through the back and take the back door. Make s ure you have your walkie talkie on so I can let you know when I'm coming in. Roger, that. And no shooting, no breaking doors dow n, no Dirty Harry imitations. You can count on me. Three minute s later, Lula reported she was in place. I parked the Escape two houses down, walked to Punky's front door and rang the bell. No o ne responded so I rang a second time. I gave the door a solid rap with my fist and shouted bond enforcement. Open the door. I hea rd shouting carrying over from the back yard, a door crashing ope n and slamming shut and then more muffled shouting. I called Lula on the talkie but got no response. A moment later the front door opened to the house next to me and Lula stomped out. Hey, so ex cuse me, she yelled at the woman behind her. So I got the wrong d oor. It could happen, you know. We're under a lot of pressure whe n we're making these dangerous apprehensions. Copyright © 2003 b y Evanovich, Inc. ., St. Martin's Press, 2003, 2.5, Minotaur Books. Very Good. 5.5 x 0.88 x 8.5 inches. Paperback. 2007. 320 pages. <br>Winner of the Swedish Crime Academy Award for Best Crime Novel, The Princess of Burundi introduces American readers to Kjell Eriksson--a crime writer who has quickly become an inte rnational sensation. This spellbinding new thriller opens when a young father fails to show up for supper on a snowy night just b efore Christmas. His is not the only sinister disappearance, and before the final breathtaking climax, a secret killer terrorizes an entire frightened town. Despite being on maternity leave, Ins pector Ann Lindell is determined to find John's murderer. The cru el cat-and-mouse game that follows leads Ann to a deadly confront ation with a treacherous killer. Ann must decide whether to take a huge risk that could result in many more dead bodies in the sno w, including hers and that of her unborn child. Editorial Review s Review Riveting . . . The Princess of Burundi resembles the b ooks of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo, not to mention those of the m odern master Henning Mankell. ?The Wall Street Journal Stunning . . . haunting . . . can chill you to the bone. ?Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Terrific . . . subtly brilliant . . . compell ingly suspenseful. ?San Francisco Chronicle Reminiscent of Ed Mc Bain's 87th Precinct series. Don't miss it. ?Library Journal (sta rred review) Ingenious . . . a chillingly well-drawn psychotic. . . . Very satisfying. ?Los Angeles Times A deeply insightful ps ychological thriller. ?Midwest Book Review Suspenseful, intellig ent, and perceptive . . . terrific. ?Publishers Weekly About th e Author KJELL ERIKSSON is the award-winning and internationally bestselling Swedish author of The Ann Lindell Mystery series. His debut won the Swedish Crime Academy award for Best First Novel a nd The Princess of Burundi later won for Best Crime Novel. Erikss on is also a gardener, and now living in Brazil. Ebba Segerberg is a translator of Swedish literature with a focus on Swedish cri me fiction. Her translations include several installments of the Wallander series by Henning Mankell and Let Me In by John Ajvide Lindqvist. She has worked in a variety of other genres and format s including biography, short stories, and screenplays. She holds a PhD in Swedish literature and film studies from the University of California at Berkeley, and currently lives in Saint Louis, Mi ssouri. About the Author KJELL ERIKSSON is the award-winning and internationally bestselling Swedish author of The Ann Lindell My stery series. His debut won the Swedish Crime Academy award for B est First Novel and The Princess of Burundi later won for Best Cr ime Novel. Eriksson is also a gardener, and now living in Brazil. Ebba Segerberg is a translator of Swedish literature with a foc us on Swedish crime fiction. Her translations include several ins tallments of the Wallander series by Henning Mankell and Let Me I n by John Ajvide Lindqvist. She has worked in a variety of other genres and formats including biography, short stories, and screen plays. She holds a PhD in Swedish literature and film studies fro m the University of California at Berkeley, and currently lives i n Saint Louis, Missouri. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Princess of Burundi By Eriksson, Kjell S t. Martin's Minotaur Copyright ©2007Eriksson, Kjell All right res erved. ISBN: 9780312327682 Chapter One The plate trembled, knocki ng over the glass. The milk flowed out over the waxed tablecloth like a white flower. Typical-we have almost no milk left, she tho ught. She quickly righted the glass and wiped up the milk with a dishrag. When is Dad coming home? She twirled around. Justus was leaning up against the doorpost. I don't know, she said, throwing the dishrag into the sink. What's for dinner? He had a book in h is hand, his index finger tucked in to mark the page he was readi ng. She wanted to ask him what it was, but then she thought of so mething and walked over to the window. Stew, she said absently. S he looked out at the parking lot. It had started to snow again. M aybe he was working. She knew he had talked to Micke. He always n eeded extra workers for his snow-removal crew, and it had been co ming down for days now. John wasn't afraid of heights, either. Be rit smiled at the memory of how he had climbed the drainpipe to h er balcony long ago. It was only on the second floor, but still. He could have broken his neck if he had fallen. Just like his fat her, she thought, and her smile faded. She had been furious with him, but he had just laughed. Then he had scooped her up in a tig ht embrace, with a strength you would never have thought John's s lender body was capable of. Later-clearly flattered-she liked to tell the story of his climb and his persistence. It was their ear liest and most important shared memory. Snow removal. A small tra ctor drove across the parking lot and pushed even more snow up ov er the heavily laden bushes by the edge of the lot. Harry was the driver. She recognized him by his red cap. Harry was the one who had set Justus to work, giving him a summer job when no one else was hiring. Lawn mowing, clearing out trash, weeding. Justus com plained, but he had been bursting with pride at his first paychec k. Berit's gaze followed the snowplow. Snow was falling thickly. The orange signal light revolved on the roof of the tractor. Dark ness settled in over the buildings and the parking lot. The light was flung to the far corners of the grounds. Harry was certainly busy. How many hours had he had to work the past few days? This weather's going to send me to the Canary Islands, he had shouted to her the other day when they met outside the front door. He had leaned on his shovel and asked her about Justus. He always did. She turned and meant to say hello from Harry but Justus had alrea dy gone. What are you doing? she cried out into the apartment. No thing, Justus yelled back. Berit assumed he was sitting in front of the computer. Ever since August, when John had dragged home th e boxes, Justus had sat glued to the screen. The kid has to have a computer. He'll be left behind otherwise, John had said when sh e complained at the extravagance. How much did it cost? I got it cheap, he had told her, and quickly showed her the receipt from t he electronics store when he caught her look. That accusing look, the one he knew so well. She looked around the kitchen but there was nothing else to be done. Dinner was ready. She went back to the window. He had said he would be back around four and it was c lose to six now. He usually called if he was delayed, but that ha d been mostly when he was doing a lot of overtime at the workshop . He had never liked to work late, but his boss, Sagge-Agne Sagan der-had a way of asking that made it hard to say no. It always so unded as if the order in question were going to make or break the company. He had grown more quiet after he was fired. John had ne ver been one to talk much, of course-Berit was the one who suppli ed the conversation-but he became even less talkative after he wa s let go. He had cheered up only this fall. Berit was convinced t hat it had to do with the fish, the new aquarium he had been talk ing about for years and that had become a reality at last. He had needed all that work with the fish tank, had spent a couple of w eeks in September on it. Harry had given him a hand with the fina l assembly. He and Gunilla had come to the grand opening. Berit h ad thought it silly to inaugurate a fish tank but the party had b een a success. Their closest neighbor, Stellan, had looked in, as had John's mom, and Lennart had been sober and cheerful. Stellan , who was normally quite reserved, had put an arm around Berit an d said something about how cute she looked. John had just smiled, though he usually was sensitive about things like this, especial ly when he had had a drink or two. But there was no reason to be jealous of Stellan. Harry had finished clearing the parking lot. The flashing orange signal flung new cascades of light across the path to the laundry facilities and communal rooms. Snow removal. Berit had only a vague idea of what this task involved. Did they still climb up on the roof like in the old days? She could remem ber the bundled-up men from her childhood with their big shovels and ropes slung in great loops over their shoulders. She could ev en recall the warning signs they posted in the courtyard and on t he street. Was he over at Lennart's? Brother Tuck, as John called him. She didn't like it. It reminded her of the bad old days. Sh e never knew what to make of it: Lennart's loquacious self-assura nce and John's pressed silence. Berit was only sixteen when the t hree of them met. First she got to know John, then Lennart. The b rothers appeared inseparable. Lennart, tossing his long black hai r off his face, unpredictable in his movements, always on the go, picking nervously, chattering. John, blond, thin-lipped, and wit h a gentleness about him that had immediately appealed to her. A scar across his left eye created an unexpected contrast with the pale skin in his slightly androgynous face. The scar was from a m otorcycle accident. Lennart had been driving. Berit had been unab le to understand how John and Lennart could be brothers. They wer e so different, both in appearance and in manner. Once she had go ne so far as to ask Aina, their mother, about it. It had been tow ard the end of the crayfish party, but she had only smiled and jo ked about it. It didn't take long for Berit to figure out that th e brothers didn't always make their money in traditional ways. Jo hn worked at the workshop off and on, but it seemed to Berit that this was more to keep up appearances, especially with regard to Albin, his father. John had a criminal bent. Not because he was e vil or greedy, but simply because a conventional lifestyle didn't seem to be quite enough for him. It was something he had in comm on with many of the people around him, teenagers who appeared wel l adjusted on the surface but who drifted around the eastern part s of Uppsala most evenings and nights in anxious herds. They pick ed pockets, snatched purses, stole mopeds and cars, broke into ba sements, and smashed shopwindows as the spirit moved them. A few, like John and Lennart, were permanent fixtures. Others came and went, most of them dropping out after six months or a year. Some took classes at the Boland School in order to become painters, co ncrete workers, mechanics, or whatever other professions were ope n to working-class youths in the early seventies. Others took job s straight out of middle school. None of them continued with more formal academic subjects at the high school level. They had neit her the will nor the grades for that. Most of them lived at home with their parents, who were not always the ideal people to preve nt substance abuse, theft, and other illegal activities. They had enough of their own problems and often stood by, quite powerless to do anything to stop their offspring. They were awkward and em barrassed when dealing with the welfare workers, psychologists, a nd other social officials, confused by the bureaucratic language, their own inadequacies, and their intense sense of shame. If I h adn't had them, it would all have gone to hell, John had said onc e. It was only when he was getting regular work at the factory th at he started to move away from life on the streets and the gangs . Regular work, a new sense of being appreciated, decent wages, a nd then Berit. Lennart delivered groceries by day and hung out at the pool hall in Sivia at night. John was there too. He was the better player of the two, though that hardly bothered Lennart, wh o spent most of his time on the flipper machines down below. That was where Berit met them. She had come with a girl named Anna-Le na, who was in love with a boy who frequented the place. She fell in love with John at first sight. He snuck around the pool table with the cue in his hand and played with intense concentration, something that appealed to Berit. He rarely said anything. His ha nds were slender. She studied his fingers splayed on the green ma t, his gaze focused along the stick, serious. It was the seriousn ess she noticed. And eyelashes. His gaze, the intense gaze. She w asn't sure what made her start thinking about the pool hall. It h ad been years since she had been there. It was probably because s he had been thinking about Brother Tuck, and about how John was p robably with him. She didn't want to call. They were probably dri nking. Sometimes John felt he had to have a real session with Len nart. It didn't happen very often nowadays, but when his mind was made up nothing could stop him. Not even Justus. The boy knew it , knew his father deep under the skin, and his protests were neve r particularly loud or long-lived. Once, when Justus was about tw elve, John let himself be talked out of it and came home. Justus had called his uncle himself and demanded to speak to his father. Berit was not allowed to listen; Justus had locked himself in th e bathroom with the portable phone. John came home after half an hour. Staggering, but he came home. It was as if these occasional evenings with his brother functioned as a temporary return to hi s former existence. These drinking sessions kept the brothers clo se. Berit had no idea what they talked about. Old times, their ch ildhood in Almtuna, or something else? They didn't have much comm on ground. They cleaved to each other because of their shared pas t. Berit sometimes felt something akin to jealousy when confronte d with this world that was largely foreign to her. Their childhoo d, the early years, appeared to be the only source of joy when th ey were talking. Even Lennart's voice, normally void of emotion, grew warm. And Berit stood outside all of this. Her life with Joh n didn't count, or so it seemed to her. She entered his life when everything turned, when his childhood reached a definitive end. She wasn't there in the early, light-filled days, the happy years that would be remembered and retold. When is he coming? Soon, sh e replied, shouting. She was grateful that Justus was in his bedr oom. He's probably clearing snow somewhere. I've never seen anyth ing like it. She expected him to say something else, but he didn' t. She wanted to hear his voice, but he didn't say anything. What is he doing, thinking? Did she dare leave the kitchen and go to his room? But the half-darkness of the kitchen was all she could handle. No light, no quick flickering characters on a computer sc reen, no questioning looks from Justu, Minotaur Books, 2007, 3, Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. 2003 Later Printing Paperback, Clean, Bright and Tight Copy, no names, light reading wear, clean and unmarked text. Zarek's Point of View: Dark-Hunter: A soulless guardian who stands between mankind and those who would see mankind destroyed. Yeah, right. The only part of that Code of Honor I got was eternity and solitude. Insanity: A condition many say I suffer from after being alone for so long. But I don't suffer from my insanity-I enjoy every minute of it. Trust: I can't trust anyone...not even myself. The only thing I trust in is my ability to do the wrong thing in any situation and to hurt anyone who gets in my way. Truth: I endured a lifetime as a Roman slave, and 900 years as an exiled Dark-Hunter. Now I'm tired of enduring. I want the truth about what happened the night I was exiled-I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Astrid (Greek, meaning star): An exceptional woman who can see straight to the truth. Brave and strong, she is a point of light in the darkness. She touches me and I tremble. She smiles and my cold heart shatters. Zarek: They say even the most damned man can be forgiven. I never believed that until the night Astrid opened her door to me and made this feral beast want to be human again. Made me want to love and be loved. But how can an ex-slave whose soul is owned by a Greek goddess ever dream of touching, let alone holding, a fiery star?, 3<

ISBN: 9780312984830

St. Martin's Paperbacks. Used - Good. . . All orders guaranteed and ship within 24 hours. Your purchase supports More Than Words, a nonprofit job training program for youth, empower… Mehr…

St. Martin's Paperbacks. Used - Good. . . All orders guaranteed and ship within 24 hours. Your purchase supports More Than Words, a nonprofit job training program for youth, empowering youth to take charge of their lives by taking charge of a business., St. Martin's Paperbacks, 2.5<