Devoted in Death (In Death, Book 41)

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A lot of reviews seem to like small town deputy Will Banner and his "country boy in the big city" reactions. But I found it too stereotyped and predictable. The main character development happens to the Homicide Squad. Each of her detectives get a share of the spotlight. Our favourite patrolman gets a chance to advance, if he can hold it together while racing to find our villians hours before his exam. The Candy Thief strikes again.

But is it really Baxter? Or is it just a red herring by the author?

Devoted in Death (In Death Series #41)

I kinda miss seeing Mavis, Charles, and Nadine - the longest of the secondary characters. But they would have chewed up time that the victoms could not afford. So maybe Robb should start rotating the support cast through the new books, instead of bringing them all through. Devoted in Death is tight, funny, fast paced, with passages that make me think J. Robb actually wrote the thing instead of phoning it in or using a bad ghost writer.

It still does not come up to the standards of the first three books. But this installment returns back to the writing and suspense that first hooked me when Nora Roberts decided to use a psuedonym to publish grittier mysteries starring very damaged protagonists. A couple of men will, a couple of women might. But sooner or later, baby. People are more inclined to stop to help before it gets dark. Go on back in that brush there.

Fan Review: Devoted in Death (In Death #41) | Lunatic Worlds

When he stops, give me some time to play it up. Then you come out, baby, and take care of it. She loved playacting. And she felt her excitement rise as the car—and a fine one, too—slowed. The man lowered the window, angled across the seat. That is, my brother, Henry, had it topped right off. Maybe you know him—it seems everybody knows Henry. She fluttered around when he told her to unlock the hood, so he reached into the truck, released the latch himself.

He had a nice wrist unit, she noted, silver and shiny like the car. She wanted Darryl to have it. It struck the man on the shoulder. And he leaped at Darryl like a demon from hell. It happened so fast—the flying fists, the animal grunts and snarls. Thinking only of Darryl, Ella-Loo snatched up the tire iron that had spun out of his hand, tried to get a solid grip.

The next time, she aimed for the legs. One of them buckled—she clearly heard a crack. Even hurt he managed to swing around, backhand her. Before she could steady herself, try for the other leg, Darryl went crazy.

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She barely had time to scramble clear before the man, unbalanced on his bad leg, face bloody, fell back. His head struck the front bumper of the truck, bounced off, then slapped against the pavement. Before she gave it a thought, she jumped in, smashed the tire iron across his face. Two hard blows.

He lay still now, eyes wide in his ruined face. Blood began to seep and pool under his head. Shit, Ella-Loo. He hit you right in the face. You got to get him off the road. Get him back behind all that brush, Darryl, and quick before somebody else comes.

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And you take his wallet, his wrist unit. You never know, but hurry! But she moved fast and sure. In ten minutes Darryl was behind the wheel with Ella-Loo beside him. At twenty-five, she broke. See that road there? God Almighty, pull off, Darryl, go back in the trees there. His eyes staring at us, but not seeing us? And the blood coming out of his mouth. Of his ears. For them, sex was always hot, hard and heady, but now, with the smell of fresh blood, with the knowing, it turned feral until her screams, his shouts echoed in the car.

When they were done, when sweat fused their flesh together like glue and the white dress was tattered, stained with blood as red as her heels, she smiled at him. By the time they arrived in New York, in mid-January, their tally was up to twenty-nine.

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She knew they were made for each other. An ice-pick wind stabbed down the litter-strewn alley, slicing at exposed flesh, hissing and snarling as it hacked its way from Madison Street through the tunnel formed by graffiti-laced buildings of crumbling red brick or pitted concrete. The few lights that worked cast purple shadows along with sickly yellow glows so the pools and splashes of them bloomed bitter, like a bruise. The lowest of low-level street whores—licensed or not—might take a john into one of the narrow niches hoping for shelter from the worst of the cold and wind while business was conducted.

A junkie desperate enough for a fix might follow an illegals dealer into those bruising shadows. Anyone else thinking to shortcut through might as well wear a flashing sign offering themselves up to muggers, rapists and worse. Its toothy knives cut keenly enough, so Lieutenant Eve Dallas gave into necessity and yanked on the ski cap with its embarrassing snowflake. But she drew the line at the fuzzy gloves—both given to her on a cold December day by the dreamy-eyed Dennis Mira.

She was a murder cop, so while others slept in the blustery dark still an hour shy of dawn, she crouched over a body, hands bare but for sealant, brown eyes flat and narrowed. First cellist.

Plenty of blood on the tarp, on him, smeared from surface to surface. Ligature marks, wrists and ankles, and some of the bruising, the lacerations from struggling look at least a day old. Maybe more. Morris will confirm. But then. Bound, gagged—the corners of his mouth are cut and abraded—tortured for hours. Maybe a day or more before it stopped being fun.