Once again, the depths of the criminal mind and the darkest side of a glittering city fuel #1 New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Kellerman’s brilliant storytelling. And no one conducts a more harrowing and suspenseful manhunt than the modern Sherlock Holmes of the psyche, Dr. Alex Delaware.

A tipsy young woman seeking aid on a desolate highway disappears into the inky black night. A retired schoolteacher is stabbed to death in broad daylight. Two women are butchered after closing time in a small-town beauty parlor. These and other bizarre acts of cruelty and psychopathology are linked only by the killer’s use of luxury vehicles and a baffling lack of motive. The ultimate whodunits, these crimes demand the attention of LAPD detective Milo Sturgis and his collaborator on the crime beat, psychologist Alex Delaware.

What begins with a solitary bloodstain in a stolen sedan quickly spirals outward in odd and unexpected directions, leading Delaware and Sturgis from the well-heeled center of L.A. society to its desperate edges; across the paths of commodities brokers and transvestite hookers; and as far away as New York City, where the search thaws out a long-cold case and exposes a grotesque homicidal crusade. The killer proves to be a fleeting shape-shifter, defying identification, leaving behind dazed witnesses and death–and compelling Alex and Milo to confront the true face of murderous madness.

CHAPTER 1

Kat loved breaking the rules. Don't talk to strangers. She'd talked to plenty of them tonight. Danced with a few, too. If you could call the way those losers moved dancing. The big, scary consequence: a stomped toe, courtesy of a loser in a red shirt. Don't go crazy mixing your drinks. Then how did you account for Long Island Iced Tea, which was basically everything tossed together and the best buzz in the world? She'd had three tonight. Plus the tequila shots and the raspberry beer and the weed the guy in the retro bowling shirt had offered her. Not to mention... hard to remember. Whatever. Don't drink and drive. Yeah, great plan. What was she supposed to do tonight, let one of those losers drive her Mustang home? The plan was Rianna would limit herself to two drinks and be the designated wheel-girl so Kat and Bethie could party. Only Bethie and Rianna hooked up with a couple fake-o blond guys in fake-o Brioni shirts. Brothers, some kind of surfboard business in Redondo.

We're thinking maybe we'll go party with Sean and Matt, giggle, giggle. If that's cool with you, Kat.

What was she supposed to say? Stay with me, I'm the ultimate loser?

So here she was three, four a.m., staggering out of the Light My Fire, looking for her car.

God, it was so dark, why the hell didn't they have outside lights or something...?

She took three steps and one of her spike-heels caught on the asphalt and she stumbled, nearly twisting her ankle.

Fighting for balance, she righted herself.

Saved by quick reflexes, Supergirl. Also all those dancing lessons she'd been forced into. Not that she'd ever admit it to Mother, giving her fuel for more I-told-you-so bullshit.

Mother and her rules. No white after Labor Day. That made sense in L.A.

Kat took two more steps and one of the spaghetti straps on her plum lamé top fell off her shoulder. She left it that way, liking the kiss of the night air on her bare skin.

Feeling a little bit sexy, she flipped her hair, then remembered she'd had it cut, not much to flip.

Her vision blurred--how many Long Islands had she polished off? Maybe four.

Taking a deep cleansing breath, she felt her head clear.

Then it clouded again. And cleared. Like shutters being opened and closed. Crazy, maybe that weed was messed up... where was the Mustang... she walked faster, tripped again, and Supergirl reflexes weren't enough and she had to grab out for something--the side of a car... not hers, crappy little Honda or something... where was the Mustang?

With only a few cars in the lot, it should've been easy to spot. But the darkness screwed everything up... losers who owned the Light My Fire too damn cheap to invest in some spots, like they weren't making enough packing the bodies in, the bouncers and velvet ropes a big joke.

Cheap bastards. Like all men.

Except Royal. Would you believe that, Mother finally lucking out big-time? Who knew the old girl had it in her?

Kat laughed out loud at the image. Something in Mother.

Not likely, Royal was in the bathroom every ten minutes. Didn't that mean a screwed-up prostrate?
She lurched across the inky lot. The sky was so black she couldn't even see the chain-link fence surrounding the lot, or the warehouses and storage lots that made up this crappy neighborhood.

The club's Web site said it was in Brentwood. More like the hairy, stinky armpit of West L.A.... okay, there it was, her stupid Mustang.

She hurried toward the car, heels clacking against knobby asphalt....