From Barnes & Noble

For the best sleuths, vacations are impossible. This time, FBI agent Alex Cross is relaxing with his family at Disneyland when he gets a call from the director. An A-list actress has been murdered outside her Beverly Hills home. At first, the killing appears to be an isolated incident, but Cross quickly deduces that a star-obsessed serial killer known as Mary Smith is on the loose. Before long, every Hollywood celebrity is running scared, hoping not to become next week's deadly attraction.

From the Publisher

"FBI agent Alex Cross is on vacation with his family in Disneyland when he gets a call from the director. A top actress has been shot outside her home in Beverly Hills. Shortly afterward, an editor for the Los Angeles Times receives an e-mail recounting the murder in shocking detail, signed Mary Smith." "The authorities fear this is only the beginning. More killings follow, and more e-mails arrive immediately after. Mary Smith is targeting Hollywood stars and power brokers, and she is getting better every time." "Right from the start, this case is like nothing Alex has ever confronted before. Could this be the plan of an obsessed fan or a spumed actor, or is it part of something much more terrifying? And how could a woman be capable of these vicious crimes?" People make enemies easily in Hollywood. To track down a merciless killer, Alex must navigate a world where the stars and players sip San Pellegrino at the Ivy as hopefuls hover around studio gates armed with 8 x 10 glossies. Everyone is desperate for a close-up, but this is one fan Hollywood could do without. Members of the A-list fear they're next on Mary's list, and the case catapults into blockbuster proportions as Cross and the LAPD scramble to find a pattern before Mary can send one more chilling update.

Library Journal

In Patterson's 11th Alex Cross thriller (after London Bridges), the FBI agent is asked to investigate a serial killer who targets women with two things in common: they're all connected to Hollywood studios, and they're all the mothers of young children. In each crime, the killer leaves behind three stickers with the letters A, A, and B; shortly thereafter, a Los Angeles Times entertainment columnist receives an email addressed to the victim with an explanation of how she was stalked and murdered. A self-styled "Storyteller," the killer signs these gripping messages with the name "Mary Smith." But is the killer a man or a woman? And has the "story" spun out of control? Complicating the investigation are Alex's own family problems: he's about to lose a custody battle over his youngest son, his other children are being neglected, and his relationship with a female police inspector is at risk. Though lacking the richness and complexity of other psychological thrillers, e.g., Dennis Lehane's Shutter Island, Patterson's story, told in 121 brief chapters, flows effortlessly and with mounting suspense to its final, shocking twist; a fascinating psycho will captivate the author's many fans. Recommended for popular fiction collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 7/05.]-Ronnie H. Terpening, Univ. of Arizona, Tucson Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Superstar psychologist Alex Cross's quality time with his kids is interrupted by...another serial killer!The clever, remorseless miscreant who calls himself the Storyteller has already practiced his lethal skills on three hapless New Yorkers before he begins his career in earnest with a series of killings in L.A. Choosing as his victims women who've neglected their children for successful careers in the entertainment industry, he describes the murders in overheated e-mails he addresses to his victims but sends to hapless entertainment columnist Arnold Griner, signing them "Mary Smith." All right, then, is Mary a woman or a man? The LAPD is baffled, the FBI too, so they yank Alex out of Disneyland, where he's gone to recuperate from his last megadose of murder (The Big Bad Wolf, 2003) and bond with his family while doing his best to duck the attention of a true-crime writer who behaves more like a stalker. Learning that Alex is back on the job despite all his promises, his distraught ex, Christine Johnson, grabs their baby, Little Alex, and stashes him in Seattle, insisting that Big Alex's devotion to his dangerous job is constantly putting an intolerable strain on his loved ones, a charge that has the merit of being demonstrably true. The irony of it all is that Alex's reluctant consultation doesn't slow the Storyteller down a bit. He (or she), undeterred by the superdad angst that substitutes for detection here, just keeps up the torrid homicide rate until fulfilling her (or his) murderous plan. Luckily, the resulting break from falling bodies lasts just long enough for the cops to commit one last, fatal blunder before Alex gets one of the unmotivated brainwaves that makes him "America'sSherlock Holmes."Certainly not the worst of Patterson's clueless mysteries, but still another likely candidate to be filmed as "a big, dopey thriller based on a dopey bestseller."

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Product Details

• ISBN: 0446619035
  
• ISBN-13: 9780446619035
• Format: Mass Market Paperback, 448pp
• Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
• Pub. Date: October 2006
• Sales Rank: 657
• Series: Alex Cross Series, #11

• Table of Contents
• Read a Sample Chapter

Table of Contents

Read a Sample Chapter

Mary, Mary

Little, Brown

Chapter One

And neither would he, of course. That was a given in the story he was about to tell.

Which didn't mean that today wasn't nerve-racking. Actually, this was the most intense moment in the past couple of insane years for him. He was ready to kill somebody, a complete stranger, and he had figured out that New York City was the right place for his first.

It almost happened just outside a basement restroom in Bloomingdale's, but he didn't feel right about the location.

Too crowded, even at half past ten in the morning.

Too noisy, and yet not noisy enough to provide the proper distraction.

Plus, he didn't like the idea of trying to escape out onto the unfamiliar territory of Lexington Avenue, or especially down into the claustrophobic IRT subway tunnels. When it felt right, he'd know it, and act accordingly.

So the Storyteller moved on and decided to catch a flick at the Sutton Theater on East 57th Street, a funky, run-down place that had obviously seen better days.

Maybe this was a good place for a murder. He liked the irony, even if he was the only one who got it. Yes, maybe this was going to work out great, he thought as he sat in one of the two small auditoriums inside.

He began to watch Kill Bill Volume 2 with seven other Tarantino aficionados.

Which one of these unsuspecting people would be his victim? You? You? You there? The Storyteller spun the tale inside his head.

There were two loudmouths in identical New York Yankees baseball caps, worn backward, of course. The irritating morons didn't shut up once through the interminable ads and trailers. They both deserved to die.

So did an atrociously dressed elderly couple, who didn't talk to each other at all, not once in fifteen minutes before the houselights went down. Killing them would be a good deed, almost a public service.

A fragile-looking woman, early forties, seemed to be having the shakes two rows in front of the moldy oldies. Bothering no one-except him.

And then a big black dude with his sneakered feet up on the seat in front of him. Rude, inconsiderate bastard in his old-school Converses that must have been at least size fourteens.

Next, a black-bearded movie nerd who probably had seen the movie a dozen times already and worshipped Quentin Tarantino, of course.

Turned out, it was the bearded wonder who got up about halfway through the movie, just after Uma Thurman was buried alive. Jesus, who could walk out on that classic scene?

Duty-bound, he followed, a couple of seconds behind. Out into the dingy hall, then into the men's room, which was located near theater two.

He was actually shaking now. Was this it? His moment? His first murder? The beginning of everything he'd dreamed about for months? Make that years.

He was pretty much on autopilot, trying not to think about anything except doing this right, then getting in and out of the movie theater without anybody noticing his face or too much else about him.

The bearded guy was standing at the urinal, which was kind of good news, actually. The shot was nicely framed and art-directed.

Wrinkled, grungy black T-shirt that said NYU FILM SCHOOL with a clapsticks logo on the back. Reminded him of a character out of a Daniel Clowes comic book, and that graphic shit was hot right now.

"And ... action!" he said.

Then he shot the poor bearded loser in the back of the head, watched him drop like a heavy sack to the bathroom floor. Lie there-nothing moving. The blast roared through his head in the tiled room, louder than he'd dreamed it would be.

"Hey-what the? What happened? Hey!" he heard, and the Storyteller whirled around as if there was an audience watching him in the men's room.

Two guys from the Sutton Theater crew had entered behind him. They must have been curious about the noise. And how much had they seen?

"Heart attack," he said, blurted it out, tried to sound convincing. "Man just fell over at the urinal. Help me get him up. Poor guy. He's bleeding!"

No panic, no affect, no second thoughts whatsoever. Everything was pure instinct now, right, wrong, or indifferent.

He raised his gun and shot both theater workers as they stood walleyed and dorky at the door. He shot them again when they were down on the floor. Just to be careful. Professional.

And now he was really shaking, legs like J-E-L-L-O, but trying to walk very calmly out of the men's room.

Then out of the Sutton Theater onto 57th, heading east on foot. Everything outside feeling completely unreal and otherworldly, everything so bright and brassy.

He'd done it. He'd killed three people instead of just one. His first three murders. It was just practice, but he'd done it, and you know what? He could do it again.

"Practice makes perfect," the Storyteller whispered under his breath as he hurried toward his car-his getaway car, right? God, this was the best feeling of his life. Of course, that didn't say much for his life up to now, did it?

But watch out from here on, just watch out.

For Mary, Mary, quite contrary.

Of course, he was the only one who got that. So far, anyway.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Mary, Mary by James Patterson Copyright © 2005 by James Patterson . Excerpted by permission.
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