From the Publisher

The "New York Times" bestseller by two masters of the crime novel—and husband and wife—writing together for the first time kick starts a new series of short crime novels, beginning with these two riveting tales of murder and suspense, set in Boston and Santa Fe.

Publishers Weekly

Those who admire risk, take note: two authors at the top of their game have done something quite new. Those who fear change, take heart: the results are just fine. Faye and Jonathan Kellerman, each with a slew of bestsellers, have collaborated on a volume comprising two mystery novellas. Each stands on its own, with separate settings (Santa Fe and Boston) and separate pairs of homicide detectives. To further heighten the distinction, the book has two front covers, with the authors alternating first billing and a "flip" format. It's intriguing to imagine how these two pros went about writing together, but it's even more fun just to jump in and enjoy. The characters are all new, and so are the locales; that in itself is worthy of admiration. Surprisingly, the two novellas are uneven in quality. The Boston piece, about the mysterious death of a young basketball star, suffers from wordiness and a somewhat murky plot, troubles that short works can ill afford. But the strong Santa Fe story more than compensates, with its fully rounded characters and evocative sense of place. The final scene, haunting and heartbreaking, shows the assured hand of a master. (One-day laydown Oct. 5) Forecast: With a 300,000-copy first printing and the unusual husband-wife pairing, expect plenty of media attention and a run on bestseller lists. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

The best-selling husband-and-wife crime writers kick off a new joint venture with these two short novels, published in a single reversible volume with two different covers. In "Still Life," Santa Fe detectives Darrel Two Moons and Steve Katz investigate the murder of an art gallery owner who made enemies as quickly as art sales. Set in Boston, the reverse novel, "In the Land of Giants," follows detectives Dorothy Breton and Michael McCain as they probe the apparent shooting death of a college basketball player. Sure to appeal to new readers as well as established fans, the stories are complementary but distinctly separate and without crossover characters. In both novels, the Kellermans' collaborative writing style drives home gritty drama, compelling dialog, and believable characters. Highly recommended for most public libraries. The Kellermans live in Southern California. [See Mystery Prepub, LJ 4/1/04; the next book in the series will be published by Ballantine, Jonathan's publisher. Ed.] Amy Brozio-Andrews, Albany P.L., NY for most public libraries. The Kellermans live in Southern California. [See Mystery Prepub, LJ 4/1/04; the next book in the series will be published by Ballantine, Jonathan's publisher. Ed.] Amy Brozio-Andrews, Albany P.L., NY Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

The prolific Kellermans (he: The Conspiracy Code, 2003, etc.; she: Street Dreams, 2003, etc.) jointly pen a pair of crisp, smart novellas. Writing as a team for the first time, the Kellermans get it just right: pacing, plotting, even the prose, which in the past has been shaky for both. In "Still-Life," loathsome Santa Fe art dealer Larry Gustafson is found dead by ball-peen hammer, and the SRO suspect list includes an estranged wife, a cheated painter, a brace of embittered senior citizens, and others quite as likely. Laboriously, homicide detectives Darrel Two Moons and Steve Katz begin the dispiriting process of elimination. Two Moons tells his partner about Gustafson: "We keep peeling, he keeps smelling worse." Still, they do keep on peeling. "In the Land of the Giants" moves to Boston, where another pair of determined cops cope with the case of the slain college basketball idol. But is it in fact a homicide? At first, BPD detectives Mickey McCain and Dorothy Breton consider that a no-brainer. Witnesses by the dozens saw bullets fired into the monumental body of young Julius Van Beest, and he is certainly dead. Why, then, is the ME shaking his head skeptically? What fatal flaw did an autopsy pick up that a series of X-rays missed?Two sets of blue-collar dicks, working doggedly out of hard-pressed departments in a thoroughly believable way: nothing fancy here, but oh-so-refreshingly readable.

Product Details

• Read a Sample Chapter

Read a Sample Chapter

Double Homicide

Warner Books

Chapter One

It was just after ten-thirty p.m. Probably another south side domestic violence. For five weeks running, Darrel and Katz had worked the four p.m. to two a.m. Special Investigations shift. Their calls had consisted of feuding spouses, gang assaults, various and sundry alcohol-related issues, all taking place below St. Michael's-the Mason-Dixon Line that split Santa Fe and was more than an arbitrary map squiggle.

It was three weeks before Christmas, and the first few days of December had signaled an easy winter, with daytime temperatures in the forties. But four days ago, the weather had taken a drop: fifteen degrees Fahrenheit at night. The snow that had fallen during this serious drought year remained white and fluffy. The air was cold and biting. Their shift was one big freezer burn.

At least the weirdos who ran Cafe Karma kept the dive warm. Downright hot. A big and tall kind of guy to begin with, Darrel was drowning in clothing, sweating in his black wool shirt and black tie, black corduroy sports coat, and heavy black gabardine slacks tailored in Germany and inherited from his father. His quilted black ski jacket was draped over a horribly hand-painted chair, but he kept the sports coat on to conceal the department-issue .45 in its X-harnessed cowhide shoulder holster. No problem hiding his unauthorized boot gun, a nickel-plated .22. It nuzzled his calf, snug in his left custom-stitched elephant-hide Tony Lama.

Katz had on what he'd worn every night since the weather had turned: a fuzzy brown and white plaid Pendleton shirt over a white cotton turtleneck, faded blue jeans, black and white high-top sneakers. Over his chair was that ratty gray wool overcoat-pure New Yawk. How could he keep his feet warm in those Keds?

Two Moons sipped coffee and ate his dinner as Katz finally freed the now-silent pager. Over by the pastry case, the multipierced Goth waitress who'd served them-or tried to-stood gazing into space. She'd taken their order with vacant eyes, then had proceeded to the coffee machines, where the detectives watched her spend six straight minutes foaming Katz's Green Tea Chai Latte. Six and a half, to be precise: The detectives had timed her.

Staring into the foam, like it held some kind of big cosmic secret.

Darrel and Katz had exchanged knowing glances, then Two Moons had muttered under his breath about what was really cooking in the back room. Katz had cracked up, his big red mustache rising and falling. This month, another team was handling narcotics.

Katz studied the number on the pager and said, "Dispatch." A bit more fumbling in another pocket and he produced his little blue cell phone.

Another meal cut short. Two Moons ate fast as Katz called in. He'd ordered as close to normal as possible at this loony bin: a mushroom burger with chipotle-spiced home fries and sliced tomatoes. Specifying no sprouts, but they'd stuck a tumbleweed of the stuff on his plate anyway. Darrel hated it; it reminded him of cattle fodder. Or something picked out of a comb. Just looking at it made him want to spit. He removed it and wrapped it in a napkin, whereupon Katz immediately grabbed it and snarfed it down.

If it were up to Katz, they'd be here every night. Darrel conceded that the food was consistently good, but atmosphere was another issue. With its snaky walkway embedded with pebbles and shards of mirror glass, antiwar petitions tacked to the Technicolor walls of the tiny entry, and cell-like rooms full of mismatched thrift shop furniture and incense fumes, Karma was what his gunnery sergeant father used to call "hippie-dippie left-wing lunacy crap."

Somewhere along the way, his father had changed, but Darrel's army-brat upbringing stuck with him. Give him a burger and plain old fries in politically neutral surroundings.

Katz reached dispatch. The office had been moved out of Santa Fe PD to the county building on Highway 14-police, fire, city, county, everything integrated-and most of the dispatchers were no longer familiar voices. But this time was different: Katz smiled and said, "Hey, Loretta, what's up?"

Then his face grew serious, and the big copper-wire mustache drooped. "Oh ... Yeah, sure ... Where? ... You're kidding."

He hung up. "Guess what, Big D?"

Darrel chomped on his burger, swallowed. "Serial killer."

"Half correct," said Katz. "Just a killer. Blunt-force homicide on Canyon."

Canyon Road was very high-rent, just east of the Plaza in the Historic District, a narrow, leafy, quiet, pretty place lined with gated compounds and galleries and expensive cafes. The hub of Santa Fe's art scene.

Darrel's pulse rate quickened from forty to fifty. "Private residence, right? Not a gallery at this hour."

"Oh, a gallery, amigo," said Katz, standing and sliding into the ratty gray coat. "Very much a gallery. The d.b.'s Larry Olafson."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Double Homicide by Jonathan Kellerman Faye Kellerman Copyright © 2004 by Jonathan Kellerman and Faye Kellerman. Excerpted by permission.
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