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Hells Kitchen

Hells Kitchen

Titel: Hells Kitchen
Autoren: Jeffery Deaver
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PRAISE FOR JEFFERY DEAVER AND
    THE DEVIL’S TEARDROP
    “[A] devil of a thriller. . . . Fascinating. . . . Full of good characters and dialogue.”
    — San Francisco Examiner
    “From the very first page . . . both the reader and the party-hatted residents of Washington, D.C., know they’re in for a very wild last night of the century.”
    — BookPage
    “A fast read, chockablock with twists and turns that pave the way to a satisfying conclusion. . . . Vintage Deaver, a smattering of clues and a race against time.”
    — The Denver Post
    “A professional, high-quality crime thriller. . . . Deaver is the current master of pure detection—an effervescent Sherlock Holmes–style blend of science and inspiration that makes his books sing and dance.”
    — San Jose Mercury News
    “The plot is a sizzler . . . [and] the premise is chilling.”
    — The Boston Globe
    “Exciting. . . . A thriller that doesn’t try to do more than keep the reader anxious and surprised.”
    — The Wall Street Journal
    “Action-packed. . . . Deaver is at his best here.”
    — Booklist
    “Deaver writes the types of thrillers that would challenge even the most enthusiastic roller-coaster rider. . . . Quick, unexpected plot turns are guaranteed to keep that adrenaline pumping right up until the final pages.”
    — The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)
    “A consummate thriller. . . . Highly recommended.”
    — Library Journal
    “Fair warning to newcomers: Author Deaver is just as cunning and deceptive as his killer; don’t assume he’s run out of tricks until you’ve run out of pages.”
    — Kirkus Reviews
    THE COFFIN DANCER
    “Rhyme, now a forensic consultant, is more ruthless than ever. Especially when, as in his chilling new case, he has a personal score to settle.”
    — People
    “Wake up, Scarpetta fans—Lincoln Rhyme is here to blast you out of your stupor.”
    — Entertainment Weekly
    “Deaver revs up the already supercharged tension by cramming all of the action in The Coffin Dancer into forty-eight hours.”
    — USA Today
    “Nearly impossible to put down. . . . Draws the reader in on the first page.”
    — The Denver Post
    “Intense and heart-stopping . . . leaves readers gasping at the stunning climax.”
    — Booklist
    “Revelations and reversals punctuate this thriller like a string of firecrackers. . . . Superb plotting and brisk, no-nonsense prose.”
    — Publishers Weekly
    “Quick to the punch, The Coffin Dancer is diabolically packed with the good stuff: cover-ups, mystery, action.”
    — Library Journal

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“I’m a professional. I’ve survived in a pretty rough business.”
    —Humphrey Bogart

ONE
    He climbed the stairs, his boots falling heavily on burgundy floral carpet and, where it was threadbare, on the scarred oak beneath.
    The stairwell was unlit; in neighborhoods like this one the bulbs were stolen from the ceiling sockets and the emergency exit signs as soon as they were replaced.
    John Pellam lifted his head, tried to place a curious smell. He couldn’t. Knew only that it left him feeling unsettled, edgy.
    Second floor, the landing, starting up another flight.
    This was maybe his tenth time to the old tenement but he was still finding details that had eluded him on prior visits. Tonight what caught his eye was a stained-glass valance depicting a hummingbird hovering over a yellow flower.
    In a hundred-year-old tenement, in one of the roughest parts of New York City. . . . Why beautiful stained glass? And why a hummingbird?
    A shuffle of feet sounded above him and he glanced up. He’d thought he was alone. Something fell, a soft thud. A sigh.
    Like the undefinable smell, the sounds left him uneasy.
    Pellam paused on the third-floor landing and looked at the stained glass above the door to apartment 3B. This valance—a bluebird, or jay, sitting on a branch—was as carefully done as the hummingbird downstairs. When he’d first come here, several months ago, he’d glanced at the scabby facade and expected that the interior would be decrepit. But he’d been wrong. It was a craftsman’s showpiece: oak floorboards joined solid as steel, walls of plaster seamless as

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