James Patterson

ALONG CAME A SPIDER – He had always wanted to be famous. When he kidnapped two well-known rich kids it was headline news. Then one of them was found – dead. For such a high-profile case, they needed Alex Cross, a psychologist and Jezzie Flanagan, a Secret Service agent – yet even they were no match for the killer. Alex Cross is a homicide detective with a Ph. D in Psychology. He works and lives in the ghettos of D.C. and looks like Muhammad Ali in his prime. He’s a tough guy from a tough part of town who wears Harris Tweed jackets and likes to relax by banging out Gershwin tunes on his baby grand piano. But he also has two adorable kids of his own, and they are his own special vulnerabilities. Jezzie Flanagan is the first woman ever to hold the highly sensitive job as supervisor of the Secret Service in Washington. Blond, mysterious, seductive, she’s got an outer shell that’s as tough as it is beautiful. She rides her black BMW motorcycle at speeds of no less than 100 mph. What is she running from? What is her secret? Alex Cross and Jezzie Flanagan are about to have a forbidden love affair- at the worst possible time for both of them. Because Gary Soneji, who wants to commit the crime of the century, is playing at the top of his game. Soneji has outsmarted the FBI, the Secret Service and the police. Who will be his next victim? Gary Soneji is every parents’ worst nightmare. He has become Alex Cross’s nightmare. And now, reader, he’s about to become yours. When nine-year-old Maggie Rose and her best friend, Michael Goldberg, are kidnapped from their exclusive school in Washington D.C., it is clear this is not an ordinary case. Maggie’s mother is a superstar actress, and Michael’s father is Secretary of the Treasury. Together Alex Cross, Deputy Chief of detectives, and Jezzie Flanagan, Supervisor in the Secret Service, must race to save the children. New Jersey, near Princeton, March 1932: The Charles Lindbergh farmhouse glowed with bright, orangish lights. It looked like a fiery castle, especially in that gloomy, fir-wooded region of Jersey. Shreds of misty fog touched the boy as he moved closer and closer to his first moment of real glory, his first kill. It was pitch-dark and the grounds were soggy and muddy and thick with puddles. He had anticipated as much. He’d planned for everything, including the weather. He wore a size nine man’s work boot. The toe and heel of the boots were stuffed with torn cloth and strips of the Philadelphia Inquirer. He wanted to leave footprints, plenty of footprints. A man’s footprints. Not the prints of a twelve-year-old boy. They would lead from the county highway called the Stoutsburg-Wertsville Road, up to, then back from, the farmhouse. He began to shiver as he reached a stand of pines, not thirty yards from the sprawling house. The mansion was just as grand as he’d imagined: Seven bedrooms and four baths on the second floor alone. Lucky Lindy and Anne Morrow’s place in the country. Cool beans, he thought. The boy inched closer and closer toward the dining-room window. He was fascinated by this condition know as fame. He thought a lot about it. Almost all the time.  What was fame really like? How did it smell? How did it taste? What did fame look like close up? “The most popular and glamorous man in the world” was right there, sitting at the table. Charles Lindbergh was tall, elegant, and fabulously golden haired, with a fair complexion. “Lucky Lindy” truly seemed above everyone else. So did his wife, Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Anne had short hair. It was curly and black, and it made her skin look chalky white. The light from the candles on the table appeared to be dancing around her. Both of them very straight in their chairs. Yes, they certainly looked superior, as if they were God’s special gifts to the world. They kept their heads high, delicately eating their food. He strained to see what was on the table. It looked like lamb chops on their perfect China. “I’ll be more famous than either of you pitiful stiffs,” the boy finally whispered. He promised that to himself. Every detail had been thought through a thousand times, at least that often. He very methodically went to work. The boy retrieved a wooden ladder left near the garage by workingmen. Holding the ladder tightly against his side, he moved toward a spot just beyond the library window. He climbed silently up to the nursery. His pulse was racing, and his heart was pounding so loud he could hear it. Light cast from a hallway lamp illuminated the baby’s room. He could see the crib and the snoozing little prince in it. Charles Jr. “the most famous child on earth.” On one side, to keep away drafts, was a colorful screen with illustrations of barnyard animals. He felt shy and cunning. “Here comes Mr. Fox,” the boy whispered as he quietly slid open the window. Then he took another step up the ladder and was inside the nursery at last.  Standing over the crib, he stared at the princeling. Curls of golden hair like his father’s but, fat. Charles Jr. was gone, to fat at only twenty months. The boy could no longer control himself. Hot tears streamed from his eyes. His whole body began to shake, from frustration and rage – only mixed with the most incredible joy of his life. “Well, daddy’s little man. It’s our time now,” he muttered to himself. He took a tiny rubber ball with an attached elastic band from his pocket. He quickly slipped the odd-looking looped device over Charles Jr.’s head, just as the small blue eyes opened. As the baby started to cry, the boy plopped the rubber ball right into the little drooly mouth. He reached down into the crib and took Baby Lindberg into his arms and went swiftly back down the ladder. All according to plan. The boy ran across the muddy fields with the precious struggling bundle in his arms and disappeared into the darkness. Less than two miles from the farmhouse, he buried the spoiled-rotten Lindbergh baby – buried him alive.

That was only the start of things to come. After all, he was only a boy himself. He, not Bruno Richard Hauptmann, was the Lindbergh baby kidnapper. He had done it all by himself. Cool beans.

KISS THE GIRLS – In Los Angeles, a reporter investigating a series of murders is killed. In Chapel Hill, North Carolina, a beautiful medical intern suddenly disappears. In the sequel to Along Came a Spider, Washington D.C.’s Alex Cross is back to solve the most baffling and terrifying murder case ever. Tow clever pattern killers are collaborating, cooperating and they are working coast to coast. The second novel in the bestselling Alex Cross series. Detective Alex Cross is caught between two murderous masterminds – and so is his family… When his niece Naomi goes missing, Alex Cross follows the trail – and discovers links to a string of recent abductions and murders, with one horrifying complication. There are two killers at work on opposite sides of the country, collaborating and competing to commit the worst crimes the country has ever seen. With his family at risk, Cross knows that his investigation is putting him directly in the line of fire… Adapted as a major Hollywood movie, starring Morgan Freeman. This time it’s personal for Cross. The most elusive of killers has abducted Cross’s niece, Naomi, a talented law student. Only such a devastating blow could bring the detective back – this time to the Deep South, where old slave prisons are buried in the forests, and houses of horror can disappear as in your worst nightmare. Naomi’s kidnapping rips Alex Cross away from his kids and his jazz piano and sends him south with several questions burning in his mind? Why did the police wait seventy-two hours before beginning their search? And what is the head of the FBI doing at the scene of a small-town crime? Meanwhile, somewhere out there Casanova is living a secret fantasy. In his private hideaway, the world’s greatest lover has assembled seven of the South’s most extraordinary young women for his personal use. It’s an accomplishment he can share with only one other soulmate – and that’s definitely not his wife back in suburbia. But Casanova doesn’t count on the exceptional abilities of one of his harem – or having Alex Cross as a nemesis. CASANOVA – Boca Raton, Florida, June 1975: For three weeks, the young killer lived inside the walls of an extraordinary fifteen-room beach house. He could hear the whispery Atlantic surf outside, but he was never tempted to look out at the ocean or the private white-sand beach that stretched to three hundred feet or more along the shore. There was too much to explore, to study, to accomplish, from his hiding place inside the dazzling Mediterranean-revival-style house in Boca. His pulse hadn’t stopped hammering for days. Four people lived in the huge house.: Michael and Hannah Pierce and their two daughters. The killer spied on the family in the most intimate ways, and at their most intimate moments. He loved all the little things about the Pierces, especially Hannah’s delicate seashell collection and the full fleet of teak sailboats that hung from the ceiling in one of the guest rooms. He watched the elder daughter, Cory, day and night. She attended St. Andrews High School with him. She was stunning. No girl in school was as beautiful or as smart as Cory. He was also keeping his eye on Karrie Pierce. She was only thirteen, but already a budding fox. Although he was more than six feet tall, he easily fit into the air-conditioning ducts of the house. He was wire thin and hadn’t started to fill out yet. The killer was handsome in an Eastern preppy way. Stashed in his hiding place were a handful of dirty novels, highly erotic books he had found during fevered shopping trips to Miami. He had become addicted to The Story of O, School Girls in Paris and Voluptuous Initiations. He also kept a Smith and Wesson revolver in the walls with him. He went in and out of the house through a casement window in the cellar that had a broken latch. Sometimes he even slept down there, behind an old, gently purring Westinghouse refrigerator, where the Pierces kept extra beer and soda pop for their gala parties, which often ended with a bonfire on the beach. Truth be told, he was feeling a little extra weird that night in June, but nothing to worry about. No problema. Earlier in the evening, he had hand painted his body in bright streaks and splashes of cherry red, orange, and cadmium yellow. He was a warrior; a hunter. He huddled with his chrome-plated .22-caliber revolver, flashlight and grope-books in the ceiling over Cory’s bedroom. Right on top of her, so to speak. Tonight was the night of nights. The beginning of everything that really mattered in his life. He settled in and began to reread favorite passages from School Girls in Paris. His pocket flashlight cast a dim light on the pages. The book was definitely a major turn-on, but also a big yuk. It was about a “respectable” French lawyer who paid a buxom headmistress to let him spend nights inside a hotsy-totsy boarding school for girls. The story was filled with the hokiest language: “his silver-tipped ferrule.,” “his faithless truncheon,” “he gamahuched the ever-willing schoolgirls.” After a while, he got tired of reading, and peeked at his wristwatch. It was time now, almost 3:00 A.M. His hands were shaking as he put the book aside and peered through the cross-hatching of the grill. He could barely catch his breath as he watched Cory in bed. The very real adventure was now before him. Just as he had imagined it. He savored a thought: My real life is about to begin. Am I really going to do this? Yes, I am!... He was definitely living in the walls of the Pierce beach house. Soon that nightmarish, eerie fact would dominate the front page of every major newspaper throughout the United States. He could hardly wait to read the Boca Raton News. THE BOY IN THE WALLS! THE KILLER WHO ACTUALLY LIVED IN THE WALLS OF A FAMILY’S HOUSE! A STARK-RAVING HOMICIDAL MANIAC COULD BE LIVINIG IN YOUR HOUSE! Coty Pierce was sleeping like the most beautiful little girl. She had on an oversized University of Miami Hurricanes T-shirt, but it had moved up and he could see the pink silk bikini panties underneath. She slept on her back, one sun browned leg crossed over the other. Her pouty mouth was just slightly open, forming the tiniest o, and she looked all innocence, and light from his vantage point. She was almost a full-grown woman now. He’d watched her preen in front of the wall mirror just a few hours before. Watched her take off her pink lacy push-up bra. Watched her as she stared at her perfect breasts. Coty was unbearably haughty and untouchable. Tonight he was going to change all that. He was going to take her. Carefully, silently, he removed the metal grill in the ceiling. Then he crawled out of the wall and down into Coty’s sky-blue-and-pink bedroom. His chest felt constricted, and his breathing was quick and labored. One minute he felt hot, the next he was shivering and cold. Two small plastic trash bags covered his feet and were secured around his ankles, and he wore the light blue rubber gloves that the Pierces’ maid used for housekeeping. He felt like a sleek Ninja warrior and looked like Terror itself with his naked hand painted body. The perfect crime. He loved the feeling. Could this be a dream? No, he knew it wasn’t a dream. This was the real deal. He was actually going to do this! He took a deep breath and felt a burning inside his lungs,. For a brief moment, he studied the peaceful young girl he’d admired so many times at S.t Andrews. Then he quietly slipped into bed with the one-and-only Coty Pierce. He took off his rubber glove and gently caressed her perfect sun-bronzed skin. He pretended that he was smoothing coconut-scented suntan oil all over Coty. He was rock-hard already. Her long blond hair was sun bleached and felt as soft as rabbit’s fur. It was thick and beautiful and smelled forest-clean, like balsam. Yes, dreams do come true. Coty suddenly popped open her eyes. They were shiny emerald green gems, and they looked like priceless jewels from Harry Winston’s in Roca. She breathlessly said his name – the name she knew by at school. But he had given himself a new name; he’d named himself, re-created himself. “What are you doing here?” she gasped. “How did you get in?” “Surprise, surprise. I’m Casanova,” he whispered against her ear. His pulse was racing off the charts. “I chose you from all the beautiful girls in Boca Raton, in all of Florida. Aren’t your pleased?” Coty started to scream. “Shush now,” he said, and smothered her small lovely mouth with his own. With a loving kiss. He also kissed Hannah Pierce on that unforgettable evening of mayhem and murder in Boca Raton. Shortly after, he kissed thirteen-year-old Karrie. Before he was finished for the night, he knew he really was Casanova – the world’s greatest lover. THE GENTLEMAN CALLER: Chapel Hill, North Carolina, May 1981 – He was the perfect Gentleman. Always a Gentleman. Always unobtrusive and polite. He thought about that as he listened to the two lovers talking in sibilant whispers as they strolled near University Lake. It was all so dreamily romantic. It was so right for him.. ”Is this a good idea, or is this too dumb for words?” he heard Tom Hutchinson ask Roe Tierney. They were maneuvering into a teal blue rowboat that was gently rocking alongside a long dock on the lake. Tom and Roe were going to “borrow” the boat for a few hours. Sneaky college mischief. “My great-granddaddy says drifting downstream in a rowboat doesn’t count against your life span,” Roe said. “It’s a great idea, Tommy. Let’s go for it.” Tom Hutchinson started to laugh. “What if you do other things in said boat?” he asked. “Well, if that includes aerobics of any sort, it might actually extend your life span.” Roe’s skirt rustled against her smooth thighs as she crossed her legs.