Hello, Darkness

From Publishers Weekly Cue another run up the charts for bestselling Brown (The Crush), who knows just the right mix to spin: a second-chance-at-love theme rocked by the rhythms of families-in-jeopardy and the hip-hop beat of an at-risk teen subplot sure to alarm the most jaded of parents. Her latest thriller, set during a steamy Austin, Tex., summer, revolves around Paris Gibson, host of a late night radio show that dispenses classic love songs along with advice for the lovelorn that turns deadly after a caller takes Paris's on-air advice to dump a possessive boyfriend who turns out to be another regular caller, "Valentino." Refusing to be dumped, "Valentino" makes the girl his captive, phones Paris that he will kill her in 72 hours ("...her death will be on your conscience") and implies Paris may die next. Paris contacts the Austin police and reunites with one-time lover, Dean Malloy, a police psychologist who was also her dead fiance's best friend. "Valentino" 's victim, Janey Kemp, is the missing 17-year-old daughter of a prominent judge and a founder of a Sex Club Web site that arranges illicit parties that Dean's son, Gavin, also frequents, connecting him to Janey's disappearance. Paris and Dean's romance is almost trivial beside Janey's dehumanizing captivity, although Brown's shallow characterizations of Janey and other Sex Club teens registers the only off note in this fast-reading thriller. The adult suspects are better developed: Lancy, an ex-con/janitor/former porn star trying to make good; Stan, a radio employee whose family connections are the only reason he has a job; John, a cop who sees nothing wrong with "hands on" undercover work; and Brad, a sex-addicted dentist. The unmasking of the killer comes with a riveting finale that will leave fans begging for an encore.Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist Brown's latest thriller is full of thrills and chills that will keep readers turning the pages. Paris Gibson is a late-night DJ who gives advice to the lovelorn. One night, she receives a call from a listener named Valentino, whom she's talked to many times before. This time, he's frighteningly sinister, threatening Paris and claiming that he's holding his latest girlfriend hostage and that he intends to kill her in three days. Paris takes him seriously and goes directly to the police. At the station, she's shocked to see a face from her past, handsome police psychologist Dean Malloy. Together with several detectives, Paris and Dean try to uncover Valentino's identity as well as the location of the girl he claims he's holding. Dean is shocked to learn his petulant 16-year-old son, Gavin, knows Janey, the girl they believe Valentino is holding. Janey is part of an Internet sex club of teenagers who like to flirt with danger. As Paris and Dean race to save Janey, their long-buried passion threatens to boil over. With an abundance of likely suspects, this sexy, engrossing thriller will keep readers guessing until the very end. Kristine Huntley Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Sandra Brown is the author of numerous New York Times bestsellers -- including most recently The Crush, Envy, and The Switch -- many of which reached #1. She and her husband live in Fort Worth, Texas. She can be reached via her website at www.sandrabrown.net. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Dean Malloy eased himself off the bed. Groping in darkness, he located his underwear on the floor and took it with him into the bathroom. As quietly as he could, he closed the door before switching on the light. Liz woke up anyway. "Dean?" He braced his arms on the edge of the basin and looked at his reflection in the mirror. "Be right out." His image gazed back at him, whether with despair or disgust, he couldn't quite tell. Reproach, at the very least. He continued staring at himself for another few seconds before turning on the faucet and splashing cold water over his face. He used the toilet, pulled on his boxers, and opened the door. Liz had turned on the nightstand lamp and was propped up on one elbow. Her pale hair was tangled. There was a smudge of mascara beneath her eye. But somehow she made deshabille look fetching. "Are you going to shower?" He shook his head. "Not now." "I'll wash your back." "Thanks, but -- " "Your front?" He shot her a smile. "I'll take a rain check." His trousers were draped over the armchair. When he reached for them, Liz flopped back against the heaped pillows. "You're leaving." "Much as I'd like to stay, Liz." "You haven't spent a full night in weeks." "I don't like it any better than you do, but for the time being that's the way it's got to be." "Good grief, Dean. He's sixteen." "Right. Sixteen. If he were a baby, I'd know where he was at all times. I'd know what he was doing and who he was with. But Gavin is sixteen and licensed to drive. For a parent, that's a twenty-four-hour living nightmare." "He probably won't even be there when you get home." "He'd better be there," he muttered as he tucked in his shirttail. "He broke curfew last night, so I grounded him this morning. Restricted him to the house." "For how long?" "Until he cleans up his act." "What if he doesn't?" "Stay in the house?" "Clean up his act." That was a much weightier question. It required a more complicated answer, which he didn't have time for tonight. He pushed his feet into his shoes, then sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand. "It's unfair that Gavin's behavior is dictating your future." "Our future." "Our future," he corrected softly. "It's unfair as hell. Because of him our plans have been put on indefinite hold, and that stinks." She kissed the back of his hand as she looked up at him through her lashes. "I can't even persuade you to spend the night with me, and here I was hoping that by Christmas we'd be married." "It could happen. The situation could improve sooner than we think." She didn't share his optimism, and her frown said as much. "I've been patient, Dean. Haven't I?" "You have." "In the two years we've been together, I think I've been more than accommodating. I relocated here without a quibble. And even though it would have made more sense for us to live together, I agreed to lease this place." She had a selective and incorrect memory. Their living together had never been an option. He wouldn't even have considered it as long as Gavin was living with him. Nor had there been any reason to quibble over her relocation to Austin. He had never suggested that she should. In fact, he would have preferred for her to remain in Houston. Independently, Liz had made the decision to relocate when he did. When she sprang the surprise on him, he'd had to fake his happiness and conceal a vague irritation. She had imposed herself on him when the last thing he needed was an additional imposition. But rather than opening a giant can of worms for discussion now, he conceded that she had been exceptionally patient with him and his present circumstances. "I'm well aware of how much my situation has changed since we started dating. You didn't sign on to become involved with a single parent of a teenager. You've been more patient than I had any right to expect." "Thank you," she said, mollified. "But my body doesn't know patience, Dean. Each month that passes means one less egg in the basket." He smiled at the gentle reminder of her biological clock. "I acknowledge the sacrifices you've made for me. And continue to make." "I'm willing to make more." She stroked his cheek. "Because, Dean Malloy, the hell of it is, you're worth those sacrifices." He knew she meant it, but her sincerity did nothing to elevate his mood, and instead only increased his despondency. "Be patient a little longer, Liz. Please? Gavin is being impossible, but there are reasons for his bad behavior. Give it a little more time. Hopefully, we'll soon find a comfort zone the three of us can live within." She made a face. "'Comfort zone'? Keep using phrases like that and, next thing you know, you'll have your own daytime TV talk show." He grinned, glad they could conclude the serious conversation on a lighter note. "Still headed to Chicago tomorrow?" "For three days. Closed-door meetings with folk from Copenhagen. All male. Robust, blond Viking types. Jealous?" "Pea green." "Will you miss me?" "What do you think?" "How about I leave you with something to remember me by?" She pushed the sheet away. Naked and all but purring, lying on the rumpled bedding on which they'd already made love, Elizabeth Douglas looked more like a pampered courtesan than a vice-president of marketing for an international luxury-hotel chain. Her figure was voluptuous, and she actually liked it. Unlike most of her contemporaries, she didn't obsess over every calorie. She considered it a workout when she had to carry her own luggage, and she never denied herself dessert. On her the curves looked good. Actually, they looked damn great. "Tempting," he sighed. "Very. But a kiss will have to do." She kissed him deeply, sucking his tongue into her mouth in a manner that probably would have made the Viking types snarl with envy. He was the one to end the kiss. "I've really got to go, Liz," he whispered against her lips before pulling back. "Have a safe trip." She pulled up the sheet to cover her nudity and pasted on a smile to cover her disappointment. "I'll call you when I get there." "You'd better." He left, trying to make it look as if he wasn't fleeing. The air outside settled over him like a damp blanket. It even seemed to have the texture of wet wool when he inhaled it. His shirt was sticking to his back by the time he'd made the short walk to his car. He started the motor and set the air conditioner on high. The radio came on automatically. Elvis's "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" At this hour there was virtually no traffic on the streets. Dean slowed for a yellow light and came to a full stop as the song ended. "It's a steamy night in the hill country. Thank you for spending your time with me here on 101.3." The smoky female voice reverberated through the interior of the car. The sound waves pressed against his chest and belly. Her voice was perfectly modulated by eight speakers that had been strategically placed by German engineers. The superior sound environment made her seem closer than if she'd been sitting in the passenger seat beside him. "I'm going to leave you tonight with a trio of my favorites. I hope you're listening to them with someone you love. Hold each other close." Dean gripped the steering wheel and rested his forehead on the back of his hands while the Fab Four yearned for yesterday. As soon as Judge Baird Kemp retrieved his car from the Four Seasons Hotel parking valet and got in, he wrestled loose his necktie and shrugged off his jacket. "God, I'm glad that's over." "You're the one who insisted we attend." Marian Kemp slipped off her Bruno Magli sling-backs and pulled off the diamond clip earrings, wincing as blood circulation was painfully restored to her numb earlobes. "But did you have to include us in the after party?" "Well, it looked good for us to be among the last to leave. Very influential people were in that group." Being a typical awards dinner, the event had run insufferably long. Following it, a cocktail party had been held in a hospitality suite, and the judge never passed up an opportunity to campaign for his reelection, even informally. For the remainder of their drive home, the Kemps discussed others who had been in attendance, or, as the judge derisively referred to them, "the good, the bad, and the ugly." When they arrived home, he headed for his den, where Marian saw to it that the bar was kept well stocked with his favorite brands. "I'm going to have a nightcap. Should I pour two?" "No thank you, dear. I'm going up." "Cool the bedroom down. This heat is unbearable." Marian climbed the curved staircase that had recently been featured in a home-design magazine. For the photo, she'd worn a designer ball gown and her canary-diamond necklace. The portrait had turned out quite well, if she did say so herself. The judge had been pleased with the accompanying article, which had praised her for making their home into the showplace it was. The upstairs hallway was dark, but she was relieved to see light beneath the door of Janey's room. Even though it was summer vacation, the judge had imposed a curfew on their seventeen-year-old. Last night, she had flouted the curfew and hadn't come in until almost dawn. It was obvious that she'd been drinking, and, unless Marian was mistaken, the stench that clung to her clothing was that of marijuana. Worse, she'd driven herself home in that condition. "I've bailed you out for the last time," the judge had bellowed. "If you get another DWI, you're on your own, young lady. I won't pull a single string. I'll let it go straight on your record." Janey had replied with a bored, "So fucking what?" The scene had grown so loud and vituperative that Marian feared the neighbors might overhear despite the acre of manicured greenbelt between their property and the next. The quarrel had ended with Janey stomping into her room and slamming the door, then locking it behind her. She hadn't spoken to either of them all day. But apparently the judge's most recent threat had made an impression. Janey was at home, and by her standards, it was early. Marian paused outside Janey's door and raised her fist, about to knock. But through the door she could hear the voice of that woman deejay Janey listened to when she was in one of her mellow moods. She was a welcome change from the obnoxious deejays on the acid rock and rap stations. Janey tended to throw a tantrum whenever she felt her privacy was being violated. Her mother was disinclined to disturb this tenuous peace, so, without knocking, she lowered her hand and continued down the hallway to the master suite. Toni Armstrong awoke with a start. She lay unmoving, listening for a noise that might have awakened her. Had one of the children called out for her? Was Brad snoring? No, the house was silent except for the low whir of the air-conditioning vents in the ceiling. A sound hadn't awakened her. Not even the soughing of her husband's breath. Because the pillow beside hers was undisturbed. Toni got up and pulled on a lightweight robe. She glanced at the clock: 1:42. And Brad still hadn't come home. Before going downstairs, she checked the children's rooms. Although the girls got tucked into their separate beds each night, they invariably wound up sleeping together in one. Only sixteen months apart, they were often mistaken for twins. They looked virtually identical now, their sturdy little bodies curled up together, tousled heads sharing the pillow. Toni pulled a sheet up over them, then took a moment to admire their innocent beauty before tiptoeing from the room. Toy spaceships and action figures littered the floor of her son's bedroom. She carefully avoided stepping on them as she made her way to the bed. He slept on his stomach, legs splayed, one arm hanging down the side of the bed. She took the opportunity to stroke his cheek. He'd reached the age where her demonstrations of affection made him grimace and squirm away. As the firstborn, he thought he had to act the little man. But thinking of him becoming a man filled her with a desperation that was close to panic. As she descended the staircase, several of the treads creaked, but Toni liked a house with the quirks and imperfections that gave it character. They had been lucky to acquire this house. It was in a good neighborhood with an elementary school nearby. The price had been reduced by owners anxious to sell. Parts of it had needed attention, but she had volunteered to make most of the repairs herself in order to fit the purchase into their budget. Working on the house had kept her busy while Brad was getting settled into his new practice. She'd taken the time and effort to do necessary repairs before finishing with the cosmetic work. Her patience and diligence had paid off. The house wasn't only prettier in appearance, but sound from the inside out. Its flaws hadn't been glossed over with a fresh coat of paint without first being fixed. Unfortunately, not everything was as easily fixable as houses. As she had feared, all the rooms downstairs were dark and empty. In the kitchen, she turned on the radio to ward off the ominous pressure of the silence. She poured herself a glass of milk she didn't want and forced herself to sip it calmly. Maybe she was doing her husband a disservice. He might very well be attending a seminar on taxes and financial planning. He had announced over dinner that he would be out for most of the evening. "Remember, hon," he'd said when she expressed her surprise, "I told you about it earlier this week." "No you didn't." "I'm sorry. I thought I did. I intended to. Pass the potato salad, please. It's great, by the way. What's that spice?" "Dill. This is the first I've heard of a seminar tonight, Brad." "The partners recommended it. What they learned at the last one saved them a bundle in taxes." "Then maybe I should go, too. I could stand to learn more about all that." "Good idea. We'll watch for the next one. You're required to enroll in advance." He'd told her the time and location of the seminar, told her not to wait up for him because there was an informal discussion session following the formal presentation and he didn't know how long it would last. He had kissed her and the kids before he left. He walked to his car with a gait that was awfully jaunty for someone going to a seminar on taxes and financial planning. Toni finished her glass of milk. She called her husband's cell phone for the third time, and as with the previous two calls, got his voice mail. She didn't leave a message. She thought about calling the auditorium where the seminar had taken place, but that would be a waste of time. No one would be there at this hour. After seeing Brad off tonight, she had cleaned up the dinner dishes and given the children their baths. Once they were in bed, she had tried to go into Brad's den, but discovered that the door to it was locked. To her shame, she'd torn through the house like a woman crazed, looking for a hairpin, a nail file, something with which she could pick the lock. She had resorted to a screwdriver, probably damaging the lock irreparably, but not caring. To her chagrin, there had been nothing in the room to validate her frenzy or her suspicion. A newspaper ad for the seminar was lying on his desk. He'd made a notation about the seminar on his personal calendar. Obviously he had been planning to attend. But he was also very good at creating plausible smoke screens. She had sat down at the desk and stared into his blank computer screen. She even fingered the power button on the tower, tempted to turn it on and engage in some exploration that only thieves, spies, and suspicious wives would engage in. She hadn't touched this computer since he had bought one exclusively for her. When she saw the labeled boxes he'd carried in and placed on the kitchen table, she had exclaimed, "You bought another computer?" "It's time you had your own. Merry Christmas!" "This is June." "So I'm early. Or late." He shrugged in his disarming way. "Now that you have your own, when you want to exchange email with your folks, or do some Internet shopping, or whatever, you won't have to work around me." "I use your computer during the day when you're at the clinic." "That's my point. Now you can go online anytime." And so can you. Apparently he had read her thought because he'd said, "It's not what you're thinking, Toni." Here he had propped his hands on his hips, looking defensive. "I was browsing in the computer store this morning. I see this bright pink number that's small, compact, and can do just about everything, and I think, 'Feminine and efficient. Just like my darling wife.' So I bought it for you on impulse. I thought you'd be pleased. Obviously I was wrong." "I am pleased," she said, instantly contrite. "It was a very thoughtful gesture, Brad. Thank you." She looked askance at the boxes. "Did you say pink?" Then they'd laughed. He'd enfolded her in a bear hug. He'd smelled like sunshine, soap, and wholesomeness. His body had felt comfortable, familiar, and good against hers. Her fears had been assuaged. But only temporarily. Recently they had resurfaced. She hadn't booted up his computer tonight. She'd been too afraid of what she might find. If a password had been required for access, her suspicions would have been confirmed, and she hadn't wanted that. God, no, she hadn't. So she had done her best to restore the busted doorknob, then had gone to bed and eventually to sleep, in the hope that Brad would awaken her soon, brimming with knowledge about financial stratagems for families in their income bracket. It had been a desperate hope. "I've certainly enjoyed your company tonight," the sexy voice on the radio was saying. "This is your host for classic love songs, Paris Gibson." No seminar lasted until two o'clock in the morning. No therapy-group meeting lasted until the wee hours either. That had been Brad's excuse last week when he had stayed out most of the night. His explanation had been that one of the men in his group was having a difficult time coping. "After the meeting, he asked me to go get a beer with him, said he needed an understanding shoulder to cry on. This dude has a real problem, Toni. Whew! You wouldn't believe some of the stuff he told me. I'm talking sick. Anyhow, I knew you would understand. You know what it's like." She knew all too well. The lying. The denials. The time unaccounted for. Locked doors. She knew what it was like, all right. It was like this. Copyright © 2003 by Sandra Brown Management Ltd. Read more