Killer heat A novel

Review by Booklist Review

True serial killers are rare, we're told in Fairstein's latest thriller starring Manhattan sex-crimes prosecutor Alex Cooper and homicide detective Mike Chapman. Rare they may be, but one is on the loose, using the city's muddy, mosquito-infested waterfront and the relatively unpopulated islands that dot New York Harbor for his body dumps. Three women, who seem to have nothing in common other than their extraordinarily brutal manner of death, have been found in these remote areas. A drab olive blanket, left at each crime scene, provides the first real clue, which eventually leads Alex and Mike to New York's Governor's Island for a lesson in a little-known bit of American history. Then another young woman is abducted, and the hunt intensifies. Alex proves an able narrator, though Fairstein seems less comfortable writing romantic banter (there's a sappy candlelight dinner scene between Alex and her boyfriend, Luc) than she is  penning courtroom scenes or expostulating on crime theory. But series fans won't mind; there's ample drama here (Alex is the target of a murderous Latino gang), and tough but vulnerable Mike's usual snappy combacks and his dedication to Alex, whom he calls Blondie, continue to provide entertainment along the way.--Zvirin, Stephanie Copyright 2007 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

At the start of bestseller Fairstein's nail-biting 10th legal thriller to feature alter ego Alex Cooper (after 2006's Bad Blood), the Manhattan ADA takes a hit from a cigar at the urging of her longtime police ally, Mike Chapman-to cover the stench of a badly decomposed female body at a crime scene in an abandoned building near the Staten Island ferry. The victim later proves to be the first of a number of women in uniform targeted by the murderer, who may have military ties in his past. The trail leads to a notorious bar catering to underage drinkers, before a chance observation by a civilian shifts the inquiry dramatically. Meanwhile, Cooper is preparing to try Floyd Warren, a rapist whose first trial three decades earlier ended in a hung jury. Fairstein, whose professional resume includes groundbreaking work in the field of sex crimes prosecution, manages to both entertain and educate, as Cooper struggles with the evidentiary challenges of the Warren rape case and with tracking a vicious serial killer. (Mar.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

In her tenth Alexandra Cooper thriller (after Bad Blood), Fairstein delivers a scorcher of a crime novel-her hottest yet. The assistant DA alternates between the courtroom and crime scenes amid the sweltering summer heat of Manhattan. As she works to convict a serial rapist accused of over 50 rapes in a 35-year-old cold case, verbal and physical threats from vengeance-seeking drug-gang members heat up the courtroom. Alex is called to a crime scene in an abandoned government building, and soon two other young women vanish. Similarities in the cases suggest the possibility of a serial killer, and Alex and colleagues Mike Chapman and Mercer Wallace brave rising temperatures and isolated locations in hot pursuit of the killer. Partly based on a 2006 crime, the novel delivers taut suspense, action-packed chases, historical glimpses of Manhattan, and a smattering of romance. Readers will not want to put down this red-hot thriller until they've turned the final page. It's essential for all public libraries.-Mary Todd Chesnut, Northern Kentucky Univ. Lib., Highland Heights (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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ONE Mike Chapman bit into the tip of a Cohiba and held the match to the end of his thick cigar, drawing several deep breaths to make certain it was lighted. "Take a few hits, Coop," he said, passing it to me. I shook my head. "The stench from that corpse is going to stay in your brain for weeks unless you infuse it right away with something more powerful. Why do you think I've always got a couple of these in my pocket?" I took the cigar from Mike and rolled it between my fingers. "Don't look at the damn thing. Smoke it. That broad's been decomposing for days in an empty room during a summer heat wave. Wrap your lips around that sucker and inhale till the smoke comes through your nose and ears, and maybe even from between your toes." I put it to my lips, coughing as the harsh tobacco taste filled my mouth and lungs. There were no overhead lights above the concrete barriers we sat on at the intersection of South Street and Whitehall, which dead-ended at the East River, near the southernmost tip of Manhattan. "There's no air out here. Not even a breeze off the water." "Almost midnight and it's still ninety-seven degrees. She's cooking in that room," Mike said, tossing his head in the direction of the crime scene that he'd been working for the last three hours. His black hair glistened with sweat, and the perspiration on his shirt made the cotton cloth cling to his chest. "Whatever body parts were left intact will be fried by the time they bag her." "Are you going with the guys to the morgue?" I asked. "Might be the coolest place in town tonight. You into refrigerated boxes?" "I'll pass. Are they almost done?" "The ME was ready to call it quits when the maggot maven showed up." The putrefaction of the woman's body, which had been left to rot in the abandoned government offices over the old ferry slip, offered an irresistible opportunity to swarms of summer flies, which entered to lay their eggs and leave their offspring to nourish themselves on her flesh. The blast of the horn from the Staten Island Ferry, its giant orange hull sliding out of the pier from the enormous modern terminal just twenty yards downriver, startled me. We were half a mile south of the bustling marketplace that had once been the South Street Seaport, flanking the glittering towers of Wall Street, outside what seemed like the only building in the downtown area that had been neglected alongside the water's flotsam and jetsam. I stood up from the concrete barrier and looked over my shoulder at the entrance to the deserted slips--three vaulted openings that led to the water, supporting a raised porch and the offices in which the body had been found, centered between forty-foot-tall columns that faced Whitehall. Crumbling wooden pilings bordered the walkway behind me, while trash floated and bobbed among the large rocks in the water ten feet below. "Jumpy already?" Mike smiled at me as he held the open collar of his shirt between his thumb and forefinger, waving it back and forth as though the cloth might actually dry out despite the oppressive humidity. "You don't even know what happened to her yet." "Has he got any ideas about how long the woman's been dead?" The cigar smoke filtered up through my nostrils, overwhelming the pungent odor of death. "Bug juice, Madam Prosecutor. The good Dr. Magorski likes to bring this whole thing down to when he figures the flies laid the maggots which finished feasting and then sat on the floorboards and pupated. He's picking up the pupal cases to take to his lab. It's a slow process," Mike said, dismissing the expert with a flip of his hand. The forensic entomologist had been called to the scene by the young medical examiner who first responded to the det Excerpted from Killer Heat by Linda Fairstein All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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