Tess Gerritsen: Silent Girl, Kartoniert / Broschiert

Kurzbeschreibung

In Bostons Chinatown wird eine Hand gefunden, eine Feuerwaffe fest im Griff. Detective Jane Rizzoli klettert auf das benachbarte Dach und findet eine handlose Frauenleiche, den Kopf fast abgetrennt. Pathologin Dr Maura Isles stellt fest, dass die Mordwaffe ein Schwert uralter chinesischer Herkunft ist. Was wissen die schöne Martial Arts Meisterin Iris Fang und ihre unnahbare Tochter Willow?

Rezension

"Suspense doesn't get smarter than this. Not just recommended but mandatory." - Lee Child
"Another great thrill ride . . . The Silent Girl is one of [Tess] Gerritsen's best." - Associated Press
"Gripping . . . Both [Rizzoli and Isles] deal with personal and family issues that reveal their humanity and lend credibility to this deft thriller." - Publishers Weekly
"Chilling and thrilling . . . an exciting and suspense-filled adventure." - Wichita Falls Times Record News

Klappentext

Boston homicide detective Jane Rizzoli is already at the crime scene when medical examiner Maura Isles arrives on the Chinatown rooftop. A savage killer has left behind a grisly spectacle. Maura is soon distracted and perplexed by a mysterious hair. Lab analysis reveals it's the hair of a monkey, even more bizarre when other clues point Jane and Maura in the direction of the fable of the Monkey King. Skilled and powerful, this Chinese deity can also be indignant and vengeful. When their brutal adversary claims more victims across Boston, Jane and Maura must risk everything to defeat him.

Klappentext

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER   Rizzoli & Isles now a series on TNT   In the murky shadows of Boston’s Chinatown lies a severed hand. On the tenement rooftop above is the corpse belonging to that hand, a red-haired woman dressed in black, her head nearly decapitated. Two strands of silver hair—not human—cling to her body. They are homicide cop Jane Rizzoli’s only clues, but they’re enough for her and medical examiner Maura Isles to make the startling discovery: that this violent death had a chilling prequel. Nineteen years earlier, a horrifying murder-suicide in a Chinatown restaurant left five people dead. One woman connected to that massacre is still alive—a mysterious martial arts master who is now the target of someone, or something, deeply and relentlessly evil. Cracking a crime with bone-chilling echoes of an ancient Chinese legend, Rizzoli and Isles must outwit an unseen enemy with centuries of cunning—and a swift, avenging blade. Don’t miss Tess Gerritsen’s short story “Freaks” in the back of the book.

Auszüge aus dem Buch

ONE
San Francisco
ALL DAY, I HAVE BEEN WATCHING THE GIRL.
She gives no indication that she's aware of me, although my rental car is within view of the street corner where she and the other teenagers have gathered this afternoon, doing whatever bored kids do to pass the time. She looks younger than the others, but perhaps it's because she's Asian and petite at seventeen, just a wisp of a girl. Her black hair is cropped as short as a boy's, and her blue jeans are ragged and torn. Not a fashion statement, I think, but a result of hard use and life on the streets. She puffs on a cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke with the nonchalance of a street thug, an attitude that doesn't match her pale face and delicate Chinese features. She is pretty enough to attract the hungry stares of two men who pass by. The girl notices their looks and glares straight back at them, unafraid, but it's easy to be fearless when danger is merely an abstract concept. Faced with a real threat, how would this girl react, I wonder. Would she put up a fight or would she crumble? I want to know what she's made of, but I have not seen her put to the test.
As evening falls, the teenagers on the corner begin to disband. First one and then another wanders away. In San Francisco, even summer nights are chilly, and those who remain huddle together in their sweaters and jackets, lighting one another's cigarettes, savoring the ephemeral heat of the flame. But cold and hunger eventually disperse the last of them, leaving only the girl, who has nowhere to go. She waves to her departing friends and for a while lingers alone, as though waiting for someone. At last, with a shrug, she leaves the corner and walks in my direction, her hands thrust in her pockets. As she passes my car, she doesn't even glance at me, but looks straight ahead, her gaze focused and fierce, as if she's mentally churning over some dilemma. Perhaps she's thinking about where she's going to scavenge dinner tonight. Or perhaps it's something more consequential. Her future. Her survival.
She's probably unaware that two men are following her.
Seconds after she walks past my car, I spot the men emerging from an alley. I recognize them; it's the same pair who had stared at her earlier. As they move past my car, trailing her, one of the men looks at me through the windshield. It's just a quick glance to assess whether I am a threat. What he sees does not concern him in the least, and he and his companion keep walking. They move like the confident predators they are, stalking weaker prey who cannot possibly fight them off.
I step out of my car and follow them. Just as they are following the girl.
She heads into a neighborhood where too many buildings stand abandoned, where the sidewalk seems paved with broken bottles. The girl betrays no fear, no hesitation, as if this is familiar territory. Not once does she glance back, which tells me she is either foolhardy or clueless about the world and what it can do to girls like her. The men following her don't glance back, either. Even if they were to spot me, which I do not allow to happen, they would see nothing to be afraid of. No one ever does.
A block ahead, the girl turns right, vanishing through a doorway.
I retreat into the shadows and watch what happens next. The two men pause outside the building that the girl has entered, conferring over strategy. Then they, too, step inside.
From the sidewalk, I look up at the boarded-over windows. It is a vacant warehouse posted with a NO TRESPASSING notice. The door hangs ajar. I slip inside, into gloom so thick that I pause to let my eyes adjust as I rely on my other senses to take in what I cannot yet see. I hear the floor creaking. I smell burning candle wax. I see the faint glow of the doorway to my left. Pausing outside it, I peer into the room beyond.
The girl kneels before a makeshift table, her face lit by one flickering cand

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