JL02 - Night Vision
| NIGHT VISION Book 2 in the Jake Lassiter series | |
| Paul Levine | |
| (1990) | |
| Rating: | *** |
| Tags: | Mystery |
The murder of one of the computer dating service Compu-Mate's clients sends Miami trial lawyer Jake Lassiter and retired coroner Dr. Charlie Riggs on the trail of a killer that leads them to a London insane asylum. Reprint. *K. *
### From Publishers Weekly
In contrast to his taut, punchy first novel, To Speak for the Dead , Levine's second is characterized by excess--an outlandish plot, too many characters and too many soggy wisecracks. But the blistering running commentary of hero-lawyer Jake Lassiter on drug dealers, developers and life in murder-a-day Dade County, Fla., plus a horrific denouement, easily makes up for the tale's shortcoming. With his Latin-spouting, bonefishing sidekick, retired coroner Charlie Riggs, the former Miami Dolphins linebacker tracks a serial killer and runs up against political corruption. The killer's first three victims are women who belong to Compu-Mate, an electronic network whose members talk dirty to one another. Jake, dragooned into becoming a special prosecutor, turns for guidance to Pamela Metcalf, an icy British psychiatrist in Miami on a book tour. As the body count mounts, suspicions fall on ambitious state attorney Nick Wolf, with a shadowy past in Vietnam; detective Alejandro Rodriquez; drunken drama professor and failed actor Gerald Prince; and the owners of Compu-Mate, ex-jockey Max Blinderman and his gorgeous spouse, Bobbie. 50,000 first printing; $50,000 ad/promo.
Copyright 1991 Reed Business Information, Inc.
### From Library Journal
The second psychological thriller pairing lawyer Jake Lassiter and retired coroner Charlie Riggs ( To Speak for the Dead , Bantam, 1990).
Copyright 1991 Reed Business Information, Inc.
ALSO AVAILABLE
THE JAKE LASSITER SERIES
THE JAKE LASSITER SERIES
TO SPEAK FOR THE DEAD
: Linebacker-turned-lawyer Jake Lassiter begins to believe that his surgeon client is innocent of malpractice…but guilty of murder.
: Linebacker-turned-lawyer Jake Lassiter begins to believe that his surgeon client is innocent of malpractice…but guilty of murder.
FALSE DAWN
: After his client confesses to a murder he didn’t commit, Jake follows a bloody trail from Miami to Havana to discover the truth.
: After his client confesses to a murder he didn’t commit, Jake follows a bloody trail from Miami to Havana to discover the truth.
MORTAL SIN
: Talk about conflicts of interest. Jake is sleeping with Gina Florio and defending her mob-connected husband in court.
: Talk about conflicts of interest. Jake is sleeping with Gina Florio and defending her mob-connected husband in court.
RIPTIDE
: Jake Lassiter chases a beautiful woman and stolen bonds from Miami to Maui.
: Jake Lassiter chases a beautiful woman and stolen bonds from Miami to Maui.
FOOL ME TWICE
: To clear his name in a murder investigation, Jake follows a trail of evidence that leads from Miami to buried treasure in the abandoned silver mines of Aspen, Colorado. (Also available in new paperback edition).
: To clear his name in a murder investigation, Jake follows a trail of evidence that leads from Miami to buried treasure in the abandoned silver mines of Aspen, Colorado. (Also available in new paperback edition).
FLESH & BONES
: Jake falls for his beautiful client even though he doubts her story. She claims to have recovered “repressed memories” of abuse…just before gunning down her father
: Jake falls for his beautiful client even though he doubts her story. She claims to have recovered “repressed memories” of abuse…just before gunning down her father
LASSITER
: Jake retraces the steps of a model who went missing 18 years earlier…after his one-night stand with her.
: Jake retraces the steps of a model who went missing 18 years earlier…after his one-night stand with her.
STAND-ALONE THRILLERS
IMPACT
: A Jetliner crashes in the Everglades. Is it negligence or terrorism? When the legal case gets to the Supreme Court, the defense has a unique strategy. Kill anyone, even a Supreme Court Justice, to win the case.
: A Jetliner crashes in the Everglades. Is it negligence or terrorism? When the legal case gets to the Supreme Court, the defense has a unique strategy. Kill anyone, even a Supreme Court Justice, to win the case.
BALLISTIC
: A nuclear missile, a band of terrorists, and only two people who can prevent Armageddon. A “loose nukes” thriller for the 21st Century. (Also available in a new paperback edition).
: A nuclear missile, a band of terrorists, and only two people who can prevent Armageddon. A “loose nukes” thriller for the 21st Century. (Also available in a new paperback edition).
PAYDIRT
: Bobby Gallagher had it all and lost it. Now, assisted by his 12-year-old brainiac son, he tries to rig the Super Bowl, win a huge bet…and avoid getting killed.
: Bobby Gallagher had it all and lost it. Now, assisted by his 12-year-old brainiac son, he tries to rig the Super Bowl, win a huge bet…and avoid getting killed.
Visit the author’s website at
http://www.paul-levine.com
for more information. While there, sign up for Paul Levine’s newsletter and the chance to win free books, DVD’s and other prizes.
http://www.paul-levine.com
for more information. While there, sign up for Paul Levine’s newsletter and the chance to win free books, DVD’s and other prizes.
Contents
Live at Five
Look at those legs.
Look at those goddamn floor-to-ceiling million-dollar legs, Marsha thought, then unconsciously sneaked a peek at her own. Short. Stubby little shapeless legs. God, how she hated them.
Shit, now they’re on a two-shot.
Look at the monitor. Next to her I look like a double amputee.
Look at the monitor. Next to her I look like a double amputee.
Then there was her hair. Thick, auburn hair brushed straight back. And her skin, that patrician paleness so out of place in Miami. Just a subdued line of gloss on full lips…
She probably gets dressed and made up in ten minutes.
She probably gets dressed and made up in ten minutes.
If Marsha didn’t spend half an hour covering her freckles with pancake, Max Factor Number Two, they’d ship her back to Scranton to handle neighborhood weather from Nanticoke. The legs, nothing you could do about those. But thank God for plastic surgeons and periodontists. A rhinoplasty—the Sandy Duncan model, pert but not prominent—and capped teeth called “Hollywoods.” Thanks to lawyers, too. Two hundred bucks to change Mabel Dombrowsky to Marsha Diamond.
“So, Dr. Maxson, your book suggests that serial murderers share certain characteristics,” Marsha said.
“Well, we can place them into distinct categories,” Pamela Maxson replied. “There are the organized murderers, who are above average in intelligence and are socially and sexually competent. They are usually the eldest sons in the family. Ordinarily they know their victims and plan the crime. The crime scene is neat and orderly—”
“Well, neatness counts,” Marsha Diamond chirped. Inside the control booth, the director groaned.
“The disorganized murderer is quite the opposite,” Dr. Maxson explained, ignoring the interviewer and smiling politely at the camera. “Below average in intelligence, socially inadequate, sexually incompetent. Usually the last or next to last born. His crimes are more spontaneous. The victims are usually strangers, and rather than using conversation, he subdues with sudden outbursts of violence. Often he will perform sexual acts after the death of the victim…”
Oh shit, how do you follow that one up?
“In either case,” Dr. Maxson said, “the killers have highly active fantasy lives. The fantasies often are of rape, torture, and murder. When they can no longer differentiate fantasy from reality, the two become one.”
And that upper-crust voice. Like Masterpiece Theatre.
Marsha cleared her throat, and the sound man cursed, his earpiece clacking like an enraged rattlesnake. “We seem to have more mass murderers in our country—”
“Serial murderers,” Pamela Maxson corrected her. “Mass murderers kill many persons at the same time. Serial murderers kill many over time, usually at random.”
Marsha felt her face heat up. “Yes, of course. Is there something uniquely American about these
serial
killers? Something about our violent society?”
serial
killers? Something about our violent society?”
“Goodness no. In Britain we had Jack the Ripper, Germany its Peter Kurten. During the time of Joan of Arc, France had the infamous Gilles de Rais, who killed hundreds. There have been serial killers throughout history.”
Damn.
Like being lectured by Jane Seymour with a medical degree. Marsha racked her brain for news stories. “Yes, but here we’ve had Ted Bundy, the Hillside Strangler, the Night Stalker”— Marsha strained to keep up the patter— “the Son of Stan…”
Like being lectured by Jane Seymour with a medical degree. Marsha racked her brain for news stories. “Yes, but here we’ve had Ted Bundy, the Hillside Strangler, the Night Stalker”— Marsha strained to keep up the patter— “the Son of Stan…”
“Son of Sam,” Dr. Maxson helped out. “No doubt America has had its share. My primary interest is in understanding the reasons for these motiveless murders. We know that serial killers frequently cannot separate sex from aggression. We don’t know whether this psychological deficit is caused by genetic, chemical, or hormonal reasons.”
Thank God the director cut to a close-up of the British bitch.
Marsha caught a cue from the floor manager. “We’ll be back with Dr. Pamela Maxson, author of
The Murderer Within Us,
right after this…”
The Murderer Within Us,
right after this…”
***
The news director’s door was open, so Marsha walked in. Jerry Abrams was devouring a bacon cheeseburger. Late thirties, bushy mustache, disheveled, overweight. He chewed noisily, occasionally burping as he kept his eyes on one of three TV screens in his glass-enclosed cubicle.
“Hey, Marsha, get a load—”
On the screen a crew-cut blond man with a string tie was reciting baseball scores. The sound was turned low. Jerry Abrams always reviewed audition tapes this way. Watch the way they look, nobody listens anyway, he explained.
“Wanna play?” Jerry Abrams asked.
“I dunno, Jerry.”
“C’mon, guess.”
“El Paso?”
He shook his head.
“Albuquerque?”
Jerry fished a french fry out of a paper sack. The office smelled of grease and charred meat. “The Wyatt Earp tie’s throwing you off. Smaller market, farther north.”
“North Platte, Nebraska,” she said.
“Good guess. Quad Cities, Iowa. Hayseed wants to come to Gomorrah-by-the-Sea.”
He punched a button on the remote control and grabbed another cassette. More than a hundred were stacked around his desk.
“Jerry, I’d like you to relieve me on the five o’clock. Just for a couple weeks.”
“What? During sweeps? Jesus, no!”
“But I’m working on an investigative piece…”
He stopped in mid-bite. A glob of ketchup clung to his mustache. “What investigative piece? Who assigned you?”
“No one. I’ve been working on my own. A blockbuster I can’t tell you about, yet. I’ve got a confidential source.”
Jerry loosened his tie, which was already at half-mast. He plugged another cassette into the VCR. After the color bars and the countdown, a petite Oriental woman appeared in front of a burning building. She held a microphone and showed a dazzling smile likely used for stories of quintuplet births and plane crashes alike. Marsha noticed that her orange helmet clashed with her green flak jacket. She wondered if the teeth were real.
“Marsha baby,” Jerry said, “you’re not Bob Friggin’ Woodward. You’re a face, a very good face, and your numbers are catching up with
Gilligan’s Island
reruns on Channel Four.”
Gilligan’s Island
reruns on Channel Four.”
She tried to give him a tough look she learned from numerous Jane Fonda films. It had the effect of crinkling her collagen-injected lips.
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