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Cold Hit [Paperback]

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  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  Fairstein, Linda
  • Author:  Fairstein, Linda
  • ISBN-10:  147675473X
  • ISBN-10:  147675473X
  • ISBN-13:  9781476754734
  • ISBN-13:  9781476754734
  • Publisher:  Gallery Books
  • Publisher:  Gallery Books
  • Pages:  464
  • Pages:  464
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-Nov-2013
  • Pub Date:  01-Nov-2013
  • SKU:  147675473X-11-MPOD
  • SKU:  147675473X-11-MPOD
  • Item ID: 100175120
  • List Price: $27.99
  • Seller: ShopSpell
  • Ships in: 2 business days
  • Transit time: Up to 5 business days
  • Delivery by: Sep 29 to Oct 01
  • Notes: Brand New Book. Order Now.
Renowned sex-crimes prosecutor and bestselling author Linda Fairstein sends her acclaimed heroine—the stylish and steely-nerved D.A. Alexandra Cooper—on a hunt for a killer inside New York City's glitzy art world.

Alexandra Cooper has seen many murder victims, but few more disturbing than the silk-clad body of a woman, her hands and feet tied to a ladder, pulled from the turbulent waters at Manhattan's northern tip. With her colleagues, including NYPD detectives Mike Chapman and Mercer Wallace, Alex races against the clock and hopes for a cold hit —a DNA match that would reveal the identity of the murderer by linking the crime to someone already in the police database. But as the case pulls her into the exclusive world of East Side auction houses and cutting-edge Chelsea galleries, Alex discovers she may be marked as an expendable commodity in a chilling and deadly scheme...Linda Fairstein was chief of the Sex Crimes Unit of the district attorney's office in Manhattan for more than two decades and is America's foremost legal expert on sexual assault and domestic violence. Her Alexandra Cooper novels are international bestsellers and have been translated into more than a dozen languages. She lives in Manhattan and on Martha's Vineyard.Chapter One

It was after eight o'clock, and all I could see of the sun was its gleaming crown as it slipped behind the row of steep cliffs, giving off an iridescent pink haze that signaled the end of a long August day. Brackish gray water swirled and broke against the large rocks that edged the mound of dirt on which I stood, spitting up at my ankles as I stared out to the west at the Palisades. The pleats of my white linen skirt, which had seemed so cool and weightless as I moved about the air-conditioned courtroom all afternoon, were plastered against my thighs by the humidity, and I swattedl3-
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