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Crimson Joy [Paperback]

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  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  Parker, Robert B.
  • Author:  Parker, Robert B.
  • ISBN-10:  0440203430
  • ISBN-10:  0440203430
  • ISBN-13:  9780440203438
  • ISBN-13:  9780440203438
  • Publisher:  Dell
  • Publisher:  Dell
  • Pages:  304
  • Pages:  304
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-Jun-1989
  • Pub Date:  01-Jun-1989
  • SKU:  0440203430-11-SPLV
  • SKU:  0440203430-11-SPLV
  • Item ID: 100059715
  • Seller: ShopSpell
  • Ships in: 2 business days
  • Transit time: Up to 5 business days
  • Delivery by: Jul 06 to Jul 08
  • Notes: Brand New Book. Order Now.
A serial killer is on the loose in Beantown and the cops can't catch him. But when the killer leaves his red rose calling card for Spenser's own Susan Silverman, he gets all the attention that Spenser and Hawk can give.

Spenser plays against time while he tracks the Red Rose killer from Boston's Combat Zone to the suburbs. His trap is both daring and brave, and gives the story a satisfying climax.Robert B. Parkerwas the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, novels featuring Chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole/Everett Hitch westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, Parker died in January 2010.1
 
Sheridan Street in Jamaica Plain goes uphill from Center Street for about two hundred yards, crests, and heads down toward Chestnut Avenue. It’s a narrow street, lined with two- and three-family clapboard houses. Many of the houses had been broken up into apartments and a lot of the apartments were occupied by students and recent graduates. The rest by people who worked without a tie.
 
On a bright, cold day in early March the last shame of winter lingered in the hard compounded mounds of snow and sand, blackened by exhaust and soot.
 
Frank Belson jammed his car up onto the ice-cluttered sidewalk and parked, the way cops like to, at an angle, with the rear end of the car sticking halfway out into the street. There were two squad cars already parked the same way.
 
The house in front of us had a small front porch and two front doors. It had been painted a weak green some time ago. The coroner’s wagon was in the narrow driveway and yellow scene-of-the-crime tape was strung across the sidewalk on either side of the house. Some neighbors, mostly women with small children, stood around across the street. It was a neighborhood wherel4
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