Shrink Rap (Sunny Randall)

Shrink Rap (Sunny Randall)

Robert B. Parker

Language: English

Pages: 352

ISBN: 0425239632

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Boston P.I. Sunny Randall goes on the road to protect a bestselling author—and uncovers a world of dark secrets—in the new novel by the Grand Master.

Melanie Joan Hall is a bestselling author in a bind. Her publisher needs her to tour on behalf of her latest blockbuster, and Melanie Joan needs a bodyguard-cum-escort to protect her from an overbearing ex-husband whose presence unnerves her to the point of hysteria. Sunny’s cool demeanor, cop background, and P.I. smarts are an instant balm for the older woman. Sunny begins to sense that Melanie Joan’s ex—a psychotherapist—is not your basic stalker, and when an incident at a book signing leaves the ex bloodied and the author unconscious, it’s clear the stakes are high. Having decided that the only way to crack the case is from the inside, Sunny enters therapy, only to discover some disturbing truths about herself . . . while putting her life on the line.
 
Gripping, nuanced, and filled with Parker’s signature dialogue and psychological insight, Shrink Rap is a winner.

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simply the truth.” “Well,” I said. “I wish it were working better for me.” “Nonsense,” Melanie Joan said. “Nonsense?” “I know you are being wry and self-effacing,” Melanie Joan said. “But you know perfectly well the things you’re capable of, and bravery is one of them. You are slim and cute and tougher than a boiled shoe.” “You understand me that well?” I said. I wasn’t sure she knew me well enough to have that much confidence in her judgment of me, even if it was flattering. “I can’t

Randall?” he said. “Yes.” “My name is Dirk Beals. I wonder if we might talk.” He was slender and dark and much taller than I was. His hair had receded enough to qualify for Rogaine. He had on small round wire-rimmed glasses, and a very expensive gray tweed jacket. A long black wool scarf was wrapped around his neck a couple of times, with the loose end draped over his left shoulder. “Sure,” I said. “Perhaps we could talk in your office?” He paid no attention to Rosie, who was sniffing his

ankles. I had made the bed before we went out for our walk. There was no lingerie laying around. “Certainly,” I said. “Home, studio, and office.” We went up in what used to be the freight elevator without speaking, and got off at my floor and went into my loft. I let Rosie off the leash and she went to her water dish. The loft looked great. The sun flooded in through the skylight and gleamed through the high industrial windows along my front wall. Beals looked around quite carefully, but he

untraumatized, and died suddenly.” “But you have no hard medical evidence.” “Not without an autopsy.” “Could it have been suicide?” “Of course it could, but usually there’s a note or something. Most suicides don’t really wish to go quietly into that good night,” Dr. Figueredo said. “Did you know she was seeing a psychiatrist?” “No.” “Her gynecologist was a doctor named Worthy. Do you know him?” “I know he’s on staff here.” “And you didn’t talk with him.” “Ms. Randall,” Dr. Figueredo

me. Okay, I’ve told it to you, now what are you going to do with it! “That’s why you’re so afraid of him,” I said. She nodded. “You’re afraid you’ll give in, that you’ll let him do it again.” She nodded. I was silent. “What was it you liked?” I said after a while. “The Master-Slave thing,” she said. My mouth was dry. I felt the way I had felt in Copeland’s office the day I had cried. I wanted to cry now. Something fearsome and misshapen had jumped suddenly out of the dark and hissed. “And

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