Dark in Death by J. D. Robb
On the mega screen bloody murder played out in classic black and white for an audience of one hundred and seven. With the sharp screech of violins, violas, and cellos that number dropped by one.
Unlike the character of Marion Crane, Chanel Rylan didn't scream or flail at the shock of violent death. In row twenty-seven in theater three of Vid Galaxy in New York City's Times Square, she let out little more than a mouse squeak as the ice pick plunged into the back of her neck.
Dark in Death is #46 in J.D. Robb's series featuring Lieutenant Eve Dallas and her husband, Roarke. I have loved this series. Truly. In fact, I listened to the whole thing, #1-45, in 2017. It was my treat to myself in order to keep my walking quest going. I'd walk and walk and walk and listen and...you get the idea. Some books are better than others. There were aspects of this newest book that were fun and then...well, it was a little underwhelming. First the fun parts - Hitchcock - as in Alfred. The book begins as a woman is killed while watching the shower scene of Psycho - yes, Janet Leigh and Anthony Perkins. Have you seen Psycho? It's a great movie. There is also a crime novelist and discussion of mystery writing and why people (Roarke especially) read crime novels. That was fun. The rest of the story was OK, but not nearly as much action as usual. I'm not sure if Robb is winding down the series or if this was just one of the books that wasn't quite there. The recurring character base has broadened over the 46 books, naturally. Eve and Roarke are still solid with each other, but I think that Eve has been tamed somewhat and so has Roarke. I missed getting to hear more from a few of my favorites, but again, there were fun parts. I'll say that Dark in Death was a decent entry into the series, but I'm hoping for more in the next book. In case you wondered, Roarke says that he reads crime novels for the puzzle and the good vs. evil battle. I knew I liked that man. Ha! Me too!
It was a stab in the dark.
On a chilly February night, during a screening of Psycho in midtown, someone sunk an ice pick into the back of Chanel Rylan’s neck, then disappeared quietly into the crowds of drunks and tourists in Times Square. To Chanel’s best friend, who had just slipped out of the theater for a moment to take a call, it felt as unreal as the ancient black-and-white movie up on the screen. But Chanel’s blood ran red, and her death was anything but fictional.
Then, as Eve Dallas puzzles over a homicide that seems carefully planned and yet oddly personal, she receives a tip from an unexpected source: an author of police thrillers who recognizes the crime—from the pages of her own book. Dallas doesn’t think it’s coincidence, since a recent strangulation of a sex worker resembles a scene from her writing as well. Cops look for patterns of behavior: similar weapons, similar MOs. But this killer seems to find inspiration in someone else’s imagination, and if the theory holds, this may be only the second of a long-running series.
The good news is that Eve and her billionaire husband Roarke have an excuse to curl up in front of the fireplace with their cat, Galahad, reading mystery stories for research. The bad news is that time is running out before the next victim plays an unwitting role in a murderer’s deranged private drama—and only Eve can put a stop to a creative impulse gone horribly, destructively wrong.