Dance for the Dead (Jane Whitefield Series #2)

Dance for the Dead (Jane Whitefield Series #2)

by Thomas Perry

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“Compelling . . . Nobody writes a chase better than [Thomas] Perry.”—The Washington Post Book World

Jane Whitefield is the patron saint of the pursued, a Native American “guide” who specializes in making victims vanish. Calling on the ancient wisdom of the Seneca tribe and her own razor-sharp cunning, she conjures up new identities for people with nowhere left to run. She's as quick and quiet as freshly fallen show, and she covers a trail just as completely. But when a calculating killer stalks an innocent eight-year-old boy, Jane faces dangerous obstacles that will put her powers—and her life—to a terrifying test. . . .

Praise for Dance for the Dead

“Spellbinding . . . Terrific . . . Jane Whitefield may be the most arresting protagonist in the 90s thriller arena. . . . Thrillers need good villains, and this one has a formidable SOB who is cold-blooded enough to satisfy anybody's taste.”Entertainment Weekly

“A terse thriller . . . Perry starts the story with a bang.”San Francisco Chronicle

“One of the most engaging heroines in contemporary suspense.”The Flint Journal

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780307781352
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 04/06/2011
Series: Jane Whitefield Series , #2
Sold by: Random House
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 416
Sales rank: 90,802
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Thomas Perry won an Edgar Award for The Butcher’s Boy, and Metzger’s Dog was one of the New York Times's Notable Books of the Year. His other books include The Face-Changers, Shadow Woman, Dance for the Dead, and Vanishing Act. He lives in Southern California with his wife and two daughters.

Read an Excerpt

The tall, slim woman hastily tied her long, dark hair into a knot behind her head, planted her feet in the center of the long courthouse corridor, and waited. A few litigants and their attorneys passed her, some of them secretly studying her, more because she was attractive than because she was standing motionless, forcing them to step around her on their way to the courtrooms. Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths as though she had been running, and her eyes looked past them, having already dismissed them before they approached as she stared into the middle distance.
She heard the chime sound above the elevator thirty feet away. Before the doors had fully parted, three large men in sportcoats slipped out between them and spun their heads to stare up the hallway. All three seemed to see her within an instant, their eyes widening, then narrowing to focus, and then becoming watchful and predatory, losing any hint of introspection as they began to move toward her, one beside each wall and one in the middle, increasing their pace with each step.
Several bystanders averted their eyes and sidestepped to avoid them, but the woman never moved. She hiked up the skirt of her navy blue business suit so it was out of her way, took two more deep breaths, then swung her shoulder bag hard at the first man’s face.
The man’s eyes shone with triumph and eagerness as he snatched the purse out of the air. The triumph turned to shock as the woman slipped the strap around his forearm and used the momentum of his charge to haul him into the second man, sending them both against the wall to her right. As they caromed off it, she delivered a kick to one and a chop to the other to put them on the floor. This bought her a few heartbeats to devote to the third man, who was moving along the left wall to get behind her.
She leaned back and swung one leg high. The man read her intention, stopped, and held up his hands to clutch her ankle, but her back foot left the ground and she hurled her weight into him. As her foot caught him at thigh level and propelled him into the wall, there was the sickening crack of his knee popping. He crumpled to the floor and began to gasp and clutch at his crippled leg as the woman rolled to the side and sprang up.
The first two men were rising to their feet. Her fist jabbed out at the nearest one and she rocked him back, pivoted to throw an elbow into the bridge of his nose, and brought a knee into the second man’s face.
There was a loud slapping sound and the woman’s head jerked nearly to her left shoulder as a big fist swung into her cheekbone. Strong arms snaked around her from behind, lifted her off her feet to stretch her erect, and she saw the rest as motion and flashes. The first two men rushed at her in rage, aiming hard roundhouse punches at her head and face, gleeful in the certainty that she saw the blows coming but could do nothing to block them or even turn to divert their force.
Two loud, deep voices overlapped, barking for dominance. “Police officers! Freeze!” “Step away from her!” When her opponents released her and stepped away, she dropped to her knees and covered her face with her hands. In a moment, several bystanders who had stood paralyzed with alarm seemed to awaken. They were drawn closer by some impulse to be of use, but they only hovered helplessly nearby without touching her or speaking.
The judge’s chambers were in shadow except for a few horizontal slices of late-afternoon sunlight that shone through the blinds on the wood-paneled wall. Judge Kramer sat in his old oak swivel chair with his robe unzipped but with the yoke still resting on his shoulders. He loosened his tie and leaned back, making the chair’s springs creak, then pressed the PLAY button on the tape recorder.
There were sounds of chairs scraping, papers shuffling, and a garble of murmured conversation, so that the judge’s empty chamber seemed to be crowded with invisible people. A female voice came from somewhere too close to the microphone. “This deposition is to be taken before Julia R. Kinnock, court stenographer at 501 North Spring Street, Los Angeles, California, at ten … seventeen A.M. on November third. The court’s instructions were that if there is an objection to the use of a tape recorder, it will be turned off.” There was silence. “Will the others in the room please identify themselves.”
“David M. Schoenfeld, court-appointed counsel to Timothy Phillips.” Schoenfeld’s voice was smooth, and each syllable took too long to come out. Judge Kramer could almost see him leaning into the microphone to croon.
“Nina Coffey, Department of Children’s Services, Los Angeles County, in the capacity of guardian for a minor person.” Kramer had read her name on a number of official papers, but he had never heard her voice before. It was clear and unapologetic, the words quick and clipped, as though she were trying to guard against some kind of vulnerability.
“Kyle Ambrose, Assistant District Attorney, Los Angeles.” As usual, the prosecutor sounded vaguely confused, a pose that had irritated Kramer through six or seven long trials.
Then came the low, monotone voices that were at once self-effacing and weighty, voices of men who had spent a lot of time talking over radios. They started quietly and grew louder, because the last part of each name was the important part.
“Lieutenant James E. Bates, Los Angeles Police Department.”
“Agent Joseph Gould, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
There was some more shuffling of papers and then Julia Kinnock said, “Mr. Ambrose, do you wish to begin?”
Ambrose’s parched, uncertain voice came in a beat late. “Will you state your name for the record, please?”
There was some throat clearing, and then the high, reedy voice of a young boy. “Tim … Timothy John Phillips.”
Schoenfeld’s courtroom voice intoned, “Perhaps it would be a good idea to ask that the record show that Lieutenant Bates and Agent Gould here present have verified that the deponent’s fingerprints match those of Timothy John Phillips, taken prior to his disappearance.”
The two voices muttered, “So verified,” in the tone of a response in a church. Amen, thought Kramer. Schoenfeld had managed to sidestep onto the record with the one essential fact to be established in the case from Schoenfeld’s point of view.
Ambrose’s voice became slow and clear as he spoke to the boy. “You are to answer of your own accord, You are not to feel that you are in any way obligated to tell us things you don’t want to.” Judge Kramer could imagine Ambrose’s dark eyes flicking to the faces of Schoenfeld, the lawyer, and Nina Coffey, the social worker. It was a confidence game, as Ambrose’s legal work always was. The kid would have to answer all of the questions at some point, but Ambrose was trying to put the watchdogs to sleep. “Mr. Schoenfeld is here as your lawyer, so if you have any doubts, just ask him. And Mrs. Coffey will take you home if you’re too tired. Do you understand?”
The small, high-pitched voice said, “Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Can you tell me, please, your earliest recollections?” Judge Kramer clenched his teeth.
“You mean, ever?”
“I remember … I guess I remember a lot of things. Christmas. Birthdays. I remember moving into our house in Washington.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know.”
A male voice interjected, “The lease on the Georgetown house began four years ago on January first. That was established during the murder investigation. He would have been four.” The voice would be that of the F.B.I. agent, thought the judge.
“Do you remember anything before that, in another house?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“When you moved in, was Miss Mona Turley already with you?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Who lived there?”
“My parents, me, Mona.”
“Did you have relatives besides your parents? Cousins or uncles?”
“No, just my grandma.”
“Did you ever see her?”
“Not that I remember. She lived far away. We used to send her a Christmas card every year.”
“Did you?” There was the confusion again, as though Ambrose were hearing it for the first time and trying to fathom the implications.
“Yeah. I remember, because my daddy would put my handprint on it. He would write something, and then he would squish my hand onto a stamp pad and press it on the card, because I couldn’t write yet.”
Ambrose hesitated, then said gently, “Do you remember anybody else? Any other grown-ups that, you were with?”
“You mean Mr. and Mrs. Phillips?”
“I know about them. I don’t think I ever saw them.”
“So when you say your ‘parents’ you mean Raymond and Emily Decker?”
“They were my mother and father.”
Judge Kramer’s brows knitted in distaste. This was typical of Ambrose. Get on with it, he thought. An eight-year-old’s distant recollections weren’t going to get Ambrose anything in a criminal investigation. Such meticulous, redundant questioning had bought him an inflated reputation as a prosecutor—laying the groundwork for an unshakable, brick-hard case. It looked like magic to juries, but to Judge Kramer and the opposing attorneys who knew where he was going, it was like watching an ant carrying single crumbs until he had a hero sandwich.

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From the Publisher

"Bean's performance is engaging. She mixes her pace and tones adeptly, allowing listeners to fully appreciate the richness of Whitefield's character.... This is an entertaining novel that benefits from Bean's narration." —-AudioFile

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