Brown's latest novel is utter dreck. Consider the characters: The heroine, a supersexy surgeon with the trendy gender-ambiguous moniker of Dr. Rennie Newton, is straight off The Lifetime Channel; the gumshoe, Wick Threadgill, is a jaded but sexy beach bum; the villain, Lozado, is sexier than anyone else. Among Lozado's prized possessions are a pricey bachelor pad and a tank of scorpions. Astonishingly, Brown has become very successful with such stuff—her books have sold 60 million copies and been translated into thirty languages. Perhaps translation improves the prose: In English it's all cliché—no one is killed but "brutally slain," no carpet is less than "lush," no naughty musing is unaccompanied by a "shiver of pleasure." As Lozado stalks Rennie and Wick's heart pounds for her, we're plunged into a tale of obsession and suspense and betrayal and lust and daring and romance and tears and we've heard it a thousand times before.
The Crush
Narrated by Tom Wopat
Sandra BrownUnabridged — 12 hours, 12 minutes
The Crush
Narrated by Tom Wopat
Sandra BrownUnabridged — 12 hours, 12 minutes
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Overview
It will be the most regrettable decision in her life...because Rennie's trial with Lozada doesn't end with his acquittal.
Her carefully structured life begins to crumble when a rival colleague is brutally slain. Lozada's menacing shadow looms over the murder, but it's Rennie the investigators focus on as a prime suspect. The privacy she has cultivated and protected at all costs is violated by the police as well as Lozada. And when he begins an earnest courtship, it becomes terrifyingly clear that he is obsessed with having her.
Wick Threadgill is a detective on indefinite leave from the Fort Worth PD, who has his own, personal agenda for the contract killer. Temperamental, bitter, and driven by loyalty and love, Wick is determined to destroy Lozada.
In order to defeat Lozada -- and save their lives -- Rennie and Wick form an uneasy alliance. Mistrustful of each other, they know only one thing with absolute certainty, when this killer strikes, they won't see it coming.
The Crush will take you on a tortuous path through a twisted sociopath's eerie obsession, a haunted man fragile hopes for redemption, and a woman's heart as she struggles to face the greatest fear -- to open herself to love.
Editorial Reviews
Brown's latest thriller pits the infamous Ricky Lozada, an unscrupulous killer for hire, against Wick Threadgill, a wily, disgruntled detective on leave from the force. Threadgill's former partner, Oren Wesley, lures him back with the news that Lozada-against whom Threadgill has a personal vendetta-has murdered a respected doctor. The author ups the stakes by giving Threadgill and the killer the same love interest: Dr. Rennie Newton, a no-nonsense surgeon who unwittingly attracts Lozada's obsessive attention while serving on a jury that acquits him for murder. Newton's secret past raises doubts about where exactly her loyalties lie, and Brown deftly builds suspense around the romantic aspect of her story. She also scores points for her insight into the sociopath's mind, despite a rather facile explanation of how he went bad. (Not everyone with a handicapped younger sibling who gets all the parents' attention ends up a ruthless killer.) Similarly, the underlying reason for Dr. Newton's startling transformation from a young adult who lived on the wild side to a cold, controlled professional is too pat. Worst of all, Brown's prose seems aimed at an audience of eighth-graders, padded throughout with a slew of adjectives, useless descriptions and catch phrases ("Is that your final answer?"). But once things get rolling, the plot crackles with tension moving toward the final showdown between Lozada and Wick. Brown fans will not be disappointed. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
An anonymous gift of roses shows up inside the locked house of surgeon Rennie Newton, signaling the unraveling of her carefully ordered existence. The murder of a close colleague further plunges her into even more difficulties when she becomes the prime suspect of the Fort Worth PD. She forms an uneasy alliance with detective Wick Threadgill, a homicide investigator on indefinite leave from the department, who comes back to solve the case and fall in love with her. Unfortunately, she looks guilty. Brown ventures into pretty dark territory here: the workings of a sociopath's mind. The suspense and the sexual tension build and build, leaving the listener breathless and willing to forgive the rather bloated prose. Tom Wopat has his Texas accents down, but don't expect any sense of place or character development in the author's latest best seller-this one is totally plot driven. An enjoyable story, but the listener will forget it as soon as the last tape is complete. Mind candy for the masses; libraries should purchase accordingly.-Barbara A. Perkins, Irving P.L., TX Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Contract killer falls in love with a surgeon.
Dr. Rennie Newton was the forewoman of the jury that acquitted Ricky Lozada of a murder charge—and he shows his undying gratitude by killing her distinguished colleague Dr. Lee Howell, knowing that Rennie will be next in line as Chief of Surgery at Fort Worth hospital. Lozada is a cold-blooded psychopath whose homicidal inclinations showed up early: he once attempted to suffocate his retarded brother by stuffing a foam baseball into his mouth. A few more murderous experiments convinced him he’d found his calling, though he runs a TV repair business as a cover. Enter Wick Threadgill, the FWPD cop who’s obsessed with bringing his brother Joe’s killer—Lozada—to justice. Wick has been placed on indefinite leave, owing to his explosive temper and anxiety disorder, but he still stalks Lozada, who’s now stalking Rennie (when he’s not collecting scorpions and shaving all his body hair). Curious about the preternaturally calm, cool, and collected surgeon, Wick finds out that this isn’t the first time she’s been the object of obsessive lust. In fact, she used to be famous as a local Lolita who seduced her father’s business partner (her father shot him). As Lozada increases his unwanted attention on Rennie, Wick observes her ever more closely, noting her daredevil equestrian skills and other risk-taking behavior. What does it all mean? There’s not much time to figure it out as the two men spy on each other, Wick bribes a hooker for information about Lozada, then finds the hooker in his motel room, dead, and is himself stabbed with a screwdriver as he looks at the body. Wick is rushed to the hospital, where he survives (barely) thanks to Rennie’sskill, and a capably constructed climax ties all up, leaving Wick and Rennie free to trade romantic banter over platefuls of pancakes.
Pretty good suspenser from the hugely popular Brown (Envy,/i>, 2001, etc.).
Sandra Brown and narrator Tom Wopat create a well-done audio. Ricky Lozada, a charming, enamored sociopath, crosses the path of Wick Threadgill, a street-smart detective looking for redemption. To complicate matters, Dr. Rennie Newton falls in love with one of them, while the other becomes obsessed with her. Wopat skillfully weaves the story with style, accents, and impeccable timing. Secrets and suspense abound until the revelations of the dramatic final scene. Wopat engages listeners from beginning to end. G.D.W. © AudioFile 2004, Portland, Maine
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940170916948 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Simon & Schuster |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2002 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
The Crush
By Sandra Brown
Large Print Press
Copyright © 2003 Sandra BrownAll right reserved.
ISBN: 141040160X
Chapter One
Nice place you've got here." "I like it." Ignoring the snide and trite remark, Wick dumped the pot of boiled shrimp into a colander that had never seen the inside of a Williams-Sonoma store. It was white plastic, stained brown. He didn't remember how he'd come by it, but he figured it had been left behind by a previous occupant of the rental house, which his friend obviously found lacking.After the hot water had drained through, he set the colander in the center of the table, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and offered his guest another beer. He uncapped two bottles of Red Stripe, straddled the chair across the table from Oren Wesley, and said, "Dig in."
Oren conscientiously ripped a paper towel from the roll and spread it over his lap. Wick was on his third shrimp before Oren got around to selecting one. They peeled and ate in silence, sharing a bowl of cocktail sauce for dipping. Oren was careful not to get his white French cuffs in the horseradish-laced red stuff. Wick slurped carelessly and licked his fingers, fully aware that his sloppy table manners annoyed his fastidious friend.
They dropped the shrimp shells onto the newspaper that Wick had spread over the table, not to protect its hopelessly scarred surface but to keep cleanup to a minimum. The ceiling fan fluttered the cornersof this makeshift tablecloth and stirred the spicy aroma of the shrimp boil into the sultry coastal air.
After a time, Oren remarked, "Pretty good." Wick shrugged. "A no-brainer." "Local shrimp?" "Buy it fresh off the boat soon as it docks. The skipper gives me a discount." "Decent of him." "Not at all. We made a deal." "What's your end of it?" "To stay away from his sister."
Wick noshed into another plump shrimp and tossed the shell onto the growing heap. He grinned across at Oren, knowing that his friend was trying to decide whether or not he was telling the truth. He was a bullshit artist of renown, and even his best friend couldn't always distinguish his truth from his fiction.
He tore a paper towel from the roll and wiped his hands and mouth. "Is that all you can think of to talk about, Oren? The price of shrimp? You drove all the way down here for that?"
Oren avoided looking at him as he belched silently behind his fist. "Let me help you clean up." "Leave it. Bring your beer."
A dirty table wasn't going to make much difference to the condition of Wick's house-which barely qualified as such. It was a three-room shack that looked like it would succumb to any Gulf breeze above five knots. It was shelter from the elements-barely. The roof leaked when it rained. The air conditioner was a window unit that was so insufficient Wick rarely bothered turning it on. He rented the place by the week, paid in advance. So far he'd written the slum lord sixty-one checks.
The screen door squeaked on its corroded hinges as they moved through it onto the rear deck. Nothing fancy-the plank surface was rough, wide enough only to accommodate two metal lawn chairs of vintage fifties style. Salt air had eaten through numerous coats of paint, the last being a sickly pea green. Wick took the glider. Oren looked dubiously at the rusty seat of the stationary chair.
"It won't bite," Wick said. "Might stain your suit britches, but I promise that the view'll be worth a drycleaning bill."
Oren sat down gingerly, and in a few minutes Wick's promise was fulfilled. The western horizon became striated with vivid color ranging from bloodred to brilliant orange. Purple thunderheads on the horizon looked like rolling hills rimmed with gold.
"Something, isn't it?" Wick said. "Now tell me who's crazy."
"I never thought you were crazy, Wick." "Just a little nutty for shucking it all and moving down here."
"Not even nutty. Irresponsible, maybe." Wick's easy smile congealed. Noticing, Oren said, "Go ahead and get pissed. I don't care. You need to hear it."
"Well, fine. Thank you. Now I've heard it. How're Grace and the girls?"
"Steph made cheerleader. Laura started her periods." "Congratulations or condolences?" "For which?" "Both."
Oren smiled. "I'll accept either. Grace said to give you a kiss from her." Looking at Wick's stubble, he added, "I'll pass if you don't mind."
"I'd rather you did. But give her a kiss from me." "Happy to oblige."
For several minutes they sipped their beers and watched the colors of the sunset deepen. Neither broke the silence, yet each was mindful of it, mindful of all that was going unsaid.
Eventually Oren spoke. "Wick ..." "Not interested." "How do you know until you've heard me out?" "Why would you want to ruin a perfectly beautiful sunset? To say nothing of a good Jamaican beer."
Wick's lunge from the glider caused it to rock crazily and noisily before it resettled. Standing at the edge of the weathered deck, tanned toes curling over the edge of it, he tilted back his beer and finished it in one long swallow, then tossed the empty bottle into the fifty-gallon oil drum that served as his garbage can. The clatter spooked a couple of gulls who'd been scavenging on the hard-packed sand. Wick envied their ability to take flight.
He and Oren had a history that dated back many years, to even before Wick had joined the Fort Worth Police Department. Oren was older by several years, and Wick conceded that he was definitely the wiser. He had a stable temperament, which often had defused Wick's more volatile one. Oren's approach was methodical. Wick's was impulsive. Oren was devoted to his wife and children. Wick was a bachelor who Oren claimed had the sexual proclivities of an alley cat.
In spite of these differences, and possibly because of them, Wick Threadgill and Oren Wesley had made excellent partners. They had been one of the few biracial partnerships on the FWPD. Together they had shared dangerous situations, countless laughs, a few triumphs, several disappointments-and a heartache from which neither would ever fully recover.
When Oren had called last night after months of separation, Wick was glad to hear from him. He had hoped that Oren was coming to talk over old times, better times. That hope was dashed the moment Oren arrived and got out of his car. It was a polished pair of wing tips, not flipflops or sneakers, that had made deep impressions in the Galveston sand. Oren wasn't dressed for fishing or beachcombing, not even for kicking back here on the deck with an Astros game on the radio and cold beer in the fridge.
He had arrived dressed for business. Buttoned down and belted up, bureaucracy personified. Even as they shook hands Wick had recognized his friend's game face and knew with certainty and disappointment that this was not a social visit.
He was equally certain that whatever it was that Oren had come to say, he didn't want to hear it.
"You weren't fired, Wick." "No, I'm taking an 'indefinite leave of absence.'" "That was your choice." "Under duress." "You needed time to cool off and get it together." "Why didn't the suits just fire me? Make it easier on everybody?"
"They're smarter than you are." Wick came around. "Is that right?" "They know, everybody who knows you knows, that you were born for this kinda work."
"This kinda work?" He snorted. "Shoveling shit, you mean? If I cleaned out stables for a living, I wouldn't have to do as much of it as I did in the FWPD." "Most of that shit you brought on yourself." Wick snapped the rubber band he habitually wore around his wrist. He disliked being reminded of that time and of the case that had caused him to criticize his superiors vociferously about the inefficiency of the justice system in general and the FWPD in particular. "They let that gangbanger cop a plea."
"Because they couldn't get him for murder, Wick. They knew it and the DA knew it. He's in for six."
"He'll be out in less than two. And he'll do it again. Somebody else will die. You can count on it. And all because our department and the DA's office went limp-dick when it came to a violation of the little shit's rights." "Because you used brute force when you arrested him." Lowering his voice, Oren added, "But your problem with the department wasn't about that case and you know it."
"Oren," Wick said threateningly. "The mistake that-" "Fuck this," Wick muttered. He crossed the deck in two long strides. The screen door slapped shut behind him. Oren followed him back into the kitchen. "I didn't come to rehash all that."
"Could've fooled me." "Will you stop stomping around for a minute and let me talk to you? You'll want to see this."
"Wrong. What I want is another beer." He removed one from the refrigerator and pried off the top with a bottle opener. He left the metal cap where it landed on the wavy linoleum floor.
Oren retrieved a folder he'd brought with him and extended it to Wick, who ignored it. But his retreat out the back door was halted when his bare foot came down hard on the sharp teeth of the bottle cap. Cursing, he kicked the offender across the floor and dropped down into one of the chrome-legged dining chairs. The shrimp shells were beginning to stink.
He propped his foot on his opposite knee and appraised the damage. There was a deep impression of the bottle cap on the ball of his foot, but it hadn't broken the skin.
Showing no sympathy whatsoever, Oren sat down across from him. "Officially I'm not here. Understood? This is a complex situation. It has to be handled delicately."
"Something wrong with your hearing, Oren?" "I know you'll be as intrigued as I am." "Don't forget to pick up your jacket on your way out." Oren removed several eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs from the folder. He held one up so that Wick couldn't avoid looking at it. After a moment, he showed him another.
Wick stared at the photo, then met Oren's eyes above it. "Did they get any shots of her with her clothes on?" "You know Thigpen. He took these for grins." Wick snorted acknowledgment of the mentioned detective.
"In Thigpen's defense, our stakeout house gives us a clear view into her bedroom." "Still no excuse for these. Unless she's an exhibitionist and knew she was being watched."
"She isn't and she doesn't." "What's her story?"
Oren grinned. "You're dying to know, aren't you?" When Wick had surrendered his badge a little more than a year earlier, he had turned his back not only on his police career, but on the whole criminal justice system. To him it was like a cumbersome vehicle stuck in the mud. It spun its big wheels and made a lot of aggressive noise-freedom, justice, and the American way-but it got nowhere.
Law enforcement personnel had been robbed of their motivation by bureaucrats and politicians who quaked at the thought of public disapproval. Consequently the whole concept of justice was mired in futility.
And if you were the poor dumb schmuck who believed in it, who got behind it, put your shoulder to it, and pushed with all your might to set the gears in motion, to catch the bad guys and see them punished for their crimes, all you got in return was mud slung in your face.
But, in spite of himself, Wick's natural curiosity kicked in. Oren hadn't shown him these pictures for prurient purposes. Oren wasn't a Neanderthal like Thigpen and had better things to do with his time than to gawk at photographs of half-naked women. Besides, Grace would throttle him if he did.
No, Oren had a reason for driving all the way from Fort Worth to Galveston and, in spite of himself, Wick wanted to know what it was. He was intrigued, just as Oren-damn him-had guessed he would be.
He reached for the remainder of the photographs and shuffled through them quickly, then more slowly, studying each one. The woman had been photographed in the driver's seat of a late-model Jeep wagon; walking across what appeared to be a large parking lot; inside her kitchen and her bedroom, blissfully unaware that her privacy was being invaded by binoculars and telephoto lenses in the hands of a slob like Thigpen.
Most of the bedroom shots were grainy and slightly out of focus. But clear enough. "What's her alleged crime? Interstate transportation of stolen Victoria's Secret merchandise?" "Uh-huh," Oren said, shaking his head. "That's all you get until you agree to go back with me."
Wick tossed the photographs in Oren's general direction. "Then you made the drive for nothing." He tugged again at the rubber band on his wrist, painfully popping it against his skin.
"You'll want to be in on this one, Wick." "Not a chance in hell." "I'm not asking for a long-term commitment, or a return to the department. Just this one case." "Still no." "I need your help." "Sorry." "Is that your final answer?"
Wick picked up his fresh beer, took a large swallow, then belched loudly.
Despite the smelly shrimp shells, Oren leaned forward across the table. "It's a murder case. Made the news."
"I don't watch the news or read the papers." "Must not. Because if you had, you'd have sped straight to Fort Worth and saved me this trip."
Wick couldn't stop himself from asking "Why's that?" "Popular doctor gets popped in the parking lot of Tarrant General."
"Catchy, Oren. Are you quoting the headline?"
"Nope. I'm giving you the sum total of what we know about this homicide. The crime is five days old and that's all we've got."
"Not my problem." "The perp did the killing within yards of a potential eyewitness but wasn't seen. Wasn't heard. As silent as vapor. Invisible. And he didn't leave a trace, Wick." Oren lowered his voice to a whisper. "Not a fucking trace." Wick searched his former partner's dark eyes. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. "Lozada?" Settling back in his chair, Oren smiled complacently.
Continues...
Excerpted from The Crush by Sandra Brown Copyright © 2003 by Sandra Brown. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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