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The silent girl / Tess Gerritsen.

By: Gerritsen, Tess.
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookSeries: Gerritsen, Tess. Rizzoli & Isles: 9.; Jane Rizzoli and Maura Isles: 9.Publisher: London : Bantam Press, 2011Description: 318 pages ; 24 cm.Content type: text Media type: unmediated Carrier type: volumeISBN: 9780593063255 (pbk); 0593063252 (pbk); 9780593063248; 0593063244.Subject(s): Rizzoli, Jane, Detective (Fictitious character) -- Fiction | Isles, Maura (Fictitious character) -- Fiction | Policewomen -- Fiction | Women forensic scientists -- Fiction | Women detectives -- Massachusetts -- Boston -- Fiction | Forensic pathologists -- Massachusetts -- Boston -- FictionGenre/Form: Detective and mystery fiction. | Thrillers (Fiction)DDC classification: 813/.54
Contents:
When a severed hand, clutching a gun, is found in a Chinatown alley in downtown Boston, detective Jane Rizzoli climbs to the adjacent roof-top and finds the hand's owner: a red-haired woman whose throat has been slashed so deeply the head is nearly severed. She is dressed all in black, and the only clues to her identity are a throwaway cell phone and a scrawled address of a long-shuttered restaurant. With its wary immigrant population, Chinatown is a closed neighbourhood of long-held secrets - and nowhere is this more obvious than when Jane meets Iris Fang. Strikingly beautiful, her long black hair streaked with grey, she is a renowned martial arts master. Yet, despite being skilled in swordplay, neither she nor her strangely aloof daughter, Willow, will admit any knowledge of the rooftop murder. And pathologist Dr Maura Isles has determined that the murder weapon was a sword crafted of ancient metal from China. It soon becomes clear that an ancient evil is stirring in Chinatown - an evil that has killed before, and will kill again - unless Jane and Iris can join forces, and defeat it ...
Subject: In the murky shadows of an alley in Boston's Chinatown a hand has been discovered. On the rooftop above lies a woman's severed head. Two strands of silver hair - not human - cling to the body that lies nearby. These are Detective Jane Rizzoli's only clues, but they are enough for her and Dr Maura Isles to make a startling discovery: that this violent death had a chilling prequel. Seventeen years early a horrifying attack in a Boston restaurant left five people dead. Only one woman connected to the massacre is now still alive - a mysterious martial arts master who knows a secret she dare not tell. A secret that lives and breathes in the shadows of the city. A secret that may not even be human. It soon becomes clear than an ancient evil is stirring in Chinatown: an evil that has killed before, and will kill again - unless Jane and Maura can track it down, and defeat it.
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Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

In an alley in Boston's Chinatown a hand has been discovered. On the rooftop above lies a woman's severed head. Two strands of silver hair - not human - cling to the body. These are Detective Jane Rizzoli's only clues, but they are enough for her and Dr Maura Isles to make a startling discovery: that this violent death had a chilling prequel.

When a severed hand, clutching a gun, is found in a Chinatown alley in downtown Boston, detective Jane Rizzoli climbs to the adjacent roof-top and finds the hand's owner: a red-haired woman whose throat has been slashed so deeply the head is nearly severed. She is dressed all in black, and the only clues to her identity are a throwaway cell phone and a scrawled address of a long-shuttered restaurant. With its wary immigrant population, Chinatown is a closed neighbourhood of long-held secrets - and nowhere is this more obvious than when Jane meets Iris Fang. Strikingly beautiful, her long black hair streaked with grey, she is a renowned martial arts master. Yet, despite being skilled in swordplay, neither she nor her strangely aloof daughter, Willow, will admit any knowledge of the rooftop murder. And pathologist Dr Maura Isles has determined that the murder weapon was a sword crafted of ancient metal from China. It soon becomes clear that an ancient evil is stirring in Chinatown - an evil that has killed before, and will kill again - unless Jane and Iris can join forces, and defeat it ...

In the murky shadows of an alley in Boston's Chinatown a hand has been discovered. On the rooftop above lies a woman's severed head. Two strands of silver hair - not human - cling to the body that lies nearby. These are Detective Jane Rizzoli's only clues, but they are enough for her and Dr Maura Isles to make a startling discovery: that this violent death had a chilling prequel. Seventeen years early a horrifying attack in a Boston restaurant left five people dead. Only one woman connected to the massacre is now still alive - a mysterious martial arts master who knows a secret she dare not tell. A secret that lives and breathes in the shadows of the city. A secret that may not even be human. It soon becomes clear than an ancient evil is stirring in Chinatown: an evil that has killed before, and will kill again - unless Jane and Maura can track it down, and defeat it.

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Excerpt provided by Syndetics

ONE San Francisco ALL DAY, I HAVE BEEN WATCHING THE GIRL. She gives no indication that she's aware of me, although my rental car is within view of the street corner where she and the other teenagers have gathered this afternoon, doing whatever bored kids do to pass the time. She looks younger than the others, but perhaps it's because she's Asian and petite at seventeen, just a wisp of a girl. Her black hair is cropped as short as a boy's, and her blue jeans are ragged and torn. Not a fashion statement, I think, but a result of hard use and life on the streets. She puffs on a cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke with the nonchalance of a street thug, an attitude that doesn't match her pale face and delicate Chinese features. She is pretty enough to attract the hungry stares of two men who pass by. The girl notices their looks and glares straight back at them, unafraid, but it's easy to be fearless when danger is merely an abstract concept. Faced with a real threat, how would this girl react, I wonder. Would she put up a fight or would she crumble? I want to know what she's made of, but I have not seen her put to the test. As evening falls, the teenagers on the corner begin to disband. First one and then another wanders away. In San Francisco, even summer nights are chilly, and those who remain huddle together in their sweaters and jackets, lighting one another's cigarettes, savoring the ephemeral heat of the flame. But cold and hunger eventually disperse the last of them, leaving only the girl, who has nowhere to go. She waves to her departing friends and for a while lingers alone, as though waiting for someone. At last, with a shrug, she leaves the corner and walks in my direction, her hands thrust in her pockets. As she passes my car, she doesn't even glance at me, but looks straight ahead, her gaze focused and fierce, as if she's mentally churning over some dilemma. Perhaps she's thinking about where she's going to scavenge dinner tonight. Or perhaps it's something more consequential. Her future. Her survival. She's probably unaware that two men are following her. Seconds after she walks past my car, I spot the men emerging from an alley. I recognize them; it's the same pair who had stared at her earlier. As they move past my car, trailing her, one of the men looks at me through the windshield. It's just a quick glance to assess whether I am a threat. What he sees does not concern him in the least, and he and his companion keep walking. They move like the confident predators they are, stalking weaker prey who cannot possibly fight them off. I step out of my car and follow them. Just as they are following the girl. She heads into a neighborhood where too many buildings stand abandoned, where the sidewalk seems paved with broken bottles. The girl betrays no fear, no hesitation, as if this is familiar territory. Not once does she glance back, which tells me she is either foolhardy or clueless about the world and what it can do to girls like her. The men following her don't glance back, either. Even if they were to spot me, which I do not allow to happen, they would see nothing to be afraid of. No one ever does. A block ahead, the girl turns right, vanishing through a doorway. I retreat into the shadows and watch what happens next. The two men pause outside the building that the girl has entered, conferring over strategy. Then they, too, step inside. From the sidewalk, I look up at the boarded-over windows. It is a vacant warehouse posted with a NO TRESPASSING notice. The door hangs ajar. I slip inside, into gloom so thick that I pause to let my eyes adjust as I rely on my other senses to take in what I cannot yet see. I hear the floor creaking. I smell burning candle wax. I see the faint glow of the doorway to my left. Pausing outside it, I peer into the room beyond. The girl kneels before a makeshift table, her face lit by one flickering candle. Around her are signs of temporary habitation: a sleeping bag, tins of food, and a small camp stove. She is struggling with a balky can opener and is unaware of the two men closing in from behind. Just as I draw in a breath to shout a warning, the girl whirls around to face the trespassers. All she has in her hand is the can opener, a meager weapon against two larger men. "This is my home," she says. "Get out." I had been prepared to intervene. Instead I pause where I am to watch what happens next. To see what the girl is made of. One of the men laughs. "We're just visiting, honey." "Did I invite you?" "You look like you could use the company." "You look like you could use a brain." Not a wise way to handle the situation, I think. Now their lust is mingled with anger, a dangerous combination. Yet the girl stands perfectly still, perfectly calm, brandishing that pitiful kitchen utensil. As the men lunge, I am already on the balls of my feet, ready to spring. She springs first. One leap and her foot thuds straight into the first man's sternum. It's an inelegant but effective blow and he staggers, gripping his chest as if he cannot breathe. Before the second man can react, she is already spinning toward him, and she slams the can opener against the side of his head. He howls and backs away. This has gotten interesting. The first man has recovered and rushes at her, slamming her so hard that they both go sprawling onto the floor. She kicks and punches, and her fist cracks into his jaw. But fury has inured him to pain and with a roar he rolls on top of her, immobilizing her with his weight. Now the second man jumps back in. Grabbing her wrists, he pins them against the floor. Youth and inexperience have landed her in a calamity that she cannot possibly escape. As fierce as she is, the girl is green and untrained, and the inevitable is about to happen. The first man has unzipped her jeans and he yanks them down past her skinny hips. His arousal is evident, his trousers bulging. Never is a man more vulnerable to attack. He doesn't hear me coming. One moment he's unzipping his fly. The next, he's on the floor, his jaw shattered, loose teeth spilling from his mouth. The second man barely has time to release the girl's hands and jump up, but he's not quick enough. I am a tiger and he is nothing more than a lumbering buffalo, stupid and helpless against my strike. With a shriek he drops to the ground, and judging by the grotesque angle of his arm, his bone has been snapped in two. I grab the girl and yank her to her feet. "Are you unhurt?" She zips up her jeans and stares at me. "Who the hell are you?" "That's for later. Now we go!" I bark. "How did you do that? How did you bring them down so fast?" "Do you want to learn?" "Yes!" I look at the two men groaning and writhing at our feet. "Then here is the first lesson: Know when to run." I shove her toward the door. "That time would be now." I WATCH HER EAT. For a small girl, she has the appetite of a wolf, and she devours three chicken tacos, a lake of refried beans, and a large glass of Coca-Cola. Mexican food was what she wanted, so we sit in a café where mariachi music plays and the walls are adorned with gaudy paintings of dancing señoritas. Though the girl's features are Chinese, she is clearly American, from her cropped hair to her tattered jeans. A crude and feral creature who slurps up the last of her Coke before noisily gnawing on the ice cubes. I begin to doubt the wisdom of this venture. She is already too old to be taught, too wild to learn discipline. I should release her back to the streets, if that's where she wants to go, and find another way. But then I notice the scars on her knuckles and remember how close she came to single-handedly taking down the two men. She has raw talent and is fearless-two things that cannot be taught. "Do you remember me?" I ask. The girl sets down her glass and frowns. For an instant I think I see a flash of recognition, but then it's gone. She shakes her head. "It was a long time ago," I say. "Twelve years." An eternity for a girl so young. "You were small." She shrugs. "No wonder I don't remember you." She reaches in her jacket, pulls out a cigarette, and starts to light it. "You're polluting your body." "It's my body," she retorts. "Not if you wish to train." I reach across the table and snatch the cigarette from her lips. "If you want to learn, your attitude must change. You must show respect." She snorts. "You sound like my mother." "I knew your mother. In Boston." "Well, she's dead." "I know. She wrote me last month. She told me she was ill and had very little time left. That's why I'm here." I'm surprised to see tears glisten in the girl's eyes and she quickly turns away, as though ashamed to reveal weakness. But in that vulnerable instant, before she hides her eyes, she brings to mind my own daughter, who was younger than this girl when I lost her. My eyes sting with tears, but I don't try to hide them. Sorrow has made me who I am. It has been the refining fire that has honed my resolve and sharpened my purpose. I need this girl. Clearly, she also needs me. "It's taken me weeks to find you," I tell her. "Foster home sucked. I'm better off on my own." "If your mother saw you now, her heart would break." "She never had time for me." "Maybe because she was working two jobs, trying to keep you fed? Because she couldn't count on anyone but herself to do it?" "She let the world walk all over her. Not once did I see her stand up for anything. Not even me." "She was afraid." "She was spineless." I lean forward, enraged by this ungrateful brat. "Your poor mother suffered in ways you can't possibly imagine. Everything she did was for you." In disgust, I toss her cigarette back at her. This is not the girl I'd hoped to find. She may be strong and fearless, but no sense of filial duty binds her to her dead mother and father, no sense of family honor. Without ties to our ancestors, we are lonely specks of dust, adrift and floating, attached to nothing and no one. I pay the bill for her meal and stand. "Someday, I hope you find the wisdom to understand what your mother sacrificed for you." "You're leaving?" "There's nothing I can teach you." "Why would you want to, anyway? Why did you even come looking for me?" "I thought I would find someone different. Someone I could teach. Someone who would help me." "To do what?" I don't know how to answer her question. For a moment, the only sound is the tinny mariachi music spilling from the restaurant speakers. "Do you remember your father?" I ask. "Do you remember what happened to him?" She stares at me. "That's what this is about, isn't it? That's why you came looking for me. Because my mother wrote you about him." "Your father was a good man. He loved you, and you dishonor him. You dishonor both your parents." I place a bundle of cash in front of her. "This is in their memory. Get off the street and go back to school. At least there, you won't have to fight off strange men." I turn and walk out of the restaurant. In seconds she's out the door and running after me. "Wait!" she calls. "Where are you going?" "Back home to Boston." "I do remember you. I think I know what you want." I stop and face her. "It's what you should want, too." "What do I have to do?" I look her up and down, and see scrawny shoulders and hips so narrow they barely hold up her blue jeans. "It's not what you need to do," I reply. "It's what you need to be." Slowly I move toward her. Up till this point, she's seen no reason to fear me and why should she? I am just a woman. But something she now sees in my eyes makes her take a step back. "Are you afraid?" I ask her softly. Her chin juts up, and she says with foolish bravado: "No. I'm not." "You should be." TWO Seven years later M Y NAME IS DR. MAURA ISLES, LAST NAME SPELLED I-S-L-E-S. I'M A forensic pathologist, employed by the medical examiner's office in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts." "Please describe for the court your education and background, Dr. Isles," said the Suffolk County assistant district attorney Carmela Aguilar. Maura kept her gaze on the assistant DA as she answered the question. It was far easier to focus on Aguilar's neutral face than to see the glares coming from the defendant and his supporters, dozens of whom had gathered in the courtroom. Aguilar did not seem to notice or care that she was arguing her case before a hostile audience, but Maura was acutely aware of it; a large segment of that audience was law enforcement officers and their friends. They were not going to like what Maura had to say. The defendant was Boston PD officer Wayne Brian Graff, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, the vision of an all-American hero. The room's sympathy was with Graff, not with the victim, a man who had ended up battered and broken on Maura's autopsy table six months ago. A man who'd been buried unmourned and unclaimed. A man who, two hours before his death, committed the fatal sin of shooting and killing a police officer. Maura felt all those courtroom gazes burning into her face, hot as laser points, as she recited her curriculum vitae. "I graduated from Stanford University with a BA in anthropology," she said. "I received my medical degree from the University of California in San Francisco, and went on to complete a five-year pathology residency at that same institution. I am certified in both anatomical and clinical pathology. After my residency, I then completed a two- year fellowship in the subspecialty of forensic pathology, at the University of California-Los Angeles." "And are you board-certified in your field?" "Yes, ma'am. In both general and forensic pathology." "And where have you worked prior to joining the ME's office here in Boston?" From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from The Silent Girl by Tess Gerritsen All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

In this ninth entry in the Rizzoli and Isles series, fiery Boston homicide detective Jane Rizzoli probes the mystery of a gruesome murder in Chinatown while cool forensic pathologist Maura Isles copes with the consequences of testifying against a violent cop. Tanya Eby-who narrated the previous volume in the series-deftly captures the socioeconomic and emotional differences that distinguish this odd couple. Her Rizzoli is properly blue collar, with a hard Boston accent, while Isles's speech is thoughtful and just aloof enough to suggest an upper-middle-class upbringing. Additionally, Eby provides appropriate voices to gruff lawmen, Irish mobsters, and even several citizens of Chinatown without stumbling into ethnic parody. Perhaps more importantly, she knows how to wring every last drop of suspense out of a tense situation, which this crisp thriller provides in abundance. Eby's excellent interpretation of Gerritsen's well-crafted tale makes for a thoroughly entertaining package. A Ballantine Books hardcover. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

Homicide investigator Jane Rizzoli and medical examiner Maura Isles, the protagonists of a string of best-selling thrillers and a television series, have a tough case on their hands. It begins with a woman's severed hand, which is soon accompanied by the rest of the corpse, which itself may be connected to a two-decades-old mystery involving a perpetrator for whom the word inhuman may be a more appropriate description than Rizzoli and Isles care to contemplate. The novel's supernatural undertones might put off some faithful series readers, but there's no denying that the touch of otherworldliness livens up the proceedings, giving the series a much-needed energy boost. Rizzoli and Isles are likable and industrious, as always, and Gerritsen seems more engaged this time out, her prose livelier, and her dialogue more memorable. Recent series entries have been solid, workmanlike thrillers, but this one has some real spark to it. Fans should definitely check it out, and readers who have wandered away from the series might want to give it another try.--Pitt, Davi. Copyright 2010 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

Paired for the 10th time, Rizzoli (homicide cop) and Isles (forensic pathologist) learn that in Boston's Chinatown, revenge is a dish served sweet sour.They find the hand first, neatly severed, on a quiet street in the heart of Chinatown. On a nearby rooftop, they find the rest of her: Jane Doe, young, auburn-haired, dressed in ninja black, completely gorgeous and, of course, extremely dead. It takes a while for Detective Jane Rizzoli and her Boston PD colleagues to identify her. As it happens, however, who she was and what she was up to turns out to be less important than where she endedat the site of a small, innocuous Chinese restaurant called the Red Phoenix. Innocuous, except for the fact that 19 years earlier mass murder exploded on its premises. The cook, Wu Weimin, an illegal from China, suddenly berserk, pulled a gun, shot James Fang, a waiter, three customers and finally himself. Or so the story went. Now fault lines are becoming apparent. When Rizzoli finds herself eye to eye with Iris Fang, widow of the slain James, the holes deepen. Iris, Jane realizes at once, is extraordinaryand ferocious. In her 50s, the owner of a martial-arts academy, she carries herself like a queen, with something dark and resolute in her gaze that in the right circumstances could be terrifying. And she makes it clear that she has good and sufficient reasons for not believing Wu Weimin could ever have murdered her husband. Meanwhile, Dr. Maura Isles, preparing to conduct the post mortem on Jane Doe, has good and sufficient reasons for being distracted. Do these explain a developing rift in the long-standing, mutually appreciative team of Rizzoli and Isles (Ice Cold, 2010, etc.). In any event, is the rift irreparable?The ending is way over the top, the prose occasionally purple-tinged, but Gerritsen is a hardscrabble plotter, and much of what she does is compelling.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.