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Silahkan download ebook Harry Potter dan Batu Bertuah karya J.K DANA EVAN'S SUFFERING IN SIDNEY SHELDON'S NOVEL ' THE BEST. Buku softcover, bahasa inggris, keadaan masih mulus banget karna baru sekali Sidney Sheldon's - Angel of The Dark by Tilly Bagshawe 2nd & Original Book. Thus begins Sidney Sheldon's chilling new novel,. Three beautiful young women are suspected of committing a series of brutal murders. The police make an.
If I wear it, they'll think I'm extravagant. On the other hand, if l dress in one of my sale things from Post Horn, they'll think their son is marrying beneath him. Oh, hell, they're going to think that anyway, Tracy decided. She finally settled on a simple gray wool skirt and a white silk blouse and fastened around her neck the slender gold chain her mother had sent her for Christmas. Is that a good sign? A bad sign? He led her through a marble hallway that seemed twice as large as the bank.
Tracy thought, panicky, Oh, my God. I'm dressed all wrong! As she turned into the library, she felt a run start at the ankle of her pantyhose, and she was face-to-face with Charles's parents. Charles Stanhope, Sr. He looked like a successful man; he was the projection of what his son would be like in thirty years. He had brown eyes, like Charles's, a firm chin, a fringe of white hair, and Tracy loved him instantly. He was the perfect grandfather for their child.
Charles's mother was impressive looking. She was rather short and heavy-set, but despite that, there was a regal air about her. She looks solid and dependable, Tracy thought.
She'll make a wonderful grandmother. Stanhope held out her hand. We've asked Charles to give us a few minutes alone with you. You don't mind? Tracy, isn't it? Baby, God will never handle. Just take it one Tracy's first step was a weak smile that came out all wrong, because at that instant she could feel the run in her hose slither up to her knee.
She tried to conceal it with her hands. Stanhope's voice was hearty. Surely Charles had told them they were going to be married. Yes," Tracy said. Stanhope asked. Tracy fought back her resentment. I was right. It is going to be an inquisition. Stanhope murmured. Stanhope said, "To be quite blunt, Miss Whitney, Charles's news came as something of a shock to his father and me. They were always very close, and well, frankly, everyone expected them to announce their engagement this year.
Tracy could have drawn a picture of her. Lived next door. Rich, with the same social background as Charles. All the best schools. Loved horses and won cups. Stanhope suggested. My God, this is a scene from a late-night movie, Tracy thought wildly. I'm the Rita Hayworth character, meeting Cary Grant's parents for the first time. I need a drink. In the old movies the butler always came to the rescue with a tray of drinks.
My father was a mechanic. To hell with them. She was proud of her father. He started a small manufacturing plant in New Orleans and built it up into a fairly large company in its field.
When father died five years ago, my mother took over the business. Stanhope exchanged a look and said in unison, "I see. I wonder how long it's going to take me to love them? She looked into the two unsympathetic faces across from her, and to her horror began babbling inanely. She's beautiful, and intelligent, and charming. She's from the South. She's very small, of course, about your height, Mrs. Stanhope" Tracy's words trailed off, weighted down by the oppressive silence.
She gave a silly little laugh that died away under Mrs. Stanhope's stare. It was Mr. Stanhope who said without expression, "Charles informs us you're pregnant. Their attitude was so nakedly disapproving.
It was as though their son had had nothing to do with what had happened. They made her feel it was a stigma. Now I know what I should have worn, Tracy thought. A scarlet letter. Stanhope began, but she never finished the sentence, because at that moment Charles came into the room. Tracy had never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life. He could never be like them. They're narrow-minded and snobbish and cold. There was a discreet cough behind them, and the butler stood there with a tray of drinks.
It's going to be all right, Tracy told herself. This movie's going to have a happy ending. They discussed banking and politics and the distressing state of the world, and it was all very impersonal and polite. No one actually said aloud, "You trapped our son into marriage. One day Charles will own the firm, and it's important that he have the right wife.
And Tracy promised herself, He will have. Charles gently took her hand which had been twisting the napkin under the table and smiled and gave a small wink. Tracy's heart soared. Stanhope interrupted. There will be dozens of friends who will want to see you married. Yes, of course. Why did I even doubt it? Stanhope said, "Some of the guests will be coming from abroad. I'll make arrangements for them to stay here at the house.
Stanhope asked, "Have you decided where you're going on your honeymoon? Stanhope inquired. And Tracy adored him for it. After dinner they moved into the library for brandy, and Tracy looked around at the lovely old oak-paneled room with its shelves of leather-bound volumes, the two Corots, a small Copley, and a Reynolds.
It would not have mattered to her if Charles had no money at all, but she admitted to herself that this was going to be a very pleasant way to live. It was almost midnight when Charles drove her back to her small apartment off Fairmount Park. Mother and Father can be a bit stiff sometimes. She was exhausted from the tension of the evening, but when they reached the door of her apartment, she asked, "Are you going to come in, Charles?
She wanted him to say, "I love you, darling. No one in this world will ever keep us apart. I've got a heavy morning. I understand, darling. Tracy jerked upright in her bed, groggy with sleep, sniffing for smoke in the darkened room. The ringing continued, and she slowly became aware that it was the telephone. The bedside clock read 2: Her first panicky thought was that something had happened to Charles.
She snatched up the phone. If this was an obscene phone call Is this Tracy Whitney? This was an obscene phone call. Some crank trying to frighten her. There was nothing wrong with her mother. Her mother was alive. I love you very, very much, Tracy. It was real. It was a nightmare, but it was happening.
She could not speak. Her mind and her tongue were frozen. The lieutenant's voice was saying, "Hello? Miss Whitney? It was impossible that she was dead. She had always been so vibrant, so alive. They had had such a close and loving relationship. From the time Tracy was a small girl, she had been able to go to her mother with her problems, to discuss school and boys and, later, men. When Tracy's father had died, many overtures had been made by people who wanted to download the business.
They had offered Doris Whitney enough money so that she could have lived well for the rest of her life, but she had stubbornly refused to sell. I can't throw away all his hard work. Oh, Mother, Tracy thought. I love you so much. You'll never meet Charles, and you'll never see your grandchild, and she began to weep. She made a cup of coffee and let it grow cold while she sat in the dark.
Tracy wanted desperately to call Charles and tell him what had happened, to have him at her side.
She looked at the kitchen clock. It was 3: She did not want to awaken him; she would telephone him from New Orleans.
She wondered whether this would affect their wedding plans, and instantly felt guilty at the thought. How could she even think of herself at a time like this? Lieutenant Miller had said, "When you get here, grab a cab and come to police headquarters. What had happened? She tried to move close to the baggage carousel, but no one would let her through.
She was becoming increasingly nervous, dreading what she would have to face in a little while. She kept trying to tell herself that it was all some kind of mistake, but the words kept reverberating in her head: I'm afraid I have bad news for you She's dead, Miss Whitney I hate to break it to you this way When Tracy finally retrieved her suitcase, she got into a taxi and repeated the address the lieutenant had given her: Not now.
Tracy's mind was too filled with turmoil. The taxi headed east toward the Lake Ponchartrain Causeway. The driver chattered on. I came here for death. She was aware of the drone of the driver's voice, but she did not hear the words. She sat stiffly an her seat, oblivious to the familiar surroundings that sped past.
It was only as they approached the French Quarter that Tracy became conscious of the growing noise. It was the sound of a mob gone mad, rioters yelling some ancient berserk litany. And then Tracy looked up and saw it. It was an incredible sight. There were hundreds of thousands of shouting people, wearing masks, disguised as dragons and giant alligators and pagan gods, filling the streets and sidewalks ahead with a wild cacophony of sound.
It was an insane explosion of bodies and music and floats and dancing. It was February, the time when the whole city celebrated the beginning of Lent. Tracy got out of the cab and stood at the curb, suitcase in hand, and the next moment she was swept up in the screaming, dancing crowd.
It was obscene, a black witches' sabbath, a million Furies celebrating the death of her mother. Tracy's suitcase was torn from her hand and disappeared. She was grabbed by a fat man in a devil's mask and kissed. A deer squeezed her breasts, and a giant panda grabbed her from behind and lifted her up.
She struggled free and tried to run, but it was impossible. She was hemmed in, trapped, a part of the singing, dancing celebration. She moved with the chanting mob, tears streaming down her face. There was no escape. When she was finally able to break away and flee to a quiet street, she was near hysteria.
She stood still for a long time, leaning against a lamppost, taking deep breaths, slowly regaining control of herself. She headed for the police station. We went through your mother's things, and you're the only one we could find to call.
Why would she kill herself? She had everything to live for. Tracy was led down a long white corridor into a large, sterile, empty room, and suddenly she realized that the room was not empty. It was filled with the dead. Her dead.
A white-coated attendant strolled over to a wall, reached for a handle, and pulled out an oversized drawer. I don't want to see the empty, lifeless body lying in that box. She wanted to get out of this place. She wanted to go back a few hours in time when the fire belt was ringing. Let it be a real fire alarm, not the telephone, not my mother dead.
Tracy moved forward slowly, each step a screaming inside her. Then she was staring down at the lifeless remains of the body that had borne her, nourished her, laughed with her, loved her. She bent over and kissed her mother on the cheek. The cheek was cold and rubbery. Why did you do it? My darling Tracy, Please forgive me.
I failed, and I couldn't stand being a burden on you. This is the best way. The district attorney served your mother notice that he was going to ask for an indictment against her for fraud, that she was facing a prison sentence. That was the day she really died, I think. Orsatti runs New Orleans. I found out too late that Romano's done this before with other companies.
Even if your mother had taken him to court, it would have been years before it was all untangled, and she didn't have the money to fight him. And what could you do? There's nothing anyone can do. Where can I find him? You have no idea how powerful he is. She was filled with an emotion totally unfamiliar to her: Joe Romano is going to pay for killing my mother, Tracy swore to herself.
Time to think, time to plan her next move. She could not bear to go back to the despoiled house, so she hecked into a small hotel on Magazine Street, far from the French Quarter, where the mad parades were still going on. She had no luggage, and the suspicious clerk behind the desk said, "You'll have to pay in advance.
That'll be forty dollars for the night. He concealed his irritation at being inconvenienced. Tracy's next call was to Charles. Mother has been trying to reach you all morning. She wanted to have lunch with you today.
You two have a lot of arrangements to go over. I'm in New Orleans. What are you doing in New Orleans? It must have been very sudden. She was quite young, wasn't she? Aloud she said, "Yes. Yes, she was. Are you all right? She wanted desperately to cry out the whole terrible story about what they had done to her mother, but she stopped herself.
It's my problem, she thought. I can't throw my burden on Charles. She said, "Don't worry I'm all right, darling. Thank you. I can handle it. I'm burying Mama tomorrow. I'll be back in Philadelphia on Monday. She counted the stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling.
Joe Romano She had no plan. She knew only that she was not going to let Joe Romano get away with what he had done, that she would find some way to avenge her mother. Tracy left her hotel in the late afternoon and walked along Canal Street until she came to a pawn shop. A cadaverous-looking man wearing an old-fashioned green eyeshade sat in a cage behind a counter. Tell you what. I'll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred fifty, and I'll throw in a box of bullets.
He brought it to the counter. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he's the criminal, not I. The green eyeshade made the man's eyes a pale yellow as he watched her. Joan Smith. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river. We'll make it Fifty-twenty. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her purse, turned and hurried out of the shop. Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees.
Joe Romano lived in one of those houses. Tracy waited until dark before she set out. The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier. She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her purse.
The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother's name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession. She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother's name would be protected. She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it.
She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged. A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted. She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He's probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras. But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway.
His appearance was a surprise to Tracy. She had envisioned a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor. His voice was low and friendly. May I help you? What can I do for you? No wonder my mother was taken in by this man, Tracy thought.
Please come in. Joseph Romano lived well. On my mother's money, Tracy thought bitterly. What would you like? I'm Doris Whitney's daughter. I heard about your mother. Too bad. He had caused the death of her mother, and his only comment was: Romano, the district attorney believes that my mother was guilty of fraud. You know that's not true. I want you to help me clear her name. It's against my religion. Tracy opened her purse and pulled out the revolver.
She pointed it at him. Having you confess to exactly what you did to my mother. It could go off. You're going to write down how you stripped the company, put it into bankruptcy, and drove my mother to suicide. What if I refuse? His voice was soft and sincere. Tracy felt the sharp sting of the alcohol in her eyes, and an instant later the gun was knocked from her hand.
She tried to move away from him, but he backed her into a wall, pressing against her. I like that. It turns me on. Tracy could feel his body hard against hers, and she tried to twist away, but she was helpless in his grip. Well, Joe's going to give it to you. Look at those tits," he whispered. He began pinching her nipples. She felt herself being forced down to the floor. He was astride her now, his body heavy on hers, his hands moving up her thighs. Tracy pushed out blindly, and her fingers touched the gun.
She grabbed for it, and there was a sudden, loud explosion. His grip suddenly relaxed. Through a red mist, Tracy watched in horror as he fell off her and slumped to the floor, clutching his side. You shot me She felt she was going to be sick, and her eyes were blinded by stabbing pain. She pulled herself to her feet, turned, and stumbled to a door at the far end of the room. She pushed it open. It was a bathroom. She staggered over to the sink, filled the basin with cold water, and bathed her eyes until the pain began to subside and her vision cleared.
She looked into the cabinet mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. My God, I've just killed a man. She ran back into the living room. Joe Romano lay on the floor, his blood seeping onto the white rug. Tracy stood over him, white-faced. Tracy hurried to the telephone on the desk and dialed the operator. When she tried to speak, her voice was choked. The address is Four-twenty-one Jackson Square.
A man has been shot. Oh, God, she prayed, please don't let him die. You know I didn't meal: She knelt beside the body on the floor to see if he was still alive.
His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. She fled. She tried not to run, afraid of attracting attention. She pulled her jacket close around her to conceal her ripped blouse. Four blocks from the house Tracy tried to hail a taxi.
Half a dozen sped past her, filled with happy, laughing passengers. In the distance Tracy heard the sound of an approaching siren, and seconds later an ambulance raced past her, headed in the direction of Joe Romano's house. I've got to get away from here, Tracy thought. Ahead of her, a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passengers.
Tracy ran toward it, afraid of losing it. Where you goin'? What if they were too late and Joe Romano was dead? She would be a murderess. She had left the gun back at the house, and her fingerprints were on it. She could tell the police that Romano had tried to rape her and that the gun had gone off accidentally, but they would never believe her.
She had downloadd the gun that was lying on the floor beside Joe Romano. How much time had passed? Half an hour? An hour? She had to get out of New Orleans as quickly as possible. Tracy swallowed. She had been stupid to try to make Joe Romano confess.
Everything had gone wrong. How can I tell Charles what happened? She knew how shocked he would be, but after she explained, he would understand. Charles would know what to do. Did all this happen in just one day? Her mother's suicide That's what a guilty conscience does, she thought.
She wished there were some way she could learn about Joe Romano's condition, but she had no idea what hospital he would be taken to or whom she could call. He's going to be all right. Charles and I will come back for Mother's funeral, and Joe Romano will be fine. She tried to push from her mind the vision of the man lying on the white rug, his blood staining it red. She had to hurry home to Charles. Tracy approached the Delta Airlines counter.
You're in luck. I have one seat left. You just have time to board. One of them said, "Tracy Whitney? It would be stupid to deny my identity. Tracy watched herself being led through the airport, manacled to one of the policemen, while passersby turned to stare. She was shoved into the back of a black-and-white squad car with steel mesh separating the front seat from the rear.
The police car sped away from the curb with red lights flashing and sirens screaming. She huddled in the backseat, trying to become invisible. She was a murderess. Joseph Romano had died. But it had been an accident. She would explain how it had happened. They had to believe her. They had to.
The booking room was crowded with seedy-looking characters--prostitutes, pimps, muggers, and their victims. Tracy was marched to the desk of the sergeant-on-watch. One of her captors said, "The Whitney woman, Sarge. We caught her at the airport tryin' to escape. Tracy found her voice. I didn't mean to kill him. He tried to rape me and" She could not control the hysteria in her voice.
The desk sergeant said curtly, "Are you Tracy Whitney? I" "Lock her up. Wait a minute," she pleaded. I I'm entitled to make a phone call. How many times you been in the stammer, honey?
This is" "You get one call. Three minutes. What number do you want? She could not even recall the area code for Philadelphia. Was it two-five-one? That was not right. She was trembling. I haven't got all night. That was it! She could hear the phone ringing.
And ringing. Charles had to be home. The desk sergeant said, "Time's up. But she suddenly remembered that Charles shut off his phone at night so that he would not be disturbed.
She listened to the hollow ringing and realized there was no way she could reach him. The desk sergeant asked, "You through? He walked away, leaving her alone. None of this is happening, Tracy thought. This is all a terrible dream. Oh, please, God, don't let any of this be real. But the stinking cot in the cell was real, and the seatless toilet in the corner was real, and the bars were real.
If only I could have reached Charles. She needed him now more than she had ever needed anyone in her life. I should have confided in him in the first place. If I had, none of this would have happened. She could not touch it. Her stomach was in knots. He's a mean son of a bitch. An elderly judge was seated on the bench.
His head and hands kept moving in small, quick jerks. In front of him stood the district attorney, Ed Topper, a slight man in his forties, with crinkly salt-and-pepper hair cut en brosse, and cold, black eyes. Tracy was led to a seat, and a moment later the bailiff called out, "People against Tracy Whitney," and Tracy found herself moving toward the bench.
The judge was scanning a sheet of paper in front of him, his head bobbing up and down. Now was Tracy's moment to explain to someone in authority the truth about what had happened. She pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling. I shot him, but it was an accident. I only meant to frighten him.
He tried to rape me and" The district attorney interrupted. This woman broke into Mr. Romano's home, armed with a thirty-two-caliber revolver, stole a Renoir painting worth half a million dollars, and when Mr. Romano caught her in the act, she shot him in cold blood and left him for dead. The district attorney rapped out, "We have the gun with which she wounded Mr.
Her fingerprints are on it. Then Joseph Romano was alive! She had not killed anyone. Your Honor. It's probably in the hands of a fence by now. For that reason, the state is requesting that Tracy Whitney be held for attempted murder and armed robbery and that bail be set at half a million dollars.
He raised his voice. I what what this man said isn't true. I never" "Do you have money for an attorney? There was Charles. You are ordered held in jail, in lieu of five hundred thousand dollars bail. Next case. This is all a mistake! I'm not" She had no recollection of being led from the courtroom. He was in his late thirties, with a craggy, intelligent face and sympathetic blue eyes. Tracy liked him immediately. He walked into her cell, sat on the cot, and said, "Well!
You've created quite a sensation for a lady who's been in town only twenty-four hours. You're a lousy shot. It's only a flesh wound. Romano's going to live.
Miss Whitney. I swear I'm not. From the beginning. Take your time. Perry Pope sat quietly listening to her story, not speaking until Tracy was finished. Then he leaned back against the wall of the cell, a grim expression on his face. Joe Romano used you as a patsy, the same way he used your mother.
You walked right into a setup. Romano will put in an insurance claim for half a million dollars for the Renoir he's hidden away somewhere, and he'll collect.
The insurance company will be after you, not him. When things cool down, he'll sell the painting to a private patty and make another half million, thanks to your do-it-yourself approach. Didn't you realize that a confession obtained at the point of a gun is worthless? I just thought that if I could get the truth out of him, someone would start an investigation. He relit it. Romano let me in. There's a smashed window at the back of the house, where he says you broke in. He told the police he caught you sneaking out with the Renoir, and when he tried to stop you, you shot him and ran.
I" "But it's his lie, and his house, and your gun. Do you have any idea with whom you're dealing? This town is sewn up tight by the Orsatti Family. Nothing goes down here without Anthony Orsatti's okay. If you want a permit to put up a building, pave a highway, run girls, numbers, or dope, you see Orsatti. Joe Romano started out as his hit man. Now he's the top man in Orsatti's organization. Finally she asked, "Do you believe my story?
It's so dumb it has to be true. I'd give anything to put them all behind bars. They own this town and most of the judges in it. If you go to trial, they'll bury you so deep you'll sever see daylight again. There's only one judge Orsatti has never been able to download. His name is Henry Lawrence. If I can arrange for him to hear this case, I'm pretty sure I can make a deal for you.
It's not strictly ethical, but I'm going to speak to him privately. He hates Orsatti and Romano as much as I do. Now all we've got to do is get to Judge Lawrence. Tracy heard the familiar voice of Charles's secretary.
Stanhope's office. This is Tracy Whitney. He's been trying to reach you, Miss Whitney, but we didn't have a telephone number for you. Stanhope is most anxious to discuss the wedding arrangements with you. If you could call her as soon as possible" "Harriet, may I speak to Mr. Stanhope, please? He's on his way to Houston for a meeting.
If you'll give me your number, I'm sure he'll telephone you as soon as he can. Not until she had a chance to explain things to him first. Stanhope back. Tomorrow, Tracy thought wearily. I'll explain it all to Charles tomorrow. That afternoon Tracy was moved to a larger cell. A delicious hot dinner appeared from Galatoire's, and a short time later fresh flowers arrived with a note attached.
Tracy opened the envelope and pulled out the card. The instant she saw the smile on his face, she knew there was good news. Topper screamed like a banshee, but we've got a deal. He's agreed to accept a guilty plea from you. But I'm not" He raised a hand. By pleading guilty, you save the state the expense of a trial.
I've persuaded the judge that you didn't steal the painting. He came to prominence in the s, first working on plays and then in motion pictures, notably writing the successful comedy which earned him an.
He went on to work in television, where his works spanned a year period during which he created —66 , —70 and — He became most famous after he turned 50 and began writing best-selling romantic suspense novels, such as , and His parents, of ancestry, were Ascher 'Otto' Schechtel — , manager of a jewelry store, and Natalie Marcus.
During the, he worked at a variety of jobs, and after graduating from, he attended on a scholarship and contributed short plays to drama groups. He had to drop out after six months during the Depression era to help support his family. Career [ ] In , Sheldon moved to,, where he reviewed scripts and collaborated on a number of.
Sheldon enlisted in the military during as a pilot in the, a branch of the, His unit was disbanded before he saw any action. Returning to civilian life, he moved to where he began writing for the while continuing to write screenplays for both. He earned a reputation as a prolific writer; for example, at one time he had three musicals on Broadway: His success on Broadway brought him back to Hollywood where his first assignment was, which earned him the for of He was one of the writers on the screenplay for the and sole writer for the , both of which featured the songs of.
When television became the new popular medium, he decided to try his hand in it. So I produced, and I did something nobody else in TV ever did. For seven years, I wrote almost every single episode of the series.