Cover image for Therapy
Kellerman, Jonathan.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Random House Audio, [2004]

Physical Description:
5 audio discs (6 hrs.) : digital ; 4 3/4 in.
When a series of murders are connected with a shadowy psychology practice, Alex Delaware and Milo Sturgis must immerse themselves in a world of manipulation and unethical "therapeutic" practices. Delaware must bring his moral clarity to bear on these wrongs, and do his best to see them righted.
General Note:
Compact discs.
Format :
Audiobook on CD


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Material Type
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Item Holds
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
XX(1268940.54) Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
FICTION CD Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks

On Order



Psychologist Alex Delaware's investigation into a sadistic double slaying leads to a corrupt multimillion-dollar scheme made up of equal parts madness and menace. Abridged. 5 CDs.

Author Notes

Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world's most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a child psychologist to 16 consecutive bestselling novels of suspense, including The Butcher's Theater, Jerusalem, and Billy Straight and 32 previous Alex Delaware novels, translated into two dozen languages. He is also the author of numerous essays, short stories, and scientific articles, two children's books, and three volumes on psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children.

(Publisher Provided) Jonathan Kellerman was born in New York City on August 9, 1949 and raised in Los Angeles. He received a B.A. in Psychology from UCLA and a Ph.D. in Psychology at the University of Southern California. At the age of 22, he won the Samuel Goldwyn Writing Award for fiction.

He has served as Clinical Associate Professor of Pediatrics and Psychology at the School of Medicine at USC and as a consultant to the State of California, the U.S. Army and the Superior Court of Los Angeles. He is the founding director of the Psychosocial Program at Children's Hospital of Los Angeles. The first books he published were medical texts: Psychological Aspects of Childhood Cancer (1980) and Helping the Fearful Child (1981).

His first novel, When the Bough Breaks (1985), was made into a television movie and received the Edgar Allan Poe and Anthony Boucher awards. He has also written many bestselling crime novels featuring the Alex Delaware series, children's books, and nonfiction works. His fiction book, co-authored with son Jesse Kellerman, The Golem of Hollywood, made the New York Times bestseller list in 2014. His recent books include The Murderer's Daughter and Breakdown.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 3

Booklist Review

Sometimes anxiety and fear make me feel alive. That's psychologist Alex Delaware's take on life and, by extension, his rationale for assisting his LAPD pal Milo Sturgis with the various criminal investigations that come across his desk. Lucky for fans of this long-running and wildly successful series, that's pretty often. This time the crime, the murder of a couple of twentysomethings parked in a secluded spot, is exceptionally vicious. When Delaware and Sturgis investigate, they discover one of the victims was associated with a celebrity psychologist. Therapy emerges as the key to the mystery after the psychologist and another of her patients turn up dead, but there's a tangled mess to unravel before it's clear precisely how it plays a part. As the investigation widens, numerous gritty secrets come to light and a deliciously complicated solution unfolds. As in most Delaware novels, it's the manipulation of circumstance that drives the story, and though the plot here shoots off in some unexpected directions, Kellerman shrewdly manages to bring everything together by the end; there's even a nifty surprise. And, of course, it's all neatly delivered in Delaware's urbane yet casual voice. Thumbs up yet again for the ever-popular Kellerman. --Stephanie Zvirin Copyright 2004 Booklist

Publisher's Weekly Review

In this audio adaptation of Kellerman's newest thriller (after The Conspiracy Club), psychologist Alex Delaware and his partner, LAPD homicide detective Milo Sturgis, tackle a gruesome lover's lane murder. The story is packed with a full list of suspects and witnesses, including a supercilious television shrink whose practice employs two other equally loathsome therapists. Stage and screen performer Rubinstein takes all their measures in stride, smoothly shifting genders, emotions and attitudes. In one instance, he subtly provides a self-styled pacifist karate instructor with barely checked anger, and in another, he lends a sleazy sex club entrepreneur just a hint of humanity. The highlight of his performance, however, is his dead-on interpretation of the seemingly odd-coupled best friends, Delaware and Sturgis. Having narrated numerous Kellerman audios, Rubinstein has developed distinctive vocal profiles for the urbane Delaware and the gruff-voiced, emotional Sturgis. It would be hard to imagine anybody else giving voice to these vivid characters. Simultaneous release with the Ballantine hardcover (Forecasts, Apr. 5). (May) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

Kellerman's latest warms up with the murders of two young adults "parking" on the grounds of a vacant estate with a great view of the lights of Los Angeles. One victim, killed execution-style with a single .22 bullet, is a psychotherapy patient of a popular radio/television psychologist. The other body, which can't be easily identified, has been impaled by a wrought iron stake in addition to being shot. Milo Sturgis, looking for a challenge, assigns himself to the case, inviting his close friend and volunteer LAPD criminal psychologist Dr. Alex Delaware to assist in profiling the killer. Dysfunctional families of Beverly Hills, lots of characters who need therapy, plot twists and turns, brutal criminals, violence, occasional adult language, and a sprinkling of sex add up to great listening for your patrons. Audio fans will be thrilled with John Rubinstein's excellent reading. Issued in the publisher's sturdy library edition, this is highly recommended.-Cliff Glaviano, Bowling Green State Univ. Libs., OH (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



CHAPTER 1 A few years ago a psychopath burned down my house. The night it happened, I was out to dinner with the woman who'd designed the house and lived in it with me. We were driving up Beverly Glen when the sirens cut through the darkness, ululating, like coyote death wails. The noise died quickly, indicating a nearby disaster, but there was no reason to assume the worst. Unless you're the worst kind of fatalist, you think: "Something lousy happened to some poor devil." That night, I learned different. Since then, the Klaxon of an ambulance or a fire truck in my neighborhood sets off something inside me--a crimp of shoulder, a catch of breath, an arrhythmic flutter of the plum-colored thing in my chest. Pavlov was right. I'm trained as a clinical psychologist, could do something about it but have chosen not to. Sometimes anxiety makes me feel alive. When the sirens shrieked, Milo and I were having dinner at an Italian place at the top of the Glen. It was ten-thirty on a cool June night. The restaurant closes at eleven, but we were the last patrons, and the waiter was looking tired. The woman I was now seeing was teaching a night course in abnormal psychology at the U., and Milo's partner, Rick Silverman, was busy at the Cedars-Sinai ER trying to salvage the five most seriously injured victims of a ten-car pileup on the Santa Monica Freeway. Milo had just closed the file on a robbery-turned-to-multiple- homicide at a liquor store on Pico Boulevard. The solve had taken more persistence than brainwork. He was in a position to pick his cases, and no new ones had crossed his desk. I'd finally finished testifying at the seemingly endless child-custody hearings waged by a famous director and his famous actress wife. I'd begun the consult with some optimism. The director had once been an actor, and both he and his ex knew how to perform. Now, three years later, two kids who'd started out in pretty good shape were basket cases living in France. Milo and I chewed our way through focaccia and baby artichoke salad, orrechiati stuffed with spinach, veal pounded to paper. Neither of us felt like talking. A bottle of decent white wine smoothed the silence. Both of us were strangely content; life wasn't fair, but we'd done our jobs well. When sirens came, I kept my eyes on my plate. Milo stopped eating. The napkin he'd tucked in his shirt collar was spotted with spinach and olive oil. "Don't worry," he said. "Not a fire." "Who's worrying?" He pushed hair off his forehead, picked up his fork and knife, speared, chewed, swallowed. I said, "How can you tell?" "That it's not a big-red? Trust me, Alex. It's a black-and-white. I know the frequency." A second cruiser wailed by. Then a third. He pulled his tiny blue cell phone out of his pocket and punched a button. A preset number rang. I raised my eyebrows. "Just curious," he said. His connection went through, and he told the phone, "This is Lieutenant Sturgis. What call just went out in the vicinity of upper Beverly Glen? Yeah, near Mulholland." He waited, green eyes dimmed to near brown in the miserly light of the restaurant. Under the spotted napkin was a baby blue polo shirt that really didn't work well with his pallid complexion. His acne pits were flagrant, his jowls gravid as freshly filled wineskins. Long white sideburns frizzed his big face, a pair of skunkish stripes that seemed to sprout artificially from his black hair. He's a gay policeman and my best friend. "That so," he said. "Any detective assigned, yet? Okay, listen, I happen to be right near there, can make it over in ten--no make that fifteen--make it twenty minutes. Yeah, yeah, sure." He snapped the little phone shut. "Double homicide, two bodies in a car. Being this close, I figured I should have a look. The crime scene's still being secured, and the techs haven't gotten there, so we can still have dessert. How are you with cannoli?" We split the check, and he offered to drive me home, but neither of us took that seriously. "In that case," he said, "we'll take the Seville." I drove quickly. The crime scene was on the west side of the intersection between the Glen and Mulholland, up a skinny, decomposed, granite road marked private that climbed through sycamore-crowned hillside. A police cruiser was stationed at the mouth of the road. Staked to a tree several feet up was a for sale sign bearing the logo of a Westside Realtor. Milo flashed the badge to the uniform in the car, and we drove through. At the top of the road was a house behind high, night-blackened hedges. Two more black-and-whites kept us ten yards back. We parked and continued on foot. The sky was purplish, the air still bitter with the smolder of two early-summer brush fires, one up near Camarillo, the other past Tujunga. Both had just been vanquished. One had been set by a fireman. Behind the hedges was stout wooden fencing. Double gates had been left open. The bodies slumped in a red Mustang convertible parked on a semicircular flagstone driveway. The house behind the drive was a vacant mansion, a big neo-Spanish thing that was probably cheerful peach in the daylight. At this hour, it was putty gray. The driveway bordered a half acre of front yard, shaded by more sycamores--giant ones. The house looked newish and was ruined by too many weird-shaped windows, but someone had been smart enough to spare the trees. The top was down on the little red car. I stood back and watched as Milo approached, careful to stay behind the tape. He did nothing but stare. Moments later, a pair of crime-scene techs walked onto the property lugging cases on a dolly. They talked to him briefly, then slipped under the tape. He walked back to the Seville. "Looks like gunshot wounds to both heads, a guy and a girl, young. He's in the driver's seat, she's next to him. His fly's open, and his shirt's half-unbuttoned. Her shirt's clean off, tossed in the backseat along with her bra. Under the shirt she wore black leggings. They're rolled down to her ankles, and her legs are spread." "Lover's lane thing?" I said. "Empty house," he said. "Good neighborhood. Probably a nice view from the backyard. Seize the night and all that? Sure." "If they knew about the house, they could be locals." "He looked clean-cut, well dressed. Yeah, I'd say local is also a decent bet." "I wonder why the gate was left open." "Or maybe it wasn't, and one of them has some connection to the house and a gate-clicker. For all we know, one of their families built the place. Crime Scene will do their thing, hopefully they'll find IDs in the pockets. The car's plates are being run right now." I said, "Any gun in sight?" "A murder-suicide thing? Not likely." He rubbed his face. His hand lingered at his mouth, tugged down his lower lip and let it snap back up. "What?" I said. "Two head-shots plus, Alex. Someone jammed what looks to be a short spear or a crossbow bolt into the girl's torso. Here." He touched a spot under his breastbone. "From what I could see the damn thing went clear through her and is lodged in the seat. The impact jolted her body, she's lying funny." "A spear." "She was skewered, Alex. A bullet to the brain wasn't enough." "Overkill," I said. "A message. Were they actually making love or were they positioned sexually?" He flashed a frightening smile. "Now we're veering into your territory." From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from Therapy by Jonathan Kellerman 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.