FaceOff by Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein Page A

wasn’t here for the architecture. She was here about a murder. She made her way up the front walk, pausing long enough to inspect the bas-relief coat of arms that decorated the mansion’s front door. Took her a second, then she got it—the image was the mystical phoenix that granted the office its name.
    Buzzz.
    The front door finally opened, and D.D. entered the Phoenix Foundation.
    She presented her credentials to the waiting receptionist. The front desk, D.D. noticed, was very old and most likely very valuable. It also held hints of Chinese design. The kind of desk John Wen might have imported into his shop and sold to a client, such as Malachai Samuels.
    “Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren,” she introduced herself. “I’m here to see Dr. Samuels.”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “No, but I think he’ll see me.”
    The young woman looked down at D.D.’s detective shields, then pursed her lips and made a phone call.
    “If you’ll have a seat, the doctor is with a patient but he’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”
    Fair enough. D. D. retreated to the camel-back sofa provided for visitors. She’d been warned this interview would not be easy. Dr. Samuels was not without some experience when it came to answering questions involving homicide.
    For now, she occupied her time on her laptop, reading more of the articles she’d pulled about the esteemed therapist.
    Malachai Samuels was a Jungian therapist who’d devoted his life to working with children with past-life issues. He and his aunt, who was the codirector of the foundation, had documented over three thousand children’s journeys and presented remarkable proof of the lives they’d discovered in their regressions. So fastidious was their research and methodology, they were actually accepted by the scientific community and often spoke at psychiatric conventions.
    In the last seven years, however, Malachai had been named a“person of interest” in several different criminal cases involving stolen artifacts, resulting in the deaths of at least four people. The reincarnationist had never been charged with any wrongdoing. But the FBI special crimes detective D.D. had contacted, Lucian Glass, was disturbed when he heard Malachai’s name was connected to yet another murder.
    Glass still believed Malachai was complicit in several of the cases and that he should be in prison. “But we’ve never been able to find any actual evidence of his participation. I hope you do, Detective Warren. I hope you do.”
    “Detective Warren?” A rich, mellifluous voice cut through her thoughts. D.D. looked up to find the man in question now standing directly before her.
    “Dr. Malachai Samuels. How may I be of assistance?”
    Samuels was wearing a well-cut navy suit, carefully knotted silk tie, and a crisp white shirt with a monogram on the right cuff. Everything about him, from his clothing to his manner of speaking, suggested a gentleman of an earlier time. Which already got D.D. to thinking. Was the good doctor merely collecting valuable old artifacts, or did he include himself among them?
    “I’m here about an incident in Boston,” she said. “Could we talk someplace more private?”
    “Of course, this way.”
    He led her down a hallway lit by stained-glass sconces and lined with turn-of-the-century wallpaper. Silk would be her guess. With a faded floral pattern and hints of what was probably real gold.
    “Would you like any coffee or tea? Perhaps bottled water?” he asked as he opened the door to what D.D. surmised was his personal office. In keeping with the theme of the rest of the place, the space was lined with old books and lushly appointed with a fine Persian rug, an antique desk, and a comfortable leather couch andchairs. It faced an inner courtyard planted with trees and flowers, as befitting someone with a doctor’s fine sensibilities.
    D.D. said she’d like some water, then took a seat, still cataloguing the plethora of antiques and works of art