I'm Always Surprised When Large Numbers Of

He Was Pushing Fifty, With A Face Life Had Chewed On, And Long Wisps Of Graying Hair Parted Low On One Side And Combed Over His Balding Pate.

Night Fell Clean And Cold In Dublin, And Wind Moaned Beyond My Room As If A Million Pipes Played The Air.

I Hate The Term "mystery". That's Not What I Write. I Think The Scarpetta Novels Are Much More Character-driven Than An Average Puzzle Solver. Writing Should Be Like A Pane Of Glass - There's Another World On The Other Side And Your Vision Carries You There, But You're Not Aware Of Having Passed Through A Barrier To Get There.

Thoughts Are Odd Misfires.

And Suddenly The World Was Filled With Wooden Faces And Flat Voices - And, You Were Alone.