Robin Cook - Blindsight

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Blindsight: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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From Publishers Weekly
Cook's lack of ability as a stylist generally has been masked by his talent for fashioning a solid medical drama-often ripped from current headlines-that keeps readers turning pages. Unfortuately, that's not the case in his 12th novel (after Vital Signs), which has a plot so ludicrous that the weak characters and silly dialogue are all too obvious. Most offensive in the latter category are the stilted, out-of-kilter exchanges between a pair of Mafia hitmen who run about New York City "whacking" (murdering) people with increasing frequency. Meanwhile, Dr. Laurie Montgomery, a forensic pathologist in the NYC Medical Examiner's office, finds a pattern of unrelated cocaine overdose deaths among career-oriented people never known to have used drugs. Despite the obvious evidence that she's onto something, her boss couldn't care less, while the homicide detective she becomes involved with is more concerned about the mob killings, and, like her boss, cannot understand why she is outraged by the behavior of two corrupt, thieving uniformed cops in her department. As luck would have it, there's also another man in Laurie's life, a self-centered ophthalmologist whose patients just happen to include the mob boss behind both the cocaine deaths and the murder spree. Readers who plow through this amateurish effort will guess the ending long before any of the characters has a clue.
From Kirkus Reviews
An ironically revealing title for ophthalmologist Cook's fuzziest novel in years-an awesomely inept medical/crime thriller about a forensic pathologist up against the mob. As the story opens, the mind of one Duncan Andrews is ``racing like a runaway train,'' his lethargy having ``evaporated like a drip of water falling onto a sizzling skillet.'' Hours and several more clich‚s later, the ``Wall Street whiz kid'' is dead of a cocaine overdose and lying on the autopsy table of generic Cook heroine (young, spunky, pretty doc) Laurie Montgomery, an N.Y.C. medical examiner. Days and several more dead yuppies later, Laurie is convinced that someone is flooding the upscale market with bad cocaine. Of course, no one will listen to her-not her boss, who wants to chill this political hot potato; not silver-tongued, gold- plated ophthalmologist Jordan Scheffield, who's wooing her with limos and swank dinners; not cop Lou Soldano (``a bit like Colombo''), to whom Laurie explains the exact difference between ophthalmologists, optometrists, and opticians and who wants to woo her with his sedan and spaghetti but can't match Jordan's glitz and anyway is busy worrying about the mob-related corpses stacking up next to the yuppies in Laurie's morgue. For meanwhile, in scenes stiff with clich‚, two mobsters are blowing away a seemingly random group of citizens on orders from mob kingpin Paul Cerino, who, Laurie learns, is one of Jordan 's patients-and who deals coke. Laurie sleuths; the mobsters lock her in a coffin; Laurie sobs; the mobsters let her out; Laurie remembers the flammable properties of ethylene, handily within reach, and blows up the mobsters. Finally, Laurie dumps Jordan for Lou, and she and the cop talk about the motives behind the whole ``horrid affair''-which owe more than a little to Coma. A slack and ragged retread, with Cook parodying himself in a tale that's about as stylish and suspenseful as an eye-chart.

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Tony was on him in a flash. He grabbed him roughly from behind, knocking him to the pavement. Holding him down, he frisked him quickly, coming up with a small Saturday night special. Tony pocketed the gun, then turned the terrified boy over. Up close, Frankie looked even younger than eighteen. In fact, it didn’t look as if he shaved yet.

“Don’t hurt me!” Frankie pleaded.

“Shut up!” Tony snapped. The kid was such a drip. It was disgusting.

Angelo pulled the car up alongside them. With the engine running he jumped from the car. A few pedestrians had stopped beneath their umbrellas to gawk at the spectacle. Angelo pushed through them.

“All right, move on,” Angelo commanded. “We’re police.” Angelo flashed an old police department badge that he kept in his pocket for just this sort of occasion. The fact that it said Ozone Park when they were currently in Woodside made no difference. It was the shape and the glint of metal that caused the desired effect. The small crowd started to disperse.

“They’re not police!” Frankie yelled.

Tony responded to Frankie’s outburst by putting his Beretta Bantam to the side of Frankie’s head. “One more word and you’re history, kid.”

“In the car,” Angelo commanded.

With Angelo on one side and Tony on the other, they stood Frankie up and dragged him to the car. Opening the rear door and pushing his head down, they shoved him inside. Tony climbed in after him. Angelo ran around and jumped into the driver’s seat. With a screech of rubber they headed west on Roosevelt Avenue.

“What are you doing this for?” Frankie asked. “I haven’t done anything to you guys.”

“Shut up!” Angelo said from the front seat. He was keeping his eye on the rearview mirror. If there had been any sign of trouble, he would have turned on Queens Boulevard. But everything was quiet so he kept going straight. Roosevelt became Greenpoint, and Angelo began to relax.

“All right, punk,” Angelo said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Time to talk.” He could just see Frankie cowering in the corner, keeping as far from Tony as possible. Tony was holding his gun in his left hand with his arm draped over the back of the seat. Tony’s eyes never left Frankie.

“What do you want to talk about?” Frankie asked.

“The job you and Manso did on Paulie Cerino,” Angelo said. “I’m sure you guessed that we work for Mr. Cerino.”

Frankie’s eyes darted from Tony’s face to Tony’s gun, then up to the image of Angelo in the rearview mirror. He was terrified. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I was just there. It was Manso’s idea. They forced me to go. I didn’t want to do it, but they threatened my mother.”

“Who’s “they’?” Angelo asked.

“I mean Terry Manso,” Frankie said. “He was the one.”

With a sudden wicked slap, Tony cracked Frankie across the face with the barrel of his gun.

Frankie screamed and pressed the palms of his hands against his face. A trickle of blood oozed between his fingers.

“What do you think we are? Stupid?” Tony sneered.

“Don’t hurt him yet,” Angelo said. “Maybe he’ll be cooperative.”

“Please don’t hurt me anymore,” Frankie pleaded between sobs.

Tony swore contemptuously and forced the barrel of his pistol between Frankie’s fingers and into his mouth. “Your brains are going to be all over the inside of this car if you don’t smarten up and stop screwing around with us.”

“Who else was involved?” Angelo asked again.

Tony withdrew the barrel of his gun so Frankie could talk.

“It was just Manso,” Frankie sobbed. “And he made me go along.”

Angelo shook his head in disgust. “Obviously you are not cooperating, Frankie. Remember about the lights. At the same time Manso threw the acid, the lights went out. That wasn’t a coincidence. Who was screwing around with the lights? And the car. Who was driving the car?”

“I don’t know anything about the lights,” Frankie sobbed. “I don’t remember who was driving. Somebody I didn’t know. Somebody that Manso got.”

Angelo shook his head in disgust. Nothing was easy anymore. He hated this kind of dirty stuff. He had entertained vague hopes that Frankie would have spilled his guts the moment they got him into the car. Obviously that was not to be the case.

Glancing up into the rearview mirror, Angelo caught a glimpse of Tony’s face in the flickering light of the passing streetlamps. Tony was sporting one of his contented smiles that told Angelo Tony was enjoying himself. Even Angelo thought Tony could be scary on occasion.

Once they got to the Greenpoint pier area in Brooklyn, Angelo turned right on Franklin, then left on Java. The area was run-down, especially the closer they got to the water. Abandoned warehouses lined the street. Seventy-five to a hundred years ago, the area had been a thriving waterfront, but that had long since changed save for a few isolated enterprises, like the Pepsi-Cola plant up toward Newtown Creek.

In the cul de sac where Java Street dead-ended at the East River, Angelo drove through a chain-link gate. A sign over the gate said: AMERICAN FRESH FRUIT COMPANY. The car began to vibrate on the rough cobblestone surface, but Angelo didn’t slow down. When he could drive no farther, he parked.

“Everybody out,” Angelo said. They were parked in the shadow of a huge warehouse built out over the pier that stuck out almost a hundred yards into the East River. Just across the river was the monumental mass of Manhattan ’s glittering skyline. Tony got out holding Doc Travino’s little black bag and motioned for Frankie to get out too.

Angelo unlocked an overhead door to the warehouse, pulled it up, and motioned for Frankie to enter. Frankie hesitated on the dark threshold. “I’ve told you everything I know. What do you want from me?”

Tony gave Frankie a shove that sent the boy stumbling forward. The click of the lightswitch echoed in the cavernous warehouse as Angelo threw the switch activating the mercury vapor lights. At first the lights merely glowed, but as they walked out the pier dragging a reluctant Frankie, they became progressively brighter. Soon it was enough to illuminate the huge stacks of green bananas that filled the warehouse.

“Please!” Frankie moaned, but Angelo and Tony ignored him. They walked to the very end, unlocking a paneled door. Angelo found the lightswitch that activated a single bulb suspended by a bare wire. The room contained an old metal desk missing its drawers, a few chairs, and a large hole in the floor. Below the hole the water of the East River looked more like oil than water as it swirled around the pier’s piling, flowing with the tide.

“I’m telling you the truth,” Frankie wailed. “It was all Manso. I was forced to go along. I don’t know anything else.”

“Sure, Frankie,” Angelo said. Turning to Tony he added, “Tie him to one of the chairs.”

Tony put Doc Travino’s bag on the desk and unsnapped it open. From within he pulled out a length of clothesline. Then, with a depraved smile, he told Frankie to sit in one of the wooden side chairs. Frankie did as he was told. While Tony tied him up, Angelo lit himself a cigarette.

Tony gave the rope a couple of yanks to test his knots. Satisfied, he stood up and nodded to Angelo.

“Once more, Frankie,” Angelo said. “Who else was involved with the acid trick? Who besides you and Manso?”

“Nobody,” Frankie sobbed. “I’m telling the truth.”

Angelo derisively blew smoke in Frankie’s face. Glancing at Tony, he said, “Time for the truth serum.”

Tony pulled a small glass bottle and an eye dropper from Doc Travino’s bag. He handed both to Angelo. Angelo unscrewed the cap and gingerly sniffed the contents. When he got a whiff, he pulled his head back quickly. “Geez, powerful stuff.” He blinked a few times and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes.

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