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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Laurie got the papers she wanted from George’s folders and went back to the locker room. She copied down the three addresses and put them in her briefcase. Back in the autopsy room, she slipped the reports into their respective folders.

“Thanks, George,” Laurie said.

“I never saw you,” George answered.

Returning to the locker room, Laurie slowly put on her street clothes. Then, with her things in hand, she walked the length of the morgue, past the mortuary office, and past the security office. At the morgue loading dock were several mortuary vans with HEALTH AND HOSPITAL CORP. stenciled on the sides.

Walking between the vans, Laurie emerged on Thirtieth Street. It was a gray, rainy, clammy day. Opening her umbrella, Laurie began to trudge up toward First Avenue. As far as she was concerned, it was the nadir of her life.

Tony got out of Angelo’s car. He was just slamming the door when he noticed that Angelo hadn’t moved. He was still sitting behind the wheel.

“What’s the matter?” Tony asked. “I thought we were going inside.”

“I don’t like the idea of going into the morgue,” Angelo admitted.

“You want me to go in there by myself?” Tony asked.

“No,” Angelo said. “I like that idea even less.” Angelo reluctantly opened his door and stepped out. He pulled an umbrella from the floor of the backseat and snapped it open. Then he locked the car.

At the security office Angelo asked for Vinnie Amendola.

“Go on into the mortuary office,” the guard said. “It’s just ahead, on your left.”

Angelo didn’t like the city morgue any better than he’d thought he would. It looked bad and smelled bad. They hadn’t been there three minutes and already he couldn’t wait to get out.

At the mortuary office he again asked for Vinnie. He explained that it was something about Vinnie’s father. The man asked Angelo and Tony to wait there; he’d be right back with Vinnie.

Five minutes later Vinnie came into the mortuary office in his green scrub clothes. He looked upset. “What about my father?” he asked.

Angelo put an arm around Vinnie’s shoulder. “Could we speak in private?” he asked. Vinnie let himself be led into the hall.

Vinnie looked him straight in the eye. “My father has been dead for two years,” he said. “What’s this about?”

“We’re friends of Paul Cerino,” Angelo said. “We were supposed to remind you that Mr. Cerino helped your father once with the unions. Mr. Cerino would appreciate having his favor returned. There’s a doctor here by the name of Laurie Montgomery-”

“She’s not here anymore,” Vinnie interrupted.

“What do you mean?” Angelo asked.

“She was fired this morning,” Vinnie said.

“Then we need her address,” Angelo said. “Could you get that for us? And remember, this is just between us. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out for you.”

“I understand,” Vinnie said. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

Angelo sat back down, but he didn’t have to wait for long. Vinnie came back with Laurie’s address and even her phone number as speedily as promised. He explained he got the information from the on-call schedule.

Relieved to be leaving the morgue, Angelo nearly jogged back to his car.

“What’s the plan?” Tony asked once Angelo had started the engine.

“No time like the present. Let’s go to the broad’s apartment now. We’re even in the neighborhood.”

Fifteen minutes later they had parked on Nineteenth Street and were walking toward Laurie’s apartment building.

“How are we going to handle this?” Tony asked.

“We’ll try the usual way,” Angelo said. “Use our police badges. As soon as we get her in the car, we’re golden.”

In the foyer of Laurie’s building they got her apartment number from her mailbox. The inner door was not much of a barrier to the likes of Angelo. Two minutes later they were in the elevator heading for the fifth floor.

They went directly to Laurie’s door and pressed her buzzer. When there was no response, Angelo hit it again.

“She must be out looking for another job,” Tony said.

“Looks like quite a set of locks,” Angelo said, studying the door.

Tony’s eyes left the door and roamed around the tiny hall. His eyes instantly locked onto Debra Engler’s. Tony tapped Angelo on the shoulder and whispered, “We got one of the neighbors looking at us.”

Angelo turned in time to see Debra’s probing eye through her narrowly opened door. As soon as his eye caught hers, she slammed the door shut. Angelo could hear her locks clicking in place.

“Damn!” Angelo whispered.

“What should we do?” Tony asked.

“Let’s go back to the car,” Angelo said.

A few minutes later they were seated in Angelo’s car in full view of the entrance to Laurie’s building. Tony yawned. In spite of himself, Angelo did the same.

“I’m exhausted,” Tony complained.

“Me too,” Angelo said. “I’d expected to sleep all day today.”

“Think we should break into the apartment?” Tony asked.

“I’m thinking about it,” Angelo admitted. “With all those locks it might take a few minutes. And I don’t know what to do about that witch in the other apartment. Did you catch her face? How would you like to wake up with that in bed with you.”

“This chick’s not bad looking,” Tony said, gazing at the picture of Laurie in the paper. “I could go for something like that.”

Lou helped himself to another cup of coffee. He was waiting in Manhattan General Hospital’s surgical lounge, where he’d surprised Jordan on their last encounter. But that time Lou had had to wait for only twenty minutes. Already he’d been there well over an hour. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of putting this hoped-for interview with Jordan ahead of returning his superior’s calls.

Just when Lou was thinking about leaving, Jordan entered the room. He went directly to a small refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice.

Lou watched Jordan take a long drink. He waited until Jordan came over to the couch to look through the newspaper lying there. Then Lou spoke up.

“Jordan, old boy,” Lou said. “Imagine running into you here, of all places.”

Jordan frowned when he recognized Lou. “Not you again.”

“I’m touched you’re so friendly,” Lou said. “It must be all the surgery you’ve been doing that’s got you in such an affable mood. You know what they say, make hay while the sun shines.”

“Nice seeing you again, Lieutenant.” Jordan finished the juice and tossed the carton into the wastebasket.

“Just a second,” Lou said. He got up and blocked Jordan’s exit. Lou had the definite impression Jordan was being even less cooperative than he’d been during their previous meeting. He was also more upset. Beneath the brusque facade the man was definitely nervous.

“I have more surgery to perform,” Jordan said.

“I’m sure you do,” Lou said. “Which makes me feel a little better. I mean, it’s nice to know that not all your patients scheduled for surgery meet violent deaths at the hands of professional hit men.”

“What are you talking about?” Jordan demanded.

“Oh, Jordan, indignation becomes you. But I’d appreciate it if you’d cut the crap and come clean. You know full well what I’m talking about. Last time I was here I asked you if there was anything these murdered patients of yours had in common. Like maybe they were suffering from the same ailment or something. You were happy to tell me I was wrong. What you failed to tell me was that they were all scheduled to undergo surgery by your capable hands.”

“It hadn’t occurred to me at the time,” Jordan said.

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