hc.newton

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Hard Rain About?

It’s been six months since Annie McIntyre solved a murder and began training as a Private Investigator under her grandfather and his partner, Mary-Pat. It doesn’t seem like Annie’s really sure of her current path, but at least it’s a path—hopefully out of Garnett at some point.

A High School classmate—not really a friend, but more than an acquaintance—approaches her with a job. Mary-Pat tells her she’s ready to take the lead on their next case, and is about ready to apply for her license. So, she’s primed and ready—at least she thinks so.

A couple of weeks previously a flash flood had wreaked havoc on the town and the cost in property damage and lives is high. Bethany, however, was saved through the actions of someone that she fears is a victim. But his body was never found. She wants Annie to find either the body or, preferably, the man so she can thank him properly. Not expecting the latter, and equipped with only a vague description, Annie takes the job.

The police have nothing for her, and the local fire and rescue people found no sign of this man—many people think that Bethany imagined him. But Annie keeps looking—searching downstream from the area Bethany had been found in, Annie does find a body. But not of the man she’s been looking for—but a murdered woman. Now Annie has to ask, is her target a killer or a hero?

As Annie investigates, she finds herself in a new layer of crime, corruption, and danger.

The Sense of Place

When talking about the previous book, Pay Dirt Road, I had a few things to say about the city of Garnett’s depiction. I won’t repeat them here—but I really could. I don’t think it’s an issue so much with Allen’s writing, just my ideas about Texas communities. (not that I’d complain if Annie made some mention of the population size)

What I failed to appreciate—or at least write about—was Allen’s depiction of, and description of, the natural environment. Given the storms and flood surrounding this book, it’s hard not to take note of it. Allen nails this material.

I really can see the flood damage, the sky, the geography in general—Allen pairs her vivid imagery with a little bit of wry commentary (frequently, but not always) to really help the reader get a handle on the sights and sounds. I was reminded of Chandler describing L.A. This is not typically the kind of thing I spend a lot of time thinking about when reading a P.I. novel, but I really couldn’t help but do so this time—both because of the nature of Annie’s investigation and because of Allen’s skill at it. Particularly the latter.

The Portrayal of Evangelicals

So, so, so often lately—including in books I really like—evangelicals are brought in as bastions of corruption, hypocrisy, and prejudice. Especially if they happen to belong to a mega-church.

The church that Bethany is part of, that her husband and father-in-law are pastors of, that some of the flood victims belonged to, that her missing man and the murder victim may be tied to, isn’t a mega-church yet, but is well on its way to being one.

Yes, some of the members are tied to criminal activity, unethical activity, and some other hypocritical kinds of things. But by and large the members of the church are honest, faithful, and human. They’re not perfect, but they’re working at it. It’s an honest depiction, and while not necessarily flattering, it’s not vilifying, either. I appreciate that.

Learning the Ropes

I described this series as a friend recently as “a PI version of the Eve Ronin books,” and the more I think about that, the more I like it.

Yes, Goldberg and Allen have very different tones. The tenor and flavor of the books are different—each fitting their setting and authors. But at the core, you have determined young women in settings that aren’t necessarily hospitable toward them, dealing with family issues and learning the ropes of their current professions. They make mistakes that experience would provide, get correction and guidance from their mentors (and their own reactions to their errors), but have good instincts and the drive to improve.

They’re very different series and very different kinds of stories, but I like seeing Eve and Annie as different outworkings of the same idea.

So, what did I think about Hard Rain?

Last year, I said that I’d have been satisfied with Pay Dirt Road as a standalone, but that I’d be in the front of the line for a sequel. I’m glad I came back—this world and this character deserve the time a series affords (I see there’s already a third volume scheduled for next year).

I enjoyed this one more than last year’s—I don’t know that it’s that much better, but Annie being more confident (maybe only by degrees, but it’s there) and the type of story made that possible. If you haven’t read Pay Dirt Road, Hard Rain will work as a stand-alone or as an entry point to the series, but you’d be denying yourself seeing Annie’s growth.

Atmosphere, character (not just the protagonists, but all the supporting characters as well—maybe next year I’ll find/make the time to talk about Annie’s family, for example), and story—Samantha Jayne Allen delivers the goods on all fronts. I heartily recommend Hard Rain to your attention.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Please Return to the Lands of Luxury About?

Jane, Timothy, and Rodney are three children living in the community of Yarborough. Yarborough is a small(ish) group of people living on an island of trash. I’m not being metaphorical here—it’s a landmass that serves as a dumping ground for the refuse of the rest of the world (at least a continent). Like the rest of their neighbors, the children spend their days scavenging for things they can use and eat out of the refuse. Robots that run the place provide a daily allowance of water for each resident.

One day Jane finds a doll—almost pristine in condition—the nicest thing she or her friends can remember finding. The boys encourage her to cherish it and take it for her own—but the one who can read tells her that the attached tag says, “Please return to Gloria Thatcher.” It includes an address—in Paradise City, the source of the rubbish they live off of and among.

Jane knows that if she’d lost something so fantastic she’d be heartbroken without it—and she has the means to get it back into Gloria’s hands. She only has to risk her life to escape the island and make it to Paradise City. It seems like the right thing to do—and it shouldn’t take that long, she can probably get it done and be back in time for the next water distribution.

Her friends try to talk her out of it—but they fail. Once they realize she’s gone, they attempt to find and rescue her.

All three of them end up in dangerous situations—for both their physical and emotional well-being—and end up learning a lot about the world they live in.

It’s Dystopian, but Not

Most Dystopian novels are about people realizing the problems in their particular dystopia—or realizing they have the opportunity and ability to fight against those problems. I have nothing against those novels—I have (and likely will continue to) like many of those.

What I appreciate more (at least I think I do…maybe I’ll take this sentence back) is another kind of dystopian novel. The protagonists are sometimes aware the system is rigged, that things could be better. Sometimes, they don’t realize that’s where they are—like the fish who doesn’t realize it’s wet, it’s just life. But they press on, making do with what they have—or making things a little nicer for themselves and those around them—however temporarily. Those seem more realistic, more relatable, you know?

This falls into the latter camp—the people (even the kids) in Yarborough realize that life is hard and that theirs is harder than most. They don’t spend time dreaming of social change, of bettering their station in life, or anything like that. They’re surviving, helping each other, and trying to stay alive—finding joy in little treasures they find and in each other (and in hiding a harmonica from someone who doesn’t know how to play one, but keeps trying anyway*).

* Any parent—including, at one point, my own—can relate to this move. Yes, it’s mean—but it’s merciful to everyone else.

Stand-Alone vs. Series

This is kind of related to the previous point—I was a little discouraged to learn that this is part of a planned trilogy (at least, maybe more). I liked visiting this world and not having any real explanation for how things got to this point. How society evolved in the way it did, how a community emerged on a trash pile that should be bereft of life, what may happen now that some people in Paradise City know that the government and/or company have been lying to them about what goes on on the trash piles, and so on.

Sure, I was mildly curious, but I was more invested in the story than the world.

But now, to tell the story of Jane, Rodney, and Timothy after this book, we’ll need answers to the above—and maybe more—if the story is going to hold up. And I can’t imagine that the answers will make this a more interesting place—or that the following stories will match this one. Also, I’m a little worried that it’s going to end up being preachy—always a danger for books aimed at this audience, and I think the danger is greater in a dystopian world.

I hope that Tilton is able to make me eat my words and that he delivers a satisfying series. But at the moment, this story is enough time in the world for me.

So, what did I think about Please Return to the Lands of Luxury?

My finger is not on the pulse of MG fiction—I don’t know that in the recent resurgence of dystopian fiction (especially on the YA front) if it’s carried over into the MG world too much. I can remember a little bit of it from when I was that young, but I don’t remember my kids reading much like that. So take everything I say about MG dystopian fiction with a grain of salt.

I really liked the way that Tilton presented this world. Sure, there are things I’m not sure are all that consistent. For example, I don’t know how or why Timothy learned to read—particularly as much as he does. I absolutely get why Rodney and Jane can’t. There’s a lot about the culture in Yarborough that I don’t understand—and it’s fine, I don’t need to for this novel. But what we saw was enough. The tech makes sense (both the good and the bad about it), the consumerism seems more realistic than what we see in most dystopian fiction, and so on. And it was all really well communicated to be understood by the target audience.

The characters were great—everyone was well-designed. I liked how the adults in Paradise City were earnest, caring, well-intentioned, and clueless about what they were doing. Given time and a little opportunity for thought, I think the latter could work itself out. They just didn’t have the time to wrap their brains around what was happening in order to be anything other than clueless. But the way they stepped up when presented with the need and opportunity is exactly the kind of thing I like seeing in MG fiction.

It was exciting enough—with good tension (even if it was pretty easy to see who would survive and how—at least for older readers). But as good as the life-and-death material was, the interpersonal relationships were better. It mattered more how Rodney and Timothy got past the mutual offenses than if they lived. I cared more about Jane’s feelings, misunderstandings, and care for her home and friends than I did about the danger she faced—and so on. Tilton did a good job balancing all the aspects of this novel—and majored on the right aspects when he had to make a choice.

A quick aside—this cover just pops! It feels playful and vibrant, but there’s something undeniably ominous in those robots—so, you know, it matches the book. Sylvia Bi did a great job on this cover.

Misgivings about the next books aside, I’m coming back for them. I recommend Please Return to the Lands of Luxury for adults who find the idea of MG dystopian fiction intriguing and I heartily recommend it to anyone who might be shopping for an MG reader.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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1. I don’t think I adequately expressed how good this book is below—it’s always a problem I have when I’m as enthusiastic about a book as I am about this one.

2. I typically post about a pre-publication book less than a month before publication, this is more than three months in advance. I just couldn’t wait that long to read it. See what I said about “enthusiastic” above.

3. Related to #1, I really don’t know if this is all that coherent–I get rambly when I’m this enthusiastic. I’m also not sure I rambled about the right things. You get what you pay for here.

What’s Fearless About?

I’m going to be vague and/or withholding a lot here because Ben Koenig/M.W. Craven will give you the details in a more satisfying manner than I will/can. So live with that—or go order the book. (the better option)

Ben Koenig used to be a U.S. Marshal. Well, he never resigned, so maybe he still is one. But he’s no-showed enough that he probably isn’t anymore. Before he went off-the-grid six years ago, he headed up the Special Operations Group—a task force that went after the worst of the worst on the Marshals’ caseload. They’re the kind of guys that Raylan Givens would call when things got over his head (or hat, I guess).

Koenig literally cannot feel fear—which is a great asset in a situation fraught with danger—it’s also a major problem. Fear keeps people from reckless and foolish moves. A move he might not have made if he’d hesitated a moment (but that he doesn’t regret) put him in a situation where he needed to disappear. No one is better at disappearing than someone who is great at tracking anyone.

But something has happened, and the Marshals have to go to extraordinary lengths to find him. The Director of the Marshals Service, Mitchell Burridge needs his help. Mitch was Ben’s mentor/friend/father figure, so he’d agree to pretty much anything. Mitch’s daughter went missing from her college some weeks ago, and no one has a lead on her—no police force, no Federal agency. Mitch asks Ben to bring his daughter home (at this point, probably her body, but no one admits that out loud). And as for those who took her? Well, that’s also best left unsaid. Ben will address that when it comes time.

As Mitch puts it, Ben’s an apex predator and there’s no one else who can do all of what needs to get done. He may be that, but he’s been acting more like prey for a long time so he makes a few stumbles along the way as he shakes the dust off. But it’s not too long before Koenig catches a scent and starts following it.

That’s an Unfortunate Name

There’s a figure mentioned pretty early on and then repeatedly throughout the book—it takes a while to know if he’s a victim of something, involved in the disappearance, tangentially connected to the abductors, a dupe, or a red herring—or something else entirely. But the name keeps coming up, and it threw me.

The name is Spencer Quinn. Spencer Quinn is also the pen name of Peter Abrahams. Readers of this blog will recognize that name as the author of one of my favorite PI series, The Chet and Bernie Mysteries, among other things. The name is distinctive enough that it jumps out at you—it took me out of the moment each time. In a way that Rob Parker, Pat Cornwall, or Tom Harris might not (or even the non-nickname versions of their names). Will this be a hiccup for anyone who isn’t a Quinn reader? Nope. Was it easy to get over? Yeah, but there’s the instinctual flash of name recognition throughout.

Craven had no idea he was doing this (as I’d assumed, although I’d theorized that he could be a major fan or a major detractor—depending on how things went with the character), although I have to confess I’m a little surprised that no editor stopped him along the way.

Still, it’s a cool name, you can’t blame a guy for wanting to use it. Just ask Peter Abrahams.

Michael Westen-Moments

The show Burn Notice would regularly feature the protagonist giving voice-over lessons on spycraft, weapons, strategy, etc. to the viewer, and that’s the name I inevitably give to moments in thrillers when the first-person narrator, or the protagonist’s thought process described by the third person narrator, breaks down the hero’s decision making, etc.

I love this stuff. Almost every thriller writer has to feed the reader this kind of thing because most of us don’t know how much pressure you have to exert on the trigger of Gun X to get it to fire, or why it’s important that the guy on the left is holding the knife the way he is so the hero knows he’s more dangerous than the larger guy on the right with the shotgun. Sometimes the protagonist—either through confidence (cockiness?) or to help intimidate the opposition—will deliver this in dialogue. I always appreciate the flair that gives.

Ben Koenig is great at this kind of thing. When he Michael Westons his way through the way he approaches a certain building in the final confrontation, why he picks the type of car he does to use on his mission, why he punches this guy the way he does, etc. the reader can actually believe they’ve been given some information they can use in their daily life. You know, the next time they need to drive a car into another state to locate the missing child of their old boss.

But my favorite Michael Westoning in this book—and the scene that hooked me—is early on when Koenig takes time to critique the group of deputies who came to bring him into custody for the way they went about it—location, timing, where the person with the shotgun was standing in relation to everyone else, etc. Sure, Koenig was the one being detained—but there was no doubt who was in control (and who could’ve made everyone’s day much, much worse had he wanted to).

Incidentally, it’s been too many years since I read the book, but you can’t tell me that this scene wasn’t a tip of the hat to Child’s Killing Floor—and a suggestion to the reader that this character is going to be their next Reacher (who is also good at Michael Westoning).

Who Wrote This Again?

I’m not going to try to claim that I’m an expert on M.W. Craven—but I’m fairly familiar with his work (I’ve read 6 of his 7 previously published novels—don’t ask me to explain the missing one). It’s easy to see that the Avison Fluke novels are written by the same author that gave us the Washington Poe novels. This makes sense, it’s fairly common amongst writers of multiple series—no one is surprised to learn that the Mickey Haller books are written by Bosch’s creator; the Sunny Randall and Virgil Cole/Everett Hitch series and the stand-alone Double Play are clearly the work of the Spenser writer; even if John Rebus wasn’t Malcolm Fox’s white whale, everyone could tell those series were written by the same man; and so on.

But Fearless? It probably took me less than 50 pages to stop thinking of this as ‘the new Craven’ book and ‘the first Koenig’ book. If Koenig shares any DNA with Fluke or Poe, it’d take 23andMe or Ancestry.com to figure it out. If you know nothing about Craven’s previous work, all you’ll see is someone writing a book in the mold of Jack Reacher and Peter Ash—with a little bit of Nick Mason and Nick Heller thrown in. Well, writing in that mold—and matching each series at their best.

So, what did I think about Fearless?

I think the past 5 years have demonstrated pretty clearly that I’m probably going to love whatever Craven writes—and now I know that’s true even if it doesn’t feel like a Craven book.

This just worked on every level—Koenig is a fertile character, well-designed to carry a series for quite a while. His assets are perfect for a Reacher/Peter Ash-type character. His flaws keep him from being invincible, and provide plenty of ways for him to be his own greatest adversary. His quirks (e.g., fixation on chocolate milkshakes, absorption of odd bits of trivia) round him out nicely. The reason he’s off the grid is better than being a Luddite/technophobe. Can he grow—and can the reader grow in their understanding of him? Sure. He can also believably regress and find develop new hindrances and weaknesses to work through or overcome.

The narrative voice that Craven uses here will suck in the reader and keep the pages turning between action scenes. The action scenes might as well be directed by John McTiernan, Shane Black, or Chad Stahelski. I don’t know how “realistic” they are, but I don’t think you have to suspend much disbelief. And they’re so fun, who cares?

The story could have been a little more intricate—just a tad. But given everything else that this book had to do—introduce Koenig, establish the series and his backstory, provide some good potential recurring characters—some things have to be sacrificed. Then again, I can point to several beloved and best-selling thrillers that aren’t as intricate as this one. So don’t take this point as anything but me being greedy.

I did have a quibble or two with the novel—it’s not perfect. But I hesitate to get into them as I read an ARC, and there’s still a chance for them to vanish before publication. Also, they’re pretty much at the straining at gnats level, and I try to avoid that. In the end, those quibbles only serve to underline how great the rest of it is.

This is clearly the first in a series (even if all the promotional materials didn’t call it that, you’d get that sense throughout—and the last five pages make it abundantly clear that there’s more to come. So I do think future books will have a slightly different flavor than this one—which could’ve very easily served as a standalone.

To put it simply, I loved every second I spent reading this, Fearless was the highlight of the month for me—and I expect that I’ll keep talking about it throughout the year—I can’t wait for it to get published here so that American audiences can meet Craven. Put your orders in now, folks, July will be here before you know it, and you don’t want to miss this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Vera Wong’s Unsolicited Advice for Murderers About?

I’m not sure that I can answer this question without just recapping the entire novel—but without the charm and warmth.

Just Try…

How much time do you have?

It Publishes Today, You Need to Get Something Posted. Just Give Us the Setup

Okay, okay, I’ll attempt it—but I really want to spend the next hour just regurgitating the whole thing.

Vera Wong is an older Chinese woman, the owner of a small tea shop in San Francisco’s Chinatown. It’s dark, dingy, and doesn’t get much in the way of customers. She has one regular that she can count on to stop in early in the morning, and then spends most of the rest of the day waiting for someone else to walk in and order. Typically in vain. But it’s her life—she has nothing else to do with her time—her husband is dead, and her son is busy with work. So busy that he rarely has time to visit—or acknowledge all of the super-helpful advice she gives him to succeed at work and/or to find a wife. This doesn’t stop her from texting or calling him frequently to offer the advice, it should be noted.

Then one day, she comes down the stairs from her apartment above the shop to discover a dead body in the middle of the floor. She has little faith that the police will be able to tell her who killed the man, so she decides to discover the identity of the killer for them. How hard can it be? She’s watched plenty of procedurals, is smart, and (unlike Sherlock Holmes) is a suspicious Chinese mother. The murderer doesn’t stand a chance.

So she helps herself to a little bit of the evidence before the police arrive so that she can hunt for the murderer. It’ll be a good change of pace for her.

She sets a trap for the murderer and ends up with four good suspects, it’ll just take her some time to figure out who killed him and why. In the meantime, she sees at least three younger people that need some guidance to get their lives in order—she decides to take that on along with her murder investigation.

Vera

I’d like to spend a few pages talking about Vera—I’m certain that if you ask me in December, she’s still going to be one of my favorite characters of 2023.

She is so human—such a mass of contradictions and differing impulses. The fact that at her, um, advanced age she’s able to chart a new course for her life, to let people in, and adapt gives me a little hope.

But it’s her spirit, her way of looking at the world, and not backing down that’s really inspiring.

Once she’s done with these characters, I could use a grandmother like this.

Be Careful

Vera knows her tea, she spends a lot of time and energy on it—certain that she can make someone just the right kind of tea for whatever they’re facing to help them through the day. If you can make it through a chapter or two (especially in the early chapters) without needing a cup of your own, I’d like to know how.

But other than needing to take the time to boil water and steep your tea, that’s not a big deal (unless you’re inspired to go shopping for more teas, which can get expensive—and can distract you from your reading). However, Vera also spends a lot of time cooking for her new friends and suspects. And she ends up spending more time cooking than making tea.

This is where you need to be careful—if you’re not, you could find yourself putting on a few pounds before the killer is identified. Sutanto’s descriptions of Vera’s creations—and the way everyone responds to them—are so vivid, so enticing, they can send you to your pantry for a snack—or to your food delivery app of choice to order some Chinese food.

I’m not saying that you should avoid these portions of the book—just be prepared so you can fight temptation (or have a handy justification to indulge yourself, if that’s more your preference).

So, what did I think about Vera Wong’s Unsolicited Advice for Murderers?

By the time I got halfway through the opening paragraph, I’d started coming up with a list of people to recommend this book to. There was something about the voice that just jumped off of the page (er, screen) and said, “You’re going to have fun with this.” And I absolutely did—but there was more to it than that, being around these characters felt comfortable. I just wanted to spend time in their presence—like Stars Hollow, CT; the locker room of AFC Richmond; the Parks and Rec Department of Pawnee, IN; the Jigsaw Room of Cooper’s Chase retirement village; or Knight’s Bookstore in Abbi Waxman’s L.A. I don’t remember the last time that I read a cozy mystery that was so worthy of the title “Cozy.”

Yes, I wanted to figure it out. Yes, I wanted to know what happened to the characters and wanted closure for this period in their lives. But I read as slowly as I could because I wanted to linger.

It’s not just Vera that creates that feeling—it’s the other characters’ reactions to her, as well as their relationships with each other. Yes, she is undeniably the center of this little world, but it wouldn’t work without the others.

There’s a lot of gentle humor and heart—that’s what fills this charming work. But that’s not all of it—there are laugh-out-loud moments, as well, and real emotions. There’s a budding romance, a rekindled friendship, family ties, and a lot of people finding the confidence to step out into something new—or into something they’ve tried before and have been scared to try again. The found family that’s created along the way makes all of that possible—particularly the last part—the mutual support (in various forms) and encouragement from the others enable the others to make those steps.

I don’t want to give the impression that this book is all sunshine, flowers, and good times. There are portions of this that are hard to get through, sure—there’s a suspicious death, criminal behavior—at the very least the actions of a scoundrel—heartbreak and a great deal of loneliness and despair. But Sutanto doesn’t leave us there for long—she grounds the book in it, but provides a way forward—through grit, determination, and the help of others.

The murder investigation was fine—probably more than fine, actually. It was a clever little story, with plenty of good suspects and nice twists. But the book isn’t all that interested in the murder investigation, really. It’s just an excuse for these people to come together and start interacting. Vera herself doesn’t really want any of her suspects to be guilty—she’s too busy meddling in their lives to improve them (in selfless acts of assistance only, she’d hurry to tell you). But she keeps plugging away at her little list of suspects because it’s something she’s started—and wouldn’t it be exciting to actually find a murderer? (even if it’s someone she doesn’t want to get into any kind of trouble).

I talk about mysteries more than anything else here, and the fact that I’d started wrapping up the post without addressing the mystery part of this book says a lot to me. It’s the driving force behind the plot and the instigating incident—but again—it’s secondary to the rest of the storylines. Still, most readers will have a hard time finding sympathy for the murdered man, and more than once you’ll likely wonder if it’d really be that bad if no one figures out who did it. You probably won’t feel the way you usually do when a murder is solved when the culprit is named, either.

There’s just so much to commend about this book—and so little to quibble with—I’m on the verge of repeating myself and/or overhyping this thing (but boy howdy, does it deserve a lot of hype!). So I’m just going to leave it with this—go get your hands on a copy, brew yourself a nice pot of tea (I promise you’re going to want tea), and lose yourself in this book for a few hours.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Good Dog, Bad Cop About?

Pete Stanton, when he’s not building up a tab for Andy Carpenter at their favorite sports bar, is in charge of the Homicide Division of the Paterson PD. He doesn’t have the budget for more police detectives, but he had a healthy budget for consultants (figure that one out if you can). So he’s hired the K-Team to look into some cold cases for him.

The first one they pick is a doozy. A few years ago, a retired detective and mentor to Corey Douglas was found shot on his boat, a woman’s body was also found there. Some suspicions about a murder-suicide were floated, but nothing stuck. Corey wants to look into it, and Pete approves it with one caveat—they have to investigate the murder of that woman’s husband. He, too, was a Paterson police officer who was murdered. Other than his wife, there’s no obvious connection between the cases, and they weren’t investigated that way.

Corey and Laurie knew going in that Pete would assign them both if they requested one—and honestly, they wanted it that way. All three were aware of the game they were playing, and they all did their part. Now, hopefully, the K-Team and help the PPD close these cases and get some justice for the victims.

Simon

This is really Corey’s book—Laurie’s in it a decent amount, but she doesn’t seem to play as vital a role as usual. Marcus isn’t around much—but is when it counts. Where it comes up short is, as is often the case, Simon’s involvement.

We need to see more of him—Corey even jokes about it at one point, saying Simon’s going to be jealous about something he’s up to without him. That’s all well and good–but it’s not enough.

This is a series about detectives who name their team after a dog. Corey’s a former dog handler. The dog needs to be around more. Do we get some good Simon action? Yes. Are the lines about him and the action involving him good? Absolutely (equating him to Marcus is a great idea). But c’mon, Rosenfelt—give us more Simon.

Poor Sam

Okay, it’s been evident for quite some time in the Andy Carpenter books that while Sam is a good accountant, he enjoys his side gig as a computer researcher for Andy (who isn’t impeded by things like ethics or laws), and he’s more than happy to help out with the K-Team.

But these guys are starting to rely on him too much—sure, they do the legwork. They put a lot of the clues together—but Sam got most of those clues for them. And the number of times that Corey called with new tasks for him was borderline outrageous. They’re working this guy to the bone.

It occurs to me that I said something very similar about the computer tech in the DC Maggie Jamieson series. Is there maybe a union for overworked tech geniuses in Mysteries/Procedurals? Maybe Tilly Bradshaw can organize something.

Corey as a PI

Corey is really coming into his own as a PI (at least as far as fictional PIs go). In the first book or two, he tried to do things the right way—he was very aware that he was no longer a cop and had to act in a certain manner because of it. But he still acted like a police officer, with those kinds of instincts.

Laurie had spent enough time as a PI, was more comfortable in the role, and accepted a greater degree of looseness when it came to protocols. I doubt Marcus ever cared about them in the first place. But Corey was pretty uptight and had to be cajoled into doing certain things.

He seems over that now—he’s willing to color outside the lines, ignore certain rules/laws, and so on. It’s about getting the results and taking care of details and technicalities later.*

* I want to stress that I’m okay with this because we’re talking fictional detectives. The casual attitude toward privacy, phone records, financial transactions, and breaking and entering in a real person would be intolerable—I don’t care what their profession is.

It’s great to see him grow and develop. He’s not the same character that he was when we met him in the Andy Carpenter books–or when this series started. I’m sure that growth with slow and/or stop soon—but for now, I’m liking the journey.

The M Word

As much as he’s growing in his new profession, Corey’s got a long way to go on the personal front. Sure, he’s made great strides since meeting and starting to date Dani. He’s in a long-term committed relationship and isn’t thinking of running for the hills or making some lame excuse to break up.

But he can’t even bring himself to say—or think (including in his narration)—the word “marriage.” He will call it “M” throughout the book—and he’s thinking about it pretty frequently in this book. Sure, it’s immature—he realizes it. But that’s not enough. This is also one of those things that the reader has to suspend disbelief and just roll with. If you do, it’s a fun running joke (it’s easy to do, because if anyone can make a somewhat emotionally stunted man entertaining, it’s the creator of Andy Carpenter).

So, what did I think about Good Dog, Bad Cop?

I know this series (like the Carpenter books) aren’t technically cozies—Marcus by himself keeps them from being considered that way. But I don’t know if there is a pair of series (or one) that I feel so comfortable in. Within a paragraph or two of the protagonist showing up, I’m enjoying the book and feel at home.

Sure, there are better entries and lesser entries—characters moves I like more than others, and so on. But I know as soon as I start one of these books that I’m going to have a good time. That’s what happened here.

I’m enjoying Corey’s transformation into a more typical PI—there are a couple of moments where he felt like the 1990s-era Spenser (just with a dog that wouldn’t run from gunfire). I’m not going to complain about that—ever. I enjoy the dynamics between the team, between the team and the police/other law enforcement entities, between the team and Andy, and so on. I simply enjoyed myself here.

ysteries on top of that were good, too. I admit that I got suckered into a red herring or two, and things that I was sure of along the way were wrong (I was on the right path, and was only one connection away from being in step with Corey).*

* I’m sure I probably sound defensive there, but that’s only because I am.

I don’t know what else to say—this is a good installment in a reliable series. Fans of Carpenter, the K-Team, or lighter mysteries will gobble this one up. Satisfaction assured.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader along with a Q&A by the author.

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N/B: After I wrote this post, I saw that Matulich calls this “an adult novel with YA sensibilities” in our Q&A. That is a great way to describe the book, but I read it under the impression given by a certain eBook seller who labeled it as for readers of 12-18, and judged it accordingly. Some of what I said below reflects that. So take those with a grain of salt.

Finally, the Captain spoke: “You’re insane.”

“And that’s what will save us all,”Feng Po said with a smile. “We have about ten seconds before our friends out here realize we aren’t going to fall out of the sky by ourselves. If you have a brighter idea, I will be glad to execute it.”

The Captain spent five of those ten seconds in silence. He came back on the wire with a grunt and an unhappy tone.

“This is what Mme. Streif hired you for. You’d better be right.”

“If I’m not, I’ll be dead and wrong, and that should make you very happy in the Afterlife.”

What’s The Silk Empress About?

Our hero is Algie Pigggrem (not surprisingly, nicknamed “Pig” by many), a twelve-year-old First Mate’s apprentice on the airship Wu Zetian flying along the High Silk Road between China and Europe. In the first chapter he and the first mate, Feng Po McLaren, try out some experimental weapons to fight off some air pirates. Algie is fueled more by adventure stories from penny dreadfuls than by common sense or an instinct for survival and takes risks with a panache that will endear him to the reader immediately.

This attack, and the way that Algie and Feng Po succeeded, will bring them (especially Algie) to the attention of the owner of their company, a regional British governor, and others—before he knows it, Algie is in the middle of some high-stakes intrigue.

The Flashbacks

"I am depending upon you to do something both brilliant and short-sighted.”

That comes late in the novel, but it’s in the flashbacks that we get to see how Algie develops this ability.

We get to see a little bit of what happened to Algie right after he was orphaned—how he reacts to that, both in good and unfortunate ways—in flashbacks scattered throughout, leading up to the time he joined the crew of Wu Zetian. The way his mother raised him and the books that he read shaping his mind to act in certain ways (or at least attempt to) tells us a lot about him in the present, and how he has grown and learned from those days.

He shows his gallant and would-be heroic impulses from the beginning—his impulsivity and creativity, too. He learns (the hard way) that he can’t win every time, but it doesn’t stop him.

The Worldbuilding

if you have problems believing that a man from Nigeria might be able to outdo the best minds of the British Empire, I could bring in Mister Liu to explain the science of these fire suppression spheres,” Mme. Streif said coolly. “His English is quite good and he can speak very slowly if you have problems with the larger words.”

The worldbuilding here is outstanding. The obvious thing to look at in a Steampunk book is the tech—I really enjoyed that, both the airship Wu Zetian (and the rest) as well as the smaller, everyday tech. The revolutionary stuff that Algie and the rest encounter—like the clockwork dragon, and similar automatons, is just fantastic. It’s precisely the kind of thing you go looking for in a Steampunk work—it sounds great and you get just a hint of the kind of science that would make it possible. It’s enough like your typical Steampunk technology to feel familiar, but Matulich puts his own spin (helped in large part by the setting) on it, so it feels fresh.

The setting and the people it’s populated with, however, are probably even better than the Steampunk-ness. In addition to the typical Victorian English that usually populate Steampunk, you have people like the Scottish-born (and accented), Feng Po McLaren. But beyond him, there are characters of ethnicities and nationalities like Uyghurs, Chinese, Nigerians, Americans, and French citizens. These all come from a variety of religious, social, and economic backgrounds and combine in this book with a mix of curiosity and acceptance—as well as a decent helping of elitism and racism (as is to be sadly expected). It’s a great way to show how the kind of transportation and technology in this world is bringing things together a little faster than it did in our reality—in addition to the diversity just making things entertaining.

The use of so many non-English phrases (translated in endnotes) is a fun—if occasionally frustrating—plus as well. There were times I was annoyed by having to break from the action to look up the translation—although context would carry you through a scene if you want to finish it before checking the note.

The Illustrations

There are a few illustrations by Seth Lyons (who also did the great cover) starting off each chapter. A few didn’t do much for me, most were pretty good—a few were excellent. I don’t know that the book needs them—but I certainly don’t think they hurt it. Overall, they’re a nice little touch and do a great job of capturing and reflecting the tone and gadgets of the book. They might be a real bonus to a young reader dipping his toe into steampunk for the first time and isn’t sure how to imagine some things.

So, what did I think about The Silk Empress?

“There is a picaroon cutter lying in wait for us about seven kilometers off the port bow.”

“Air pirates?”

“So they are called in Adventure Stories for Boys. I usually just call them well-armed layabouts. Less pressure to live up to expectations that way.”

I’ve tried to stay pretty vague above while talking about a few things that really stood out—because half of the fun of this novel is in the discovery of this world and learning with Algie just what he’s found himself in the middle of. It’s a bonkers adventure—fit for one of Algie’s adventure novels.

I’ve only read one other YA Steampunk—Westerfeld’s Leviathan trilogy—so that’s all I have to compare this to. Matulich’s world is just as intricate and volatile, this book is just a bit leaner than any of Westerfeld’s. Also, this is more fun. That’s not a knock on Leviathan—they’re in a war and trying to stop it. This is more of an action/adventure lark (at least initially). But fans of one should check out the other. Some of the humor is a bit more “adult” than YA—but it’ll either fly right over the heads of a reader or give them a grin.

It’s not just the action or antics that make this an entertaining read—Matulich’s a writer that you want to read. There is a subtle charm to his phrasing, for example—he can take a pretty straightforward sentence or sentiment and tweak it just a bit to make it something that’ll stand out.

I don’t know if there are more books in this universe planned—but man, I hope so. I could live with this as a stand-alone, but I’d really appreciate at least a duology. I’m betting you’ll feel the same way. But first, you need to read The Silk Empress, and I encourage you to do so (and then pass it along to a YA reader).

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s A Man Named Doll About?

Happy Doll is a cop-turned-P.I. in Los Angeles, he now primarily works in doing security in a massage parlor* to make ends meet, but he used to do more investigative work.

* The employees may happen to negotiate other services.

When we first meet him, he’s talking with his mentor in the LAPD, a man who took a bullet for him and who now comes to him for a big favor. He needs a kidney transplant. Hap says he’ll think about it. That’s not good enough for Lou who ends up doing some very short-sighted things to get him that kidney. Happy doesn’t know that at the time, or he’d have said yes sooner.

An altercation with a high client at the parlor leaves Happy injured and under scrutiny by a couple of detectives from the LAPD. He’s also loopy on painkillers (which he counters with ADHD meds to really impair his judgment).

This leaves him in a bad spot when he has to investigate what Lou had gotten himself into and with whom. But he keeps plugging along obstinately (also, fueled by undeserved confidence).

Irving Ash

I picked this up because Chris McDonald said that this is the book that inspired him to write his novel Little Ghost. I tried, usually successfully, to not compare the two as I read.

I can see the shadow of A Man Named Doll on Little Ghost—there’s a similar vibe to the protagonists being up against forces they’re not ready for, but not backing down or allowing themselves to think of it. There’s a similar feeling of events quickly spiraling out of control for everyone involved, and the protagonist being in a very different place when the book is over.

I’m not suggesting that McDonald borrowed much from this book, but the novels share some DNA (and the protagonists likely do, too). The two novels can—and should—be entertaining on their own, and don’t need to be considered in relation to each other in any way. I just found it interesting to see how an author could draw inspiration from a novel and run with it.

So, what did I think about A Man Named Doll?

There were multiple twists that I didn’t see coming. I had to stop and go back to re-read a few paragraphs to make sure I just read what I thought I did, because…what author does that? Apparently, Jonathan Ames does.

I do think that this book moves a bit too quickly. I’d have liked to see Doll have to work a little harder to connect the dots between everything. I’d have liked to see the LAPD detectives play a larger roll in things (although I can’t imagine how they could’ve without ruining things for Doll’s investigation). It’s not a fatal flaw, but I think the book would’ve been better with just a little more of everything.

Ultimately, this reminded me of Eoin Colfer’s Daniel McEvoy books—just leaner and not quite as funny*. Although the latter could be a result of the former. I did laugh though at some of Doll’s narration—so not quite as funny does not imply not witty or funny at all. Both series share the same kind of worldview, the same kind of violence, and the same kind of twisted logic.

* It occurs to me that Doll does tell us that he’s half-Irish. But that part of his family hasn’t been in Ireland for quite some time, unlike McEvoy. But maybe there’s something to that heritage and the way he reacts to things. I only thought of that connection, as I was preparing to hit “Publish,” so I’m not going to spend time on it. It’s entirely possible that it won’t hold water. But it might.

I thought the emotional and psychological elements were handled perfectly—the way that Doll (and his friends) react to the events that befall them seems perfectly handled. And I really liked the Epilogue and the repercussions of the events of the novel for the characters. It comes across as a little more realistic than some PI novels would have it.

This didn’t completely wow me as I hoped—but it was a satisfying and surprising read. I want to see what else Ames is capable of and will be returning for the sequel as soon as I can.

Somehow I made it through this entire post without mentioning George, Doll’s half-Chihuahua, half-terrier dog. Shame on me. Briefly, he’s just adorable and goes through too much because of his doped-up human.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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So, you can tell from the title of this post [on my blog, it's called "A Funeral for Dreams"], that this is not a happy tale. The other big hint along those lines is the author’s name. I’m sure that Tiffany McDaniel is perfectly capable of writing a fun romp of a novel—I just have no evidence that she’s interested in doing so.

When you do see her name on a cover, you know a few things going in—the book is going to feature some sort of childhood trauma; the beautifully stylized dialogue (that doesn’t even pretend to be realistic); and prose that can only be described as gorgeous.

Everything else may differ from book to book, but the above are pretty much a given at this point.

What’s On the Savage Side About?

We meet 6-year-old twin sisters Arc and Daffy on the day their father died. Believe it or not, this is likely the best their life is going to be for the rest of this book. They spend most of their childhood in a home with their mother and aunt (I’m very carefully not saying they were raised by their mother and aunt), prostitutes who spend what little money they have on drugs—heroin, primarily. There are brief periods where the children are taken care of by their grandmother—who is kind, loving, and able to take care of them—but those are brief.

We see them age—struggling to separate themselves from their mother and aunt, and eventually following in their footsteps in addiction and profession. As adults, Arc’s focus is her (more fragile) sister’s safety and well-being. It’s because of Daffy that she finds a rehab facility, there’s a (probable) serial killer out there leaving women’s bodies in the river, and Arc is determined to not let Daffy become the next. Hopefully, she can prevent her friends from being the next, too.

Interspersed with chapters describing their lives (with some time jumping involved), we get some selections from their mother’s diary—back when she was capable of keeping one. We see her struggle with addiction and knowing the danger she poses to her daughters (and I was so glad when the book gave us that—it was the first maternal action I saw from her, but we didn’t get to see it for a long time).

We also get chapters describing the point-of-view of the river that flows near their town. How it reacts to being where the bodies of women are discarded, along with its thoughts on other things as well. It’s these chapters—particularly early on—that give the novel its depth and perspective. It feels to me like those chapters are McDaniels speaking with the least amount of artifice. The river feels like her voice unfiltered through the devices she uses the rest of the time.

Chillicothe, Ohio

Until I started this book, I knew Chillicothe, Ohio as the birthplace of Archie Goodwin of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe books. I half-assumed it was a fictional location, and never bothered to look it up. Now I know that it exists, and I’m going to have a hard time reestablishing the positive associations I had with the name. It feels like a great place to be from, not a great place to be. I’m sure that it’s a perfectly fine place in reality, but the small city does not come across very well in these pages.

So, what did I think about On the Savage Side?

This was just a brutal read. Every time you get a glimmer of hope, a glimmer of a feeling that things might be okay for some of these characters—something snuffs it out. But there’s another source right around the corner. But, to go back to that line from the novel I borrowed above—the book is full of funerals for dreams.

But there’s beauty in the darkness. And a drive to keep persevering shared by the reader and the characters. I wondered more than once why some of them kept trying—but they did. The mother of one of Arc’s adult friends is a strong vision of enduring love and hope—she’s always ready to help her daughter no matter how tight the grip of addiction is on her at the time. She’s always trying, always striving to give her daughter the care she needs—even when (especially when) there’s no reason to think it’ll do any good.

I mentioned a serial killer above—it’s not a serial killer novel, though. It’s a novel about the women that may be his target and their fears about it. But people looking for a Thomas Harris read will be disappointed. Actually, people looking for most things you find in typical novels will be disappointed. Many of the looming questions in our characters’ lives are left unanswered. But you don’t walk away frustrated that you don’t get the answers like you would from other novels—because we’re given answers to questions we never thought to ask. Some of those are more important, too.

Like always, Tiffany McDaniels delivered a book that’s going to stay in my subconscious for a while—lurking there, making me rethink what I read from time to time. It’ll probably stay there until her next novel comes along (Betty‘s been there for a couple of years, and really only was dislodged by this one—and The Summer that Melted Everything is still there all these years later). It’s somber, it’s sober, and it’s difficult to read. But it’s so worth it in ways I cannot adequately explain. It’ll make you think. It’ll make you feel.

I’m having a hard time articulating exactly why you should read this without getting into the details—if you’ve read McDaniels before, you know what I’m saying. If you haven’t—it’s time to.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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This ended up being one of those books that I could say almost nothing about or could just as easily have said far too much about. It took me a week and a half just to figure out—I hope—the way to strike the balance.

What’s Lost in the Moment and Found About?

Antoinette (known as Antsy) is a little girl whose life is shattered when her father dies unexpectedly. Her mother quickly remarries for security and her stepfather is the stuff of nightmares. He dismantles her idyllic-sounding childhood, almost removing her from the family. When darker (much darker) things loom, Antsy runs away.

Naturally—well, supernaturally—as this is a Wayward Children book, she’s soon presented with a Door. She steps through it, as sure as someone who isn’t even ten can be. And enters a shop. Unusually for this series, she’s not in a new world—but a shop. The Shop Where the Lost Things Go to be precise.

The shop is managed by an old woman named Vineta and a very large (and talking) magpie named Hudson. In addition to the Shop being the place that Lost Things go—those that are needed by their owners can come be retrieved. There is a Door in the Shop that Antsy can open to other worlds (Antsy’s door, and that of those coming to Find something, appears in a different location)—there’s never any telling what world will be on the other side of the Door. If it looks appealing, Vineta and Antsy will go through and purchase some things to sell in the Shop (and feed themselves), otherwise Antsy will close the door and try again.

At some point, Antsy begins finding ominous notes trying to tell her something—will she figure out what the notes are trying to tell her in time?

Worldbuilding

One of the more entertaining things—for me, anyway—about this series is hearing about worlds that we don’t get to spend time in (or more than a quick glimpse, anyway). Just a brief mention along the way to some other point, and you get to fuel your imagination for a bit. Given this setting—and the way the Shop flits between worlds for Antsy and Vineta to go pick up stock, Lost in the Moment and Found is rife in these glimpses, hints of what else is out there. I had so much fun with that—McGuire’s really created a universe for these stories where she can indulge any whim she has for storytelling and it’d work.

But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about.

This entry would be a worthwhile read for fans if only for this one thing—we learn more about the Doors and how they work. I’m not going to go into it, obviously, nor am I going to promise that every question you had about the Doors will be answered—actually you’ll likely end up with new questions, but they’ll be informed questions.

Depth of Darkness

On the whole, this series hasn’t featured “bad guys”—largely, the antagonists have been people with competing visions for the way things ought to be. People who were trying their best, but who couldn’t understand their children (before and/or after their door)—and so on. A lot of people you don’t want to be around and you don’t want to see have much success as they are, but typically it’s possible to see where they’re coming from and why they do what they do (as much as you might object to it).

But in this book? There are a minimum of two evil characters. People that need to be stopped, and you sort of wish Toby Daye would make a cameo and do what she does best.

McGuire’s painted some bleak circumstances for her Wayward Children—but this seems bleaker (I haven’t spent a lot of time reviewing the older books, so I’m prepared to be corrected) and darker than we’re used to. There’s a period where you can forget that, where it almost feels like Antsy is out for a very long lark and everything will be a fun adventure.

I don’t know if this is a turning point and that we’ll see more books like this in the years to come. I doubt it—I think this is a story that needed to be told, but we’ll be back on more familiar ground—with a more familiar tone—soon.

So, what did I think about Lost in the Moment and Found?

This is clearly a personal story of McGuire (just read the Author’s note that precedes the text) and there’s a rawness to the writing that isn’t typical for this series (or McGuire, period). But it’s oh, so fitting.

I find myself slipping into misconceptions about this series—I enjoy the characters (so many of our protagonists are just loveable), the concept behind the series and West’s school, and so on—it’s easy to remember the nonsense worlds, the joy that characters frequently experience in finding a Door, going home, or leaving home that you forget that almost everyone goes through a Door from our world to get away from something. When I pause to write something like this or describe the series/a particular novella to someone—all of that comes rushing back. Only to be forgotten again until I start reading the next book.* Antsy’s situation is perhaps the most disturbing we’ve seen—and what she ultimately finds in the shop is equally (but in a very different way) unsettling.

* I hope I’m not alone in that, but I have to assume the rest of you are more careful in your reading/remembering.

The novella is not all dire and troubling—there’s a lot of fun to be had as we follow Antsy. The quick excursion to the lost animal department could’ve filled a novella or two. The reader might see some old friends out of the corner of their eye, too. Most importantly, there is hope. That last line is earned (as we’re told time and time again, nothing comes free), and is so reassuring.

Unsurprisingly, I recommend this book—unlike most in the series, I don’t think this would serve as a good entry point. It’s a good number 8 (these are all novellas, so reading eight of them isn’t that big of an investment). It’s raw, it’s unsettling (at the very least), it’s emotional, and it’s full of some of McGuire’s best prose. I’m sure those who’ve read 1-2 (or all seven) others don’t need me to say this, you’ve probably already read them. But for everyone else, it’s time to start reading these books.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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I did a lousy job on this…I’m just not capable of discussing this book properly. But I gave it a shot, though.

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What’s The Perception Of Dolls About?

There’s no way to simply talk about this book. Period. So this is going to take a bit, bear with me. Let’s start with this from the Publisher’s site:

“It’s almost as if history is trying to erase the whole affair.” – Anthony Croix

The triple murder and failed suicide that took place at 37 Fantoccini Street in 2001, raised little media interest at the time. In a week heavy with global news, a ‘domestic tragedy’ warranted few column inches. The case was open and shut, the inquest was brief and the ‘Doll Murders’ – little more than a footnote in the ledgers of Britain’s true crime enthusiasts – were largely forgotten.

Nevertheless, investigations were made, police files generated, testimonies recorded, and conclusions reached. The reports are there, a matter of public record, for those with a mind to look.

The details of what took place in Fantoccini Street in the years that followed are less accessible. The people involved in the field trips to number 37 are often unwilling, or unable, to talk about what they witnessed. The hours of audio recordings, video tapes, written accounts, photographs, drawings, and even online postings are elusive, almost furtive.

In fact, were it not for a chance encounter between the late Anthony Croix and an obsessive collector of Gothic dolls, the Fantoccini Street Reports might well have been lost forever.

But that’s not all—the late Anthony Croix was an independent journalist, and from that encounter with the doll collector, he gets on the trail of 37 Fantoccini Street and what happened there—from the murders to the repeated trips by students from London North University looking into paranormal activity on the site.

Croix conducted those interviews with those from the visits who were still alive and capable of being interviewed, and wrote up descriptions of the photographs and videos (he wasn’t permitted to copy them or use them in his final work), compiling all this into a book that he was unable to finish before his death.

Enter Russell Day who took the notes and drafts compiled by Croix and assembled them into a (mostly) publishable form. (that’s not a knock on Day’s work, he did what he could to honor Croix’s particular style)

Reading a Documentary

Back in junior high/high school, I remember watching documentaries and documentary-style TV shows about paranormal investigations and unsolved crimes. This reads a lot like one of those. Those would feature a lot of intercut interviews telling the story—some contradicting the others—with a little, but not too much voice-over narration stitching them together. There’d also be some questionable photographs and some dark video clips that are hard to see a whole lot of detail in.

That’s pretty much what The Perception Of Dolls is—just in book form. It’s surprisingly effective—it doesn’t take a whole lot of imagination on the part of the reader to “see” the whole thing. Yeah, the format of interview transcripts and descriptions of the visuals are pretty bare-boned, but you’ll find yourself supplying all the necessary details with almost no prompting from the text.

When Style is Not a Style

Whether I’ve discussed a short story or a novel by Day, one of the things I inevitably talk the most about is his style.

None of that is evident here. Not one bit. As I said, this reads as dryly as a transcript of a documentary—which is exactly what Day was going for. The absence of style is as much work—if not much more—than Day’s typically flashy and gorgeous styles.

“Dry” doesn’t mean dull—not for a second. Day dives so far into the persona of Croix—eliding obscenities, odd typography, purposefully including typos, sentence fragments, etc. that the text of the novel itself becomes a character as vibrant as any of the others.

So, what did I think about The Perception Of Dolls?

So…when I first saw this advertised, I didn’t think this would be my cup of tea—it’s not really a genre I’m all that fond of, and rarely want to try. But then I remembered that the genre of “Things written by Russell Day” is definitely one of my favorites, so I went for it.

I’m so glad that I tried this.

Objectively, I’d say that there’s little reason on the page to feel unease, dread, anxiety, or much of anything actually. But because of the subject matter and/or the way that the story is told—I don’t see how you don’t feel dread, anxiety, and a growing sense of creepiness throughout. The last photograph described by Croix is going to stick with me a little longer than I’m comfortable with, I’ve got to say. It’s impossible to say what precisely happened—at almost any point the book describes—at 37 Fantoccini Street or with some of the related events, but something’s not right about that place. Everything that ever happened there needs to be narrated by Robert Stack.*

* I don’t know if that will mean anything to anyone who wasn’t watching U.S. TV in the late 1980s, but I assure you, it’s an apt observation.

Okay, I take that back—there’s objectively at least one scene that should make any reader feel creeped out and possibly anxious. Croix gets to view the doll collector’s collection. If imagining 897 dolls of various types and conditions in one room (I’ll leave the details to the book) doesn’t give you the heebie-jeebies, you should seek professional help.

Everything in this book is unreliable—the narratives in the newspapers from the original killings were only printed in a newspaper that doesn’t exist anymore, and the photographs from that story—or anytime after that, are only described. Even a documentary related to murder is of dubious quality. You’ll find plenty to question in the witness accounts of what happened—particularly when they differ (and, yes, I’m sure they’re all lying—it’s tough to decide which one is lying when). The reader is given plenty of reasons throughout to wonder about Anthony Croix’s accuracy—and there appear to be pages missing from his manuscript that could change our understanding of the whole thing. All of which serves to increase my general feelings of unease about the whole narrative.

Near the end of the book, Croix is talking about someone he interacted with a lot saying they’re a perfect “reflector”

of the overarching story of number 37. Facts present themselves but offer no revelations and produce questions, not answers.

That’s precisely what this book delivers—and it does so in a way that even people who demand a lot of resolution from a story can be satisfied with it. I wondered more than once what I’d end up thinking about this book as I walked through it, I was uncertain most of the time I spent reading. But the last few chapters solidified things for me. And the days I’ve spent afterward thinking about the whole thing make me even more sure—it’s one of those books that gets better the more you think about it—I’m dazzled by this book. I’m not in awe—and I certainly didn’t enjoy most of it (if by enjoy you mean “had fun while reading”). But I was hooked. I was captivated. I was (at least momentarily) obsessed with it.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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My mind is out to kill me, and I know it. I am constantly filled with a lurking loneliness, a yearning, clinging to the notion that something outside of me will fix me. But I had had all that the outside had to offer!

What’s Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing About?

This isn’t full of—but does contain—some good, behind-the-scenes stuff about Friends, Fools Rush In, The Whole Nine Yards, Mr. Sunshine, The Odd Couple, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, and other projects. But those don’t make up the bulk of the material. And those are interesting, amusing, and support the overall thesis of the book—he’s an addict who has been blessed with more good things than he knows how to handle.

There’s some juicy (largely nameless, but you can read between the lines) bits about his love life—as the title suggests. But again, there’s not much of that overall—and those, too, serve to support the overall thesis—even more than the professional matters do.

Then there’s the Big Terrible Thing—his addictions themselves, how he got started, how he maintained them, and his several attempts to get sober (of varying successes and lengths of success). He also goes into graphic (perhaps too graphic) detail about the physical toll they’ve taken on him—and the financial, emotional, and mental toll they’ve taken on those close to him.

How Perry Comes Across

When this book first came out (or just before it) there were more than a few headlines about some (I’m going to be charitable and call them) questionable jokes he made about Keanu Reeves and some people casting doubt about some of the particulars of some of his stories. Given how impaired he was during most of those disputed events (and just about every other event he recounts), I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember them correctly, and I don’t think it should be held against him. The Reeves jokes, on the other hand, might have seemed like a good idea at the time—but his editors really should’ve stopped them. I jotted down a note after the second one that “someone at Macmillan must have it out for him to let this make it to print.”

But both of those things pale in comparison to everything that Perry admits to in this book. He doesn’t come across as a good guy at all—and I don’t think he’s trying to. Sure, the fact that he’s (seemingly) coming clean about everything and (seemingly) taking responsibility for the lies, destructive behaviors, and despicable actions might make some people want to think better of him—but I don’t think he really wants that.

He comes across—and I realize this could be entirely calculated—as someone who is being honest about his shortcomings, seeking to explain the devastation his addictions have wrought on himself and many, many of those around him—how he’s somehow managed to have some success in the midst of that. He gives credit to some of those who’ve helped him get to this point in recovery—or kept him alive long enough to get there. In the end, however, Perry’s not a good guy and doesn’t pretend to be one. He’s a mess who will very likely kill himself if he relapses a time or two more.

So, what did I think about Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing?

I’ve been a big fan of Perry’s since Friends (I can point to the joke that made me one)—I’ve seen almost everything he’s done (sometimes not because of him, but I appreciated his involvement). But I put this book under the category of “will get around to eventually, maybe.” Until I saw people reacting to how much of the focus of the book is on the Big Terrible Thing. And that piqued my interest.

That sounds ghoulish, I realize, but hearing a well-documented addict talking about their struggles is something that I appreciate. It helps me empathize with those I know fighting that fight, and I hope, helps me understand and appreciate their struggles.

Perry’s clear that he’s been given every opportunity, tool, and help to get sober and to maintain that sobriety. And he’s squandered almost every one of them. And it has yet to work. The amounts he takes on a regular basis when he uses is…it’s a shocking amount—and only someone as wealthy as he is could pull it off.

At the same time, there’s a glimmer of hope. A faint glimmer, sure. But there is one—and if someone whose rock bottom is as low as Perry’s was can maybe make it—there’s hope for others, too. And that’s the big thing I took away—there’s hope. Hope for other addicts, hope for Perry.

I thought this was a riveting and disturbing read—made tolerable by Perry’s off-kilter and somewhat humorous telling of the stories. It’s not like most celebrity memoirs I’ve read (but I don’t think it’s that ground-breaking)—but definitely worth the time.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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She’d thought to herself many times that the town was too shiny, too perfect, a vision of Americana, with fern-green pastures unfurling north of the reservoir, and pickup trucks and ranches that spoke of a vanished dream: the hardworking people of the heartland.

But there were hate crimes and harassment in this heartland, communities who lived at the mercy of their employers, and vigilantes and cops who were there to make them obey. In Chicago, the exercise of power was naked and direct; she knew that all too well. Blackwater’s old-fashioned gentility masked its insistence on the status quo, an insight that made her uneasy.

What’s Blackwater Falls About?

Well, I could put this in a very bare-bones way—a pair of detectives take over a murder investigation in a small town outside of Denver. There’ve been a number of complaints about the Sherriff, so Denver PD has sent them. One high school girl has been killed, and there are rumors of two others that are missing. The detectives deal with local roadblocks, an antagonistic Sherriff’s department, and some internal troubles as they search for answers.

This is not a new idea to Police Procedurals—at all. And for good reason—that’s the makings of a good story. But…let’s put some meat on those bones and see what Khan does that makes this novel stand out.

Detective Imaya Rahman has recently moved from Chicago to Denver, following some professional failure and personal trauma (it’s initially unclear what both were). She’s part of the Community Response Unit—which is assigned to any case calling for police accountability, particularly in cases involving overpoliced communities/areas. The unit was formed following the protests of 2020, and Rahman was involved in police oversight back in Chicago, it was a natural fit. The murder victim—a Syrian refugee—was a member of the same mosque that Rahman and her family attends (her father’s a criminal defense attorney, and her younger sisters attend a local college, I’m not sure what her mother does other than worry about getting her daughters married), and was discovered in that mosque. Her body was posed and displayed in a way that seemed to invoke both Christ’s crucifixion and the Virgin Mary. Between the victim, the building, and the imagery—this screams hate crime. And the tensions between the Sherriff’s Department and the (largely immigrant) Muslim community in the area are at a boiling point.

Enter CRU and Det. Rahaman, in particular. Her partner was a former trauma therapist who moved into criminal psychology, bringing valuable insights and profiling abilities. Before joining the CRU, Det. Catalina Hernandez had worked for years on the border helping immigrants with legal and medical aid. With her eye for detail, her ability to relate to the immigrant population of Blackwater Falls, and her people skills; and Rahman’s investigative instincts and shared background with the victim’s families—they’re the ideal team for this case.

There’s no dearth of suspects—there’s an evangelical megachurch in town where the preaching is as frequently anti-Muslim and anti-immigrant as it is pro-Christ. There’s the Disciples, a Christian motorcycle club—they appear to be the enforcers of the outlook of said megachurch (and make an aggressive appearance at the victim’s home the day of her body’s discovery). There’s the private (and very white) school the victim attended, where she’d been harassed and assaulted for her race, her apparel, and her success. Part of that success was getting a coveted internship at a local tech firm that she’d recently been fired from. Lastly, her father had been part of a movement to organize a union at the plant he worked at—and management’s response was both aggressive and seemingly targeted at the families of the organizers.

It seemed like a large suspect pool when I was reading it, but having typed it all out just now, it seems even more daunting.

As I said earlier, the Sherriff’s department is hostile—naturally because no one likes being pushed off a case, and possibly because there’s a good reason for them to be removed. At the same time, they seem awfully well-informed about what’s happening in the investigation (as do some of the potential suspects)—does the CRU have a leak?

The Subplots/Worldbuilding

Yeah, even with all of that going on, Khan is able to work in a handful of subplots—some of which serve the story, some establish the characters, and some help build the foundation of a series. It doesn’t feel over-stuffed and nothing is given short shrift. I’m not going to go into them all at this point because I don’t want this post to get too long, so I’ll be vague here.

This is a fantastic world here (well, okay, it’s a horrible world because it’s pretty realistic—but it’s a fantastic world for the purposes of an ongoing series. I’m pretty sure that the entities that proved to have nothing to do with the murder will be seen again in relation to a future crime.

The tensions and problems within the CRU will give all the characters opportunities for growth and development as that Unit becomes better (or devolves into uselessness).

Over the course of the case, Rahman and Hernandez form an alliance (and possible budding friendship) with a local attorney and minority rights activist—the potential for mutual aid and clashes within this group of women alone is enough to fuel readers’ imaginations for a few books.

Also, you have to account for Rahman’s backstory, family, and potential romantic entanglements that we’ve only scratched the surface of in this book, it’s going to take a few more to really explore all of this. And I’m sure the other members of the team could have similar arcs as well.

Culture Clashes

Blackwater Falls is a pretty diverse community at the present (but not historically)—you’ve got the families that have made this community over the generations—largely white, Protestant (of various types), and moderately-to-very affluent. There’s a new Muslim community appearing—Rahman’s family, Syrian refugees, and significant numbers of Somalis—largely brought into do blue-collar work. Denver’s CRU itself is pretty diverse.

The key to both success when it comes to this case and for the health of the community is understanding each other to some extent. Khan makes this point subtly throughout, but you can’t walk away from the book without it making an impression. The detectives struggle to overcome their lack of understanding of parts of the communities, cultures, and religions in the town, as do the citizens/residents, the suspects, and (I think I can say without spoiling anything) even the killer is tripped up by not really understanding things. The lack of mutual respect and awareness will destroy this unit and community until bridges are built—and used.

For the way she handles this theme alone, Khan deserves a kudos or two.

So, what did I think about Blackwater Falls?

I think I’ve tipped my hand already here. I was very impressed by this book—I’ve seen a lot of people talk about how a good police procedural can be written post-George Floyd. Here’s the answer. Khan tackles the struggles of a police department trying to do the job they’ve always done while making slow changes and resisting others—the CRU’s lieutenant (who I’ve ignored solely for reasons of space up until now) is the poster child for this. There are outside voices wanting these changes to happen more rapidly and others decrying the entire idea—and these detectives are stuck in the middle while trying to stop a murderer.

Is this a template for others? No. But it’s a shining example that the subgenre can survive and thrive. Possibly even drawing new readers in, too.

The character work—both major and minor—is fantastic, there’s not one of them that couldn’t walk off the page as a living, breathing person. The pacing is tight. The tension is organic and ratchets up throughout just the way it should. The mystery(ies) are well-plotted and executed. Khan left a giant red herring for readers to be distracted by, wondering why the detectives weren’t following one line of investigation—and my notes are full of my grumbling about it, smug in knowing that I’d figured out a significant part of the case (and maybe the killer’s identity) hundreds of pages ahead of them. And as I called it a red herring, I clearly couldn’t have been more wrong, but I didn’t give up on it until I had to.

Right now, I have this sense that there are a point or two that I intended to make that I’ve completely forgotten about—and I feel bad about that, because this is one of those books that you can really sink your teeth into. At the same time, I have a sense that I’m nearing the “said too-much” line, so I’ll leave this here and not try to think of those neglected points.

This is a great procedural in the way it embraces the defining traits and pushes them in new ways, it’s a great character study, a good commentary on several issues facing the country—and it’s a pretty solid mystery, too (can’t forget that). I’m more than eager to see where this series goes next. Get your hands on this one, friends.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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He huffed out a laugh. “I thought you said no to prom because you didn’t want to ruin everything.”

“What’s everything?” She was still whispering.

“You and me. Friendship.”

“I don’t,” she said. “But I’d rather we ruin it together than you ruin it with somebody else.”

What’s Scattered Showers About?

This is the first collection of short stories by Rainbow Rowell—nine stories, four of which had been previously published.

They are, at their core, love stories—the beginning of a relationship, the change of a relationship, the maintaining of one—and a couple that are harder to define. Rowell’s signature style and sweetness fills these pages—her light humor and propensity for happy endings, too. (propensity, not universal practice)

Checking In On Old Friends

With three of these stories, Rowell revisits characters from previous novels. We get to see some of the primary characters from Attachments in “Mixed Messages,” and a character from Fangirl in “If the Fates Allow,” and some of the characters from the Simon Snow trilogy (and, I guess, from Fangirl, too?).

I didn’t get into the Simon Snow stuff in Fangirl (and even skipped most of it) and didn’t bother with those books—but I liked the fact that Rowell did revisit some of her previous work. (I do wish we’d gotten to see Eleanor and/or Park, but am pretty sure that I’d have been annoyed at whatever she told us about them, so I’m glad she didn’t include anything about them).

Now, it’s not essential that you’re familiar with the characters in these stories to enjoy them. I don’t honestly remember who Reagan was from Fangirl (hey, it was 9 years ago, cut me some slack), but I quite enjoyed this story featuring her. I did remember the characters from Attachments, but I don’t think it enhanced my appreciation of that story—but it was nice to see a little about what’s gone on with them.

The Illustrations

Opposite the first page of each story is a full-page illustration, sort of a cover image. There are also some accent illustrations scattered throughout the stories. They were attractive and fitting to the stories. I’m not sure that they added much to the book, but I did think they were nice touches.

So, what did I think about Scattered Showers?

I’m a sucker for Rowell’s love stories, and had a lot of fun with these.* When she’s not writing about teen wizards, I have a hard time resisting her work (and don’t find much inclination to try).

* Okay, true to form, I skipped “Snow for Christmas” after the first page and a half didn’t intrigue me at all.

Out of her norm were two stories: one that’s a strange fairy-tale of sorts that I found strangely appealing, but I’m not sure how to talk about it. The closing story is about some characters who’ve taken up residence in an author’s subconscious or imagination, while they wait for the author to put them into a story or novel. I thought this was a fantastic story—Pirandello-esque, but with a Rowell-twist.

All in all, this was a very pleasant way to spend a couple of hours.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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Until I heard Horowitz on a podcast talking about this book, I wasn’t sure if I was going to bother with the book—but he piqued my interest. I’m glad he did—he’s really good at keeping this series from falling into a formula, and bringing Hawthorne into this case to get Horowitz out of trouble was a nice twist (but something he can’t repeat).

I didn’t buy—at all—the way Horowitz didn’t involve his wife in his situation—or how she reacted. The way the other detectives focused on Horowitz and didn’t really listen to him seemed less-than-credible, too—but not as much.

Still, this was a fun listen—Kinnear’s a great narrator—and this mystery was clever. It was a good time—I know you’ll find more enthusiastic recommendations from several other people, and you should probably take their advice. The best I can do is that this book probably led me to get the next one.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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This was a nice step up from the previous books. Spotswood is gaining in confidence and it’s showing. The main client this time out was the best yet and was so believable—the crime was an interesting twist on a familiar setup (see the Castle pilot, for example). The secondary case was pretty much just filler (so much so that Pentecost was willing to give it up), but it still gave some good moments and set up some other promising things. There’s a side trip into an ongoing crusade of Pentecost’s that was really well done—I’m really interested in seeing how this progresses in the future.

This is clearly a Nero Wolfe-inspired series, but it’s becoming less of one all the time—and that’s good. Even better because Spotswood’s Zeck is going to prove to be more formidable and subtle than Stout’s was. (although I wish he’d give Parker the same kind of privacy when it comes to her personal life as Stout gave Archie)

Overall, I liked this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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I'm getting a little annoyed by this series, I have to admit—I'm in it for the long-haul, make no mistake. But man...it feels like we're just spinning our wheels with a couple of the storylines (and not in believable ways, mostly just to stretch out the drama), and Tori just refuses to learn or develop in any meaningful way (which is realistic, sure, but irritating in a fictional character after this long).

Still, I enjoy the novels, and am intrigued by some of the developments. Dukehart is fun to listen to—and the way this is interwoven with the other series ensures I'm sticking around.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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Coll tried so hard—you could feel the effort on every page. There were some truly amusing moments, and even a little sweetness here. But every storyline was entirely predictable—and not in the way that can be comfy and reassuring, but in a disappointing way. The madcap/slapstick moments felt disorganized and chaotic. The earnest parts felt like a Hallmark card.

The parts of the book that were about the ups and downs, travails and semi-triumphs, of a small bookstore made me like this enough not to resent the experience. But that's about the best thing I can say.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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This was a good way to bring Nate back into the series if nothing else. The story was okay, and seeing Joe balance out working for his new administrator and Gov. Rulon was fun. I was less-than-excited about Sheridan’s storyline, it was good to see her in action, and any way that Box can do that is okay with me—I just wanted more, I guess.

Bringing Missy in (and Box might as well have saved time with that reveal, anyone could’ve seen that coming 5 miles away) didn’t do much for me at all. The series really needs less of her, and I don’t get Box’s need to use her as much as he does.

A decent installment in this series—nothing special, but nothing bad, either.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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I think I need to read this, so I can focus on some things I didn't give enough attention to (and a couple of the names confused me a bit, so I know I missed some things while I figured out the context).

But this story about an aging assassin who might be having memory issues, and could be developing a conscience of sorts—while trying to put a young up-and-comer in their place was just great.

Every front worked—the emotional moments, the dry wit, the action and intrigue, the character development...all solidly delivered. I'd probably have rated this higher if I'd read it and could've been more careful in understanding. Strongly recommended.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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Opening a coffee shop has to be hard—period. Especially if you happen to be an ork, tired of the adventuring and killing, who wants to retire to a quiet community (instead of dying in battle). Harder still if no one in this part of the world has ever heard of coffee. But Viv's not known for backing down, she's going to give it her all.

This is possibly the sweetest Fantasy story ever written. It's just pleasant—as pleasant as whiling away an hour or two in a comfy coffee shop chair with some great beverages. I've got nothing else to say, everything else would just be a rewording or unnecessary expansion on that.

Baldree's narration was as good as his text—sometimes I wonder about the ego involved in an author doing their own narration, when they just shouldn't. But Baldree absolutely should've.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader along with a Q&A with the author about the book.

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What’s Early Grave About?

Jake and his former teammate Tank are at a High School Football game—Tank’s son, Rod (also Jake’s godson), is making his debut and the two older men are beyond excited. On the opening play, Rod takes a hard hit, and Jake (who suffers from CTE) is concerned that the concussion protocol isn’t being followed, but before they can do anything, play resumes and Rod takes another hit—one he does not get up from.

The two men rush to the field and help the medical professionals until Rod can be taken to a hospital. Rod’s moment of glory has been turned into the worst day of their lives—and it’ll be worse when Tank’s wife/Rod’s mother is informed (no one had told her that Rod was playing football). He’s going to live, but it’s impossible to say whether he’ll walk again—or be able to do much at all.

Jake wants blood—so he sues the school, certain he can get around the waiver Tank signed, and seeks an injunction from the court to suspend High School contact football games until it can be proven that all schools have taken steps to ensure the game is safer.

Tackling Football

No one can blame Jake for the first part of his suit—although many doubt he’ll be able to get around the waiver (Victoria Lord gives him some help on that). But the second part feels like career suicide—he becomes a laughing stock in town, on local radio, in the legal community, and on social media.

I need to stop for a minute and talk about the social media parts—throughout the book, there’ll be news updates on the case which triggers Twitter responses (possibly other sites, but they feel like tweets to me). They are hilarious, in a funny-‘cuz-it’s-true way. This is precisely how the Internet would respond to a lawyer doing this. Levine did a great job on this front.

On a more serious front—if Jake pulls off a miracle here, that will suggest there’s something wrong with the game. If people aren’t being careful enough at the local level, what about college? What about the NFL? Powerful groups and people don’t want this to come anywhere near a courthouse, there’s just too much to lose. Jake finds himself, his associates, and his clients the target of many less-than-ethical endeavors to keep the case from progressing.

The legal aspects of this case are hard enough, but when you throw in the threats, intimidation, and money flying around to stop it? Things get even uglier.

Counseling

Jake and Melissa are in counseling—she’s discovered he’s been hiding medical issues, and who knows what else, from her. The trust is broken and she’s concerned about their future. Their engagement may be on the rocks. Melissa doesn’t have much to do in the primary story, so this is the main interaction we get with her. Through their counseling sessions, we get to see a lot of introspection and some flashbacks to Jake’s childhood.

I don’t know that they add a lot to the story, but these scenes do a great job of exploring parts of Jake’s character we probably wouldn’t be able to see otherwise—once he stops joking around defensively, that is.

Is This is the End?

Given Lassiter’s health, readers had to expect that he couldn’t keep going forever—I even asked about that back in 2020 when Levine participated in a Q&A, he said,

Lassiter told me he retired after “Bum Deal” in 2018. But when his beloved nephew Kip gets indicted for taking other kids’ SAT exams as an imposter, well, what choice did he have but to get back in the courtroom? [that’d be Cheater’s Game] I suspect Jake has one more case in him.

This might be that one more case—it’s being marketed as the last book in the series, anyway. Early Grave certainly feels like it’s the end—in several ways.

Still, since at least the days of Holmes and The Reichenbach Falls, we all know that authors have a tendency to change their minds about ending things. I’m not sure I’d close the book on this series, you never know what Levine might do. If nothing else, there’s room for books between the previously published adventures.

So, what did I think about Early Grave?

It’s probably just as dangerous for an author like Levine to mess around with something like Football as it is for an author to mess with a character’s pet dog or cat. There are some things you just don’t threaten. But Levine (and Lassiter) dance along that nasty third rail with aplomb and panache—throw in some good personal plot lines and some ominous actions from the other side and you’ve got yourself the makings of a solid thriller.

Like with most legal thrillers, the best parts of this novel happen in the courtroom—the reader is treated to great tension, some genuine comedy, and some clever reveals. The lawyers, legal assistants (for the defense), and the judge are just what’s needed for Levine to make this aspect of the novel really sing.

Jake’s a long-established maverick—and he acts like one with witnesses, his opposition, even his clients, and the law. All while dealing with his own ongoing medical issues—you have to wonder at times if Jake should’ve had a second chair just in case he doesn’t survive until the verdict is pronounced. But it’s that maverick nature that’s got him this far in life—and this far in the series, so you know that’s exactly what the readers want.

The conclusion to the case is satisfying—maybe a little credulity-stretching, but at that point, who cares? What happens after that shows Levine’s intentions for the character in pretty definite terms (with a little wiggle room, all that someone like Jake Lassiter needs). The whole thing is about as satisfying as you could want.

My only regret is that I haven’t managed to go back to the beginning so that I can feel the cumulative weight of this series coming to an end. That said, these books are designed to be read as stand-alones, and there’s no reason this couldn’t be the first installment that someone picks up.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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Oh, this was just fun. Gwen and Martin's kids are teens now, and discover the whole magic/computer thing on their own (mostly because Gwen, Martin, and Philip are in major trouble and the teens blame Philip). We get to see some magic that's not in the medieval England or Atlantean model, and see how strange everything in the first 5 books really is through the twins' fresh eyes.

Daniels was his typical great self; Meyers was inventive, clever, and witty (as you expect), and the story was very satisfying.

If this is the end of the road for this series, it was a great way to go. If not? I'm really going to enjoy what comes next.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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This is a short story, so I'm not going to keep this short and sweet. Let's go with a Pros and Cons list:

PROS

* Satisfying SF Story

* Jewel Staite

* Neil flippin' Gaiman

CONS

* Sound effects that are effective, but a little too loud

It's 29 minutes of entertaining goodness.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.

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Whatever problems I have with this are not with Newbern—I really enjoyed the narration.

I also really enjoyed portions of this—I can't say entire storylines or characters—but maybe half of each? (some of the beginnings were great and then fell apart, some ended so well that I forgot that I really didn't want anything to do with the characters/story, and some had great middles).

I found the overall "Friend" idea that tied all these divergent stories together both a great idea, and problematic at the same time.

I really wanted to like this, and assumed going in that I was going to love it. But I think this novel has taught me a lesson I should've learned with his TV show—Bays has moments of brilliance, but shouldn't be allowed too much control over a story's ending. (but if given the chance, I'm sure I'll give him another try)

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Triptych About?

I’m going to start off by saying it took me far, far, far too long to figure out how the title was appropriate. I cannot express how clueless I felt once the light bulb went on. I should stress that I wasn’t sitting around pondering it—and had essentially forgotten the title. I’m pretty sure I’d have sussed it out earlier. The more I think about it, however, the less I think it’s appropriate—Polyptych would be better—Tetraptych or Quadriptych would be even more accurate. But who even knows those terms anymore?

Anyway, there’s a serial killer/rapist afoot in the Atlanta area—the ages, races, and socio-economic status are varied enough that the typical pattern doesn’t fit. The novel shows the hunt for the killer from three overlapping perspectives (with a fourth for a significant portion of the book, too).

The first is from APD Homicide Detective Michael Ormewood, who might be a perfectly adequate detective (it’s hard to tell at the beginning, but you have to assume he is). He is a terrible person however. I know the two aren’t related, but…ick. You want the killer to be stopped, but you really don’t want him to be the one who stops him. So, it’s nice that an agent from the Georgia Bureau of Investigations, Will Trent, comes along to consult on the murder investigation Ormewood’s involved with—and shows him that it’s connected to others.

The second perspective is that of an ex-con, who has been out for only a few months. You can’t help but like him—in sharp contrast to Ormewood—but he’s a convicted murderer and is a registered sex offender, so it’s hard to generate a lot of sympathy for him. The part of the novel focused on him includes so much backstory you’d be well within your rights to forget that you’re supposed to be worried about a killer in the present. He’s clearly reformed (but honestly, doesn’t remember committing the crime he’s convicted of), he’s a rare success story for the Criminal Justice system—sadly, the world isn’t going to recognize that anytime soon. Connecting him to the present case takes a long time, but proves to be pretty important.

The third perspective is that of Will Trent. I don’t know if this was supposed to be a stand-alone, or if the whole point of the novel was to introduce Trent as central character of the series. In the end, that was the result, though. Trent’s an oddball of a detective—but he’s incredibly good at what he does. Eventually he, and his on-again-off-again lover/lifelong best friend (a detective in Vice with an ugly history with Ormewood) start to put the pieces together.

Alllllmost DNFed

I didn’t like this novel much at all—and was pushing myself through it for at least the first half. Why? I don’t know—I just wasn’t in the mood for any other audiobook I had my hands on, I guess. Kramer’s narration, Slaughter’s style, the characters, and the experience as a whole, just left a sour taste in my mouth.

Eventually, while I still didn’t enjoy the book, I got to the point that I was going to listen just to see how the ex-con’s storyline ended up. Still, I almost returned this to the library at least eight times before that point (and once or twice after).

When Trent’s perspective took over, I enjoyed it enough to start thinking about getting book 2. Also, I wanted to see how Slaughter took this particular book and turned it into a series that’s gone on into eleven books (as of later this year) and spawned a TV series.

The Narration

Kramer does a capable job, I guess, but it just didn’t work for me. I’ve listened to other books by him before (have only written about one of them, though) and I’ve felt the same way. His name didn’t trigger anything for me, but that voice and delivery sure did.

Kramer has a list of credits that can only be described as “enviable,” and keeps getting work—so clearly I’m in the minority when it comes to him. His name isn’t enough to keep me from listening to a book—but it sure won’t convince me to give something a try if I’m on the fence about it.

So, what did I think about Triptych?

Huh. What do you know? I said pretty much everything I have to say already.

I actually think I’d have been better off walking away from it. The ending was satisfying and my curiosity about the ex-con was satiated. But I’m not happy with myself about it.

Trent and his friend (or whatever), Angie, are interesting enough that I do think I’ll come back for another ride, but I don’t think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. They’re the reason the book gets that 1/2 star.