Library Limelights 152

Michael Connelly. Two Kinds of Truth. USA: Little, Brown and Company/Hachette, 2017.

Aging somewhere north of 65 is not slowing down Harry Bosch. In fact, he's more active than ever as a volunteer, working two cases simultaneously. His San Fernando Valley PD colleagues are aghast when he agrees to go undercover into an illicit prescription drug network run by the notorious drug lord Santos. His scary, ultimate success does not override the dismally depressing epidemic of "hillbilly heroin" addiction, the biggest growth industry in southern California. The second case brings some of Harry's former LAPD colleagues to the fore: Lucia Soto and Jerry Edgar. Much to his anger, Harry is being accused of planting evidence in an old case that will release a scumbag convict from death row.

Harry's reputation is destroyed in the media. It's the lowest point imaginable: questioning his own previously vaunted detective skills. If he missed or misinterpreted evidence in one case, what does that do to all the cases he solved? Will his fellow cops believe he didn't do it? One truth is Harry's own fundamental honesty; another "truth" is that which is manipulated by self-serving authorities. We're certain that Harry will prevail, with the canny help of his non-conformist half-brother, the lawyer Mickey Haller. Together they propose to uncover a conspiracy, a matter that may not even be admitted into court. This is Connelly's typical police and court procedural cum laude. An ambiguous scene flashes past at the end, yet Harry revives.

Word: entropy - "degree of disorder or randomness" in a system; lack of predictability

One-liners:

There was a saying in police work, that places were safe until they weren't. (134)

The seeds were planted thousands of miles away by faceless men of greed and violence. (329)

As much as he trusted his half brother, passing the responsibility to someone else left him sweating in a cold room. (335)

Listen up:

"I think the only one with a problem here is you, Harry."Bosch had nothing to say to that. He sensed that something had changed in her view of him. He had fallen in her eyes, and she had sympathy for him but not the respect she'd once had. He was missing something here. He had to get back to the investigative file he knew she had stuffed into his mailbox, whether she acknowledged it or not. He now had to consider that she had done so not to help him but to warn him about what lay ahead. 

"Listen to me," Soto said. "I'm putting my neck out here for you because...because we were partners. You need to let this play out without setting a fire. If you don't, you are going to get hurt in a big way." 

"You don't think it's going to hurt in a big way to see that guy—that killer—walk out of San Quentin a free man?" (78-9)

History revisited:

Bosch was fresh back from war in Southeast Asia. When he entered the house he saw a boy of about five or six standing with a housekeeper. He knew then that he had a half brother. A month later he stood on a hillside and watched as their father was put into the ground. 

"Yes," Bosch said. "That was a long time ago." 

"Well," Siegel said. "For me everything was a long time ago. The longer you live, the more you can't believe how things change." (159)

Kicking addiction:

" ... In six weeks I accumulated over a thousand pills. That's when I made the deal with myself. When those pills ran out, I was going to rise up and beat it. And I did." 

"I'm glad you did, Cisco." 

"Fucking A. Me, too." 

"So no help from the V.A.?" 

"Fuck them, the docs at the V.A. were the ones got me hooked in the first place after my surgeries. Then they cut me loose and I'm on the street, strung out, trying to keep a job, trying to keep my wife. Fuck the V.A. I'll never go back to them." 

The story was not surprising to Bosch. It was the story of the epidemic. People start out hurt and just want to kill the pain and get better. Then they're hooked and need more than the prescriptions allow. People like Santos fill the space, and there is no turning back. (175-6)

Louise Penny. The Long Way Home. USA: Minotaur Books/St Martin's Press, 2014.

Armand Gamache is retired as Quebec's chief inspector of homicide, still recovering physically and mentally from a near-death experience. His slow rehab is disturbed when he learns that his friend and neighbour Clara wants to search for her missing artist husband Peter. And so begins Gamache's new "case" with a team that includes his wife, his son-in-law Beauvoir, and local bookseller cum psychologist Myrna. Their names and their village of Three Pines will be familiar to the legion of Penny fans. Tracking Peter's year away from home is challenging; seeking new directions for his painting seemed to be his impetus. Along the way the team meets more artistes and increasingly sinister clues.

I'm not the biggest fan of Penny, but there's no denying her immense appeal. Quebec small town and wilderness ambience are highly visual; most of the characters are endearing (Ruth is irresistible). It's a terrific story with the usual rich literary sprinklings. Structurally, the book is admirably perfect. But personally, I find the artistic and metaphysical metaphors to the point of overdone, almost belaboured. With no less than four artists involved, we have muses and magic and cosmic speculation and psychic reconstruction galore. Is it that difficult for a man to examine and change his safe, selfish path through life? There's a hint that a vaguely bipolar state is necessary to be successfully creative; we feel for Gamache's tender recovery.

One-liners:

The Chief had walked away with a smile, knowing he'd completely messed with Beauvoir's mind. (99)

Was the final fear that, in losing his fears, he would also lose his joy? (122)

Two-liners:

Turmoil shook loose all sorts of unpleasant truths. But it took peace to examine them. (4)

They had to face each other. And tell each other the truth. (329)

A practical man:

When Beauvoir had first met these people, and this village, he knew little about art and what he knew was more than he found useful. But after many years of exposure to the art world, he'd become interested. Sort of. 

What mostly interested him wasn't the art, but the environment. The infighting. The casual cruelty. The hypocrisy. The ugly business of selling beautiful creations. 

And how that ugliness sometimes grew into crime. And how the crime sometimes festered into murder. Sometimes. (137)

Gamache reflecting:

It was how Clara described her first attempt at a painting. No, not a mess, it was something else. A dog's breakfast. Ruth had called it that and Clara had agreed. Ruth tried to capture feelings in her poetry. Clara tried with color and subject to give form to feelings. 

It was messy. Unruly. Risky. Scary. So much could go wrong. Failure was always close at hand. But so was brilliance. 

Peter Morrow took no risks. He neither failed nor succeeded. There were no valleys, but neither were there mountains. Peter's landscape was flat. An endless, predictable desert. 

How shattering it must have been, then, to have played it safe all his life and been expelled anyway. From home. From his career.What would a person do when the tried-and-true was no longer true? (122)

Leader of the search:

"Clara's in charge. She knows what she's doing." 

"She once ate potpourri thinking it was chips," said Jean-Guy. "She took a bath in soup, thinking it was bath salts. She turned a vacuum cleaner into a sculpture. She has no idea what she's doing." 

Gamache smiled. "At least if it all goes south, we have someone else to blame for once." (287)

Yrsa Sigurdardottir. Ashes to Dust. UK: Hodder & Stoughton, 2011.

A bit battered, the copy of the book I received, but didn't affect the wholly refreshing nature of the tale within. The ashes of the title refer to a historic volcanic eruption in 1973 on the main island of the Westman group lying off Iceland's south coast, spewing lava and ash that destroyed so many homes. That occurrence covered up, literally, evidence of puzzling events at the same time, now coming to the fore. Lawyer Thora Gudmundsdottir is hired to defend Markus Magnusson on suspicion of murder when ash-covered skeletons are found in the basement of his ruined family home. Then Markus' childhood sweetheart Alda suffers a macabre death and both Thora and the police wonder if there is a connection.

Thora definitely puts out more effort than the cops to investigate alternative suspects. It's a bizarre maze after the lapse of several generations of family history and island secrets. A young girl Tinna is prey to anorexic anguish; Markus' father Magnus is just as trapped in dementia; accusations of rape hover over a few heads; the reputation of a nurse is in jeopardy. How will Thora ever find witnesses who are willing to talk? So many unexplained old mysteries; so many evasive characters. Squeamish alert: includes a graphic death and a head in a box. Leading her determined heroine through some challenging hoops and spectacular scenery, the author is clearly a winner.

One-liners:

It was absolutely indisputable ‒ four Icelanders simply could not have vanished without being missed. (89-90)

Those who are not used to hiding the truth always give themselves away. (123)

Agust tended toward the melodramatic, and she had no desire to nourish her own anxiety with his paranoia. (176)

The balls of Thora's feet began to ache in sympathy again, the woman's stilettos were so high. (323)

Two-liner: "I'm like a puffin. I can't take off unless I've got the sea in my sight." (78)

Digging out:

"For a while they were removing nearly ten thousand cubic metres of ash from the town every day. Landa Church was partly buried," said Leifur, pointing in the direction of the imposing but unostentatious chapel standing next to the cemetery. "A few houses were dug up, next to the ones where the current excavation is taking place." It was clear to Thora that she had to learn more about the eruption if she didn't want to waste all her time uncovering facts that were already common knowledge. She had brought the book Gylfi got from the library, and she could start reading it in her hotel room that evening. (68)

Medical discretion:

"Do you mean that Alda didn't leave on good terms?" said Thora. 

"That's actually what I was led to understand in my conversation with the head nurse." 

"Good and not so good," said Bjargey, enigmatically. "A particular situation came up that she and the department couldn't see eye to eye on, which led to an agreement that she should take a leave of absence until the matter was resolved." She fiddled again with her hair-clip, although it now appeared to be securely fastened. "The decision was reached without acrimony. I'm convinced that Alda would have come back if things hadn't gone as they did." 

"I see," said Thora. "You said the investigation was ongoing both here in the hospital and elsewhere. Are you talking about a police investigation or a liability claim?" She tried to imagine crimes one could commit in a hospital. "Did Alda make a mistake n her work? Did she steal drugs? Or ..." (185-6)

Hospitalized:

Maybe the woman wanted her to count sheep, like cartoon characters did. Tinna closed her eyes and tried it. In her mind's eye, one, two, three sheep hopped over a green-painted fence. The door to the room opened and closed with a faint thud. The woman had probably gone, but Tinna didn't want to ruin the sheep-race by opening her eyes and looking. She focused again on the fence and the sheep. It wasn't going well. The sheep were disgustingly fat, and the fourth one couldn't jump at all. It stood by the fence, breathless and panting. Then it started to expand, and soon its snout disappeared into its white belly, which stretched wider and wider until finally there was a loud bang as it burst. Blood and guts flew everywhere. Tinna opened her eyes quickly to rid herself of this vision. She was alone in the room. Her breasts heaved up and down. This was what awaited her if she didn't get out of here. She would get fatter and fatter until she blew up. (293)

The client's family:

"Don't you want to know what I found in the archive?" asked her secretary, sucking at her straw thirstily. "They opened it for me. That Leifur clearly has the town in his pocket. All I had to do was say his name and they pulled out the keys." 

"Yes, it's in everyone's interest to keep him happy," Thora said. "So what did you find? It's good that one of us is making progress, because meeting Markus' parents did me little good. His father was away with the fairies and his mother was such a dry old stick that she sucked all the moisture out of the air. The only thing I got out of it was some gibberish about a falcon and a child, and a headache from the old woman's perfume. ..." (264-5)