Library Limelights 165

Phillip Margolin. The Third Victim. USA: Minotaur Books/St Martin's Press, 2018.

Robin Lockwood, as a brand-new lawyer, joins the firm of Regina Barrister, an acclaimed defence attorney in Portland, Oregon. They are hired first to defend a fellow lawyer, Alex Mason, on kidnapping, murder, and assault charges. Then they take on a rather sleazy cop for a murder charge, risking a conflict of interest. The murder circumstances in each case have similarities, leading Robin and the police to some bizarre theories. Mason's wife Alison is testifying against him and his S & M practices; surviving victim Meredith seems to guarantee a slam dunk for the prosecution. Meanwhile Regina worries that her increasing signs of dementia that could affect the two trials.

The Masons, husband and wife, accuse each other of the same crimes. Robin desperately tries to separate the lies – some intricate legalities here. Despite the convoluted connections and lead-up, in my opinion Margolin does not deliver one of his stronger finishes. Exposing an elaborate scheme too soon is anti-climactic, losing momentum and eliminating much of the suspense. Yet the complex plot is a challenge for the reader and his highlighting of dementia deserves kudos. Grammar alert disappointment: Margolin is an "off of" writer.

One-liners:

"First she frames me for murder and then she guts me financially." (94)

If Robin's worst fears about Regina turned out to be true, Alex Mason could die. (152)

"Anyway, the redhead showed up with another woman and suggested a threesome." (268)

Early signs:

"And why would they take the word of a pimp and drug dealer who had a motive to kill Mr Poe over your word?" 

"Me and Poe, we have a history," Prater sounded nervous and he shifted in his chair. "Wright's claiming I beat up one of Poe's whores and threatened Poe when he interfered. And there's the lawsuit Poe served on me just before he was killed." 

"He was suing you?" Regina said. 

Robin frowned. She and Regina had just talked about the lawsuit and Regina had read the complaint during Prater's previous visit. 

Prater looked confused. "You saw the complaint." 

Regina's face lost all expression for a moment. Then she smiled. "Yes, I did, but why don't you refresh my memory." (105)

Research:

The first thing she learned was that there were roughly seventy types of disorders that could cause or simulate dementia, and some were curable. Depression and misuse of sedatives could cause behavior that could present as dementia. And Alzheimer's wasn't the only type of dementia. Brain tumors, infections, and strokes could also cause it. 

There were warning signs she should look for. If memory changes disrupted daily life, it was something to worry about. Forgetting something that was recently learned or asking for the same information over and over was a sign that there was a problem. Was someone experiencing challenges in planning or solving problems, having trouble following a recipe, or keeping track of bills? Regina had evidenced some of these behaviors, but she'd also been incisive and insightful when she'd discussed complex legal issues with Robin. (108)

Oregon rules:

There were three possible sentences for a defendant convicted of aggravated murder: Death, life without the possibility of parole, or life with the possibility of parole. In the sentencing phase of the trial, the jurors were asked four questions: Was the conduct that caused the death of the deceased committed deliberately and with the reasonable expectation that the death of the deceased or another would result? Was there a probability that the defendant would commit criminal acts of violence that would constitute a continuing threat to society? If raised by the evidence, was the conduct of the defendant in killing the deceased unreasonable in response to the provocation, if any, by the deceased? And finally, should the defendant receive a death sentence? In order for the court to sentence a defendant to death, every juror had to answer yes to every question. (230)

Stuart M. Kaminsky. A Whisper to the Living. USA: Tom Doherty Associates, 2009.

Chief Inspector Porfirio Petrovich Rostnikov, Office of Special Investigations, is Kaminsky's man in Moscow ― a man with an artificial leg. His agenda is full: his team has three sets of partners working on three separate jobs, including the slaying of a popular boxer's wife and her lover, and protecting a western journalist who plans to interview some prostitutes as well as the powerful head of the corrupt, enormous Gasprom corporation. Rostnikov himself, working with the analyst Karpo and an eccentric pathologist, is on the trail of the maniac serial killer Chenko (whose days and thoughts we also follow). Rostnikov's son Iosef, on one team, is on the verge of marrying fellow cop Elena. Cop Sasha obligingly guards the journalist Iris in and out of bed. All their efforts are closely monitored by Rostnikov's boss Colonel Yaklovev (the Yak) who is watched in turn by his superior, General Misovenski. Kaminsky's signature satire perfectly captures the essence of Russian humour; the characters are priceless, at times hilarious.

This is Moscow ... the stereotypical land of blackmail and extortion to advance one's bureaucratic career, where everyone spies on everyone else. So many conniving characters and confrontations. Ivan, the giant boxer who mourns his murdered wife; Albina, the drunken widow of a murdered man; Volkovich, the sleazy head of the prostitution ring; Sasha's demanding mother Lydia; Pankov, nervous assistant to the Yak; and many more. What an entertaining crew and so well-paced. Sad to say, this may have been Kaminsky's last novel. He is forgiven for being an "off of" writer because he uses the Oxford comma. The consolation is that his works number in the dozens, sixteen devoted to Rostnikov.

One-liners:

He was a man of many small talents and a wide range of interests, but a stunning intellect was not one of them. (31)

They had no time for pleasantries and barely enough time for small unpleasantries. (111)

Colonel Yaklovev had long courted the rumor that he and Putin were judo workout partners. (153)

Two-liners:

In truth, Zelach was not comfortable with any phone. He disliked the silences that he was expected to fill. (103)

"No one with one leg is allowed to be a policeman. Stay away from him." (167)

"Where is Porfiry Petrovich?" asked the younger granddaughter. "Is he fixing someone's toilet?" (177)

He thought he looked quite dapper. The world did not agree. (186)

Interviews:

They had entered dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Stalin-era buildings like this over the years. Dark stairwells that echoed sharply with each step and smelled of tobacco, food, and the sweat of a thousand bodies. 

Zelach carried a small Chinese-made flashlight for situations like this. There was, however, enough light in this sagging building to see the numbers on the doors. 

Iosef knocked. He knocked again. He knocked a third time. They heard a shuffling on the other side of the door, and Iosef, in his deepest and most commanding voice, said, "Police." 

"I am not at home," came the voice of a woman. 

"Open the door," said Iosef. "We are here to talk to you about your husband's death." 

"I am expecting a visitor," the woman said. "Very soon." 

"You have a visitor," said Iosef. "The police." (91-2)

The former commissar:

"You know what we need?" he asked, reaching for the bread and butter and looking down at his soup. 

"Stalin," said Yuri automatically. 

"Stalin" was the answer to almost every question Yuri's grandfather posed. 

"Yes," he said. "Stalin. Stalin was a Georgian, like us. Did you know that?" 

Yuri knew it well. 

"Stalin would have taken care of the problem," said Yuri's grandfather, starting to eat the thick soup before him. 

Yuri did not know what the problem was, but he nodded his understanding and agreement. (167)

Indignities:

His apartment had begun to feel like a tight suit his parents had made him wear for a parade at the Kremlin. He had been eight years old and he was too short to see much of anything, though he could hear the grinding of tanks and the claps of marching boots. Aleks remembered the tight and itching suit and the fact that he had wet his pants. He had not told his parents, and when he got home he had hurried to the bathroom, stripped himself naked, and stepped into the shower. The shower had been cold. It was always cold. He ran it on his penis and between his legs where the redness itched.Aleks's father had shouted at him when he came out, called him a fool while his mother just shook her head and looked at the pile of clothes her son brought out. 

Perhaps it would be a good idea to kill his father. (202-3)

A little Russian humour:

Behind the desk directly in front of him sat Igor Yaklovev under a portrait of Lenin that one might be forgiven for thinking was a portrait of the Yak himself. 

"What?" 

"A young man wants to see you," said Pankov. "He claims to have something you would like to have, related to the man from Gasprom."The Yak pondered the situation for a moment. In his three years as Director of the Office of Special Investigations, no one had ever simply come to the gate seeking him. 

"Have him thoroughly searched, every thread of his clothing and every tooth in his mouth and all the recesses of every orifice of his body." 

"Yes, sir," said Pankov. "Then shall I bring him here?" 

"No," said the Yak. "Turn him loose naked and tell him never to return." 

"I―" Pankov began. 

"It is a joke, Pankov," said the Yak with some exasperation. 

"Oh. ..." 

Pankov had never before heard the Yak utter anything that even sounded like a joke. 

"Bring him," said the Yak, and Pankov hurried out the door. (205-6)

Mick Herron. This Is What Happened. USA: Soho Press, Inc., 2018.

The man is amazing in his consistent thrillers ‒ perfectly constructed, plotted, and characterized. No one else has the same wicked humour aimed at the espionage establishment. Now this small novel is something a little offbeat from his usual Slough House tales, opening with a nail-biting introduction to Maggie Barnes. Recruited by the somewhat odd Harvey Wells, Maggie has found a mission to make a difference, a terrifying contribution only she can give to save her country from a doomsday collapse. A mighty patriotic effort: whatever the outcome, she will be a fugitive assigned to an MI5 ("Five") safe house to conceal her identity and whereabouts. The Chinese are watching.

Then events take a decidedly bizarre turn. Saying much more would be a spoiler. Maggie's prior life in London had been one of anonymity, estranged from her sister, so no one will remark on her absence. Harvey's deep distrust of women becomes delicious irony amidst the steadily creeping suspense. Yet Maggie's loyalty never wavers despite her predicament. The underlying subject matter could have been, and has been, handled by others in much darker tones. But the message is just as strong in Herron's inimitable style. At times he writes like a poet on the shifting moods and scenes of iconic London, a city where lonely people can succumb to isolation and being forgotten. Another intelligent stunner from the man other authors admire.

Word: abseiling - a mountaineering term related to rappel, to descend with support

One-liners:

The heroism he was offering was anonymous, deniable, and might even be deemed criminal if things went wrong. (24)

To be caught in a crowd was to be the crowd, and to walk through rush hour was to drift between channels, tuning in and out of conversations poured down mobile phones. (29)

Everyone liked parakeets, until one of them crapped on you. (140)

Two-liners:

She was trying not to breathe. To make herself smaller than small. (19)

Mediocrity was tricky to plaster over. Jargon was the usual camouflage. (163)

Identity could be obliterated when you were poor. When you were rich, it could be redacted. (169)

The city:

London was defined by its river, it was said. London was the Thames, and had as many moods. But of London's many moods, Maggie had so far known only the moodiest. Its broadest river was the flood of strangers she found herself pressed among daily, and when she walked by the Thames itself, the only embrace it offered was cold. London's heart was carefully guarded. If it had a soul, she supposed it could be found in the street names that had survived fire and blitz, and now adorned prospects that would be utterly alien to the people who had dubbed them: Amen Corner, Cheapside, Paternoster Row. And whatever the opposite of a soul might be, London's lay buried beneath the barren towers of Canary Wharf. (33-4)

The prospect:

"Five are propping up the country," he'd said. "Five are making contingency plans in case the bottom drops out. And we go into free fall." 

She had tried to imagine what that was like, a country in free fall. It would involve high winds, trees bending low and buildings becoming loose. But Harvey had a bleaker frame of reference: 

"Like Germany between the wars. You remember those stories, how it took a basketful of currency to buy a loaf of bread? And if you got robbed, it was the basket they were after. The money had no value." 

"Things can't get that bad." 

"Can't they?" 

We're only ever three meals away from anarchy, he said. (93)

Self-examination:

Starting to drizzle. Ah, London. Always ready to take your mood and underwrite it with the weather. 

He caught the Tube, a particularly ratty stretch of track. and while it bucketed along set about adjusting his outlook. Earlier, he'd had a new job in prospect, and everything that brought with it: money, new routines, new people. Now he was back to where he'd been when he got out of bed this morning. But this wasn't the end of the world. That was what he told himself, scanning the ads above the benches, none of which encouraged him to become The Best Him He Could Be. It was almost as if they were prepared for him to continue being The Him He Currently Was. (114-5)

Misogynist's soapbox in the park:

"I'm not advocating rebellion. I'm not advocating resistance. My message is a simple one, brother, and it's this. Walk away. Just walk away. We can't hope to win this war. All we can hope is that one small band of us can survive the matriarchal genocide of our sex." 

Oh, right, yes, thought Meredith. Genocide. I knew there was something I should be getting on with.(192-3)