Novels No. 100

 A lovely round number, representing about two hundred reviews since the beginning of 2023 (when the blog title changed midway that year to Mostly Crime Fiction). A celebration of sorts, at least a tribute to late-night reading in bed. The reading for No. 100 was mostly 2025 but posting in 2026. I call them “reviews” loosely, because I recognize that they are basically teasers with a few opinions and no spoilers. My personal reminders of time well spent. 

Michael Connelly. The Gods of Guilt. USA: Little, Brown and Company, 2013.

(Still with in-house book finds; my TPL orders are moving like molasses or not even in transit yet!)

Here’s Mickey Haller, the original “Lincoln lawyer”—must be a book I missed way back then, although I’d read a few in the series. Right off, Mickey notes that publicity about himself and a film based on his activities, have inspired a number of would-be clones: curbside competitors. However, an accused murderer with financial means is the most desirable client for a defense attorney, and Mickey meets Andre La Cosse. Andre with no acute accent. He’s charged with the murder of Giselle Dallinger, who provided escort services facilitated by La Cosse. Mickey’s team gets their assignments, with investigator Cisco researching both victim and client—who pays in gold bars!

The gods of guilt are the jurors in a case who hold life-changing power, sometimes life or death. But it’s Mickey who constantly feels guilt over unforeseen consequences from some of his legal actions—his estranged daughter, Gloria’s death, putting his team in harm’s way, the list goes on. Preparing La Cosse’s defense has led to an incredible tangle of people with sinister agendas, from an incarcerated cartel member to a rogue government agent. Efforts to destroy his trial strategy can often be managed, but mortal threats to get rid of Mickey altogether are harder to deal with. He needs to stay alive throughout, after which he must follow with a second, equally critical court matter.

Connelly immerses us in another world where both legal and criminal personalities mix in countless fascinating interactions. No one does courtroom better, at the same time helping us understand the process and the negotiations. And glib but articulate, thick-skinned but sensitive, Mickey is hard to resist.

Peeks

▪ The photos were airbrushed, the hair was different, and a plastic surgeon had gone to work since I had last seen her, but I had no doubt that Giselle Dallinger was my former client Gloria Dayton. (35)

▪ “She said he didn’t pay because there was nobody in that room. She said they told her at the desk the guy checked out that day, and I knew that was bullshit because I talked to him in that room.” (62)

▪ “We were just talking once and she mentioned you. You know, like if anything happens to me, then Mickey Mantle will go to bat for me.” (103)

▪ “I have no idea!” she yelled. “Didn’t you hear anything I just said? I am not in the life anymore!” (121)

▪ “You yourself just asked why Moya would wait seven years to exact vengeance. I don’t think he did. Gloria’s death is a big loss to him.” (158)

▪ I knew right away he was dead. He must’ve been thrown clear and then the car rolled over him. (229)

▪ “We believe, based on the facts brought forward, that Gloria Dayton was a DEA informant and that she planted the gun in Mr. Moya’s room on the orders of her DEA handler.” (262-3)

▪ “Mr. Lankford is one of the main investigators on this case and the defense is allowed to vigorously question how the state gathers and analyzes evidence and the statements of witnesses.” (295)

Karin Slaughter. Pieces of Her. USA: William Morrow, 2018

By all accounts Andrea (Andy) is a thirty-year-old loser, sleepwalking her way through a disappointing life wherein she seems incapable of any independent action. For about the first ninety pages she rarely even speaks, although her inner voice is emotionally active. When her mother Laura Oliver stops a manic killer in a mall from shooting more people, Andy is overcome with terror and confusion. Bodies, blood, police, hospital, and mom—having displayed skills and coolness never witnessed before. Before the day is over, Andy’s mother had become an unfamiliar stranger to her, and a victim in a brutal attack, issuing escape instructions to her daughter. For once, Andy is forced to act on her own.

Suddenly, shockingly, we are back in 1986 where forty-three-year-old Laura Juneau is about to commit a very public murder—revenge for the loss of her family due to corporate neglect by Querelle Healthcare. Who is this Laura?! CEO Martin Querelle’s children Andrew and Jane are secretly committed to an anarchist group headed by the eloquent Nick Harp; Jane is in thrall to him, as are all the others, despite her moments of rational sanity. Nick’s “army” is planning and executing spectacular, attention-getting explosions. The parallel stories will merge, cloaked in mystifying riddles. Andy’s initiative to discover her mother’s true history is dangerous but arouses her best abilities.

Physical beatings occur rather too often for my sensibilities, like how do these people carry on? But author Slaughter never loses the suspense in this very densely packed novel—a brilliant take on a slice of America. [Sadly, an off of writer.]

Andy

▪ “I dunno, it’s weird to watch her on the video because, you’re like, wow, that’s Mrs. Oliver, but it’s like in Kill Bill where the mom is all normal in front of her kid but she’s secretly a killing machine.” (70)

▪ He could be inside, waiting for Andy. He could be killing Laura right now. He could rape Andy. He could kill her in front of her mother. (88)

▪ “Don’t come home until you hear from me, okay? Only respond to my voice, my actual voice, saying these exact words: ‘It’s safe to come home now.’ Do you understand? Andy?” (98)

▪ Every single inch of Andy’s body wanted him. She had never been so overcome with lust. (199)

▪ Why had Laura lied to her? Who was she so afraid of? Why had she told Andy to go to Idaho? (272)

▪ Paula said, “She was never as timid as you. Must get that from your father?” (283)

Jane

▪ The shock of truthfulness brought an image to Laura’s mind: Jinx Queller at the piano, the entire audience held rapt as her hands floated across the keyboard. (142)

▪ Queller had made hundreds of thousands of dollars off of Robert Juneau’s death. (251)

▪ Nick’s fist snaked out, punching Maplecroft square in the face. (296)

▪ This had crossed the line of insanity. They were all psychotic. Every single one of them. “How could you?” she asked Nick. (297-8)

▪ “He’s your best friend.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “He’s my brother.” (332)

▪ “How does it feel to suffocate, darling? Is it everything you imagined?” (335)

FEC The Book

 In a previous life, this blog was called AnotherFamdamily for reasons now lost in obscurity. Among other things, it generated some posts about the Fading Entertainers Centre. Way back when. The inspiration—if one can justifiably call it that—simply wouldn't stop, and since it had nothing to do with family or damily, I hied it offline.

In believing one should finish things that one started, the many chapters (as they became known) assembled themselves into book format. It ain't perfectly satisfying. The man in charge of the print shop didn't print the title on the spine as he said he would. Both he and I forgot to change the date from 2014 to 2024. Then there's that stray cartoon on page 99 but you don't need to know the why of it.

Beyond that, it's rough. I've likely embarrassed myself not knowing what genre I'm in---someone had suggested a playscript. All those em-dashes and even en-dashes. But these characters were pushing to get out. 

Regardless, FEC The Book lives its own separate life, having nothing to do with crime or mystery like this blog, unless you count the cover figures that may or may not convey the mirth within.

If I should receive some nice any comments, verbal or otherwise, will post here.

~~~~~~~

"I have been chuckling and laughing from the first page"

- Shirley the Librarian 

"Because of the cover, my boyfriend thought it was a horror story"

- a dear friend

Library Limelights 200

What a great way to start my 200th post! Atkinson! And then Herron! Next posts will be delayed by travel, to resume in September.

Kate Atkinson. Big Sky. Canada: Bond Street Books/Penguin Random House Canada, 2019.

How many years waiting for Jackson Brodie to reappear?! Of course, Atkinson had much to say in the meantime ☺. Jackson is not necessarily an effective private detective, but he always runs into beguiling characters. Teenage son Nathan lives with him while his ex Julia is filming a TV series. Dido the Lab lives with him too; almost everyone in this book has a dog (remember previous book? ... Started Early, Took My Dog). And almost everyone has a parenthetical nag or conscience speaking in their head. Life is streaming along in towns and villages on the Yorkshire coast of the North Sea; we meet the cast before all hell breaks loose. Atkinson expertly reveals them a bit at a time — the reconstructed Crystal, her child Candace and her stepson Harry, dependants of Tommy the haulage king; Andy, the amoral henchman; Steve, the crafty lawyer; Vince, the hapless dupe. Then Reggie and Ronnie, detectives investigating an almost-cold-case crime but stumbling into a current case of human trafficking.

There's something for everyone in this story as coincidences bounce and collide. The two cops are hilarious ‒ as is Jackson's laissez-faire attitude to most events ‒ when one throws literary references at the other. The dark side creeps peripherally into several lives, to Jackson's eternal challenge: it's not pretty. Internet imposters, migrant girls, abused girls; he wants to protect or rescue them all. Murder, kidnapping, shabby seaside entertainment centres, so many threads. Eventually it's agreed by most parties that meting out civilian justice is better than the letter of the law. One thing, Ms A: It was Vickie in The Red Shoes, not Karen. Please, please, bring Jackson back again.

Words: (after all, this is Atkinson)

diaeresis ‒ that double-dot thingy over a vowel in a foreign language

tombola ‒ a game or raffle where tickets are drawn from a spinning machine (drum)

lacunae ‒ (plural) gaps or absences in context, particularly in writing

One-liners:

▪ Teenage boys were like living sandwich boards, covered in free advertising for corporate evil. (108)

▪ An increasing number of people, Jackson had noticed lately, were not listening to him. (110)

▪ The thing about the past was that, no matter how far you ran or how fast you ran, it was always right behind you, snapping at your heels. (220)

▪ Whole fleets of world literature would sail unread over his head as he lay bleeding out in that ditch, staring at the sky. (246)

▪ Harry realized, rather shamefacedly, that he'd already forgotten that Barclay was dead. (277)

Multi-liners:

▪ "Didn't you hear, Jackson?" Julia said. "The class war's over. Everyone lost." (10)

▪ Reggie did Taekwondo, Ronnie boxed. You had to do something when you were small and you were female and you were police. (72)

▪ He'd been out of the real business of detecting for too long. Entrapping unfaithful boyfriends and husbands wasn't dealing with criminals, just high-functioning morons. (143)

▪ Botox? Jackson wondered. Not that he knew the first thing about it except that you paid someone who wasn't medically qualified to stick needles in your face. (179)

▪ He wished that he could just once hear his brother play a solo again. Or help his sister pin up the hem of a dress she'd made. (226)

▪ They were brave, he thought. Men fell down. Women stood up. (301)

Jackson Parenting:

"You wait," Jackson said. "One day you'll have kids of your own and you'll find that you make them do all the things that you currently despise ‒ museums, stately homes, walks in the countryside ‒ and they in turn will hate you for it. That, my son, is how cosmic justice works." 

"I won't be doing this," Nathan said. 

"And that sound you can hear will be me laughing." 

"No, it won't. You'll be dead by then." 

"Thanks. Thanks, Nathan." Jackson sighed. Had he been so callous at his son's age? And he hardly needed reminding of his mortality, he saw it in his own boy growing older every day. (10-11)

Tommy Parenting:

He went to a posh school ‒ that was how his father referred to it. "Is that posh school teaching you anything?" or "I'm paying that posh school to teach you ethics, for fuck's sake? I can teach you ethics: Don't kick a man when he's down. Don't let your right hand know what your left hand's doing. Women and children first." As moral codes went it was a mixed bag and Harry wasn't sure that Socrates would have entirely concurred with it, or even that his father adhered to it. (57)

Harry parenting:

Harry had found a very nice illustrated edition of the Grimm Brothers (inscribed From Mummy with Love) in one of the boxes in the Batcave and he was employing it to introduce Candace to the more evil side of fairies ‒ tales where people were cursed or abandoned or had their toes chopped off and their eyes pecked out. Ones where there was a noticeable absence of sugar and spice. Not because he wanted to scare Candace ‒ and to her credit she didn't scare easily ‒ but because he felt that someone ought to counter the fluffy pink marshmallow world she was being swallowed up by, and in the absence of anyone else he supposed it would have to be him. Plus, they had been his own introduction to literature and he thought it would be nice if she turned out to be a reader too. (62)

Fallible white knight:

It gave Jackson the chills and started him thinking about all the lost girls over the years. The ones lost in woods, on railway lines, in back alleys, in cellars, in parks, in ditches by the side of the road, in their own homes. So many places you could lose a girl. All the ones he hadn't saved. There was a Patty Griffin song that he played sometimes, 'Be Careful' it was called. All the girls who've gone astray. It had the power to make him irreducibly melancholic. 

He hadn't thought about his latest lost girl for at least twenty-four hours. The girl with the unicorn backpack. Where was she now? Home safe? Being berated by loving parents for having come back late and for losing her backpack? He hoped so, but his gut told him differently. In his (long) experience, your brain might mislead you, but your gut always told you the truth.(260-1)

Sara Blaedel. The Midnight Witness. USA: Hachette Book Group, 2018.

Very disappointing! Having enjoyed the freshness of Blaedel's ongoing series* about a Wisconsin funeral home, I was surprised to find this police/journalist tale boring. One of my quick fillers. To be fair, mineself was on heavy-duty antibiotics and anti-inflammatories among other dregs of dental torture at the time, so possibly any subtleties flew right past the old grey cells. Louise Rick is an admired cop in Copenhagen homicide; her best friend Camilla is a hotshot newspaper reporter. Often the friendship works to the professional advantage of both. When two of Camilla's colleagues are murdered in a mysterious connection to an ongoing narcotics case, she's happy to be used as a go-between among suspects. Meanwhile Louise has to deal with the unrelated murder of a young woman. All 'ordinary' as crime stories go.

Specifics are lacking about why the drug case affects everything; sequence and timing of events is bewildering sometimes. A police informant's (The Finn) motive to help nail a drug lord is plausible, but the police spend a lot of time in daily trivia and largely aimless discussions. Characters are essentially two-dimensional. Camilla features more strongly than Louise; she's given an opportunity when police learn that the chance stranger she socialized with in a bar ‒ Louise was with her ‒ happened to be the kingpin suspect ... Really? A wanted man socializing in a bar? Would cops really press a naive civilian for dangerous assistance? And so on, questions. The morals of journalism get more play than Louise's quandary over how much career sacrifice her romantic relationship requires. Although a tad more complication arrives late in the day, no surprises here. Any crime fiction fan worth her salt will figure it out long before.

* The Undertaker's Daughter (LL 177); Her Father's Secret (LL194).

One-liners:

▪ Many times she'd made Louise's toes curl in such situations, but it was fun to watch people reassessing Camilla. (106)

▪ "There are two thousand cops in Copenhagen; I seriously doubt he'd know I'm one of them." (141)

▪ Louise wanted to cram all the macho opinions of broad-shouldered, athletic Michael Stig right up his ass, but she fought back her rage. (236)

Multi-liners:

▪ In her experience, though, it was smartest to keep a cool head, otherwise people might call you hysterical. Your words carried less weight when you screamed them out. She'd tried to explain that to Camilla many times. (74)

▪ "Why don't they just call it heroin or cocaine or whatever the hell it is?"

"Because it has a light green color that makes it recognizable when it's sold." (106)

▪ "Cynicism isn't a bad word in these circles. I'm not blaming you for your female intuition not working, but this is how the world is." (236)

Boss conflict:

She walked over and slammed the door on Holck, who barely managed to step back and not get hit. "You're not doing this. I'm pulling my interview if you don't believe it's good enough without that photo." 

"Camilla, don't make a scene about this. It doesn't reflect well on you." He sounded cold. 

"You can't treat Helle this way. We have to keep our word." 

"I didn't promise her anything, and my word goes here at this paper. Whatever deals you've made, that's your problem. You know how things work here. If we can get that photo, we will. We don't give up until we've tried everything. That's how you usually do it." 

Camilla had to swallow that. She'd hunted down lots of school photos of kids when the parents or family wouldn't give her one. ... 

"I promised. She trusted me, and that's why the interview is so good. She'd never have talked to me if I hadn't promised not to push her on that photo." (64-5)

Reality needs saying?

"Be careful. You don't just elbow your way in with these people. You don't belong there." 

Louise realized too late that she'd waved another red flag in front of Camilla. "Listen," she implored. "It takes years to develop the right sources. You can't simply stroll into some hole and expect to be accepted as one of the gang. That's not how it works. If anyone suspects you're snooping around, they'll tie rocks around your feet and dump you in the harbor." (109)

Mick Herron. Joe Country. USA: Soho Crime, 2019.

First, trembling with anticipation: a new fix of Slough House. Second, hating to open the book because it will be over all too soon. To have the waiting begin again. Herron fans know what I mean and hopefully I've done my part here and there to highlight the creative genius who produces this intricate, chaotic, addictive series. The appearance in London of River Cartwright's father Frank Harkness, now a hired mercenary, is the catalyst for action; Jackson Lamb lets loose the slow horses ‒ his joes ‒ leading to a showdown in a Wales snowstorm. We meet Lech, the latest victimized colleague, and we are reminded why these individuals ended up in MI5's backwater of disgrace. Louisa mounts her own mission, River wants to rescue her and kill his father; Roddy Ho wants his car back; former security chief Emma volunteers for the cause; Shirley curses viciously. Catherine and Lamb possibly reach an understanding.

As the motley crew attempts to coordinate and transform from deskbound minions into joes, Diana Taverner ("Lady Di") still sits on MI5's First Desk, spinning her spiderwebs. Herron's delicious use of language in character types and ambient settings is unequalled; the tale is never simple, corralling the impulses of so many rogues. There is nothing anywhere as biting, as lunatic, as slyly relevant, as satisfyingly encompassing, as this series and I can't get enough! But hints of Lamb's mortality are not appreciated!

For the uninitiated, herewith the usual cast on their own terms or as noted by crafty colleagues:

Jackson Lamb

▪ "So when you cop it," he said, "how'd you want to go? Buried, cremated or eaten by cats?" (54)

▪ "Did I misfart? That's your signal to leave." (84)

▪ "You can break a man's ribs with a telephone directory," he'd once observed. "Try doing that with a rolled up copy of the internet." (106)

Catherine Standish

▪ "You owe me more than one," said Catherine softly as Louisa disappeared downstairs. (86)

▪ Lamb was right: two bottles in, there'd be no bottom to the depths she might fall. (129)

River Cartwright

▪ He was going to have to do something constructive about his life soon, but at the moment was too busy negotiating his way through it. (179)

▪ River Cartwright, though, was seven blends of vanilla. (271)

Louisa Guy

▪ This chick was spook-trained. Damaged goods, but you always had to factor in dumb luck.(160)

▪ But she hadn't been afraid last night, she reminded herself. She'd taken on a carful of bad actors, armed with only a wrench. (229)

Roddy Ho

▪ Asking Ho for a favour was like chewing someone else's gum. (103)

▪ So he forgot about his Rules of Cool, laid aside his trademark Treat-'em-Mean protocol, and instead flashed on the maximum wattage Roddy Ho bedroom smile, way before she'd done much to deserve it.(136)

Shirley Dander

▪ Shirley could be volatile on days ending with -y, and Louisa had made it clear she didn't want to share. (55)

▪ "And he'd better have jam in that fucking cabin. Because if he speaks again, he's toast." (227)

JK Coe

▪ "Being a psycho doesn't make him a bad person," she said. (181)

▪ A ripple ran through Coe, as if River had wandered across his grave en route to Frank's. (218)

Emma Flyte

▪ "If it's generally thought I'm no longer on the job, then I have greater ... flexibility." (136)

▪ When Emma looked up, everyone around her was dead. (220)

Diana Taverner

▪ You had to hand it to Lady Di; when it came to breaking news, she could leave the jagged part sticking in your back. (21)

One-liner:

▪ It turned out that in the governance of a nation's security, many absurd situations had to be worked around: a toxic clown in the Foreign Office, a state visit by a narcissistic bed-wetter, the tendency of the electorate to jump off the occasional cliff. (27)

Welcome, newbie:

"So let's make everything simple, yeah? You spend the rest of your career pushing whatever paper I see fit to send your way, or you trot off now and jump in front of a bus. I'd use the pedestrian bridge, I was you. But wait until after six, there's a sport, because it does fuck up the traffic." 

"The issue's being investigated. I'll be cleared. Because I didn't do anything." 

Jackson Lamb farted again. "Me neither. And yet here we both are." 

"Are you always this unpleasant?" 

Lamb shrugged. "It's not an exact science." He dropped his cigarette into a half-empty teacup. "And you can drop the wide-eyed innocence. Here in Slough House, you're always guilty of something. Of being in Slough House, if nothing else." (41-2)

Emma's no dummy:

"Oh, I think we both know you have a list. And Slough House has been a thorn in your side for years, right? So here you are at last, top of the monkey puzzle tree, I'd have thought your first move would be to raze that place to the ground." 

And sow salt where it had stood. You couldn't be too careful, where Jackson Lamb was concerned. ... 

Backroom politics was Diana Taverner's natural habitat, and as for Lamb, he'd deal with the devil if circumstances required. Whether the devil would shake hands with Lamb was a different question. Even Satan has standards. (28)

On the job:

Lamb answered on the first ring. 

"Let me guess. You're lost." 

"We know where we are," said River. "We just can't see any of it." 

"Every time I think I've plumbed the depths of your cackhandedness, you go ahead and surprise me." River heard a striking match. "Still got your going-away present?" 

"Yes." 

"Good. Shoot yourself in the head. Then Shirley. Then the mad monk." 

"Definitely the order I'd choose," River said. (207)

The Annual Letter

Dear Family and Friends:

Greetings for Christmas, Hanukkah, Festivus (Mary Lou, I'm sorry I can't remember the name of that fringe cult that sucked you in) or whatever turns your crank for celebrating the end of December. I love getting your letters and family news. You are all so engaged and blessed.

Now it's my turn. It's been a hectic year, of course, but ultimately successful. If you have already heard the highlights please accept my tardy apologies for phoning you at 4 a.m. in hysterics.

Any rumour you heard about my daughter being pregnant is simply false. Her professor did pass her thesis and the faculty is dealing with sexual harassment issues. Sophie continues to head the students' Vegan Rights committee, having proudly organized fourteen demonstrations this year. You may have seen her petition circulating on the internet. Please sign and stop wearing fur.

You are probably wondering about that accident my son was in. It was not his fault; lord knows we spent enough on driver's lessons. It's just that no one knew about the cannabis in the carrot cake. Most of the time Bobby is very conscientious about over-eating but the bullies messed up the progress he was making in cognitive behavioral therapy. His probation officer is a lovely person.

For those who need an update, my husband the media consultant was outraged at being sued for slander. The ignorant and the unwashed in this country are a real threat to free speech, never forget that. He is developing a counter-suit that will blow the lid off some phony politicians. Journalism is still the front line and best defence of freedom.

More good news. My sister Gretchen was released from the detox program. Her husband is thrilled because he doesn't know how to cook and broke their microwave. We are not supposed to tell her how much he paid for electricians after he screwed up the timers and fried all the kitchen wiring. Gretchen is planning to become a professional animal trainer ever since she saw that commercial with the dancing kangaroo.

As for me, dear friends, let me set to rest any undercurrents you may have heard about the incident last week. That woman left her shopping cart right in the middle of the disabled parking spot. It's not like I meant to pulverize her groceries but my car had a mind of its own and she had a nasty mouth on her. The police sorted it out, not before she broke my glasses and lobbed my handbag into a dumpster. Any videos you saw are fake news.

So you see, all is well and under control. Good to know: Tequila works much better than Prozac (the support group here is a real downer: sad, depressed people). Life could not be better, let's keep the cheerful news coming.

Your BFF

Lost & Found: a Letter

As Remembrance Day approaches, a letter one hundred years ago to a pilot who spent months in Germany's Holzminden POW camp:

Lost and Found: Meat Loaf

Not exactly lost ... let's say revived. Last year a concert by slimmed-down drama master Meat Loaf himself.

This year, those rip-roaring rock n' roll songs from the 80s found again. Was it a good idea to make a stage musical from Bat Out Of Hell? Why not?? That was on composer Jim Steinman's mind before the bestselling album ever hit the airwaves.

A slim story indeed, inexplicably set in a dystopian future, but same old thrill, powered by exciting sets and exceptional singers perfect for the songs. Rock on, Meat and Steinman!!

Happiness is a bookstand ...

So I had to obtain a new bookstand for reading in bed. Which is where I read. You understand, for perfect comfort the book has to be at a certain level and angle. I have the backup cushions, the heating pad, the adjustable reading light, pencil & paper, water, any current medications, a few macadamia nuts ... at least enough nourishment to spend a week there if need be.

The old well-balanced bookstand was wooden, giving a certain confident stability. Placed just so on my lap was ideal. But one of the pegs for holding pages had give up the struggle to hold anything. Poor little peg went missing in the general midden. Then the ledge holding the book began to cave in ... delicate carpentry is not my forte.

Thank you, o excellent companion for years of service. I regret I did not photograph you before going to the recycling room.

The new bookstand ...

Well, first, the search. I could get a new one same as the old one. But such a fundamental, necessary item was sure to have been improved upon over the intervening years, right? Most models on offer seem to assume you want to put your tablet or laptop on it. Such engineering requirements do not accommodate a hefty book with special doohickeys to hold the pages in place. This stage took a lot of online squinting and deliberating. Because your average bookstore does not think to carry such an item.

The choice was made. New bookstand arrives. It is plastic which I already knew.

Feeling warily suspicious because plastic, I hesitate to unwrap it for several hours until the need to relax and read became urgent. It is encased in enough vacuum-wrapped clear plastic to cover the building I live in. Hard plastic. Ruin my scissors trying to release it, fearing a misplaced stab might damage the object itself.

But out it came, all in one piece, unblemished. No bits to sort out, insert, screw in, or stick on. Feather light. Clever page-holder that doesn't slip. Adjustable for choice of inclined angle. With the weight of a book on it, no wobble.

Voilà.

Win-win.

Library Limelights 100

Some sort of note should be made here that this is my 100th post in the Library Limelights series. It began as notes-to-self (don't buy/borrow books you've read before) regarding loans from the small but convenient library here at FEC, hence the word "limelights" popped up. The series immediately expanded to the gloriously endless resources of the Toronto Public Library (TPL) system. Amen.

Nelson Demille. The Lion. New York: Grand Central Publishing/Hachette, 2010.

Another old favourite: it's been a while. John Corey is an irreverent, non-politically-correct former police detective working for a Homeland Security task force ... a task force of uneasy alliance between the FBI and the NYPD. His personal nemesis from an earlier novel (The Lion's Game) is back, threatening him and the whole of Manhattan; it's not long after 9/11. Asad Khalil is one badass psychotic terrorist from Libya. Corey's habitual wisecracks are very funny but can verge on overload for the reader. Especially when he and his colleagues diss all Arabs in general with stereotypical, derogatory comments.

FBI agent Kate Mayfield is Corey's partner domestically and on the job (how does she put up with him?). Both have been targeted by Khalil, the Lion, who may have mass murder in mind as well. There's a harrowing skydiving scene ... and encounters with the killer ... well, let's avoid spoilers. Enforced protection does not sit well with our confident hero. I'd forgotten how entertaining he can be; the light touch is certainly needed to offset a couple of gruesome death scenes. I need to catch up with a few more Corey adventures.

One-liners:

My theory was that the FBI should first master some basic police skills, such as how to use the subway system or how to follow a suspect without getting hit by a taxi. (66)

Boris had a little sarcastic streak, which shows intelligence and good mental health, as I have to explain often to my wife. (357)

Wedded bliss:

When I met Kate three and a half years ago, she showed no tendency toward sarcasm, and she had once indicated to me that this was one of several bad habits that she'd picked up from me. Right, go ahead and blame the husband. Also, when I met her, she didn't swear or drink much, but all that has changed for the better under my tutelage. Actually, she'd made me promise to cut down on the drinking and swearing, which I have. Unfortunately, this has left me dim-witted and nearly speechless. (65)

Outsourcing (shades of Halliburton):

Outside of 26 Federal Plaza are guard booths, manned by the private firm of Wackenhut Security. This arrangement represents some very advanced thinking from Washington that goes by the name of outsourcing. I mean, why use highly trained Federal law officers who are sworn to duty, when for twice the money you can get a fat guy in a silly uniform who may have trouble getting his gun out of his holster? Call me cynical, but I think I see some people making money on these government contracts. Maybe I should outsource myself. (235)

Battle ready:

And while I was sharpening the big knife, I understood a little of how ancient warriors must have felt on the even of battle―or modern soldiers, who sharpened their bayonets before an attack. The sharpening of the steel was less about the cutting edge of the blade than it was about the cutting edge of the soul and psyche; it was an ancient communion with every man who ever faced battle and death, and who stood with his comrades, but stood alone, with his own thoughts and his own fears, waiting for the signal to meet the enemy, and to meet himself. (398-9)

Ridley Pearson. Beyond Recognition. New York: Hyperion, 1997.

A goodie from the 50¢ jumble sale, picking up vaguely where I'd left off in the career of detective Lou Boldt. Pearson is a veteran crime writer of several series and standalone novels. Working with police psychologist Daphne Matthews, his forensic investigation sets out to catch the arsonist scaring Seattle. Horrific fires using a mysterious high-powered accelerant are consuming homes of single mothers; their bodies are all but vaporized after each inferno. The victims seem to have nothing in common. Be warned: there are more technical details than you ever wanted to know about pyromania.

Meanwhile, twelve-year-old Ben may be an unwitting witness to the criminal's identity. Matthews' maternal instincts become almost obsessed with caring for him, vying for his affections with his friend Emily, who gives psychic readings. Talk about psychology: we are told repeatedly that Boldt is anxious ― about the difficulties of the case, about his overactive imagination, about his wife, about his relationship with Matthews. His gloominess was beginning to make me anxious; his emotional reactions in general seem un-cop-like. The story builds to a racing climax involving Ben and a complicated, labour-intensive plan to trap the arsonist.

One-liner:

Marriage was many things; easy was not one of them. (83)

Impartial observations:

"Yours is a morbid life, isn't it, Sergeant?"
Boldt winced. He didn't appreciate his work―his life―being reduced to such a statement, hated it all the more for the truth of it. Death was a way of life for him, it was true; but for Boldt it was seen as a means to an end, the only acceptable end being justice and the imprisonment of the party responsible. An investigator who relied upon the victim to tell the story―a man who even lectured on the subject―Boldt understood the intricacy of the relationship between victim and killer. That he exploited this relationship was nothing he tried to hide or make light of. That it often bordered on the grotesque was inescapable. (69-70)

Ben hangs a ride:

It was a stunt he had wanted to do a hundred times but had never had the belly to try. ... 

He pedaled hard, rising up off his seat, glancing once over his left shoulder, a slight smirk as he twisted his head fully around so his right eye could see back there. A good-sized truck, bigger than a pickup but smaller than a dump truck. Picking up speed after the last light. Gaining on Ben. 

His legs pushed hard; he needed to match that speed. 

Gaining ... gaining ... 

Another look, a huge swivel of the head: Only a few yards back, the engine louder than a locomotive, the gears singing, Ben inched the bike to his left, swerving, the truck looming closer. 

Closer still. Legs flailing then to match the speed. It had to be exact. He knew. He had heard stories. If you timed it wrong, the truck pulled you right off the seat or, worse, folded the bike underneath the twin rubber tires, bearing down like a steamroller. (572)

Robert Wilson. You Will Never Find Me. UK: Orion Books, 2014.

Wilson's most recent series features Charles Boxer, kidnap and missing persons consultant. Boxer has history with police service and a private security firm. In fact, this is the second book in the series. Yours truly slightly regrets not finding the first one first ― but all in good (recovery) time, as this one comes close to heart-stopping. Boxer's daughter Amy (her mother Mercy is a London cop with a specialist kidnap unit) decides to run away and lose her parents forever. Yes, the teenager manages just that. Maybe her parents' forensic experience rubbed off although they've long been separated. Boxer follows a trail to Madrid, only to run up against a serious Colombian drug lord.

Mercy's team is involved with the kidnapped son of a valuable Russian defector, but she can't stay out of her daughter's case too. Necessarily working together at critical points, she and Boxer gain insights into Amy but especially each other as one devastating personal blow follows another. The action is a roller coaster going from missing person to kidnap to hostage, with murders in between. It takes all the wits of combined British teams to deal with two ruthless sets of foreign criminals. Wilson rules!

One-liners: "I'm the pork chipolata at the Jewish wedding." (197)

Morality often goes out of the window when the economy is in trouble. (246)

Family:

Esme's hand trembled slightly as she reached for the shot glass. She sipped, took a crackling drag from her cigarette, held it in, let it trickle from her nose. 

"It's just history," said Esme, "and you told me that was the very reason you didn't want to be a homicide detective any more. It was all past tense. It wasn't going to bring anybody back. And it won't bring Amy back. You might be able to winkle out some cockeyed reasoning as to why―" 

"I'm angry," said Boxer. 

"With me?" asked Esme, astonished. You think I put this idea into her head? Don't be bloody ridiculous. This has been building for years." 

"I'm not angry at you," said Boxer. "I'm angry at myself." 

"Welcome to the club," said Esme. "We're all platinum card members here." (46-7)

Collegial collaboration:

Had Zorrita been able to look inside Boxer at that moment he would have been mystified by the colossal Gothic darkness within. He would have expected a wincing rawness, a laceration of all that was good, but not a bottomless black chasm. Surely that would come later, with the realisation of loss, the terrible emptiness, the endless longing for that unattainable fullness. The unfillable gaps of empty shoes, limp dresses, a hollow in a mattress. 

He moved around the desk, lifted Boxer away from the table and got him onto a chair, which the translator, snapping out of his paralysis, held steady. They studied him as if he was a drugged tiger, fascinated but wary. His face was strangely still and dry of any tears while his body seemed to be under tremendous strain, as if trying to withstand some terrible G force. 

"Are you feeling all right?" asked the translator, unused to these emotional crises in his work. 

"No, I'm afraid I don't," said Boxer, his body smoothing out as if suddenly weightless. 

The translator and Zorrita exchanged looks. 

"You don't what?" the policeman asked. 

"I don't have any sample from which you might be able to extract my daughter's DNA." (118-9)

A toast:

They drank the burgundy, which made everything else taste like rubbish afterwards, and Isabel proposed a toast: "To families, and to quote Dickens, one of our greatest Londoners, 'Accidents can occur in the best-regulated families.'" (369-370)