theirresponsiblereader's Reviews (607)

 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. 

The mysteries 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.
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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 along with a Q&A with the author.
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What’s Harvested About? 

Max Boucher is a P.I. in Seattle. Like a good (fictional) P.I., he spends a lot of time drinking. He spends most of the rest of his time working just to make ends meet. He really wants to devote his time to looking for whoever murdered his daughter, killed his dog, and either kidnapped or murdered his wife. He—and his former colleagues in the Seattle PD—have followed every lead they have, but he’d spend all of his life going back over the evidence time and time again if he could. 

Now, he’s taken on a case—he takes on every case that comes his way—that takes him back to his old neighborhood. The dog park that he and his family used to go to, in fact. There’s a rash of dognappings in the area, and owners have come together to hire him to find their canine friends. The police can/will only do so much, but Max can devote more time to it. 
 

It doesn’t take long for things to get hairy—there’s a connection to a Korean mob boss. Some of the dogs start reappearing—with strange injuries. And it turns out that this has been happening all over Seattle for some time. Max isn’t sure what he’s gotten himself into, but it’s about a lot more than missing poodles. 

Supporting Characters 

Obviously, you’ve got to have a compelling P.I. in a book like this—and a good hook for the story. That’s what the reader comes for, and the writer had better deliver. A plausible villain, is important, too—but the others can overcome an iffy one. But what will really make a P.I. novel work is the supporting characters—the cop buddies/frenemies/rival (depending on the series), the client, the witnesses, and so on. 

Lambert nails this throughout the book. I like Boucher and want to see more of him, but I enjoyed some of the side characters more than him. There’s a friendly and helpful veterinarian who could probably carry a cozy mystery series on her own—and I would buy six of those tomorrow if they existed. 

There’s a guy who details Max’s car (he’s got an older car that’s his pride and joy)—which is something definitely called upon when your case involves carrying injured dogs (and injured detectives) around. If Eddie shows up for a scene or two in every book in the series, you can color me pleased. I’m not even sure why—I also don’t care much, I just liked him. 

I’m not going to say I enjoyed the Korean mob boss* in the same way I did those two. But the scenes with him are some of the most intense in the novel. 

* Ahem. Suspected boss, of a mob that may not even exist. 

I could go on for a few more—I don’t remember exactly my point when I started this section, other than to rave about Dr. Gamble and Eddie. But I guess that I just want to stress that Lambert gives us more than a solid P.I. He knows how to give the reader characters to invest in and care about—even if only for a page or two. 

Beware of (Hurt) Dogs 

* (yeah, that’s a lame section title—but it’s better than “It’s a Dog Eat Dog Book” with the implied cannibalism) 

I know I have readers who will be antsy about this book—we’re talking about kidnapped and injured dogs here (there’s a reason I have a recurring post about books about dogs who live). And for those who cannot take violence toward animals, this is a book to avoid. 

I will say, however, almost all of the violence happens “off-screen”—you see very little of it on the page. And what you see on the page isn’t that bad (up until the climactic bit at the end, but the violence there is spread amongst characters with two and four legs (and the two-legged ones get the worst of it). 

The point of this book is Boucher investigating the kidnappings, stopping them by getting to the bottom of things and rescuing as many dogs as he can. So if you’re on the fence, you can hold on to that. 

So, what did I think about Harvested? 

This was a good read. Lambert delivered in every way I wanted a book like this to—solid plot, unique case, great character work, and a pace that keeps you turning the pages long past the time you should put the book down for sleep or chores. I’d recommend this just for the (relative) novelty of a Seattle P.I.—mid-sized US cities need to be the setting of more P.I. novels. The book delivers on everything it promises and gives you an open (and welcome) invitation to come back for another. I know I’m accepting that invitation. 

Oh—minor spoiler—by the end, one of the kidnapped dogs can’t be matched with an owner and ends up staying with Max. So you know I have to come back, just for more of him. 

I’d have come back anyway—I want to see how Max moves on from this point in general. I’m quite curious about the clues he discovered regarding his wife’s case, too. I’m assuming (and really don’t want to know the truth until I’m into the next book) that book 2 will advance the investigation into his wife’s kidnapping while Max and his new partner dive into another stand-alone case—and we’ll continue that way for a while. That sounds like a great time to me. Grab this one—the second book is out now, you might as well grab it, too. You’ll have fun. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s The Night Watch About?
After a high-profile trial, a drug dealer walks free. He and his lawyer go separate ways to celebrate and are both soon dead. Theoretically, the lawyer’s death wasn’t suspicious, but the dealer was clearly murdered. The coincidence is too much for Max and his team to believe—and they soon find the evidence to back that up. The two of them killed near the same time? That smells like a vigilante.

These weren’t the vigilante’s first two victims either. A tip from an oddly cooperative reporter puts them on the right track—the victims appear to all be connected with the same investigative team. A vigilante cop is the last thing that Craigie and the rest want to imagine—but now they have to stop the killer before they strike again.

The Killer’s POV
I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned a time or twelve that I rarely find chapters from the Killer’s POV in a Detective/Procedural novel to be that effective. I figure I’m in the minority on this point—if only because authors keep using them. And after the first one in this book, I made the note, “Did we need this? Did it add anything?” and it took a while before I saw Lancaster’s point with them in this one.

But note “it took a while,” by the end—I saw (at least most of) what Lancaster was doing with these moments from the Killer’s POV. Not only did I understand the point, but I appreciated what he did with them.

So, what did I think about The Night Watch?
I’m tempted to just copy and paste what I said about the last Max Craigie book, The Blood Tide—it all fits, once I swap out the titles. The Blood Tide was a noticeable growth over everything Lancaster had written before, and The Night Watch is even better.

Some procedurals are about figuring out who did what, and some are about figuring out how to prove they did it—or apprehending them before they do something else. This is about all of those. But—like the others in this series—it’s also about the toll paid by those involved in stopping the killing.

There’s some good character development with all the characters—not just our protagonist. Although most of it is happening between novels, and we just get to see the effects—I really like that style, it’s so much easier to buy than growth in the middle of one case that takes place over a limited time.

The Night Watch had some very effective twists, some great reveals, and some genuine surprises. Yeah, I identified the killer right away—but Lancaster fooled me and I abandoned the idea—and I just love that. As always, Lancaster knows how to keep the reader turning pages because you just have to know what happens next. Basically, this is exactly what I’m looking for in a police procedural.
 
Wholly satisfying and it just made me more eager for the next DS Craigie book.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Bad Memory About?
Jake Abraham’s a P.I. who probably should’ve gone into another line of work, all things considered. But he didn’t, and it turns out that he has a knack for this kind of thing (see The Shoulders of Giants).

Jake’s approached by a client* who wants to him to look into a twenty-three old suicide. She was nearby, she says, when the woman died, and what she remembers hearing makes her certain it wasn’t a suicide. She was pressured into staying silent back then, but the reasons for that have disappeared and now she wants to unburden her conscience.

* I’m pretty sure she was a character in the earlier novel, but after 6+ years, I don’t remember—and I’m too lazy to check

Jake starts looking into this—talking to his detective friend, coworkers of the deceased, and the man who pressured his client into staying quiet. What he discovers doesn’t add up to a tidy suicide like the police had determined—but it doesn’t rule it out either.

Well, except for the people who aren’t doing an incredibly subtle tailing job on him all of the sudden. He’s not doing anything else that should draw anyone’s attention.

Cliff’s Voice

 
Like with The Shoulders of Giants, Cliff’s voice—the snappy PI patter in both the first-person narration and Jake’s dialogue—wins me over. It’s like Stout enjoying himself, early Crais, or Parker at his lightest. It just sings.

I really don’t need a good story to make me enjoy reading something told with this (or a similar) voice. Thankfully, Cliff delivers a good story, too—making it all the more enjoyable.

So, what did I think about Bad Memory?

 
This novella is precisely what I needed—I’d just finished two long-ish reads that were pretty heavy and taken a lot out of me emotionally. This was quick, satisfying, and filled with some snappy writing. It was a nice change of pace and tone, giving me the chance to catch my breath before diving into another full novel.
 
Even if it didn’t serve that purpose for me, I’d have been glad to read this—it scratches that P.I. itch in just the right way.
 
There was a moment when I thought that the book was trying too hard to convince me that Suspect X was guilty, and so I started to wonder who else it could’ve been. But then I remembered that this was a novella and Cliff didn’t have space to be that clever—so I shifted to trying to figure out why X was guilty. If he’d had another 100+ pages in the book and X was still guilty, I’d likely have complained about it. But given the space restraints, I have no problem with X.
 
Short, sweet, and to the point. This novella got the job done and makes me wish that Cliff wrote faster.
 

 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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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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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 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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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.