theirresponsiblereader's Reviews (607)

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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I've jumped on each book in this series, but this book sat on my shelf for 16 months after its release. Now that I've finally tackled it, I'm afraid that it'll take me 16 months to write this up the way I normally would.

So, I'm just going to offer some brief thoughts about the book. But first, let's start with:

THE OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION 

THINGS I'M NOT GOING TO DEVELOP INTO PARAGRAPHS
* The Acknowledgments start with, "My thanks, as ever, to my superb editor David Shelley..." Why? What did Shelley do? I cannot be expected to believe that anything was cut, trimmed, or compressed. 900 pages is too long for a P.I. novel.

There's very little that I can think of that Shelley or Galbraith should've cut, but that's not my job, I'm just the reader. Those two get paid to eliminate the wasteful portions of this book.

* Two things that I think could've been slimmed down, if not eliminated were: the cases non-Bamborough cases that Strike, Robin, and their contractors were on. We could've just used passing references to them, we didn't need all the space devoted to them.

* There's a storyline involving Robin and a contractor that took too long, and I get why Galbraith included it...but I have to keep arguing myself into accepting it.

* A lot has been made of the way that the serial killer suspected of Bamborough's killing sometimes disguised himself as a woman. Given the public stances that Galbraith's alter-ego has taken lately, this aspect of the character has come under fire. Which is understandable, and likely justified.

However, had Rowling not been embroiled in this controversy, or had anyone else written this character, I don't think this character's practice would've been controversial—it really comes across as his way of muddling witnesses and gaining the trust of a victim.

But she is the one who wrote this, and she is the one out there making those statements, and it's hard to believe there's no connection.

* I learned about a new philia while reading this book, and I really wish I hadn't. It's part of one of Strike and Robin's other cases. I hope I don't come across another reference to this in fiction or reality anytime soon so I'll forget about it.

* Troubled Blood contains the only Matthew storyline that I liked in this series And it took until the end of it (or maybe Robin's thoughts about it after the end of it) for me to reach that conclusion. He's really one of the worst characters I've endured in the last decade.

* Similarly, we got another Charlotte Campbell story. I could barely put up with that story. I did like Strike's actions at the end of it (I'm only now seeing the parallel, which makes me realize that I hadn't organized my thoughts too well before this), but I wish Strike had gotten there a book or two ago. Or that Galbraith had used less space for it here.

* On the other hand, the story about Strike's family (not his father and half-siblings, the family he was raised with) was fantastic.

* Outside of a few scenes in each previous novel, this was the best display and development of the friendship between Robin and Strike. It's also the most extended, which helps (this is actually not a reference to the length of the book).

* The Bamborough mystery was just great. The strengths and weaknesses it showed in both Strike and Robin were worth the effort getting through it all. Seeing them make mistakes and recovering from them—and seeing them make breakthroughs—this is the kind of thing that attracted me to the series in the first place, they're both works-in-progress and it's great to see them grow as investigators.

You cut out everything else in the book and just give us this? I'm raving about it. Period.

* Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know...you need subplots, character growth, etc. But really...

* Did I mention this was too long?

* This ultimately worked for me. But there are so many qualifications, disclaimers, bet-hedging, allowances, and so on to that evaluation, I'm not sure it's worth much. Die-hard fans of the series will find reasons to like this. I don't think this would bring on new fans—it's definitely not a place for people to jump on to this series.

* I said it last time, I'll say it again, I hope the next book is leaner. But I doubt it will be. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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 What’s The Jackals About? 

Years ago, Jack was in a band with his brother and two close friends from school. They were playing regularly, and had a big event coming up. A major fight occurs between Jack and Mark, his best friend since childhood and bandmate. Jack leaves town, the band falls apart, and they don’t speak for seven years. 

Now Jack’s living in a new town, has a career on the verge of going somewhere, a girlfriend out of his league, and a dog that the author doesn’t spend enough time on.* Which is when he gets the news that Mark was killed. 

Robbed of the chance to make amends, Jack joins his brother and another bandmate to help clean out Mark’s house and attend the funeral. Hopefully giving him the opportunity to mend fences with everyone still living. 

It does not go according to plan. 

* It’s been a while since I got to geek out over a dog, and I thought for a minute that this would be my chance. 

Proportional Response 

Around the time that Jack left town, Mark’s life took a turn. The next several years were marked by a series of poor choices and their ramifications (I’ll keep it vague on that point). Many/some of those close to Mark blamed Jack for this direction in his life. When presented with the opportunity to pay Jack back for this, they do so. 

But it’s not a proportional response—what’s done to Jack is over the line, and will have long-reaching consequences for Jack’s life. 

I found Jack’s response to this both hard to believe and disappointing. The more I think about this part of the novel, the less I like it. No matter what Jack’s ultimate response to everything that happens may be, no matter what personal development may be triggered by this—ultimately for the good (quite possibly)—I just don’t buy this part of the book. 

So, what did I think about The Jackals? 

I’m not 100% that the official description is correct, and I wonder if the novel was revised a bit after it was written. But that’s okay, the things that didn’t quite match up were better this way. 

The ending wasn’t what I expected from this story—both from the way the novel was moving and from the kind of story Shaw was telling. It was a little unsatisfying in the moment, but the more I thought about it, the more I appreciated what Shaw did. He went against expectations provided the kind of ending that was most fitting for Jack. 

The best takeaway from this novel was what it had to say about friendship—the real, enduring kind. Both the friendships that were forged in childhood/adolescence and how they morph into something different in adulthood—whether or not there’s frequent contact. 

It had comedic moments, but could’ve been funnier. It had some good drama, but could’ve used some more depth. I thought the characters were well-thought-out, but we needed a little more from each one. I liked the story, but I wasn’t sure it was resolved right. Essentially, on just about every front I can think of the novel missed the promise it shows. Just by a hair. I wanted to love this, but in the end, I could only like it. 

However underwhelmed I was with the book as a whole, and whatever issues I might have with parts of the plot—I did enjoy the book and am glad I read it. I’m curious to see what Shaw will do next, and I’ll definitely grab it. Your results may vary, of course, and I can easily see readers enjoying this more than I did (and I did like it!). 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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The Publisher’s Description 

I keep stumbling over coming up with my own synopsis, it’s either too long, too spoiler-filled (although I wonder if I’d have said as much as this does), or too brief to be worth it. So, here’s what the publisher has to say: 

 
POTS
The main characters of this novel are Tania and her fellow musketeers, the head of L’Académie des Mariées, the bad guys, and  Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. The description talks says, “Everyone thinks her near-constant dizziness makes her weak, nothing but ‘a sick girl.'” Which introduces that character.

Obviously, no one has actually diagnosed Tania with POTS, and most of the characters don’t know the extent of the Syndrome’s impact on her (not just because she hides it as much as possible). But that’s what she has—I know that not just because the symptoms are recognizable to those who can, nor because it’s in all the marketing materials I’ve seen—but because there’s a great note at the back describing the author’s own experience with it (and, as I understand it, the same applies to the audiobook narrator).

It’s depicted, discussed, and addressed in period-appropriate ways, which is great. This is a really good way to raise awareness and understanding of POTS. I, for one, needed that—and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in that.

I’d never heard of POTS until a few months ago—or if I had, it didn’t take root in my consciousness—but a family member was diagnosed with it. I’ve read websites, heard them discuss it, and so on, so I had a decent understanding. But after reading this novel, I think I have a richer understanding. Lainoff helped me walk a mile in the shoes of someone with the Syndrome in a way I hadn’t been able to before. The book is going to have a special place for me because of that.

I want to stress that I’d have enjoyed it anyway and would’ve appreciated “the look behind the curtain” of POTS without the personal connection, and I’m certainly not recommending it only because of the depiction of POTS. But it was a personal highlight.

YA-ness
Every so often when I’m reading a YA/MG book, I feel like a grumpy old man. The things that make a book fitting for the target audience jump out at me, they usually don’t make me like a book less (maybe they help me cut the book some slack). So what I’m saying here—just because I mention something, it doesn’t mean I’m critiquing/criticizing/complaining about it, it’s just something that jumped out at me.

Also, I know some readers of this blog have a YA allergy (or at least sensitivity), and I want to provide them with enough information to make an informed choice.

One for All is a very much YA book. If you bear in mind that it is one, the excesses/lack of subtlety/predictability of the book can be understood/expected.

Would I have preferred a little more nuance? A little more complexity? Sure. But Lainoff’s plot and characters were good enough to make up for it.

I also think it’s the YA-ness of the book that makes the transplanting of progressive 21st Century attitudes, expectations, and behaviors on the part of some of the characters in this 17th Century setting work. Were this written with older readers in mind, there’d be more internal conflict (amongst Tania’s group, and likely within some of the individuals) against bucking the cultural norms to the degree that they do.

Tous Pour Un
Big themes that one might expect to be addressed in a book like this would be romance, maybe family, likely even found family. And that’s not really what happens here. (well sort of found family, but it feels different to me, your results may vary)

Instead, it’s about camaraderie. It’s about a team. A group working together in a very Star Treky “the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few…Or the one” kind of way. The four Mousquetaires have different political, social, and personal agendas—which are respected, understood, and shared to varying degrees—that they put aside for the needs of each other.

Time and time again, they tell each other “we won’t let you fall.” Mistakes will be made, errors will occur—hugely stupid choices will be made—but these four rally together to form a bond that is truly all for one and one for all.

I love seeing things like this—and I don’t see it often enough. And when I do see it, it’s largely an unstated thing. Sometimes it will be discussed with an outsider, but rarely within the group. And I get that, and there’s a certain beauty and nobility about not having to say it. At the same time, there’s a beauty in saying it. It’s great having examples of people reassuring each other, “I’ve got your back, I’m on your six, and I will help when needed” is a wonderful thing. How many of us need to hear that ourselves? So seeing it in a group of characters? I absolutely loved it and it’s likely my favorite thing about this book.

Use of French
Lainoff will frequently drop in a word, phrase, or sentence in French in the middle of dialogue or the narration. It’s almost always immediately translated or given enough context clues that a translation is unnecessary (generally she still provides one even when it’s unnecessary).

It was a nice way to brush up on my high-school French, for sure, but I really can’t tell you why it was used 97% of the time. And even that 3% I could guess about, I’m not certain that it was necessary or useful.

It was a nice bit of seasoning—little dashes of spice to add flavor—but nothing the recipe needed.*

* See the section head above for an accidental example of what I’m saying.

So, what did I think about One for All?
I really had fun with this book. I think I liked it in a “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts” kind of way. I do think if I focused on story X or Y; character W or Z; or theme A, B, or C; I might end up quibbling with the book. But the experience as a whole really worked for me and gave me almost everything I wanted in this book. (a little more humor or panache would’ve been nice—but now that the four have established themselves, that’s possible in a sequel)
 
It’s a familiar premise, well-executed—with just enough distinctiveness about it to make this stand out. Good characters acting in largely relatable and believable ways. Solid action that’s well used (although I’d like the volume turned up just a little bit on those scenes). It’s very much an origin story kind of thing and does a good job of introducing and creating a world as well as populating it.
 
If there’s a sequel, I will read it. If this is a stand-alone, I’m satisfied with it. Which is a great spot to be in, and not one I find myself in a lot lately. Particularly when you bear in mind the target audience, this is an enjoyable and satisfying read that I’m pleased to recommend.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Quest About? 

Sylvalla is being raised the way most fantasy princesses should—but she’s not all that interested in the finery and culture. She has fire in her and ambition—she wants to be a Hero (with a capital H) and sneaks out of the castle to pursue her dreams and find a Quest so she can get that title, even if it causes problems with the one she already has. I couldn’t help but think of Princess Eilonwy daughter of Angharad, daughter of Regat of the Royal House of Llyr, just without being hampered by an Assistant Pig-Keeper. 

Dirk is one of the many swordsmen out to find her and return her for the bounty. He’s also one of the fiercest swordsmen around and has a long list of people he’s promised to kill the next time he sees them. He’s technically a Hero, but there’s little heroic about him. He finds himself Sylvalla’s sworn servant before too long and ends up accompanying her instead of bringing her home. 

Meanwhile, Capro Goodfellow a wizard of small repute has just turned 150 and continues to try to get his son interested in wizardry. Jonathan’s much more drawn to the commercial life, buying and selling—and profiting from both. But you know what they say about wizards being subtle, a vision about Sylvalla gives Capro a chance to involve Jonathan in something bigger than capitalism. 

Eventually, these four end up in the same place at the same time, and Sylvalla gets her chance—can she take advantage of it? Will any of them survive it? 

Yeah, There Was Another Thing 

There was another storyline and another group of characters that I didn’t mention. They were interesting enough, and the characters and story had potential, but I think they were squandered. I kept wondering how the book would’ve ended up had Ponder not bothered with this and had spent the space deepening the others instead. 

That said, I can absolutely see where this storyline is going to pay off in a further installment of The Sylvalla Chronicle. But for now, it felt like a poor use of space and imagination. 

How was the Narration? 

Fife did an acceptable job—there were some really strong moments. But there were a few times when the accent he was using didn’t work (words he didn’t know how to pronounce with a British accent, for example). When I read on his website that he comes from the same state as I do, some of that made a lot more sense to me. Also, there wasn’t enough variation in his tone of voice or pacing, which got a little old after a while and made it difficult to focus (that also could be a function of how tired I was, I grant—perhaps the combination). 

That comes across as more critical than I intended it to be—Fife was very strong when handling dialogue for his characters, and caught the tone of the book well. I could’ve used just a little more. 

So, what did I think about Quest? 

This was a light, fun fantasy story in a similar vein to A Wizard’s Guide to Defensive Baking by T. Kingfisher and Sir Thomas the Hesitant and the Table of Less Valued Knights by Liam Perrin (to name a couple of recently discussed books here)—Ponder’s not looking to satirize the genre, just looking to tell a fun story within it. Which isn’t to say there’s no meat to it, by any means. I simply wanted a little more from the two main storylines, but that’s likely just me. 

I really liked Sylvalla as a character and enjoyed her arc through this—the same, to a lesser degree, for Capro and Dirk. I even came around to liking Jonathan—I enjoyed his arc throughout, even if I spent most of the book wanting someone to give him a swift kick in the pants. 

A quick hit of fantasy that will bring a grin to your face, Quest is one to check out. Given how things wrap up, I imagine the rest of her Chronicles will deliver more of the same, too. 

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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Three Events 

There are three major events that define the career of LAPD Detective Trevor “Finn” Finnegan. 

The first happens in his teens and leads to him deciding to abandon his plan to pursue an artistic career and follow in his father’s footsteps and apply to the Police Academy. The second is the event that puts him on the accelerated track to promotion as a detective. 

The third is the case that is the focus of this novel. A black Police Academy recruit is found dead—in a way that screams both suspicious and weird. Finn is assigned to work the case solo—his partner is on medical leave—despite the volatile nature of this case. 

The media scrutiny on the case is intense, BLM protesters are turning it into a rallying point, and Finn isn’t making fast progress—making him a target for the command structure, the media, and the community. And Finn is sure that the answers that he will find aren’t going to make anyone happy—assuming he can live long enough to find them. 

Father and Son 

Finn’s father is retired LAPD, and still has a degree of pull and respect from his former colleagues. But he’s putting it at risk—he’s playing a very visible and loud role in BLM (and similar) protests that were going on even before Finn’s case. 

His health and mental acuity are in decline—yet he’s still able to advise and cajole Finn in between their regular bouts of arguing. It’s a complicated relationship that feels rather real (more than a few others in the book). 

A Complicated Morality 

Finn says that he wants to rise in the ranks so that he can be a force for reform—particularly when it comes to the way that the LAPD deals with minorities. And he really does seem driven by those concerns. 

But what’s the cost for advancement in the LAPD? How many things does he have to overlook to save his career? How many rules will he bend? How many compromises are necessary? 

There are no easy answers, no clear-cut moral distinctions—a lot of what Finn does (and doesn’t do) will make the reader uncomfortable, and should. 

He really seems to be a guy who wants to do the right thing—but doesn’t what that is all the time. And when he does know what the right thing he is, he’s not sure how to do it. Which makes him seem pretty human and relatable, if not the typical hero. 

A Series? 

I thought I’d read that this was the first in a series about Finn—but as the book continued, especially as it moved into the endgame, I couldn’t see how it would continue. I actually assumed that I remembered incorrectly and that it wouldn’t keep going. 

Then when Clark tips his hand and shows how the story can continue, I was pretty impressed—it’s not at all what I saw coming, but think it’ll be rich with opportunity for continued stories. 

So, what did I think about Under Color of Law? 

It took me a while to really see what Clark was doing here, I expected Finn to be your usual driven detective—and in many ways he was. But in more ways, he wasn’t. Think of Bosch at his most political (especially early on) and you’ve got the beginnings of an understanding of how Finn works within and against the system. 

The further I got into it, the more I could see how the event that made him want to be a cop shaped him, how much he’s grown since the first two events I listed. 

But more than that, this novel is a great exploration of the morality of law enforcement as well as a compelling novel about a murder investigation. Many of the twists and reveals seemed obvious, but just as many blind-sided me. 

The narration was just as strong, Butler did a great job of bringing Finn and his circumstances to life. 

I can’t help but feel that I’m short-changing this book, it deserves more from me, but I can’t think of what it is that I’m missing. 

Under Color of Law is a dark and tense novel, with just a hint of hope. It’s worth your time. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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Fifteen Years Ago
Evie, her older twins, Kass, and Jakob are on a camping trip with their father. When Jakob and his father step away for a private word (Jakob’s thinking of dropping out, and their father is giving him a talk).

Then everything changes. Jakob and their father disappear. Three days later, their father reappears, disoriented and confused. But there’s no sign of Jakob—he’s eventually declared dead, and the family is shattered.

Evie
Evie’s following their father’s theory, Jakob was taken by aliens. She’s moved away from the family and joined up with others convinced that aliens have visited the planet. They research reportings, scientific phenomena, and do a webcast.

When her group notices phenomena in the area near where Jakob disappeared that matches the same strange readings from that night, Evie can’t contain her excitement, so she scrapes together enough money to fly across the country so she can look into it first-hand.

Kass
Kass had the opposite reaction, her brother’s always been a ne’er-do-well, he has no commitment, no follow-through—always getting by on his charm. She assumes that Jakob found some people to hang out with, leach off of, and was off having a great time while the family fell to pieces.

She stayed home, finished her degree, and is now taking care of their mother in the earliest stages of dementia while working as a therapist, helping others do for their families what she couldn’t do for her own.

She’s not thrilled about her sister’s impending arrival—Kass can’t believe Evie’s wasted her potential with this nonsense and has abandoned her family to do so. She wants nothing to do with it, or the inevitable request for financial assistance that comes with any visit with Evie.

Jakob
Jakob actually was taken by aliens—his father was accidentally taken up in the same transporter stream. He’s serving in an intergalactic war—he’s hiding briefly on earth until he can get some vital information to his side.

Or at least, that’s what he tells his sister when he returns. Kass has other ideas. She keeps using words like delusions and psychosis.

A Family Affair
The book hops around, being told from the perspective of each sibling—we get to know them, what they’ve been up to for the last fifteen years, and how they relate to each other. Whatever outlandish story Jakob is telling, what evidence and theories that Evie has about him, and whatever their mother is going through, the focus is the family—particularly on the siblings. The hurt they’ve caused the others, the neglect they’ve shown towards one another, the utter lack of trust that exists between any of them.

But they can’t fight the pull toward each other—to help each other, even as they’re proclaiming their disgust and disappointment.

Chen’s known for writing family drama, and to date, none of his families have had as much drama as these three.

Yes, there’s the FBI running around, accusations of fraud (and possible terrorism), and some pretty intense action—laced with SF goodness (as you expect from Chen). But the story is at it’s core, a story about these three siblings trying to find some healing. Or at least a definitive way to say goodbye.

So, what did I think about Light Years from Home?
I thought it was a great way to tell this story, I thought the characters were interesting and the situation was very compelling—bringing in their mother’s deteriorating condition was a wonderful addition (in terms of storytelling, I’m not saying I find dementia entertaining).

Yet, I had the hardest time getting involved with the story or characters. I thought it was a great read, but I just didn’t care. Or I didn’t think I did. But I found myself on the edge of my seat at the right moments and getting misty at the end. Without my noticing, Chen had wormed his characters into my heart—including the one, I’d easily have said the book didn’t need.

I’ll note that I just talked to a friend, who had an entirely different reaction to the beginning of the book (hasn’t finished it yet, but I can’t imagine he’ll disagree with what I said about the ending). This suggests, as I imagined, this is a Me-problem, not a Chen-issue.

I think this book worms its way into the SF/Speculative Fiction genre differently than Chen’s previous works. And maybe that was my hitch—maybe. I think it’s great that his works are so stand-alone, that there’s not even a Mike Chen-template like so many other stand-alone authors fall into.

With Mike Chen, you never know what you’re going to get beyond: interesting and fresh premise and emotionally satisfying ending. Light Years from Home lives up to that and has me eagerly awaiting his 2023 release to see where he’s going next.
 

  This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Dead Man in a Ditch About? 

Fetch, Man for Hire, has two clients/cases this time out. 

First, the police want his help—they have a corpse that appears to have been killed by magic. They’re not broadcasting this idea, but that’s the best theory they have. They figure this is more up Fetch’s alley than theirs, they can’t officially hire him, but they’ll make sure that there’s a solid reward ready for him if he can bring them answers. 

The other case involves an older elf—her husband is missing, and is probably dead. She wants Fetch to figure out who killed him—even better, if Fetch can tell her why there are debt collectors from the wrong side of the tracks sniffing around… 

There’s not a lot of overlap in these cases, beyond the suggestion that there’s still a little magic in the world, despite what everyone knows/assumes. Maybe this time Fetch will find the thing everyone wants. 

Too On the Nose 

There’s a lot of material that’s a commentary on the presence, use, and abuse of guns in the real world. Arnold was not subtle at all—I’m not saying he should’ve been, but it would’ve been a bit easier to take if he had. I really don’t like authors taking a moment to do a PSA for whatever their cause is in the middle of a book. 

Now, if they can work it in subtly? I don’t mind, in fact, I’m frequently impressed by it (whether or not I agree with them). But this was a tad too blatant for me. 

The Narration 

There’s got to be an advantage in narrating the audiobook for your own novel—you know how the strange names are pronounced already, you know exactly what tone is called for in each scene, and so on. On the other hand, you probably have to resist the impulse to do one more edit on each passage. 

If you happen to be a pretty experienced actor, that has to be all the better. 

Basically, I’m saying that Arnold is a perfect narrator for this and he did a bang-up job of it. 

So, what did I think about Dead Man in a Ditch? 

I thought I liked this novel more than the first in the series—I actually still do, but I’m rating this lower (I would like to ask 2020 me a couple of questions). Focusing on the present, even if the past looms large over the present, allows Fetch’s cases to mean more and be developed in a better, fuller sense. 

I’m intrigued by the direction that Fetch seemed to be headed at the end here (although, I kind of thought that’s where he was headed already), but let’s never mind that. 

I loved Fetch’s inner monologues, the voice is fantastic and I could listen/read it all day. I’m not quite as on board with the story—it’s good, just slow. Still, I’m glad I listened to this, and expect most fantasy/PI fans will be, too—particularly if they’re fans of both genres. 

I’m just going to repeat what I said last time, because it still applies (maybe more than last time). Do I recommend this book? Oh yeah. You’ll probably like it more than I did (I’m a little worried about hitting “publish” on this, as I know I’m one of the less enthusiastic readers of this). And even if you don’t, you’ll be just as impressed as I am with Arnold’s imagination and skill. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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My Faulty Assumption
When I heard that Joe Ide was going to do a Philip Marlowe novel, I assumed it was going to be in the same vein as his South Central Sherlock Holmes novel, IQ-this time with a Marlowe-esque figure in a contemporary L.A.

Nope. This time out, Ide isn’t messing around with something inspired by one of the greats. He’s it’s a full bore re-imagining. We’ve got Philip Marlowe in his tenth year of being a P.I. in a 2020-is L.A. The question is, will this work?

What’s The Goodbye Coast About?
An aging star of Rom-Coms hires Marlowe to find her stepdaughter, a 16-year-old runaway, Cody. Cody’s father, Terry, was a director who had one mega-success and a series of flops. He appears to have fallen in with a group of Russian and Albanian gangsters as a way to secure funding for one last attempt at saving his career. Sadly, he was murdered in front of their home. That was six weeks ago. A month later, Cody runs away, stealing the housekeeper’s car to do so.

It’s been two weeks, and no sign of her has been found. Kendra James hires Marlowe, not to look into the murder, but to track down Cody. Something doesn’t sit right about this with Marlowe, but James is paying a ridiculous amount of money, so he takes the case. Marlowe definitely doesn’t like James, the way she treats her staff, or spends her money. But that doesn’t mean he can’t some of that money.

Naturally, Marlowe ends up looking into the murder, and the questions surrounding it, the victim, and Marlowe’s client start to add up.

While in the middle of this investigation, Marlowe is approached by a British woman looking for her son—her ex-husband has abducted the boy and flown home to L.A. as the lastest step in their bitter divorce. She’s spent pretty much everything she has to get to L.A., and after a series of rejections from Private Investigators who expect to be paid for their efforts, she’s been referred to Marlowe.

Emmett Marlowe
Marlowe’s father, Emmett, is a 17-year-veteran of the LAPD. Currently on leave, following the death of his wife from cancer and the drinking (both excessive and habitual) he turned to after that.

The relationship between father and son is strained, and the closest they get is when they work together—Emmett is essentially Marlowe’s partner in some of his cases, unofficially using LAPD resources in the service of the case.

The emotional core of this novel is the relationship between Emmett and Marlowe. There are a lot of ups and downs just in these three hundred pages, and it’s clear that this is nothing new—all of this has happened before, and it will all happen again. I’m not sure what they have could be love—it really doesn’t seem to be affection—but they’re family.

Phillip Marlowe, Really?
I’m really not sure about this part. How Phillip Marlowe-y is this guy? Do we need Marlowe in the 21st Century? I wondered about that as soon as I finally understood what Ide was doing in this book a few weeks ago, and I still have questions about that.

One thing that I stumbled over is Ide’s use of the third person. Chandler’s Marlowe is notably a first-person narrator—and his narration served as the template for so many P.I.s that followed. Ide is about to work in some touches that make me think of Chandler’s narration but it’s not the same and takes some getting used to.

There are plenty of similarities between the two author’s take on the character, a similar attitude, aptitude, mannerisms, and likes. On the other hand, Ide’s Marlowe’s backstory and the involvement of his father are significant divergences. That’s his prerogative, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that—but at a certain point, if enough tweaks are made, is it Phillip Marlowe?

I cannot stress enough—I would have absolutely no qualms about this character if he had any other name under the sun. But tagging him with Philip Marlowe means something, right? I’m not prepared to say that Ide gave us a version of Chandler’s character for the Twenty-First Century. For me, I think I have to think of Ide’s Marlowe as some guy who by some crazy, random happenstance shares his name with a P.I. from the same city in the 30s and 40s.

So, what did I think about The Goodbye Coast? 

It took me no time at all to get hooked by this—and hooked solidly. If it weren’t for prior obligations (like, say, work), I’d have eagerly stayed up all night reading.
 
Everything about the Cody/Terry/Kendra case is murky—the more time that Marlowe and his father spend on it, the worse it gets. Every time they or the reader think they’ve gotten to the bottom of what happened, and to the depth of the depravity involved, within a few pages they’re proven wrong. By the end, you see that Ide has fully embraced the noir ethos of Chandler’s detective and runs with it.
 
I’m not sure I liked much about the father taking the child story, the resolution was satisfying enough, though. But what I appreciated about it was the way it brought the child’s mother, Ren, into the novel. She played a significant role in the Cody story in several ways. Also, the best bit of dialogue in the novel comes from the first conversation that Mom and Marlowe had. I’m a sucker for banter, and Ide nailed this one. If there is a sequel to this, I’d love for Ide to come up with some excuse to bring Ren into it.
 
Speaking of the dialogue, as a whole it’s crisp, snappy, and witty. The characters leap off the page, and it didn’t take me long to get invested in the whole thing. This version of L.A. shares a lot with Chandlers, too—the collision of an abundance of wealth and a dearth of ethics/morality helps to create a dynamite setting for a P.I. novel. Between the narrative voice, dialogue, and frequent Chandler-esque similies, this is the most entertaining writing from Ide yet–I’m talking the technical bits, not the character or plot (nothing against them, I’m trying to distinguish things here).
 
I got the impression this is intended as a stand-alone, but I could be wrong. If there’s a sequel, I’m there in a heartbeat. I can see this Marlowe rivaling Isaiah Quintabe in my eyes. P.I. fans—go get your hands on this.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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Why Would They Say This? 

It’s been 6 months since Christmas and Adam and Colin haven’t had the opportunity to show up the police since then. They even think about their crime-solving in the past tense. 

Still, when circumstances put the two of them on a cruise to Italy before Adam’s wedding, his fiancé makes him promise to stay out of trouble. Adam says it’s his goal on a couple of occasions. It’s said so often that I could hear Toby Ziegler shouting: 

 
Of course, Adam and Colin don’t have a fictional White House Communications Chief yelling at them and trouble finds them.
 
The Trouble
On their first night onboard, the duo attends a dinner for first-class passengers where they meet some of their fellow travelers, including an art dealer; a B-List film star (maybe a C-lister); an eccentric elderly woman traveling with a classic painting; and a young man in his early 20s who may not be as well-off as he seems.

Late that night, Colin finds the woman after she’d been attacked in her room and her painting had been stolen. Colin’s always been the more considerate of the pair, but given his profession, he seems more driven to help this victim. He promises they’ll find the painting and he spends the rest of the cruise concerned about her well-being.

Adam’s a little torn between looking for the thief and keeping his promise to Helena and staying out of trouble—naturally, curiosity (and the realization that they really have nothing better to do with their time on the ship) wins out and Adam gets in way over his head with the search for the painting. The fairly dynamic duo’s hunt takes them all over the luxury ship as well as to the streets of Barcelona and Lisbon, new territory for them, but in the end, their tenacity and cleverness help them as always.*

* Their habit of accusing almost every suspect until something sticks doesn’t hurt either.

A Theft? That’s What They’re Investigating?
Easy now, don’t worry. There is a murder, it just shows up far later in the book than we’re used to.

I was actually enjoying the lack of a corpse and was hoping we’d get all the way through a novella without one. If only for the sheer novelty. But once the body was discovered, I enjoyed what it meant for the plot—and it just felt strange to read a Stonebridge Mystery where everyone was alive.

So, what did I think about All At Sea?
I was excited to get the email yesterday morning with the link to my pre-order, so I could dive into this (no pun intended, but hey, I’ll take it). Any day spent with Adam and Colin is a good one in my book and this entry in The Stonebridge Mysteries did not disappoint.

At 96 pages, there’s not a lot to be said about All At Sea, beyond recommending it. This novella contained a couple of my favorite sentences by McDonald, some great characters in the suspect pool, and the most dangerous moment this series has had yet.
 
Would this work as a jumping-on point? Yeah, it’d work. I think you’re better served by starting from #1, especially as these are so short that it wouldn’t take much effort to catch up. But if you’re not up for that, you’ll get into the groove just fine from here. I’ll warn you—once you start with these, you won’t stop. Adam and Colin are addictive.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Jumping Sharks and Dropping Mics About? 

The subtitle pretty much tells you everything you need to know. This is a look at several idioms, expressions, and figures of speech that have entered common usage over since the latter half of the twentieth century. 

The introductory chapter describes idioms and their usage, the various types of idioms, the history of a few not-modern examples, and so on. This chapter was great and I could’ve used a whole book on this topic. But that’s something for a future library trip, I guess. 

Following that we get chapters devoted to: Idioms from TV (including from commercials); Movies; The Internet (memes, hashtags, and so on); Sports; Modern Literature; and then a handful that have entered common usage without a tie to any of the rest, some from the news. that sort of thing. 

Carrol talks about the origin and spread of each idiom, notable uses outside the source, and clarifies the meaning—and other commentary or trivia. 

Oh, It’s That Kind of English… 

Early on there was something in the back of my mind, like I was missing something. Then I ran across the phrase “TV advert,” and a lightbulb went on over my head. This book comes from the other side of the Atlantic, which is going to affect a little bit what idioms are used. 

I’m not complaining or anything, I just had to tweak my expectations and go in knowing that there were going to be a few things I had no previous exposure to or that I’d be going into without the necessary frame of reference. 

So, what did I think about Jumping Sharks and Dropping Mics? 

The Sports chapter did nothing for me—most of that is my utter disinterest in the category, but a decent chunk of that is due to the number of cricket references. They might as well have been in Greek. 

On the other end of the spectrum, as one might expect, the chapter devoted to Modern Literature was my favorite. Not just because of the page or two devoted to Douglas Adams, either. The section on The Right Stuff was a lot of fun. 

There weren’t a lot of idioms that were new to me, but there were a handful—I’ve tried them out a little bit in the few days since I read the book, I’m not sure they’re going to stick, but you never know. It’s fun to watch people try to suss out what I meant, at least. 

The book was a lot of fun, I appreciated re-familiarizing myself with some of these phrases, and I learned a couple of things, too. It was an entertaining read and just the kind of thing that language nerds should really enjoy.