Just the other day I was commending one author on keeping his twenty-some-odd series book fresh, and here we’ve got another long series with a great lead character — the enigmatic FBI agent Aloysius Pendergast — with the opposite problem. They simply don’t seem to know what to do anymore. They’ve got this mishmash of Edgar Allan Poe and Sherlock Holmes and Relic that just sort of studders around, making poor choices and landing on a cliffhanger so cheesy, I suspect Pendergast bungeed to the bottom on string mozzarella. It feels like they’re stepping into a new trilogy, this past one having ended, so hopefully they’ve got a plan. But this one was a serious disappointment.