For my part, I like picking around the edges of the Harry Bosch catalogue, either when I need a Los Angeles tale or a mind-numbing read. I don’t usually go for airport paperback fare but Michael Connelly has always felt like a cut above. I don’t mean that to condescend anyone who enjoys the James Pattersons and Jeffrey Deavers of the world. But for me, Connelly has always felt slightly above their level, with just enough sophistication to feel refined yet not too much to qualify as a “Thinking Man’s” mystery.
Ah crap, I’m doing a terrible job of not sounding condescending. Drag me for my tastes all you want if you’re reading this. I try not to be a snob.
At any rate, this is one of the more enjoyable Bosch books I picked up and I think that has largely to do with it being narrated by the protagonist himself in the first person. This is a big departure from other Bosch books, which show Harry’s perspective in the third person. It gave it more of a hardboiled feel.
And that’s a good thing because this is basically a hardboiled plot: ex-detective going back to the case that haunts him. I won’t say much but Harry gets a lot more than he bargained for. There were some decent twists in this one, including one at the end I genuinely did not see coming and it left me sad.
It also helps that Harry isn’t technically part of the department in this one, as we don’t have to wade through the office politics that usually saturate Bosch novels. I wonder how much more I would like this series had Connelly, who often lauds Chandler and Macdonald, had written PI novels instead of these.
One of the better ones in the series. I’ll pick up another Bosch when the time is right.