Bridge to Oblivion by Henry Hoffman
(Martin Sisters Publishing, Paperback, 220 pp., $15.95)

Reviewed by James Elens

           Terrible tragedies have long-lasting consequences in Henry Hoffman’s engrossing new novel Bridge to Oblivion. Using Tampa’s Sunshine Skyway Bridge collapse of 1980 as his starting point, Hoffman creates a surprising and ultimately quite moving mystery about the death of a young woman named Charlene who jumps from the reconstructed bridge on the seven-year anniversary of her sister’s death, which happened as a result of the collapse.

          The protagonist of the story is a young private detective named Adam Fraley, who witnesses the suicide and delves into the mystery of who she was and why she did what she did. Fraley’s personal and disturbing investigation unearths some shady secrets about local power and abuse that I will not spoil in this review, but I will say that Hoffman deals out clues and information with the panache of a skilled mystery writer, and one revelation leads to the next in a way that feels natural. Populated by untrustworthy law enforcement officials and prominent, but nefarious, community figures, the novel creates a feeling, as good mysteries often do, that those taking on this mission of discovery and justice are doing so alone, and that the entire world in which they operate (in this case the city and institutions of Tampa) is standing in their way. Both Charlene’s death and the disaster that claimed her sister’s life have secrets behind them that Hoffman makes the reader want to uncover.

           Hoffman displays a skill at setting up and executing scenes that makes his story all the more compelling, and which also continually lends his novel a firm sense of place. The collapse of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, which comprises the novel’s prologue, is an excellent example, a tension-packed scene with striking language in which the author grounds the reader by connecting us to characters in the midst of a seemingly banal everyday before disaster shakes their world apart. We see Charlene’s sister on a bus crossing the bridge witnesses the terror first-hand, and her perspective makes the reader’s vision that of terror justly frightening and tragic before she too is claimed by it:

          Eyes fixed on the window, she watched a pickup truck cruise past them into the murk ahead, its taillights burning like beacons. She followed them until they disappeared, dropping from sight like shooting stars from a blackened sky. Moments later, the vibration of the road beneath them abruptly ended, replaced for a split second by a silent floating sensation, followed in the turn by the sounds and images of tumbling bodies and baggage, as the bus cart-wheeled off the bridge into the abyss below, the sounds and images dissolving into nothingness.

          Hoffman proves a very capable constructor of scene, and his frequently powerful descriptive language bolsters the events he presents.

          One issue that arises, however, is some rather stilted dialogue like that found in Hoffman’s previous book, the otherwise compelling and affecting Flaherty’s Run. In Bridge to Oblivion, the dialogue often turns into unrealistic speech that would be better presented as expository narration. It can be awkward in detective stories, or any stories, when characters spell out all of their thoughts and feelings to the reader, and Hoffman is often unable to find his way around it, such as when Fraley dutifully explains the motives of a character later in the novel:

          That’s the tragedy of it all. Her thought process was skewed…stuck on a single goal…to give validation to her life and child in the most fundamental way she knew how. It must have come as a consolation to her for the pregnancy to occur after her sister’s death or else the thought or her grown daughter doing the math would have really posed a quandary for her.

          Granted, Fraley is a detective whose manner of speaking in such a way has been established throughout the novel, but the problem is that most of the characters speak this way, often serving as vessels for exposition in a way that makes it harder to connect to them as people. And the book is filled with long dialogue sequences, which doesn’t help hide this shortcoming.

Though Hoffman’s dialogue can slow things down sometimes in Bridge to Oblivion, the story, the novel’s most prominent element, is a good one. Its tension and mystery surround terrible happenings with genuine empathy Hoffman pulls off convincingly. The author clearly cares about his characters, and this helps us care about them too. We end up hoping that the wounds of the past can indeed by healed, or at least that those wounded can be given some kind of peace.

A child of the beach, James Elens grew up in the Panhandle and now lives and writes in South Florida.

Dead Last by James W. Hall

(Minotaur Books, Hardcover, 304 pp., $25.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           There are some authors who treat recurring characters as they would their own children. If that were the case for James W. Hall, someone would've surely contacted Social Services by now. In his newest mystery, Dead Last, Hall once again puts his reculsive hero Thorn through a meat grinder: physically, as well as emotionally.

A serial killer is imitating the fictional killer on Miami Ops, a cable television show struggling for viewers. From the black, ninja-style bodysuit down to the method of killing, the copycat mimics the crimes perfectly, leaving behind only an obituary. While investigating a murder that occurred in her jurisdiction, Buddha Hilton, a young sheriff from Starkville, Oklahoma, finds at the crime scene the obituary of Rusty Stabler, Thorn's bride of a couple of months. That leads Buddha to  Thorn, who is still mourning Rusty's death.

Buddha asks Thorn to accompany her to Miami to speak with April Moss, who wrote Rusty's obituary. Moss is one of Thorn's former flames. Having given away all of his money and any assets of value, as well as burning all of his possessions, Thorn is in no mood to get pulled into another caper. He questions Buddha's reasons for involving him:

“April Moss has two boys,” Buddha said. “Both work on Miami Ops. One writes the show, the other's an actor in it.”

Thorn touched the edge of Rusty's obituary.

“Well, that's too coincidental to be a coincidence.”

“Had the same thought. It's that nexus again. The killer's home-based in Miami. The murder weapon was bought there, the TV show is shot there, the newspaper is from there.”

“And you want me to be your tour guide, show you the big city?”

“You willing?”

“You strike me as a long wolf, Sheriff Hilton.”

“I am.” 

“Then why gum up the works with me?”

“Well, for one thing, I thought you might make excellent bait.”

“Bait?”

“Somebody's got an interest in you, Thorn. I don't know who or why. But I'd like to dangle you in front of as many people as I can, see whose eyes light up. Maybe somebody'll even try to take a bite.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It's there on your wife's obituary. Turn it over.”

Thorn sighed and did as instructed.

On the flip side of the obituary was a portion of the society page. In the margin beside the pictures of men and women in tuxedoes, pearls, stiff poses and manufactured smiles, his name was printed in all caps. THORN.  

Thorn agrees to the sheriff's request and, sure enough, isn't in Miami long before someone takes a home-run swing at him with a Louisville Slugger. The beating Thorn endures will come as no surprise to Hall's readers, as Thorn has taken more abuse at the hands of the author's antagonists than most of today's mystery heroes. That's what keeps drawing me back to Thorn: his humanity. Never have I suspected there might be blue leotards and a red cape beneath his meager wardrobe.

Hall's tormenting of Thorn doesn't stop with a beating, though. A well-kept secret is soon revealed to Thorn, giving him even more motivation for stopping the murderer's spree and saving those close to him. As they often do, those around Thorn begin to die, sending him into a violent rage from which an old FBI ally must talk him down:

“You demolished some crucial evidence. That's what I'm talking about, Thorn. That kind of behavior. I know you were crazed, but hey, man, you can't let shit like that happen. Those Miami cops were a hair trigger from taking you down.”

“I'll try not to lose it again, Frank. What can I say?”

“Try hard, Thorn. Try very hard. This isn't the Keys. This isn't live and let live. You're in the war zone, baby. Everyone's on edge twenty-four seven. You hear me?”

Thorn nodded. He tried to look sincere. Frank sighed. Not buying it, but what could he do? 

            As Dead Last progresses, the suspect list grows as long as the peninsular state itself. Not only must the police consider random suspects crazy enough to copy a TV show, but there are a number of people associated with Miami Ops who have reasons aplenty for wanting to save the show from the network axe. Headlines announcing a serial killer aping at TV show would likely send those with even the slightest bit of morbid curiosity searching for their remotes. After all, they say there is no such thing as bad publicity.

           I'm not sure if Mr. Hall is a baseball fan, but metaphors from America's pastime abound in Dead Last. I'll try to stay true to that theme in my summation. The identity of the killer comes out of right field, but not before I struck out with many of my guesses as to his/her identity. Take yourself out to the bookstore. Buy you some peanuts and Cracker Jacks. Root! Root! Root! for the good guys because Dead Last is a grand slam.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach, FL.

Collateral Damage by H. Terrell Griffin
(Oceanview, Hardcover, 352 pp., $25.95)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Let me preface this review by saying that H. Terrell Griffin’s Matt Royal is one of my favorite Florida-based mystery/thriller fiction heroes. At the end of my review of Bitter Legacy, the book that preceded Collateral Damage, Griffin’s new Matt Royal mystery, I said that Royal was among a growing list of Florida protagonists worthy of the time invested in reading them. What I should’ve said at the time was that Royal belongs near the top of that list. Royal compares to many other popular mystery fiction badasses, in Florida or anywhere else. He has the compassion and concern for his friends of Harlan Coben’s Myron Bolitar, the wit of Dennis Lehane’s Patrick Kenzie, and the tough guy persona of Robert Crais’ Joe Pike..

          That being said, although the book’s opening sentence, “On the last morning of his life, Jim Desmond woke to the sound of the gentle surf lapping on the beach, pushed by the onshore breeze that barely rippled the surface of the Gulf of Mexico,” grabbed me from the get-go, Collateral Damage falls short of both Bitter Legacy and its predecessor, Wyatt’s Revenge. What made those books great was their non-stop action. I joked about the body count of Bitter Legacy, but I enjoyed every action-packed page of it. I questioned the verisimilitude of the dialogue in Wyatt’s Revenge, but you couldn’t have paid me to put it down. My editor was shocked when I submitted my review of Wyatt’s Revenge the morning after she handed me the book. .

           Outside of Desmond and a couple of unrelated tourists and a boat captain who are killed on a dinner cruise, the body count in Collateral Damage is low compared to the other Matt Royal novels. The death of Desmond calls Royal to action, as it turns out he is the son of Charles “Doc” Desmond, who served with Royal in Vietnam. The older Desmond shows up at Royal’s home on Longboat Key asking Matt to use his pull with local law enforcement to look into his son’s murder. Royal agrees, and Collateral Damage is off and running.

          Griffin does do an excellent job in Collateral Damage of making Royal a much more three-dimensional character than he has been in the previous books, as we see some of what Royal experienced while a member of the special forces serving in Vietnam, including being saved by Desmond after taking a gunshot to the leg. Loyalty and the soldier’s mentality still dwelling within Royal motivate him to find the killer of his friend’s son. As it turns out, revenge—I love that word when it has something to do with the plot of a book—for something Desmond was involved in after leaving Royal’s unit in Vietnam is the motivation behind his son’s murder.

          Desmond had been recruited into a CIA group known as Operation Thanatos, a joint team made up of members from Army Special Forces, Marine Force Recon and Navy SEALs. The men were essentially assassins tasked with clandestinely killing leaders of the opposition in hopes that, without leadership, the enemy would lay down their arms. The team, after unknowingly slaughtering a village of Vietnamese women and children, killed their commanding officers, CIA bureaucrats code-named Opal and Topaz, and make a pact to claim the men died in battle.

          “Did Topaz know about this?”

          “Of course. He’s the assistant team leader. If I couldn’t have led tonight, he would have.”

          Brewster shot the leader through the chest. “Oops. More collateral damage,” he said and walked out of the hut. Doc didn’t bother to check the leader’s pulse. If he wasn’t dead, he would be soon, and that was good enough for now. He followed Brewster out into the clearing. The other men had heard the exchange and were just standing there, numbed by what they’d learned. They were soldiers, not murderers.

          “Where’s Opal?” asked the assistant leader.

          “Dead,” said Doc.

          “You killed him?” Panic rode his voice. “You murdering bastard.”

          “You knew there was nothing here, just women and children waiting to be slaughtered,” said Doc. “We just committed a war crime. At your orders. With your full knowledge of what we were doing.”

          “It was necessary,” said Topaz. “This is war.”

          “No,” said Brewster, “this is murder.”

          “Well, fuck you, Brewster,” said Topaz. “Your ass will be in a sling when we get back.”

          You’re not going back,” said Doc.

          “What?” A hint of fear brought a quiver to Topaz’s voice.

          “I think you’re about to be killed in the line of duty.”

Now, along with Desmond’s son, the children of other members of Operation Thanatos are being killed, and Royal, with his friends Jock, Logan, and bartender/hacker Debbie lending aid, is tasked with finding out who is responsible. The first thing he needs to find out is who else could have known about the village in Vietnam, and he has to do it before the remaining team members’ families are killed. The problem, well, it’s only a problem if you enjoy body counts, is that after extracting the necessary information to all the bad guys they meet along the way to discovering who the guilty party is, they turn them over to the authorities. Where is the fun in that, Mr. Griffin?

Perhaps, like Michael Koryta and Dennis Lehane, two of the best in the business who I reference ad nauseum in my reviews, H. Terrell Griffin has evolved past the need for simple detective fiction that relies on stacking bodies atop one another. Royal, in resisting the urge to contribute corpses to the pile, has evolved as well. Read Collateral Damage, if not for body count, then to witness first-hand the development of both an author and his character.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach, FL.

Lassiter by Paul Levine
(Bantam, Hardcover, 283 pp., $25.00)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Lassiter is the first Paul Levine novel since 1997’s Flesh & Bones to feature tough and witty Jake Lassiter. Fans of the pro football player turned lawyer have undoubtedly missed him. Lassiter is also the first of the series I have read. I didn’t know what I was missing. I was hooked in the prologue, when Lassiter reveals his code:

          “I get my hands dirty for my clients. I fight prosecutors in court and occasionally in the alley behind the Reasonable Tavern. I stand up to judges who threaten me with contempt and to Bar Association bigwigs who would love to pull my ticket. But I won’t tote my briefcase across the street for a client who deceives me.”

           Lassiter’s reckless youth comes back to haunt him in the novel, as Amy Larkin arrives in Miami in search of her sister, Krista, who’d run away from home years earlier. Amy’s only clue to Krista’s whereabouts is an old picture of her sister and two other women hanging onto a man in a strip club. That man is Jake Lassiter, and the picture was taken on the last night Krista was seen.

          Lassiter explains to Amy that he’d helped Krista out of a precarious situation and dropped her off at home. But he holds back the details. Krista had become involved in drugs, prostitution, and hardcore pornography. Lassiter took her home, had sex with her and, after Krista expressed an apprehensive desire to escape her sleazy lifestyle, reluctantly dropped her off at pornographer Charles Ziegler’s house the next morning.

          Without knowing Lassiter’s full complicity, Amy is still angry over the nonchalance with which her sister had been passed from man to man and vows to find out what happened to Krista and exact revenge. Lassiter, remorseful for having been a rung on Krista’s spiraling ladder to hell, offers to help Amy with her search. Knowing that he must tread lightly, he calls in a favor from long-time friend Alex Castiel, the State Attorney. The men Krista had been involved with—pornographers, drug dealers and mob bosses—ran the gamut of sleaze. Still covertly sleazy, those men are now politicians and respected business owners with ties to Castiel, who warns Lassiter off the case:

          “If you want to take me on,” he said, “bring it. I’ll unleash the dogs, and it won’t be a fair fight. You ever have a witness who lies, you ever take a fee from the fruits of a crime, I’ll have your ass. I’ve got two dozen investigators and a sitting Grand Jury. You want to fuck with me, Jake, you better bring an army.”

          Lassiter’s investigation leads him to Ziegler and Max Perlow, the local mob boss still collecting generous returns on his initial investment into Ziegler’s porn distribution business. With lots of money at risk should Lassiter’s interest in Ziegler lead to an arrest, Perlow adds his name to Lassiter’s growing list of enemies:

          “How’s your knowledge of history, Mr. Lassiter?”

          “I know who bombed Pearl Harbor.”

          “Do you know about Meyer Lansky ordering the hit on Ben Siegel?”

          “I saw the movie Bugsy, if that counts.”

          “They’d grown up together, and Meyer loved Ben like a brother. But Ben was stealing, and after a warning, Meyer felt he had no choice. Do you take my meaning, Mr. Lassiter?”

          “Lansky had Bugsy killed, even though he didn’t want to.”

          “Think how it pained Meyer. And consider that I have no feelings whatsoever toward you.”

          Ignoring the threats to career and life, Lassiter pushes forward in his investigation, fighting off rogue cops and Perlow’s thugs along the way. Amy’s wavering belief in Lassiter proves troublesome to his cause. But when Max Perlow is killed at Ziegler’s estate and Amy is identified as the shooter, Lassiter finds himself fighting for her life, as well as his own.

          I’m reluctant to call Lassiter a legal thriller, as only a miniscule number of pages are set inside a courtroom. It’s a monster of a two-headed mystery, though. Not only does Lassiter have to find out what happened to Krista Larkin, he must also reveal who is framing her sister for Max Perlow’s murder.

Having finally read a Paul Levine/Lassiter novel, I can see his influence on other Florida mystery writers. Bob Morris’ Zack Chasteen bears a resemblance to Lassiter, as does H. Terrell Griffin’s Matt Royal. Besides being tough and fluent in sarcasm, all are motivated by threats to their well-being and the well-being of those close to them. Although I rarely find it difficult to hop into the middle of a series, I worried that Lassiter’s fourteen year absence might cause Levine to bog down Lassiter with a reintroduction to the character.  He doesn’t do it, though. I never felt at a disadvantage for not having previously read a Lassiter tale, and Lassiter emerges from the page like a friend you haven’t seen in years but have never forgotten.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach, FL.

Mama Sees Stars by Deborah Sharp
(Midnight Ink, Paperback, 327 pp., $14.95)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Bright lights, little city. That would be an appropriate way to describe the theme of Deborah Sharp’s new Mace Bauer mystery, Mama Sees Stars.

          Hollywood has descended upon Sharp’s fictional town of Himmarshee, Florida, to shoot a western. With it, Hollywood brings a production crew, complete with a director hoping to avoid another box office bomb, an action hero clinging for dear life to his fading star, and his heir apparent, a young heartthrob hiding a secret in his closet.

           Mace is hired by the production company to monitor and maintain the livestock used in the film. Although it’s Mace’s story, Mama’s name graces the marquee, and she does everything in her power to steal the show, which doesn’t always please the producers, especially when she walks onto the set mid-scene:

           “Would somebody grab that stupid hillbilly?”

           A muscled guy in a baseball cap started toward The Hillbilly, a.k.a. my mama. Cringing, I stepped forward. “She’s with me.”

           The short man came closer and leveled a glare. “And who the hell are you?”

           “Mace Bauer.” I offered my hand. He looked at it like it was bathed, palm to pinky, in manure. “I’m the animal wrangler.”

           “And I am not impressed.” His leathery face scrunched like he smelled a load of hogs.

           As I slipped my unshaken hand into the pocket of my jeans, Mama marched to my side. She smoothed her orange-sherbet pantsuit, fluffed her platinum hair, and straightened to her full four foot, eleven inches. The jerk in the red shirt may have had her by a few inches but she had the Mama Glare and it was set at stun.

          “Well, who the blue blazes are you? All we know is you’re a rude little man who has no idea how to talk to a lady. By the way, Florida’s as flat as a frying pan, so I can’t be a hillbilly, can I?”

          The rude little man turns out to be Norman Sydney, the film’s executive producer. Later that afternoon, while returning a horse to the stables, Mace finds Sydney dead. Besides being the film’s producer, Sydney was also a “First Class Asshole” with a list of enemies as long as a movie's credit reel, including the director, male and female leads, production assistant and even Sydney’s ex-wife.

          Mace is embroiled in a love triangle with a former beau who’s returned to Himmarshee and her on-again-off-again boyfriend Carlos, a detective from “Miamuh.” She makes a valiant try at leaving the sleuthing to Carlos, but when attempts are made on the lives of other members of the Hollywood crew, Mace included, she finds herself smack dab in the middle of the investigation.

          Meanwhile, Mama lands herself a speaking role in the movie. But when she discovers that her character is a prostitute, not a dancer, Mama suffers a moral dilemma. She tries to talk the director into some impromptu rewrites:

             “So she becomes a prostitute out of desperation.”

             “A Protestant?” Mama cupped a hand to her ear.

             “A prostitute,” Paul repeated.

             Mama’s mouth dropped open. Maddie gulped. Marty giggled.

             “Didn’t you tell me Ruby was a dancehall gal?” Mama’s question came out in a squeak.

             “A euphemism,” Paul said. “That’s what Ruby tells her mother in letters home to Georgia.”

             A parade of emotions marched across Mama’s face: Disgust Ambition. Indecision.

             “I don’t suppose she can get saved, can she, Paul? Have her come to our lord Jesus?”

             He shook his head, ponytail bouncing against his back. “No time. There’s just the one scene, Rosalee. But it’s an important one.”

Mama chewed at her lip.

“It’s crucial, in fact.”

She tapped her cheek, considering. “Well…if it’s crucial. Essential to the story?”

“Absolutely.”

Mama squared her shoulders and smoothed her hair. I knew she’d made up her mind.

The turmoil between Mace and Carlos threatens to take over the story at times, which isn’t all bad, because Carlos is a character I wouldn’t mind getting to know more. He’s haunted by a past about which the reader knows little. Mama Sees Stars does somewhat of a role reversal from Mama Gets Hitched, relying more on mystery—a solid one, at that—than humor. It isn’t without its share of laugh out loud moments, though. Like its predecessor, Mama Sees Stars finds humor in the clash of cultures. If Mama Gets Hitched was a Miami-meets-Mayberry murder mystery, Mama Sees Stars is The Golden Girls meet Entourage.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Killer Move by Michael Marshall
(William Morrow, Hardcover, 351 pp., $24.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Have you ever watched a movie in which the lead character is about to do something that defies common sense? Like when a hormonally charged camp counselor being chased by a machete wielding maniac runs up the stairs instead of going out the door. Or when, thinking the maniac is dead, a soon-to-be-headless dimwit pokes the killer's lifeless body with a stick. Those are head shaking moments and Michael Marshall's clever thriller Killer Move is filled with them.

          The story revolves around Bill Moore, an ambitious Key West realtor. Some unseen puppet master is pulling Bill’s strings, and the path Bill is lead down ends in prison. Or death.

           Bill’s troubles start with one word—Modified—that he finds printed on a card at his desk one morning. The card seems harmless at the time, but, unbeknownst to Bill, it is the beginning of a dangerous game of human chess, and he is the pawn.

          Strange things begin happening to Bill. He gets sent on a wild goose chase while trying to rendezvous with a local business man seeking someone to sell his estate. Then a book—pornographic in nature—arrives at Bill's house, ordered from his Amazon account. These are minor nuisances to Bill, though, just a colleague playing a prank, he figures. It isn't until a racist joke is sent from his email account to every one of his friends and business associates that Bill's ire is raised.

          These actions are much more than innocent pranks, as Bill discovers when the police show up asking about David Warner, the businessman Bill was supposed to have met the previous night. Warner has gone missing and his assistant, who Bill alleges arranged the meeting, denies ever speaking to Bill. Adding to his concerns, Bill’s wife Stephanie finds pictures on his laptop of Karren White, Bill’s colleague, whom Stephanie has suspected harbors feelings for him. The voyeuristic pictures were taken from outside Karren's window and feature her in various states of undress. If it wasn't obvious to Bill that the events of the past few days were someone's idea of a sick joke, Stephanie's argument makes it perfectly clear:

          She jabbed her finger at the screen, where the last of the sequence of pictures—a relatively innocuous one, showing Karren in the process of leaving the room via a door—was still in view. I saw that Steph was indicating the sequence of numbers in the corner.

          09*14*2011

          A date, of course. The fourteenth of September. Yesterday. So the lie had been. . .

          “Steph, I've got to go see a client,” Steph snarled, seeing the penny had dropped. “Steph, it's so cool, I'll get the commission. Oh no, honey—Karren won't be there. And of course, she actually wasn't—except via what you could see through your putrid lens.”

          “Steph,” I said. I was mirroring how she'd just spoken, but couldn't help it. I was starting to get angry, but defensively assuming the offensive. “I don't even have a zoom lens. I've got a three-hundred-dollar compact. You know that. You bought it for me.”

“Sure, I bought that one,” she sneered. “But who knows what other gadgets you've picked up in the meantime? From Amazon, maybe? Your favorite online retailer, from what I gather.”

Bill uses his limited computer knowledge to investigate the photos, hoping he can find something to debunk them. What he finds is even more troubling. The name of the file the photos are stored in has a familiar ring: Modified. Bill seeks answers from someone more tech savvy:

She appeared pained at her own stupidity. “What’s the word you keep seeing? Modified?”

“They modified the dates, I can see that, but—”

“No no no. Not only that, my friend. It’s not just one thing being modified, or even a bunch of little things. It’s an actual mod.”

“What the fuck is a mod?”

“Rewind. I play games, okay? Computer games, online. This has been established in prior conversation. Recall?”

“Yes.”

She looked perplexed. “You really don’t know what a mod is?”

           “No.”

“Okay. In gaming terms, a mod is what it sounds like—a modification—but actually it’s more than that. It’s ontological, world changing. It’s a file or patch you deploy in a computer game that alters a player’s circumstances—or the world—in fundamental ways. It’s an old-school idea—been around since people were playing Middle Earth based text-based games back in the 1960s.”

The setting of Killer Move is the Gulf Coast of Florida, from Sarasota to the Keys. But it is the Key West lifestyle—relaxed and leisurely—that plays as large a part in the book as Moore himself, as idle hands tend to do the devil’s work. The situation Bill finds himself in is the result of boredom on the part of some of the Keys’ wealthiest residents. There is an eco-friendly undertone in Killer Move, also. Driven by ambition yet haunted by his sense of nostalgia, Bill sees the polluting of the Key West shoreline by condominiums as necessary but tragic.

With a converging storyline I’ve omitted for fear of revealing too much, Killer Move has shades of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. It’s a book that was tough to put down, as the end of each chapter sinks the hook and reels the reader into the next. It’s a great summer read.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Pocket-47 by Jude Hardin
(Oceanview Publishing, Hardcover, 240 pp., $25.95)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           It is obvious throughout Jude Hardin’s debut novel Pocket-47 that the author knows exactly who his protagonist, Nicholas Colt, is, which I find isn’t always the case for rookie novelists.

           The lone survivor of a plane crash that claimed the lives of his wife and infant daughter, as well as his band, Colt .45, Colt walked away from the music business and became a private investigator. He is approached by Leitha Ryan, a young woman searching for her runaway sister. Orphaned, the two girls were raised in foster homes until Leitha graduated from nursing school and was given legal guardianship of fifteen year-old Brittney, who has now run away following an argument over Leitha’s disapproval of the company she’s been keeping. Fearing authorities will remove Brittney from her custody, Leitha wants to avoid police involvement in the search. After consulting with a high-priced PI she couldn’t afford, Leitha is referred to Colt, who specializes in finding runaways.

           Living in a rundown Airstream trailer on a lakeside lot, with his phone service turned off and vehicle about to be repossessed, Colt accepts the job for a flat fee, which he asks for up front. He sets out to find the girl, interviewing her boyfriend, employer, and former foster parents. It doesn’t take Colt long to track Brittney down. When he does, the defiant girl insists the real reason she ran from home is because someone is trying to kill her. Rather than returning her to Leitha, Colt takes her back to his trailer and tries to find out why she believes her life is in danger.

          This is where Hardin begins to peel away the layers to reveal Colt’s multi-dimensional character. Still reeling from the death of his family, especially his infant daughter Harmony, the tough but vulnerable Colt feels his fatherly instincts kick in. He becomes determined to out if her assertions are true and, if they are, to keep her safe:

          I sat there in the dark, thinking about Brittney’s claim that someone was trying to kill her. It was possible she fabricated the story to delay returning to Leitha’s care. From a teenager’s perspective, there’s no way Big Sister is going to be “the boss of me.” I’ve heard plenty of bogus stories from plenty of runaways who didn’t want to go back home for one reason or another. Leitha’s threat to ground Brittney may have been all there was to it. It was also possible Brittney was telling the truth and her life really was in danger. If that was the case, I need to find out who, what, when, where, and why, and make sure whoever had threatened her got a solid message to leave her alone.

That night, Colt awakes to gunfire punching holes in his Airstream. While he chases the gunmen down, Brittney is kidnapped and he again finds himself trying to find her. He soon discovers that Brittney’s abductors have ties to a neo-Nazi religious cult, and that they may have been responsible for the plane crash that left him a widower. Angered and blood-thirsty, Colt poses as a Christian rock musician in order to infiltrate the group and find out what happened to Brittney and why his family was killed.

What makes Nicholas Colt such a genuine character is the fact that Hardin doesn’t seemed pressed to make him superhuman. Colt collects a myriad of bumps, bruises, and scrapes during the book, coming out on the short end of a few encounters. He doesn’t have endless resources to draw from or a bulletproof persona. Colt is guarded, which is evident in his relationship with his girlfriend, Juliet, and reluctant to trust. That reluctance helps him as a PI, though, as it allows him to see people objectively.

Colt isn’t afraid to put himself at risk to achieve his goals, however. As he prepares for the ultimate confrontation, he relishes the opportunity to shed some blood in the name of revenge:

“I wanted to find the armory and load up on some firepower. I wanted to blow some shit up. The B movie I seemed to be stuck in should have a blazing molten-hot spectacular ending.”

If those three sentences alone don’t send you running to purchase this book, check your pulse. I hope we haven’t seen the last of Nicholas Colt.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Night Vision by Randy Wayne White
(G.P. Putnam's sons, Harcover, 351 pp., $25.95)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Marine Biologist Marion “Doc” Ford is back in Randy Wayne White’s Night Vision, the eighteenth novel in the popular series. Although it has all the characteristics of a Doc Ford novel—the scenic southwest gulf coast of Florida, underlying eco-friendly themes, and vile antagonists—this is not Ford’s story.

           Instead, Night Vision is told from the points of view of two intriguing characters, as well as Ford's. The first is Tula Choimha, a 13-year-old Guatemalan immigrant. The spiritual Tula is sanctified within her community and believed to be able to shape others’ thoughts. Because many young immigrant girls are raped or forced into prostitution, Tula is trying to pass herself off as a young boy. Those within the Guatemalan community, as well as Tomilinson, Ford’s hippie sidekick, know the truth about her.

           The other point of view character is Harris Squires, a “great big bundle of steroid rage, full of grits and y'alls and redneck bullshit.” Squires and his domineering girlfriend Frankie, who abuse and deal homemade steroids, enjoy making hard core pornographic videos with Guatemalan prostitutes.  Because of their illegal status, the women are reluctant to report any mistreatment to the authorities. Frankie begins to take the action too far, killing the women in fits of steroid-fueled jealous rage. Because Squires is particularly fond of underage girls,Tomlinson asks Doc to help him keep Tula safe from Squires and Frankie. When Tomlinson notices Squires leering at Tula inappropriately, the men come face to face:

          “Why were you staring at that child? What’s going on in the twisted brain of yours?”

          Squires realized the hippie was talking to him. He turned, surprised, and a little pissed off. He studied the hippie, seeing the seriousness in the guy’s Jesus-looking eyes, also seeing how scrawny the dude was, easy enough to snap the man’s body in two if he wanted.

          “She’s a chick, not a child, you dumbass,” Squires said to him, and then enjoyed the guy’s reaction.

          “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the hippie said, but in a sort of testing way.

          “Bullshit, I don’t. You ever seen a boy with pretty little knockers so firm they could poke your damn eye out?”

          The hippie took a step toward him. “Why would you even say something so disgusting?”

          Squires was loving the look of outrage. “Because it’s true,” he told the guy. “Tonight, that little girl and me had a nice conversation while she was in the trailer taking herself a bath. That’s some tight little ass she’s got for a wettail that young.”

Tired of the abuse he suffers at Frankie’s hands, Squires kidnaps Tula, takes a large sum of money he and Frankie earned selling steroids, and flees. On the way to Immokalee, where he owns a hunting camp, Squires witnesses Tula's divine influence firsthand. She convinces him to stop at a local church where she thinks her mother may have spent time. Soon, Tula is addressing the congregation with the preacher's blessing. Parishoners toss themselves adoringly at her feet, breaking into tears at the girl's sermon.

           When Squires arrives at his hunting camp with Tula, he finds Frankie waiting. The demented woman wants to add Tula to her home video collection. Suddenly inspired by Tula's spirituality, Squire's turns from abductor to protector:

“In a chiding voice, Frankie spoke to Tula, saying, “I’ll bet you’re still pure as the snow, aren’t you, niña? Then this goddamn piece of white trash comes along and kidnaps you. But you don’t have to be afraid of him now. Come here to Frankie”—the woman was patting her thigh as if calling a dog—“I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Squires felt Tula move close to him, throwing an arm around his bad leg for protection.

He wasn’t afraid of Frankie—he’d never admitted it to himself, anyway—Tula was wrong about that. But the woman did make him nervous, particularly when she was as drunk as she was now.

Nervous, yes, that’s the way Squires felt, but he could also feel a testosterone heat moving to his ears.

“You shut your mouth about this girl,” Squires said to Frankie in a warning tone as he stepped in front of Tula. “She’s not used to your garbage talk. And stop your damn swearing in front of her. This little girl’s religious.”

Ford appears at crucial times throughout Night Vision. Not dominating the print on each page the way some modern protagonists do, Ford seems more of a character within the book rather than its hero. Still, White’s tale of evil, suffering, and redemption is more than worthy of not only series fans, but new readers as well.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Someone's Watching by Sharon Potts

(Oceanview, Hardcover, 360 pp., $29.95)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           In Someone’s Watching, Sharon Potts second book, following 2009’s In Their Blood, the author shines a light on what goes on behind the velvet ropes outside Miami’s South Beach night club scene. Beyond the doors of exclusivity, of high-priced martinis, gym-sculpted bodies and the chance to rub elbows with Hollywood A-listers, there lies a subculture of scandalous sex, blackmail, and murder.

          Someone’s Watching follows Potts’ recurring character Robbie Ivy, who becomes a reluctant heroine when her estranged father shows up seeking forgiveness for his absence in Robbie’s life and help finding Kate, a sister she never knew existed. Kate, along with her best friend, has gone missing from a group of friends visiting Miami to celebrate their high school graduation. When the friend's body is discovered in a creek a week after their disappearance, Robbie sets out to find Kate before she meets the same fate.

           Complicating matters for Robbie is a personal life that was in turmoil even before the reemergence of her father. Her boyfriend Brett, a regular on the Miami club scene, has become even more dedicated than usual to his job and his mysterious boss, Mike. This leaves Robbie time to reevaluate their relationship and her feelings for Jeremy, an ex-boyfriend who reenters her life and offers to aide Robbie in her search. He supports Robbie emotionally as she slowly unravels details from her childhood that call into question what she thought she knew about both her father and late mother.

          Meanwhile, Kate finds herself an unwilling participant in a blackmail scheme involving some of Miami’s most powerful men, each with the means and motivation to keep their own private sex scandal from going public. Her captors have given Kate a new look to go along with a new identity and have convinced her that she is responsible for her friend’s death, making her reluctant to escape their grasp and run to the police.

          “You can go anytime.” He took a deep breath through clogged nostrils. “Of course, once you leave here, we can’t promise any protection. You understand, don’t you?"

Angel nodded.

           “Just like you were when we found you after you killed your little friend.”

White blurs flashed in front of her eyes. She was breathing too fast.

“Is that what you want?” Luis said.

Angel shook her head.

Potts introduces enough seedy and questionable characters to keep the reader guessing as to the identity of the killer. Puck, a boatman claiming to be just passing through Miami, begins frequenting The Garage, a popular nighttime hotspot where Robbie bartends, taking a peculiar interest in her.  Gina Fieldstone, author and wife of a powerful politician, also takes an uncanny liking to Robbie, vowing to use her husband’s political influence to help Robbie track down Kate. There is also Brett’s boss Mike, who keeps both his and Brett’s work secretive.

As the action progresses, though, many of these characters end up dead and all the evidence points directly to Robbie and Jeremy who, in a moment of poor judgment charged by testosterone and jealousy, fights an enraged Brett, angered by the amount of time Jeremy and Robbie are spending together. Someone’s Watching quickly evolves from a simple kidnapping story to Robbie’s fight not only to find Kate, but to clear her name and keep her safe, while trying to do the same for herself and Jeremy.

If I had one complaint about Someone’s Watching, it would be that Potts occasionally finds the need to tell the reader what he or she should be feeling. Her narrative more than adequately sets the tension or excitement without the need for her to say to the reader, “The mood was tense!” (I’m paraphrasing). Potts’ story makes these flaws forgivable, though. Succinctly put, Someone’s Watching is a page-turner. I couldn’t read fast enough as the tension in this well-crafted thriller grew to an exciting crescendo in the book’s exhilarating final chapters.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review contributing editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Mama Gets Hitched by Deborah Sharp

(Midnight Ink, Paper, 319 pp., $14.95)

Reviewed by Edward Irvin

          Having grown up in culturally diverse South Florida, where Northeasterners and Canadians spend their winters and later their retirements, I sometimes forget that Florida is part of the South.  In Mama Gets Hitched, Deborah Sharp's Miami-meets-Mayberry murder mystery, we are reminded on every side-splitting page just how far south Florida is.

Mama Gets Hitched is the third in the Mace Bauer Mystery series. Mace's mother, the Mama to whom the title refers, is preparing to walk down the aisle for the fifth time. While planning the reception which, despite Mace's objections, is going to have a Gone With The Wind theme, Mace finds Ronnie Hodges, event caterer and family friend, stabbed to death in the kitchen of the VFW hall.

The ensuing investigation turns up multiple suspects ranging from Ronnie's widow Alice, who had discovered that her husband was being unfaithful, to C'ndee and Tony, relatives by marriage of Mama's fiancé, Sal. C'ndee and Tony conveniently arrived in town from New Jersey on the day of Ronnie's murder, hoping to partner in an event planning business themselves, which would've made Ronnie their competititon. In the rural town of Himmarshee, Florida, where the book is set, the event planning business is very cutthroat.

Setting and characters are what make this book so much fun. Mace is not a sleuth by profession. When she isn't sniffing around crime scenes, Mace is a wildlife wrangler by trade, much to the dismay of Mama and Mace's two sisters Maddie and Marty. Mace's on-and-off boyfriend, Carlos, is a transplanted detective from Miami still suffering from culture shock. Mama evokes images of Vicki Lawrence in the 80s sitcom Mama's Family, and Cndee and Tony read like extras from the set of The Sopranos or Jersey Shore. Culture clashes abound, especially when the fast-paced lifestyle of New Jersey meets slowed down southern hospitality.

Tossing a last sultry look over her shoulder at the young cop, C'ndee grabbed two cartons of coffee cups, ducked under the tape, and sashayed toward us across the parking lot.

"My gawd!" She pushed one of the cardboard, four-cup holders into my hand without asking. "I thought I'd never get out of that diner. Must everyone tell the check-out girl every detail of their lives? 'How's your daughter, Donna? Still off at college?' C'ndee affected an overdone down-South accent.

"'Oh, she's fine, honey. Having a little trouble with English lit, and of course she's packed on a few pounds. The Freshman Fifteen, they call it. And she's dating a boy we absolutely cannot stand. He's from New York . . .'

"Aaaaargh! how do you people ever get anything done?"

As if the flashy convertible wasn't enough in a town full of pickups, C'ndee's impatience for niceties nailed her as an outsider. In Himmarshee, everybody knows—and cares—about everybody's business.

The mystery is solid as well, although the climactic scene of the book felt rushed. Sharp mixes in enough misdirection and red herring characters to keep the reader guessing as to the identity of the guilty party. She does so while taking a few tongue-in-cheek shots at her own craft, most notably when Carlos suggests to Mama that the high tech methods seen on television are for dramatic effect:

"I can tell you the medical examiner will check the knife wounds on Ronnie's body against the hog's head to see if the same weapon was used."

"I knew it!" Mama said. "It's just like on CSI."

Carlos smiled. "Well, not exactly. There's a lot of dramatic license on TV and in the movies. And don't get me started on murder mystery books."

There are mutliple references to the earlier books of the series, all of which focus on the misadventures of Mama, all sounding just as humorous and well-written as Mama Gets Hitched.

Edward Irvin lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Baja Florida by Bob Morris

(Minotaur Books, Hardcover, 242 pp., $24.99)

Reviewed by Edward Irvin

          In the ever-expanding world of coastal South Florida crime fiction, few authors convey the laid-back, sipping-spiced-rum-from-a-coconut-shell-while-lounging-beneath-a-tiki-hut feeling better than Bob Morris.

Morris's newest book, Baja Florida, is the fifth featuring witty retired football player turned exotic palm tree farmer and part-time sleuth, Zack Chasteen. Most of the action takes place among the largely unpopulated islands of the Bahamian archipelago, away from Chasteen's nursery in fictional LaDonna, Florida. Zack is contacted by his long-time friend Mickey Ryser, a self-made millionaire who is terminally ill. As a last wish, Mickey asks Zack to find his estranged daughter Jen, whom he hasn't seen in more than twenty years. Jen has disappeared while sailing with her friends to the Bahamas, where she had agreed to come be at her father's side. The private investigator Mickey hired to find her disappeared, along with a $10,000 retainer. Zack sets off for the Bahamas with Boggy, his Taino shaman sidekick, to find Jen and reunite her with Mickey before it's too late.  But to late for who?

Zack finds and questions the P.I., whose efforts to find Jen include posting fliers and waiting on a barstool for information to come to him. The meeting quickly escalates into a very physical, not to mention public, altercation.  Zack also meets Karen, one of Jen's sailing companions who, following an argument among the crew, got off the boat at port and made alternative travel arrangements. The distraught girl shares her concerns regarding Jen's remaining boatmates, strangers who came aboard as last-minute replacements for other crew members who were victims of unfortunate accidents just before the ship's departure. Another witness tells Zack that he saw Jen's sailboat, Chasing Molly, being towed into harbor by the Dailey brothers, known boat thieves. Zack, Boggy, and Charlie Callahan, the seaplane pilot who flew them to the Bahamas, set out to question the three brothers, which leads to another violent confrontation.

The next day, the P.I. is found dead in his hotel room, Karen is mugged and beaten comatose, and the Dailey brothers' boatyard hangar is burned to its foundation. As the lone common denominator, Zack quckly becomes the prime suspect for these crimes.

"Whoever was behind this had done it with every intention of laying the blame on me. They had done a smart job of it. And I had pitched right in and given them all the help they needed, leaving behind a messy trail and providing witnesses every step of the way," Zack reflects.

Knowing that he can't clear his name and find Jen from behind bars, Zack goes on the lam in a race against time to save not only himself, but his dying friend and his daughter.

In Chasteen, Morris has created one of the most likeable protagonists in Florida crime fiction today. His sarcastic wit, loyalty to friends and family, as well as his philanthropic nature, are sure to endear him to fans of Tom Corcoran's Alex Rutledge, Les Standiford's John Deal, or James Hall's Thorn. In addition to fiction, Morris also writes travel and food pieces for magazines. That work comes through in his Chasteen books, as Zack has discriminating  tastes in exotic food and fine liquor.  Bahamian destinations such as Georgetown, Lady Cut Cay, Marsh Habour, and Green Turtle Cay are described in such vivid detail that one might want to consider applying sunscreen prior to reading Baja Florida.

Aside from Bahamarama, the first in the Zack Chasteen series, which provides pertinent information regarding Zack's past and exactly how he became a wealthy palm tree farmer, there is no need to read the series in order, although they do get progressively better. That says a lot, considering the books were good from the very beginning.

Edward Irvin lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Silencer by James W. Hall

(Minotaur Books, Hardcover, 288 pp., $24.99)

Reviewed by Edward Irvin

          When James W. Hall's austere protagonist Thorn tries his hand at philanthopy he unknowingly enlists himself in a dangerous game of greed and family betrayal in the author's newest thriller, Silencer.  Set mostly on the Coquina Ranch, a hunting lodge in the rural sprawl of central Florida that has been owned by the Hammond family for generations, Silencer is a classic whodunnit swimming with detestable villains and real heroes, all with authentic motivation.

The plot is set in motion during the 1930s when, not unlike today, men of prominence in society and government have the influence to send men to war in the name of personal gain.  In the present day, Hall's puppet masters plunge the Hammond family into a civil war that begins with the murder of Earl, the family patriarch, and threatens the lives of Thorn and his closest friends.  Meanwhile, Thorn finds himself imprisoned and at the mercy of a pair of killers-for-hire, brothers intent on blackmailing their way into the action.  Trapped in a sinkhole, a battered Thorn finds his geologic prison holds clues to the true motive behind the murderous plot.

Silencer isn't without its share of plot elements prerequisite to mystery fiction, though.  While unraveling Hall's finely woven plot, Thorn faces moral and ethical dilemmas that will be familiar to fans of the genre.  Also, there is the usual jurisdictional territoriality between local, state and federal law enforcement agencies, as well as the good cop/bad cop dichotomy.  Fortunately for the reader, Hall's mastery of his trade prevents any of these elements from appearing clichéd.

Silencer is my first taste of Mr. Hall and Thorn, but it won't be my last.  His grasp of the Florida landscape, from the Keys up to Miami and the rustic outskirts of Lake Okeechobee, paints a vivid picture even those who haven't lived in South Florida most of their lives can see.  Unlike many of today's recurring protagonists, constantly embroiled in danger yet impervious to harm, Thorn is tough yet vulnerable.  His experiences with the Faust brothers leave him beaten and in an "unspeakable gangbang of pain" and doing "the disjointed boogie-woogie of a drunk."  Such dialogue from Hall and his wisecracking-in-the-face-of-danger hero left me laughing yet on the edge of my seat.  I coldn't put this book down.  To my list of must-read Florida mystery writers that includes Corcoran, Dorsey, Hiassen and Standiford, I must now add Hall.

Edward Irvin lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Burnt Offerings by Michael Lister
(Pulpwood Press, Hardcover, 364 pp., $26.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           In Burnt Offerings, the new mystery from Michael Lister, someone is killing people in Pine County, Florida, using fire as his weapon of choice. For the sake of vengeance, he ritualistically takes the lives of those who—in his eyes—should have never been born, exterminating them for the sins of their mothers and fathers. Constructing funeral pyres and sacrificial altars true to those in the Old Testament, the killer leaves the charred bodies strewn across the North Florida Wildlife Preserve.

          Because she is the closest thing the FDLE has to an arson specialist, agent Samantha “Sam” Michaels is assigned to the case. With very few resources at her disposal, Sam enlists the help of Daniel Davis, a retired religion professor from FSU who consults with the FDLE on cases with religious motivations. Sam and Daniel have a history. Not only was he her professor, but the two were once lovers. Daniel happens to be the one who discovered the first victim and is Sam’s initial suspect, complicating the lingering affections she has for her mentor.

           Sam also suspects that her boss, another man with whom she’s had a relationship, has set her up for failure, using her as a pawn to further his own career. Their relationship has become public, and Sam fears that he put her on an unsolvable case to demonstrate that he shows her no favoritism. When the body count continues to rise, the FBI swoops in and takes over the investigation. This further motivates Sam to solve the crimes and prove her mettle.

          Burnt Offerings is vintage Michael Lister. His poetic prose drops readers in the middle of Florida’s wilderness—where snakes and alligators aren’t the only things that kill—and dares them to find their way out. Lister’s villain is twisted as the cypresses hidden beneath the surface of the rivers and streams that run through heart of the forest.

          Outside, beyond the train tracks that now lead nowhere, the nocturnal noises of the deep woods are relentless in their repetition and volume. The dark sky is starless. There is no moon. The cool September air coils through the live oaks and splash pines, raining leaves and pine needles down onto the damp ground.
          The flame of the match quickly reaches the tips of his fingers, and he lets it, feeling the burn on his flesh. He is a son of the Flame, begotten of Fire.

          As exquisitely as Lister sets the scene, so does he place within it characters who are damaged and faulty. Sam is a woman in a man’s world, struggling to prove that she hasn’t gotten as far as she has by sleeping with her superiors, despite her actions hinting otherwise. Daniel is haunted by events from his past that have left him victim to debilitating panic attacks in times of stress. Sam is scarred physically; Daniel psychologically. As their romance is inevitably rekindled, they look to each other to heal:

          —I had a panic attack. I’m supposed to be out there protecting you, and I’m flat on the floor, unable to move.

          —I’m sorry, she says. I wish you would’ve woken me.

          —I couldn’t do anything.

          —I meant afterwards. How long’d it last?

          He shrugs.

          —Ten minutes, maybe.

          —You were out there ten hours, she says. So what if you were incapacitated for ten minutes?

          —The other night at the tree stand when the killer dropped out of the branches and began to run, I froze. I was scared.

          —I was too.

          —But you didn’t freeze, he says. You ran after him.

          —If you froze, it was only for a split second. And you ran after him too.

          —I ran after you, he says.

          —Well, don’t stop now.

          He smiles.

          —You’re scared, she says. I’m scared too. And not just of what I feel for you, but of everything—including the guy burning people alive. I don’t think I can stop him—and if I don’t soon, I probably won’t get the chance to even try anymore.

Seduced as I am by a vivid setting and flawed heroes, it is the villain who steals the pages of Burnt Offerings. Not since Thomas Harris wrote about a guy named Hannibal have I enjoyed a villain so much. He doesn’t have the charisma of Mr. Lecter, but his motivations are valid. I hesitate, although I’m tempted, to call Burnt Offerings Lister’s tour de force. I’m tempted because it’s the best of the Lister novels I’ve read. I hesitate because labeling it as such would imply that Lister won’t be able to top it, and each of his works I’ve read has topped its predecessor.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach, FL.

Boca Daze by Steven M. Forman

(Forge Books, Hardcover, 346 pp., $25.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Eddie Perlmutter is a busy man. Once a Boston cop, Perlmutter retired to Boca Raton and went into the private investigations business. Thanks to his proclivity for solving crimes and rescuing damsels in distress, Perlmutter was dubbed “the Boca Knight” by a local journalist. The nickname makes him recognizable as a sort of local legend, which has its privleges, as we see in Boca Daze, Steven Forman’s third book featuring Perlmutter, following Boca Knights and Boca Mournings.

          When Solomon “Doc” Hurwitz,” a conman Eddie once put behind bars in Boston, calls wanting to retain his services, the Boca Knight dons his shining armor and goes to work. Hurwitz wants Perlmutter to look into local “pill mills,” clinics and pharmacies that fill prescriptions doled out by less-than-reputable doctors, who profit from the transactions.  Hurwitz’s granddaughter overdosed on Oxycontin she obtained at one of the hundreds of pill mills operating in south Florida, and he wants Perlmutter’s help in exposing the industry.

           In addition to the pill mill investigation, Perlmutter looks into B.I. Grover, owner of B.I.G. Investments. Steve Coleman, another friend from Boston, is considering investing a large sum of money with Grover without looking into the man’s company. Although an SEC investigation turned up no wrongdoing, there are whispers Grover is a scam artist running an elaborate Ponzi scheme. Eddie takes on the case without Coleman’s knowledge, hoping to save his friend from a costly mistake.

          Perlmutter asks Lou, his computer-hacking partner, to begin digging into Grover’s company. Their investigation hits too close to home for Grover’s liking and, following a meeting at which Perlmutter and Lou reveal their findings, attempts are made on both men’s lives. Lou and his girlfriend Joy survive an explosion at their home, while Perlmutter is one of two survivors of an assassination attempt at a local deli. Suffering trauma from bird shot to the head, Perlmutter sees red following the encounter.

          In ancient mythology the gods would unleash a Norse monster called the Kraken on their enemies. The beast had enormous tentacles that could reach anywhere and crush anything. Grover, the Jewish God of Fraud, apparently had a kraken too and unleashed it on Lou and me. Now it was our turn.

          I’m going to kick your kraken’s ass, Benjamin.

          Boca Daze isn’t all shoot-outs and drug deals, though, mainly because being a crime solving hero isn’t the only thing Perlmutter has a penchant for. He’s quite witty, in a self-deprecating way, and likes to consult with Mr. Johnson, his penis, in times of stress. Problem is, Mr. Johnson hasn’t been “up” for consultation lately, leading to awkward moments between Perlmutter and his girlfriend, Claudette, who convinces him to ask his doctor about the little blue pill.

          If the commercials for ED—which doesn’t stand for eating disorder, Perlmutter discovers during a visit to the urologist—illustrated what goes on during bulbocavernosus reflex test rather than showing two happy-as-clams middle-aged couples, shelves would still be stocked with the little blue pill and Pfizer would be sinking fast. Unfortunately for readers, the male readers at least, Forman goes into excruciating detail regarding the examination. He gets his prescription and things return to normal for him and Claudette. Temporarily.

          As we discover on the eve of a raid on Grover’s estate, Perlmutter’s “issue” isn’t physical. Sensing danger, Mr. Johnson springs into action:

          At midnight I was still feeling the effects of an adrenaline rush when I heard a voice.

          Hey, Eddie…Eddie…it’s me.

          I looked under the blanket. Mr. Johnson was standing at attention, like a rookie recruit.

          Private Parts reporting for duty! he said.

          Welcome back, soldier, I said.

          There is no man-made stimulant comparable to a person’s natural passion for life.

If, as a reader, you’re not into penis jokes, fret not. There are laughs aplenty that have nothing to do with genitalia. The action is intense, too. Besides maniacal embezzlers, Perlmutter encounters a Liberty City gang, a small band of punks who get their kicks by kicking the homeless, and sea turtle-egg poachers, to name a few, dispatching most of them with the finesse and toughness of a former cop from Boston’s meanest streets. I look forward to the next Boca Knight adventure. Hopefully Private Johnson gets a promotion before then. Major Johnson sounds like much more of a hard case.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach, FL.

Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey
(William Morrow, Hardcover, 352 pp., $24.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Serge Storms is in Miami hoping to improve the Magic City’s reputation among tourists, which he blames on the sensationalist media. “All it takes is one headline,” Serge tells Coleman, his bumbling sidekick who has yet to find a drug he won’t try. Coleman questions what difference two people can make. By getting the media to show that it’s the criminals who are in danger, not the tourists, Serge believes he can sway public opinion. He begins his campaign cruising the access roads that skirt Miami International Airport, where unsuspecting tourists frequently make wrong turns and become easy marks for Miami’s criminal element.

          In Pineapple Grenade, Tim Dorsey’s fifteenth novel featuring Serge, social vigilante and obscure Florida history buff, the protagonist aspires to more than hero vigilantism, though: he wants to become a spy. Serge and Coleman visit every foreign consulate in Miami, snapping photos and dropping off coded greetings to each consulate’s spy-in-residence, hoping to be noticed. Even when the pair are forcibly tossed from the consulate of Costa Gorda, Serge, ever the optimist, isn’t deterred:

           “Coleman got up and rubbed his hands on his shirt. “Don’t take it too bad. Maybe the next people will hire you.”

          “What are you talking about?” Serge checked his backpack and threw a broken thermos in the garbage. “Those guys hired me.”

          Coleman looked puzzled. “I haven’t been hired much, but when it has happened, they don’t rough me up and throw me really hard on the ground.”

          “Everything in the spy world is opposite.”

          Little does Serge know his actions have attracted the attention of two incommunicado CIA shadow teams, led by rival agents—Oxnart and Lugar—with aspirations of furthering their careers. Oxnart and Lugar are each convinced that Serge is working for the other.

          Later that night, back on airport duty, Serge and Coleman thwart an assassination attempt on President Guzman of Costa Gorda, who is in Miami for Summit of the Americas. His interference convinces the CIA that Serge really is a new player on the international espionage scene:

          “Who the hell are these guys?” asked Lugar.

          “Nobody knows,” said Belcher. “But we ran facial recognition and got a hit. The tall one was photographed taking photographs outside the Costa Gordan consulate yesterday.”

          “So Oxnart is working the arms deal! And now he’s got his own man inside the consulate!”

          “Doubt it,” said Belcher. “These other photos show guards ejecting him from the building. They threw him to the ground really hard.”

          “You idiot! That means they hired him.”

          A commentary on inept intelligence, Pineapple Grenade mocks the chain of communication between agencies, a chain only as strong as the red tape holding it together. While the rival CIA teams are brokering a weapons deal with a small band of hapless rebels in Costa Gorda, with the intention making Guzman look good by squashing a guerilla uprising, the Office of Homeland Security devises an assassination plot on Guzman, hoping it will distract the media from issues of domestic political corruption.

          Serge discovers the plot, somehow, and sets out to foil the plan. But that doesn’t mean he’s given up his day job. Using diabolical methods Serge still finds time to eradicate the thugs who tried to carjack President Guzman, as well as an internet scammer from Nigeria (or so he claimed), and another would-be carjacker caught attempting to rob a husband and wife from Bowling Green. Using four oscillating fans, a couple of Wham-O bubble wands and some Santeria candles, Serge recreates Allied bombing runs over WWII Germany in order to teach a fatal lesson to an abusive husband who failed to heed Serge’s advice to leave his wife alone.

Serge does have his kryptonite, though: women. When Serge is seduced by a female agent who injects him with truth serum during the throes of passion, Dorsey gives readers perhaps the best insight into his protagonist they’ve ever had::

“Who do you work for?”

“People in need, future generations, endangered species, lost tourists, the disenfranchised underclass, strippers with hearts of gold trying to support a child on a single income…”

“What is your mission?”

“To save the republic, cheer on the home team, stay ahead of the curve, read the warning signs, respect my elders, support the troops, spend more time thinking about landfills, harness the untapped power of avoiding all your relatives, try not to fart around women…”

Felicia looked toward the syringe on the dresser. “Maybe I gave him too much.”

“Souvenirs, sunblock, sesquicentennial…”

Trying to summarize a Tim Dorsey book is difficult. Serge is either the luckiest dunce in the world or the clumsiest genius. Still, he is the most original character I’ve ever read and the laughs produced by his adventures are often side-splitting. The deaths within Pineapple Grenade make me fear for anyone on Serge’s bad side, but what else can you expect when he says he needs to stop at The Home Depot and a toy store on his way to ridding society of another evildoer??

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach, FL.

An Appetite for Murder by Lucy Burdette
(Obsidian Mystery, Paperback, 249 pp., $7.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           When I read a novel set in Key West, the most important thing I look for is a sense of place. Does the author take me off Duval Street, away from Sloppy Joe’s and Hog’s Breath and Mile Marker Zero, or does the book read like an oft-uttered spiel from the guy at the helm of the Conch Train? I want to read about the places the Conchs—that’s a Key West native, for those who don’t know—hang out, hear their take on the sun-scorched tourists who clog the streets and who gaze in wonderment at the free-roaming roosters. In other words, I want to be treated like a local.

          Enter Lucy Burdette and her novel An Appetite for Murder, the first in the Key West Food Critic mystery series. Burdette leads her readers to the outskirts of Key West, where many people who’ve chased a dream to southernmost Florida are forced to live, thanks to the high cost of living there. It isn’t unusual for these people to work multiple jobs in order to remain Key West residents.

           Hayley Snow, Burdette’s protagonist, is no exception. She followed Chad Lutz, a boyfriend she barely knew, to Key West, despite the objections of family and friends in New Jersey. One day, Hayley returns to the condo she and Chad share to find him in bed with another woman. Following an acrimonious breakup, Hayley is single and living with her college friend Connie. For comfort Hayley cries on the shoulder of Eric, a long-time friend and her former babysitter, and seeks life direction from Lorenzo, a tarot card reader who sets up each night in Mallory Square, where street performers gather to liberate tourists from their money.

          A freelance journalist, Hayley hopes to land a permanent gig as a food critic for an upstart magazine called Key Zest. The only problem? Key Zest is owned by Kristen Faulkner, the woman Hayley found in bed with Chad.

          That isn’t her only problem for long, though. One morning, two policemen show up at Hayley’s door seeking to question her in the death of one Kristen Faulkner. As far as the police are concerned, Hayley is the prime suspect, as she has motive, no verifiable alibi, and means. The murder weapon? Poisoned key lime pie, which is unfortunate considering a food piece Hayley submitted on spec to the Key West Citizen was published that very morning. The article’s tagline read, “Key Lime Pie to Die For.”

          As the police question her and Hayley starts to realize that she is a suspect, she begins yammering uncontrollably:

          “So let me get this straight,” said Detective Cleft Chin. “She had an affair with your boyfriend—”

          “Stole him right out from under me,” I said. “Next thing I knew, I had to find a room to rent or head home to New Jersey. That’s why I’m living on my college roommate, Connie’s houseboat. She said I could work some shifts in her cleaning service in exchange for a place to live until I get back on my feet. My room’s a little cramped—miniscule really—and she uses half my closet space for storing her cleaning supplies, so it always smells a little like bleach. But on the other hand, she let me bring Evinrude and not many landlords allow cats.”

          Detective Bransford massaged his forehead. “Was your roommate home with you this morning?”

          “I can’t say exactly when she left, but she was gone by the time I got up. She’s a hustler—she takes any job she can get—the early bird gets the worm and all that—”

          The chief flashed a timeout signal and the detective nodded curtly. “Miss Snow, were you aware of anyone else who might have felt animosity toward Kristen Faulkner?”

          Anyone else?

          While she does produce a fair share of chuckles, Hayley’s actions are cringe-inducing, too. Using her position as housecleaner for Connie, whose company happens to have a contract to clean Chad’s condo, she enters her ex-boyfriend’s home in search of items he refused to return following their split. Inevitably, a nosy neighbor calls the cops and Hayley is busted trying to clean up evidence of her crime, or so it looks to the police, who find her holding the knife Kristen used to slice the fateful pie.

Even when facing a murder rap, though, the food critic within Hayley can’t help but call out a culinary faux pas as she discusses the need for a lawyer with her father:

           “The police found my knife covered with poisoned lime custard—it’s so green, now that I think of it, I believe the person who baked it used food coloring. Isn’t that disgusting?”

An excellent sense of place and the occasional humorous outburst aren’t the only things An Appetite for Murder has going for it, though: There is a solid mystery within its pages. Burdette introduces numerous potential killers. Just as I was positive I had ascertained the identity of the killer, Burdette shined her light on another prospective pie poisoner. There is also some chemistry between Hayley and Detective Bransford, who is seemingly the only member of the KWPD questioning her guilt.

Unfortunately, here is where I must warn you away from An Appetite for Murder, which comes out on January 3, when many of us are still clinging tightly to that New Year’s resolution to shed some pounds through healthy eating. That won’t be possible if you read this book. Not only does Burdette capture the physical and pastoral essence of Key West, she celebrates the food. Hayley continues to fight for the job of Key Zest food critic, even with her freedom on the line. She visits food stops from hole-in-the-wall burrito shops to reservation-required seafood restaurants, dining on local fare such as deep fried conch fritters, fish tacos, curried yellowtail, Kobe beef burritos and homemade crumb cake (for which a recipe is included at the end of the book), describing all in mouthwatering detail.

Although you might want to skip the key lime pie, don’t skip An Appetite for Murder. Let's hope it is just an appetizer and there will be a feast of Food Critic mysteries to follow.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

When Elves Attack by Tim Dorsey
(William Morrow, Hardcover, 192 pp., $16.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Everyone knows that Santa Claus has a list that he checks, twice, in order to find out who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. The nice children awaken on Christmas morning to find a bounty of presents beneath an ornate tree, carefully hung stockings loaded with treats and perhaps an empty tray of cookies and milk, left for Saint Nick as an expression of gratitude. But little is mentioned about those who’ve been naughty. Sure, marginally misbehaved souls may find a lump of coal in their stocking, but what about the really bad ones? The ones who steal presents from cars in busy mall parking lots or change from Salvation Army Santas? In Tim Dorsey’s first holiday novel, When Elves Attack, those people are dealt with by one very unique elf by the name of Serge A. Storms.

          Technically a serial killer fleeing from law enforcement, Serge is, more accurately, a social vigilante. He is that psychotic impulse inside all of us that wants to castrate pedophiles, lynch con artists who rob seniors of their life savings, run over the guy who fails to yield to emergency vehicles, or stone the spoiled blonde who steals cookie money from Girl Scouts. Serge, along with his dedicated drug dependent sidekick Coleman, does what the justice system doesn’t: hold the lawless truly accountable for their actions. Sure, he might take it too far sometimes, but a little overkill is good for the soul. A two-legged encyclopedia on Florida history, Serge knows the ins and outs of the Sunshine State, including how the town of Christmas, Florida got its name:

           “Because Florida doesn’t get snow, we have a chronic inferiority complex when it comes to Christmas.” Serge handed Coleman a stamp. “So we overcompensate: Santa Claus on water skis, on jet skis, on surfboards, Christmas cards with barefoot Santas in beach chairs drinking beer, inflatable snowmen, reindeer in tropical shirts, town celebrations where they bring in special machines that shred ice and blow out fake snow that melts immediately and makes the children cry… But this place just might be the weirdest.”

          “What is it?”

          “The post office in the city of Christmas, Florida, where thousands descend each year to get their holiday cards postmarked. It’s the best tradition we’ve got, so fuck it, I’m rodeo-riding this cultural mutation.”

          “Why’s it called Christmas?” Coleman licked his own stamp. “They have a big celebration way back or something?”

          “No,” said Serge. “On the twenty-fifth of December, 1837, they began construction of Fort Christmas to fight the Second Seminole War. Nothing says the ‘Prince of Peace’ like a military installation.”

          When Elves Attack returns to the series’ past, to Triggerfish Lane, where we find Jim Davenport, who readers may remember from Triggerfish Twist. Since we last saw Jim he’s taken a rather dubious job as a consultant, which basically means that companies hire him to come in and fire people in order to prevent getting any blood on their own hands. Needless to say, Jim makes his share of enemies, especially after stuffing pink slips in holiday stockings. Those who find themselves unemployed seek Jim out, looking to carve their pound of flesh.

          Hoping to start a family, but unfamiliar with the ways of domestic bliss, Serge moves back to Triggerfish Lane, to a house across the street from Jim's, intent on learning from him how to become a family man. This means Serge watches Jim’s house round the clock, which is bad news for those coming to do Jim harm. Serge may be sociopathic, but he’s loyal to his friends, and he considers Jim a friend, despite the man’s reluctance to associate with Serge in the least.

          At only 192 pages, When Elves Attack is difficult to review without giving too much away—Dorsey wouldn’t even read from the book at a recent appearance for fear of giving away the plot—but only the number of pages is abbreviated. It is still a Dorsey book, with Serge playing concerned citizen, doing his best to keep the roads safe during the holidays:

           “There’s no law against standing on a street corner dressed like an elf and pointing caulking guns at traffic. That’s the whole problem with the general population: They’re blind to the obvious possibilities.”

          “But isn’t it against the law to impersonate police officers?”

          “I’d say the elf suits are a good defense that we’re making an effort not to look like cops.”

          “But you said they dress up like holiday characters to catch speeders.”

          “That’s right.” Serge aimed the caulking gun at an approaching car. “It’s the police who are impersonating elves. We’re the ones who should have the beef.”

          Crash!

          “Serge.” Coleman pointed at steam shooting out from under a hood. “That guy hit the brakes when he saw your caulking gun, and the other guy rear-ended him.”

          The drivers got out of their cars, cursing each other in the street. Just about to come to blows.

          “Everybody just calm down!” yelled Serge, running into the road. “You were speeding, and you were following too close. But since it’s so close to Christmas, I’m going to let you off with a warning.” He began walking away.

           One of the motorists: “Thank you, officer.”

“Oh, I’m not a police officer,” said Serge. “Just a concerned elf with a caulking gun. Please drive safely.”

When Elves Attack is the cure for holiday Serge withdrawal, although it isn’t where newbies to Dorsey’s series will want to get their feet wet, as they likely wouldn’t get some character references. But don’t let the size of this present fool you, it is a gift packed with Christmas cheer. Serge A. Storms as one of Santa’s little helpers: Who’d a thunk it?

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach, FL.

The Big Goodbye by Michael Lister
(Pulpwood Press, Hardcover, 254 pp., $26.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Michael Lister embarks on a risky endeavor with his latest novel, The Big Goodbye, set during World War II in Panama City, Florida. As the Chandleresque title implies, The Big Goodbye is classic noir. From the book’s opening line—“I had not yet recovered from shooting Stanley Somerset when I saw her.”—to the often self-inflicted punishment its protagonist endures while trying to save the femme fatale, The Big Goodbye evokes black and white images of pebbled glass windows, behind which trench coats and fedoras hang from coatracks while secretaries clickety-clack away on typewriters and answer rotary phones. In other words, Lister’s risk pays off.

          The story follows Jimmy “Soldier” Riley, a tough private investigator. His affair with Lauren Lewis ended less than amicably, with her refusing to end her loveless marriage because of a debt of loyalty to her wealthy husband, who’d once used his influence to spare her family embarrassment.  Now Lauren is being followed, and she suspects Riley. He denies it and assumes Lewis is interested in hiring him to find out who is. She refuses his help, urging him to keep his distance. Riley ignores her wishes, of course, and unravels a blackmail plot aimed at deflating Lewis’ husband’s political aspirations.

           Although Lister’s ability to ground The Big Goodbye in 1940s Florida is remarkable, it is Riley who makes this story go. Like many heroes of noir, he is a wounded warrior, literally and figuratively. But it is through his wounds that the reader connects with Riley. Following the book’s opening encounter with Lewis, during which he assaulted the man she was with, Riley discusses the incident with Ruth Ann, a drinking companion:

          “I’m worried about you,” she said.

          “Because I hit a guy?”

          “Hit? You pummeled him, Soldier, and you know it.”

          I didn’t say anything. I had asked her not to call me that, but the more I asked, the more she said it. She knew better, but it was an assumption nearly every stranger made. I hadn’t been wounded in combat. I never got to serve. I got tangled up with the serious-intentioned end of a shotgun while I was still with the Panama City Police Department and any hopes I had of serving went the way of my right arm.”

          His handicap doesn’t detract from his tough-guy persona, though, as Lister illustrates later in the same scene:

          I turned to see a sailor leaning against the bar on the other side of Ruth Ann.

          “What’ll you have?”

          “Some more quiet conversation with my friend here,” she said, jerking her head back toward me, her blonde hair swishing about as she did.

          “You with lefty?” he asked, leaning around her to glare at my missing right.

          Before she could answer, I spoke up.

          “Tell you what,” I said. “I was right-handed before it got blown off, but I’ll arm wrestle you for her.”

          “Sure, soldier, I’ll take your girl,” he said.

          I turned around and took a few steps so I could put my left arm on the bar and move away from our drinks some. He strutted around, placed his hat on the stool next to him and his elbow on the bar.

          “Don’t go nowhere doll,” he said to Ruth Ann. “This’ll only take a second.”

          The moment he finished speaking, as he was still looking at her, I reached up and grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face down into the bar. His nose and forehead smacked the marble bar top but good and it knocked him out cold. He fell to the floor face up and didn’t move.

          Such encounters are common in The Big Goodbye, and they help move Riley through the seedy world of political backstabbery, not that the story needs help. Lister paints a dark picture on his paper landscape, introducing shady characters one after another. But no dark story is complete without a body count, and The Big Goodbye is a complete story. Because bodies pile up at Riley's feet, he finds himself at odds with his former partner on the police force and the surly new partner who is itching to collar Riley.

          If I had one issue with The Big Goodbye, it is that the sense of time and place fades late in the book. Early on, it is obvious we are in war-era Florida, with resources diverted to the war effort and everyone in their patriotic glory doing their part, except, of course, for the self-serving bad guys. As the book approaches its dénouement, that setting becomes tertiary, suddenly feeling as if it could be contemporary. Still, that doesn’t detract from this excellent tale of Florida noir. As he showed in his previous novel Double Exposure, Michael Lister’s ability to masterfully combine dark, vivid settings with tough yet fallible characters rivals that of Michael Koryta and Dennis Lehane.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writers in Boynton Beach, FL.

The Killing Song by P.J. Parrish
(Gallery Books, Paperback, 300 pp., $15.00)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           A girlfriend in Paris…cut off her head…took her bones to the Bois de Boulogne

           Those are lyrics from “Too Much Blood” by The Rolling Stones, the song for which The Killing Song, P.J. Parrish’s first standalone thriller, is titled.

           The action follows Miami journalist Matt Owens, whose sister, Mandy, vanishes from the dance floor of a popular nightclub in South Beach, where she was visiting the older Matt. Her body is found the next day, along with a few personal items, including her iPod, which are released into Matt’s possession following fingerprinting and a cursory investigation.

           Holding Mandy’s iPod, Matt feels closer to his sister. He scans its library, reminiscing about his and Mandy’s differing tastes in music. She was a fan of modern day divas Lady Gaga, Shakira, and Ke$ha, whereas he enjoys the punk rock stylings of  The Clash, Zappa, and the Sex Pistols, which Mandy called “old fart music.” When, out of morbid curiosity, he looks to see what the last song she listened to was and finds the obscure song by the Stones, he knows something is off.

           Matt takes the device to a tech wiz, who makes a disturbing discovery regarding the song:

         He came back to the counter with the iPod and a sheet of paper. It was a printout of the file structure on the iPod’s hard drive. It listed every song Mandy had downloaded in the last year. The last song was “Too Much Blood.”

           Date downloaded: October 21, 5:22.

           I stared at it. October 21 was two days ago, the day Mandy disappeared.

          “Is this time A.M. or P.M.?” I asked Andy.

          “It’s listed in military time, so that makes it 5:22 in the morning.”

          At five in the morning, Mandy was already in the hands of her killer.

          I showed the printout to Andy, pointing to the Stones song. “Is there any other way this could be wrong?”

          “Not that I can tell.”

          Five twenty-two in the morning. Mandy was unconscious or dead. The only person who could have downloaded this song was her killer.

With the song as a clue and the resources his career affords him, Matt does some investigating on his own. He discovers that an American tourist from Houston was killed in Paris last January. Her body was discovered in the Bois de Boulogne, along with a cassette tape. Convinced the two murders are related, Matt sets off to France in search of his sister’s killer.  With the help of a former colleague and a French Inspector with her own personal connection to the murders, Matt finds a series of unsolved killings across Europe. All have a similar MO. All are connected by a musical clue.

           What instantly sucked me into The Killing Song was the villain. I haven’t read anyone who took such pleasure in their murderous craft since Hannibal Lecter in Red Dragon. The killer is worldly and sophisticated yet isolated and fragile. The reader is treated to more than one of his killings, which are sexual in nature and graphic. I will admit that I found a couple of his victims so naïve and gullible that I thought the killer was doing the world a Darwinian favor by removing them from the gene pool.

Parrish is careful not to allow that mindset to sink in with Mandy’s murder, though. Matt’s metamorphosis from complacent journalist satisfied with the status quo to avenging sibling is a testament to Mandy’s effect on his life.

Part of Matt’s motivation comes from his relationship with his father. Mandy was her father’s darling, whereas Matt was his disappointment. Matt and the killer are both motivated by a tumultuous paternal relationship. The antagonist in The Killing Song was driven to a breakdown by his domineering father, who insisted he devote all of his passion to music as a child.  He acts out of rage over failed relationships with women, not only with his mother, who his father ran off, but with his father’s mistress, who would tease the young cellist by pleasuring herself to the prodigy’s playing, creating within him a sexual anxiety for which murder is the only release.

Matt’s search for his sister’s killer takes him from Miami and across Europe: from Paris, to London, Germany, and Scotland. But the journey is more than one of revenge. As clichéd as it may sound, Matt’s trip is one of self-discovery. That is, in part, what made The Killing Song such an enjoyable read, as the story becomes personal at times. It is more than just Matt versus a musically inclined serial killer. It is Matt versus his own fear of failure, the blame he knows his father places on him for Mandy’s death, as well as his father’s expectation that Matt will always be a disappointment. It’s a shame that the author feels that Matt’s story has been told in full, as his evolution would be interesting to follow beyond The Killing Song.

Ed Irvin,a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Paradise Dogs by Man Martin
(Thomas Duane Books, Hardcover, 310 pp., $25.99)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Adam Newman is a bungler. Bungling appears in many forms in Man Martin’s hilarious novel, Paradise Dogs. As a matter of fact, the third chapter is titled "Adam Bungles". Most of Adam’s bungles are the result of alcoholism. Adam seeks out a drink the moment he rises each morning and doesn’t stop until he’s landed in some form of trouble, which is often. One of his biggest bungles (see how that word keeps popping up?), which he refers to as “the french fry incident,” led, in part, to his divorce from his wife, Evelyn.

          Surprisingly, his bungling comes in handy when a mysterious real estate developer begins buying up land across central Florida. Adam believes the developer is part of a government shadow agency acquiring land in order to build the Cross-Florida Barge Canal. The supposed shadow operation gives Adam the opportunity to pursue a dream, though. Adam is holding onto hope that he and Evelyn will get back together and re-open Paradise Dogs, the locally renowned diner they operated together.

           To get Evelyn back, Adam devises a plan that involves not only exposing the secretive agency’s plan for the canal, which he believes will make him a hero in the eyes of the locals, but also allowing her to pick her favorite diamond from a small stash he possesses, a stash worth a quarter of a million dollars. That was how he convinced her to marry him the first time, so he figures it’ll work a second. Herein lies the problem: This stash of gems—ranging in size from two-and-a-half to four carats—doesn’t belong to Adam. So when he predictably loses them, his plan to win Evelyn back is derailed while he tries to remember where he left them while in an alcohol-induced fog. Although so drunk he misplaced the diamonds, Adam, mistaken for a doctor, is able to deliver a baby while in said fog:

          “Are you really a doctor?” Johnny asked suspiciously. He had unruly dark hair and suspicious-looking eyes.

          “Have you heard of Dr. Bateman?” Adam had a vague notion he could get them to his own physician.

          “We need to get her to the hospital,” the boy said.

          “We don’t have time for that,” Adam said. He could already see the protruding crown of the baby’s head—a small furry coconut.

          “You’re not really a doctor,” the boy said.

          “Jesus, will you quit talking and let Dr. Bateman work?” the girl said.

          Adam is often the victim of mistaken identity in Paradise Dogs. In addition to Dr. Bateman, Adam finds himself playing the role of root doctor, minister (twice), highly regarded novelist, and divorce lawyer, with hilarity ensuing each time.

Another thing standing in the way of Adam’s plan to reunite with Evelyn is the fact that Adam is engaged. His fiancé, Lily Manzana, is a thesaurus on two legs. Her vocabulary is a result of arduous efforts to rid herself of any trace of a Spanish accent. Lily, when she was a waitress at Paradise Dogs, would shower Adam with compliments—“You are so perspicacious and have such acumen,” “Mrs. Newman is so auspicious to have you”—when they were alone. Aware of his lingering affection for Evelyn, Lily makes every effort to rush their nuptials..

           Aside from all of his personal dilemmas, Adam is also trying valiantly to school his son, Addison, in the ways of love. Addison clandestinely pines for Kathleen, the girlfriend of his half-brother, Kean. But Addison inherited the bungling gene from Adam and trips over himself at every corner, pushing Kathleen away.

Early on, the chapters are episodic in nature, as evidenced by their titles—"Adam Proposes a Toast," "Adam Gives Advice," "Adam Goes to Jail," and the aforementioned "Adam Bungles," which could’ve been the title for every chapter—and I often found myself wondering if Martin would be able to tie them together in the end. To be honest, on more than one occasion I considered not finishing the book, even finding fault with its title, as the diner plays a miniscule role in the novel.

Perseverance won out and I am glad it did. Martin wraps the story up flawlessly. Fans of the writing style of Carl Hiaasen and Tim Dorsey will enjoy Paradise Dogs, although the book might be too short on bloodshed for their liking. Adam Newman is reminiscent of Serge A. Storms, sans the murderous impulses. Though the book is not a mystery, I found myself slapping my head when the identity of the man behind the supposed conspiracy was revealed. In the end I realized the title doesn’t refer to Paradise Dogs the diner, but rather the idyllic life it represents to Adam, a life to which he hopes to return.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Pumped for Murder by Elaine Viets
(Obsidian NAL, Hardcover, 272 pp., $23.95)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

           Upon discovering that Helen Hawthorne, amateur sleuth and heroine of Elaine Viets’ Dead-End Job Mystery series, was married and no longer on the run from her ex-husband and his lawyers, I wondered how Viets would keep the series going. After all, Hawthorne only worked dead-end jobs so she could be paid under-the-table, thus keeping her location and income from being detected by the IRS, who could force her to pay the palimony awarded her low-life ex by the court.

          Enter Shelby Minars. Convinced her husband’s sudden obsession with fitness and the muscular body that results are for the benefit of another woman, Shelby hires Coronado Investigations, Helen and hubby Phil’s new agency, to spy on the suspected cheater. Helen soon finds herself working another dead-end job. In Pumped for Murder, the tenth in the series, Viets’ protagonist goes undercover as a receptionist at Fantastic Fitness, the gym where Bryan Minars sculpts his killer physique.

          There Helen is introduced to the cutthroat world of competitive body building, a world in which the only things bigger than the muscles are the egos, and steroids flow like competitive juices. Things are rather dull at first. Helen fails to witness Bryan doing anything suspicious. Her boss insists that she lose a few pounds, asking Helen to stay after shifts and work out. Then, opening the gym one morning, she finds the body of Debbi, a competition hopeful, in the women’s locker room. Holding off a crowd of angry wannabe muscle heads, Helen waits for the police to investigate the crime scene:

          “You should have opened at six,” Bullet Head said as he pushed Helen against the door frame. His faded red shirt stank of old sweat. Helen couldn’t breathe.

          “Move!” she gasped.

          He didn’t budge.

          Helen kneed Bullet Head in the groin, and he doubled over, yowling in pain.

          “Hey,” Mr. Beefy said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

          “Sorry,” Helen said, though she wasn’t. “There’s been an emergency. The gym is closed.”

          “When can we come back?” Mr. Beefy wasn’t quite so belligerent now that his bullet-headed friend couldn’t stand up straight.

          Officer Dorsey stood behind him, looking like a rescuing angel—to Helen, anyway. “When we say so. I already told you: Get outta my crime scene.”

          Suddenly, the doorway was deserted.

          “I liked that hurricane-safety procedure you performed on the idiot who tried to push his way in. I’m Officer MacNamara Dorsey,” she told Helen. “I go by Mac.”

          “What hurricane procedure?” Helen asked.

          “You clipped his coconuts,” she said. “That’s the first thing you do when a big wind is on the way.”

          The dead woman, Debbi, a known steroid user, had made her share of enemies at the gym. Her trainers, Kristi and Tansi, competitive builders themselves, recently drew Debbi’s ire for giving her bad steroid advice that resulted in the woman growing a moustache, a dead giveaway of steroid use to contest judges. The same day, in a fit of roid-rage, Debbi threw a weight at Evie, a soft-spoken gym member whom Helen had befriended. When brash homicide detective Evarts “Ever Ready” Redding learns of the altercation between the victim and Evie, he is immediately convinced that Evie is the murderer. Helen soon finds herself working overtime to prove her friend’s innocence.

Adding to her aggravation, Phil takes on a second client, a man who insists that his brother, whose death decades earlier had been ruled a suicide, was murdered. That case leads Helen and Phil to the well-connected Ahmet Yavuz, a former street-level drug dealer turned high-profile real estate developer. After talking to Yavuz’s mother, who drunkenly blurts out that her son was indeed the man who killed her client’s brother, Helen confronts the smug Yavuz at his office regarding the cold case. He lets it be known how well-connected he really is:

           “Ms. Hawthorne, I had the resources to find out who you are and where you live in ten minutes. I had the money to get my mother into the Evesham today and they have a six-month waiting list. I have the power to pull your private-eye license. Oh, wait, you don’t have one, do you? You’re merely a trainee. I have the power to pull your husband’s license and close your annoying little business.

“I’m not threatening you. Ms. Hawthorne. I’m telling you, so you know where you stand. I always like to know that. I’m sure you do, too.”

With essentially three cases going on at once, Pumped for Murder could have easily gotten overly convoluted. Fortunately, Viets manages to intertwine the mysteries without ever allowing the reader to get lost.

Helen is as believable an amateur sleuth as I’ve read. Her detective skills aren't born of esoteric knowledge or special powers. Helen simply uses common sense, curiosity, and old-fashioned detective work to solve her cases.  At the end of Pumped for Murder my concern was the same as it was in the beginning: that Viets may run out of ways to keep Helen in dead-end jobs.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review Contributing Editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Electric Barracuda by Tim Dorsey
(William Morrow, Hardcover, 357 pp., $24.00)

Reviewed by Ed Irvin

          Serge A. Storms is back and on the run like never before in Tim Dorsey’s Electric Barracuda.  Fearing the Spring Break body count he left behind in Gator-a-go-go may begin to impact tourism and the revenue it generates, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement assigns a task force to find Serge and end his killing spree once and for all.

          The task force is headed by Agent White, an ambitious, no-nonsense man who’s unfortunately saddled with an inept partner, Agent Lowe. Lowe has SWAT team dreams with rent-a-cop abilities.  White and Lowe are joined by Serge's nemesis Mahoney, an FDLE agent whose obsession with Serge caused a nervous breakdown and led to his suspension. Mahoney said and did all the right things to the department shrink in order to be reinstated and begin his pursuit of Serge anew.

           Meanwhile, Serge, a walking encyclopedia on Florida history, has started a website to promote his new, themed Florida vacation—the Fugitive Tour—on which vacationers come to Florida and pretend to be on the lam. He and his chemical-dependent sidekick Coleman are touring Florida’s back roads, hoping to get tourists to avoid theme parks because, according to Serge, “Florida is a theme park.” Serge explains his new concept to Coleman:

          Serge scrolled down the laptop screen. “A mug shot rogues’ gallery of Florida fugitives. Ma Barker, Bundy, Cunanan, Wuornos and so many lesser maniacs they don’t even make the fine print.”

          “Why not?"

          “Florida’s the perfect camouflage,” said Serge. “Up in Middle America, even one of our low-profile whack jobs would stick out like Pamela Anderson bronco-riding a UFO. A minimum of fifty calls to the cops. But down here we’re so over-saturated with hard-core street freaks that everyone energetically ignores them. We don’t want to notice and report each strangeness flare-up, or we’d totally cease to be able to run errands.”

          “I saw a guy this morning eating ants,” said Coleman.

          Unbeknownst to Serge, though, the task force is monitoring his activity through the website, gaining ground on him with each stop on the tour. The parade of people following Serge has expanded beyond just the law. Also on his trail are his ex-wife and the Doberman, a motorcycle riding bounty hunter and star of a cable television series.

           Thinking the appearance of law enforcement wherever he goes is pure coincidence, Serge doesn’t fail to disappoint his loyal followers by taking the time to rid society of the morally and criminally corrupt. True to form, in Electric Barracuda, Serge finds unique and sadistic ways to kill his victims, who include an alligator poacher, a group of investment bankers who gloat about the amounts of money they’ve bilked from people, and a pedophile:

Coleman killed a Schlitz and crumpled the can. “So who is this guy anyway?”

           “Ever see the TV show To Catch a Predator?”

“Yeah.”

“I caught one.”

“Where??”

“At the playground. He was lurking in his car with porn.”

“What were you doing at the playground?”

“Just driving by this time. I used to love playgrounds, but jeez, I haven’t played in one in at least, what? Three months?”

“Why not?”

“If you’re an adult without a kid, it draws looks, even if I’m just going for the Guinness record on the monkey bars.”

The action takes Serge, Coleman, and their pursuers through the Everglades and onto Loop Road, where Al Capone once had a bootlegging operation. The road sits near the outermost edges of Monroe and Collier counties, where law enforcement is scarce because of the rural location, making it a perfect hub for lawlessness.

Fans of Dorsey and Serge will not be disappointed by Electric Barracuda. It now sits among my favorites, along with The Stingray Shuffle and Gator-a-go-go. Those new to the series should be incredibly amused, perhaps slightly confused, by the eccentricity of Dorsey and his mouthpiece, Serge.

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review contributing editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Midnight Guardians by Jonathon King

(Open Road, Paper, 210 pp., $24.99)

Reviewed by Louis K. Lowy

           Midnight Guardians—Edgar Award winning author Jonathon King’s sixth, and latest, book in the Max Freeman mystery series—involves Medicare fraud, pill mills, immigrants and steroid abuse: all indigenous to South Florida life.

          Having accidentally killed a thirteen-year-old during a robbery attempt, Max left the South Philadelphia police force for Florida, where he became private investigator for and partner to successful attorney Billy Manchester. Seven years later, in their current case, Billy appoints Max to protect a Bolivian immigrant who is about to blow the whistle on a company dealing in Medicare fraud. The assignment quickly goes sour when Max and his charge are nearly killed in a drive by shooting.

           In a seemingly unrelated incident, Max’s girlfriend, Sherry, a Broward Sheriff’s Office detective who has lost a leg partly because of Max’s mishandling of a past case, is assigned to help another member of the BSO who has lost both legs in an on-duty roadside mishap.

          King expertly weaves these two storylines together to form a tale of police corruption, Max’s guilt over the loss of his girlfriend’s limb, and her own struggle to accept the injury.

          Despite—or because of—his guilt, Max is more sensitive than he’d like to admit. After a potential lovemaking session with Sherry goes awry, Max ruminates:

I’d made love to Sherry hundreds of times, many of them joyful moments…But I’d never made love to one-legged Sherry. It had been nearly a year; no matter how understanding I tried to be, knowing my needs were no match for what she was enduring, I was still failing.

           King captures South Florida wonderfully, from the outdoor patio of attorney Billy Manchester’s Palm Beach penthouse, “The sun warm on the skin, containing an intensity that makes every color pop with a brightness you just don’t find in northern climes,” to the Everglades, “The tea-colored water…A turtle the size of a dinner plate slipped off a trunk and disappeared into the water…a great blue heron stood on a spur of sand, its snakelike neck and sharp beak pointing out like an Egyptian hieroglyphic dancer,” to my favorite, the iconic Lester’s Diner in Fort Lauderdale, “You can…trust that there will be a tiny tin pitcher of real cream on your table instead of those infernal little peel-n-pour thimbles of who knows what."

An interesting technique King has incorporated is that the majority of the story is told in first person from Max’s point of view. When he occasionally presents a chapter about the cop—Booker—who has lost both legs, King shifts to Booker’s POV and presents it in second person:

OK enough of what if, Booker…In the real world, you used to squat three hundred pounds, and now you can’t even climb out of this chair on your own.

The chapters are short, with most running about six pages. At 202 pages, the book moves at a lively pace: the mystery widening, the storylines interlocking, and the solutions not always fairytale.

Midnight Guardians is the kind of brisk read that would make a perfect companion to a sun-drenched afternoon while lying at the beach or sitting poolside, preferably with a cold bottle or two of Max’s favorite brew, Rolling Rock.

Louis K. Lowy, a former firefighter, is the recipient of a Florida Individual Artist Fellowship. His work has appeared in Coral Living Magazine, New Plains Review, Merge, and Ethereal Tales. His sci-fi novel Die Laughing is scheduled for release in May 2011. Contact him at his website, www.louisklowy.com.

            In Lutz’s “Lily and Men,” the title character is a reformed prostitute turned private investigator. Lily believes her extensive experience with men gives her knowledge of the male psyche that allows her to help other women with their man issues. Hired by a seemingly wealthy woman to look into the past of her fiancé, Lily ends up falling for the suspicious and unfaithful man, becoming involved in his plot to murder Lily’s client and collect her riches. Lily discovers that she doesn’t know people, much less men.

Common themes in Florida Heat Wave are revenge, as seen in Corcoran’s story, as well as Alex Kava and Patricia A. Bremner’s collaboration, “A Breath of Hot Air,” and the lack of honor among thieves, illustrated in James O. Born’s “Revenge of the Emerging Market,” and John Bond’s “Trapped.” There are no weak entries within the anthology, although James W. Hall’s “Overexposure” seems out of place, as the only crime within the story is a man’s emotional infidelity to his wife.

The anthology is brilliantly constructed. Lister accurately introduces the collection, the stories of which are as diverse as the authors who penned them: “From the pine-tree lined rural highways of North Florida through the tourist traps of Central Florida to the tropical, international environs of SOBE, Florida crime writers continually offer up stories of sun-faded noir, orange pulp served freshly squeezed."

Ed Irvin, a Florida Book Review contributing editor, lives and writes in Boynton Beach.

Double Exposure by Michael Lister

(Tyrus Books, Hardcover, 204 pp., $24.95)

Reviewed by Edward Irvin

          Sitting down to read Michael Lister's Double Exposure, which recently received the Florida Book Awards Bronze Medal for General Fiction, I expected a crime novel so well written it bridges the gap between popular fiction, where crime novels are usually categorized, and literary fiction. What I got was a fantastically penned work of literature that happens to focus on crime.

The story centers on Remington James, who returns to North Florida to take over the family business, a gun and pawn shop, following the death of his father. Photography, once a hobby he pursued purely for the love of capturing nature's beauty, is now only an afterthought for Remington, an ad agency executive. His choice of career over vocation has led to resentment and depression that have caused his wife, Heather, to separate from him.

Back at home in the woods that make up a majority of his family's property, Remington's love for photographing all things natural is rekindled, thanks in part to his reunion with his dying mother, Remington's original muse. The isolation also causes him to reevaluate his relationship with Heather. Hoping to capture an image of a Florida panther, an endangered species the locals claim does not inhabit the Apalachicola River Basin, Remington sets up motion-activated cameras near ponds and other spots where the predatory cats might stop for water. Unfortunately, his camera instead captures images of a murder in horrifying frame by frame detail.

Remington soon becomes the prey of the sadistic killer and his team of hunters, who seem all too familiar with the surrounding swamplands, as they track him, trying to surround and smother him as they would wild game. Unsure whether to head to the river that flows through the woods and follow its banks to possible freedom or to circle back to his truck, risking a face-to-face encounter with the hunter determined to prevent him from ever leaving the woods, Remington must hone his survival instincts if he is to reach his goals of mending his damaged relationship and returning to his mother's side before it's too late.

Lister's style of prose is poetic. His repeated use of alliteration evokes the tension that James is experiencing as he tries to elude the hunters' dogs:

Barks. Bays. Yelps. Howls.

Closer now. Much.

The pawn shop had been a supporter of the sheriff's K-9 unit since its existence, and Remington had watched several tactical tracking exercises over the years. He pictures what is taking place not far behind him.

Big black snouts on the ground.

Ears and jowls flapping, drool dangling.

Nearly a yard tall, weight of an adult woman.

Running.

Remington's scent.

Relentless.

Or as he faces imminent death as bullets fly all around him:

Rounds continue to ricochet around him, but he doesn't move. He can't.

Numb.

Despondent.

Lost.

He can't think, can't move, can't—what?

Death.

Despair.

Distance.

The writing is so dramatic that it comes as no surprise that one of Lister's colleagues at Gulf Coast Community College, where Lister teaches classes in religion and writing, adapted Double Exposure into a play.

This book is a work of art and well deserving of its award. As far as its classification goes, it could be called literature, general fiction, even crime fiction. At a scant 204 pages, it could also be considered prose poetry. Whatever you call it, Double Exposure is a great read.

Edward Irvin lives and writes in Boynton Beach.