After reading The Skin Collector I decided that enough was enough for Lincoln Rhyme. I was tired of the level of forensic evidence needed to resolve a case (the tiny shred of a leaf from a plant that grows in only one front yard in Brooklyn) and possibly I'd had enough of the 'damaged detective' syndrome so prevalent in crime fiction. Rhyme, of course, is the ultimate damaged detective but Amelia Sachs is crippled with arthritis in her knees and suffers badly when forced to use her legs to chase someone or when she has to kneel to get a clear shot at that same someone. For the record, Rhyme always gets his man, apart from the mysterious Watchmaker (Clockmaker? Can't remember.) but we know with certainty that eventually, in a future novel, this man will meet his match because Rhyme can outthink anyone.
Not long after reaching the decision to yellow-card Rhyme, I couldn't find anything on the local library shelves to take home and get lost in. There was, however, a new Lincoln Rhyme available which I'd already mentally rejected. Desperate for something to read, I made the girl checking books out hold a gun to my head and order me to take The Kill Room home.
Deaver finally moved the Rhyme novel to somewhere other than that jaded New York apartment with the Fucking Falcon on the window ledge and moved him to a Caribbean island to sort out a hit on a person at a resort who was relaxing in his chair in his hotel room (The Kill Room). The change of location made a huge difference. Rhyme goes for a swim (involuntary) and checks out local food, acts like a human being in his new wheelchair and, surprise, surprise, solves the case. Well done, Jeffrey.
History repeated itself yesterday when a new Katherine Dance novel appeared on a shelf. So far so good but I believe on the basis of the first few pages that someone needs to take Jeffrey's thesaurus away and burn it.
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