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Winnipeg Free Press - PRINT EDITION

Deaver keeps herrings red in second Dance novel

By: John Sullian

12/07/2009 1:00 AM | Comments: 0

It's a chilly concept: highway memorials promising -- not commemorating -- deaths.

A troubled, Columbine-type kid appears to be retaliating against cyber-bullies who blame him for the deaths of two other teens in a car accident, and California Bureau of Investigation body-language (kinesics) expert Kathryn Dance catches the case in Jeffery Deaver's latest winner, Roadside Crosses (Simon & Schuster, 416 pages, $30).

Superior to his last Lincoln Rhyme instalment, The Broken Window, and almost at par with 2008's woodsy, standalone chase thriller The Bodies Left Behind, Deaver's second Dance novel entertains his interest in techo-sociology (role-playing communities, blogosphere accountability, social media lynch-mobs and web privacy) while retaining his patented, red-herring twistiness of plot.

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For something completely different, you can't beat U.K. journalist Tarquin Hall's little ethnic gem, The Case of the Missing Servant (McClelland & Stewart, 320 pages, $30), featuring Delhi's Most Private Investigator, Vish "Chubby" Puri.

Charmingly anachronistic and as vain as Poirot, the portly Puri dodges bullets and indulges his penchant for greasy street food and his widowed "Mummy-ji" to track the fate of a vanished maid in aid of a noted Punjabi lawyer accused of killing her.

Supplying a handy glossary of Indian slang, foods and everyday goods and practices, Hall takes Puri from gentleman's club to slum, from isolated mining town to the Pink City of Jaipur, in a whodunit romp through India's burgeoning, caste-ridden, conflicted modernity.

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John Connolly is the spookiest mystery writer in America, a gothic noir title conclusively won with last year's The Reapers and sealed with this creepy tale, The Lovers (Atria, 352 pages, $32).

Blending crime and paranormal horror genres is no mean trick. While the supernatural has often played an ambiguously sinister role in Connolly's eight previous Charlie Parker tales, the defrocked PI's probe of his cop father's decade-old suicide ushers the (alt-world?) paranormal to the fore.

A murderous, undying couple, a mysterious rabbi, ghosts of a slain wife and child, a crazed vigilante, a haunted young woman endlessly fleeing for her life -- all wrapped in Connolly's patented full-of-dread prose.

This one will haunt you.

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You know you're in la-la land when a "thriller" resorts to a teleporting dog named Lassie. Don't you just hate that?

But when the hero is resurrected by a bit of time reversal, conjured up by his genius six-year-old dubbed Spooky, you know you're beyond the pale.

Such is the sorry state of Relentless (Bantam, 368 pages, $32), a silly, juvenile and preachy entry by perennial chart-topper Dean Koontz.

The plot, such as it is, envisages a powerful literary critic who terrorizes and eliminates authors (and their families) whose works displease him -- all part of some vast conspiracy, it turns out, to influence western culture.

Successful novelist and all-round good guy Cubby Greenwich is the latest victim, and soon he and his quirky-perky family are on the run.

All jokey banter and cartoon mayhem, Relentless is just relentlessly eye-rolling, a slapstick, run-for-your-life mess.

Hint: The dog's the best character.

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Still with slapstick, fans of Stephanie Plum know she's always good for a few one-liners and belly laughs.

But with the culinary caper Finger Lickin' Fifteen (St. Martin's, 320 pages, $36), Janet Evanovitch has to know her accident-prone Jersey bounty hunter, after a 15-year run, has finally, painfully exceeded her best-before date.

With the beheading of a celebrity chef at a barbecue cook-off as her main dish, the New Hampshire/Florida author sticks to the recipe. The too-familiar supporting cast is all here -- plus-size former 'ho' Lula, off-and-on boyfriend cop Joe Morelli, scary bad-boy Ranger, crazy Grandma Mazur, Steph's long-suffering parents, et al. -- with a supporting cast of wacko bond-breakers. Side-stories abound, things blow up good, Steph gets covered in lots of goo, etc, etc.

Comfort food is fine, but it can get more than a little bland.

John Sullivan is editor of the Free Press Autos, Homes and Travel sections and specialty websites.`

Republished from the Winnipeg Free Press print edition July 12, 2009 B9

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