Most of the properties we looked at in LA were unoccupied — bank or corporation owned. They seem to have been forclosures from which, in some cases, the last rowdy occupants needed to be removed forcibly. Or maybe the violent damage and graffiti evident in more than one place only meant the defaulters had vented their spleen against Adjustable Rate Mortgages that — O, the Injustice! — adjusted. Who knows? Not I.
So we figured it would be okay to traipse into yards and take photos through windows. The only privacy we violated was that of the uneasy spirits who howled piteously in the debris strewn halls. The picture that accompanies this post shows one of the few contented spirits: your web log poster who is glad to know this house is the last he will be looking at that day.
Soon he will flying on a jet plane, returning to the comfort of Jeffery Deaver’s latest potboiler: The Broken Window. Mr. Deaver, you will be happy to know, sticks to the job we pay him for in this, his new Lincoln Rhyme mystery. His quadraplegic detective and the the Usual Gang of Forensic Analysts sift the dust, match the DNA, and even taste a knife handle in their relentless pursuit of a new kind of villain: an identity thief, but not just your humdrum, run-of-the-mill identity thief. This one uses the vast amounts of personal data out there on you, me and everyone else, to create the perfect set of planted evidence he needs to set up fall guys to take the rap for his own wicked deeds.
Is The Broken Window good? Well, what does goodness have to do with it? I wanted some competent, lurid escapism, those trademark Deaver plot twists, an Interesting Factoid or two, and a smattering of Sherlock Holmes-type deduction, and that’s exactly what I got. No PC pulpiteering. The Broken Window did nothing to improve me; it may have made me a tad worse. Heh.