My dad has been a big Michael Connelly fan since the summer of 2009, when he rented a house up by Woodrow Wilson Drive. As is so often the case with rental houses, the bookshelves were filled with trashy mystery novels. Michael Connelly particularly interested my dad because his recurring main character, LAPD homicide detective Harry Bosch, also lives in a house up by Woodrow Wilson Drive. At the end of that summer, my dad left The Concrete Blonde on my own bookshelf, and this week I finally decided to give it a try.
Here are some excerpts:
"That's extortion," Cerrone said.
"No asshole, that's justice."
(end of Chapter 12)
"That's justice," she said, nodding at the statue. "She doesn't hear you. She doesn't see you. She can't feel you and won't speak to you. Justice, Detective Bosch, is just a concrete blonde."
(end of Chapter 15)
"What's happening, Lieutenant?" the homeless man asked.
"Justice is happening."
(end of Chapter 17)
The point is, I just downloaded another Harry Bosch novel, which I plan to listen to immediately. No one else should read The Concrete Blonde except, obviously, Strach.
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