The Poet

The Poet

by Michael Connelly

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Overview

Denver Post crime-beat reporter Jack McEvoy specializes in violent death. So when his homicide detective brother kills himself, McEvoy copes in the only way he knows how--he decides to write the story. But his research leads him to suspect a serial killer is at work--a devious murderer who's killing cops and leaving a trail of poetic clues. It's the news story of a lifetime, if he can get the story without losing his life. HC: Little, Brown.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781568953304
Publisher: Cengage Gale
Publication date: 01/01/1999
Series: Jack McEvoy Series , #1
Edition description: Large Print
Pages: 615
Product dimensions: 6.38(w) x 9.33(h) x 1.22(d)

About the Author

Michael Connelly is the author of twenty-nine novels, including #1 New York Times bestsellers including The Wrong Side of Goodbye and The Crossing. His books, which include the Harry Bosch series and Lincoln Lawyer series, have sold more than sixty million copies worldwide. Connelly is a former newspaper reporter who has won numerous awards for his journalism and his novels and is the executive producer of Bosch, starring Titus Welliver. He spends his time in California and Florida.

Hometown:

Sarasota, Florida

Date of Birth:

July 21, 1956

Place of Birth:

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Education:

B.A. in Journalism, University of Florida, 1980

Read an Excerpt

The Poet


Chapter One

Death is my beat. I make my living from it. I forge my professional reputation on it. I treat it with the passion and precision of an undertaker-somber and sympathetic about it when I'm with the bereaved, a skilled craftsman with it when I'm alone. I've always thought the secret of dealing with death was to keep it at arm's length. That's the rule. Don't let it breathe in your face.

But my rule didn't protect me. When the two detectives came for me and told me about Sean, a cold numbness quickly enveloped me. It was like I was on the other side of the aquarium window. I moved as if underwater-back and forth, back and forth-and looked out at the rest of the world through the glass. From the backseat of their car I could see my eyes in the rearview mirror, flashing each time we passed beneath a streetlight. I recognized the thousand-yard stare I had seen in the eyes of fresh widows I had interviewed over the years.

I knew only one of the two detectives. Harold Wexler. I had met him a few months earlier when I stopped into the Pints Of for a drink with Sean. They worked CAPs together on the Denver PD. I remember Sean called him Wex. Cops always use nicknames for each other. Wexler's is Wex, Sean's, Mac. It's some kind of tribal bonding thing. Some of the names aren't complimentary but the cops don't complain. I know one down in Colorado Springs named Scoto whom most other cops call Scroto. Some even go all the way and call him Scrotum, but my guess is that you have to be a close friend to get away with that.

Wexler was built like a small bull, powerful but squat. A voice slowly cured over the years by cigarette smoke and whiskey. A hatchet face that always seemed red the times I saw him. I remember he drank Jim Beam over ice. I'm always interested in what cops drink. It tells a lot about them. When they're taking it straight like that, I always think that maybe they've seen too many things too many times that most people never see even once. Sean was drinking Lite beer that night, but he was young. Even though he was the supe of the CAPs unit, he was at least ten years younger than Wexler. Maybe in ten years he would have been taking his medicine cold and straight like Wexler. But now I'll never know.

I spent most of the drive out from Denver thinking about that night at the Pints Of. Not that anything important had happened. It was just drinks with my brother at the cop bar. And it was the last good time between us, before Theresa Lofton came up. That memory put me back in the aquarium.

But during the moments that reality was able to punch through the glass and into my heart, I was seized by a feeling of failure and grief. It was the first real tearing of the soul I had experienced in my thirty-four years. That included the death of my sister. I was too young then to properly grieve for Sarah or even to understand the pain of a life unfulfilled. I grieved now because I had not even known Sean was so close to the edge. He was Lite beer while all the other cops I knew were whiskey on the rocks.

Of course, I also recognized how self-pitying this kind of grief was. The truth was that for a long time we hadn't listened much to each other. We had taken different paths. And each time I acknowledged this truth the cycle of my grief would begin again.

* * *

My brother once told me the theory of the limit. He said every homicide cop had a limit but the limit was unknown until it was reached. He was talking about dead bodies. Sean believed that there were just so many that a cop could look at. It was a different number for every person. Some hit it early. Some put in twenty in homicide and never got close. But there was a number. And when it came up, that was it. You transferred to records, you turned in your badge, you did something. Because you just couldn't look at another one. And if you did, if you exceeded your limit, well, then you were in trouble. You might end up sucking down a bullet. That's what Sean said. * * *

I realized that the other one, Ray St. Louis, had said something to me.

He turned around in his seat to look back at me. He was much larger than Wexler. Even in the dim light of the car I could make out the rough texture of his pockmarked face. I didn't know him but I'd heard him referred to by other cops and I knew they called him Big Dog. I had thought that he and Wexler made the perfect Mutt and Jeff team when I first saw them waiting for me in the lobby at the Rocky. It was like they had stepped out of a late-night movie. Long, dark overcoats, hats. The whole scene should have been in black and white.

"You hear me, Jack. We'll break it to her. That's our job, but we'd just like you to be there to sort of help us out, maybe stay with her if it gets rough. You know, if she needs to be with somebody. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good, Jack."

We were going to Sean's house. Not the apartment he split with four other cops in Denver so in accordance with city regs he was a Denver resident. His house in Boulder where his wife, Riley, would answer our knock. I knew nobody was going to be breaking anything to her. She'd know what the news was the moment she opened the door and saw the three of us standing there without Sean. Any cop's wife would know. They spend their lives dreading and preparing for that day. Every time there's a knock on the door they expect it to be death's messengers standing there when they open it. This time it would be.

"You know, she's going to know," I told them.

"Probably," Wexler said. "They always do."

I realized they were counting on Riley knowing the score as soon as she opened the door. It would make their job easier.

I dropped my chin to my chest and brought my fingers up beneath my glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose. I realized I had become a character in one of my own stories-exhibiting the details of grief and loss I worked so hard to get so I could make a thirty-inch newspaper story seem meaningful. Now I was one of the details in this story.

A sense of shame descended on me as I thought of all the calls I had made to a widow or parent of a dead child. Or brother of a suicide. Yes, I had even made those. I don't think there was any kind of death that I hadn't written about, that hadn't brought me around as the intruder into somebody's pain.

How do you feel? Trusty words for a reporter. Always the first question. If not so direct, then carefully camouflaged in words meant to impart sympathy and understanding-feelings I didn't actually have. I carried a reminder of this callousness. A thin white scar running along my left cheek just above the line of my beard. It was from the diamond engagement ring of a woman whose fiancé had been killed in an avalanche near Breckenridge. I asked her the old standby and she responded with a backhand across my face. At the time I was new to the job and thought I had been wronged. Now I wear the scar like a badge.

"You better pull over," I said. "I'm going to be sick."

Wexler jerked the car into the freeway's breakdown lane. We skidded a little on the black ice but then he got control. Before the car had completely stopped I tried desperately to open the door but the handle wouldn't work. It was a detective car, I realized, and the passengers who most often rode in the back were suspects and prisoners. The back doors had security locks controlled from the front.

"The door," I managed to strangle out.

The car finally jerked to a stop as Wexler disengaged the security lock. I opened the door, leaned out and vomited into the dirty slush. Three great heaves from the gut. For a half a minute I didn't move, waiting for more, but that was it. I was empty. I thought about the backseat of the car. For prisoners and suspects. And I guessed that I was both now. Suspect as a brother. A prisoner of my own pride. The sentence, of course, would now be life.

Those thoughts quickly slipped away with the relief the physical exorcism brought. I gingerly stepped out of the car and walked to the edge of the asphalt where the light from the passing cars reflected in moving rainbows on the petroleum-exhaust glaze on the February snow. It looked as if we had stopped alongside a grazing meadow but I didn't know where. I hadn't been paying attention to how far along to Boulder we were. I took off my gloves and glasses and put them in the pockets of my coat. Then I reached down and dug beneath the spoiled surface to where the snow was white and pure. I took up two handfuls of the cold, clean powder and pressed it to my face, rubbing my skin until it stung.

"You okay?" St. Louis asked.

He had come up behind me with his stupid question. It was up there with How do you feel? I ignored it.

"Let's go," I said.

We got back in and Wexler wordlessly pulled the car back onto the freeway. I saw a sign for the Broomfield exit and knew we were about halfway there. Growing up in Boulder, I had made the thirty-mile run between there and Denver a thousand times but the stretch seemed like alien territory to me now.

For the first time I thought of my parents and how they would deal with this. Stoicly, I decided. They handled everything that way. They never discussed it. They moved on. They'd done it with Sarah. Now they'd do it with Sean.

"Why'd he do it?" I asked after a few minutes.

Wexler and St. Louis said nothing.

"I'm his brother. We're twins, for Christ's sake."

"You're also a reporter," St. Louis said. "We picked you up because we want Riley to be with family if she needs it. You're the only-"

"My brother fucking killed himself!"

I said it too loud. It had a quality of hysteria to it that I knew never worked with cops. You start yelling and they have a way of shutting down, going cold. I continued in a subdued voice.

"I think I am entitled to know what happened and why. I'm not writing a fucking story. Jesus, you guys are ..."

I shook my head and didn't finish. If I tried I thought I would lose it again. I gazed out the window and could see the lights of Boulder coming up. So many more than when I was a kid.

"We don't know why," Wexler finally said after a half minute. "Okay? All I can say is that it happens. Sometimes cops get tired of all the shit that comes down the pipe. Mac might've gotten tired, that's all. Who knows? But they're working on it. And when they know, I'll know. And I'll tell you. That's a promise."

"Who's working on it?"

"The park services turned it over to our department. SIU is handling it."

"What do you mean Special Investigations? They don't handle cop suicides."

"Normally, they don't. We do. CAPs. But this time it's just that they're not going to let us investigate our own. Conflict of interest, you know."

CAPs, I thought. Crimes Against Persons. Homicide, assault, rape, suicide. I wondered who would be listed in the reports as the person against whom this crime had been committed. Riley? Me? My parents? My brother?

"It was because of Theresa Lofton, wasn't it?" I asked, though it wasn't really a question. I didn't feel I needed their confirmation or denial. I was just saying out loud what I believed to be the obvious.

"We don't know, Jack," St. Louis said. "Let's leave it at that for now."

* * *

The death of Theresa Lofton was the kind of murder that gave people pause. Not just in Denver, but everywhere. It made anybody who heard or read about it stop for at least a moment to consider the violent images it conjured in the mind, the twist it caused in the gut.

Most homicides are little murders. That's what we call them in the newspaper business. Their effect on others is limited, their grasp on the imagination is short-lived. They get a few paragraphs on the inside pages. Buried in the paper the way the victims are buried in the ground.

But when an attractive college student is found in two pieces in a theretofore peaceful place like Washington Park, there usually isn't enough space in the paper for all the inches of copy it will generate. Theresa Lofton's was no little murder. It was a magnet that pulled at reporters from across the country. Theresa Lofton was the girl in two pieces. That was the catchy thing about this one. And so they descended on Denver from places like New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, television, tabloid and newspaper reporters alike. For a week, they stayed at hotels with good room service, roamed the city and the University of Denver campus, asked meaningless questions and got meaningless answers. Some staked out the day care center where Lofton had worked part-time or went up to Butte, where she had come from. Wherever they went they learned the same thing, that Theresa Lofton fit that most exclusive media image of all, the All-American Girl.

The Theresa Lofton murder was inevitably compared to the Black Dahlia case of fifty years ago in Los Angeles. In that case, a not so All-American Girl was found severed at the midriff in an empty lot. A tabloid television show dubbed Theresa Lofton the White Dahlia, playing on the fact that she had been found on a snow-covered field near Denver's Lake Grassmere.

And so the story fed on itself. It burned as hot as a trashcan fire for almost two weeks. But nobody was arrested and there were other crimes, other fires for the national media to warm itself by. Updates on the Lofton case dropped back into the inside pages of the Colorado papers. They became briefs for the digest pages. And Theresa Lofton finally took her spot among the little murders. She was buried.

All the while, the police in general, and my brother in particular, remained virtually mute, refusing even to confirm the detail that the victim had been found in two parts. That report had come only by accident from a photographer at the Rocky named Iggy Gomez. He had been in the park looking for wild art-the feature photos that fill the pages on a slow news day-when he happened upon the crime scene ahead of any other reporters or photographers. The cops had made the callouts to the coroner's and crime scene offices by landline since they knew the Rocky and the Post monitored their radio frequencies. Gomez took shots of two stretchers being used to remove two body bags. He called the city desk and said the cops were working a two-bagger and from the looks of the size of the bags the victims were probably children.

Later, a cop shop reporter for the Rocky named Van Jackson got a source in the coroner's office to confirm the grim fact that a victim had come into the morgue in two parts. The next morning's story in the Rocky served as the siren call to the media across the country.

My brother and his CAPs team worked as if they felt no obligation to talk to the public at all. Each day, the Denver Police Department media office put out a scant few lines in a press release, announcing that the investigation was continuing and that there had been no arrests.

Continues...


Excerpted from The Poet by Michael Connelly Copyright © 1997 by Hieronymous, Inc.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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The Poet 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 240 reviews.
Booklover87 More than 1 year ago
Michael Connelly has become one of my favorite writers. His crime novels are all edge of your seat thrilling. The Poet was no exception. I loved his new character Jack McEvoy and I enjoyed the insightful look inside journalists. Connelly really does keep you guessing. As soon as you think you have it figured out, he unveils another fact that has you questioning what really is going on. I highly recommend this for all Connelly fans and for those who have not read a book of his yet. This is a great one to start with.
McCarthy92 More than 1 year ago
I am reading all of Michael Connelly's books in order, which is the best way to read his novels, and The Poet is his fifth book and first to not have his famous character, Harry Bosch. The Poet is narrated by crime reporter Jack McEvoy, a character just as great as Bosch. I never reveal plot in my reviews but I will say this, each time I read a Connelly novel, I realize why he is my favorite mystery writer. His plots keep me up all night wanting to read more. The Poet is a major highlight in Connelly's career.
SlapShot62 More than 1 year ago
I've been reading Connelly's books in order, obviously the Bosch series primarily. Love his writing and love that series, and almost skipped over The Poet. I'm so glad I bought and read it. Might actually be my favorite Connelly book to date and I've read 8 or 9 of his works thus far. Such a great story, loaded with twists and turns and his characters are very real. In fact, a couple of the characters that we find unlikeable, they come across as intriguing and have the reader wanting to learn more and more about what makes them tick. The plot is superior, and the developments are often quick and shocking.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I lfell in love with Michael Connelly's books after reading The Lincoln Lawyer. I really like the Mickey Haller series but have read all of them and most of the Harry Bosch series. This book was neither and definitely not a disappoinment. So I thought I'd give this book a try and once again, another great book.
ghostrider09 More than 1 year ago
The Poet had me jumping out of my seat...reporter turned investigater Jack McEvoy was shattered when his twin brother committed suicide. His probing into the death sent him to the F.B.I. with proof that his brother was the victim of a serial killer. It's a twisted path to the truth. I am going to be reading more of Connelly's McEvoy series.
miss_dobie More than 1 year ago
Okay, so we all love Harry Bosch. So do I. So what else is new? No Harry Bosch here though. Sorry. But if you haven't read THE POET, you don't know what you're missing. Not all great mysteries require Harry Bosch. They just require Michael Connelly. THE POET is superb. You'll have a very hard time putting it down once you start it. And the ending is a big surprise. Check it out - you'll be glad you did.
heyjude444 More than 1 year ago
I am having a hard time getting into this one. I usually love Michael Connelly, but this is not my favorite of his. About halfway through, so hopefully it will pick up...
Anonymous 4 months ago
Great read. Very gripping.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Ice read every Harry Bosch and Mickey Haller that Michael Connelly has written. Some several times over the years. Start with his first, and you'll be hooked as I was!
VirgoGirl on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This was actually my first Michael Connelly book and it had me at hello! While the subject matter is dark, the plot and suspense keep you engaged the whole time. Loved it.
Georg.Miggel on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I really liked this book. It has a strong beginning and a lot of credible characters. What I liked most was the fact that it seemed to end on page 450. I thought: Ok, not a bad solution, but a bit obvious. But then I noticed there were still 100 pages to go. Finally I realized the end was not the end, but only a fake end, and then the "real story" was about to begin. Very strong and surprising until the very last page
souleswanderer on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
From the very first sentence Michael Connelly hooks the reader into Jack McEvoy's dark world. A newspaper reporter for the Rocky Mountain News, McEvoy has chased after death and written numerous articles dealing with not only the victim's story but the survivor's as well. How do you feel, one of his first line of inquiries when chasing a story, has now settled around him like a thick, wool blanket rubbing against bare skin when news of his twin brother's death reaches him.Marred by an earlier childhood tragedy and his subsequent perceptions of failing to live up to his parent's expectations, Jack isn't ready to accept the idea that his brother Sean, a Denver Police Officer, committed suicide. Balancing the fact that Sean was working a brutal and unsolved murder case, that bothered him enough to seek psychiatric counsel, and his own knowledge of his twin's past, Jack isn't able to console himself with the obvious facts pointing to suicide. Seemingly chasing a dead end case and managing to alienate those that were close to his brother, Joe continues digging into the incident and discovers that not everything is as it first looks. As a reporter, Jack uses the resources of the newspapers vast database to discover another death similar to that of his brother and travels to Baltimore searching for an elusive sliver of hope that he might find answers to his questions. What Jack uncovers is a slowly evolving pattern of a serial killer, and he finds himself in a struggle with the FBI to retain his exclusive story while trying to discover the murderer of lead detectives all staged as apparent suicides.Connelly does a superb job of slowly building the intensity and then keeping it taut, while leading the reader through a high profile, quickly changing man-hunt as each new series of clues is discovered. Following the series of events through Jack's eyes keeps the reader grounded and feeling like an outsider looking in when the FBI gives him the slip. We are also charged with the moral dilemna of a man struggling to keep the gray between black and white becoming too shaded. I thoroughly enjoyed The Poet, and consider this one of the better Connelly novel's that I've read. He does an excellent job of creating characters, giving them flaws that I can relate to and circumstances that are always believable. Slowly making my way through the Bosch series, which I will claim as one of my favorite series and characters, I discovered that I needed more background for the next novel in the list. Hence, me picking up an earlier work and one that is out of sequence, although I have already come across a few references to the Poet, and McEvoy as a reporter, in the earlier novels.
jwhenderson on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I had previously read and enjoyed novels in the "Harry Bosch" detective series by Michael Connelly but I was not prepared for the intensity of suspense that he delivers in this thriller. The protagonist is Jack McEvoy, a newspaper reporter, who is introduced with these opening lines: "Death is my beat. I make my living from it. I forge my professional reputation on it. . ."With these words the story moves into what seems like hyper drive as the reader is presented with the reporter's single-minded pursuit of the serial killer who murdered his twin. Even his buddies in the Denver PD thought Sean McEvoy's shooting in the backseat of his car looked like a classic cop suicide, right down to the motive: his despondency over his failure to clear the murder of a University of Denver student. But as Sean's twin brother, Jack, of the Rocky Mountain News, notices tiny clues that marked Sean's death as murder, his suspicions about the dying message Sean scrawled inside his fogged windshield--``Out of space. Out of time''--alert him to a series of eerily similar killings stretching from Sarasota to Albuquerque.THe twist and turns are handled so smoothly that even when you guess one of the plot twists there are two more lying in wait that you did not see coming. Connelly writes with a lucid style that provides just enough detail to demonstrate his knowledge of the territory without slowing the plot action. For example, there are scenes set in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago that is my back yard and the details are all accurate. Scenes like that made me believe he did the same for Baltimore and Phoenix when those cities become the scene of the action. In Jack McEvoy, the reporter, he has created not only a smart detective but also a very human being -- one that is easy to identify with. The result this with the controlled suspense makes this one thriller that I did had no difficulty finishing. An added treat are the literary connections that at least partially define the killer and help McEvoy in his pursuit. This is an exceptionally well written novel about a unique set of murders that are solved by an reporter born with a detective gene.
Narboink on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Not being familiar with the quality of conventional thrillers, I¿m in no position to judge the merits of this book in relation to its competition. It¿s certainly not highbrow literature, but it admirably delivers the sort of humorless charm that one might reasonably expect from a bestseller. Plot is clearly the driving force of the novel, and Connelly keeps it that way by avoiding indulgences such as tangential mood-setting or extraneous emotional décor. This bracing minimalism helps maintain dramatic tension, but it does so at the expense of a richer reading experience. I many ways, ¿The Poet¿ is similar to the hour-long police procedurals we¿re so used to seeing on television: a guilty-pleasure... a vaguely formulaic diversion that is satisfying without being particularly fulfilling. I might very well pick up another Connelly bestseller the next time I want to numb my mind at the beach while soaking up some sun.On a side note, it¿s interesting to read ¿The Poet¿ from a historical perspective. It takes place at the dawn of the Internet age, when digital cameras were expensive novelties, cellular phones were confined to automobiles, and the Internet was taking baby-steps through cumbersome and noisy dial-up modems.
ctpress on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I do not read many books in this genre, but must admit it took me by surprise. Jack McEvoy, a journalist based in Denver, tries to find out more about his twin brothers suicide, the brother is a cop - and it leads him to a FBI investigation and a serial killer - the villain is creepy and intelligent and a memorable character. The conflict between McEvoy and the FBI-investigation (of course a female agent and love interest) is very funny.
Cecilturtle on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Connelly is definitely a master of the psychological thriller and this novel is a prime example. Although the motivations of the characters can seem simplistic, the way they act out is not and this creates a complicated and gripping mosaic of twists and turns. There is well finagled surprise ending and most refreshing: Connelly does not try to explain everything. A great read for those long waits at the airport!
TimKiester on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Excellent book! Well written, engaging and creepy.
raizel on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
good of its kind, which is to say I don't know why his books, about awful stuff as murder mysteries are, are so comfortable to read, but they are.
debavp on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
If you have the edition that has the foreward by Stephen King--just skip that part. I almost didn't read this book because King touted it as being so frightening that he had to turn on more lights in his house while he was reading it. So I'm thinking this is as intense, if not more so, than King's The Shining. I seriously kept picking up, but not starting it because I didn't want the crap scared out of me. So when I started reading, after about a third of the book I was just plain pissed because this was not scary at all. The subject matter could be construed as 'scary' in reference to who is actually doing the evil deeds, but not scary enough to keep you awake at night or looking over your shoulder :) This is the one Connelly book that I really just didn't care for. A bit Patterson in presentation and a subject and plot that really didn't have much imagination to it. If you want to see what happens next to Jack McEvoy, he makes a brief appearance in A Darkness More Than Night.
clif_hiker on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
After reading the 6th or 7th Harry Bosch story (A Darkness More than Night); I wandered over to this series with Jack MacEvoy. Bosch et.al. kept referring to the 'Poet' case, and MacEvoy shows up in connection with the new case... anyway, one of things I like about Connelly's books is that he so often writes from different viewpoints and still manages to tell a compelling story.The Poet is one of his earlier stories, and I really liked it through the first half of the book. Later on I could see it veering off into a 'bad cop' type of story with the only question as to which cop it was... It's still a very good read, and lays the groundwork for many of his later books.
richardderus on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Connelly's Harry Bosch series will either make you want to read this book, or run from it. I liked the Harry Bosch mysteries well enough, but I really respond more to Jack McEvoy, Denver journalist and crusader for the rights of victims of crime.This is the first appearance by McEvoy. He's hot on the trail of a cop-killer, one whose talent for murder makes him able to turn a crime scene into a suicide scene. Jack's brother, a homicide cop, is dead...and naturally Jack wants to know how the current spate of killings relate to the Poet, as this serial killer is known.What happens next is everything! Connelly uses the now-mundane Internet and email (how quaint!) to give the story immediacy and scary new dimensions, and those tropes don't stand up well as stand-alones. Connelly, however, didn't graft them onto the story he told, he made them part and parcel of the case from the get-go. It's very well-built stuff, as one would expect from this capable author.What's not so exciting is the plot resolution, but hey...at least it's not *bad*, just *expected*. I for one felt no sense of "...wha...where...HUH?" that marks out the very best of thrillers. But it's streets away from being blah! Just not...all the way, if you know what I mean. Read and enjoy. Just don't expect to need to do sock patrol after you're done, they won't be blown right off.
jmcclain19 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The ending was disappointing, the method in which the serial killer overpowers his victims, (career homicide detectives) is incredibly weak. In the idea of not giving away spoilers, I'll let you find out for yourself, but it was just beyond the realm of possibility in my mind. There are twists & turns right up to that point however. The weak ending doesn't go along with a riveting storyline that takes you all over the US ending up in Connelly's familiar storyline back yard - Southern California. The main protagonist, Jack McEvoy, is a "warts and all" character, with enough flaws to make you wonder at times why you should care about him as the story's main focal point. Three & 1/2 stars - entertaining read but the Poet's method, when finally revealed, is a boat anchor on full story enjoyment.
edwardsgt on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The Harry Bosch novel which is frequently referenced in his later books. Usual high standards as Harry Bosch tracks the murderer with the moniker of The Poet.
Darrol on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Too elaborate; 2 too many twists.The thing that interested me through the book is the transitional nature of the technology in it. At the beginning of the digital/internet explosion.
ficara on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
In the same vein as, and almost as good as, The Silence Of the Lambs.