The sixteenth Matthew Scudder NYC detective series.  Hated it.  It features that same serial killer from the last book, and once again we have the sections told from the perspective of the serial killer and pfffft,  stop, just stop doing that.

Scudder is 62 years old now,  prosperous, semi-to-mostly retired, the book has lost its late 1900s gritty noir feel, he doesn’t live in that hotel room any more, he still goes to AA meetings, and basically, the entire trope feels tired and like the author has gotten thoroughly sick of Scudder and this series.

There is a small side mystery which he solves, but nah.  Oh, well, all good things must come to an end.

There is one more in the series which looks a lot more interesting, so I will read that just to say I read the whole series.



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