Saying Goodbye to Ourselves

Not feeling my best lately, I’ve been filling a lot of my time by reading. I tend to get a kick out of mysteries. The thing is, over the last four years I have been reading so much, I’ve read literally everything my favorite authors have turned out. I’ve consumed Robert B. Parker, John D. MacDonald, Johns Conolly and Connelly and even John Sandford. The list goes on and on jumping from Jance to Child, to Creighton to Evanovich –the list goes on and on. loves me I’m sure.

Lately, Ive been reading books by John Lutz and Joel Goldman. Their heroes are both disabled detectives, with Jack Davis, forceably retired from the FBI because of muscle tics and shakes, and Fred Carver who took a bullet in the knee and was forceably retired from the Fort Lauderdale police. Of course, in the end they each get their quarry with one of them always suffering indignant beatings for his spastic fits and the other unable to limp away fast enough and needs to battle gunmen with his cane.