A stylish opening is soon derailed by flat, cardboard characters, wildly unrealistic interactions between cops and an upscale hooker who swings both ways, and lack of any vibrancy and movement within the narrative. It is also hampered on occasion by much too lengthy and detailed descriptions of everyday activities, as though to fill out a page count or try to breathe life and realism into a fairly good if clichéd story idea told so blandly that it reaches a point where it’s beyond resuscitation.
Though Until Death is fairly well-written, I sensed no life here, and the happenings felt very artificial. With the exception of the protagonist, Detective Sean Richardson, who has a few nice moments which I’ll talk about in a bit, I neither believed nor cared about anyone in this novel. A book in the crime/police/mystery genre, especially one with this plot, should be alive and exciting, perhaps a bit racy, yet it isn’t. There are many approaches an author can take in this genre, from elevated pulp with a sprinkling of social commentary within its narrative, to realistically gritty and brutal noir, and everything in between the two. What it can’t be is dull, and unfortunately, that’s what Until Death was for me — dull. Not low-key, but incredibly boring.
The basic premise is that an upscale hooker “loses” her client book, and soon it is apparent that the men listed in the book — though she swings both ways, this detail gets ignored quickly — are being killed, one by one. There is a client who may be too enamored of the petite blonde, and an ex-boyfriend who quite understandably was horrified to discover his girlfriend was working as a hooker, which caused a bad breakup — duh — which require questioning. There is also a second hooker named Kelly that Gina sometimes gets referrals from — like her female clients, this is fairly quickly forgotten. And of course, there is the entire client list, because Gina is a busy girl. As Sean Richardson and his partner Maggie McClinton begin the most unexciting investigation in history, more clients of that poor little thing Gina, get bumped off.
This had a really promising start, from a nice opening line to a good opening scene. I was hopeful it would lead to an engaging narrative. Sadly, it did not. Boy howdy, did it not. You’d think that a plot of this nature would have some spark, some action, maybe some tastefully alluded to intimacy, or even some frank questioning by cops. But it has none of that. Even when Gina Gallagher/Jennifer Bryan comes in to inform Sean Richardson that her client book has been taken, it’s somehow unbelievable. She’s coming in for a “friend” and it’s obvious to the reader, and should be to Richardson, that it’s for Gina. But when she finally gets around to that, Richardson genuinely acts shocked. Later, when Richardson and Maggie are questioning her, it’s more like Phil Donahue and Marlo Thomas as cops, being woke-uber-sensitive to this weepy hooker (if she cries once, and feigns the innocence of a virginal teen, she does it ten times here), even to the extent that at one point Maggie apologizes for being insensitive. And wait, I almost forgot. Because they need to know how upscale the targets in her client book are, they need to find out just how much she was charging her johns. When she fusses about telling them, they Apologize to her like all cops would. Yep, it’s like that.
Elaborately yet needlessly described everyday actions, and boring, stilted dialog pepper the slow and predictable investigation. I can’t recall a single instance where an interrogation wasn’t too formal, too polite, nor can I recall a single nuance to the Gina character, nor an insightful description of her, that made her the least bit interesting — or worthy of the protagonist’s almost groan-worthy, ever so sensitive feelings for her. There are some nice, genuine moments here, such as Richardson recalling fondly his deceased wife, but even that is marred, because it is brought on by Richardson musing how this shallow, vanilla-hooker, in her “intelligence,” “independent spirit,” and (of course) “liberal outlook on life” — at $700 a pop — reminds him of Julie. Really? Where did any of THAT come from? It certainly didn’t come from ANYTHING I’d read preceding it. And it throws mud on the memory of Julie, a bad narrative move.
There’s a bunch of tangents that are boringly described and uninteresting, and I kept wondering why two particular people appeared to be of no interest at all to the detectives. I can’t say which two, but to me they were obviously of great interest in a story like this. Lo and behold, I trudge on to about 65%, and there in Part II, the reader gets everything from the killer’s perspective, and it’s one of the two people I’d been wondering about. It was shocking — not because we’re suddenly let in on who the killer is, but that all that stuff that came before, now seems, to a great extent, absolutely unnecessary. Perhaps if these chapters had been interspersed from an early point with the plodding and boring investigation, it would have been a better read, because these chapters through the killer’s eyes, giving us the reasons, the actions, are easily the best-written portions of the book. Unfortunately, they’ve come much too late for any reader who enjoys being swept away by a narrative.
How the original person who ended up with Gina’s client book got hold of it is never explained, nor their reason for having it in their possession. Even once there’s a fingerprint and another obvious indication of who the killer is, it takes a bit for Richardson to get it, and then we get some more tedious explanation about it. By the time the drawn out, boring climax came, I had more sympathy for the plight of the killer and why it was happening than I did the intended final victims. My wife told me to abandon it, because I’d shared with her all the trouble I was having with it, but having already marked it as reading, I trudged on, telling her it was me against the book now, and I was going to win. Such was my Sunday afternoon, wasted on something which is sadly somewhat representative of the series, which gets into some really needless graphic stuff involving women and children in other entries I took a look at.
I don’t make these statements lightly, or happily. Perhaps there is greater disappointment because the opening of Until Death held such promise, and a cadre of folks piling on this author's work with glowing reviews. To say that I abhor leaving a review like this for a book is beyond understatement. You will NOT see my reviews littered with them as you will some. I don't get my jollies out of running books, or authors down. I'd much rather read something I enjoy and talk about that, which is why 99.9% of the time I do.
As I said, James L. Thane’s book is fairly well-written overall. But it's dull. You keep thinking you should like it, should be interested, yet you can’t, and you’re not. Especially the deeper into the narrative you get. And it's not you, it's the book (and for me, the series). That has to be laid at the author’s doorstep. There’s too much cardboard here and not enough life. I intentionally didn’t post quotes and examples on this occasion, as I chose not to belabor the point. Too many allow other factors to influence their likes and dislikes, but I always try to be just about the book, what’s between the covers, the narrative and dialog, the writing. Sadly, this one was somehow worse because I wanted to like it, and couldn’t. That's as kindly as I can put it.