From (Criminal) Econ 101, Chapter 3

 The aspect of the Nick Forte novels I am most often complimented on is the relationship between Nick and his daughter, Caroline. Caroline is growing up – she’s in high school now, playing in the marching band – but Nick isn’t any less protective. He struggles with it, knowing she has to learn how to take care of herself, but the Cone of Protection still exists.

 

From Chapter 3:

 

I met up with Caroline and her buds outside the band room. The plan was for me to drive Tyler and Joanna home before Caroline and I made the 45-minute trek to Bolingbrook.

Caroline had a better idea. Even I thought so.

“Can we get ice cream?”

We’d made this improvisation before. “You girls know the drill,” I said to her friends. “Send your mom or dad a text to ask, then show me they said it was okay.”

Apparently they had me pegged as a soft touch; the requests were already approved. Both girls nearly broke my nose shoving cell phones in my face

Sundae School was busy, not packed. I bought sundaes for all three girls – typical, and a primary reason I’m so popular when it comes to giving rides – and a milkshake for myself. I always got milkshakes when playing chauffeur, on the off chance we’d have to leave before I was ready. It’s hell to eat a sundae and drive at the same time.

I took my shake far enough away for them to be sure no eavesdropping took place. Tyler’s father got himself busted six months earlier and had yet to redeem his reputation. I maintained a line of sight so they wouldn’t have to find me when it was time to go.

Twenty minutes later two boys/young men I’d noticed sitting in a far corner made a detour on their way out to pass near my charges. No big deal. The boys looked like high school seniors or college freshmen. For all I knew they were friends or relatives of one of the girls.

A couple of minutes later Tyler’s and Joanna’s body language stiffened. Caroline was still cool, but she knew I was close and would handle anything too uncomfortable. The other girls had no such assurance.

These were always awkward situations. My first impulse was to go over and sort these boys out, but the girls needed to learn how to deal with social dilemmas; my best role was safety net. I finished my shake and was watching the situation play out when Caroline peeked over her shoulder in my direction.

I moved with an unhurried stride. Tossed my empty cup in a trash bin on the way over. Took each boy by an elbow to steer them past the girls’ table and toward the door.

This produced the expected reaction.

“Hey! What the fuck, man?”

“Who the hell are you?”

I didn’t speak until we cleared the door. Kept my voice in the register Caroline calls menacing. “I’m conducting a survey and want to ask you a couple of questions.”

These were Arlington Heights toughs, which meant South Side ten-year-olds would steal their lunch money before pantsing them. The taller one said, “You’re not going to like the answers if you don’t turn us loose, asshole.”

“First question: do either of you know what it’s like to eat soup through a straw for…I don’t know. Six to eight weeks? However long it takes a broken jaw to heal.”?”

Not the question they’d expected. “Uh…no.”

“Second and last question: would you like to find out?”

For sure not what they expected. All I got were head shakes.

“Then fuck off.”

            And off they fucked.

My Favorite Reads, Fall 2025

 My favorite reads from the fourth quarter of 2025.

 Notice I don’t say the “best” books I read over the past three months; these are my favorites. My ego is not such that I am willing to pronounce anything as “best,” which is a consensus thing.

 At best.

 The Black Echo, Michael Connelly. The first Bosch novel and not as fluidly written as later books would be, The Black Echo still has all the elements Connelly’s loyal readers came to love. If you’re a Harry Bosch fan and wonder how things got started, look this one up.

 Wolf Tickets, Ray Banks. A re-read I enjoyed just as much as the first time. Banks is one of those writers who makes you forget you’re reading; the book flows as if these two guys are telling you their stories. Using multiple first-person POVs can seem gimmicky, but Banks makes it seem like you’re coming across each of them in a bar on alternate nights. This is the book that set the Ray Banks hook in me.

 True Target, Austin Camacho. I don’t typically care for hit man protagonists but I’m a devotee of Camacho’s Hannibal Jones series, so I gave this one a try. I think I still prefer Jones – after all, he’s a PI and I’m a PI guy – but Skye is a protagonist who can carry a series. The story is never predictable but always makes sense, and Skye has aspects to her character – including her pronoun – that makes this not just another hit man novel.

 Winter’s Bone, Daniel Woodrell. I re-read this a couple of weeks before we lost Woodrell, so how great was out loss was fresh in my mind. A beautifully written book where the writing never draws attention to itself to interfere with the story or characterization, by which I mean Woodrell never succumbed to striving for the ‘sentence beautiful;’ telling stories in a gripping and evocative manner was how he naturally wrote. I think I’ve read all his novels now and I’ll continue to come back every year or so to remind me of his extraordinary talent.

 Not Born of Woman, Teel James Glenn. Frankenstein’s creature returns from the Arctic to work as a private investigator in pre-World War Two New York. Glenn’s writing evokes Mary Shelley’s voice while still giving Adam Paradise license to tell the story in his own way. Paradise has both gifts and limitations mere humans lack but none strain credulity once you accept the initial premise. This book deserves all the acclaim it has received.

 The Blooding, Joseph Wambaugh. Speaking of extraordinary talents, this non-fiction effort by another giant we lost this year shows his off on multiple levels. Though he was the greatest writer of police procedurals ever – rivaled only by Ed McBain – Wambaugh’s non-fiction is even better. Here he examines in detail two gruesome murders in an English village in the mid-1980s that led to the first instance of identifying a killer through genetic fingerprinting. Alternately funny and painful to read, The Blooding left me sitting quietly for several minutes after I finished it; I took a couple of days off from reading when I was done.