I’m finally restocking my nightstand with crime novels, after a long hiatus I can’t fully explain. Last night I was reminded of what I’ve been missing. In Michael Dibden’s And Then You Die, detective Aurelio Zen, assaying a bogus identity, is talking to a beautiful woman he has met on the beach:
“So where are you from?”
“Venice,” he answered without thinking.
“Really? But no one’s from Venice any more.”
“I am that no one.”
That’s a nice bit of dialog, and I intend to steal it if I can figure out a method more subtle than outright plagiarism. Meanwhile, I’ll reveal myself for the crime-fiction dilettante I am by admitting that this is the first Dibden book I’ve read. My friend Peter Rozovsky was recommending him years ago. With good reason, it seems.
I have a couple others on stack: Thirty-Three Teeth, featuring Colin Cotterill’s Laotian coronor Siri Paiboun; and What the Dead Know, by Laura Lippman. Based on previous experience, I have high hopes for both.