The Lineup Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright in the collection © 2009 by Otto Penzler

  Introduction copyright © 2009 by Otto Penzler

  Copyright acknowledgments appear on pages 405–406.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/littlebrown

  First eBook Edition: November 2009

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-07182-6

  For Rupert Holmes

  Rightly known as the nicest man in show business—

  and quite possibly the most talented

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  INTRODUCTION by Otto Penzler

  KEN BRUEN

  JACK TAYLOR by Ken Bruen

  LEE CHILD

  JACK REACHER by Lee Child

  MICHAEL CONNELLY

  HIERONYMUS BOSCH by Michael Connelly

  JOHN CONNOLLY

  CHARLIE PARKER by John Connolly

  ROBERT CRAIS

  ELVIS COLE AND JOE PIKE by Robert Crais

  JEFFERY DEAVER

  LINCOLN RHYME by Jeffery Deaver

  COLIN DEXTER

  INSPECTOR MORSE by Colin Dexter

  JOHN HARVEY

  CHARLIE RESNICK by John Harvey

  STEPHEN HUNTER

  BOB LEE SWAGGER by Stephen Hunter

  FAYE KELLERMAN

  PETER DECKER AND RINA LAZARUS by Faye Kellerman

  JONATHAN KELLERMAN

  ALEX DELAWARE by Jonathan Kellerman

  JOHN LESCROART

  DISMAS HARDY by John Lescroart

  LAURA LIPPMAN

  TESS MONAGHAN by Laura Lippman

  DAVID MORRELL

  RAMBO by David Morrell

  CAROL O’CONNELL

  MALLORY by Carol O’Connell

  ROBERT B. PARKER

  SPENSER by Robert B. Parker

  RIDLEY PEARSON

  LOU BOLDT by Ridley Pearson

  ANNE PERRY

  CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT by Anne Perry

  DOUGLAS PRESTON AND LINCOLN CHILD

  ALOYSIUS X. L. PENDERGAST by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

  IAN RANKIN

  JOHN REBUS by Ian Rankin

  ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH

  PRECIOUS RAMOTSWE by Alexander McCall Smith

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  BY OTTO PENZLER

  It is an unhappy fact, though no less true for its sadness, that independent bookstores in America (and soon, I’ll wager, in the rest of the world) are in jeopardy.

  There are many reasons for this, of course, as no large and dramatic changes ever seem to be caused by a single sudden event, except possibly the Big Bang.

  It is easy, and necessary, to point to the proliferation of the big chains, like Barnes & Noble and Borders, which, in spite of their denials, have malevolently established many of their superstores as close as possible to well-established independent stores. They then offered astonishing discounts, advertised heavily, brought in comfortable easy chairs next to their coffee bars, and welcomed authors for readings in order to capture local book buyers. Inevitably, the established stores saw their customer base diminish and, ultimately unable to pay rents, salaries, insurance, utilities, and the myriad other bills shoved through the mail slot with the regularity of tides, they were forced to close their doors. Without exception, this occurrence is accompanied by the lamentations of many of the very same book buyers who abandoned these stores, seduced by the siren song of discounts. These discounts, of course, not to mention those padded easy chairs, dramatically diminish or go the way of the dodo bird as soon as the competition has had the last shovelful of dirt tossed on its grave.

  The rise of Amazon.com and other online sites has also contributed to the demise of “brick and mortar” stores. With no expensive urban rents to slice away at profits, and fewer salaries and benefits to pay to employees, Amazon.com and its relatives have been so successful that several chains have found themselves in their own expanse of quicksand.

  We have all seen the depressing, even chilling, statistics about the reading habits of Americans. A survey titled Reading at Risk, commissioned by the National Endowment for the Arts in 2007, found that 57 percent of our countrymen had not read a single book in a year. Just mull that over for a moment. Can you imagine going a full year and finding nothing—nothing!—that you needed or wanted to read? As someone who makes his living as a bookseller, editor, publisher, and author, I feel that maybe I didn’t make the smartest career choice. Actually, it wasn’t my first career choice, which was playing center field for the New York Yankees, but that’s not really the point.

  There’s more. The average American reads five books a year. When you factor in students who are assigned a fair number of books, plus those of us who read many more than five, there are a lot of folks out there pulling the average down. It would be enough to make you laugh, if you don’t weep, to learn that 27 percent of the pollsters admitted that they hadn’t read a single book in the year. A pertinent quote, often attributed to Mark Twain, is “The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them.” If you want to shudder, the question that leaps to mind is whether those 57 percent of Americans don’t want to read or can’t read. Neither is an attractive option.

  Not at all surprisingly, then, The Mysterious Bookshop, which I opened on Friday the 13th of April, 1979, found itself in financial straits a few years ago. It had been struggling for a while, and the move from its first home in midtown Manhattan to hip downtown Tribeca did nothing to improve its circumstances. Not being wealthy, partially by accident of birth and the failure of my parents to leave me an obscene fortune, I was faced with the increasing difficulty of supporting a business that was bleeding money—some months a mere trickle, others a rushing, roaring hemorrhage.

  To illustrate the level of desperation to which I had fallen, I called for a staff meeting. There are many reasons to risk the perils of going into business on your own, and one of the best is to avoid the meetings that seem to fill the days of those who toil in the corporate world. At this unprecedented event, I told the people who work with me of our situation, holding nothing back, and asked for ideas that might help us save the store (and, not to be blithely overlooked, their jobs).

  A pertinent digression: Every year, I commission an original short story from one of the authors I know. The story has three requirements: it must have an element of mystery, it must be set during the Christmas season, and at least some of the action must transpire at The Mysterious Bookshop. We print the stories in handsome pamphlets and give them to our customers as a small Christmas present to thank them for their patronage.

  Back to the meeting and the discussion of the sinking ship. Someone said that our clients really love those Christmas stories; maybe we could commission another story and give it away in the summertime. This seemed a nice idea, but counterproductive. We needed to find a way to make some money, not another way in which to spend it. When we broke up the meeting, I threatened to have another one but, in the meantime, asked everyone to k
eep thinking.

  In the dead of night, as I waited for sleep to rescue me from worrying about the store, the pamphlet idea popped up again, and I came up with a twist. How would it be, I wondered with the optimism that three a.m. can induce, if I asked some of my author friends to write a biography, or profile, of their series character? We could then print them in handsome little pamphlets and give them to our customers—but only with a purchase. They would, naturally, love these profiles so much that they would come back every month to get the next one, and our sales would soar. The next day I got the cost estimate from my printer, and the idea suddenly seemed shaky. Let me rephrase that. The idea suddenly seemed stupid. Furthermore, I never ask writers to write for free. Adding the authors’ fees to the printing cost made the whole thing prohibitive—until the mercenary niche of my brain, incredibly, shook off years of rust and provided another suggestion. For the collector market, produce 100 copies of each of the profiles in hardcover, ask the authors to sign them, and sell these very desirable limited-edition collector’s items. And we did produce them, the authors signed them, and collectors bought them.

  More than two years after initiating this series, we’re still in business, which, against all odds, has picked up nicely. Many clients come in, call, or write each month to ask who will write the next profile, and then buy books in order to get a copy. The limited editions frequently sell out, covering all costs and even a little more. Many of the authors, beyond the reasonable call of friendship, have forgone their fees, generously calling it their contribution to the well-being of the bookshop.

  Regrettably, not every reader of mystery fiction is a customer of The Mysterious Bookshop, so it made sense to bring these essays and stories to a wider readership by collecting them in a single volume with the broad distribution that Little, Brown can provide. This handsome volume, The Lineup, is the result. As for the profiles themselves, you are in for a rare pleasure. You will find that these remarkably talented and creative writers have taken many different and colorful approaches to telling readers previously unknown facts about their creations. There are short stories tucked into the biographies, interviews of the characters, revealing looks into the authors’ lives and creative processes, and even frequent insights into the characters that came as revelations to their creators.

  It is impossible for me to find words to express my gratitude to these wonderful writers, for their quick and positive response to a humble call for help. Take a look at the names of the contributors, and you will see the truth of the old adage that “the bigger they are, the nicer they are.” As a mystery reader, you will find many of your favorite authors in these pages, and maybe you will also get a taste of someone you’ve not read before now, thereby gaining an opportunity to enjoy a whole new series about a character to whom you have just been introduced.

  I do not hope you enjoy these splendid character sketches; I know you will.

  KEN BRUEN

  Born in 1951 in Galway, Ireland, the city in which he still makes his home, Ken Bruen had his first book published in 1992 and has been extremely prolific since then, producing seven novels in the Jack Taylor series, set in Galway; seven novels about Inspector Brant, set in England; ten stand-alone novels; and five short story collections, as well as uncollected stories. He was the editor of Dublin Noir (2006).

  His lean, spare prose places him among the most original stylists in the history of crime fiction. His dark, hopelessly tragic, and violent tales have surprising bursts of absurd humor—moments that more accurately reflect the personality of the author.

  Much loved by the mystery community, Bruen has been collecting honors and awards, including a Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for The Guards, which also received Edgar Allan Poe and Macavity award nominations for best novel of the year; and a Macavity for The Killing of the Tinkers, which was also nominated for an Anthony Award as best novel of the year.

  JACK TAYLOR

  BY KEN BRUEN

  I’m always asked in interviews where this odd, grizzled, grumpy PI Taylor came from.

  He is the world’s worst detective. Cases get solved not because of him but despite him.

  He’s

  Alcoholic

  Addict

  Rude

  Obnoxious

  And in very bad shape

  And yet… Forster’s famous words.

  He gets the job done… somehow, and he so desperately wants to connect, even though he’d never admit it.

  Only connect.

  Jack does… usually when he least expects to.

  His love of books has saved his sanity on so many occasions.

  I said on a TV show recently, Jack hasn’t drunk for nigh on three books, and they laughed.

  Uproariously.

  They would.

  Three books…

  And not a drink.

  For them a joke. For Jack, total hell.

  And the reviews say Jack is mellowing.

  Like fuck.

  They ain’t seen Cross yet.

  Or Benediction.

  He’s only warming up.

  He will bow out on the final book… titled… Amen.

  And no one can utter those words with quite such conviction as Jack.

  When the end comes, and come it will, no one will be happier than Jack.

  Yet…

  The Guards… his first outing, he was drinking but still a little in control, and then…

  His best friend turns out to be the real psycho and Jack literally drowns him, off Nimmo’s Pier in the Claddagh.

  In Galway, an almost mystical place for Irish people… Jack throws a bottle of really good booze in after his friend.

  And heads for London.

  New start.

  The UK loves Micks so much.

  Need I add it wasn’t a success?

  The sequel,

  The Killing of the Tinkers.

  They told me I couldn’t write this.

  My favorite caution.

  This will kill your career.

  My career has been killed so often, and I’m always told… Oh, my god, you

  can’t

  write

  this

  … and some damn stubborn place in my bedraggled psyche, thought

  Can’t?

  Then

  Have to.

  The Hackman Blues, the second crime novel I wrote (fourth published), I was dropped by my agent, my publisher,

  because of it.

  Said,

  You let this be published, you’re gone.

  I did.

  They were right.

  I was gone.

  As Derek Raymond said,

  “I had the down escalator all to meself.”

  I continued to write, to teach, and to travel. Brief sojourn to learn Portuguese in a Brazilian jail, which helped the dark vision forming in me head.

  I take fierce grief in Ireland from the literati, as I always say my influences are American.

  The hard-boiled

  masters and they were and remain thus.

  I wrote a series of novels about UK cops, out of more damn cheek than anything else… a Mick writing about UK cops.

  Did a stand-alone based on Sunset Boulevard and it sold well, but still I hadn’t hit what it was that was fermenting in me mind, uncoiling like a snake. Did a doctorate in metaphysics and still… the vision hadn’t clarified. I returned to Ireland in 2000 to find a new country.

  We’d got rich.

  The fook did that happen?

  We went from Mass to Microsoft with no preparation, and suddenly, people were immigrating to Ireland!

  What?

  The village I grew up in had become a cool, trendy European city.

  And bingo.

  It all came together.

  They said there were no Irish crime novels, as we’d no mean streets…. With the new prosperity, we’d also got… crack cocaine and all its outriders.

  I had me Irish novel; it all
jelled.

  I grew up fascinated by the Guards… solid, beefy guys who took no shite from anyone, and I’d got a library ticket when I was ten years old, books being forbidden in our house.

  My older beloved brother had died of alcoholism.

  Write about the Guards.

  Back in 2000, like the clergy, they were… forgive me, bulletproof, and still admired.

  I figured, put it all in the blend, an alcoholic investigator, bounced from the Force, loves books and is totally conflicted by the old values of the Ireland he grew up in and this new

  greedy mini-American country.

  And he had to have a mouth on him… like all of the country.

  It makes me smile now. Back then, the first book, there were no PIs in Ireland.

  Just last week, seven years on, I checked the Yellow Pages, and we have twenty in Galway alone!

  Business is brisk.

  At the same time, I planned a series. Jack would be caught up in all the secrets Ireland had.

  The priests, the Magdalen laundries, teenage suicides, the way the whole fabric of the country was changing.

  The Magdalen Martyrs came out, by coincidence, just after the marvelous movie

  The Magdalene Sisters.

  Priest came out when all the horrendous scandals of the clergy emerged.

  Good timing?

  Pure luck or just bad karma.

  I dunno.

  The Guards, they told me, was the biggest mistake in a career littered with bad moves…. It was nominated for the Edgar®, won the Shamus, and sold to countries I’d never even heard of.

  The Killing of the Tinkers won the Macavity.

  But storms on the horizon, naturally.

  I have a child with Down syndrome, and in The Dramatist guess what…

  Yup.

  Jack is responsible for the death of a child with… fill in the blank.

  I never got such hate-filled e-mail.

  “How could I?”

  I did what you do.

  I told the truth.

  Always a real bad idea.

  Said I’d always intended to kill her… almost did in book three but felt she wasn’t involved enough yet in either Jack’s or the readers’ emotions.