Lost Light by Michael Connelly
Harry. Always Harry, September 13, 2003
from Ypsilanti, MI United States
We enjoy (I was going to say "love" but that's probably inaccurate) Harry Bosch not in spite of his flaws, but because of them. There's hardly a Michael Connelly novel in which you don't think Harry's, errrrr, human. And here he is haunted again by the incompleteness of his past. The missing pieces. The concertos that never ended. The unfinished stories. Retired, and not necessarily regretting it, he tugs at old cases like an itchy scab, especially one in which, like the Harry of old, he is haunted by something near spiritual, certainly otherworldly. Here it's the vic's hands, prayerfully petitioning him in the last seconds, the closing moments of her life. So he examines limited clues, arrogant Hollywood producers, more arrogant cops, wounded heroes, scarred victims. Never alone with his brooding inner self, he recalls failures at relationships and the clout he never knew he had as a cop that he has lost now. He still ponders the loss of his wife, misses her terribly, and has even one embarassing yet all too human moment of checking up on her. And seeks and finds redemption. His greatest victory may be in solving himself, not the crime.