Blame It on Harlan

Harlan Coben is one of my favorite mystery/suspense writers. He leapt onto bestseller lists after a string of mid-list mysteries featuring sports agent Myron Bolitar only after his stand-alone breakout, Tell No One, got there first.

Well, this was just great for Harlan -- not only did this fine writer finally break through to the top of the heap, it inspired fans of his suspense novels to go back and discover the Bolitar series.

Another fine, fine writer, Mike Stewart, enjoyed regional success with some top notch Southern legal type/mystery/suspense novels (Sins of the Brother was the first), but his publisher dumped him after not being able to find his market. A new publisher came up with a brilliant idea -- do what Harlan did! White knuckle a novel or two, we'll market you as the next Coben, and we'll all be set. The only problem is that that isn't what Stewart writes best, and it showed, and died. We have no idea what he's doing these days, but don't doubt for a second that if he'd been given more support originally with what he was brilliant doing he'd be nationally known.

So, what does this have to do with today's book review?

It's the Cobenization of another fine, solid mid-list writer, and another of my favorites -- David Rosenfelt. His Andy Carpenter mysteries are full of warmth and humor, and had just begun to "serious up" a bit in terms of emotional depth, so what does his publisher do?

Has him write a book that is "marketable" -- and then virtually copied the jacket art from Coben's Tell No One and here's what you'll get in June of 2008:

Shall we bring the champagne out now, or wait until summer?

Okay -- as far as edge-of-your-seat stories go, this one is good. A guy in a bar is approached by another guy in a bar who confesses in graphic detail to a murder, and then says, "Don't tell a soul." Did I mention that the innocent schmuck was a recent widower who had been the primary suspect in the freakish death of his new bride just months before?

There are plenty of twists and turns here, and it is certainly serviceable, but there's not a shred of David Rosenfelt anywhere in it. I'd even recommend it for an airplane read -- you know, the ones you read just to get you through a flight, but won't remember a thing about next week.

It's good. It's just not DAVID ROSENFELT good.

My plea to publishers? PLEASE STOP IT!!!!

I can't help but think if the Bible were published today, some marketing guy would say "We need to put a really bright cover on this and title it something that sounds like something a smarmy guy in a bar would say to a hapless guy who just wants to do the right thing."

Pffpth.