Why I wanted to read it: Because for Erin’s Book Challenge, one of the categories was about a detective. This series was the first to come to mind, and once upon a time I loved the way Nora Roberts wrote.
What I liked: She shifted on her sturdy legs. This was, she reminded herself, her superior. “I admire his talent.”
“Peabody, you’re admiring his chest. It’s a pretty good one, so I can’t hold it against you.”
“I wish he would,” she muttered (page 82).
Computers weren’t her forte. “Got a line on it?”
“Not yet.” With tiny tweezers, he lifted the sliver, studied it through his glasses. “But I will. I found the virus, dosed it, that’s first priority. This poor little bastard’s dead, though. When I autopsy it, we’ll see.
She had to smile. It was so like Feeney to think of his components and chips in human terms (page 137).
What sucked: Once upon a time I LOVED Nora Roberts’ writing style. So either it’s gone downhill since I was in my early twenties (which is when this particular title was published) or I’ve gotten to be a cantankerous bitch with regard to writing because of that English degree and all those writing critique groups and workshops and conferences I’ve attended. I was over this book by page 135. I pegged the culprit before the villain was identified. I marked two pages of text I liked. Just two. Glad to have gotten this one out of the way. FINISHED. DONE. Most likely will never read another Roberts novel again.
Having said that: Don’t read this crap. Just don’t.
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