4 Stars
Ack. I’m really far behind on reviewing. I read this a month and a half ago! I also just discovered this morning that I’m a library failure as well since I’m currently accruing late charges on this and my privileges at the porny library have been suspended until I prove that I still am a resident of the metropolitan area (and yes, I’m getting ready to get the DTs due to the lack of smut readily available to me at the present time).
So this is the charming tale of the neighborhood candy man . . . .
His treats come with an added bonus of things like razorblades and needles and he really would prefer it if everyone called him The Gingerbread Man . . . .
The Gingerbread Man has developed quite the hobby of mutilating women and leaving them in dumpsters for “Jack” Daniels to find. As if Jack wasn’t having a crappy enough time with her boyfriend dumping her, leaving her with an almost empty apartment and an incurable case of insomnia. Things will only get worse if The Gingerbread Man gets his way and adds Jack to his victim list.
I finally broke down and read this after my evil twin told me to about eleventy thousand times. We’re both damn lucky I’m an idiot because if I had realized J.A. Konrath was the same guy as Jack Kilborn, I pretty much would have reacted like . . . .
Much to my surprise, my experience with Whiskey Sour was NOTHING like my experience with Trapped.
Due to the blurb, I was expecting a bit of a “Stephanie Plum” type leading lady – and, while this did deliver some funny ha-ha moments, Jack was not a bumbling idiot and reminded me a bit of this lady who I crush on weekly instead . . . .
Her partner Herb also brought a bit of the ’99 to the story as well . . . .
He wasn’t incompetent like Scully, but he most definitely could have a second career as a professional eater upon retiring from the force.
Add in some fairly gruesome murder descriptions, a sleazy PI with a very not politically correct sense of humor . . . .
“Yuck. Ugly.”
“She’s dead.”
“Then she’d smell bad too.”
As well as a whodunit that I actually wasn’t able to figure out instantly, and you get a winner on the Kelly and Mitchell summertime poolside stabby stabby meter. Just don’t mistake this one for the other “Whiskey Sour” novel like I did. If your leading lady isn’t named Jack Daniels, you got the wrong thang. Not that I would ever be dumb enough to do something like that. It happened to a friend of mine . . . .
So this is the charming tale of the neighborhood candy man . . . .
His treats come with an added bonus of things like razorblades and needles and he really would prefer it if everyone called him The Gingerbread Man . . . .
The Gingerbread Man has developed quite the hobby of mutilating women and leaving them in dumpsters for “Jack” Daniels to find. As if Jack wasn’t having a crappy enough time with her boyfriend dumping her, leaving her with an almost empty apartment and an incurable case of insomnia. Things will only get worse if The Gingerbread Man gets his way and adds Jack to his victim list.
I finally broke down and read this after my evil twin told me to about eleventy thousand times. We’re both damn lucky I’m an idiot because if I had realized J.A. Konrath was the same guy as Jack Kilborn, I pretty much would have reacted like . . . .
Much to my surprise, my experience with Whiskey Sour was NOTHING like my experience with Trapped.
Due to the blurb, I was expecting a bit of a “Stephanie Plum” type leading lady – and, while this did deliver some funny ha-ha moments, Jack was not a bumbling idiot and reminded me a bit of this lady who I crush on weekly instead . . . .
Her partner Herb also brought a bit of the ’99 to the story as well . . . .
He wasn’t incompetent like Scully, but he most definitely could have a second career as a professional eater upon retiring from the force.
Add in some fairly gruesome murder descriptions, a sleazy PI with a very not politically correct sense of humor . . . .
“Yuck. Ugly.”
“She’s dead.”
“Then she’d smell bad too.”
As well as a whodunit that I actually wasn’t able to figure out instantly, and you get a winner on the Kelly and Mitchell summertime poolside stabby stabby meter. Just don’t mistake this one for the other “Whiskey Sour” novel like I did. If your leading lady isn’t named Jack Daniels, you got the wrong thang. Not that I would ever be dumb enough to do something like that. It happened to a friend of mine . . . .
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