I really wanted to like this book. When a friend gave it to me, I imagined I would, since I do see myself as one of the "readers who like sophisticated, literate mysteries in foreign settings", for whom the Library Journal "strongly recommended" this book. But sadly - no. In my view it was all around just very meager compared with such strong characters, lush and vivid descriptions and psycho/socio/political observation and commentary as I have found in Andrea Cammilleri (Sicily), Michael Dibden (all of Italy), Philip Kerr (Berlin during the Nazi regime and immediately post-war - talk about intense, hard-boiled writing! Move over, Raymond Chandler!), and even Donna Leon, of whose happily married and Greek classics reading Venetian detective Guido Brunetti I am quite fond, despite what I consider a sort of thinness in her use of language (perhaps an occupational hazard of being an expat writer?). But this book failed to impress, with its underdog carabiniere as its reluctant detective, its attempts to convey Italian vernacular with a sort of English countryside style that seemed straight from Agatha Christie. So few views of the city, so few insights into Italian character; yes, some psychological probing here and there, which is why I gave it two stars instead of one, but not enough, not enough! Sure, I like Inspector Colombo well enough, in whose Magdalen Nabb's Sicilian, transplanted to Florence, Salvatore Guarnaccia, seems to be sort of cast, but without the warmth and charm, but - as a rule I don't like my detectives to be too fumbling or depressed. I'm sure it's just me, but I prefer them wisecracking and hardboiled, or at least sort of profoundly philosophically astute. Sorry, maybe I'm just having a cranky day. (Any readers out there, tell me: Is there something I missed?) But when I have a moment, I think I'll go back and revisit Aurelio Zen (gotta love the name), Michael Dibden's coolly cynical and utterly human anti-hero.