Read this because a co-worker offered it and said she would throw it away if I didn't take it. She also said she loved Patterson books and could not stop reading them once she started. I, of course, can never let a book be thrown away, no matter how bad. So I took it and will leave it somewhere to be found, like the back of the airplane seat on my way home. Well, this was my first Patterson and it did not disappoint - it was as bad as I feared it might be. Each chapter is about 3-4 pages long - no exaggeration. I became slightly obsessive about counting the pages for each chapter. But what about the story? How about a scene? A dead cop's body is removed from a fountain and a red headed cop starts singing Danny Boy - in the rain, while the other cops, even the 'hard' ones, cry freely or barely hold back tears. I mean, I almost lost it - but when another cop notes that even the drug dealers were tearing up when they heard the red headed cop singing Danny Boy? I did lose it - I coughed on my water and nearly broke my face from smirking so hard. I almost felt guilty about how much scoffing I did in the company of my mind. I couldn't even imagine Hollywood trying to get away with a scene like that. A randomly selected line: "When the sleek black body of the hearse finally slid into view, you could almost hear the lumps forming in thousands of throats." Really? Or maybe: "The fluorescent lights above hummed in my ears like an angry beehive." I know malfunctioning fluorescent lights can hum and buzz, but dem dere is some excited Mercury vapor atoms, ma! And that's not even the worst of it - the prose is lazy, unimaginative, and awkward - cringe-inducing metaphors bloom everywhere like shrooms on cow patties (yes, I know, I know). But enough of this snark (I feel so dirty) - it's too easy to make fun and I already took too much of a sick pleasure watching his sentences stagger around the page like a punch-drunk boxer (I can't stop!). To be fairer, as with the fluorescent lights, every once in awhile, he gets kind of close - but he's just too brutish and inelegant to bring the right line to life. And he doesn't stop, like bludgeoning a steel box with a hammer is the best way to open it - and maybe it will open, eventually, if you can't find the key. What did he do right? Well, it moves, and I suppose at 3-4 pages per chapter it's going to move whether you want it to or not - but it moves. The dialogue is familiar and crisp because it's in the movies that get made out of books like this. And let's be perfectly clear - it's a talent to write as many books as he has and to entertain so many people so...expertly? Unfortunately, in this book, while he hits a narrative stride at the 3/4 point, the last 1/4 is an explosive splattering of merde on the wall. It's not exactly a shock or a thrill when the monkey does it every hour on the hour because a new crowd comes to look into his cage. I've spent too much time writing about this book - but what can I say, I'm on vacation.