Consistency is James Lee Burke's fourth name. Every time you pick up the latest installment of his Dave Robicheaux beat-'em-up crime novels:

Dave is still exorcising a fistful of devils from his Vietnam and New Orleans days that includes recovering alcoholism; no matter where he steps, he manages to find the lowest, dirtiest, most perverted scum on Earth; the worst people are rich; and he always loses his cool and hurts somebody.

Same script here. Dave, his third wife (I think) and cop buddy Clete are soaking in the beauty and isolation of the Bitterroot Mountains after the Katrina disaster.

Of course, psychopathic murderers, physically and mentally scarred nasty boys, a womanizing televangelist and several tramp women with hearts of gold just pop up amid the gorgeous scenery to spoil everything.

Burke is a wonder, though. Despite dozens of books about the moral swamp he calls America and its endless supply of degenerates, he writes like an angel. In the blood-and-guts genre, there's nobody better at lyrical physical descriptions.

-- By Bob Hoover, Post-Gazette book editor

If you're still writing the Great American Newspaper Novel, don't quit. Despite The New York Times (40 years) pedigree of John Darton, his take on the culture of a major New York daily is so transparent it sometimes sounds like a parody of a novel on the culture of a major New York daily.

Many characters are thinly disguised -- and clumsily named -- models of Timesmen. From Jimmy Pomegranate (Johnny Apple) to Virgil Bogart (Homer Bigart), the allusions are nothing short of embarrassing for those with a passing familiarity with newspapers.

Darton probably should have privately published a few dozen copies and passed them out to former colleagues, because, for the rest of the country, his book is just a list of silly names.

Cliches and quaint customs add to the feeling of artificiality and forced episodes. At one point a drunk in the hackneyed journo bar shouts, "Afflict the comfortable, comfort the afflicted, that's the motto."

Actually it's Joseph Pulitzer's.

I forgot to mention that the book's premise is a murder mystery including the killing of an obnoxious editor. Is he based on a Timesman? Does it matter?

-- Hoover

In John Sanford's 18th "Prey" novel, Minnesota state cop Lucas Davenport learns more about the world of Goths than he ever wanted to know, including the fact that in the Twin Cities at least one of them is a murderer.

He gets involved when a wealthy friend seeks his help to find her runaway teen daughter, Frances. Although her car and blood traces were found, there's no sign of the girl, an heiress who dabbled in the Goth life.

Slayings in Goth circles occur, including a bartender who's stabbed to death. Only the readers see the crime committed by Goths named Fairy and Loren, who kill two more in what they see as revenge of Frances' killing.

Davenport hears about the mysterious Fairy early in his investigation, but before he can find her, he's wounded outside a Goth hangout.

The cop quickly quits the hospital and painfully returns to work. He's losing a bureaucratic argument on how much security is needed for an upcoming political convention and also running a drug stakeout.

The joys of Sanford's "Prey" books are multiple. The plots are intricately but believably suspenseful; Davenport and the supporting cast are well-drawn; and the writing of dialogue and narrative is superior and sometimes downright pretty.

Davenport continues to grow as a character as well, but in this book, he must share top billing with the elusive Fairy, who takes Sanford -- or is it vice versa? -- not only into the world of Goths, but also into madness itself.

-- By Pohla Smith,

Post-Gazette staff writer