An Irish PI searches for a missing person few want found.
In Dublin’s fair city, Ed Loy, the Irish shamus whose sleuthing chops were made in Los Angeles, no longer sits pretty. Having returned to his native soil for his mom’s funeral, he’s been in clover for awhile as the result of cracking a couple of high-profile cases. Now, however, his phone rings barely often enough to punctuate the dribble of his assets down the drain. So he signs on for a case he definitely dislikes. It’s not so much his negative feelings about Father Tyrrell as his frustration at being kept in the dark. “Five thousand. Just to get you going,” says the priest, and except for a name, Patrick Hutton, that’s virtually all he’ll say. But his money talks persuasively, and Loy goes to work. Before long he learns that Hutton is a disgraced jockey who, after throwing a race, went missing for a period that’s stretched to ten years. He also learns that Hutton left behind a beautiful wife who looks enough like Loy’s ex to cause serious gulping. But the most important thing he learns—the hard, bruising way—is that there are people to whom it matters intensely that Patrick remain missing.
Chandleresque, and not in entirely good ways. Hughes (The Wrong Kind of Blood, 2006, etc.) tries hard, but the spark isn’t there.