The Moores Are Missing

The Moores Are Missing

Thrillers

Book - 2017
Average Rating:
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The Moores are missing: In a placid suburban town, the Moores, a perfect family, suddenly vanish without a trace.
The housewife: Former chief of detectives Maggie Denning is adjusting to a quiet new life in the suburbs, staying home with baby twins. One morning she sees a limo dropping off a glamorous woman at a nearby home. When she discovers that the same woman has been murdered, she starts asking questions around the neighborhood.
Absolute zero: Framed for murder, Special Forces veteran Cody Thurston will stop at nothing to get revenge.
Publisher: New York : Grand Central Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc., 2017
Edition: First mass market edition
ISBN: 9781478971634 (paperback)
1478971630 (paperback)
Branch Call Number: FIC PATTERSON
Characteristics: 474 pages ; 20 cm

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Quotes

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j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

****Read book first to avoid spoilers ... quotes are for recollection of the stories in the future****
“I don’t need to be protected. I want to be trusted.”
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You’re a mother, too. And a troubled man’s wife.
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I was all ready for forty. I’d prepared for it since thirty-nine. Forty-one blindsided me. When I blew out the candles last Tuesday, it struck me that time was speeding up, like a recorded tape whirling faster as it approaches its end. Before I know it, I’ll be fifty, with hair growing out of my ears. Sixty next, getting around with a walker. Then my threescore and ten, and then death.
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“Look at it this way, old-timer: Would you really want to relive your twenties, have to learn that crap all over again?” His seize-the-day attitude is contagious.

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“Guys? It’s Ray. LeBron couldn’t make it.”

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“Anything can happen in forty-eight hours.” “So can nothing…”
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“Their kids are teenagers. You can’t pry them away from their cells with a crowbar.”

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

“I serve the community, not one household, no matter how much they give back to it. The worst deadbeat in town is entitled to the same amount of protection as the pastor at St. Matthew’s.”
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Give me a doohickey, any sort of doohickey. Don’t tell me what it does, hold the corporate instructions, and give me forty-eight hours to figure it out on my own. I’ll write you a users’ guide any five-year-old could follow.

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His first reaction, when he suspects a leak, is to plug it with a corpse.
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I’m as qualified to perform a one-man rescue operation as Mr. Magoo.
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No doubt my elaborate show of normal behavior is just as suspicious as if I were creeping through the hedge in a fedora and trench coat.
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Another thing amateur sleuths always seem to have is a friend who can make a computer sit up and beg for him to hack it. I do have one of those.
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“Tell that to my clients. They pay me as if I were Edgar Allan Poe. He went hungry most of the time.”

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

Instinctively he knows my central weakness: inability to avoid filling an awkward silence with jabber.
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“The key, Boston Blackie. You’ve broken into your last crime scene.”
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So I told him about the balloon payment. “Is that all?” he said. “I thought maybe you had a lump in your testicle.”
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But the visitor on my doorstep is a stranger, a smallish man in an orange-and-silver jogging suit with chestnut hair falling over one eye, lending him the illusion of youth.
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‘Friend’ is an easy word to throw around; it should have ten syllables, to prove you’re prepared to work at it.
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It’s a job to them. It’s like a surgeon referring to a patient, a fellow human being, as ‘my gallbladder.
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If I told you half the ways a private conversation can be overheard, you’d dump all your gadgets and communicate by tin cans.

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

“People have your kind all wrong. Techno-nerds aren’t supposed to be men of action.” “They’re not. Women are…”
===

The trek across the northwestern corner of Montana—through the rural stretches, anyway—blurs together into a collage of roadside stands, arrowhead emporia, historic stagecoach stops, cowboy hats, tight Wranglers, poly-blend shirts, and straight Buck Owens on the radio. Colorfully named cities abound—Superior, Poison, Cut Bank, Chinook—but like any other town, they are ringed with Wendy’s, Best Buys, PetSmarts, and auto dealerships, nary a pair of steer horns in sight.
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“Who said nothing’s an adventure when you’re living through it?”
“Indiana Jones.”
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His gap-toothed smile reminds me of Dave Letterman, only without the smarm.
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The bedroom is a shoebox, with a doorless closet and barely space to walk around the bed.

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

This was about money, and money beats sex every time.
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“I’m not even sure there’s room for us to wear pajamas.”
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Regina, or ‘Pile O’ Bones,’ as it was called back then, from debris left over from the skinning and butchering. I don’t suppose you were aware of that.
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2

She had auburn hair that cast down to the lace of her dress in sculpted ringlets, and she chose the colors that made her hair catch fire to the eye. She was a striking woman, but she wasn’t as young as she used to be and her hair was all the more important now.
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“Coffee?” Maggie asked him.
“My blood is half caffeine at this point, but I probably should.”
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…if I ever caught Devin looking Holly Gibbs’s way, he’d have an appointment with a sharp knife when he was sleeping.

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

Worried? I wished I were only that. I don’t know a word for the chilled feeling I got. It was like the feeling in a nightmare, when your car flies over a hill and there’s nothing on the other side.
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I learned that people are anything but consistent. It’d be easier for us cops if they were, like on TV when a crook steps out of character and nails himself.
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“What is your thing?”
“Money. Sex. A little blow if I’m feeling like a party. I’m a simple guy. You understand, right?”
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For reasons far too complicated for all but the mandarins at Langley to comprehend, this must look like an internal attack: there can be no traceable links back to the US. Hence the use of an Australian team as the pointy end of a dirty spear.
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Theoretically, a temperature of absolute zero is a physical impossibility. But rounding the corner of Hackney Road and copping the whip of the sleet-streaked wind directly into his face, Cody Thurston is pretty sure he’s found it.

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

She wears a yellow wig that looks like it would survive a nuclear attack and makeup half an inch thick.
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Thurston makes a point of staring directly at Janie’s chest. “Evening, girls,” he says and waggles his fingers.
Janie Jones reaches down and casually grabs Thurston’s nuts. “Evening, boys,” she replies and squeezes. Hard.
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“Man’s a Neanderthal, Janie.” Janie doesn’t look up.
“He’s Australian. What do you expect?”
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Thurston sees Black Goatee point to the giant’s upper lip. The guy wipes something off with a hand the size of Nova Scotia.
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From what Thurston can see, a blizzard of coke is being snorted in the toilets. One sneeze and there’d be a whiteout.
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If that overgrown bear you’ve been hanging around with is still alive, take him with you. He’s in the alley considering his life choices.

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

Thurston looks at Miller’s hand like it’s been dipped in manure. “I wouldn’t touch your hand if you were pulling me out of the wreckage of a burning plane… “
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Cody Thurston has always found when his adrenaline spikes, events around him slow to a crawl. So long as that slowness is not accompanied by paralysis, it can be a useful trait.
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…this is a grade-A stitch-up. There’s no point in Thurston protesting his innocence, no percentage gained in whining.
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If you look as though you belong somewhere, no one questions it, not even cops.
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…told himself he’d only touch it on a rainy day. Right now it’s pouring down.
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I’ll bury your pathetic fxcking career so deep you’ll need an archaeologist to find traces.
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Today is darker and colder than a bailiff’s heart and blowing a gale. Or, in Icelandic terms, a stiff breeze.

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

He feels the cold black thing in his heart compress further until it becomes a diamond of undiluted hatred.
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It doesn’t matter how clever he is, how adept, how cunning; all it takes is one of Miller’s numbskulls to get lucky—to find a split second to aim and fire—and Thurston will find himself on the wrong end of a bullet.
===
Gullfoss Falls lie at one of the widest points of the Hvítá. Above it, the canyons force millions of tons of water faster and faster along the rocks until it is vomited over and down a series of huge stone steps some fifty or sixty meters wide to rejoin the river below.
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In a tourist bar on Tryggvagata he gets a line on somewhere to score dope, which, in turn, takes him to a run-down cafe in the Efra-Breiðholt district to the east, the nearest thing Iceland has to a rough neighborhood.
===
Terraverdi looks like someone who’s bitten into an éclair filled with dogshit.

j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

East Talbot’s got a bar, a diner, a farm supply store with a sideline in maple syrup products, and a gallery some hopeful hipster had opened five years ago selling tourist shit for tourists who never buy enough.
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A thick blanket of gray cloud sits across the town like a pan lid.
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…she’s wearing so much polyester Thurston’s certain she’ll spark a fire if she crosses her legs too quickly.
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Terri leans forward and props her hand on her chin. “I like long stories,” she says.
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“Y’know, if I was a gambling woman—which is a great name for a country song, right?—I’d bet you was some sort of cop.”
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You’re losing your touch, buddy, says a voice in his head. Like you ever had it, comes the response.
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He glances up and down the deserted corridor. The place is like a morgue.

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j
jimg2000
Oct 21, 2017

Three "BookShots" of very different genre 2 poor and one good read:

Moores are missing / James Patterson with Loren D. Estleman
2 Stars --- familiar story with some humor but not nearly enough ink to develop potentially interesting central characters.
***Thinking to stop reading this book***

The housewife / James Patterson with Sam Hawken
1.5 Stars --- familiar story and twist, dull characters and humorless. Schaum's guide for a full novel?
***Thinking hard to stop reading half way into this story***

Absolute zero / James Patterson with Ed Chatterton
4.5 Stars --- Love the one-man army Aussie's quest to avenge the murders of his friends by an American crime lord with his Russian mercenaries. The Aussie's killing and survival skills exhibited in London, Iceland and Vermont were spectacular. Some original hard-boil quotes from the accomplished British writer Chatterton.
***Lesson learned is not to touch "BookShots" again***

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