Brief as his new novel may be, Bradford Morrow has no problems with taking his time. The fine mists of a seaside vista, the loops and lines of a writer's careful lettering, even the meals his characters eat (truly, just about every single one): None of it escapes the lingering eye of the narrator behind The Forgers. Each detail gets its due — except, of course, the ones he doesn't want you to see.
Among those details, by the way, is the name of the narrator himself. But for one slip, the man chooses never to reveal it — "Shadow men never like being called by name," he explains — so I'll respect the character's wishes and refrain from using his name myself.
But his reluctance indicates just whose hands move this murder mystery forward. The man's a literary forger, a faker of inscriptions and a master of authors' handwriting, selling priceless books made all the more priceless by his untimely additions. At least, he was once — but a run-in with the law and the love of a good woman named Meghan helped set him straight. Despite his legal redemption, though, he remains proud of his hands. "Agile, knowing, sure, deft, powerfully subtle," he says of them, never one to be too humble