Ogres are like onions, the great philosopher Shrek once said. Onions have layers, ogres have layers. And, one might add in an irrational syllogism, ogres and onions are a lot like Odd Hours by Dean Koontz.

The characters and the settings in Gas City are rife with intriguing promise that never seems delivered. The story seems one- two-dimensional, never fully realized. That’s why I was unable to remember much of the book. There are a number of good scenes, but with so many quality novels out and about, including several by Estleman himself, these brief flashes of excellence are not sufficient to recommend the book.

Because he’s a damn good writer James Lee Burke knows how to keep a plot going from start to finish with no loose ends or out-of-the-blue surprises that amateurishly attempt to explain and finish off a narrative.

There are red herrings aplenty, but once finished reading the novel I’m left with a sense of annoyance at these diversions, so often delightful necessities in other mysteries, but close to being filler in this one.

These driven individuals scour celebrity garbage cans, pose as anyone but themselves, lie as though the truth was a concept to be scorned and in general have all of the journalistic ethics commonly associated with FOX News. Getting the goods on the rich and famous is all that matters in this weird league.

A thriller is often a race, but without the understanding of exactly why this girl is so great a prize, it makes it harder to follow the runner.

Matt Lowell is a character straight out of central casting for the Lifetime Network. He’s a down to earth, single guy living on the beach in Malibu. He restores old warehouses (in touch with his creative side) into beautiful lofts in rundown parts of Los Angeles. But he has one big problem – the big “C.” No no, not that big “C”, the other one – Commitment.

The popularity of this self-absorbed, naïve dreck should astound me. It doesn’t considering the current woeful state of New York publishing.

Fowles was a writer who always seemed content to remain in the shadows, on the edge of things. He would emerge now and again to play the part of the cantankerous recluse, but he was, in essence a private, even hermetic man.

Joseph Kanon’s summer potboiler is a weak whodunnit set in the seedy splendor of post-war Venice.