Mike saw it happen. There were two doors next to one another. One of them seemed to be permanently ajar by about an inch, except when someone pushed at its neighbor. As each liveried waiter brought trays of canapes into the salesroom, the effect was the same. One door would swing open, and the other would slowly close. It said a lot about the quality of the paintings, Mike thought, that he was paying more attention to a pair of doors. But he knew he was wrong: it said nothing about the actual artworks on display, and everything about him.
I'm loving this very clever, non-John Rebus book. I loved John Rebus--more his spiritual searching, possible redemption years than his last few. But, as John grew tired and disillusioned I think he drew me down with him. He was ready to go, at least for a time. Ian Rankin is obviously a very, very talented writer. He's imbued Mike Mackenzie with a very winning personality. I'm rooting for him, even if he is a morally-compromised semi-bored wealthy, white man.