Money, Money, Money: A Novel of the 87th Precinct (87th Precinct Mysteries)
Steve Carella, Meyer Meyer, and Fat Ollie Weeks having been working the  87th Precinct for more than 40 years, but they're still the top dicks in town  for devotees of Ed McBain's absorbing police procedurals.When a pretty, red-haired, ex-military pilot is killed, the boys in blue blunder  around for a few chapters before they unmask her secret life as a drug courier.  By then the burglar who broke into Cass Ridley's apartment and stole the "tip"  she got for her last run has already tried to spend one of the $100 bills from  her stash, attracting the attention of the Secret Service. The "superbill" is  phony, and by the time Carella and his crew uncover the international  counterfeit ring behind it, McBain has notched up the action with a terrorist  plot to bomb Clarendon (read Carnegie) Hall, where an eminent Israeli violinist  is performing. There's also a conspiracy involving a publishing company whose  sales reps are so venal and violent you might think they were the creation of a  writer who blamed them when his last book failed to sell. Not so McBain, who  can't have too many complaints in that department. His publisher's reps have  been living well for decades on the commissions earned on McBain's books  (including those ofEvan Hunter, his alter ego).That he has kept this series going for so long without tricking up the plots,  turning his characters into stereotypes, or sacrificing their humanity is a  tribute to his authorial gifts: expert pacing, sharp-edged dialogue, authenticity,  wit, and confidence. There's only thing getting old in this, his 51st book in an  evergreen series: the fictional convention that locates the 87th in a place  called Isola instead of midtown Manhattan, where it so clearly is set.--Jane  Adams