Dick Adler, that is, who’s always been so supportive of my books. In last Sunday’s Chicago Tribune, he reviews Edward Wright’s Red Sky Lament, and to address Wright’s literary prowess, Adler opens with this paragraph:

Should crime fiction—written mostly for profit and entertainment—be expected to compete in the artistic arena, to strive for that abused but occasionally useful classification “literature?” Probably not: The field is too skewed to make such comparisons fair. But every now and then a writer of thrillers or mysteries emerges who deserves to be compared with the best. The list of names is short, each tied to a territory or period: Charles McCarry, who has played the Cold War like a lute; Olen Steinhauer, who makes the communist side of that war understandable; Sara Paretsky, who holds the rough, greedy heart of Chicago in her hand. You probably have one or two candidates.