Quotes from Lee Goldberg

Smoking saved me. The chemicals couldn't get past the charcoal in my lungs.

Nonsense is the new sense. To truly understand the world we are in today, you have to be a writer, or an actor, or a lunatic.

The kitchen island, like the one in the sting house, was absolutely enormous, a second kitchen unto itself. There was no room for one like that in Eve's kitchen and she felt a pang of island envy.

The sun was setting, giving the smog a sickly glow that made the landscape look to Eve like an alien world populated by creatures that breathed radiant vomit.

The problem with all of her mental notes was they somehow got erased the moment after she made them. She supposed she could start writing them down on actual paper, but she was afraid if anybody saw them, they'd think she was fighting early Alzheimer's.

Exactly. If you keep up this pace much longer, you'll burn out, one way or another. Your body will quit on you, or you'll make a big mistake or take a foolish risk that either kills you, kills your career, kills somebody else, or all of the above. You've come pretty damn close to that twice already.

The stinking rich are fucking cheap," Green said. "Which is how they stay rich and why they stink.

During a Middle East peace talk you insulted the Iraqi ambassador." "He was a pervert who liked little girls.

The house looked to her like the ugly offspring from a drunken one-night stand between a farmhouse and a Quonset hut.

I nodded. "I have to admit, though, that it's sure nice to have my job back." "You never lost it," Monk said. "It's yours for life." "That long?" I said. "Whether you like it or not," Monk answered me.

She's keyed up," Duncan said as Eve pulled up to the driveway. "You better talk to her, woman-to-woman." "Good idea, because you know we don't even have to speak to each other," Eve said, putting the car into park. "Our uteruses can communicate telepathically.

This needed to be handled with finesse, but you have all the finesse of the Hulk on meth.

Of course it is. Likes are power," Mintner said, and looked at Eve. "You know what I'm saying. Isn't that how you became a homicide detective?

You learn how to coerce people to do your bidding . . . willingly.

I'll see if we're done with your truck and get you a ride home if we are.

Hell yes, baby. I can pollinate a rose garden with my smile

His tan rivaled George Hamilton's and his straight white teeth were so bright, she was sure he could stand on a cliff during a storm as a beacon to guide ships at sea.

Cross knew from reading the intelligence reports on her that in her private life she liked a more visceral experience, one that would make Christian Grey or the Marquis de Sade cower.

there was something essential missing that prevented him from feeling content with his life, something he once had when he was on the UCLA track team. It was a sense of utterly consuming physical challenge, of pushing his limitations to the point of agony. The pain always ebbed, though, and left an afterglow of exhilaration that charged him until the next challenge, when he would give just a little bit more.

What's the rent on a studio here?" Duncan asked. "Seventeen hundred a month." Duncan whistled. "That's about as much as my mortgage." "This building is reserved for low-income individuals earning seventy grand a year or less." Eve was stunned. "That's poverty wage in Santa Monica?" "And all of Los Angeles County," Gus said.

Universal City Oakwood, a complex of furnished temporary-stay apartments on Barham Boulevard. The Oakwood was popular with businessmen, airline pilots and stewardesses, recently divorced fathers, and actors staying in LA for auditions, episodic guest shots, or movie shoots. Visiting assassins liked it, too. The best part of staying there was the sex. Unless you had leprosy, it was almost impossible not to get laid. And even then, your chances were still pretty good.

Nobody heard the two shots, but plenty of people saw Warren's head explode, or felt the wet gore splatter them, or saw his headless body drop to the ground, blood pouring from his neck like a dropped carton of milk.

and listened to one of Michael Connelly's Harry Bosch crime novels. Bosch was an LAPD detective who, over a thirty-year career that spanned about as many books, solved one major murder after another and yet his bosses still doubted his skill and integrity, regularly undermined his work, and repeatedly investigated him for misconduct. It frustrated her even more than it did him. His problem, she thought, was that he didn't know how to play politics.

Because that's a lie. If she was going to threaten him with anything, it would have been the picture she took of him watching her through his bedroom window and jerking off.