It's weird when a book takes place in a neighborhood you know incredibly well, but is in a universe you've heard about but don't recognize, populated by alcoholic, bigoted police officers. Buried on Avenue B has a second location, Sarasota, Florida, which is not far from Tampa, where I went to grad school. The people in the Publix grocery stores in Sarasota are depicted as nicer than the ones I encountered in Tampa, but there was one commonality--old men bagging groceries. De Jonge assumes they're doing it for the minimum wage. In my naivete, I want to believe it is for something to do.
Anyway, what do I know about detective novels? Buried is a compelling enough read, though I've already forgotten why the person they thought there were going to find on Avenue B isn't who they found. It was fun seeing Jennifer Miller as a character in the story and lots of familiar landmarks, including some that are already gone since the book was published last year.