We are sorry to have to air our grievances in public, but Scripsi, who’s supposed to be on the ball about these things and who after years here should know exactly the books about which we expect to be notified as he is unpacking failed to alert us to the arrival of Capital Punishment by Robert Wilson, British master of the steamy Iberian crime thriller. There is the very slim chance that someone had gotten word to him that there was only a little steam and no Iberia in Capital Punishment, but we doubt it. We believe it was simply our own good fortune to spot the book on the top of a teetering pile of to-be-shelveds on our way out the door Friday. Perhaps the book penates were watching out for us more alertly than usual. However. We got it and by Saturday, despite weekend duty (which included a riveting coffee event by the high priests of our favorite beverage) we had devoured the novel. Were it by anyone other than RW we would be all over it, but we have such high expectations that we must say we were slightly disappointed in the cooler temperature, although we were left with the feeling that the very appealing lead investigator may return in a sequel.