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Book Review: Homicide in Hardcover
May. 13th, 2014 02:44 pmI've just finished reading Homicide in Hardcover. A friend lent this to me, and I will think of something politely noncommittal to say when I give it back to her, but good God.
So this is a book in one what might call the “accidental detective” genre, where the detective is in everyday life a firefighter or dog walker or book repairer or whatever, but then someone close to them gets murdered and they decide that they will do a better job solving the crime than the police. Generally because they’re withholding crucial evidence from the police.
The Benjamin January novels are also like this. They work because January, crucially, has good reason to believe he will do a better job solving the crime than the police (because the police don’t care about many of the crimes he solves) and, just as crucially, a good reason to withhold evidence from the police (because the police in 1830s New Orleans are pretty damn racist.)
Suffice it to say that Brooklyn, the heroine of Homicide in Hardcover, has no such convincing reasons. She throws herself into solving the crime and withholds evidence from the police because there would be no story otherwise. Her in-text justifications are utterly hollow. If she really cared that much about catching her erstwhile mentor’s killer, surely she would share her secret knowledge with the police? She has no reason not to. The police in Homicide in Hardcover are portrayed as competent and eager to catch the killer.
In between her generally incompetent attempts to investigate, Brooklyn has the most annoying romance with the most annoying romantic trope of all time. He is a hot! British! special agent! (I forget what the in-text justification is for having a hot! British! secret agent! working a murder case in San Francisco.) The heroine finds him super annoying. But so attractive. But really annoying! Let’s banter about how annoying you are! Even though you’re so, so, so attractive!
Just admit you like him already, Brooklyn, no one is going to think less of you for being in touch with your feelings.
But Brooklyn has other things on her mind than romance! She has a murderer to catch. By dint of having no investigative skills at all and having the answer to the puzzle dropped in her lap by her dead mentor, who inexplicably used his dying breaths to give her a cryptic clue rather than saying “So-and-so murdered me,” she discovers the identity of the cold-blooded killer who has already killed two men, broken into Brooklyn’s apartment twice, and sent an assassin to try to kill Brooklyn.
And then! And then! Brooklyn does not call the police, no. She calls the murderer with a blackmail threat! Not that she actually intends to blackmail, mind, she just wants to murderer to squirm a bit before being arrested. Um, I think being arrested will make the murderer QUITE UNCOMFORTABLE ENOUGH.
And then! And then! Brooklyn just stays in her own apartment, never mind that she knows the murderer has already broken in (TWICE) and has already sent at least one assassin to kill her. WHAT THE HELL, BROOKLYN?
So this is a book in one what might call the “accidental detective” genre, where the detective is in everyday life a firefighter or dog walker or book repairer or whatever, but then someone close to them gets murdered and they decide that they will do a better job solving the crime than the police. Generally because they’re withholding crucial evidence from the police.
The Benjamin January novels are also like this. They work because January, crucially, has good reason to believe he will do a better job solving the crime than the police (because the police don’t care about many of the crimes he solves) and, just as crucially, a good reason to withhold evidence from the police (because the police in 1830s New Orleans are pretty damn racist.)
Suffice it to say that Brooklyn, the heroine of Homicide in Hardcover, has no such convincing reasons. She throws herself into solving the crime and withholds evidence from the police because there would be no story otherwise. Her in-text justifications are utterly hollow. If she really cared that much about catching her erstwhile mentor’s killer, surely she would share her secret knowledge with the police? She has no reason not to. The police in Homicide in Hardcover are portrayed as competent and eager to catch the killer.
In between her generally incompetent attempts to investigate, Brooklyn has the most annoying romance with the most annoying romantic trope of all time. He is a hot! British! special agent! (I forget what the in-text justification is for having a hot! British! secret agent! working a murder case in San Francisco.) The heroine finds him super annoying. But so attractive. But really annoying! Let’s banter about how annoying you are! Even though you’re so, so, so attractive!
Just admit you like him already, Brooklyn, no one is going to think less of you for being in touch with your feelings.
But Brooklyn has other things on her mind than romance! She has a murderer to catch. By dint of having no investigative skills at all and having the answer to the puzzle dropped in her lap by her dead mentor, who inexplicably used his dying breaths to give her a cryptic clue rather than saying “So-and-so murdered me,” she discovers the identity of the cold-blooded killer who has already killed two men, broken into Brooklyn’s apartment twice, and sent an assassin to try to kill Brooklyn.
And then! And then! Brooklyn does not call the police, no. She calls the murderer with a blackmail threat! Not that she actually intends to blackmail, mind, she just wants to murderer to squirm a bit before being arrested. Um, I think being arrested will make the murderer QUITE UNCOMFORTABLE ENOUGH.
And then! And then! Brooklyn just stays in her own apartment, never mind that she knows the murderer has already broken in (TWICE) and has already sent at least one assassin to kill her. WHAT THE HELL, BROOKLYN?
