P.I.

All of Estleman's novels are steeped in Detroit - whenever I'm driving into the city on 94 I half expect to see Amos speeding alongside me in his beat up car, avoiding the cops or chasing a bad guy. I think it explains the devotion of his readers, as well - Amos is such a well drawn, believable, real character and the descriptions of Detroit are so crisp and true, that is would almost be denying your Michigan citizenship not to enjoy these wonderful novels. Estleman is also able to use lots of the conventions of the hard boiled genre - the dame, the cop, the mafia guy, and somehow put them into the 21st century. Walker is more than up to the task of figuring out what's wrong - and he's usually a good bit ahead of me in figuring out the mystery, something I appreciate. I read so many mysteries I can often spot the killer, but with Estleman, I'm usually surprised, and I definitely was in this case.

The story is tied firmly into the past as the father of Beryl's son - a handsome, so-so boxer who was gunned down in the 40's - becomes tied into the son's problems in the present. My favorite scene is an incredibly evocative description of an old reporter and her memories, and what she's able to find in a box full of photos and a bottle of beer (or two). Estleman's description of old age is unsentimental but he still has a high regard for the old - they are the keepers of memory, and he honors that in this book. It's really a book about memory, and the things Estleman can conjure with it are amazing and wonderful. This is one of our best writers of beautiful prose and well told stories - a writer who fully and joyfully embraces his chosen genre - and it's a delight every time I have the pleasure of reading a new Estleman mystery.