H Is for Homicide (1991)
By Sue Grafton
Bantam Books, 287 pages.
★★
Crime writer Sue Grafton passed away a few years back. Grafton’s father was a mystery writer, but she was influenced by Ross Macdonald, considered one of the old-school hard-boiled masters of gritty urban crime novels. She was one of the first “modern” practitioners of that genre, and famous for her alphabet murder series beginning with A Is for Alibi (1982). She made it to Y Is for Yesterday (2017), which was published the year she passed away.
I moved on to writers who interested me more, but when presented with a free copy of H Is for Homicide, I decided to see what I thought after nearly two decades. Her protagonist was Kinsey Millhone, variously a private investigator and an insurance fraud agent. The latter is her role in H Is for Homicide. She’s a no-nonsense woman who can pass for a working-class lout or an independent feminist. Bear in mind, though, that her feminism was of the 1980s Second Wave variety. She had no trouble telling off someone who thought they had power over her, but she was keenly aware that women could still get into trouble if they pushed too hard.
In H Is for Homicide Kinsey works with but not for California Fidelity (CF), which is in an uproar because its new office is VP Gordon Titus, an efficiency expert with a reputation for gutting offices and making the remaining staff work harder. Kinsey’s track record is solid, but she doesn’t report to CF; she merely rents office space and takes on jobs when she’s low on cash. That’s her current status, but she deliberately antagonizes Titus to let him know she doesn’t have time to be interviewed to see if she “fits” in the new model, which has nothing to do with her. However, when handed an obvious attempt to defraud insurance firms, Kinsey hits the streets of Santa Teresa. (It’s a made-up suburb of Los Angeles, so pick one.) She’s looking for Bibianna Diaz, a Latina, whose claim looks nearly identical to others. Kinsey teases her hair, wears cheap bling, and plays the role of looking for an apartment in Bibianna’s neighborhood–once she finds it. That alone takes detective skills.
Kinsey is soon paling about with Bibianna in sleazy, hand-on-women’s-butts clubs with names like The Meat Locker. It’s obvious that Bibianna’s claim is a fraud, but an LA police detective convinces Kinsey to help him break a larger fraud ring in which people like Bibianna are paid pawns. Bibianna, though, is worried about the sort of ring that brides wear. Kinsey-as-Hannah Moore learns quickly that the petite Bibianna is deeply in love in Jimmy Tate. Uh oh; Kinsey went to high school with Jimmy and knows of his brief police career. Luckily both wait for an opportune moment before getting the lowdown. Jimmy does love Bibianna–the two are secretly married–but Raymond, a Hispanic gang leader, wants Bibianna to marry him. A shoot-out outside the club in which one of Raymond’s men is killed ends up with Hannah and Bibianna in a car. They are being rushed off for their “protection,” though they are virtual hostages of Raymond, a large Doberman, and a few gang members. Raymond dotes over Bibianna and can’t understand why she isn’t as affectionate as a future bride should be.
Kinsey/Hannah learns how the scam works. A network of drivers around Los Angeles daily crash their “new” cars into others and make it look as if the other person is at fault. They get their insurance information, fill out forms, and use doctors, pharmacists, and physical therapists who are in on the scam. It works because most insurance companies aren’t LA-based. This is an easy nut to crack, if Kinsey can get away. Not as easy as it sounds. She can’t get use of a phone to call back up, and doesn’t know for sure where she is–certainly not a part of LA you’d want to be! Kinsey decides to get on Raymond’s good side by becoming one of his “drivers.”
Grafton takes us through the LA underbelly 1980s-style. The book is fast-paced, but Grafton’s “modern” detective novel lacks the bite of more recent fiction. Kinsey is a smart aleck, but she’s no Spenser. Likewise, the bad guys often come off only half as tough as they talk. As a hard-boiled novel, this one from the ‘80s has a lot of runny yolk.
Rob Weir
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