I read this book because the author had won the Edgar for best first crime novel, and it had quotes by Conan Doyle and Henry David Thoreau before the first chapter. A big mistake, Laurie King is not that intelligent, or perhaps reading George Pelecanos, Michael Connelly, Peter Robinson, and Henning Mankell spoils you for lesser lights. This book seems to have been written by numbers, lets throw in a child serial killer, a talented artist with a fragile personality, a world weary divorced cop, yes another world weary divorced cop. But wait a minute said our author there are not enough cliches here so we will set part of the book in a reclusive California commune lorded over by a kindly egomaniac millionaire and have as the leading character a lesbian detective with a understanding psychotherapist lover. Throw in a several pages of art reviews and a ton of psychological mumbo jumbo and we don't need a believable plot. Even for California the plot is ludicrous, the endnotes state "there is a coldly calculating tortuous mind at work", well unfortunately it wasn't writing the plot.