A lot of heroes in American crime novels like to drink Scotch, and often they fail to capitalise it, which annoys me. If the Danes get a capital letter for their pastries, and the Welsh for their rarebits, I think the Scots should get one for their whisky. This book at least manages that.
Unfortunately, that's the best I can say about it. It's about two six foot four gorgeous male detectives. They both work out, and are really, really intelligent, but still trust their gut instincts and hair products. One is Hispanic and married, the other is Aryan and troubled, but women keep throwing themselves at him, which interferes with him being troubled. I can relate to this a bit; it's a right pain when you're trying to be troubled and gorgeous women keep throwing themselves at you.
However, I think detective Hunter is a bit of a willing victim as he's practically planning the wedding after bedding one woman whilst drunk. He can't remember picking her up, so offers her some money in case she's a prozzie, and they both laugh at the faux pas. That's actually one of the more believable scenes in the book and, whilst I can't claim to know as much about serial killers as the author, and wouldn't claim to know anything about women, I do suspect it's probably a bit rude offering a lass money in the morning.
Fortunately she's a gorgeous and highly intelligent woman who works at a university; most gorgeous university lecturers I know don't mind being mistaken for prostitutes...no, that's not going to work, is it?
There's a shouty captain who says things like "Goddammit, Hunter, I trusted your gut before but you just won't play by the rules" and a streetwise Black pimp with a heart of gold, who I suspect will be part of the series. Avoid like the plague.