BookOpinion

Author Gregg Hurwitz changes gears with his latest thriller “The Crime Writer.” While the novel is a departure from Hurwitz’s previous series featuring tough, but tormented U.S. Marshall Tim Rackley, readers can expect the same fast-paced storytelling they enjoyed in the author’s other Los Angeles Times bestsellers. BookOpinion has compiled reviews, a video on the book and an excerpt.

Publishers Weekly summarizes the plot and provides a review: “When Drew Danner, a crime novelist, is tried for the murder of his ex-fiancée, Genevieve Bertrand, beside whose body he was found holding a bloody knife, he pleads not guilty. He has no memory of how he got to the crime scene because of a breakdown caused by a recently removed brain tumor. Once he’s found not guilty by reason of temporary insanity, Danner sets out to find the real killer—or discover some very nasty things about himself. A tense, page-turning first act leads to disappointing explanations involving the police and a misinterpreted phone message. Still, the fast pace and ingenious setup provide considerable tension. Hurwitz (Last Shot) may not have written a California classic, but it’s a worthy effort.”

“Danner’s anguish is compellingly described, and the plot has more twists and turns than Mulholland Drive,” quips Thomas Gaughan of Booklist. “At least half a dozen characters are vividly drawn, and nearly all are like Danner–struggling to recover from some tragic and life-altering event. Hurwitz’s insights about L.A. life sound knowing and are often ruefully funny, e.g., ‘L.A., where a porn star runs for governor and an action figure wins.’”

The Deseret News recently wrote a feature article on Hurwitz, talking about “The Crime Writer” and discussing the writing process:

…Hurwitz — a 34-year-old native of San Francisco with degrees from Harvard and Oxford, who now lives in Los Angeles — said by phone from his home that “The Crime Writer” developed as he wondered what it would be like if he personally were to “end up in a situation like one of my own thrillers.

“Not all my skills are totally useless. I know something about interrogation techniques. I’ve talked with forensics experts. I’ve been at crime scenes. I’ve gone along on ride-alongs. But a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

Essentially, Hurwitz wrote a crime novel in which he imagined himself the alleged perpetrator. “It’s the most personal book I’ve written — and the first one I’ve written in the first person. In some ways, it’s harder to do it that way. I wanted to write a book in which a crime writer has to use all his skills as a crime writer to solve the crime.

“I’ve done tons of research for most of my books — you know, like going up in helicopters and going to demolition ranges, I spent time with Navy SEALS, familiarized myself with firearms and hand-to-hand techniques. So I didn’t do those things for this book — I thought the most important thing was to get the characters right.”

Hurwitz also intended “The Crime Writerer” to be “a tip of the hat to the great city of Los Angeles.” Which is a tradition that other crime writers, such as Raymond Chandler, have also done in their work. “Mine is a different take or a new slant on that tradition, a sort of love song to the city. I didn’t try to come up with pretentious descriptions — the city just inspired what I wrote.”

In fact, Hurwitz’s writing vocabulary is substantially richer than most crime novelists — and when he’s talking about Los Angeles, he waxes poetic: “L.A., for the most part is in on the joke that is itself. It’s superficial as hell, sure, but it also knows how to enjoy it. … Here, superficiality is our business, and we all — all — believe we’re in on the show.

“Some visitors find L.A. an insider’s city. The contrary is in fact true. … Shallow it is, but also captivating, if you can just hold on to your sense of humor. Every now and then, an earthquake will crack the city open, just to ensure that things stay interesting, or someone will threaten to blow up LAX, or raging fires will sweep through the West Valley and everyone will lionize firemen for a week. Santa Monica waters will turn toxic. A mercury scare will put everyone off sushi. Carbs will be vilified, or Pilates, or the caloric content of Jamba Juice.”

Hurwitz portrays L.A. in “dirty poetics in some sequences and a terse tone in the dialogue.”

He has wanted to be a writer since he was in the first grade, when he wrote books with cardboard covers — such as “Willie, Julie and the Case of the Buried Treasure.” Today he keeps that one on the same shelf as his published novels….

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BookOpinion has also found a trailer for the new novel:

The following is an excerpt from Hurwitz’s “The Crime Writer.”

I woke up with IVs taped to my arms, a feeding tube shoved through my nose, and my tongue pushed against my teeth, dead and thick as a sock. My mouth was hot and tasted of copper, and my molars felt loose, jogged in their beds from grinding. I blinked against the strong light, and squinted into a haze of face, too close for casual‹a man straddling a backward chair, thick forearms overlapped, a sheet of paper drooping from one square fist. Another guy behind him, dressed the same‹rumpled sport coat, loose tie offset from open collar, glint at the hip. Downgraded to bystander, a doctor stood by the door, ignoring the electronic blips and bleeps. I was in a hospital room.

With consciousness came pain. No tunnels of light, no bursts or fireworks or other page-worn clichés, just pain, mindless and dedicated, a rottweiler working a bone. A creak of air moved through my throat.

“He’s up,” said the doctor from faraway. A nurse materialized and fed a needle into the joint in my IV. A second later the warmth rode through my veins and the rottweiler paused to catch his breath.

I raised an arm trailing IV lines and fingered my head where it tingled. Instead of hair, a seam of stubble and stitches cactused my palm. Lightheadedness and nausea compounded my confusion. As my hand drifted back to my chest, I noticed dark crescents caking the undersides of my nails.

I’d dug myself out of somewhere?

The cop in the chair flipped the piece of paper over and I saw that it was an 8 x 10.

A crime-scene photo.

A close-up of a woman’s midsection, the pan of the abdomen caked with dark blood. A narrow puncture below the ribs faded into blackness, as if a stronger flashbulb were required to sound its depths.

I raised a hand as if to push away the image and in the dead blue fluorescence I saw that the grime under my nails carried a tinge of crimson. Whether from the drugs or the pain, I felt my gorge rise and push at the back of my throat. It took two tries and still my voice came out a rasp, barely audible around the plastic tube. “Who is that?”

“Your ex-fiancée.”

“Who-who did that to her?”

The detective’s jaw shifted once, slowly, left to right. “You did.”