SoHo Sins
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3.2 • 5 Ratings
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- $7.99
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- $7.99
Publisher Description
Portrait in BLOOD
They were the New York art scene’s golden couple — until the day Amanda Oliver was found murdered in her SoHo loft, and her husband Philip confessed to shooting her. But was he a continent away when the trigger was pulled? Art dealer Jackson Wyeth sets out to learn the truth, and uncovers the dangerous secrets lurking beneath the surface of Manhattan’s posh galleries and decadent parties, a world of adultery and madness, of beautiful girls growing up too fast and men making fortunes and losing their minds. But even the worst the art world can imagine will seem tame when the final shattering sin is revealed...
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
The contemporary New York art scene provides the backdrop for art magazine editor Vine's colorful first novel. When art patron Amanda Oliver is found dead in her SoHo loft, her husband, Philip, immediately and continually confesses to her murder, even though he couldn't have been there 24 hours earlier when she was shot. Philip's attorney hires PI Hogan to investigate, and Hogan enlists art dealer Jackson Wyeth's help. In their search for the truth, Hogan and Wyeth travel through the demimonde of assorted deviants, both artistic and sexual, who are the friends and lovers of the Olivers. Revelation slides after revelation, and a child pornography ring is exposed and eliminated, without moving the reader noticeably closer to the killer. Meanwhile, Philip rapidly deteriorates physically and mentally. The authentic background at times entices, and some of the characters are well realized, but the plot is lumpy, the police are curiously absent from the homicide investigation, and the detecting is mostly an offstage afterthought. And yet the vague denouement is strangely satisfying.
Customer Reviews
A dreadful book...
An extremely poorly written novel. Plot holes and contrivances everywhere. Tired tropes and clichés. As if all that wasn't enough, the author seems to clearly relish writing about the details of pedophilia. I read this book because the New Yorker mentioned it in a very brief blurb. I'm disappointed in the New Yorker, and feel that the author must've had some sort of a publisher's in for them to have mentioned it. I was appalled by the book's inadequacies and salaciousness. Check the reviews on Amazon, and you'll find very similar, comments. This is not noir, this is dreck.