Save your money. This is one of the worst books that I have purchased and wasted my time reading. While very easy reading, this adds nothing to the investigation of the Simpson and Goldman killings.

The author made a list of 101 different scenarios and copied the theory, conspiracy or theory from the one before. Don't waste your time or your money.

This author gives in complete detail many theories to the OJ murders.Details that maybe many haven't thought of or have forgotten.Extremely well written book. I would recommend this book to all who have an interest in the OJ murder case.

The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance is a fun book. But it is not among the very best in the Toby Peters series. This is due in large part to the fact that the Duke was barely in it. I know this series is not really *about* Hollywood stars of the 40's; it's about slovenly PI Toby Peters and his comical cast of misfits. But usually the stars are not just window dressing, either. This time, the Duke had naught but a glorified cameo. If it were a film, he would fire his agent. In fact, Charlie Chaplin had a much meatier role than John Wayne.

That said, the portrayal of Duke was respectful. Far more respectful than it could have been, given his larger-than-life image and the subtly politicized subject matter.

The mystery itself is pretty good until the solution, which seemed implausible, though the motive was somewhat thought-provoking, even touching. I had better say no more than that, except to add that once the culprit was revealed, the machinations seemed a little protracted and the book a tad padded, even at its short length. And we learn Peters had figured it out a bit earlier; he may have endangered lives by not acting when he first suspected.

Plus, there is a sex scene inserted into the mix. Toby Peters mysteries always have one. They are never exploitative, but often seem out of place. Especially this one, with a "lady" calling herself Olivia Fontaine. Ugh.

Still, it is a light, entertaining read, with nice payoffs for long-time fans. Phil acting ... nice. Jeremy's wedding. Mrs. Plaut considering a hearing aid. Toby telling Shel off. Toby trying RC Cola. And a new car for our hero.

Bravo to Kaminsky for his series, which hearken back to the days of Raymond Chandler. They're not really similar, but Kaminsky's love for Marlowe, the era and the style are very evident. I would just recommend a couple others ahead of this one, that's all.

Try also: Think Fast, Mr. Peters (3.5 stars); Never Cross a Vampire (4.0-4.5 stars, because it has something meaningful to say about Lugosi's career and how it parallels the mystery. Read it, it's a nice touch.)

As a Peter Lorre fan who was very disappointed with Leslie Epstein's offensively inaccurate portrayal of my favorite actor in his novel "Pandaemonium," I was delighted when a friend tipped me off to this little-known mystery novel belonging to the "Hollywood movie star helps solve a crime" subgenre. Kaminsky cleverly uses the conceit of a Peter Lorre impersonator (at a time when Hollywood was swarming with them) as a device to draw both the real Lorre and series sleuth Toby Peters into a Macguffin chase that provides an excuse for an entertaining excursion into wartime Los Angeles society, in and out of the movie industry. The mystery angle doesn't really amount to much, but for a movie buff it's a pleasurable ride.

Judging from the number of used copies of this book on sale for just pennies, other readers shared similar reactions: That they found The Devil Met A Lady to be quite a disappointment. Kaminsky continues the (dubious) trend of casting historical figures in fictional adventures by building a mystery, involving wartime espionage, around an attempt to blackmail Bette Davis. But the character that emerges is more that of a dull drag queen doing Davis than of the Fourth Warner Brother. And the sleuth, Toby Peters, solves cases with the help of a vaudevillian network of friends and acquaintances like fortune-tellers, little people and, well, BIG people. The plotting is pretty last ditch, with coincidences aplenty and saviors unexpectedly turning up where it's unlikely they'd be (the "mystery" proves little more than an afterthought). And while a light tone is one thing, The Devil Met A Lady -- the title's a play on the 1936 Davis version of The Maltese Falcon, Satan Met A Lady -- lacks the edge and precision to be a campy romp.

An avid reader of Peter Robinson's superb Inspector Banks series, I picked up No Cure for Love with certain expectations with regards to the quality of the book. To say I was disappointed was an understatement.

I was simply unable to finish the book - the plot is weak, the characters one-dimensional and the writing style poor. The story is rather hackneyed and parts of it read like a badly-written romance novel.

While Robinson is clearly writing more of an American detective story rather than his characteristic British procedural series, I found it hard to believe that such a mediocre book could have been written by this author.

The story centres around a British actress, Sarah Broughton, starring on a hit American police series. The TV detective finds herself in a real-life crisis after receiving threatening and explicit letters from a deranged stalker, and the situation rapidly escalates to murder.

While the book is relatively fast-paced, it leaves very little time for character development. This results in extremely clichéd characters that seem to appear straight out of a third-rate American cop show! The dialogue is banal, the prose repetitive, and the story generally unexciting.

Overall, I found No Cure for Love clearly lacking, and a patent departure from Robinson's usual quality of writing.

I'd recommend this book only to die-hard Robinson fans.

The best of these Toby Peters mysteries (such as Never Cross a Vampire and to a lesser extent Murder on the Yellow Brick Road) are the ones where the celebrity clients have something to do, or where the proceedings at least parallel some aspect of their lives. This is not one of those, joining The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance as a novel where the supposed star, this time the Marx Brothers, are only the deus ex machina.

There are other ways this novel is a departure for the series, and in every way it deviates from the norm is a way in which it fails. Perhaps that is merely happenstance, but I think the changes themselves are to blame, as opposed to any faulty ideas or execution.

This novel is set in Chicago, allowing interaction with Mayor Daley and mobsters such as Frank Nitti. The plot involves Toby trying to get Chico Marx out of a situation arisen from gambling debts, which he says are not his.

There is notably less humor in this book than in previous adventures. It is freezing cold, Toby is perpetually ill and in pain, and meets a succession of characters that are sad or pitiful without ever achieving much poignancy. And as for Toby himself, his pathetic lifestyle is palatable when the comedic nature of it is trumped up; here it is more serious, almost maudlin at times. In addition, though these books are modeled after Chandler, they've never really managed the cynical wit or wry dialogue; so the humor is missed even more sorely here.

My overriding complaint with this book is this: Why have the Marx Brothers in your story if they're not going to act like the Marx Brothers? I understand that they were not the same men as their stage-and-screen personas, and were even a little frustrated by inability to transcend them. But I maintain that the injection of a little of their subversive craziness into a project which bears their image is only right, and would have improved this book immensely. It goes back to the first paragraph of this review: give the Hollywood stars something to do, or at least comment on their life and livelihood through the action. (I would have loved to read Groucho flustering a room full of corrupt cops with trademark one-liners and non-sequitirs. And I am likewise intrigued by a mental picture of Harpo using his giant Duck Soup scissors to cut a bunch of mobsters' ties, then soaking his feet in a vat of their beer.)

Only at the end, after the wrap-up, does Toby check in with any members of the usual supporting cast, and then only by phone. Too bad; it sounds like some interesting events had been happening to them back in LA.

There are nice things about the book, too, though comparatively few: Ian Fleming makes a welcome cameo, rescuing Toby in a manner not unlike his fictional creation might have, and we also meet a diseased, demented Al Capone early in the story. The "love interest" (I hate that term, because they're seldom more than warm bodies) could have been an interesting character, but she is little more in these pages than the standard harlot with a heart of semi-gold.

The book is unfortunately not enough redeemed by a thoughtful solution. Chicago in this period of history was a unique place, but I still think the mystery could have played out the same almost anywhere. Kaminsky likely had a mob story in him and had no way better to use it.

Deal yourself out of this hand, at least until you've read some of the others in the Toby Peters series.