An aspiring young screenwriter dies at a Hollywood party attended by disgraced reporter Benjamin Justice, who was dragged there for a story by his writing partner, Alexandra Templeton. Did Raymond Farr die of natural causes, or was he murdered? If he was killed, the list of suspects with possible means, motive, and opportunity seems to keep expanding rather than narrowing down. Templeton and Justice dig their way through the movie industry's tightly-knit, backstabbing community, interviewing agents, writers, directors, aspiring actors, ambitious assistants, has-beens and wannabes, trying to identify the culprit.
In addition to the professional opportunity the case provides, it also takes on a more personal dimension for Alex and Ben. The pair alternately assist and obstruct a homophobic police detective who has taken a shine to Alex, herself on the rebound from a failed relationship. Ben, meanwhile, finds his attentions divided between an amoral, sexually aggressive actor and a frail, HIV-positive artist, both of whom are suspects.
Hollywood provides rather too easy a target for Justice's jaded commentary, and the name-dropping of real life celebrities becomes tiresome. A key piece of information makes the killer's identity fairly obvious perhaps a little sooner than I would have liked, though the how proves a more clever problem than the who or the why (a few clues I had completely overlooked prove crucial to understanding the logistics of the crime). And Ben's instant bond with the ailing Danny is more than a little suspect, as he quite explicitly sees the younger man as a stand-in for Jacques, the lover he failed. But Wilson's dark story of deceit, betrayal, corruption and redemption, coming to an appropriately apocalyptic ending during one of California's devastating wildfires, ultimately delivers a compelling and satisfactory mystery.