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336 pages, Hardcover
First published February 5, 2013
She leaned out the window, looking down Market toward the Ferry Building, shining like Sodom, as holy as the Promised Land.
Still there. Her city.
Mother and father and lover, always changing, always constant.
Never untrue.
San Francisco, built and rebuilt, wicked and always willing, forever old, forever young, smelling of sex and sin and newly minted money, guardian, lover, mentor, the cobbled streets and dim lights and salt-stained tears and wave-lapped piers, the smell of fresh-baked sourdough and jook from Sam Wo's, grappa in front of the Italian saints, quiet Victorians nodding on quiet streets, ice shaking in cocktails at the Top of the Mark.
Lying city, dying city, Lazarus and the phoenix. Wide open and proud of it, a city built on stolen sand and abandoned ships, reclaimed by the ones that stayed and built for the ones that left. A city made by dreamers who died paupers and paupers who lived like kings, dream keeping them alive in the only way that mattered.
City of Dreams, broken or not, it didn't matter.
No need for a City of Angels when there's gold in the mountains and cars that climb hills and bridges that span seas.
Miranda watched the smoke from her Chesterfield float across the Do Not Walk sign and curl around a lamppost, caressing the dark metal before gently falling apart, falling to earth.
She closed her eyes and said a prayer to San Francisco.
Miranda Corbie is one of the most interesting and provocative characters in contemporary detective fiction. The series started out with a bang and has gotten better with each entry. I can't wait to find out what happens next.