"What's going no, Toby? Now, and straight."

"I can't, Phil, "I said. "I've got an office smaller than a broom closet, a furnished room in a seedy boarding house, no wife, no family, no money, no property. All I've got is my word. If I give that up, I've got nothing left. I can't tell you, Phil."

That's Toby Peters, in a nutshell. And it's why I like him. A lot of my heroes are like that: they have nothing, but their honour. And they won't trade that, even if it saves them.

Toby, the forever down on his luck PI. Ex-cop, ex-Warner Bros security guard, ex-husband, ex-possessor of a good back and a nose that hadn't been broken twice and left permanently bent. His office is a broom closet in the offices of the worst dentist, in 1940s LA. His car spends almost as much time at No-Neck Arnie's autoshop, then on the road.

This time out, General Douglas MacArthur hires Toby to find stolen papers that would bring his career (and political prospects) to an ignoble end. Along the way, ex-Pinkerston Dashiell Hammett ends up helping with the investigation, which ends up involving multiple homicides, soldiers, chases, crooked small-town cops, a castle in the dessert, gunplay, sex, War Bonds, wartime blackouts, and a lie or two.

And the finale IS guessable, if you notice the clues. Or clue, is more like it. Just the one, really. And, in the end, MacArthur is able to get back to the war.

Ultimately, as usual, this is a fun ride through a slightly noirish 40s LA. Kaminsky never fails to entertain. ( )