Birds of Prey is the third self-published book by New Hampshire author Lawrence Kinsman. Each is another step of evolution for this author; the first, a collection of short stories, the second, a collection of 4 novellas, and this, his first full novel. It is in fact the third jewel of an author that must immediately be welcomed into the mainstream so that a larger audience can enjoy this truly remarkable output.
If Sylvie Kaplan is a name that seems familiar, trust that instinct. She is indeed the same character from the novella “The Death of Christopher Moran” from Kinsman’s A Well-Ordered Life. Birds of Prey occurs later in the timeline (sufficiently so that the edges of some of the characters have smoothed, and Sylvie herself is now on the other side of the bisexual fence). As a nice continuity touch, a reference is made to the Moran case, pointing out that one of the characters learned something and has grown up a little since then. Most of the station regulars are here, as well as some new faces that the larger canvas of a full novel permits. All of the characters are beautifully developed.
The plot is a somewhat standard-formula detective/crime scene investigation, which is not to say that the plot is dull. Hardly. Detective/mystery novels usually weave complicated, intricate plot twists. Kinsman masterfully crafts his plot around two seemingly unrelated lines which are paced in parallel and with such loving care that the story never once bogs down. But even if the details became too much for you, Kinsman includes an almost complete summary of events in the middle of the book.
Perhaps it is not fair to Mr. Kinsman to have read his book so soon after reading The Marble Quilt, a nearly case-study in the writing of English, but at least you know my mindset at the time of this next opinion. Birds of Prey feels like an early, first-time work. As you evolve to larger formats, you have lots of room to expand your story line and develop characters. Kinsman fills some of these gaps with odd details that feel like fluff. There’s also a distinct sense of “product placement” in a few places. For example, I’m not sure what it says about Sylvie that she uses Ronzoni pasta rather than the store brand. Perhaps it was meant to be subtle, but I found it distracting that I was momentarily derailed from the plot wondering whether companies paid authors to do that.
I also worry a bit that references to Windows 98 and personal reflections on the “amazing speed” of broadband internet will evoke giggles in a few years and distract readers as they try to recall that fond era, that, like disco, defined a narrow slice of the population.
Forgive my nit-picking. Each of these items occurs but once, and the general feeling you get is not annoyance, but only the hope that the natural polish that comes from consistent practicing will soon perfect Kinsman’s output. For now, this is a fun read that manages to address sexism, homosexuality, and Middle-Eastern hatred of America compellingly and without any in-your-face preaching. This should be the third Kinsman book on your shelf. I am already waiting (and hoping) that the fourth is in the works.