However, when Tate sends his overweight flunky M.L. Chalafant huffing and puffing up Joe’s office stairs to retain him to oversee security installations, things get personal. At first amused at Tate’s erroneous assumption that money buys all, Box is angered when he realizes the whole thing is a ploy: if Tate can get a known born again Christian on his porn payroll, then he’s proved Christians are no better than anyone else. Box tosses Chalafant out, but not before making what may very well be a costly mistake – he refers Chalafant to one of his friendly competitors, private investigator Billy Barnicke.
Despite his fianc?’s reservations, Box is certain that’s the end of the matter. Billy’s not a Christian and he needs the work, so what’s the harm? However, when Billy turns up dead, beaten to death – he dies in Joe’s arms after calling him in desperation – Box is pulled unwillingly into a dark mystery that threatens perhaps man’s greatest weakness: purity.
To find out why Billy was killed and what exactly Tate is up to, Joe is going to have to travel into the lion’s den and risk the flames of lust and ungodly passion. What he finds in the sleek halls of PornUtopia is worse than he imagines as he uncovers a depraved ring of criminals holding nothing sacred but money and their own desires.
To Skin A Cat is the latest Joe Box mystery, and it strikes a resounding homerun, just like its predecessors Until the Last Dog Dies and When Skylarks Fall. Robinson proves again what many maintain is impossible: blending gritty, hardcore, pavement-pounding detective fiction with spiritual truths produces an engaging, enjoyable, and edifying read. To Skin A Cat is certainly not high-brow, literary fiction – but neither is Joe, and for fans of classic P.I., (private investigator), ’40’s pulp fiction, Joe is a harkening back to the guilty pleasure of an ill-tempered, hot-headed, stubborn detective who doesn’t stop until he finds the truth.
To Skin A Cat is the best yet of Joe Box, and this reviewer especially hopes to see more of the gritty gumshoe, hopefully through a larger venue (any chance WestBow or Bethany House will pick him up?). Though probably no one important listens to me, (whether they should or not is highly debatable), maybe someone will read this review and whisper into Randy Alcorn, Brandt Dodson, and John Robison’s ears, and then maybe into their publishers’ collective ears, and a series of collaborative books could take Joe Box and Colton Parker, (Seventy-Times Seven, Root of All Evil), to Portland for a national P. I. convention, and have to work a case with growly but gutsy police detective Oliver Chandler (Dominion, Deception). That would be enough to satisfy ANY gumshoe fanatic.
Just a thought from a fan.
