My mystery novel has one crucial feature:  its hero is an Asian American detective.  More precisely, he’s half Vietnamese/half white.  Son of a GI.  Abandoned. Raised on both sides of the train tracks: East and West LA.

He’s not a private dick.  He’s a reluctant detective.  By day, he drives delivery for an up-and-coming fashion company run by his best friend.  And he finds himself tracking a serial killer who is slowly murdering all the hot young interns that are the cheap, beautiful labor of the fashion industry.

This is not a typical LA fashion novel.  Because you’ll see the world of sweat shops, the dye houses, the ugly brown people with their tattoos.  My driver, like all drivers in the production side of the fashion industry, is a person of color.

So here is the classic question:  is this autobiographical?  Yes, my best friend has a fashion line that is quite successful.  Yes, I worked for her as a driver.  Yes, I am Vietnamese.  No, my father is not a GI.  No, I have never stalked a serial killer.  I only wish I did.

Malcolm X