A debut thriller that portrays a Greenwich Village psychiatrist who comes into contact with a serial killer. Most Manhattan shrinks would probably not regard the meat-packing district as the best place to set up shop. Noisy by day, sleazy by night, and malodorous for most of the year, it is a zone of warehouses, after-hours joints, sex clubs, and the occasional chic restaurant bustling with transvestites. Small wonder, then, that most of Dr. Cleo Goldwin’s patients are looking for something more than Prozac. A specialist in sexual aberrations, Cleo spends most of her sessions talking to whores, johns, cross-dressers, or some combination of all three. —Psychotherapy is an unnatural profession,— Cleo admits—and it can also be a dangerous one. A particularly depraved killer is on the loose in New York just now, and he seems to favor preying on psychiatrists. Just about all of Cleo’s patients would look right at home in a police lineup—Willie grew up in a lunatic asylum, Ben makes porn films, Anastase spent his childhood in a brothel where he and his mother worked shifts, Bernard is obsessed with the size of his penis—and one of Cleo’s neighbors was murdered a few years back. Plus, a friend of hers has suddenly vanished without a trace, so you—d think she would be on her guard. But Cleo isn—t the sort who scares easily, despite the warnings of Detective Demson. She carries on with her motley crew, coaxing them as genially as Rikki Lake to tell her their stories, until one of them finally gives her a little more information than she wants to hear. By that time, it’s not a question of running the session—it’s a matter of life or death. Annoyingly p.c. and pretentious: a largely dull story that picks up once the killer reveals himself—but by then most readers will find that their interest has been killed off, too.