DEAD TO ME rests firmly in a genre that is somewhere between Harry Potter and noir. Harry Potter for the slightly whimsical sensibility and the magical world populated by oblivious mundanes. Noir for the hard-nosed detective, following a trail of clues into a dark underworld. Rests firmly because, while good, it doesn't rise to the level of its premise, or to the level that the author tries to reach.

Simon Canderous is the hero of DEAD TO ME, a psychometrist newly recruited into the New York City government's Department of Extraordinary Affairs. A newly disembodied ghost and a stolen fish leads Canderous down an occult rabbit hole that leads to politically correct satanists, perky servants of evil and obscure art movements.

I'd like to say that DEAD TO ME is brilliantly clever. I'd like to describe it as a paranormal-flavored noir mystery thriller, that takes the tropes of the best of noir and gives them an occult twist. It certainly tries to do so, and it almost succeeds. It comes desperately, maddeningly, disappointingly close. There are flashes of brilliance - the femme fatale is in fact, dead, for example. But such are the exception, not the rule. Instead, the author achieves a book that is a pastiche of genres and ideas, all of which are almost - but not quite - effectively realized. The humor is almost funny. The plot is almost noir. The satire is almost biting. The hero is almost heroic. DEAD TO ME is almost really good.