If the ruinous glamour of 1947 L.A. in The Black Dahlia hooked you—the nightclub backrooms, fixer types, and the rich family rot Bucky uncovers around Madeleine Sprague—then Abbott’s Die a Little is your next stop. Schoolteacher Lora King watches her brother marry Alice Steele, a Hollywood wardrobe girl whose cocktail parties, whispered favors, and off-book errands pull Lora into the same kind of glittering grime Ellroy exposed. It’s that same slow seep of corruption you felt when Bucky and Lee’s PR boxing bout opened the door to citywide vice—only this time the rot is domestic, intimate, and suffocating.

If you were riveted by Bucky Bleichert’s moral slide—his bad calls, his obsession with Elizabeth Short’s doubles like Madeleine, and the way the investigation curdles his conscience—Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me gives you the unnerving inside voice of Deputy Lou Ford. Where The Black Dahlia shows a cop crossing lines in interrogation rooms and bedroom deals, Lou narrates his own descent from behind the badge with chilling candor. It’s the same sense of proximity to danger you felt when Bucky kept returning to the Sprague orbit—only here the danger is the narrator himself.

What likely gripped you in The Black Dahlia wasn’t just the murder—it was Bucky’s fixation, how the case and Madeleine Sprague blur his identity and ethics. In The Talented Mr. Ripley, Tom Ripley’s hunger to reinvent himself spirals from fascination into fraud and murder. Like Bucky shadowing a Dahlia look‑alike and slipping deeper into a role he can’t justify, Tom crafts a mask he can’t remove. Highsmith keeps you inside his head as tightly as Ellroy does with Bucky, turning desire and self‑invention into the engine of the crime.

If Bucky’s first‑person voice—dogged, bruised, and intimate—pulled you through The Black Dahlia’s maze of cops, fixers, and blue‑blood families, Chandler’s The Long Goodbye gives you Philip Marlowe at his most world‑weary and principled. Marlowe’s friendship with Terry Lennox draws him into high‑society scandals and studio‑adjacent schemes that echo Bucky’s passage through the Sprague estate and police backchannels. The voice leads the case: cynical quips, lonely drives, and a moral code tested by powerful Angelenos.

If the rug‑pulls and revelations in The Black Dahlia thrilled you—the way the case blossoms into family secrets and the final confrontations reframe what Bucky thought he understood—Lehane’s Shutter Island delivers that same vertigo. U.S. Marshal Teddy Daniels arrives at Ashecliffe to find a missing patient, only to peel back layers of deceit, trauma, and institutional cover‑ups. Like Bucky’s leads through the Spragues and the city’s power brokers, every answer spawns a harder question—until the truth forces a reckoning.