In Eliot Pattison’s masterful and deeply moving new mystery, Skeleton God, a disgraced former inspector must grapple with the horrors of Tibet’s past to uncover a crime decades in the making.

Shan Tao Yun is a former Beijing inspector banished to Yangkar, a remote town in the mountains of Tibet, where fragments of a shattered culture haunt the people left to eke out a living under the gaze of Communist China. But the village’s fragile peace is destroyed when three corpses are discovered in a remote tomb. One of the bodies is a long dead Buddhist saint, but flanking him are a Red Army soldier killed 50 years ago and an American killed only hours before the tomb was discovered.

The story frequently pauses as Shan considers the ramifications of his investigation on himself and his loved ones. He tries to soothe himself by meditating on the stark, unspoiled beauty of the Tibetan mountains or stealing a few moments with his friends. These flashes of peace, written with skillful restraint by Pattison, make Skeleton God a much more contemplative read than its macabre premise would imply.

Every advance in the case rings slightly hollow due to Shan’s belief that he is damning the people of his village to increasing government control and surveillance, and that his own life and his son’s are also at stake. Pattison wrings mounting tension from Shan’s pursuit of the killers simply reminding the reader that at any moment, the characters’ freedom could be ripped away from them.

Skeleton God is a melancholy mystery, an elegy for a lost culture as well as a well-plotted puzzle that manages to be as clever as it is unexpectedly and deeply moving. There is a mystery to be solved of course, the solution of which leads to a tense and inventive final confrontation between Shan and the killers, but Pattison also draws a remarkable psychological portrait of a people living in a post-apocalyptic reality, trying to grasp small measures of resistance and hope from the wreckage.

At its outset, Mister Memory has the intimate yet informal detailing of an adult fable or fairy tale. This makes sense, given that its author, Marcus Sedgwick, has published a number of YA books that include fantasy, myths and graphic novels.

Mister Memory introduces readers to Marcel Després, a handsome, naïve and uncommon young man whose extraordinary mind lands him in big trouble. For Marcel, every tiny action and word—the details of every moment in his life—is indelibly recorded in his mind. He’s literally unable to forget. For a long time he’s unaware that he possesses this unique trait—or burden. He simply thinks everyone’s mind works that way.

Unable to hold down a job in Paris of 1899, Marcel finally becomes a popular cabaret hit as “Mister Memory,” a moniker that may evoke for some the Hitchcockian character in The 39 Steps, a 1939 film full of dark, comic moments.

Sedgwick’s narrative soon turns into a clever, absorbing mystery after Marcel is arrested for killing his wife upon discovering her in bed with a lover. Instead of doing a stint in jail—the usual Parisian punishment for murdering an unfaithful wife—Marcel is whisked away to a mental hospital for the criminally insane, and the case is summarily closed like the slamming of a door.

Inspector Petit of the Paris prefecture realizes there is more to the story, at a level that involves the highest realms of law enforcement as well as the lowest echelons of Parisian society. A photograph of Marcel’s wife, also a cabaret performer, sets Petit on a dangerous path to discovery and action.

Mister Memory is an extraordinary trip into the deep recesses of mind and memory, brought to light little by little as Marcel’s physician comes to learn more about his patient’s inner world. Dr. Morel tells him, “You have taught me something. Through you I have come to see that there is no such thing as truth. That all we ever really know is perception.”

Petit, who struggles with memories of his own that he’d like to banish, belatedly comes to realize that “each memory is itself only a construction of infinitely small moments of time, each of which has no meaning in itself. It is only the story we make by linking such moments together, and the narrative that creates, that gives us any meaning.”

It’s hot, hot, hot in Dallas, Texas, where a drug bust gone bad welcomes readers to police detective Betty Rhyzyk’s world of undercover narcotics, and into Kathleen Kent’s new crime novel, The Dime.

Kent, a writer of historical fiction, explodes onto the crime genre with a detective who has all the qualities that’ll make her stand out from the crowd. No shrinking violet, Betty is a very tall, redheaded lesbian, as well as a kick-butt detective, transplanted from Brooklyn to good ol’ boy Dallas, where lewd comments and not-so-subtle discrimination are the least of what she’s facing.

In her latest case, Betty confronts a slew of murder victims, but realizes that the gruesome deaths don’t have the marks of Mexico’s drug cartel. Betty and her team follow disparate clues to determine just who may be challenging the cartel—and who is responsible for the growing list of victims, including one of the detective team’s own.

Kent rises above the obligatory badass conventions that can sometimes derail brutal “cops and robbers” tales like these, with their complicated, often-violent protagonists. She excels in other ways, by creating an engrossing story of the sometimes-strained but always-changing relationships between this unusual detective and her more mainstream hetero colleagues, and puts into perspective a somewhat over-the-top torture-filled scene that threatens to unbalance the rest of the plot. Kent’s brilliant, sometimes-gentle and humorous observations humanize and set this book apart.

The Dime showcases the author’s strengths with multifaceted descriptions of Betty and her sturdy friendship with her police partner, Seth; the many characters on the police force; and her unfortunate run-ins with the disagreeable family of her lover/partner, Jackie. A religion-crazed cult leader who surfaces later in the book is a chilling, stay-in-your head character who may possibly figure in future books. Kent tops off her narrative with a couple of one-of-a-kind characters whose small heroisms figure very large: the marvelously rendered Civil War re-enactor who stands his ground; and James Earle Walden, Jackie’s alcoholic, Vietnam vet great-uncle.

Best of all, the voice of Betty’s deceased Uncle Benny, the man who inspired her life, threads through the book with an ongoing patter of whimsical advice, sometimes funny, sometimes dead serious, but always on the money.

On the surface, Tracee de Hahn’s debut mystery mimics those Golden Age country house crime novels where the suspects gather in the drawing room facing each other across the tea table, with the curtains drawn against the night. Her book, however, is somehow both more and less than those old thrillers. It’s set in present-day Switzerland as a storm of epic proportions sweeps through the Lausanne region, blanketing the area of Château Vallotton with deadly ice, snow and wind.

Swiss Vendetta opens on a thrilling note—an icy blast, with a murder taking place right off the bat, before readers (or the victim) have time to bundle up against the weather. Just before the storm shuts down all outside access, rookie police officer Agnes Lüthi slips and slides onto the scene along with a couple of other officers, to contend with a château full of suspects.

Though officers and suspects are effectively trapped on the scene by the ice and snow, this particular château has tons of rooms, stairways and secret tunnels, so it’s not exactly a modest Agatha Christie country house. Agnes and her colleagues spread out to try and learn why Felicity Cowell, a bright young appraiser for a London auction house employed by the family to appraise an estate full of treasures, has met her death out in the storm, dressed in a diamond-embellished gown. The château bristles with suspects from the Vallotton family—the regal Marquise, her nephews Julien and Daniel, a peckish godson named Mulholland and a Great Dane named Winston. A young American, Nick Graves, who’s doing historical research at the estate, has a prior connection to the victim, upping the intrigue level. The family’s elderly neighbor, Monsieur Arsov, also figures large, with his dramatic World War II backstory.

Everyone’s full of polite obfuscations, but they give Agnes the run of the estate to pursue her inquiries, so this old/new crime novel ought to be a page-turner, with its marvelous backdrop of storm and menace. However, detective Lüthi’s insights are not always substantiated within the narrative, sometimes seeming to appear from offstage. Readers may struggle to develop sympathy for the author’s sometimes two-dimensional characters, who never quite spring to life.

Swiss Vendetta is full of side stories rich with promise. After a great beginning, a slow-going middle gives way to a finale that helps rescue some of the book’s dramatic potential.

After a summer filled with racial tension over police shootings, it was only a matter of time before a novel surfaced with a similar theme. Suzanne Chazin presents that problem for her series character, Hispanic cop Jimmy Vega, in the first few pages of her new novel, No Witness but the Moon.

Vega is first on the scene of an apparent home invasion and chases down one suspect. But when the suspect fails to release an object in his hand and begins to turn toward Vega despite orders to freeze, Vega has only seconds to kill or be killed. The suspect is fatally wounded, which is when Vega’s troubles really begin. As other police arrive, it’s quickly apparent that Vega has shot an unarmed man. The only item in the man’s possession was a photograph clutched in his right hand.

Chazin expertly crafts the immediate fallout of the shooting in several emotion-filled, tense pages. Vega reels from what he’s done, while at the same time playing the scene and his options over and over in his mind. His fellow police swiftly take control of the scene and begin piecing together events. Vega is suspended as an internal investigation begins and as tensions within the Hispanic community mount, prompting protest marches and chants of “hands up don’t shoot.”

While that may be enough fodder for most novelists to build upon, Chazin ups the ante by tying the victim of the shooting to the mysterious unsolved death of Vega’s mother years ago. Vega, naturally, uses his unwanted downtime to begin his own investigation.

The novel moves at a torrid pace, swiftly drawing in the reader with its ripped-from-the-headlines shooting, then keeps readers hooked as Vega deals with the emotional and psychological aftermath on his life, career and family. 

The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency of Gabarone, Botswana, takes on a new client in Precious and Grace. True to form, Alexander McCall Smith’s fine process of “getting there” wins out over shootouts and car chases any old day, and his asides—often important clues in traditional whodunits—are, well, just asides.

The series reads like a pleasantly low-key moral tale. It’s all pretty much down to the ruminations of Mma Ramotswe, No. 1’s founder and owner, who has commandeered the series through 17 leisurely installments. “Commandeered” is a bit strong, though. Mma Ramotswe (whose name is Precious, though you’ll seldom hear it) can teach us a lot about the ways of kindly souls and about the sort of real forgiveness that few of us can muster. She’s an acute observer of all around her, and like Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, her rural country setting never keeps her from spotting the many foibles displayed by her fellows and making important connections about human nature that serve her well.

Sometimes her refusal to judge can get in Mma Ramotswe’s way, even when she tries to hold back the tongue of her business assistant and close friend, Mma Makutsi (whose name is Grace, though it’s not often bandied about). Mma Makutsi’s wayward opinions, however, can sometimes be effectively quelled by the frequent cups of tea dispensed in the No. 1 office. And since everything at the agency proceeds on Botswana time—that is to say, at a steady but hardly rapid pace—there’s ample time to smooth over the wrinkles of human disagreement.

When Susan, a young Canadian woman, appeals for the agency’s help in uncovering pieces of her long-forgotten early childhood in Botswana, Mma Makutsi is quick to jump to conclusions about her motives, while Mma Ramotswe holds back judgment to read between the lines, piecing the reasons together from the woman’s unhappy past. The search for Susan’s old home is nicely punctuated with evocative portraits of the many people in Mma Ramotswe’s rich life: her husband, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; her sometime assistants, Charlie and Mr. Polopetsi (he of the high-flying but often-plummeting schemes); and of course the outspoken Grace herself.

Readers seeking hair-trigger action thrills will wish to steer clear of the Ladies’ Detective Agency, where, fortunately for the rest of us, the literary payoff is in an entirely different coinage.

Detective Antoinette Conway is doubly unique on the Dublin murder squad: She’s the only mixed-race detective and the only woman. She’s taken a lot of flak in her two years on the squad, and the strain is beginning to show. Though her new partner, Steve Moran, seems to understand and respect her, Antoinette is nearing the end of her rope. At the end of another long night shift, she and Steve are handed a case that at first seems like a textbook domestic violence scenario. A young woman, Aislinn Murray, is found dead in her home after an anonymous tip reported that she hit her head in a fall. The fall turns out to have been caused by a punch, but obvious leads—such as Aislinn’s boyfriend—don’t fit.

The clues lead Conway and Moran in circles, from an encrypted file on Aislinn’s computer, to the strange behavior of her best friend, to the hints that there may have been more than one man in her life. Plus, Antoinette knows she’s seen Aislinn’s face before, but cannot recall when or where. With leads sprawling fruitlessly throughout Dublin, Antoinette begins to wonder: Is there someone close to the investigation who doesn’t want the case solved?

Tana French excels at placing dedicated and talented detectives under stress, testing them with the case that will strike their unique anxieties the hardest. Antoinette’s intelligence and skepticism are charming, but these traits gradually give way to a surly paranoia. Despite the first-person narration, French provides ample moments for the reader to acknowledge Antoinette’s fears but also question them. Soon, the question of whether Antoinette will survive the case professionally becomes as gripping as the mystery of who killed Aislinn. Though it may not pack the same emotional punch as other French titles, The Trespasser delivers a great detective team in Conway and Moran and a satisfyingly dramatic conclusion. This is an intense and engrossing installment in the Dublin Murder Squad series. 

Homicide detective Max Rupert and lawyer Boady Sanden are longtime friends, but in Allen Eskens’ crime thriller The Heavens May Fall, they’re on opposite sides of the fence, with an ever-widening divide between them.

Max is a widower, still grieving his wife’s death four years earlier by a hit-and-run driver who was never apprehended. Boady hasn’t practiced law since the death of his last client, an innocent man who was deemed guilty even after Boady’s best legal efforts. These characters appear in Eskens’ previous work, The Life We Bury, and are more fully fleshed out in this novel.

On the anniversary of his own wife’s death, Max finds himself heading up the team assigned to the gruesome, perplexing murder of a woman who turns out to be Jennavieve Pruitt, the wife of Ben Pruitt, a prominent attorney, with whom Max has some bad history dating back to another case. Ben has an alibi for the night of his wife’s death, but it’s a leaky one and he needs a good attorney.

Boady, who was once Ben’s law partner, agrees to represent him, thus locking in an adversarial relationship between Max and Boady, one that will forever alter their friendship. Each man approaches the murder through the lens of his own personal loss, each trying to restore an invisible balance while drawing on darker, earlier moments in his life. Max’s vision may be obscured by a need for inner healing; Boady seeks reason and redemption from his past failures or omissions.

This tension-filled book explores the case from each man’s perspective—that of the detective who believes the victim’s husband is guilty of murder, and that of the attorney who believes that his client is innocent. The novel is occasionally clunky and overwrought in style, with a few unnecessarily gory details, but the author’s expert use of the modes of traditional crime fiction, combined with the legal proceedings and intriguing trial scenes, makes an effective combination that results in a fast-moving narrative.

The Heavens May Fall pretends to provide us with all the angles, giving readers a false sense of security, perhaps the illusion of transparency, only to cheat us at the end, as only good thrillers can, by throwing in some unexpected shocks and last-minute story twists.