Robert B. Parker Puts a Woman on the Job

There comes a time in nearly every prolific mystery writer’s life when one series isn’t enough. Workaholic wordsmiths from Agatha Christie to Donald E. Westlake have felt compelled to expand their contributions to the ever-growing population of continuing crime solvers. Recently, Robert B. Parker has been bitten by the bug. In addition to his long-running series featuring Boston private detective Spenser, he has extended the literary life of Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe (not a good idea) and developed a likable new hero, small-town police chief Jesse Stone (“Night Passage,” “Trouble in Paradise”). With his newest novel, “Family Honor” (Putnam, $22.95, 322 pages), he adds one more protagonist to his oeuvre--tough, sensible private eye Sunny Randall.

Ostensibly similar to, if a bit more toothsome than, Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone and Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski, Sunny is a smart-talking former policewoman and divorcee trying to make a new life for herself with gun and license. Unlike her two sisters in crime, whose primary positive ongoing contacts with the male population are aging father figures, a landlord and a neighbor, Sunny’s dance card is filled with helpful young guys. These include her ex-husband, Richie, the scion of Boston’s reigning crime family; Spike, a macho gay restaurateur; and an assortment of cops and gentlemanly crooks who succumb to her considerable charms.

In the course of her first major case--involving the protection of a particularly difficult teenager from assassins, a nasty pimp, her horrific parents and her own self-destructive tendencies--Sunny needs all their help and more. Parker’s long suits have always been snappy patter and the clever ways in which his engaging protagonists react to thorny situations. “Family Honor” possesses these in abundance, along with lots of action, some romance and a nice, not-overly-cute dog (a bull terrier, if you must know).

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“Bones” (Simon & Schuster, $23, 378 pages), the seventh of novelist an Burke’s Irene Kelly mysteries, finds the formidable reporter having a one-on-one with Nick Parrish, a Machiavellian serial killer so sadistic and efficient he could give Hannibal Lecter lessons in slicing and dicing. When we first meet this wily monster, he’s in captivity, cutting an unorthodox deal with the district attorney.

In return for life imprisonment over execution, he will provide closure for his victims’ loved ones by leading a group of lawmen and forensic specialists on a tour of the sites where he has hidden the departed. Bowing to pressure from Irene’s newspaper and the daughter of one of Parrish’s victims, the district attorney allows the journalist to join the grim expedition into a remote section of the Sierra Nevada, accessible only on foot. As the death march progresses, suspense is intensified by the prickliness of the participants, well-researched and creepy descriptions of the forensic anthropologists and their cadaver dogs at work, and the disturbing presence of the evil Parrish. It should come as no surprise that the search eventually leads not only to old corpses, but to a sharp increase in new ones. The second half of the novel is devoted to Irene’s struggle to repair the psychological damage caused by the ordeal.

Along with feelings of guilt and helplessness, she is confronted by the not-unreasonable fear that the now-at-large Parrish isn’t quite done with her. Burke has a unique writerly gift for conveying emotion without pandering to sentimentality. Here, she handles Irene’s journey into the heart of darkness and out again with skill and sensitivity. There is also a cinematic quality about “Bones.” Unfolding in a series of scenes that are as visual as they are vivid and gripping, it’s a “Blair Witch Project” with a brain.

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It is generally conceded that Dave Barry is one funny columnist, and I’m not about to argue that point. However, judging by his debut novel, “Big Trouble” (Putnam, $23.95, 255 pages), he should probably stick to the shorter format. His goofy yarn, involving dumb cops, hit men, homicidal rednecks and a hapless advertising exec-hero stumbling around Coconut Grove, Fla., has its share of chuckle-worthy moments. But pals Elmore Leonard, Carl Hiassen, Stephen King and the others mentioned in his introduction might have warned him that visual slapstick doesn’t really work in fiction, that Lawrence Shames has already hammered the “Jersey wise guys in goofy Florida” concept into the ground and that recent events in too many of this nation’s high schools have taken all of the yeasty good fun out of teens playing “Gotcha!” with guns. Additionally, it’s simply not prudent for a humorist to allow his nasty villain to get too medieval on young girls, especially while snarling his baser desires in terms that might be considered prurient. Things like that tend to flat-line a comedy caper.

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The Times reviews mysteries every other week. Next week: Rochelle O’Gorman on audio books.