OF A GOLDEN AGE

You may recall our last visit with Kinsey Millhone, Sue Grafton’s believably tough lady P.I. living an exciting life in late-’80s southern California.

I also recall the dozen-plus previous books in the series. The surprising thing is not that I’ve stayed with them this long, because I’ll follow characters I like through the miasma of poor-quality writing, TV seasons, or movie franchises. Grafton’s writing and storybuilding requires no such charity or caveat, because each book is distinct, with a few real standouts. Both Q and now R succeed with the help of Grafton’s peripheral characters — she introduces outsiders as a way to create and move the story, while we rely on Kinsey to reliably narrate and do her reluctantly-meddling best.

Kinsey is, of course, still one of the most interesting and respectable female leads I can remember. She’s great at her job and has a strong conscience, often considering aloud the difference between what’s legal and what’s right and making difficult choices. In R is for Ricochet, Kinsey is dispatched by a local wealthy elder to retrieve his daughter from prison after a pretty lengthy stay for embezzlement or something. The daughter has a gambling problem and the carpe-diem disease, along with memories of a love affair with a serious lout who’s moved on to her best friend. Whoops.

Hijinks ensue, and in this case Grafton delves into the world of international banking and money laundering, which is interesting stuff. At the same time, she puts Kinsey in the character’s most uncomfortable position: Interested in romantic companionship, rather than that of the peanut butter and pickle sandwiches she spends most evenings with. Watching Kinsey behave awkwardly, and Grafton’s descriptions of Kinsey’s emotions and sensations around someone she likes, is a delight:

    Here are two things I hate to have men do:
    (1) Tell me I’m beautiful, which is bullshit manipulation and has nothing to do with me.
    (2) Look into my eyes and talk about my “trust” issues because they know I’ve been “hurt.”
    Here’s what Cheney did: He put his arm up on the seat back and picked up a strand of hair from the top of my head. He studied it with care, his expression serious. In the split second before he spoke, I heard a muffled sound, like gas jets igniting when a match is struck. Warmth fanned up along my spine and softened all the tention in my neck.

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