Michael Dibdin. Ratking. 1989.

Former investigator Aurelio Zen is dispatched to Perugia from his desk job in Venice when there is political pressure to intervene in a kidnapping. Eventually Zen's deviousness will rise to the heights of his apparent haplessness.

By page 150 the investigation has gotten exactly nowhere. By 204 it has gotten no further, and the culprits have been apprehended by another precinct and confessed. But on page 214, with 24 hours remaining befoire he is shipped back to Venice, the point of view and his luck begin to change.

What makes this detective stand out in a uniquely winning and sometimes hilarious way is his ability to bullshit people, his acting. He may be the only person in this fictional Italy who is not corrupt, but he's certainly scheming. He breaks the law. But he gets his man. Or woman. The criminal, that is, not the love interest.

Is detective fiction moral fiction? Why do guys like Zen and Marlowe try so hard to put criminals behind bars when nobody—not the police, not the family of the victims, not their love interests—care to see justice done?

This is a serviceable, good, gripping detective novel; its strength is in the parabolic arc of its plot, giving the climax a stinging whip.