5★
“‘I met this really nice guy I could set you up with ...’
‘Last time you set me up it didn't exactly work out.’
Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Grace. You pulled your gun on him. He still won't talk to me.’”
Grace had her reasons, Annie. She still has her reasons, which Annie is well aware of. Grace and Annie are two of the five people who make up Monkeewrench, a company that sells their computer game where players investigate and solve a murder in order to progress to the next level – the next murder - and eventually identify the serial killer. Note that players are not killing anybody; they are playing detectives, being the good guys.
The company is based in Minneapolis, in the cold northern US state of Minnesota, where the icy weather features almost as another character, the way it does in many of my other favourite mysteries set in Ireland and Canada.
“The thin microfiber trench that had seemed like a good fashion decision in August was laughably ineffectual now. But like every good Minnesotan, except Gino, he'd wait until a near-death brush with hypothermia before he dragged out the down parka, as if wearing lighter clothing would somehow encourage the weather to adjust itself appropriately.”
Why do we do this? I suspect we want to pretend we are saving our gear until absolutely necessary so we know we have something to fall back on. But of course, that can backfire.
“He put one hand between his knees to warm his fingers and steered with the other, dreaming of his gloves at home on the closet shelf.”
Mind you, the heat of the Australian outback is another great setting which I enjoy/endure, but I digress.
When real detectives discover that a real murder is a copy of the first one in the game, they begin a real-life investigation, starting, of course, with the Monkeewrench crew themselves. The five are a colourful bunch of characters, from an OCD CEO-type to a big, tattooed biker-gang guy, a skinny, lycra-clad beanpole fellow, flamboyant Annie, and paranoid, always-dressed-in-black Grace.
“To Annie Belinsky, a day without sequins was hardly worth living; a day without makeup was unthinkable.”
The book cuts back and forth between Minneapolis and a town in neighbouring rural Wisconsin (also cold). A pastor has called the local sheriff, one of his old altar boys, whom he still calls Mikey, to take a look at a double homicide in the church.
“Scatter a few thousand people over the northern Wisconsin countryside, arm a good half of them with hunting rifles and skinning knives, throw a hundred bars into the mix, and eventually some of them are going to end up killing each other. That's just the way it was.”
This murder scene doesn’t fit that scenario, though, and searches into the background of the victims keep hitting dead ends. As the story moves back and forth, we meet the various members of both teams of police, and I found myself like a little kid at the movies saying “Listen to the news! Look what’s happening over there!” But of course, there’s no way either group of police would have considered a connection between such different crimes in different states.
Each character is a recognisable individual with personality traits familiar enough to me that I could imagine them as people I know, even the more far-fetched ones. It’s easy to understand the relationships within each group, (the Monkeewrench team and the two teams of police) and later between the three main groups.
Although the suspense and tension are high, the banter and repartee make the people seem genuine and not expendable placeholder characters that I wouldn't care about. Many authors populate their stories with someone, anyone, to move the action along. These people I liked or disliked, depending.
This was written long before the George Floyd killing by police, which set the nation’s nerves even more on edge, but the us-and-them attitudes between the black and white communities are here.
In Minneapolis, “Patrol Sergeant Eaton Freedman was in a crisp uniform custom-tailored to wrap itself around the three hundred pounds of coal-black muscle packed into his six feet nine inches.” That, plus his James Earl Jones voice gives him a presence that can’t be ignored. However, guess what?
“You put a six-foot-nine black man in a cheap suit on a boat with a bunch of Fortune 500 white people, and pretty soon some ditzy broad wearing his year's salary around her neck is going to ask him to refill the water carafe. It had happened four times in the first fifteen minutes …”
Nice one, ditzy broad.
It’s a great read with some wonderfully human moments alongside the absolutely terrifying ones, and I’m delighted that this is only the first of a substantial series. Thanks to all the Goodreads friends who have recommended it.