All suspense, all the time (we sometimes have weeks like this, don’t we?)

The Cage by Bonnie Kistler (Harper).

Regular readers will surely remember the dramatic moment a few weeks ago when the column created and named a new thriller category: not domestic, not psychological…corporate suspense! And I didn’t even know this one was on its way! Really, this is a fast, smart suspense novel; and don’t be fooled by the ingenious setup (and the title)—it isn’t just a stunt mystery, an especially bald-faced locked-room puzzler; it just looks that way, at first: Two women in a dead elevator, no lights, no power; when power comes back on, the elevator goes on down to the lobby, opens, and one of them is dead of a gunshot wound, the gun still in her hand. The other, it soon becomes clear, is to be our principle POV character. And sure enough, there are reasons to suspect her, at least a bit (for everybody concerned, including the reader). But: A lot goes on, over time: this is a real suspense novel. The corporation is a haute couture designer’s firm, so not just lawyers and such, colorful characters, but schemers, well realized, and terrific fun, and may even be an important career aborning.

The Heights by Louise Candlish (Atria).

If you trusted the column and read her The Other Passenger, last year (there, passengers on a commuter riverboat), you’ll surely need little more than an announcement of this one. (I’m willing to bet that you were surprised over and over in that one.) Candlish gives us characters of dimension and complexity, whom we believe, whether we like them or not; but then we learn surprising but credible stuff about them all. Both we and those characters are forever being startled by revelations—organic, credible, not far-fetched—that we won’t have seen coming.

All the Queen’s Men by SJ Bennett (Morrow).

This is just the second of this series, and, though they’re charming and neatly done (the central character, the detective in the case, is Queen Elizabeth II, the queen we have right now—or, well, you know, the one the Brits have) and… where were we? Yet another sort of exotic cast brought to life; respectful and convincing about the queen’s good sense and toughness, and life in the castle in general. Not thrillers, then, but not cute, either, mystery novels, and long may she wave.

The Darkest Place by Philip Margolin (Minotaur).

Thought I’d save the one that needs the least introduction for a sort of P.S.—but, really, consider this a heads-up, instead: Robin Lockwood, the hotshot Portland attorney, is facing a professional and personal crisis, here, and this may sound silly to say about a writer of Margolin’s consistency and productivity, but…I’m not the first reviewer to say that this may be his best novel ever.