61 hours

For mystery readers, every book is a beach book and every day is a beach day. But even genre novels present a variety of escapist choices. I don't know about you, but mysteries that make me laugh go right into the book bag. And Deborah Coonts makes the cut with WANNA GET LUCKY? (Forge/ Tom Doherty, $24.99), set at the Babylon Hotel, "the newest, most over-the-top megacasino/resort on the Las Vegas Strip." The story opens with the gaudy death of a woman who falls out of one of the hotel's private helicopters, landing in the lagoon in front of the Treasure Island Hotel and "disrupting the 8:30 p.m. pirate show." But not even death-by-helicopter-drop can compete with the porn industry's Sex-a-Rama fair or the swinging Trendmakers party, with music provided by the Naked Mariachis. Lucky O'Toole, the statuesque beauty in charge of customer relations for the Babylon, narrates the novel in a voice that aims for brittle sophistication but melts into girlish gush whenever she's in the company of the sexy men in competition for her heart (and other body parts). No matter. Lucky has some nice things going for her, including a mother who operates Mona's Place, held in high regard as "the best whorehouse in Nevada." Blessed with the insight to find humor in the human condition, Lucky can also deal with 400-pound men of the cloth who pass out without benefit of cloth in a public stairway. Let's just hope the job doesn't wear her out. Tarquin Hall writes amusing mysteries set in Delhi and featuring Vish Puri, the conscientious proprietor of Most Private Investigators Ltd., a firm specializing in "matrimonial investigations." Meeting Puri again in THE CASE OF THE MAN WHO DIED LAUGHING (Simon & Schuster, $24), it's reassuring to note that he isn't at all fazed when the Hindu goddess Kali materializes at a Laughing Club held in a public park, smiting down Dr. Suresh Jha, a noted atheist and "Guru Buster." Hall's affectionate humor is embedded with barbs. Puri is sympathetic to Dr. Jha's view that as long as "corruption ate at the heart of the political system" India would never cast off its feudal yoke. So even as this amiably fatalistic detective tries to explain the rules of bribery to a client ("Sir, in India the line between what is legal and what is not is often somewhat of a fuzz"), he feels honorbound to solve Dr. Jha's murder. The humor is decidedly morbid in Sophie Littlefield's down-home mysteries about a female vigilante who extends a helping (if occasionally bloody) hand to battered women in rural Missouri. Stella Hardesty, who owns a sewing machine repair and supply shop that she inherited from her late husband, doesn't look dangerous, although everyone in town knows about the wrench she was clutching when the sheriff discovered her husband's body. In A BAD DAY FOR PRETTY (Thomas Dunne /Minotaur, $24.99), Stella is itching to get on with her re-education of the "no-good, wife-smacking, covenant-breaking" men of Sawyer County. But first she has to keep one of her successfully reclaimed subjects from being locked up for the murder of an unknown woman whose mummified body surfaces when a tornado rips through the fairgrounds. And just when another tornado is heading for town. Jack Reacher, the protagonist of Lee Child's pumped-up thrillers, was born without a funnybone, but he's indisputably the best escape artist in this escapist genre. In 61 HOURS (Delacorte, $28), Child drops a few more hints about the shadowy past of his hero, an ex-military cop who lives on the road, carrying no bags, traveling by instinct and stopping by chance. Reacher is hitching a ride on a church-group tour bus when a blizzard blows him into a small prison town in South Dakota. Forced to sit tight for a few days, he finds himself minding an interesting older woman marked for elimination because she witnessed a crime. The encounter gives Reacher a chance to talk more than he usually does, but it doesn't slow him down a bit. In her lighthearted way, Elaine Viets applies Child's inspired formula to her "dead-end job" mystery series featuring Helen Hawthorne, who left home when a heartless judge in St. Louis awarded her no-good husband half her future earnings. Helen took to the road, living cheap, moving often and working in places like Snapdragon's Second Thoughts, the Fort Lauderdale consignment shop where we find her in HALF-PRICE HOMICIDE (Obsidian, $22.95). Nine books into the series, Viets is still working clever variations on the theme of an emancipated woman making the most of her limited options. To fulfill the genre conventions, a real-estate developer's trophy wife is murdered in a dressing room. The real draw, though, is Viets's snappy critique of South Florida, especially her acid-etched sketches of the shop's clientele. If all good mysteries make ideal summer reading, what does a mystery fan turn to for true escape? How about a supernatural mystery that intensifies the suspense by thickening the atmosphere. SO COLD THE RIVER (Little, Brown, $24.99), by Michael Koryta, is a superior specimen, with its eerie tale of a lovely valley in Indiana where at one time an elixir known as Pluto Water bubbled up from the underground springs. The restoration of the valley's two old spa hotels attracts the interest of a cinematographer from Chicago who drinks the water and starts having visions. The scary parts aren't all that scary, but Koryta sets a beautiful scene, resplendent with dreamy images of phantom railroad trains and ghosts who wear bowler hats and play the violin. If all good mysteries make ideal summer reading, what does a mystery fan turn to for true escape?

Chapter One Five minutes to three in the afternoon. Exactly sixty-one  hours before it happened. The lawyer drove in and parked in the empty lot. There was an inch of new snow on the ground, so he spent a minute fumbling in the foot well until his overshoes were secure. Then he got out and turned his collar up and walked to the visitors' entrance. There was a bitter wind out of the north. It was thick with fat lazy flakes. There was a storm sixty miles away. The radio had been full of it. The lawyer got in through the door and stamped the snow off his feet. There was no line. It was not a regular visiting day. There was nothing ahead of him except an empty room and an empty X-ray belt and a metal detector hoop and three prison guards standing around doing nothing. He nodded to them, even though he didn't know them. But he considered himself on their side, and they on his. Prison was a binary world. Either you were locked up, or you weren't. They weren't. He wasn't. Yet. He took a gray plastic bin off the top of a teetering stack and folded his overcoat into it. He took off his suit coat and folded it and laid it on top of the overcoat. It was hot in the prison. Cheaper to burn a little extra oil than to give the inmates two sets of clothes, one for the summer and one for the winter. He could hear their noise ahead of him, the clatter of metal and concrete and the random crazy yells and the screams and the low grumble of other disaffected voices, all muted by doglegged corridors and many closed doors. He emptied his pants pockets of keys, and wallet, and cell phone, and coins, and nested those clean warm personal items on top of his suit coat. He picked up the gray plastic bin. Didn't carry it to the X-ray belt. Instead he hefted it across the room to a small window in a wall. He waited there and a woman in uniform took it and gave him a numbered ticket in exchange for it. He braced himself in front of the metal detector hoop. He patted his pockets and glanced ahead, expectantly, as if waiting for an invitation. Learned behavior, from air travel. The guards let him stand there for a minute, a small, nervous man in his shirt sleeves, empty-handed. No briefcase. No notebook. Not even a pen. He was not there to advise. He was there to be advised. Not to talk, but to listen, and he sure as hell wasn't going to put what he heard anywhere near a piece of paper. The guards beckoned him through. A green light and no beep, but still the first guard wanded him and the second patted him down. The third escorted him deeper into the complex, through doors designed never to be open unless the last and the next were closed, and around tight corners designed to slow a running man's progress, and past thick green glass windows with watchful faces behind. The lobby had been institutional, with linoleum on the floor and mint green paint on the walls and fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. And the lobby had been connected to the outside, with gusts of cold air blowing in when the door was opened, and salt stains and puddles of snowmelt on the floor. The prison proper was different. It had no connection to the outside. No sky, no weather. No attempt at décor. It was all raw concrete, already rubbed greasy where sleeves and shoulders had touched it, still pale and dusty where they hadn't. Underfoot was grippy gray paint, like the floor of an auto enthusiast's garage. The lawyer's overshoes squeaked on it. There were four interview rooms. Each was a windowless concrete cube divided exactly in half by a wall-to-wall desk-height counter with safety glass above. Caged lights burned on the ceiling above the counter. The counter was cast from concrete. The grain of the formwork lumber was still visible in it. The safety glass was thick and slightly green and was divided into three overlapping panes, to give Excerpted from 61 Hours: A Reacher Novel by Lee Child All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.