The passenger

Review by New York Times Review

THE FINNMARK PLATEAU is known as a beautiful spot. "Isn't that just the sort of thing people say about inhospitable places?" reflects the antihero of MIDNIGHT SUN (Knopf, $23.95), Jo Nesbo's character study of a fugitive Norwegian hit man. Jon Hansen has fled Oslo for this desolate land above the Arctic Circle, trying to escape the wrath of his boss, a mobster known as the Fisherman. Working as his debt collector and fixer was an easy job - until Hansen botched a murder and found himself in the Fisherman's cross hairs. Although it follows too closely the plot of a previous book, "Blood on Snow," this forcefully written story of personal defeat, despair and salvation, translated by Neil Smith, sends a man off to lose himself in the wilderness - where he finds himself instead. Introspective and sensitive, Hansen is the polar opposite of Harry Hole, Nesbo's far more commanding series detective. After moving into a cabin in the woods with no plumbing or electricity, Hansen settles down to brood about his worthless life. ("I'm just a pathetic, weak fool.") But a few days of that is enough to make him more receptive to the locals. The most interesting are Mattis, a keen-witted Laplander who persuades him to attend a strangely pagan wedding where he drinks fermented reindeer milk, and a 10-year-old named Knut, who introduces him to his mother, Lea, an abused wife (and soon-to-be widow). Lea and Knut are members of a harsh religious sect that promises an afterlife of fire and brimstone for sinners like Hansen. "It's only a stone's throw from the drumming of a shaman and witchcraft to the Laestadians' speaking in tongues," Mattis observes. But to a man desperate for redemption (and a hard-boiled author in need of a rest), this forbidding land, with its peculiar customs, proves irresistibly seductive. DONNA LEON'S VENETIAN mysteries never disappoint, calling up the romantic sights and sounds of La Serenissima even as they acquaint us with the practical matters that concern the city's residents. In THE WATERS OF ETERNAL YOUTH (Atlantic Monthly, $26), Venetians are troubled by an aggressive new wave of African immigrants, the latest street hustles aimed at tourists and the "pharaonically expensive" engineering project meant to keep the lagoon from flooding. Commissario Guido Brunetti and his colleagues are also afraid Italy might be losing its edge: The younger officers aren't nearly as willing as the older generation to bend the rules for a good cause. "Soon it'll be like working in Sweden," Brunetti predicts. And while political corruption may be as rank as ever, "compared to Argentina, we are living in Switzerland." But as a dutiful Italian son, the commissario is still a soft touch for a grandmother who begs him to investigate the near-drowning "accident" that left her granddaughter mentally impaired. It's a bittersweet story that makes us appreciate Brunetti's philosophical take on the indignities, insanities and cruelties of life: "Better to think like a Neapolitan and view it all as theater, as farce." LISA LUTZ HAS written a number of clever comic mysteries about the Spellmans, a family of screwball sleuths. In THE PASSENGER (Simon & Schuster, $25.99), she steps smartly out of her comfort zone to write a dead-serious thriller (with a funny bone) about a Wisconsin woman who dashes cross-country when her husband dies in a fall and she knows she'll be accused of killing him. The name of this fugitive is Tanya Dubois, but she sheds it for a series of noms de crime (and wardrobe changes and hair colors and getaway cars) when she's running for her life from unknown assassins. In a refreshing twist, she's not awfully good at disguising herself, so it's only when she's taken in hand by a rogue bartender, a woman called Blue, that Tanya/Amelia/Debra/Emma/Sonia/Paige/Jo/Nora has a real chance of surviving - once she helps Blue bury the husband Blue murdered. "Goodbye, Jack," the unrepentant widow says at his graveside. "Sorry how things worked out. But you only have yourself to blame." ALTHOUGH I WOULD categorically deny it if cornered, I secretly enjoy the various dramatic, even (soap) operatic developments in the lives of fictional sleuths. And there are plenty of these in THE STEEL KISS (Grand Central, $28), Jeffery Deaver's unsettling procedural mystery featuring Lincoln Rhyme. That brilliant quadriplegic consulting detective is no longer working criminal cases for the New York Police Department, which has distanced him from his colleague and lover, the homicide detective Amelia Sachs. In her absence, Rhyme has acquired a brainy assistant, Juliette Archer, also a quadriplegic and possibly a soul mate. At the same time, Nick Carelli, an ex-cop who was Sachs's previous lover, is out of prison and making an impassioned case for his innocence. These are the kinds of intrusions that would normally distract from the forensic detail for which Deaver's darkly witty series is noted. But here they serve to heighten the tensions of the plot and complicate the efforts of Rhyme and his troops to stop "the People's Guardian," a domestic terrorist who has been sabotaging (to stomach-churning effect) the mechanics of supposedly trusty equipment and appliances, from escalators and alarm systems to pacemakers and baby monitors.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [March 6, 2016]

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Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Lutz's Spellman Files attracted an enthusiastic fan base captivated by the quirky, humorous, modern-day Nancy Drew tales. That kind of love can give an author confidence to step out on a limb, and Lutz does so nimbly with this dark psychological thriller. Tanya Dubois finds her husband, Frank, dead after a tumble down the stairs and knows she can't afford the scrutiny police will give his questionable death. So, Tanya gases up his truck, blackmails mysterious Mr. Oliver for a new identity, and hits the road to start over as Amelia Keen. Tanya/Amelia's life on the run began years before she met Frank, and she has the procedures down cold. But she's never gotten used to the loneliness, which may be why she allows herself to forge a new friendship with Blue, a secretive Austin bartender. When threats from both of their pasts resurface, Blue devises their risky escapes. But as Tanya/Amelia struggles to settle into her newest fake life and reluctantly squelches a dangerous romance with a small-town sheriff, she begins to suspect that Blue's plan may have served darker purposes. Lutz develops riveting suspense by slowly revealing the events that first sent Tanya/Amelia on the run, while pouring threats on her gritty heroine's increasingly tenuous bids at survival. Binge-worthy fare, especially for those drawn to strong female protagonists.--Tran, Christine Copyright 2015 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Tanya Dubois, the enigmatic heroine of this enjoyable standalone from Lutz (How to Start a Fire), is the unhappy wife of the deceased Frank Dubois, who took a fatal-and unassisted-header down the basement stairs of their Waterloo, Wis., home. Since she fears the police will think she pushed Frank, Tanya decides to get out of Waterloo as fast as possible, and she holes up in a sleazy motel, the first of many she'll stay in, to call the mysterious Mr. Oliver, who grudgingly agrees to supply her with a new identity and some starter cash: it's clear he's done it before. Tanya becomes Amelia Keen in Austin, Tex., where she meets the beguiling but dangerous bartender Blue. It's soon clear that Amelia and Blue both have unsavory pasts, and the agreement the women reach sends both of them off with new names. While the pacing falters in places and some of the final reveals lack wallop, Lutz's complex web of finely honed characters will keep readers turning the pages. Agent: Stephanie Rostan, Levine Greenberg Literary Agency. (Mar.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Tanya Dubois, as she's initially introduced, is not the woman her husband believed her to be. He's dead-she didn't do it-but Tanya runs anyway, shedding her name and recent past yet again and taking on another identity. In another town, another bar, she meets Blue, who recognizes a kindred imposter and shelters Tanya-now-Amelia-at least for a while. The two will need to reinvent themselves once (twice, thrice...) more to escape their ghosts and the law and to stay alive. With a motley crew of abusive husbands, wealthy criminals, old boyfriends, desperate cops, and jealous brothers, men don't fare particularly well here. The body count grows, although who actually kills whom is tough to pinpoint when no one is who they claim to be. The latest from Lutz ("Spellman Files" series) is taut, serious, shocking, and undeniably addictive. -Madeline Maby's excellent narration keeps the energy high, mimicking the characters' nerve-racking life on the run. VERDICT Libraries stocking up on summer reading will surely want to pick up this Passenger. ["[If] fans [of Lutz's beloved "Spellman Files" series] are open to...a darker energy and intensity, they will find her trademark independent narrator, smart writing, and rapid pace delivered here": LJ 11/15/15 starred review of the S. & S. hc.]-Terry Hong, -Smithsonian BookDragon, Washington, DC © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

With her latest books, Lutz is deep in thriller territory, and she writes like she's happy to be there. Best known for her wry series of mysteries starring the San Francisco-based Spellman family (imagine if Seymour Glass and his parents and siblings opened a private investigation service), last year Lutz veered toward straight fiction with How to Start a Fire, a richly plotted tale of the relationships among four college friends. In this new book, the protagonist, who's known as Tanya when we meet her, comes home to a dead husband (not her fault, really, he fell down the stairs) and decides her best option is to run. Different names see her through different lives, though she's always trying to escape both Tanya and an identity even further back in her past, which is cleverly revealed through a series of emails with someone who really knew, and loved, her. Meanwhile, in order to secure a new identity after Tanya is wanted in connection with her husband's death, she calls on a man who was involved in that past. He sends some money, a new birth certificate, and a couple of thugs to kill her. Complicating things further is a woman she meets called Blue, who's also on the run but seems to have something on our protagonist. Lutz's pacing is excellent, and the interior monologue captures what it would be like not to have a name or, even worse, a valid ID. Lutz provides some great suggestions for going on the lam (a lot of hair dye and car switching is involved), but at its core, this is a novel about identity: a slippery notion which depends upon both how the world sees us and how we see ourselves. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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The Passenger Chapter 1 WHEN I found my husband at the bottom of the stairs, I tried to resuscitate him before I ever considered disposing of the body. I pumped his barrel chest and blew into his purple lips. It was the first time in years that our lips had touched and I didn't recoil. I gave up after ten minutes. Frank Dubois was gone. Lying there all peaceful and quiet, he almost looked in slumber, but Frank was noisier asleep than he was awake. Honestly, if I had known what kind of snorer he was going to turn into, I never would have married him. If I could do it all over again, I never would have married him even if he slept like an angel. If I could do it all over again, there are so many things I would do differently. But looking at Frank then, so still and not talking, I didn't mind him so much. It seemed like a good time to say good-bye. I poured a shot of Frank's special bourbon, sat down on Frank's faux-suede La-Z-Boy, and had a drink to honor the dead. In case you were wondering, I didn't do it. I didn't have anything to do with Frank's death. I don't have an alibi, so you'll have to take my word for it. I was taking a shower when Frank died. As far as I could tell, he fell down the staircase all on his own. He had been suffering from vertigo lately. Convenient, I know. And I doubt he mentioned it to anyone. If I had waited for the police and told them the truth, maybe life could have continued as normal. Minus Frank. I poured another drink and contemplated my options. My first thought was to dispose of the body. Then I'd tell the authorities that Frank left me for another woman. Or was running from a loan shark. It was well-known that he had a love for cards but no talent for it. I decided to test my strength to see if it was even possible. I tugged on Frank's bloated and callused feet, feet that I had come to loathe--why do you have to tell a grown man to clip his toenails? I dragged the body about a foot from his landing site before I gave up. Frank had put on weight in the past year, but even if he were svelte I couldn't see depositing him anyplace where he'd never be found. And now there was a suspicious trail of blood in the shape of a question mark just above his head. I might be able to explain it away if I called the police and stayed put. But then they'd start looking at me real carefully and I didn't like people looking at me all that much. I tried to imagine my trial. Me, scrubbed clean, hair pulled back in a schoolmarm bun, wearing an innocent flowered sundress with a Peter Pan collar, trying to look not guilty, with my hard-edged poker face dry as the desert. I couldn't imagine how I'd summon tears or sell that shattered look of loss. I can't show much emotion anymore. That was something Frank always liked about me. There was a time I used to cry, but that was another lifetime ago. My heart was broken just once. But completely. As I sat in Frank's chair, nursing my drink, I pretended to be weighing my options. But there was only one. Frank kept his gambling stash in his toolbox. A little over twelve hundred dollars. I packed for a short trip and loaded the suitcase into the back of Frank's Chevy pickup. I was only leaving two people behind, if you don't count Frank: Carol from the bar and Dr. Mike. Dr. Mike was the top chiropractor in Waterloo, Wisconsin. There were only two, so it wasn't much of a competition. He'd taken over the practice three years ago, when Dr. Bill retired. Ever since the accident, my back hasn't been right. Dr. Bill used to fix me up once or twice a month. I saw Dr. Mike more frequently. The first time he put his hands on me, I felt an electric jolt, like I had woken up for the first time in years. I came back the next week and it was the exact same thing. I came back the week after that. I missed a week and Dr. Mike dropped by the bar to see how I was doing. Frank was on a fishing trip and Dr. Mike offered to give me an adjustment in the back office. It didn't go as planned. I couldn't trouble Carol at this hour. I'd wake her kids. Maybe I'd send her a postcard from the road. My chiropractor worked out of an office on the first floor of his three-story Queen Anne-style house in the nice part of town. The smart thing to do was to get out now, run during those precious hours when the world thought Frank was still in it. But I had few real connections to this world, and Dr. Mike was one of them. I drove Frank's Chevy truck to Dr. Mike's house and took the key from under the rock. I unlocked the door and entered his bedroom. Dr. Mike made a purring sound when he was in a deep sleep, just like a Siamese cat I had as a child. He kind of moved like one, too. He always stretched his lanky limbs upon waking, alternating between slow and deliberate, and fast and sharp. I took off my clothes and climbed into bed next to him. Dr. Mike woke up, wrapping his arms around me. "Do you need an adjustment?" he said. "Uh-huh." That was our little joke. He kissed my neck and then my lips and he turned onto his back, waiting for me to start. That was his thing; we never did it unless it was my decision. I had started it, I'd continue it, and today I was ending it. Dr. Mike and I were never a great love story. He was the place I went to when I wanted to forget. When I was with Dr. Mike I forgot about Frank, I forgot about running from the law, I forgot about who I used to be. When we were done, Mike was massaging the kinks out of my back and trying to straighten out my spine. "You're completely out of alignment. Did something happen? Did you do something you shouldn't have?" "Probably," I said. Dr. Mike turned me over on my back and said, "Something has changed." "It's about time, isn't it?" I'd felt like a speck of dust frozen in an ice cube for far too long. I should have done something about this life I had long before Dead Frank made me do something. I looked at the clock; it was just past midnight. Time to leave. I got dressed quickly. Dr. Mike studied me with a professional regard. "This is the end, isn't it?" I don't know how he knew, but he did. There was no point in answering the question. "In the next few days, you might hear some things about me. I just want you to know that they're not true. Later, it's possible you'll hear more things about me. Most of them won't be true either," I said. I kissed him good-bye for the last time. I DROVE thirty miles before I gassed up the truck. I had one ATM card and one credit card and withdrew the $200 maximum for each. I drove another twenty miles to the next fuel stop, got a strong cup of coffee, and withdrew another two hundred on each card. Frank had always been stingy with our money. I had one credit card and a small bank account and neither provided sufficient funds to set you up, if you decided to take an extended vacation. I made one more stop at a Quick Mart, got another four hundred dollars, and dropped the cards in the Dumpster out back. I had $2,400 and a Chevy truck that I'd have to lose before long. I should have been tucking money away from the moment I got the key to the cash register. I should have known this day would come. The truck smelled like my husband--my ex-husband? Or was I a widow? I'd have to decide. I guess I could have never married. Either way, I drove with the windows open, trying to lose the scent of Frank. I merged onto I-39 South, leaving Wisconsin behind. I drove through Illinois for some time until I saw a sign for I-80, which I knew would take me somewhere. I had no destination in mind, so I headed west, mostly because I didn't feel like squinting against the morning light. And I planned on driving through dawn. I hadn't brought music for the drive, so I was stuck with local radio and preachers all night long. I hooked onto a station while speeding along the rolling hills of Iowa. It was too dark to see the denuded trees and murky snow marring the barren February landscape. The Iowa preacher who kept me company for the first half of my journey was listing the seven signs of the Antichrist. One was that he'd appear Christlike. I listened through the static of the fading station and noted a few more clues. He'd be handsome and charming. He was sounding like a catch. But then I lost reception. So it's quite possible I'll run into the Antichrist and never know it. I toggled through the stations to another minister preaching about forgiveness. It's a subject that doesn't interest me. I switched off the radio and drove to the sound of wind swishing by and wheels on asphalt while headlights of people on a different path blinked and vanished in my peripheral vision. I remembered the day I met Frank. I had only been in town a few weeks, hoping to land work somewhere. I was drinking at his bar, which was named after him. Dubois'. Sometimes I think I married Frank for his name. I never liked Tanya Pitts. Didn't like the first name, didn't like the last name. No doubt, Tanya Dubois was a promotion. Back then, Frank had some life in him and I had none, so it worked out just fine. He gave me my first real job. I learned how to pull pints and mix drinks, although we didn't get too many requests for cocktails in our humble establishment. There wasn't much more to my life with Frank. We didn't have any children. I made sure of that. After driving all night, I found myself just outside Lincoln, Nebraska. It was time to take a break and lose the truck. I found a used car dealership and traded in Frank's two-year-old Chevy Silverado for a seven-year-old Buick Regal and seventeen hundred in cash. I knew I was being fleeced, but it was better not to draw attention to myself. I wouldn't be keeping the Buick for long, anyway. I drove another ten miles to a small town called Milford and found a motel called Motel that looked like the kind of establishment that wouldn't mind an all-cash transaction. When they asked for ID, I said I'd lost mine. I paid a surcharge and signed the register as Jane Green. I slept for eight solid hours. If I were guilty, could I have done that? I woke with a hunger so fierce it had turned to nausea. I opened the door of room 14, on the second story of the stucco building, and leaned over the balcony to catch a glimpse of the town where I'd landed. I don't think that balcony was up to code. I took a step back, spotted an unlit red neon sign for DINER. I returned to my room, washed up, and headed out, giving myself a quick reminder: You are Jane Green for now. Forget who you used to be. It was eight in the evening, well past the dinner crowd, so I took a seat in a booth, figuring the counter is where everyone talks. I probably wouldn't be very good at that, since I had no identity. That would come later. A waitress named Carla dropped a menu in front of me. "Can I start you off with anything?" she asked. "Coffee," I said. "Black." "Try it first; then decide." She poured the coffee. "I'll give you a minute to look over the menu." She was right. It wasn't the kind of coffee you drank straight. I drowned it in cream and sugar. Even then it was hard to keep down. I perused the menu, trying to decide what I was in the mood for. It occurred to me that Jane Green might be in the mood for something different than Tanya Dubois. But since I hadn't yet changed my clothes or my hair, I could probably last another day eating the food that Tanya liked. Jane Green was just a shell I embodied before I could be reborn. "Have you decided, sweetheart?" Carla asked. "Apple pie and French fries," I said. "A girl after my own heart," Carla said, swiftly walking away on her practical white nurse's shoes. I watched Carla chat with a trucker who was hunched over a plate of meatloaf at the end of the counter. He grumbled something I couldn't understand. Carla squinted with a determined earnestness and said, "Sunshine, I think you need to go on antidepressants. Yes indeed, you need a happy pill. The next time you walk into my house I want to see a smile on that handsome face of yours. Do you hear me? See that sign there? We have the right to refuse service." "Carla, leave the poor man alone," some guy in the kitchen yelled. "Mind your own business, Duke," Carla said. Then she filled more cups of coffee, called customers honey and sweetheart, and belly-laughed at a joke that wasn't funny at all. I thought it would be nice to be Carla, maybe just for a little while. Try her on and see if she fit. I devoured my pie and French fries so quickly even Carla was impressed. "I haven't seen three-hundred-pound truckers put food away that fast. You must have been famished." "Yes," I said. Short answers. Always. I paid the check and left, walking down the dull drag of the small town, which hardly deserved a name. I walked into a drugstore and purchased shampoo, a toothbrush, toothpaste, hair dye in auburn and dark brown, and a disposable cell phone from behind the counter. The clerk, a middle-aged man with the name Gordon on his name tag, rang up my order and said, "That'll be fifty-eight dollars and thirty-four cents." I paid in cash. As I was leaving, the following words escaped my mouth: "Thanks, sweetheart. Have a nice day." It felt so wrong, I almost shivered in embarrassment. I FOUND a liquor store on the way home and purchased a bottle of Frank's favorite bourbon. I figured I could drink away all my memories. I paid in cash and said a mere "thanks" to the clerk. Back in the hotel room, with the heating unit rattling out of time, I spread my bounty on the bed and tried to decide my next move. I'd known it all along, but I didn't yet have the courage. I took a shot of bourbon and plucked my phone book from my purse. I inhaled and practiced saying hello a few times. Then I dialed. "Oliver and Mead Construction," the receptionist said. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Roland Oliver." "May I ask who is calling?" "No. But I'm sure he'll want to talk to me." "Please hold." A click, and then Beethoven blasted over the line. Two full minutes passed and the receptionist returned. "I'm afraid Mr. Oliver is very busy right now. Can I take a number, and he'll call you back?" I didn't want to say the name, but I didn't see any other way of reaching him. "Tell Mr. Oliver that his old friend Tanya is calling." This time I got only a few bars of Beethoven before Mr. Oliver's deep sandpaper voice came on the line. "Who is this?" he said. "Tanya Pitts," I whispered. He said nothing. I could hear his labored breath. "I need your help," I said. "You shouldn't have called me here," he said. "Would it have been better if I left a message with your wife?" "What do you want?" he said. "A favor." "What kind of favor?" "I need a new name." "What's wrong with the one you've got?" "It's not working for me anymore. I think you know someone who can take care of these things." "I might." "I want a clean identity, a name that's prettier than my old one, and if possible, I wouldn't mind being a few years younger." Tanya Dubois was about to have her thirtieth birthday. But I didn't want to turn thirty before my time. "You can't get identities served to order," Mr. Oliver said. "Do your best." "How can I reach you?" "I'll reach you. Oh, and if you wouldn't mind, I'm going to need some cash too. A couple grand should do it." "You're not going to become a problem now, are you, Ms. Pitts?" He used my name like a weapon, knowing it would feel like a stab in the gut. "Make it five grand," I said. I knew I could get more, but I had gone years without asking Mr. Oliver for a dime, and I found a point of pride in that. "Where are you?" he said. "I'll be in touch." "Wait," he said. "How have you been?" I could have sworn the question was sincere, like it mattered to him. But I knew otherwise. "Good-bye, Mr. Oliver." Excerpted from The Passenger by Lisa Lutz 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.

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