Crimson Lake

Wrongly accused of a heinous crime he didn’t commit, ex-cop Ted Conkaffey is trying to lay low in the fringes of rural Australia. When he begins talking to his old service pistol, Ted suspects it is time to get out of the house. Enter Amanda Pharrell, a local private investigator in need of a partner. She’s also the town pariah after murdering her classmate as a teenager.

An accused child rapist teaming up with a convicted killer? Sounds like a match made in heaven.

Ted and Amanda are hired to investigate the death of a local author. The case appears cut and dry. A crocodile coughed up the man’s wedding ring. Could it be suicide by croc? Or something more nefarious? A note hidden in a cigar box sends them down a trail of secret liaisons, obsessive fans, vigilante teenagers, and cold-blooded killers.

As they dig deeper into the case, author Candice Fox delves into Ted’s emotional turmoil. He’s a broken man, haunted by his time in prison, terrified of being recognized on the street. Since the case was dropped due to lack of evidence, Ted’s been found guilty in the court of public opinion. He’s heard so many different versions of what may have happened on that fateful day, his memories have started to warp into a twisted “What If?” nightmare.

It’s harrowing stuff, and the author captures it with a deft hand. It would have been easy for the story to descend into an all-out misery fest: Ted drinking his life away while dodging bricks thrown through his windows. But the little glimpses of his humanity — tending to wayward geese, poking holes in the case that put his new partner away, rebuilding his home and a sense of normality when rogue cops smash everything he owns — really make you root for the guy. It’s almost enough to stand alone as its own story, but Fox balances it and the core mystery like a seasoned pro.

Really, my only complaint about the book is that the resolution to Ted and Amanda’s investigation is a bit jarring. It ends up making sense once the author lays it out, but it felt like a stretch for our characters to get there. But hey, even greats like Raymond Chandler couldn’t always tell you who-killed-who in his own books. No reason to let a little Sherlock Holmesian leap in logic ruin the fun.