In the 1980s, Frank Trinity cruises around Tucson looking for a rich man’s missing daughter. Meanwhile, a Native American bull rider searches for the man who killed his brother. Are the two cases related? Is the Pope Catholic?
“Trinity Works Alone” lured me in with the author’s terse, staccato prose. I love it when authors cut every word to the bone. Crime fiction works well when it is brisk and matter of fact. Too bad writer Trevor Holliday went overboard and stripped out all of the personality.
Frank is cool, dispassionate, and annoyingly hollow. A week after finishing the book, I struggle to find words to describe him. Stoic? Stern? There isn’t even enough there to call him a cliche. The most memorable thing he does is con a guy out of a hundred bucks while playing tennis. So, there’s that.
Oh! I remembered something: Every woman he meets wants to jump his bones. Don’t ask me why. The book never makes it clear. It certainly isn’t his personality. Maybe he looks like George Clooney.
Good detective fiction is as much about the detective as it is about the case and why they pursue it. Entire dissertations have been written about Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade. I’m struggling to write a paragraph about Frank Trinity.
I could ignore the question mark of a protagonist if the mystery was at least decent. Frank’s investigation is about as straightforward as it gets. Someone early on warns him that the girl was last seen with a no-good thug. When Frank finds the thug, he finds the girl. Presto, mystery solved.
Look, if you need something to read on the plane or to take your mind off how much it sucks to be at the beach, then this will occupy your attention for an afternoon. It’s a fine, brisk read. Just don’t expect it to stick with you afterward.
Joe Johnson Writer 