L.A. CONFIDENTIAL

Donald E. Westlake’s “Put a Lid on It” is a great caper, fast-cut and facetious, about the interface between politics and crime, which have a lot in common, as we know. As the book opens, Francis Xavier Meehan, a recidivist thief, is held for a federal crime in the Manhattan Correctional Center. When it closes, he’s looking for rehabilitation, preferably in the company of his lawyer, Mrs. Goldfarb.

In between, Meehan robs the rich to give to the richer (and keep a little for himself). The president has recklessly given away sensitive intelligence affecting national security and the security of others. Neither the lapse nor the bloody mess it caused would matter much if the indiscretion did not teeter on the brink of exposure. Only expert intervention can save the president’s bacon and the forthcoming election. Meehan provides it and his ramble ‘twixt the two points is great fun. Scenes that are not hilarious are breathless, scenes that aren’t whimsical are nimble. Mostly, though, they’re all of the above. Sometimes Westlake’s farces are better than the ones they put on in Washington, D.C.

Barry Siegel’s “Lines of Defense” lays out the ravages and raptures of prosperity. It’s urbanization and gentrification time in La Graciosa, a small town inland from California’s Central Coast, not far from San Luis Obispo. Venture capital has kick-started Chumash County where La Graciosa sits. Ecology-friendly developments, earth-toned condos, upscale retail centers, joggers, croissants, sushi and cappuccino shops have followed.

Douglas Bard, a Chumash County sheriff’s detective and a good one, becomes deeply involved in the investigation of a fire, first declared accidental, then recognized as arson and double homicide. The county district attorney’s office, more interested in obfuscation, tries to damp down the investigation; then turns to railroading a suspect whose guilt Bard questions. Proceeding in counterpoint with the D.A.’s campaign to convict the accused man, Bard’s attempts to clear him and find the real culprit isolate the detective, jeopardize his career and the safety of those he loves.

The setting is vivid with local color, parochial politics, corporate and community meddling and muddling, and heavy-breathing personal travails for all involved. The murky doings grow ever more opaque and fraught. There is a lot of driving, mostly on winding roads through the late night and early morning fogs that grace the area; and there’s a lot of soul-searching about personal and legal ethics. Complicated, compelling and contrived, Siegel, a staff writer for The Times, spins a yarn that provides amateurs of legal drama with plenty of suspense.

P.I. Bill Smith is the hero, the self-destructive but persistent anti-hero, of S.J. Rozan’s “Winter and Night,” which is all about the joys of life and death in small, cozy towns; and the ineluctable fact that the gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.

Bill’s 15-year-old nephew, Gary, asks for his uncle’s help on matters unknown, then disappears leaving his kinsman, the private investigator, to seek him out in the streets of New York, the wilds of New Jersey, the maze of the Internet but, above all, through the smirch and chill of Warrenstown, N.J. Warrenstown is a football town that revolves around jocks. Boys dream of a chance to play, to shine, to be recruited. Their elders share their ambitions. “Same,” growls the sheriff, once the co-captain of the high school team, “as half the towns in America.”

More than about money, the local pecking order turns upon high school football and post-high school exploits. But, as Bill soon finds, in a community where no one is quite what he seems or what he pretends to be, yesterday’s secrets weigh heavy on today. Poking into long-buried crimes, as Bill is forced to do in his search for Gary, stirs up trouble. Not only for the town, for the school, for the football team, but for Bill who cannot come to terms with his own demons, his memories, his father’s sins and, perhaps, his own.

An intrepid investigator and a deeply flawed man, Bill keeps going mostly on bourbon, caffeine and cell phones. The best things about him are grim determination and his partner, Lydia Chin, who listens to his rantings and reins in his rages. In the end, things will work out in an explosive finale, though not without serious damage to many of those involved. As one nice girl comments: “I don’t see how you can call it justice.” And as Bill answers, speaking presumably for Rozan too, “That’s the problem with justice. There’s no such thing.”