Next week officially launches the summer season, though New Yorkers have spent a lot of time looking for air-conditioning recently, as the city turned steamier than Paris Hilton’s home videos.

People tend to slow down a little in hot weather, taking vacations, going on summer hours, and heading off to beaches or country homes for leisure time activity. The books published to accommodate this mood of indolence are generically referred to as “summer reading,” which may not come as a shock to you.

Mysteries tend to make great summer reading. They also tend to make great autumn, winter, and spring reading, but for the purpose of this column, which is to alert you to some of the best books of the season, let’s ignore that.

“North” (Norton, 302 pages, $24.95), by the gifted Frederick Busch, is a beautifully composed detective story by a writer who doesn’t usually write detective stories. The protagonist, in a search for a missing person, uncovers too much of his own life, his own emotions. Here’s a sample:

In a marriage, you have to tell your secret. I came to believe that. But I also came to believe that my wife would die of ours. So I kept it to myself. The marriage ended. … When we were together the dog tried to look after us. Whenever Fanny cried he thumped his tail against the floor. He’d done it since we got married. Sometimes it was the sound of his tail that lifted us out of that minutes misery.

Utterly different in style and tone is Donald E. Westlake’s “Watch Your Back (Mysterious Press, 310 pages, $24.95). The funniest mystery writer who ever lived, Mr. Westlake brings back his highly intelligent and careful thief, John Dortmunder, who simply cannot, ever, catch a break.

Dortmunder, “a free man, and not even on parole,” and his little gang, comprised of Murch, Kelp and Tiny (who is, of course, huge) have a perfect setup: entree to a New York apartment with millions in art and antiques while the owner enjoys his sybaritic life on an island resort far, far away. What could be simpler? Well, it could be a lot simpler if no one else was after the same loot, especially mobsters from New Jersey, but that’s never been the road Dortmunder’s life has taken.

With the possible exception of Thomas Harris, I don’t think anyone writes better villains today that John Connolly. He has an uncanny ability to impart a sense of dread and is one of the few authors who has successfully blended two diametrically opposed literary genres: the detective story, which is steeped in reality, and fantasy, which has a tenuous foothold in it.

“The Black Angel” (Atria, 488 pages, $25) is the latest in the series about Charlie Parker, who continues to have conversations with his wife and daughter, although both are dead. When a woman comes to him to seek his help in finding her daughter, Charlie realizes he is putting his new wife and child in jeopardy, but he cannot ignore her need of help.

What appears to be the story of a prostitute who disappears, and the mother who has come to find her, is merely the jumping-off point to a long, complex, and relentlessly readable tale of a priceless icon, the nature of evil, and those who pursue both. Somewhat based on true historical events, the story is so dark I’d rather not know how much of it is true and how much boiled out of the fertile mind of the author.

This seems a good time to recommend another book about a rediscovered icon worth a fortune but fanatically pursued by those who want it for other reasons: “The Icon” (Harper-Collins, 353 pages, $24.95), a first novel by Neil Olson. During World War II, a handful of Greek patriots battle Nazis while attempting to protect the icon, which is apparently destroyed when the church in which had resided is burned. Nothing here we haven’t read before, but the story is in the capable hands of an outstanding new talent who makes this a page-turner (I know that’s a cliche, but get a copy and you’ll see what I mean).

One of the best thrillers of last year was John Burdett’s “Bangkok 8.” Now the sequel, “Bangkok Tattoo” (Alfred A. Knopf, 310 pages, $24), proves the first effort wasn’t a fluke. It’s not quite as thrilling as the first book, but the pleasure of “Bangkok Tattoo” is that it brings back detective Sonchai Jitleecheep of the Royal Thai Police.

The action begins at the Old Man’s Club, jointly owned by Sonchai’s mother and his boss, Police Colonel Vikorn, which caters to a clientele who rely on the powers of Viagra. A mutilated body is found at the club and the chief suspect is Chanya, one of the club’s most popular girls. When the victim is discovered to be an agent for the CIA, Vikorn decides to protect his club by fabricating a cover-up story that involves Al Qaeda and Thailand’s southern border, where the CIA has had a large covert (though very obvious) presence ever since the September 11 attacks. The mystery is good, the characters are charming and the culture is as fascinating and as alien to westerners as the dark side of the moon.

I’ve already written in recent columns about James Crumley’s “The Right Madness,” Elmore Leonard’s “The Hot Kid,” Michael Connelly’s “The Closers” and Robert Littell’s “Legends,” so don’t forget about them.

I can’t guarantee that you will love every one of these books, but they’re closer to being a sure thing than anything beyond death, taxes, and the New York Knicks having another dismal season.

Mr. Penzler is the proprietor of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan and the series editor of the annual “Best American Mystery Stories.” He can be reached at openzler@nysun.com.