Because the pen can be mightier than the sword, the mystery genre has a rich tradition of investigative journalists as amateur detectives. From Michael Connelly's Jack McEvoy and Barbara D'Amato's Cat Marsala to Stieg Larson's Mikael Blomkvist, reporter as hard-boiled hero has become a crime-novel staple. In "Rogue Island" (Forge, 304 pages, $24.99), Bruce DeSilva's journalist, Liam Mulligan, is a notable addition to this distinguished crime beat.

Mulligan is a pit bull in his approach to a story and old school in his approach to life. He's "on a collision course with forty," has a smart mouth, thick skin and a big heart. He's always "hustling for ... a lead, a quote, a free parking space, a space above the fold." He knows "the barbers and the bartenders, the judges and the hit men, the whores and the priests," and he shares his bed with Veronica, an ace journalist with "an allowance from daddy" and "plum-tinged lips."

At times, I thought Mulligan's sensibilities skewed older than late 30s, especially when he remembers the "clacking typewriters" in a newsroom and that he "dreamed of being the next Edward R. Murrow." Regardless of those moments, Mulligan's Hildy Johnson patter and his Sam Spade swagger are very appealing.

Mulligan's beat includes Mount Hope, R.I., where a serial arsonist is burning Mulligan's neighborhood to the ground, one duplex and storefront at a time. The arson detectives in charge of the case, not so affectionately known as "Dumb and Dumber," couldn't smell smoke if they were on fire. Mulligan investigates by stalking his neighborhood -- hanging out in corner taverns, interviewing crooks and corrupt politicians, digging in the ashes of each of the fires -- until he starts to see a pattern. The problem is that the pattern becomes personal, eventually forcing Mulligan to abandon more than just his journalistic ethics.

As much as I liked Mullligan, I appreciated DeSilva's ironic and insightful sense of place even more. Home to Puritans, pirates and Mr. Potato Head, Rhode Island, or "Rogue Island," the moniker the "sturdy farmers of colonial Massachusetts" gave to the "swarm of heretics, smugglers and cutthroats" who settled the state, is as lively and authentic as the novel's other characters. In fact, DeSilva's approach to setting reminded me a little of Ross MacDonald's keen observations and cynical take on Southern California in his novels.

Carole E. Barrowman teaches at Alverno College in Milwaukee and blogs at www.carolebarrowman.com.