Beneath the Book Tower: An Alex McKnight Short Story by Steve Hamilton Page B

miracle this place was, here on the shores of the Detroit River with a thousand lights from Windsor, Ontario, blinking behind it.
    “They’ll close this place down, too,” Franklin said. “You watch.”
    “No way,” I said. “It’s a national historic place, or whatever the hell you call it. It’s protected, I mean.”
    “That won’t mean nothing when the time comes.”
    I looked over at him. “Are you gonna tell me where I’m going yet?”
    “Just drive,” he said. “West side. I’ll let you know when we’re close.”
    I drove. As I cut back to Michigan Avenue, we could both see the Book Tower looming ahead of us.
    “There’s Batman’s lair again,” he said. “Looks like there’s one light on up there.”
    “He’s planning his next move,” I said. “I’m glad he’s on our side.”
    “I wish he’d hurry his ass up. We could use the help.”
    We passed by Tiger Stadium. It was dark tonight with the team out of town. When we were out of Corktown, Franklin had me pull off the main road and drive down a residential street. We passed by a burnt-out house. Then another. Then another house that was empty. Maybe this one would burn one day, too. On Devil’s Night, the night before Halloween, that’s when it would happen.
    “In case you hadn’t noticed,” I said, “we’re not even in our precinct anymore. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to know where the hell we’re going.”
    “We’re here.” I pulled up in front of the first house that actually looked intact and lived in. There were lights on inside, and there were plastic lawn chairs sitting out front in the tiny yard. Franklin grunted as he climbed out of the car and stood in the street. I waited a couple of beats, then I joined him.
    “You said something about a favor,” I said to him. “I assume this is the lucky recipient.”
    “Show some respect,” he said. “This is the street I grew up on.”
    I looked both ways and counted maybe three houses that seemed occupied, out of a dozen on the block. “Which house?”
    “Down that way,” he said. “One of those empty lots. House is gone now.”
    He knocked on the door.
    “This is Mrs. Treille we’re gonna see,” he said, pronouncing the name like “trial.” “I just want to say hello, and tell her we’ll be keeping an eye out for Antoine.”
    “Antoine would be, what, her son?”
    “Grandson.”
    The door opened then. A woman looked out at us. She was wearing a batik dress, and her hair was wrapped up in a scarf. She didn’t look much older than fifty.
    “Franklin, it’s been so long,” she said, giving him a hug. I could hear a slight Caribbean lilt in her voice. “Just look at you in that uniform.”
    “Yeah, I’m a sight and a half, I’m sure.”
    “And who’s your friend here?”
    “That’s no friend, that’s my partner,” he said, smiling for the first time that night. “His name’s Alex.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” she said, taking my hand. “Why don’t you boys come in?”
    We did that. We sat down in her little living room, and I could see in just those first few moments that she was fighting her own battle against all of the chaos, right here in this little house. She had rugs over the bare floors and a small television in one corner. A single fan stood in an open window, drawing in the night air and making it just cool enough to be tolerable.
    “When’s the last time you saw your grandson?” Franklin said, getting right down to business.
    “Two days ago. Yes, Tuesday. Tuesday morning.”
    “Did he give you any indication he wasn’t going to be home for a couple days?”
    “No,” she said. “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”
    “No, we’re good. We should get back out there. Is there anybody in particular he’s running with these days? Somebody we could ask?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry. There’s a whole bunch of kids come by, but they don’t say much to me. They’re not real