Let It Burn (3 page)

The Thirteenth had the nice indoor gym, so it was always an away game for whoever played for us. I’d never taken part myself, but I’d seen my fellow officers limping around the next day, some of them with loose teeth.

“So we really need some help this year,” he said, his hands on his hips, jacket open, that gold badge blinding everyone in the room. “Some height, some athleticism…”

“Some black guys,” Franklin said. “
Tall
black guys. Is that what you’re saying?”

Everybody laughed. There were thirty of us in the room, maybe twenty white, ten black, my partner among them. But we were all pretty tight. As a Detroit cop you get over that kind of thing pretty fast. In fact, if you can’t deal with the realities of race, talk about it in the open, joke about it, laugh about it, then you’re on the wrong police force. For that matter, you’re in the wrong city.

The detective laughed along with us. He was one of those guys who had probably never been the butt of a joke, going back to his glorious three-sport high school career, and wasn’t about to acknowledge such a possibility now.

“You can say it that way if you want to,” he said. “But I didn’t, okay? Just see me after roll call if you’re interested. We really need some guys with game this year.”

Thereby insulting everyone who played last year, I thought, but again, guys like Arnie Bateman get away with that kind of stuff all their lives.

“All right, back to the announcements,” Sergeant Grimaldi said. “Thank you, Detective Bateman.”

He waited for the detective to show himself out, then he continued.

“We’re keeping a focus on Roosevelt Park and MCS this month,” he said, MCS meaning Michigan Central Station. “We continue to see some daytime drug activity, both in the park and in the lots by the station itself.”

It was a familiar story. A dealer sets up shop, word gets around, the police crack down on it, and maybe a few low-level runners get arrested. Then it all starts over somewhere else. In this case, though, you’ve got train commuters coming and going, maybe taking a little walk in the park on a nice summer afternoon. Maybe some of them are buyers, but the rest are just people trying to get on with their day. A lot of them don’t live in the city. They live in one of the suburbs, and they come downtown to go to work or to see a ball game at Tiger Stadium. It’s one of the unspoken rules around here that if people like that turn into crime victims, then it’s doubly bad for everyone involved.

And for the city itself.

“We’ll be putting together a buy-and-bust later this month,” the sergeant went on, “maybe even by next week.”

There were a few not-so-subtle groans on that one. Buy-and-busts mean more kids in handcuffs, while the real culprits live to sell another day. Sometimes they ask patrol officers to help out, too—which means you get to dress in street clothes, be bored out of your mind, and then risk your life for a few minutes, all in the same day.

“This is all taking place above and beyond the usual Roosevelt Park activity,” the sergeant said. “The solicitation, both male and female. Now that the candy store has moved to the same location, well … As you can imagine, it’s gonna be a hot spot for a while.”

“One-stop shopping,” somebody said. “Get high and get off.”

“You’ve summarized the point well,” the sergeant said, not looking up from his day sheet. “So just keep an eye on the area whenever you drive by, okay?”

There were a few other announcements that didn’t have anything to do with me or my partner, so I tuned out. A few minutes later the sergeant gave us our ten-eight, meaning “officers on duty” and kind of an inside joke because Detroit cops never use ten codes. Then we were on our feet and heading to the locker room for a last pit stop before hitting the road.

My partner was yet another ex-jock on a squad full of them. An ex–football player, once a promising walk-on at the University of Michigan before he blew out his left knee. He still wore a brace, and he took a moment to adjust it while I waited for him. I was just about to ask why the detective hadn’t come up to us personally when Franklin slammed his locker shut and there, in a perfect movie moment, was the smiling detective himself.

“You gotta be what, six-three?”

“Six-four,” Franklin said. “But I don’t hoop anymore.”

“I understand you might not move like you used to,” the detective said, “but I’d like to see one of those guys at the Thirteenth move you out from under the basket.”

“I’d love to help you out, Detective, but the ligaments in my left knee have their own agenda. Why don’t you ask Alex? He’s the only ex–professional athlete around here.”

I was already composing my thank-you note to Franklin when the detective stepped over to look me up and down. “I thought you never made it to the majors,” he said.

On a morning when I had a little more sleep under my belt, and a little more patience, I might have taken the time to explain it to him. You get paid to play ball in the minors. You can even make a decent living in Triple-A. Which makes you a professional, by any definition.

“No, you’re right,” I ended up saying. “I played four years for free. Now if you’ll excuse us…”

“All right, we’ll talk later,” he said. “You don’t look very fast, but I’m sure you could help us.”

With those words of encouragement ringing in my ears, I grabbed my partner and we rolled out into the day.

CHAPTER THREE

I got an early start the next morning and saw the sun coming up as I crossed the Mackinac Bridge. I grabbed a quick breakfast in Gaylord, got back on the road, and kept going. I can drive as fast as anyone, partly because my old Ford F-150 truck still rides smooth going eighty or over, partly because I’m an ex-cop who took three bullets on the job and nobody’s going to write me a ticket. Not in Michigan, anyway.

I still wasn’t exactly sure that this was a good idea, but I knew if I didn’t do it I’d be sitting in front of the fire at the Glasgow that night, telling myself I should have gone. So what the hell.

I rolled through Bay City and Saginaw. Then Flint. The traffic started getting heavier. You forget how empty the Upper Peninsula is, how you can drive for twenty minutes and see one car going the other way. Then you come down here and you realize there are too many people in the rest of the world, and too many cars.

I got off on I-96 and headed southeast, toward Detroit. I remember this road being ripped up and under construction all the time, even way back when. It was nice to see that one thing hadn’t changed, at least. A few more miles down a single lane marked with orange cones and I was in Oakland County. I was running a little early, so I pulled off at Kent Lake and parked the truck for a while. I closed my eyes to recharge my batteries. When I opened my eyes again I was looking out over the lake. It hadn’t been a conscious plan, just something I gravitated to without giving it a thought. If I ever had reason to move down here again, I’d have to live on a lake for sure, or else I’d probably end up going insane.

It was kind of strange to get an actual good cell phone signal down here, so I took the opportunity to give the sergeant a call while I was sitting there, just to let him know I was closing in. He seemed a little surprised I had gotten down here so fast, but he gave me the address of a sports bar on Haggerty Road and told me he’d meet me there.

I made the mistake of taking the secondary roads to get over to Haggerty, ending up in Novi. There’s a huge mall there, plus a million other stores all over the place, and as I sat in the traffic I couldn’t help remembering what the corner of Novi Road and Twelve Mile once looked like. Two roads crossing, fields on all four corners. A traffic light. Now that one corner had more retail shopping than the entire city of Detroit put together.

More memories hit me when I finally got over to Haggerty Road. It was two lanes through the countryside back in the day, with a mom-and-pop store and a gas station every mile or so. More old-timer’s talk, I know, but damn it all, I swear it wasn’t that long ago. A place shouldn’t be able to change this much, this quickly. There was another strip of retail on every corner now, and every straightaway with enough dry land was lined with new housing developments. I didn’t ask myself where all of these people had come from. I already knew the answer. The people who lived in Detroit were moving out to the first line of suburbs, and the people who lived in those old suburbs were moving out here, in a great second wave. Or hell, maybe it was the third wave by now. Another few years and people would be moving to the moon, just to get away from Detroit.

I found the sports bar. It was right on Haggerty, between a couple of restaurants and a movie multiplex. It was one of those places with seventy television screens. In the men’s room there were three more screens above the urinals. When I came back out, I saw my old sergeant standing at the door, looking for me.

“Sergeant Grimaldi,” I said. “I would have recognized you anywhere.”

I was being kind, I guess. He had lost most of his hair, put on a few pounds. He’d spent too much time outside without putting on his sunscreen. But I did truly believe I would have recognized him, even out of context.

“Alex McKnight,” he said, looking me over. “What the hell, you don’t look any different at all.”

“That means I wasn’t much to begin with.”

“No, I’m serious. Do they have the Fountain of Youth up there in Paradise or something?”

“Okay, enough flattery. Let’s sit down, okay?”

We grabbed one of the high tables, with the high stools you have to be careful not to fall off of. There was an afternoon baseball game on over one of his shoulders. Not the Tigers. On another screen there was a soccer game. On another screen there was a news show. Just two guys talking with a running closed caption at the bottom if you really felt like sitting there and reading it. I ordered a beer, and the sergeant did likewise. I was already preparing myself for the fact that it would not be brewed and bottled in Canada.

“I can’t believe you really came all the way down here,” he said, looking at me and shaking his head. “I mean, I know I offered to buy…”

“I appreciated the call,” I said, “and it’s been a while.”

“It’s what, a six-hour drive?”

“Closer to five.”

“Okay, so there’s another reason you’re here,” he said. “Me, I’d only drive five hours for one of two things. Money, or a woman.”

“Well, there is somebody I’m going to see later…”

“Aha. Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Who is she?”

The beers came then. I took a long drink. It tasted good after so many hours on the road, Canadian or no Canadian.

“She’s an FBI agent,” I said. “I met her when she came up to the UP to investigate a string of murders.”

“That does sound romantic.”

I had to laugh at that one. “She’s a good cop,” I said. “Even if she’s a feeb.”

“God, do you remember how much we used to hate those guys?”

“I do.”

“Don’t even get me started,” he said. “The number of times I had to actively go out of my way just to get something done before those clowns came in to mess everything up.”

I smiled and shook my head. It was a topic every local cop could speak to, all over the country. It would probably never change.

“But you say she’s one of the good ones,” he said. “So okay, I guess that means you’re not breaking a code or anything. She’s good-looking, too?”

“Matter of fact, she is.”

“Okay, then. You may proceed.”

He took a hit off his beer. Then he reached behind him and pulled out a little notebook from his back pocket. A real cop move, no matter how long he’d been off the force.

“So, speaking of murder,” he said. “I gotta say, I feel really bad about the way I handled this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I called you up, out of the blue, and I had everything right there in front of me. Darryl King, getting out on parole, in about a week. I’ve got his address, too. Or his mother’s address, I guess. Over on Ash Street.”

“The same house where we made the arrest?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“So what’s the problem?” I said. “Looks like you’ve got it all covered.”

“No, I sure as hell don’t, Alex. When I got off the phone with you, it occurred to me that I didn’t say one word about the woman he murdered.”

“You didn’t have to, Sergeant. I know what he went away for.”

“I told you, I’m Tony now. You see a badge on me?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. If I was still a good sergeant, I would have remembered the most important thing. Even if you know it and I know it and everybody in the world knows it, the most important thing about Darryl King is the woman he murdered in cold blood.”

“Elana Paige,” I said. “That was her name.”

“Yes,” he said. “Elana Paige. You remembered.”

“Of course. I was the one who…”

“That’s right. Not something you’re ever going to forget.”

We both sat there for a while, thinking about it, while the baseball and soccer games went on over our heads.

“Here’s to Elana Paige,” the sergeant said, raising his glass. We toasted her, and then we both went silent again.

“The kid who did this,” I finally said. “I know you’ve already told me, but I want to hear it one more time. Maybe it’ll make sense.”

“He’s getting out. Doesn’t make any more sense, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I used to know a parole officer,” he said. “Going way back. I remember he once told me, when murderers get out of prison, they’re statistically the least likely to ever get in trouble again.”

“Is that right?”

“Sex criminals, child molesters, those guys are almost guaranteed to end up arrested again, but plain old murderers? They usually stay straight.”

“Does that make you feel any better now?” I said.

“No, actually not. How ’bout you?”

I shook my head and took another long drink.

“It’s funny,” he said. “I called you because theoretically somebody you helped put away for a long time might come after you. But while I’m sitting here thinking about him, walking free like that…”