Read The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1) Online

Authors: T.V. LoCicero

Tags: #thriller, #crime, #suspense, #murder, #corruption, #detroit, #bribery, #tv news, #car bomb

The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1)

Also By T.V. LoCicero

NOVELS

The Obsession (The Truth Beauty Trilogy, Book 1)

The Disappearance
(The Truth Beauty Trilogy, Book 2)

Admission of Guilt (The
detroit im dyin
Trilogy, Book 2)

NON-FICTION BOOKS

Murder in the Synagogue

Squelched: The Suppression of
Murder in the Synagogue

STORIES

A Round with J.C.

Fixed

Shrunk

The Jungle Plant

The Visit

MEMOIRS/ESSAYS

Selling the Bison

The Lessons of Sport

 

 

 

T. V. LoCicero

THE CAR BOMB

T.V. LoCicero has been writing both fiction and non-fiction across five decades. He's the author of the true crime books
Murder in the Synagogue
(Prentice-Hall), on the assassination of Rabbi Morris Adler, and
Squelched: The Suppression of Murder in the Synagogue
. His novels include
The Car Bomb
and
Admission of Guilt
, the first two books in The
detroit im dyin
Trilogy, and
The Obsession
and
The Disappearance
, the first two in The Truth Beauty Trilogy. Seven of his shorter works are now available as ebooks. These are among the stories and essays he has published in various periodicals, including Commentary, Ms. and The University Review, and in the hard-cover collections
Best Magazine Articles, The Norton Reader
and
The Third Coast
.

 

 

 

THE CAR BOMB

By T. V. LoCicero

The
detroit im dyin
Trilogy

Book 1

 

 

 

The Car Bomb

by T. V. LoCicero

Copyright 2013 by T. V. LoCicero

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information on this and other works by T.V. LoCicero please visit:

www.tvlocicero.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Patrick

 

 

 

Table of Contents

Also By T.V. LoCicero

About The Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Inscription

Chapter
 
1

Chapter
 
2

Chapter
 
3

Chapter
 
4

Chapter
 5

Chapter
 6

Chapter
 7

Chapter
 8

Chapter
 9

Chapter
 10

Chapter
 11

Chapter
 12

Chapter
 13

Chapter
 14

Chapter
 15

Chapter
 16

Chapter
 17

Chapter
 18

Chapter
 19

Chapter
 20

Chapter
 21

Chapter
 22

Chapter
 23

Chapter
 24

Chapter
 25

Chapter
 26

Chapter
 27

Chapter
 28

Chapter
 29

Chapter
 30

Chapter
 31

Chapter
 32

Chapter
 33

Chapter
 34

Chapter
 35

Chapter
 36

Chapter
 37

Chapter
 38

Chapter
 39

Chapter
 40

Chapter
 41

Chapter
 42

Chapter
 43

Chapter
 44

Chapter
 45

Chapter
 46

Chapter
 47

Chapter
 48

Chapter
 49

Chapter
 50

Chapter
 51

Chapter
 52

Chapter
 53

Chapter
 54

Chapter
 55

Chapter
 56

Chapter
 57

Chapter
 58

Chapter
 59

Chapter
 60

Chapter
 61

Chapter
 62

Chapter
 63

Chapter
 64

Chapter
 65

Chapter
 66

Chapter
 67

Chapter
 68

Chapter
 69

Chapter
 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Other Books

An excerpt from Book 2 of The detroit im dyin Trilogy: Admission of Guilt

detroit im dyin

only come here on a dare

detroit im dyin

dont you even fuckin care

 

--Detroit Street Grafitti, early 1990s

 

 

 

Chapter 1

On a clear, bright, early evening in May, 1992, in a westside Detroit neighborhood lined with weathered ‘50s colonials, squat, swarthy Arnold Russo, his eye to the Panasonic’s viewfinder, backed off a low slab porch onto his neatly kept front lawn. Out of the front door came a teenaged couple, Jeff in a white tux and pink ruffled shirt, Jill in a Portofino blue prom dress with spaghetti straps that kept falling.

Arnold said, “Okay, natural now! Walk to the right.”

Holding hands, the couple moved off the porch to their right.


No, no, to the right, for chrissake!” Arnold dipped the camera from his eye to function as an exasperated director, then remembered he was his own camera operator.

Jill whined, “We did go right, Daddy.”

Arnold barked, “Jesus, high school graduates!”


Daddy, you’re swearing on the tape!”

Arlene, tall and bony thin, and Mikey, a ten-year-old version of Arnold, came out on the porch. The wife rolled her eyes. “Oh, right, Mister Hollywood.”


Yeah, someday you’ll thank me.” Arnold shot the couple posing now on the cracked driveway. “Jesus, do somethin’. It’s movin’ pictures.”

Jill again with the whine: “Mom, tell him to stop.”

Arnold said, “Mikey, get in there and do something with your sister.”

Off the porch, Mikey ran to the couple and tried to stand on his head.

Jill stamped her foot. “Mom!”


Arnold, this is getting ridiculous.”

Behind the teen couple, two doors up the street, a young black woman emerged from a house with two small children. They headed for an old maroon Dodge on the street.

Noticing her neighbors, the woman stopped and called, “Oh, let me see, honey. Twirl that pretty dress.”

Pleased, Jill did a spin. “Hi, Mrs. Peoples. Hi, kids.”

Her mom on the porch and Juanita Peoples exchanged waves. Arnold kept the camcorder rolling.

Juanita said, “Beautiful, honey. We’re in a rush, or I’d get my camera too.”

A last wave and she hustled her little boy and girl into their car seats in the Dodge and slipped behind the wheel. Arnold was still shooting the teen couple with the Peoples’ car behind them.

Juanita turned the ignition, and with a huge percussion that Arnold felt in the chest, the Dodge became a fireball.


Oh, Jesus, God!” He flinched yet kept the camera in front of his eye as a kind of shield from the furious orange flames. Jill uttered a high-pitched scream, but it was nearly lost in the roar of the raging fire. Jeff held her tightly in his arms as they both turned away, and Arlene grabbed little Mikey and yanked him back toward the house.

Thick black smoke was billowing now from the burning wreckage and heading up. As it reached the top branches of the giant Dutch Elms lining the street, a breeze began moving it off above this rustbelt metropolis going about its business, oblivious to what Arnold had just recorded.

Within 10 minutes, the leading wisp of smoke was high above a red Viper convertible moving in the same direction.

Chapter 2

At the wheel of this “Buy American” roadster was Frank DeFauw, 48, tanned, sandy-haired, and dressed expensively in a navy suit and Caribbean blue tie. Frank knew his face showed more than a little mileage, although that young gal with the local monthly wrote last week that it still owned a “charismatic edge.” A glance at it in the rear view mirror told him again that she was sweet. And full of shit.

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