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Chapters (57)
  1. Welcome to the Game
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraphs
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Six months later . . .
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. Back Cover

He turned into the art deco entranceway of a derelict factory. Immediately he had to slam on his brakes. Some of the concrete floor had collapsed, forming a trench, its edge hidden by shadow.

He got out, walked around the trench and into the cavernous loading bay. Sunlight spilled through a doorway at the far end. The doorway led to a stairwell. Looking out, he saw that he was now several stories up. The front of the building was on one level, but behind it the ground dropped steeply away to some old railway sidings and a highway storage area with great piles of gravel.

Spencer looked at his bare wrist. He felt an actual pain in his chest at the thought of his watch. Gone forever, probably already pawned, lost, like his love for this place. Spencer had taken on his wife’s loyalty to Michigan’s broken heart, that love felt all the keener by Detroiters, knowing as they did the rest of the country’s fretful disdain and hating.

Another plane flew over, so low the cracked window glass rattled.

Christ, he needed a drink.

16

16

Shooting the Shit

“With absolute respect, Cap, I disagree,” said Batiste.

Captain Schaeffer took a deep breath. “Evan, listen to me. I’m trying to help you. If I put your Dominic McGrath into the Drug Trafficking Areas database, there’s no one else working him or his outfit. No one’s interested in him. He hasn’t been tied to any murders, narcotics-related or otherwise, and he doesn’t control any narcotics sales in any part of the city. You’ve been working him for months and all we’ve got is two low-level bodies, a nurse with a caved-in skull and a cop who won’t be able to speak for weeks. No one’s looking good right now.”

Batiste said nothing.

Scott was intrigued. The last time he’d been in their superior’s office, Captain Schaeffer had seemed a little beat. But this was more like the ass-kicking name-taker the guy used to be, the guy who’d earned the Medal of Valor on the wall behind him, in a good old hostage situation no less.

“You guys know who killed Rosso?” asked Schaeffer.

“We do,” said Batiste.

“Bring him in, take the credit. Draw a line under this whole thing. This isn’t a request.”

Batiste hesitated, then decided to risk all. “Cap, have you ever wondered why McGrath still exists if he’s small fry? Why doesn’t he get swallowed up or whacked by the bigger guys? It’s because they can’t stop fighting each other and McGrath’s not like them. That’s how he stays off our radar. But he gives a service second to none and only his scumbag lawyer and accountant know how big it is,” said Batiste.

“No, Evan, it’s just you who knows. McGrath is small fry.”