The Hunting Wind: An Alex McKnight Mystery (7 page)

“Leverette Street,” Randy said. “It’s right up there. God, Alex, this feels kinda weird.”

“I wonder why,” I said.

“Lindell AC is one more block down, right? Whaddya say we go have a drink first?”

“We’ll go there later,” I said. “Show me the house.”

We walked south on Leverette, right into the heart of old Corktown. It used to be a Polish neighborhood, and this street was probably the high end of the market back then. Most of the houses were two-story Victorians, and every single one of them looked restored and freshly painted. A sign on the comer read
CORKTOWN, DETROIT’S OLDEST NEIGHBORHOOD
.

“God, where’s the house?” he said. “It was two forty-one. That much I remember. Here on the left side, in the middle of the block, close enough to Michigan Avenue that you could see the sign. . . .”

We passed a man mowing his lawn, which, from the size of the lawn, would take him about three minutes. There were thousands of blocks just like this one all through Detroit and into the suburbs. Just enough room for a house, a driveway, and maybe five hundred square feet of lawn in the front, another thousand square feet in the back. Just like the house I had grown up in over in Dearborn. Just like the house I had bought after I got married, over in Redford. If I
had stayed down here, I’d still have the same kind of house.

Some kids were out playing catch. Another kid was riding a bike. This street happened to be mostly black now, the Polish immigrants long gone. We were the only two white faces on the block, but nobody seemed to notice. Randy walked slowly. He was trying to picture the place the way it had been almost thirty years before.

The house numbers progressed from 235 to 237 to 239. And then we stopped in front of 241. Randy stood there looking at the house. It was another Victorian, like every other house on the block. It was painted a rosy sort of pink, with green trim.

“This isn’t it,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t the house. It can’t be. There was an enclosed staircase on the right side, with a separate door.”

“I thought you said this was the address,” I said.

“It is,” he said. “I mean, it was. Two forty-one Leverette. I’m sure it was.”

A young black woman came out of the house next door, pushing a baby carriage. She didn’t look much older than seventeen.

“Excuse me!” I said. “Is this Mr. Shannon’s house?”

She just looked at us for moment. “Yeah,” she finally said.

“Can I ask you a strange question?”

“How strange?” she said.

“Did this house once have a staircase on the outside of it?”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

We walked over to her. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.” I started to dig out one of my cards.

“Did somebody steal a staircase?” she said. “Is that what you’re investigating?”

“No, no, ma’am. We’re just looking for somebody who lived here about thirty years ago. We think there was a staircase on the outside of this house then.”

“Don’t know nothin’ about that,” she said.

“I understand,” I said. “How about Mr. Shannon? We’ve been trying to contact him.”

“He’s gone to see his son in St. Louis,” she said. “He’s supposed to be back today, I think. Are you two really private investigators?”

“No, just him,” Randy said. “I’m a normal citizen.”

“Well, good luck finding your staircase,” she said. There was a hint of a smile on her face as she pushed the carriage down the sidewalk.

I smacked Randy on the shoulder.

“Hey, come here, Alex,” he said. “Look at this.” He led me back to the front of Mr. Shannon’s house. “You see how there’s a little bit of extra space here on the right side? Between the house and the driveway?”

“You think they tore the staircase off?”

“They could have,” he said. He walked down the driveway, took two steps up onto a small cement front porch. He looked at the door, and then up at the window on the second story.

“This is it,” he said. “This is the house. Maria lived right up there.”

“Okay, good.”

“I can’t believe it, Alex. I’m standing right underneath her window again.”

“All right, I hear ya,” I said. “Now will you get off the man’s porch before somebody calls the police?”

“So now what?” he said when he was back on the sidewalk. “You wanna start knocking on doors?”

“We could do that,” I said. “Or we could see if Mr. Shannon gets home today, then cover the rest of the neighborhood tomorrow if we have to.”

“What time is it, about four o’clock? Why don’t we hit the city office, see if we can get lucky on her birth certificate. Maybe we’ll get a human being this time.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said. “But it’s worth a shot.”

“We could try the library, too,” he said. “You know where that is?”

“I was a cop in this city for eight years, Randy.”

“So lead the way,” he said.

We walked back down the block, got in the truck, and headed east toward downtown. After turning onto Woodward Avenue, we were right in the middle of my old precinct.

Woodward Avenue. As I said it to myself, I felt something jump inside me. Woodward Avenue. It shouldn’t have surprised me. It was just a gut reaction. Something I could never stop, no matter how hard I tried.

Woodward Avenue.

“You okay?” Randy said.

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re just heading down memory lane here. And here we are. City-County Building.”

The building was down at the end of Woodward, right next to the waterfront. From where we stood, we could see the five towers of the Renaissance Center, the great metal fist of Joe Louis, the fountain in Hart Plaza. On a nice day, the sidewalks would be full of people walking up and down the river. Today, it was empty. We walked into the building, past the statue they called the
Spirit of Detroit.
Or as my old partner used to say, “the great big green guy holding the sun in one hand and the people in the other hand.” When the Red Wings finally won the Stanley Cup in 1997, they put a giant jersey on him. My old partner would have gotten a kick out of that, if he had been alive to see it.

“Why don’t you let me take a try this time?” Randy said.

“It’s all yours,” I said.

“Watch and learn, my friend.”

As soon as we found the city clerk’s office, I knew he had an unfair advantage. With the big windows letting in the late-afternoon sun and an assortment of Tigers and Red Wings posters all over the walls, this room was a hell of a lot nicer than the State Office of Vital Records. The young woman sitting at her desk looked almost happy to be working there. “Can I help you?” she said. She was smiling.

“Good afternoon,” Randy said. “We finally made it! Do you know how long we traveled to get here?”

She smiled again. “What can I—”

“What are they doing to this city, anyway?” Randy said. “Every road is closed! Construction everywhere!”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “It takes me over an hour to get to work in the morning now.” This woman was much too friendly to be working as a public servant. How she ever got through the screening process was a complete mystery.

“Last time I was here in town was 1971,” he said. “I was a pitcher with the Tigers.”

“Really?” she said. Her eyes lit up.

“I didn’t last very long in the majors,” he said. “But at least I got the shot, right?”

“Are you serious? Did you really pitch for the Tigers?”

“Long time ago,” he said. “So much has changed here. They got casinos coming in, too, isn’t that right?”

“Ah,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Don’t get me started on the casinos. That’s all we need.”

“Not a gambler, I take it,” he said. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is my friend Alex.”

I woke up out of my trance. Watching the man do his routine was downright hypnotizing. “Good afternoon,” I said.

“Alex was a Detroit police officer for—what did you say, eight years?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Back in the eighties,” he said. “Even Alex doesn’t recognize the place anymore. Ain’t that right, Alex?”

“Like a whole new city,” I said.

“I’ll tell you why we’re here,” Randy said. He moved closer to her desk and lowered his voice. “Alex is a private investigator now. Let me have one of your cards, Alex.”

I took a card out and gave it to him. He put it down on her desk while he gave the room a quick onceover. “We’re trying to locate someone,” he said. “We’re trying to help her, you understand. This could be a matter of life or death.”

“Okay . . .”

“Her name is Maria Valeska,” he said, letting it hang in the air, as if she were an international agent.

“That’s a nice name,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. “The problem is, the only information we have, besides her name, is an old address. And we think we she was born here in Detroit in 1952.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What kind of records are you looking for, then? We have only four kinds here. Birth, death, marriage, and divorce.”

“The birth certificate would be extremely helpful,” he said. “If we could possibly—”

“You can’t see birth certificates,” she said. “Not unless you’re a parent or—”

“Or an officer of the court,” Randy said. “I know that. I’m certainly not asking you to break the rules. But seeing as how this is such an
important
matter, I was hoping that maybe
you
could just take a look at her birth certificate, and tell us her date of birth.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said.

“And her parents’ names.”

“Oh, no, I really don’t think—”

“Teresa, I’m not asking you to get us a copy of her birth certificate. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Teresa? How did he know her name?

“I’m just asking you,” he said, “no, I’m begging you to just take a look at the record yourself, with
neither of us around. We’ll go stand out in the hallway while you look at it.”

There, on her desk. A coffee mug with her name on it. Some detective I am.

“I’m kind of new here,” she said. “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to do that.”

“Maria Valeska,” he said. “Probably born in 1952. In Detroit.” And then he just looked at her. I couldn’t see his face from where I was standing, so I’m not sure what he was doing, but somehow it made her stand up.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

“We’ll wait here,” he said.

“You wait here,” she said.

“Right here,” he said.

And then she disappeared into the back room.

He turned around and winked at me. “What can I say, Alex?”

“You’re the master,” I said.

Randy’s reign as the master lasted another ninety seconds. Then Teresa’s supervisor came charging out of that back room, a woman who looked exactly like Alex Karras, the old Detroit Lions defensive lineman. Maybe Alex Karras on a bad hair day.

By the time she got done with Randy, I was already out the door.

It was almost five o’clock when we hit Woodward Avenue again. The rush-hour traffic was heavy, and it didn’t help that half the roads were being torn up.

“Don’t say a word, Alex.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“We were close,” he said. “We almost had it.”

“Tackled at the one-yard line.”

“You going to the library?” he said. “It’s gotta still be open now, right?”

“We’ll find out,” I said.

We were driving north on Woodward. Woodward Avenue. The library was up by Kirby Street. I could feel my stomach tightening up. A few more blocks north and we’d be driving right by it. The building where it happened.

We drove by the new stadium, right across the street from the old Fox Theater. Comerica Park, they were gonna call it. Not quite the same ring as Tiger Stadium.

“There it is,” he said. “Hell, you can see right into it.”

“That’s the way they build them these days,” I said. “You’re supposed to able to see the city while you’re watching a game.”

“I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s Detroit, for God’s sake.”

I let that one go. When we got to the library, it was obviously closed.

“How can a library be closed at five o’clock?” Randy said.

“Budget cuts,” I said.

“Maybe when the casinos open up, the city will have more money,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. “Those casinos will be a godsend to the library.”

He looked at me. “You all right?”

“It’s been a long day,” I said. “I could use a drink now, and some dinner. You still want to go to Lin-dell?”

“Let’s go,” he said. “Then maybe later you can show me around.”

“Around where?” I said.

“Around Detroit,” he said.
“Your
Detroit. This is your hometown, right? You gotta have a lot of memories here.”

I drove south, back to the motel. I didn’t say anything.

Memories, he says. You gotta have a lot of memories here. If he only knew.

Its full name is the Lindell Athletic Club, but I’ve never heard anybody call it that. It’s the Lindell AC. It used to be a few blocks east, over by the old Hudson’s department store; then they moved it to the ground floor of an oddly triangular-shaped building on the corner of Cass and Michigan Avenue. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear it had been there forever. The building itself looks like nobody’s touched it since World War II, right down to the old metal awnings over the windows. Next door there’s a barbershop where you can still get a shave with a straight razor and a splash of Royal Bay Rum.

As soon as you step into the Lindell, you see fifty years’ worth of photographs and memorabilia all over the place. Right above the door, there’s a huge black-and-white photograph of an old-fashioned hockey brawl, back when everybody could come off the bench to join in. The caption read “Detroit vs. Toronto, 1938.” A lot of sports bars try to look like the Lindell AC, but they don’t pull it off. You can’t just open up a bar and try to stick all the sports crap you can find all over the place. It has to evolve naturally over time. A bat one week, a ball the next. The next week a jockstrap. Two thousand weeks later, you’ve got the Lindell AC.

We sat in a booth in the comer, right under the picture of Mickey Stanley going over the left-field wall. We ate our world-famous grilled hamburgers while the sun went down outside. I didn’t say much. Randy was too busy soaking in the place to notice.