Read Online The Hunting Wind: An Alex McKnight Mystery by Steve Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Hamilton
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going to remember you?”
“You’re right,” he said, rubbing his mustache and goatee. “Not with this stuff on my face.”
“I’m gonna go see if Mr. Shannon is home yet,” I said. I had his number circled on one of the sheets of paper Leon had given us.
“You’re gonna call him?”
“No. I’m gonna go walk back to his house,” I said.
“Somebody’s a little grouchy,” he said. “I’ll get you another beer. Then we’re gonna go out and you’re gonna show me around, right? You promised.”
“I didn’t promise that, Randy.”
“I want to see where you grew up, Alex. I want to see the parking lot where you lost your virginity.”
“I’m gonna go call him now,” I said.
“Go,” he said. “Go do your thing.”
I went to the pay phone and called the number. I heard two rings and then a rough voice saying hello.
“Mr. Shannon?” I said.
“Speaking.”
“My name is Alex McKnight. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a question for you, and it’s going to sound a little strange.”
“A private who? What’s this about?”
“Mr. Shannon, I’m trying to find somebody who lived at your address in 1971. I don’t suppose you know who owned your house back then.”
“Nineteen seventy-one? Are you serious?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you this evening. The family’s name was Valeska.”
“No, no, stop. Nineteen seventy-one, I was nowhere near here. I’ve only been in this house a couple years.”
“Perhaps the person you bought the house from?”
“No, he only had the place for . . . a year, I think. And before he had it, I remember him telling me, the place was sitting empty here for a long time. . . .”
“I understand, sir. Can I ask if you’re aware of an old staircase that used to run up the right side of your house?”
“Matter of fact, yeah. It looks like there used to be something like that. They redid the whole place, knocked the back wall out. Looks like they put in a new staircase when they did that.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “That’s kinda what we figured.”
“If you know about that old staircase,” he said, “then I guess you really
are
looking for somebody from that long ago. You’re really a private investigator?”
“Yes, sir, I am. If I can ask you just one more question . . .”
“Ask away.”
“Is there anyone on your block who may have been living there back in 1971?”
“I wouldn’t think so. It’s changed a lot around here.”
“Well, okay, then. I really appreciate your time.”
“I wouldn’t swear to that. You could ask around.”
“Perhaps I will, sir.”
“Stop by the house if you do. I’ve never met a private investigator before. I’m here after three o’clock most days.”
“We’ll do that, sir. And thanks again.” I hung up the phone.
When I got back to the booth, something had changed. That smooth little look Randy always wore, like he was ready to be amused by something, was long gone. His eyes were wide open.
“What happened?” I said.
“I got us another round,” he said, sliding a draft my way. “No problem.”
“There’s a problem,” I said. “What is it?”
“There’s no problem.”
“You’re lying,” I said “I told you, you can’t lie to me. You’re the world’s worst liar.”
“I got into a little disagreement, that’s all.”
I looked around the place. There were a couple of young men seated at the bar, watching us. White boys from the suburbs, slumming it in the Motor City.
“With those guys over there, I take it?” They didn’t look too happy. They didn’t look too small, either.
“A couple local gentlemen with some misinformed opinions,” he said. “They were talking about how badly the Tigers sucked, which is pretty much true this year, so I couldn’t disagree with them. But then they started going on about how it didn’t matter, becausebaseball wasn’t a real sport and anybody could play it.”
“Let me guess,” I said.
“You’re right,” he said, rubbing his mustache and goatee. “Not with this stuff on my face.”
“I’m gonna go see if Mr. Shannon is home yet,” I said. I had his number circled on one of the sheets of paper Leon had given us.
“You’re gonna call him?”
“No. I’m gonna go walk back to his house,” I said.
“Somebody’s a little grouchy,” he said. “I’ll get you another beer. Then we’re gonna go out and you’re gonna show me around, right? You promised.”
“I didn’t promise that, Randy.”
“I want to see where you grew up, Alex. I want to see the parking lot where you lost your virginity.”
“I’m gonna go call him now,” I said.
“Go,” he said. “Go do your thing.”
I went to the pay phone and called the number. I heard two rings and then a rough voice saying hello.
“Mr. Shannon?” I said.
“Speaking.”
“My name is Alex McKnight. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a question for you, and it’s going to sound a little strange.”
“A private who? What’s this about?”
“Mr. Shannon, I’m trying to find somebody who lived at your address in 1971. I don’t suppose you know who owned your house back then.”
“Nineteen seventy-one? Are you serious?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you this evening. The family’s name was Valeska.”
“No, no, stop. Nineteen seventy-one, I was nowhere near here. I’ve only been in this house a couple years.”
“Perhaps the person you bought the house from?”
“No, he only had the place for . . . a year, I think. And before he had it, I remember him telling me, the place was sitting empty here for a long time. . . .”
“I understand, sir. Can I ask if you’re aware of an old staircase that used to run up the right side of your house?”
“Matter of fact, yeah. It looks like there used to be something like that. They redid the whole place, knocked the back wall out. Looks like they put in a new staircase when they did that.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “That’s kinda what we figured.”
“If you know about that old staircase,” he said, “then I guess you really
are
looking for somebody from that long ago. You’re really a private investigator?”
“Yes, sir, I am. If I can ask you just one more question . . .”
“Ask away.”
“Is there anyone on your block who may have been living there back in 1971?”
“I wouldn’t think so. It’s changed a lot around here.”
“Well, okay, then. I really appreciate your time.”
“I wouldn’t swear to that. You could ask around.”
“Perhaps I will, sir.”
“Stop by the house if you do. I’ve never met a private investigator before. I’m here after three o’clock most days.”
“We’ll do that, sir. And thanks again.” I hung up the phone.
When I got back to the booth, something had changed. That smooth little look Randy always wore, like he was ready to be amused by something, was long gone. His eyes were wide open.
“What happened?” I said.
“I got us another round,” he said, sliding a draft my way. “No problem.”
“There’s a problem,” I said. “What is it?”
“There’s no problem.”
“You’re lying,” I said “I told you, you can’t lie to me. You’re the world’s worst liar.”
“I got into a little disagreement, that’s all.”
I looked around the place. There were a couple of young men seated at the bar, watching us. White boys from the suburbs, slumming it in the Motor City.
“With those guys over there, I take it?” They didn’t look too happy. They didn’t look too small, either.
“A couple local gentlemen with some misinformed opinions,” he said. “They were talking about how badly the Tigers sucked, which is pretty much true this year, so I couldn’t disagree with them. But then they started going on about how it didn’t matter, becausebaseball wasn’t a real sport and anybody could play it.”
“Let me guess,” I said.
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