By Gary Hardwick
Raised within the bosom of the interior urban, white Detroit murder cop Danny Cavanaugh speaks and acts with the unmistakable angle of a black guy. however the savage murders of prosperous African-Americans are plunging him into the city center of terror, the place he'll study first-hand how robust, inviolate -- and lethal -- the colour line actually is.
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He’d seen families destroyed by drugs, alcoholism, and hopelessness. Who knew which of these demons had robbed these houses of their joy. Danny and Erik moved past an abandoned house with what was once a blue door. It was now peeled and dirty, its knocker hanging on by one screw, mocking itself. The stairs leading to the place were stone, but the middle steps were broken, caved in on themselves, a gaping maw in the ascension. For some reason, that sent a chill up Danny’s back. Next to the house with the blue door was another house, better-looking and definitely inhabited.
Maybe it was better not to talk about it, he thought. The two men had only each other. There was Danny’s brother, but the family had dropped contact with him years ago. No one tried to find him for the funeral. Hell, no one even knew if he was still alive. Danny wanted to discuss it. His mother’s death bothered him greatly, and it was more than the normal reason. There was something not right about it, something that tingled the police instincts he’d inherited from his father. “I’ve been thinking about Ma lately,” said Danny.
He was obviously the leader. In the far right corner was the girl. Danny could see just a hint of her, but he couldn’t look because he would have had to take his eyes off the men. The young man with the knife dropped his weapon immediately. The other man was unarmed. He raised his hands into the air. The leader sat by a chair with a Uzi in his hand. He had it pointed at the bleeding girl. He saw Danny and both men froze. Slowly, the leader stood up. He looked at Danny quickly then his eyes darted back to the girl.