BOOK
TRAILER: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/lU-_D-vPnRU
Excerpt:
Myles paused at the glass doors to the Area North police station. He checked his watch. Then he turned away from the entrance, paced roughly fifteen feet, added several more steps and lit a Marlboro Light. He pulled his jacket collar up to block an unusually crisp September breeze.
A long strip of grass punctuated by an occasional shrub next to the building attempted to soften the structure's strictly functional design. In the courtyard, a few trees stood guard along with a twisting metal sculpture. But the shades in all the windows were drawn, keeping the occupants' minds focused on their tasks. The parking lot spread far in every direction. Several squad cars waited there for their officers to climb in and begin their patrols.
Taking in his surroundings, Myles shook his head. The Nineteenth District Patrol station held more appeal to tourists to Chicago than did this location. A block west of the Nineteenth on West Addison Street sat a busy elevated, or "L," train station, over a century old and still flaunting its original grid of iron spans and frames in the open. Another block further west, Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs, buzzed with activity during home stands. Across from the Nineteenth on Addison, a row of shotgun style houses butted up against each other like a knot of sentinels standing shoulder to shoulder. Some bore brownstone façades, some red brick. A thin sheen of grime, car exhaust mostly, the grit of a busy city, covered them. All the dwellings needed power washing or sand blasting.
He knew that locale well, and it charmed even him.
But no tourists visited this spot, the Area North station's locale. A massive tan and brown brick building, Area North dwarfed the Nineteenth. Built in a commercial and industrial zone, the station resembled a Big Box store in spite of the unnaturally planted greenery. If not for the fleet of squad cars in the sprawling lot, visitors might enter the north side's police nexus expecting to buy a hot air fryer or bed linens.
Myles nodded to himself. Area North was all business.
From the corner of his eye, in the window nearest him, Myles spotted the reflection of two women, one short and slight, the other tall and slender. They approached from the parking lot arm-in-arm. The window distorted their shapes, giving them a hot August day shimmer. Their pale complexions suggested a summer spent together indoors. They both dressed for summer, each wearing tie-dyed blouses but no jackets, immune to the cool day. The shorter one put Marla Hines in mind. He recalled how she used to chide him whenever he sneaked out of the Organized Crimes building for a quick smoke. As the pair neared him, they opened their mouths, Myles assumed, to berate him.
"Sorry, ladies," the smoker said. "I'll just put this out." He turned in the women's direction.
They were gone.
Frowning, he swung his head around, scanning the area. Nothing. The parking lot lay empty of everything but vehicles. Two uniformed cops exited the building. But no one passed them heading in.
"Come on, Hanson," he muttered.
He stubbed the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe, deposited it into a nearby trash can and entered the station.
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