Free Color of Justice by Gary Hardwick Page A

He thought for a second of not responding, but that thought didn’t last long.
    Danny rolled over and kissed her, letting his hand fall to her behind. Her hand slipped quickly down between his legs and she took in a deep breath.
    They engaged in their familiar foreplay, and the routine made Danny feel better. He needed to be with her to remind him that he was with her. His mind filled with intense pleasure from this woman he adored, chasing out his newly discovered killer.

8
GROSSE POINTE
    Grosse Pointe was one of those towns you grew up hating if you weren’t lucky enough to live there. It was the historical home to many of the richest people in the metropolitan area and the country. They even had the nerve to separate it into little kingdoms: Grosse Pointe Farms, Grosse Pointe Woods, Grosse Pointe Shores. Some wondered why they just didn’t call it Mount Olympus.
    The Pointe was also just minutes outside of Detroit. A few miles in distance but a million in affluence, comfort, and power. Danny always felt one city mocked the other, like an old friend who has turned out more successful.
    Danny and Erik zipped up Jefferson Avenue, watching the city fade from downtown’s urban renewal, into urban decay, then burst back into the affluence of the suburb.
    Danny was playing a tune by a rapper named Trick Daddy. Erik turned it off and replaced it withthe oldies station, which was belting out “Call Me” by Al Green.
    â€œSee,” said Erik. “Now, that’s music.”
    As they left Detroit, Danny felt the city slip out of him. It was like someone peeling off a layer of skin. A city is like an extra set of cells in your body: heavy, and laden with dark forces. Going into the suburbs made you feel lighter, more human as it were, and Danny didn’t like that one bit. He was used to the heaviness of Detroit. It fit him like a suit of armor.
    Soon, they were driving down a long, private road toward a large house that had a big circular driveway with several cars in it.
    â€œJesus, look at this place,” said Erik.
    â€œYeah,” said Danny. “I’m living the wrong life.”
    â€œLooks like someone’s throwing a party.”
    â€œThen we’re right on time.”
    Danny felt himself tense as he thought about their upcoming interview. Danny always thought that anyone with too much money had to fuck somebody else out of it. That was the basic rule of American economics: the rich fed off the poor. This big house was built out of the lives of a million poor people who’d be shot on sight if they came here after dark. Or maybe he was just pissed because he dodged bullets for a living and couldn’t afford the sports package on cable.
    Danny and Erik went up to the house and rang the doorbell. An elderly Latino man in a nice suit came to the door soon after. He had that pseudo-military gait that let you know he was a servant and proud of it.
    â€œI’m Carlos,” he said. “You from the police?”
    â€œYes,” said Danny. “We need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Long.”
    â€œFollow me,” said Carlos. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”
    Danny and Erik followed Carlos into the opulent mansion. Danny had a bad feeling inside. The smell of jasmine and floor cleaner filled his lungs. Clean, he thought. The place was clean, too clean. The only reason for this much clean is to hide the dirt, he mused.
    They walked into a huge alcove with marble floors. The walls were covered with paintings, and there were sculptures and tapestries all around them.
    Carlos led them into a living room area and Danny could hear voices from the party not far off. He readied himself.
    Paul and Inez Long were the soul of affluence and they knew it. Mr. Long was tall, about six three, and Inez looked him right in the eyes in her heels. They were elegant and graceful and had that air about them that never let you forget they were loaded.
    â€œIs this