Free Corktown by Ty Hutchinson Page A

promise of being a mother to them.
    • • •
    Across the street from the hotel was an old office building. Most of the floors were vacant and dark. From the fourteenth floor, a person would have a clear view into Agent Kane’s room if they wanted. And that’s exactly what the stranger with the binoculars had hoped for. He had waited all evening for her return, and she did not disappoint. There she stood, wearing nothing but black panties and an unbuttoned blouse, unaware of her audience of one.

 
     
    23
     
     
    The next morning we took a drive out to Rochester Hills. Wilkinson had secured a half hour with Elliot Hardin, the auto columnist for the Detroit Free Press . We parked the Yellow Jacket in front of a two-story brick house.
    “Looks like the reporting business pays well,” I said, giving the neighborhood a once-over.
    I rang the doorbell, which signaled the other doorbell. High-pitched yapping could be heard inside the house. I imagined the source to be small, brown, and ugly. A few seconds later, a tall, lanky fellow in a gray cardigan sweater answered the door. The tiny yapper stood between his legs, snarling. You nailed it, Abby.
    “Mr. Hardin. I’m Agent Abby Kane and this is Agent Trey Wilkinson. We’re with the FBI. My partner spoke to you earlier about answering a few questions.”
    The man seemed flustered, and his clothes were a bit disheveled. What is it about writers that make them so messy?
    “Yes. Now I’ve got to tell you; I can only spare thirty minutes,” he said.
    “Mind if we come inside?”
    “No, no, of course not.” He held the door open and used his right leg to pin the dog against the wall behind him. “Be nice, Bella.”
    I slipped past the growling mutt and into the living room where Hardin motioned for us to sit. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’m going to put Bella out back.”
    From the looks of the décor, I was now assured he made more than a modest living. But that’s not what was interesting about his place. Hardin’s living room did double duty as a magnificent library. Hardcover, softcover, and leather bound editions lined shelves on every wall. A built in hutch appeared to display his most prized novels. I recognized one of the books, Hemingway’s The Old Man and The Sea .
    “That’s a first edition, first printing signed by the author himself,” Hardin said as he returned to the room.
    “So you’re a book collector,” I commented.
    “Yes,” he said as he looked around at the books and then back at me. “Have been my entire life.” He took a seat opposite us. “Now, how can I help you two?”
    “We’re investigating the murders of Marian Ward and Dennis and Irene Walters.”
    “Yes, of course. Terrible thing to have happen to them. Any luck in catching the person responsible?”
    “Well, that’s why we’ve come to talk to you.”
    “Me?” Hardin straightened up in his chair and fiddled with his glasses. Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with these murders.”
    “Quite the opposite, Mr.—”
    Hardin waved his hand at me. “Please, call me Elliot.”
    “All right, Elliot. We’re wondering, with your vast knowledge of the car industry, if anything comes to mind that could tie these two together, something that could have caused public outrage or angered workers or miffed the competition.”
    “You think the killer is after the auto industry?”
    “We think there’s a possibility he might be targeting auto executives.”
    Hardin leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. “What’s in it for me?”
    I looked at Wilkinson. He seemed just as confused. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
    Hardin leaned forward and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I’ll come right out with it. I want the exclusive.”
    “Exclusive?” I didn’t expect to hear that. Hardin wasn’t that type of reporter. He maintained a column about the ins and outs of the big three automakers. He must have sensed our