HIGHER
GROUND
BOOK 1 OF THE EQUINOX SERIES
VISHAL REDDY
Copyright 2017 © by Vishal Reddy
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
Website: VishalReddyAuthor.com
Twitter: @VReddyAuthor
About the Author
Vishal Reddy lives in New York City. Higher Ground
is his first novel.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Higher Ground is the first book in the forthcoming
Equinox mystery series. All books in the series feature
the same structure and concept: two alternating
timelines covering the last 48 hours of a murder
victim’s life and the first 48 hours of the murder
investigation.
The victims’ stories are indicated by chapter
headings that feature their names and the notations of
“Day 1” or “Day 2.” The detectives’ stories are
indicated by chapter headings indicating their names
and the notations of “Day 3” or “Day 4.” Each timeline
starts at 48:00 (victim) or 00:00 (detective) and ends at
00:00 (victim) or 48:00 (detective), followed by an
epilogue.
Each book switches back and forth between both
timelines as you try to piece the puzzle together. Each
book will also feature entirely different characters,
stories and locations, and therefore all can be read as
stand-alone books that only have the same timeline
concept in common.
For inquiries and updates, follow me on Twitter
@VReddyAuthor or at VishalReddyAuthor.com.
Thank you for purchasing my book. I hope you enjoy
reading this book (and my forthcoming books) as
much as I enjoyed writing it.
Vishal Reddy
4/15/17
For Mom & Dad
Table Of Contents
(of Preview chapters)
BRUCE – DAY 1 ................................................................. 1
AMY – DAY 3 ..................................................................... 9
BRUCE – DAY 1 ............................................................... 23
AMY – DAY 3 ................................................................... 28
1
BRUCE – DAY 1
48:00…
“Mr… Jalopnik? Bruce Jalopnik?”
I rose at the sound of my name. I always do. The
problem is that this was the last place where I wanted
to stick out. They call it the unemployment office, but
from the looks of it, I’d say it was a collection of
deadbeats too eager to be put on display. Democracy
meant the people had the power, and these shiftless
bums were the most powerful of all.
My eyes scanned the whole group. They were
diverse, not subscribing to any one particular size, age
or race. Like they had put aside any differences they
might have had so they could work together to not
work at all. I was new to their group and only here in a
last-ditch effort to save myself from starvation. I
wanted to leave as soon as I had entered.
The younger people around me looked able-bodied,
even if their sullen slouches didn’t convey that. Every
single one was lost in the warm glow of their cell
phones. Their eyes darted, narrowed, and occasionally
blinked. Their bodies were stiff. From the moment
they sat down, they pulled out their electronic
babysitters and ignored their environment. They didn’t
have any thoughts on the chipped gray paint on the
walls or the hackneyed motivational posters littering
the place like mile markers. Keep your head up, stated
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2
one with a stock photo model smiling at the viewer.
Don’t feel ashamed, said another. I wanted to print out
a poster that said Your life is pointless and this place
isn’t helping.
The older people – and there were a few my age –
didn’t fare much better. Most were too old to be phone
zombies, instead letting their slack-jawed faces stare
off into space. The unemployment office is not the
place to daydream. It’s the Mason-Dixon line between
success and failure. Here, your brain should be telling
your face to get with the program. Especially since we
were in Detroit.
The voice called again. “Bruce Jalopnik?”
A man’s voice. Barely.
I spotted him fifty feet away standing by a busy
mass of cubicles. He looked just like he sounded.
Weak and unimpressive. He gestured me towards him
with a rhythmic sway of his finger. Only a woman
trying to get you into bed should use that gesture.
Another man doing it was just demeaning.
“Here,” I said.
I walked in his direction. The closer I got, the
smaller the guy’s eyes seemed to become. They were
as narrow as the rest of him, like they were ashamed to
be associated with his body. He took a step back as I
came to a full stop. I’m not sure what he was worried
about. This was the one place where I couldn’t beat
him up. My size was less of a threat to him than his
signature was to me.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jalopnik. I’m Tom.”
“Likewise.” I extended my hand. Tom hesitated
HIGHER GROUND
3
before taking it. I gave him a mid-level handshake –
weak enough to not hurt him but strong enough to let
him know I could. It was the only time I would have
power in our exchange.
Tom broke free and motioned for me to take a seat
across from him. I caught him wincing even though he
tried to hide it. Inside his cubicle, he somehow seemed
larger. It was probably because of the way he had
arranged his workspace. Except for a computer, the
desk was clear of paper stacks or other clutter.
Everything must have been inside the drawers, even
the family pictures missing from his desk. He was a
man armed with only the tools he needed at the
moment. I guess we had something in common.
“Mr. Jalopnik,” Tom said, “I see you have
received unemployment benefits for…” He typed away
on the keyboard. “… 97 weeks now.” He said it with
contempt in his voice. If it weren’t for people like me,
he’d be unemployed too.
“Yes.”
I wanted to explain my particular situation, but
Tom cut me off. “You are aware that your benefits run
out in two weeks, correct?”
“I know. I was hoping for an extension.”
Tom smirked. He was enjoying his leverage a little
too much. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” I said.
“Have you been looking for work?”
I nodded. “Rejected across the board. Not much
use for an old man and his hands.”
“Come on, Mr. Jalopnik. You’re not that old.”
VISHAL REDDY
4
“Not that young either.” I didn’t want to pour out a
sob story for Tom. Just an extension on my benefits to
hold me over, or until Death told the bouncer to let me
in. Whichever came first.
Tom glanced at his computer. “You worked at
General Motors for thirty-three years.”
“Straight out of high school,” I said. “Started on
the assembly line and worked my way up to
supervisor.” That taste in my mouth was pride.
“Why were you let go?”
“Remember the Wall Street crash?” Of course he
did. Everybody did. It practically destroyed Detroit,
people fleeing their homes like they were incubators
for the plague. The only ones left couldn’t afford to
leave. Like me.
“As I understand it, GM employees were still given
their pensions.” Tom leaned back in his chair. “So why
did you also file for unemployment benefits?”
“Because those Wall Street guys tanked our
pensions. That was our bonus.”
“I understand your anger…”
Do you, Tom?
“… but after thirty-three years, your pension must
have been substantial even after the market crash. And
hasn’t the market recovered?” Tom tapped his fingers
on the desk and waited for my answer.
“I didn’t want to get into this…” Actually, I did.
Any chance to vent about Debra, even to a finger-
tapping flunky like Tom, helped to clear my head. “It’s
my wife. Sorry, ex-wife.”
“I don’t understand.”
HIGHER GROUND
5
“She gets half of my pension.”
And the house, car, and custody of Adam too, but I
left that information out.
Tom nodded. “What about filing for disability?
That could hold you over.”
I shook my head. “Michigan law says your ex gets
half of your disability benefits, too.”
“But not half of your unemployment benefits.”
“Exactly.” Tom wasn’t dumb. He was just a prick.
“There are plenty of service jobs available,” Tom
said. “You would rarely have to leave your desk.”
“They’re not hiring. Age keeps you away from
those jobs, too.”
“Have you tried social media?” Tom said.
“Social what?”
“You know, Facebook, LinkedIn. Websites like
that.”
I glanced at the teenage zombies at the other end of
the room. They still hadn’t looked up. “No. I don’t
want to end up like them.”
Tom smirked. “I understand. But it’s a great way to
get your name out there to employers.”
“I don’t even know how to do that stuff. Before
my time.”
“Mr. Jalopnik—”
“Bruce.” No need for him to fake respect towards
me.
“Bruce,” he said. “I’m just trying to help you out.”
Tom typed on his keyboard and swiveled the monitor
to face me. I saw a picture of Tom smiling, his name
next to it. Underneath it was his job history going back
VISHAL REDDY
6
a few years. Low-level HR gigs with titles that
overstated his importance: partner, associate, and so
on. His current job seemed to be his peak in life. I took
a little comfort in that.
“Is that Facebook?” I said.
“No, that’s LinkedIn.” Tom stared at me like he
was talking to a child. “Have you never seen this
website before?”
“No,” I said. “I got an e-mail account awhile back
because people kept talking about it.”
“And in all that time, you didn’t bother researching
jobs on your computer?”
“Well, the library closes at 6:00. And most of the
time, all of the computers are taken.” It was true. I
didn’t know if people were actually looking for work,
but they were preventing me from looking.
“Okay, you don’t have a home computer,” Tom
said. “What about on your smartphone?”
I whipped out my trusty flip phone that had more
chipped paint than my car. Tom looked like he had
seen a ghost. He didn’t understand my life.
“I didn’t know they still made those,” he said.
“Maybe I have the last one.”
“You could sell it on eBay.”
“Except I don’t have a computer.”
Tom perked up. “So you’re familiar with eBay?”
“I heard about it on the radio.”
Tom sighed. “Mr. Jalopnik, what exactly do you
plan to do when your benefits run out?”
I gripped the arms of my chair and took a deep
breath. It was all I could do to not slam my fist into his
HIGHER GROUND
7
sneering face. “I do odd jobs here and there.”
“But that’s not good enough,” Tom said. “You
have to be gainfully employed.”
“Look, I’m not like you people.”
Tom cocked his head. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”
“I’m not some fancy college boy, okay? I was
busting my butt when you were going to frat parties.”
Like this pocket-sized nerd was ever invited to them. I
showed Tom my hands marked with calluses older
than him. “See these?”
“Uh… yes?” Tom seemed to shrink by the second.
“I don’t wear fancy suits and look down on
people—”
“Mr. Jalopnik--”
“Bruce.”
“Fine,” he said. “Bruce, I only want to help you.”
I snorted. “Well, you suck at it. So why am I the
one out of work?”
We let the silence take over for a minute. I wasn’t
going to stop getting angry as long as he kept screwing
me over. The ball was in his court.
Tom cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be
able to extend your unemployment benefits.” He
turned back towards his computer and closed
LinkBook or whatever that stupid website was called. I
remained in my seat for another thirty seconds. The
image of me shoving his head through the computer
screen played on a loop in my head.
“So that’s it?” I said.
He didn’t even turn around. “That’s it.”
VISHAL REDDY
8
I got up and loomed over him. If I wasn’t getting
what I came for, I wasn’t going to leave without
putting some fear into him. Tom was still looking at
his computer, but I could tell I was getting to him. The
hairs on his scrawny neck stood as his body tensed up.
I cracked my knuckles loud enough for the teenage
zombies to hear. Tom flinched and typed randomly on
his keyboard in a pathetic response. He still didn’t
have the nerve to look at me.
“There are other people I need to see,” he said.
“I could tell them they’re rejected too and save you
a bunch of time.”
Tom turned halfway towards me. “I suggest you
spend your time looking for a full-time job. Bruce.”
I walked away. Tom wasn’t worth a beating. On
the way out, I tore down one of those stupid posters.
9
AMY – DAY 3
00:00…
The man’s fist hurtled towards Amy’s face.
She ducked her head down and jabbed her fingers
into his throat. He let out a loud gasp as Amy grabbed
his hand and bent his thumb backwards to the breaking
point.
“Aaah!”
Amy swept the back of his leg and pushed him
down to the ground, landing on top of him. She planted
one knee on his chest and the other on one of his arms.
His free arm flailed helplessly. Amy grabbed his wrist
with one hand and bent back his thumb again with the
other. The man’s eyes grew wide in terror. He gritted
his teeth until his face turned red as his legs flopped
around like a fish out of water.
“Give!”
Amy dismounted the man and helped him up. He
dusted off his uniform and took several deep breaths.
Amy winked at him. They turned and faced the two
dozen Krav Maga students in front of them and took a
bow.
“Excellent, Amy,” Robert the instructor said.
He regarded her with a slight nod, careful not to
betray too much emotion. Amy was always impressed
with his preternatural calmness. She knew that he was
fully aware of her skills, honed over the course of three
VISHAL REDDY
10
years and counting in this studio. Privately, Robert had
showered her with praise on multiple occasions, free of
the jealous attitudes of the other students. But when
surrounded by the rest of the class, his praise was
muted. Amy had to prove her skills every time.
The studio itself wasn’t as impressive as Amy. The
walls were faded wood paneling, most of the cracks
and abrasions obscured by portraits of Robert and his
students over the years. Amy was always in the front
row in the most recent pictures, right next to Robert.
That was the extent of his public endorsement.
A gym mat took up the entire floor and finished the
look, its numerous indentations marking countless falls
and subsequent bruises. Of course, aesthetics was not
the primary draw of the fighting style. Krav Maga was
an Israeli-based martial art that involved subduing your
opponent by any means possible. Throat punches, eye
gouges, and groin grabs were all allowed. A brutal art
for a brutal world.
Amy took a seat next to Evan, her victim. He was
still wincing in pain and massaging his thumb. He was
a good six inches taller and fifty-odd pounds heavier,
but her speed and experience had neutralized his size
advantage.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” Evan said. “You’ve been at this for a
while, huh?”
“Three years,” Amy said. “You?”
“Eight months. I guess it shows.”
“We all start somewhere.” She eyed him
sympathetically. “I hope I didn’t hurt you too much.”
HIGHER GROUND
11
“I’ll live… I think.” His grimace willed itself into a
half-smile. “I could use some help, though.”
“Robert’s a great instructor,” Amy said. “Just
follow his rules.”
Evan chuckled. “No, I meant…” He let the words
hang in the air.
Amy understood. Over the years, she had been
propositioned in every way imaginable. There was
Greg, the cocky rookie cop she had been paired with
when she was a patrol officer. And Jake the informant,
who was invaluable in helping bust criminals and
nearly as adept in gaining her trust. And countless
criminals, who thought promising her a steak dinner
would magically make the cuffs come off. But nobody
had tried it right after she had assaulted them. As far as
that went, Evan was Patient Zero.
Evan inched closer to her. “I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” She focused on the two
students currently on the mat, hoping Evan would take
the hint.
“Look, all I’m saying—”
“That’s your problem.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t say.” She gestured towards the action in
front of them. An average-sized man had taken the
larger one to the mat and submitted him. “Observe.”
The two men on the mat stood up, bowed, and sat
down. Robert walked to the center of the room, his
Buddha-like expression still present.
“Well done, everybody. See you next week.”
Amy jolted up and beat the crowd to the storage
VISHAL REDDY
12
cubicles. She grabbed her coat and purse and jammed
her feet into her sneakers. She had to run home,
shower and change before heading to the station.
Through a gap in the approaching crowd, she saw
Evan make a beeline for her. She clenched her fist as
he approached her while sporting a goofy grin.
The buzzing from her phone saved Evan from
further injury. She pulled it out of her purse. “Hello?”
“Amy?”
The woman’s voice was faint but unmistakable.
Amy wanted to hang up, but Evan had walked away
from her as soon as she had answered. Now she was
stuck with a problem she couldn’t punch and kick her
way out of.
“It’s me,” the cheery voice said.
Amy sighed. “I know.”
“How long has it been?”
“No idea,” Amy said. Not long enough, she
thought.
“Come on,” the voice said, “don’t you want to talk
to your sister?”
****
Amy stepped out of the shower and dried herself
off. She brushed her jet-black hair behind her ears and
walked into her bedroom, where her clothes were laid
out on the bed. She got dressed, shimmying into her
black slacks and putting on her white blouse. They fit a
bit tighter than normal, the byproduct of her recent
five-pound weight gain. She wanted to maximize her
HIGHER GROUND
13
workouts in Robert’s studio to get rid of them, but it
was hard to break up a sweat against amateurs like
Evan.
It was just a matter of discipline. The weight gain
was completely due to stress over her father’s
condition. She had moved him into her home a few
months ago once the nursing home blew through her
savings like a runaway freight train. She dealt with his
failing health in the only way she could – junk food.
She hid bags of potato chips and candy bars in her desk
at work, sneaking bites when her partner Dexter wasn’t
looking. It wasn’t the healthiest outlet, but it was legal
and didn’t involve cigarettes or alcohol.
Still, she had to cut down on the stress eating, even
though her sister Kate had entered her life once again.
Kate had told Amy to visit her after work, for reasons
she couldn’t divulge over the phone. Amy wasn’t
looking forward to it.
Amy perked up at her father’s low moan coming
from the kitchen.
“Unnhh…”
“Mistah Delvecchio, you have to eat.”
Joanne, her dad’s Jamaican live-in nurse, with one
of her more common pleas.
Amy put on her suit and appraised herself in the
mirror. Aside from the slight weight gain, not bad at
all. She inserted the clip into her gun and stuck it in her
holster, adjusting her Detroit Homicide badge and
walking into the kitchen.
“Morning, Miss Delvecchio,” Joanne said. She
held a spoon of applesauce in front of Amy’s father,
VISHAL REDDY
14
whose eyes radiated disgust towards it.
“Good morning,” Amy said. She lightly gripped
her father’s shoulder. “Good morning, Dad.”
His eyes lit up as he looked up at her. “Unnhh…”
It was all he could say since his massive stroke a
year ago. Nicholas Angelo Delvecchio, formerly a
raconteur of the sacred and profane, as quick with a
moralizing fable as he was with a dirty joke. The type
of man who was the recipient of toasts, but never the
originator. Not that he didn’t want to be. His
generosity extended beyond his family and to his
friends, with even strangers finding themselves
wrapped in his charming grasp.
Amy looked at Joanne. “Why won’t he eat?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying for ten minutes.”
“I know what to do.” Amy opened the cabinet and
pulled out a jar of brown sugar. She took the spoon
from Joanne and sprinkled the sugar onto the
applesauce. “He likes it this way.” She handed the
spoon back to Joanne.
“Unn--unnhh…”
“Maybe not,” Joanne said.
Amy’s father shook his head. His eyes gravitated to
her. The left half of his mouth, unaffected by the
stroke, tried to form a smile.
“He wants me to do it.” Amy took the spoon from
Joanne. “It’s nothing personal.”
Joanne shrugged. “He’s known you much longer.”
Amy fed her father the applesauce. “There we go.”
“Unh… unh…” he responded in between bites.
That was a good sign.
HIGHER GROUND
15
They smiled at each other. These were the best
moments they shared these days. Their father-daughter
rituals through childhood, adolescence and adulthood
had evolved and matured. It was formed that day
decades ago in that far-away orphanage, when he
looked into Amy’s eyes staring up at him from her
crib. He picked her up and held her to his then-burly
chest as she gurgled her unconditional acceptance. And
now they had come full circle.
Joanne checked her watch. “Shouldn’t you be
going to work, Miss Delvecchio?”
“No, I still have time.” Amy rolled her eyes as her
phone rang. Dexter calling. “Hello?”
“Just got the call,” Dexter said, his deep baritone
still adjusting to the morning. “One victim. Need me to
pick you up?”
“No, I’ll meet you there. Where is it?”
“It’s an empty field out in the sticks. I’ll text you
the GPS coordinates.”
“Okay.” Amy hung up and handed the spoon back
to Joanne. “I have to go.”
Her dad’s withered fingers reached for her. She
took his hand in hers, always dreading these moments.
“I’ll be back after work, Dad. I promise.”
“Unhh…”
“I love you.”
****
The crime scene was crawling with activity.
Uniformed cops had secured the perimeter with yellow
VISHAL REDDY
16
tape, the police sirens flashing red and blue around
them. In the distance, the morning sun’s rays bounced
off the roofs of dilapidated houses before spreading out
across the field and illuminating the dead grass.
Amy got out of her car and approached the crime
scene. She didn’t see Dexter’s car amongst the half-
dozen DPD cars carefully arranged around the
perimeter. Given the abandoned houses in the distance
and the dead grass Amy slogged through, no civilians
were going to accidentally wander into the crime
scene. This was probably the most people the area had
seen in years.
A young officer broke from the cordon of yellow
tape and approached Amy. “Good morning,
Detective.”
“Good morning,” Amy said. She hadn’t seen him
before, either at Homicide or from her time as a DPD
patrol officer. From the puppy-dog eagerness on his
baby face, he was probably a rookie. He’d be able to
get her what she needed, and with a smile too.
“Has my partner showed up?” Amy said.
“Uh… not yet, ma’am.”
Amy winced. It was far too early in the morning,
and in her life, to be called ma’am, professional
courtesies aside. “Let’s have a look.”
The officer raised the yellow tape up. Amy ducked
under it and knelt down beside the victim as the
uniformed officers kept a respectful distance.
“When did you find him?”
“Got the call about thirty minutes ago,” the rookie
said. “A bystander phoned it in.”
HIGHER GROUND
17
“A bystander?” Amy looked at the emptiness
around her. Any bystanders around here were either
highly suspect or lacked all sense of geography.
“Jogger. He spotted the decedent’s body during his
run.” The rookie gestured towards a thin middle-aged
man speaking with a DPD officer fifty feet away.
“We’re getting a statement.”
“Make sure to get everything down,” Amy said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She ignored him this time and focused on the dead
body on the ground. The victim was wearing faded
blue jeans and a blue T-shirt stained with blood. The
man was large, 6’2” and 240 pounds if Amy were to
hazard a guess.
Heavy and apologetic footsteps approached her.
Only Dexter sounded like that. The rookie cop lifted
the yellow tape and let him in.
“Detective Lemmon,” Amy said to Dexter.
“Detective Delvecchio.”
Amy glanced at the rookie behind them. His eyes
puzzled at the incongruity of her appearance and her
last name. His twitching mouth tried to get a statement
from his brain but came up empty. Not a new
experience for Amy.
Dexter heaved himself down next to her, his hearty
stomach almost rivaling the victim’s. “Sorry I’m late,”
he said. “The wife.”
“Just got here myself,” Amy said.
“What do we got?”
“White male vic, 50s by the look of him.” Amy
pointed to the bloodstains. “Looks like he was shot
VISHAL REDDY
18
once in the chest.” She jabbed her thumb at the
bystander talking to the cops. “Jogger found him.”
Dexter narrowed his eyes at the jogger. “Why
would he be doing that?”
“True,” Amy said. “It’s not the ideal place for a
jog.”
“No, I mean who goes jogging? What’s the point?”
“To stay alive?”
Dexter nodded to the victim. “Didn’t do him much
good.”
“A little respect, Dexter.”
He put on his plastic gloves and checked the
victim’s eyes. “You’ve been on the job as long as I
have, you don’t care about the dead’s feelings
anymore.” Dexter’s pearly white smile contrasted with
his coffee-black skin. “You just find who killed ‘em so
they can rest in peace.”
Amy nodded. She deferred to Dexter’s authority as
often as possible, considering he was old enough to be
her father. But that didn’t mean that a crime scene
couldn’t be a sacred place. She hoped she would never
become as jaded as him.
Dexter examined the victim’s head. “See this
bruising?” He pointed to faded splotches on the
victim’s face. “They might have roughed him up
before they shot him.”
“They could be from a previous incident,” Amy
said. “The bruising doesn’t look fresh.”
“Maybe.” Dexter let go of the victim’s head.
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t the same guy who did it.”
Amy put on her plastic gloves. “It could have been.
HIGHER GROUND
19
That would explain the location.”
“How do you mean?”
“Maybe the vic was assaulted at another location
and then brought out here to be shot,” Amy said.
“Whatever the vic did to the killer warranted bringing
him all the way out here where nobody was likely to
find him.”
“Except for Marathon Man over there,” Dexter
said, pointing to the jogger. “Nobody counted on him.”
He looked at Amy. “Our vic could’ve been shot at the
first location and then dumped out here.”
“Maybe.” Amy pointed to the victim’s chest
wound. “Think the killer aimed for his heart and left it
at that?”
Dexter nodded. “Center mass is easier than a head
shot. Even if it didn’t kill him right away, our vic was
pretty far from civilization. He could have bled out
right here.”
“Terrible place to die.”
“Yep.” Dexter motioned to the abandoned houses
in the far distance. They were sinking into their
foundations, soon to be reclaimed by the earth.
“Nobody out here but ghosts.”
The rookie approached them again. “Detectives,
we found one set of tire tracks down that way.” He
pointed about one hundred feet away. “They might be
helpful.”
“Anything else?” Dexter said.
“We found a .357 Magnum ten yards from the
body,” the rookie said. “We bagged it up for you.”
“Are the photographers done yet?”
VISHAL REDDY
20
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks.” Dexter dug his hands under the victim’s
body. “Help me out here, Delvecchio. My back isn’t
what it used to be.”
Amy moved next to him as they rolled the victim’s
body over. She removed his wallet from his back
pocket and pulled out a driver’s license. It must have
been an older one. The victim looked better in his
picture; younger, thinner, and with a vaguely
optimistic look in his eyes.
Dexter was propping the victim’s body up. “So
who’s our lucky winner?”
Amy shot him a look and showed him the license.
“Bruce Jalopnik.”
Dexter eased Bruce’s body down to its original
position. “Good start.” He stood up and removed his
gloves. “I think our guys can take it from here.” He
waved a few uniformed officers over and raised the
yellow tape for Amy. “Ladies first.”
Amy ducked under the tape as Dexter joined her.
“You had breakfast yet?” he said.
“No.”
“Let’s grab something. My treat.”
“Okay.”
The rookie cop approached them from behind.
“Detective, one question.”
Dexter looked at Amy. “Me or her?”
The rookie nodded to Amy. “I know I shouldn’t
ask, but I was just curious…”
“Son,” Dexter said, “I know you’re new here, but
you can’t ask the detective out, no matter how pretty
HIGHER GROUND
21
she may be. That’d be against the rules.”
Amy blushed, more out of embarrassment than the
compliment. Even when she was a uniformed officer,
she had taken great care to keep her appearance strictly
professional. No makeup, no fancy hairstyle, no
painted nails. She would never pass as a man, but she
didn’t want to stand out as a woman either. It brought
unwanted attention from both sides of the law when
she just wanted to do her job.
“Not that,” the rookie said, looking at Amy. “It’s
just that your last name is Delvecchio, right?”
“Yes,” Amy said.
“I’m Italian,” he said, pointing to his badge which
read Riccardelli. “Looking at you, I just assumed you
were married to one. You know, because of your
name.”
Amy knew what he meant. Every time she
mentioned her Italian surname to people, the puzzled
looks would come out in full force. They’d look for a
wedding ring on her finger and see nothing, then their
eyes would travel to her obviously Asian features as
they became even more confused. Amy would always
reveal her origin story, never minding the confused
looks but rather the time that was wasted in telling it.
Everybody came from somewhere, but all that
mattered was that they were all here together. Even the
dead.
Amy shook her head. “I’m not married.”
“Wait, so…” The rookie cocked his head to the
side.
Dexter noticed Amy’s discomfort. “Just let us
VISHAL REDDY
22
know what you find, Officer Riccardelli.” He motioned
Amy towards their cars. “Let’s eat.”
23
BRUCE – DAY 1
“… And that was ‘Dancing in the Street’ by
Martha & the Vandellas. Up next on 99.8 FM, it’s…”
Detroit may have been a shell of its former self, but
Motown was forever. I couldn’t remember a time when
I didn’t listen to them. Before I became interested in
girls and long after they left, Motown was a constant
soundtrack. I used to have a sizable vinyl collection
from every classic artist -- Stevie Wonder, Marvin
Gaye, The Supremes, Martha and the Vandellas,
Smokey Robinson, and everyone else who had passed
through the doors of Hitsville U.S.A.
I turned left on Linwood Street. Hitsville U.S.A.
was about ten minutes away. It was one of Detroit’s
last remaining landmarks that had escaped the wrath of
the bulldozers. I had taken the guided tour several
times, eventually mouthing along to the tour guide’s
words like a puppet on the beat. There was just
something about reliving the magic as many times as
possible. But the latest tour would have to wait. I
didn’t have time to waste.
My car’s engine kept chugging on over the bumpy
road. The check-engine light on the dash stared back at
me as usual. I drove a ’96 Chevy Cutlass that was
manufactured right here in Motor City. In fact, I may
have helped build this specific one. On the assembly
line, we didn’t have the luxury of stopping to check if
that was true or not. But we accomplished something
VISHAL REDDY
24
better – the privilege of being the last line of defense
against the forces of globalization.
Our fallen coworkers – yours truly included – were
spread to the winds. Some died since then, others
found employment elsewhere, but too many of them
were just like me. Some of the stragglers would love to
raise the white flag at lower wages, but I cut my losses
and ran for the shore. Even a passing canoe could save
me now.
In the distance, my neighborhood came into view.
If you could call it that. Technically, it was a trailer
park, but a halfway decent one. It was the student in
detention for the first time, a slacker or a showoff
depending on whom you asked. I parked the car in
front of my trailer on the edge of the park and got out.
My neighbor Eugene was waiting outside his trailer,
fused to his lawn chair as usual.
“Brucey,” he said, raising his beer can to me.
“It’s Bruce. You know it’s Bruce.”
Eugene chugged the rest of his beer and crushed
the can with his foot. It was the most exercise he
managed every day. Only salt-adjacent slugs moved
less than him.
“How’s things?” He wiped his mouth with his hand
and let out a loud burp. If Tom at the unemployment
office had done that, I would have been impressed. But
with Eugene, it was just annoying.
“Same old.” I was already halfway through my
door.
Another burp. “What’d ya do all day?”
“The opposite of what you did.” I slammed the
HIGHER GROUND
25
door behind me.
I had tried to make my trailer as classy as possible.
Difficult, but achievable. I had built my bookshelf –
something Eugene didn’t have – and placed it in the far
corner. It was jam-packed and had the surplus books
lying on top of the others, right angles on top of right
angles. The shelf was split between fiction, with
literature and popular works jockeying for space, and
nonfiction. Most of the latter dealt with automotive
history and repair, with the rest on architecture.
Architecture had been my first non-musical
interest. My dad – when he wasn’t beating my brother
and me – had a working knowledge of the subject.
He’d always remark on the various styles we’d see
around Detroit and could differentiate between a
Craftsman and a Georgian from twenty yards away.
Until he died, we had been engaged in a genetic tug of
war. I ended up going deeper into architecture and
pulling back on the beatings. We were each other’s
cracked mirror.
Eugene knocked on the door. It was always him. I
glanced at my queen-sized bed tempting me with its
600-thread count sheets. I may be broke, but I sleep
like a hibernating bear. Well, usually.
“Brucey, it’s me.”
“What do you want?”
“Open up.”
I stepped to the door, praying that Eugene’s
laziness-induced blood clot was about to strike his
heart. A second knock told me it didn’t. I opened the
door. Eugene didn’t have the courtesy to bring me a
VISHAL REDDY
26
beer, just his insipid face and motorized mouth.
“Heard you were lookin’ for a job.” Eugene
strolled in and plopped down on my bed like it was his
lawn chair. I hated seeing his scarecrow-thin body
anywhere, but especially here.
“Come in,” I said, sarcasm in my voice. I shut the
door and kept my distance from him. “Who told you I
was looking for work?”
“I can tell.”
It was one of Eugene’s talents, apparently. It went
well with his other talents of annoying anyone within a
100-foot radius and not starving to death despite no
known source of income.
“I’m doing fine,” I said.
Eugene winked at me. “Sure, buddy.” He flicked
something off of his beer-stained T-shirt. Now he was
infecting my habitat. I didn’t want to know how much
of him would end up in here in the end.
“So how are you going to help me?” I said.
“Ever hear of that app WheelRide?”
“No.” I wondered if WheelRide was like
LinkedFace or whatever Tom had called it.
Eugene pulled out his phone, the same zombie
device the young people had at the unemployment
office. “It’s basically a cab without the hassle.” He
clicked on the app and showed me a picture of a driver
named Seth who did not look happy about driving
anybody anywhere.
“And?” I said.
Eugene swiped at the screen and showed me a map
of our neighborhood. Several moving icons dotted the
HIGHER GROUND
27
roads like floating gas particles. “Those are drivers
near us right now,” he said. “I just have to contact the
nearest one and he can be here in five minutes.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
Eugene chuckled. “Doesn’t work like that. I just
press a button and voila.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll find something else.” I
opened the door, hoping he would take the hint.
He got up after staring at his phone for another
minute. At least it kept him quiet for a bit. “Let me
know if you change your mind,” he said, stepping
outside. “That flip phone of yours is worthless. I can
give you my phone so you can do the job.”
“But isn’t that your phone?”
“I can afford an upgrade.”
I slammed the door in his face.
28
AMY – DAY 3
Dexter tapped his fingers on their table. “You ever
been here?”
“No,” Amy said. They were sitting in a corner
booth in Eddie’s, a confusing hybrid of a diner and
sports bar that didn’t get either one right. Her eyes
focused on the 40-inch flat screen TV hanging
precariously over Dexter’s head. She didn’t want it to
fall on him and have two cases within one hour.
Dexter looked up at the TV. Highlights from last
night’s football game played on the screen. “Lions lost
again. Serves me right for getting my hopes up.” He
turned back to Amy. “You a football fan?”
“Can’t say that I am.”
“I’m in a couple of fantasy leagues,” Dexter said.
“Kills some time, you know?”
“Fantasy?”
Dexter chuckled. “Sorry. It’s when we create our
own teams based on real players. If your players do
well in the actual game, you win.”
“Do you win money?”
“And bragging rights. But money helps.”
Amy took a sip of her water. “Oh.”
She was never a fan of small talk, sports-related or
not. It was more of a smokescreen that hid people’s
true intentions. Figuring out their angles and objectives
was difficult enough without all the extra filler.
Dexter tapped his fingers on the table. “I hope the
HIGHER GROUND
29
waitress comes by soon.”
“Yeah.” Amy scanned the restaurant. The breakfast
crowd was in full force, not a single booth or table
empty. Most people were paying attention to the same
football highlights while their scrambled eggs and
bacon grew cold. Top 40 played on the speakers and
fought for dominance against the TVs.
“So,” Dexter said, “since we’re partners and all…”
He gestured to his face and then to Amy’s.
Amy sighed. “My last name and this face?”
“I was trying to be subtle about it.”
“Try harder.” She plastered a smile on her face. It
was part of the routine, whether addressing a coworker
or a blind date. “I’m Chinese.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You knew I was specifically Chinese, or is that
shorthand for Asian?”
“Specifically Chinese.” Dexter smiled. “It all
comes down to food.”
“How’s that?”
“As you can see, I’m a fan.” He patted his
generous stomach. “Got a thing for Asian food in
general and Chinese in particular.”
Amy smirked. “But how does that prove you could
identify me?”
“I basically live in Chinese restaurants,” Dexter
said. “Back when I was a patrolman, it was my go-to
food during stakeouts. Cheap and quick. So every time
I’d go into the Chinese place, I’d get to know the
workers. I’d observe their features while I was waiting
for my orange chicken.”
VISHAL REDDY
30
“Uh-huh…”
“Of course, they’d cook it so quick that I’d have to
keep going there to nail their features down.” Dexter
shrugged. “Maybe it was part of their business model.”
“Sure.”
“So whenever I’d go into a sushi place or a Korean
barbecue joint, I’d observe their features too,” Dexter
said. “And then I could spot the subtle differences.”
“And when you first saw me, your observation
worked?”
“Like Chinese takeout in a lonely squad car.”
“Impressive,” Amy said. “Though a lot of Chinese
takeout isn’t served in China.”
“The spirit of it comes from China.” He grinned.
“But it’s made its place in America. Just like you.”
“I have an American accent,” Amy said. “How do
you know I wasn’t born here?”
“Come on, Delvecchio.” Dexter draped his arm
across the seat. “Italian last name, Chinese face, no
ring on your finger? Obviously, you’re adopted.”
Amy laughed. “So you’ve cracked the case. Then
why did you ask me if you already knew?”
“I was trying to get you to talk. At least about
something other than work.”
Amy shrugged. “I’m a pretty boring person.”
“Nobody’s really boring,” Dexter said. “They just
haven’t figured out how to tell their stories yet.”
“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
“What about ‘Amy’? That’s definitely not
Chinese.”
“It’s not,” Amy said. “My Chinese name is hard to
HIGHER GROUND
31
pronounce.”
Dexter smiled. “Maybe you’ll tell it to me one day.
It’ll be part of your story.”
The waitress came by and dropped two menus on
the table. She did a double take when she looked at the
two of them, then disappeared as quickly as she came.
“What was that about?” Amy said.
Dexter waved her off. “No big deal.”
“How can you say that?”
“She didn’t object to either of us, trust me.”
Amy leafed through the menu. Every picture of
food looked like it was bathed in grease. “Interesting
detective work on your part.”
“I’ve been black a long time,” Dexter said. “I know
hate when I see it.”
“Maybe her problem was with me, not you.”
Dexter shook his head. “The Chinese have been in
Detroit for a while. You guys aren’t exotic anymore.”
Amy arched her eyebrows. “Pardon?”
“You know what I mean,” Dexter said. “Detroit
used to be mostly white. Once people like me started
showing up, the city’s complexion changed. Now it’s
mostly black and nobody bats an eye. Same with the
Chinese. They aren’t new…” He winked at her. “…
even the Italian ones.”
Amy smiled. “Maybe the waitress didn’t expect
both of us. How often do you see black and Chinese
people together?”
“Aside from Chinese restaurants?” he said. “Food
is the key to everything, Delvecchio.”
“It makes the world go round.”
VISHAL REDDY
32
Dexter patted his stomach. “And makes me round.”
The waitress came back, fatigue in her eyes. “Have
you decided?” she asked.
“Chicken Caesar salad,” Amy said.
Dexter had never touched his menu. “Pancakes,
scrambled eggs, double the bacon.”
The waitress nodded and took the menus back
without saying a word.
“I’ve seen murder victims more animated than
her,” Dexter said.
Amy shrugged. “As long as the food isn’t
animated, I’m fine with her.”
Dexter leaned back in surprise. “Your opinion of
her changed quickly.”
Amy raised her glass of water to him. “Somebody
showed me the error of my ways.” She pointed to
Dexter’s wedding ring. “So how long have you been
married?”
“Twenty-seven years,” he said, beaming.
“Congratulations. Any kids?”
Dexter pulled out his wallet. “Two daughters.” He
showed Amy two recent pictures of them. “Candace is
a nurse, and Ella is in the Navy. Ella’s your age.”
Amy chuckled. “How do you know how old I am?”
“A good detective doesn’t have to ask a woman’s
age,” Dexter said, “and a smart man never does.”
****
Bruce Jalopnik’s trailer was located on the
northwestern edge of the park. The other trailers were
HIGHER GROUND
33
huddled almost two hundred feet away, against a tall
chain-link fence separating them from another trailer
park. It didn’t surprise Amy that Bruce’s body was
found in the middle of a field. Solitude seemed to be
his calling card.
Dexter led the way, shielding his eyes from the
rising sun. “I might want to retire to a place like this,”
he said. “Just the wife and me.”
“Do you think she’d go for that?” Amy asked. She
jogged to catch up to him.
Dexter shrugged. “She got used to me, didn’t she?”
Up close, Bruce’s trailer was surprisingly
attractive. The paint job was either new or Bruce had
spruced it up recently. If there were a magazine for
fancy trailers, Bruce’s might make the cover.
“This’ll be a preview for what I’m gonna buy,”
Dexter said.
“Good to know you’re focused on the important
things.”
“Safety first,” Dexter said, putting on his gloves as
Amy did the same. Dexter opened the door and they
walked inside. Amy shut the door behind them as
Dexter let out a low whistle. “Not bad.”
The room was clean and tastefully arranged, at
least as far as trailers went. A large bookshelf occupied
the far corner. A small dining table sat a few feet away.
Amy pointed out the large unmade bed that
occupied half the room’s space. “Seems out of place.”
“How’s that?”
“Everything here is arranged down to the inch,”
Amy said, “but the bedsheets are just tossed
VISHAL REDDY
34
everywhere.”
Dexter stood by the kitchenette, which looked
spotless. “Maybe the killer dragged him out and ruined
the symmetry. You know, to mess with his OCD.”
“Or something compelled him to jump out of bed.”
Amy walked over to the bookshelf. Books about cars
and architecture dominated the space, a few of them as
thick as a phone book. “His file said he worked at GM,
right?”
“Thirty-three years.”
“His reading material confirms that. But I’m
curious about the architecture angle.” She pointed to
the architecture books on the shelf.
“Man’s gotta have a hobby.” Dexter scanned the
place again. “Forensics will check for prints. I’d be
surprised if any besides his show up.”
“I’ll check the bathroom,” Amy said.
“On behalf of men, I apologize in advance.”
Amy walked to the bathroom, then stopped at the
sound of an approaching car. She looked at Dexter.
“Who’s that?”
Dexter walked to the window and peered through
the blinds. “No idea, but he’s coming this way.”
Amy drew her gun and put her back against the
wall next to the door. “Get on the other side.”
Dexter obliged and drew his gun. The footsteps
grew louder. Amy almost gagged at the smell of
marijuana coming from the man, whoever he was.
The door opened and the man walked in. He
jumped back as Amy aimed her gun at him.
“Freeze!” Amy said.
HIGHER GROUND
35
“Whoa, whoa!” the man said, putting his hands up.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Police. Who are you?”
“I’m Eugene.”
He was skinny and on the short side, but he was
still visiting a murder victim’s trailer. That could make
anybody dangerous. Eugene let out a yelp as Dexter
stepped out from behind the door.
“There any more of you? Jeez.”
“Keep your hands up,” Dexter said. He frisked
Eugene from top to bottom. “Why are you here,
Eugene?
“I live here.” His beady eyes pleaded with Amy for
mercy. “Can I put my hands down now?”
“Keep them at your sides,” Dexter said.
Amy holstered her gun. “You don’t live here, do
you?”
“Yeah, I do,” Eugene said.
“Then prove it.”
“How?”
“Do you have a deed to this place?”
Eugene’s eyes darted around the trailer. “I’m sure
it’s here somewhere.”
Dexter loomed over him from behind. “We can
wait.”
“Yeah, but it might take a while,” Eugene said.
“What’s this about anyway?”
“Lots of things.” Dexter took a deep breath and
waved his hand under his nose. “It could be about the
weed you were just smoking.”
“Or that you’re inside a trailer that probably
VISHAL REDDY
36
doesn’t belong to you,” Amy said.
Dexter got in Eugene’s face. “Or that you’re now
our number-one suspect.”
“Suspect?” Eugene said. “For what?”
“The murder of Bruce Jalopnik.”
Eugene’s eyes grew wide. “Bruce is dead?”
“Why are you surprised?” Dexter motioned him to
the bed.
“I can’t believe it,” Eugene said, sitting on top of
the messy sheets. His shoulders slumped as he looked
at the floor. “He’s the last person to get into trouble.”
Amy crossed her arms. “Why are you in his
trailer?”
“He let me stay here after—”
“But I thought you lived here.”
Eugene paused. “I mean, in the technical sense. But
in the legal sense—”
“So you’re a lawyer now?”
Dexter laughed. “Maybe he can represent himself
in court. ‘Your Honor, I’m not legally a lawyer, but
technically I am.’”
“I’d pay to see that,” Amy said.
Eugene glared at them. “I don’t think you should
joke around when my friend is dead.”
“And we don’t think you should lie to the cops.”
Amy knelt down and met him at eye level. “Now why
are you – allegedly – living here?”
“It’s embarrassing, but I guess I had no choice.”
Eugene sighed and looked at the ceiling. “I’ve known
Bruce since high school. I ran into him at this bar--”
“Which bar?”
HIGHER GROUND
37
“Mickey’s,” he said. “It’s about 20 minutes from
here. He told me he always went there.”
Dexter produced a notebook from his pocket and
wrote it down.
“Go on,” Amy said to Eugene.
“Anyway, we got to talking. I told him about my
run of bad luck.” Eugene bit his lip. “No money, got
evicted from my place. And he offered to let me crash
here.”
“He sounds like an upstanding guy.”
“Definitely,” Eugene said. “The best.”
Amy eyed him suspiciously. “And you two never
had an argument?”
“No.”
“Because this space is way too small for two
people,” Amy said. “How often did you see each
other?”
“Bruce was a driver for WheelRide,” Eugene said.
“You know, that app on your phone? So he’d be out a
lot.”
Dexter wrote it down. “Cars on the brain.”
“Yeah, he was all about cars.” Eugene stared at the
floor, not meeting their eyes.
Amy stood up and took a step back. She didn’t
want Eugene’s weed-infused odor to absorb itself into
her clothes.
“And what do you do during the day?” Amy said.
“Well, aside from…”
Eugene glared at her. “Hey, I don’t smoke that
much weed.”
“But you’re still unemployed.”
VISHAL REDDY
38
Eugene shrugged. “So is half this city.”
39
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