Chapter 58

Lieutenant Jack Macon's eyes pierced through the battered brass plates lining the front of the building. A quiet, deep breath slipped from his lips as his finger followed the letters. Forsythe Avenue, he thought, puckering his lips. No city address had a nastier reputation—crooks, misfits, derelicts all streamed through here like an underground current that was always present.

"Top floor, Lieutenant," the young patrolman replied, saluting as Macon stepped from his car. He eyed him, took in the crispness of his uniform, the bright nervous glaze on his eye.

"Top floor, eh?" Macon sneered at the patrolman. "Where would she be, kid, except in hiding in wait in the basement?" He pushed the boy aside with an elbow and started up the worn marble stairs curving into darkness.

The building was silent like a coffin, the morning's usual hum of conversation muffled by fear. The doors shut, the blinds pulled down, as if the walls themselves were not breathing. They know we're here, he found himsel