Night Work Read online

  Praise for Steve Hamilton

  A STOLEN SEASON

  “Hair-raising suspense.”

  —Booklist

  “One of those mysteries that lulls readers into a sense of security, but nothing is certain here.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “The chill of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula doesn’t cool the action in Edgar-winner Hamilton’s expertly paced seventh Alex McNight novel … Plot turnarounds and double-crosses ensure a startling conclusion.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hamilton’s gamble of putting the most exciting action off-stage with the girlfriend pays off big-time here. Hair-raising suspense with poignant characterization.”

  —Booklist

  “The cast is strong and the local color as vivid as ever.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Hamilton … paint[s] a rich and vivid portrait of a world where the chill in the air is often matched by that of the soul.” —Providence Journal-Bulletin

  ICE RUN

  “A gripping, roller-coaster read… Hamilton expertly delivers sharply etched characters, a vivid setting and a thoroughly enjoyable hero, leaving us breathless, perched at the edge of our seats for this chill ride.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hamilton still delivers powerful suspense and a socko climax.”

  —Booklist

  “Ice Run turns on edge-of-the-seat psychological suspense that Hamilton has honed to precision.”

  —Florida Sun-Sentinel

  BLOOD IS THE SKY

  “Overflows with an element lacking from too many mysteries: a genuine sense of mystery… Blood boldly crosses genre boundaries as it turns into a thrilling outdoor adventure, then a heartfelt small-town tragedy. All along, Hamilton’s prose…remains an unselfconsciously terse pleasure.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Heartily delivers on suspense, atmosphere, and riveting action.”

  —Denver Post

  “Hamilton never misses a beat.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “Hamilton won an Edgar and an Anthony in 1998 for A Cold Day in Paradise. This smart, brisk, twisty tale is even better.

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred)

  “A fine writer, [Hamilton] excels at describing the lonely locale as well as depicting such memorable characters.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Blood Is the Sky is brilliant. Some books you can’t put down because the story is so compelling. Some books you can’t put down because the prose is so spellbinding. And then, every once in a while, you read a book that combines both. Steve Hamilton has written the best private eye novel—heck, maybe the best novel—I’ve read this year.”

  —Harlan Coben, author of Left for Dead

  “Steve Hamilton writes tough, passionate novels with a strong emphasis on heart and humanity. His latest flat-out smokes. This is crime writing at its very best.”

  —George Pelecanos,

  author of Hell to Pay and Soul Circus

  “Easily Steve Hamilton’s best novel so far—therefore an automatic book of the year. Everything is here—his trademark sense of place, vivid, resonant characters, and a plot that will break your heart.”

  —Lee Child, author of Persuader

  “This book is relentless. I had to read it straight through. The best mysteries are about the past coming up out of the ground and grabbing the present by the throat. Steve Hamilton knows this. Blood Is the Sky fills that bill and then some. This is his best yet.”

  —Michael Connelly, author of Chasing the Dime

  NORTH OF NOWHERE

  “Steve Hamilton writes the kind of stories that [one] can’t resist… his tensile prose… reflects the dramatic, often violent contradictions of people who live on the edge of the world.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Superb! Hamilton keeps the action fast and furious and manages to keep the reader off balance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A brisk, well-plotted tale.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A bracing, sometimes side-splitting novel.”

  —Booklist

  “Agreeable plot twists (the revelation of whodunit really is a surprise), and thoughtfully engages some larger questions about wilderness real estate developments and the limits of friendship.”

  —Washington Post

  “A complex, solid story enhanced by unpredictable twists and turns. Psychological suspense and an excellent chase scene propels North of Nowhere to its most rewarding conclusion.”

  —Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “North of Nowhere has a twisty plot with genuine surprises, but it’s the understanding of the people who live in the Upper Peninsula and the love for both the harshness and beauty of the Lake Superior shoreline that make this another good entry in a terrific series.”

  —Flint Journal

  THE HUNTING WIND

  “Un-put-downable… exceptionally entertaining.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hamilton spins a smooth yarn.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “The surprise ending delivers a satisfying jolt.”

  —Booklist

  “Compelling.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Easygoing, smoothly written tale.”

  —Seattle Times/Post-Intelligencer

  “[The Hunting Wind] is to the same standard…[as] Hamilton’s Edgar-winning A Cold Day in Paradise.”

  —Boston Globe

  WINTER OF THE WOLF MOON

  “The isolated, wintry location jives well with Hamilton’s pristine prose, independent protagonist, and ingenious plot. An inviting sequel to his Edgar Award-winning first novel, A Cold Day in Paradise.”

  —Library Journal

  “[Hamilton’s] protagonist is likable as well as durable, his raffish cast is sharply observed and entertaining. Moreover, he knows how to pace a story, something of a lost art in recent crime fiction.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “There’s almost as much action in the book as there is snow—and there’s heaps of white flakes. But Hamilton’s first-person narrative has a lyric cadence and thoughtful tone that nicely counterpoints all the rough-and-tumble stuff.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “In his second novel, Steve Hamilton continues the high standards he set in his Edgar-winning debut, A Cold Day in Paradise. Winter Of The Wolf Moon is an entertaining tale buoyed by solid plotting, wry humor and brisk pacing… characters are so well-shaped they hit the scene breathing.”

  —Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  A COLD DAY IN PARADISE

  “Ingenious… Hamilton unreels the mystery with a mounting tension many an old pro might envy.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Hamilton combines crisp, clear writing, wily, colorful characters and an offbeat locale in an impressive debut.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] well-plotted and tightly written thriller.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “A good combination of crafty and colorful characters, an offbeat locale in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and really crisp, clear writing.”

  —Sullivan County Democraft

  “P.I. Alex McKnight’s ‘mean streets’ are the deep pine woods and the small lakeside towns of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and here the past comes to find him, chilling as the November wind. A must for PI and suspense fans.”

  —Charles Todd, author of Wings of Fire

  “His story is so fundamentally sound and stylistically rounded that Hamilton ought to be teaching whatever writing course he may have taken toward producing this novel.”

  —Jeremiah Healy, author of

  The
Only Good Lawyer

  Other St. Martin’s

  Paperbacks Titles by

  STEVE HAMILTON

  A Stolen Season

  Ice Run

  Blood Is the Sky

  North of Nowhere

  The Hunting Wind

  Winter of the Wolf Moon

  A Cold Day in Paradise

  NIGHT WORK

  Steve Hamilton

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  NIGHT WORK

  Copyright © 2007 by Steve Hamilton.

  Cover photo © Barry Marcus.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2007021542

  ISBN: 0-312-35500-9

  EAN: 978-0-312-35500-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / September 2007

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 2008

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

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  To Ruth

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am indebted to Bill Maddock of the Suffolk County Probation Department and Bob Sudlow of the Ulster County Probation Department—not just for the generous help and information, but for the simple chance to meet the kind of people who would dedicate their professional lives to this line of work. I have nothing but respect and admiration for you and every other probation officer in the state of New York.

  I’d also like to thank Patrick Regan, who runs a great Albert Ayler Web site, www.ayler.org.

  Thanks as always to the “usual suspects”—Bill Keller and Frank Hayes, Liz and Taylor Brugman, Ruth Cavin and everyone at St. Martin’s Press and Orion UK, Jane Chelius, Maggie Griffin, Nick Childs, Bob Randisi and the Private Eye Writers of America, the people I work with at IBM, David White, Joel Clark, Cary Gottlieb, Jeff Allen, Rob Brenner, Larry Queipo, former chief of police, Town of Kingston, New York, and Dr. Glenn Hamilton from the Department of Emergency Medicine, Wright State University.

  And as always, to Julia, my wife and best friend, to Nicholas, Prince of Paintball, and to Antonia, Tsarina of the Trampoline.

  ONE

  I was scared to death that night. I admit it.

  I sat in my second-story window, taping my hands and looking down at the cars on the street. I should have been wearing a white undershirt to complete the picture, and playing my saxophone while the people passed below me on the hot sidewalk. If I could have played the damned thing worth a lick, I would have. Instead I just sat there and watched an early moon rise high above the buildings. When I saw it, I said to myself, here’s one more excuse not to go through with this. A full moon is nothing but trouble for me. If you think it’s an old wives’ tale, just ask anybody with a job like mine. Go ask a cop working the night shift, or a doctor in the emergency room. He’ll tell you. A full moon means a busy night.

  I thought about finding some music to calm me down. Something slow and easy. But I figured no, that’ll just drive me nuts, so I went downstairs and jumped some rope. Then I worked the speed bag, one hand over the other as fast as I could, fast as a drum roll. I hit the heavy bag for a while, just long enough to make my hands hurt and my arms feel slightly numb for the rest of the evening. Anderson held the bag for me, and watched me with that knowing smile on his face.

  “Somebody’s a little wired,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re anxious about tonight.”

  “Not at all.” A lie as big as the lump in my throat.

  “Come on, Joe,” he said. He let go of the bag. “You’re acting like a kid.”

  Good old Anderson. He was the owner of this old wreck of a place, this old bus station turned into a gym with two apartments upstairs. He was a good trainer, a good landlord, and an even better human being, but I wasn’t sure if I could deal with him today. Not on this day of all days.

  “It’s been a while,” I said. “You know that.”

  He knew. “Long enough,” he said. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

  I didn’t have an answer to that, so I just wrapped him up in a sweaty bear hug. He tried to dodge me, but from what I hear he was a slow man even at his fighting weight in 1960. The years since hadn’t made him any faster.

  “I’ve got to get dressed,” I said. “Go bother somebody else.”

  “You’re gonna be fine, Joe. Just relax.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  I left him there, went up the rickety old stairs two at a time, and hit the shower. This was my sad excuse for a home, this room and a half that had once been the bus station’s main office. It still held the faint smell of cigarettes and bus fumes, but at this point in my life it seemed to fit me. Or at least if it didn’t, it wasn’t something I even cared about. I stood in front of the closet and went through the shirts, looking for something that matched my dress pants.

  “When in doubt,” I said. I picked out the white shirt, figuring white goes with anything, right? Then I had a ten-minute debate with myself on the tie issue. Red tie. Blue tie. The red tie won in a split decision.

  When it was firmly knotted around my neck, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and took a good hard look at myself. Was I up for this?

  Hell no. But it was too late to back out now. Even with a full moon.

  I checked my messages. There was one from Howie, wishing me luck. He was my best friend, going all the way back to elementary school. Now he was a detective on the Kingston police force. What mattered tonight was that he knew how hard this would be. He was the only guy who really knew.

  “I’ve got to get psyched for this,” I said. “Get my head on straight.” It was too early to leave yet, so I went back to the collection. Never mind slow and easy. I needed something huge, so I pulled out Peter Brötzmann’s Machine Gun. It’s a blistering assault on the ears, with eight of Europe’s strongest free jazz players going at it back in 1968 like it was the end of the world. Owning this album is probably illegal in many states.

  I cranked it up to eleven and let Herr Brötzmann rattle the windows for me, along with most of my brain cells. It never failed. When it was done, the silence was even more deafening.

  It was way too warm for a jacket, but I grabbed one anyway. With just a white shirt and a tie I’d look like the counterman at a muffler shop. I went back down the stairs, hoping to avoid the gym and any further helpful commentary from Anderson. Or any of the other muscleheads in the gym. Anderson had probably told every single last one of them.

  “Hey, Joe!” he yelled after me. “How many cats were you strangling up there?”

  I gave him a wave and was out the door.

  The sun was low in the sky when I stepped out on Broadway. Kingston’s Broadway, that is, not to be confused with the Broadway in New York City, ninety miles down the river. We don’t have skyscrapers on our Broadway, or big theaters. But there’s a Planet Wings franchise across the street from me, and yes, they deliver.

  I checked my watch. It wasn’t even seven o’clock yet, so I still had an hour to kill. I could have gone down to the Shamrock for a quick one, but then I figured no, that would be another room full of guys with advice for me. Might as well go uptown, find a quiet place where nobody knows me, and get my game face on.

  I got my car out of the back lot, my old black Volkswagen with the big dent in the rear bumper. I headed up Broadway, past the YMCA and the diner, past the old brick buildings with the ancien
t lettering high on the sides. FINE FURNITURE. WOMEN’S CLOTHING. From back before the malls came to the other side of town.