Powers of Arrest Read Online Free PDF

having been owned by a senator who led reform of the federal civil service.
    Being in only the municipal civil service and yet carrying a badge, Will had an informal deal with the neighborhood homeboys: they kept the car safe and he didn’t bother them. So far it had worked. Downtown glistened to the south. He made himself walk the way he would at the scene: an easy, if slow gait, the cane barely visible, the weakness in his left leg concealed. But he was conscious of every step. Every step was hard as hell. Don’t show it, he told himself for the thousandth time. Don’t show it.
    The city of Cincinnati comprised fifty-two neighborhoods in a geography that began with the basin at the river landing and rose onto three-hundred-foot-high hills into which were tucked dozens of valleys, hillsides, and ravines. Each neighborhood had its own history, culture, and feel. But none was like Over-the-Rhine. With its narrow, snaky streets immediately north of downtown and dense rows of four- and five-story tenements and commercial buildings, it had once been the old German enclave. Its five square miles held America’s largest urban historic district, its jewel box of architectural styles mostly unscathed by massive teardowns or urban renewal. It also was the home to Music Hall, Washington Park, and the Findlay Market.
    It was half time capsule to the nineteenth century and half slum. Most cops had no sentimental attachment to it. Yet Will liked the place.
    A hundred years before, Over-the-Rhine held nearly fifty thousand people. Now, despite the rough-at-the-edges splendor of its buildings, the neighborhood was home to little more than ten percent of that population, and almost all were poor, uneducated, and black. The gentrification of the nineties had paused with the riots, but the place was so magnetic that yet another attempt at a Renaissance was under way on Main Street and elsewhere. The old Stenger’s Café, where he bought coffee for years, was being reborn as a wine shop. There was talk of connecting O.T.R. to downtown with a streetcar, but change came slowly to Cincinnati. Parts of it were amazing in their beauty, others scary even to the cops.
    He turned onto Race Street and briefly flashed the vehicle’s emergency lights so a uniform would let him pass. The street was blocked and half a dozen marked and unmarked units were parked in front of a dingy little market that still had a faded Hudepohl beer sign hanging from a rusty overhead rod. It was one of the few places to shop here. Kroger kept threatening to close its small, run-down store over on Vine. It’s not as if this were a place with the demographics or incomes to attract retailers. It attracted plenty of yellow crime-scene tape, which was now being wrapped.
    The buildings stood between the street and the low-hanging sun, shrouding the landscape in the half-dark of the hour before real morning. Dodds was standing on the curb with his hands on his hips. He was hard to miss: big as a door, shaved head, with a complexion like strong coffee, and always dressed to the nines. A hundred feet down the block were two television news vans.
    Will stepped up on the curb, made his left leg crook up to catch the sidewalk, cheating by using his left hand to push off a car fender, and walked toward him, conscious of every bump and disfigurement of the sidewalk that might trip him.
    “What have you got?”
    “Thirty-one-year-old male, name Jeremy Snowden, address in Mount Lookout, sitting peacefully behind the wheel of his automobile enjoying this historic neighborhood.”
    He followed Dodds, moving as fast as he could but still trailing behind. A silver four-door Lexus was parked directly in front of the little store. Race was a one-way street running toward downtown and the river, so the car was parked on the east side of the street with the driver’s door by the curb. A lithesome young man with dirty blond hair to his shoulders sat exactly as Dodds said. His eyes were open