A city bleeding out. A detective who won't look away.
Dick Novack climbs a hundred steps every morning to a second-floor office on Grand River Avenue. No elevator. Heat that works when it feels like it. He runs Novack Security and Investigations—guard contracts, celebrity protection, and the cases nobody else wants to touch.
Detroit's dying in slow motion. But Novack isn't leaving. This is his city. His punch-drunk boxer who don't know when to stay down.
He's a Vietnam vet with a .38 under his arm and ghosts he doesn't talk about. He knows every block of this city—which corners to avoid, which streets have eyes, which buildings still have life in them.
The surface of things don't mean shit. It's what's underneath that matters.
And Novack always finds what's underneath.
"The trick ain't askin' the right questions. Any asshole can do that.
The trick is knowin' which answers to believe."
— Dick Novack
