Four Corners of Night

( 6 )

Overview

A twelve-year-old girl is snatched from the street where she lives. And for two cops, Mack Steiner and Bank Arbaugh--partners, best friends, fathers themselves--the girl's disappearance will hurtle them back through layers of friendship, memory, and loss. Because seven years before, Bank's own daughter vanished without a trace. And now, as police descend on the small midwestern city, as witnesses are grilled and evidence mounts, one case begins to illuminate the other. And for two men, a harrowing journey has ...
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Four Corners of Night

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Overview

A twelve-year-old girl is snatched from the street where she lives. And for two cops, Mack Steiner and Bank Arbaugh--partners, best friends, fathers themselves--the girl's disappearance will hurtle them back through layers of friendship, memory, and loss. Because seven years before, Bank's own daughter vanished without a trace. And now, as police descend on the small midwestern city, as witnesses are grilled and evidence mounts, one case begins to illuminate the other. And for two men, a harrowing journey has begun--one that will test their long, complicated friendship and uncover a chilling truth about two missing girls, two shattered families, and at least one heartbreaking lie.

From the author The New York Times hails as "astonishing" comes a spellbinding blend of raw tension and human drama--a masterpiece of suspense that races toward a devastating climax...then jolts us again with a final, unforgettable twist.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"A compelling and heartbreaking story that is as much about family ties and loyalty as it is about catching a criminal."
--Chicago Tribune

"Craig Holden writes like a dream."
--The Washington Post

"Absorbing...[a] tense, thoughtful thriller...makes you feel just the right amount of fear."
--The New York Times

"A spine-tingling read...leaves us breathless."
--Detroit Free Press

"Part wrenching family drama...part tough procedural...delivers a punch in both its harrowing story and its carefully rendered prose."
--The Seattle Times

"Thought-provoking and sophisticated...builds to an exciting and shocking ending that is almost guaranteed to take you by surprise."
--The Denver Post

"A talented writer...a multilayered morality tale about the breakdown of trust between husband and wife, parent and child, friend and friend."
--The New York Times Book Review

"One grand surprise after another...Intelligent, splendid...[with] more twists and turns than a mountain trail."
--Fort Wayne Journal-Gazette

"Haunting."
--The Orlando Sentinel

Christopher Lehmann-Haupt
Four Corners of Night...is not without its flaws....Yet everything becomes more or less justified by the surprising turn the plot eventually takes...[it] makes you reread the first half of the book in wonder at how the story has fooled you....draws you into the knotty dilemma it poses and makes you feel just the right degree of fear.
New York Times
Marilyn Stasio
A talented writer...a multilayered tale about the breakdown of trust between husband and wife, parent and child, friend and friend.
New York Times Book Review
Detroit Free Press
It leaves us breathless....Few writers are able to balance the plot of a mystery the way Holden can: slowing down to allow his characters to develop, then picking up the pace of the action. A spine-tingling read.
Chicago Tribune Books
Craig Holden creates a compelling and heartbreaking story that is as much about family ties and loyalty as it is about catching a criminal.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
The kidnapping of a teenage girl nearly tears apart a close friendship between a pair of cops in Holden's powerful, lyrical third novel (after The Last Sanctuary). Max Steiner is the first-person narrator, an investigator in the Personal Crimes Section of the police force who gets emotionally involved after a 12-year-old girl disappears while riding her bike in the unnamed Ohio city where he and his partner, Bank, have worked for years. The investigation seems straightforward, but the kidnapping pushes a number of hot buttons for scarred police hero Bank, whose daughter disappeared a decade ago in a similar case that was never solved. The case quickly spills over into the personal lives of both protagonists, giving Holden the opportunity to examine the problematic relationship between Max and Bank's wife, Sarah. Meanwhile, Bank distances himself from their brief involvement by resorting to a series of strong-armed tactics to locate the missing girl. The personal entanglements become even more complicated when Max's rebellious daughter disappears and his efforts to track down his own child seem to implicate several members of the department's kidnapping task force. Holden gracefully sustains narrative tension, shifting from the effort to recover the kidnapped girl to the darker, psychological effect of loss on two families. Aside from the astonishing ending, what makes Holden's latest work noteworthy is the depth of his characterizations and the assuredness with which he handles chronological leaps to develop parallel plots and subplots. Holden is an accomplished storyteller who delves deeper beneath the surface with each successive book.
Library Journal
The author of acclaimed novels like The River Sorrow crosses over into literary suspense with this story of Bank Arbaugh and Mack Steiner, two buddy-buddy cops whose new case--that of a missing girl recalls the disappearance of Arbaugh's own daughter.
Kirkus Reviews
A veteran cop questions his fitness for the work he's in as this action-packed, multi-layered suspenser gets underway. Mack Steiner probably spends too much time pondering abstractions. The fact is, he's been on the force for 14 years, getting the job done. Moreover, he has this friend, Bank Arbaugh, who supplies enough self-confidence to cover the both of them. Bank's a paragon of a policeman, generally acknowledged as the best in the mid-sized Ohio city where the cronies ply their trade. He tells the world Mack's okay; and when Bank speaks, the world listens. Then one frightening, gut-wrenching night, Mack's introspection goes by the board, replaced by the compelling need to act: a 12-year-old girl is kidnaped. Or could she have just run off? Either way, the circumstances are dismally reminiscent of an earlier case, one traumatic enough to have scarred each man. The investigation gathers speed, beginning to generate some information. Instead of clarifying the nature of the crime, however, what the men learn merely obscures it. Meanwhile, Mack is feeling increasing pressure at home. The war between his daughter and his wife (her stepdaughter) has heated up, demanding his intervention-but what kind? It's also now inescapable that the missing child and his own child shared a connection. When in turn she disappears, the pressure intensifies exponentially, and Mack and Bank find their friendship both more fragile and more complex than either had ever imagined. Holden is becoming expert at serving up the tried-and-true elements of a competent thriller (The Last Sanctuary). What gives this one distinction is the interesting commentary he has to make about male friendship-both howit works and about the way it can hurt men.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780440224747
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/1/2010
  • Pages: 418
  • Sales rank: 1,220,524
  • Product dimensions: 4.15 (w) x 6.95 (h) x 0.95 (d)

Meet the Author

Craig Holden was born and raised in Toledo, Ohio. He lives in Dexter, Michigan, with his wife and children.
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Read an Excerpt

The call comes over on a Sunday morning. It comes while we sit in this old Denny's restaurant, now kind of weather beaten with a couple of broken, boarded-over windows, out toward the western part of the city, and wait for our Grand Slams.

"Buck ninety-nine," Bank says. "Who can afford not to eat this shit at that price?" He's said this over the years maybe fifty times in this restaurant with me.

The place has grown suddenly crowded with the church people. I remember that this is Palm Sunday for the Christians.

Neither Bank nor I say much anymore. We've been talking for nearly thirty years and have pretty well said what we have to say to each other. So we listen to the radio that Bank has carried in. Even here, off shift, after a long night of hammering, he can't let it go, cannot step out of the flow of garbage and pain. And when we hear an "All units" come over on channel four, we both sort of freeze and wait for it, although it is not our responsibility, because that's what we've been conditioned to do.

I do not know why this particular moment strikes me so vividly, the moment these words come over. I have no reason to think it is significant. But for some reason, a premonition perhaps, a detective's instinct--which is a thing worth trusting, I learned long ago--my brain chooses this tick out of the millions of the day to freeze. The way the sunlight slants through the wide window and strikes the table, warming my arms. The way smoke drifts over from the next booth, blue-white and languid, hanging in the sunlit air. The rubbery pink burn scars that mar Bank's throat and forehead and the sides of his face, and the fingerless gloves he still wears over his damaged hands. The angle of his head, the same look of concentration in his eyes I saw for the first time in 1967, three quarters of our lifetimes ago.

I cannot call it, in itself, a remarkable moment but I recognize it for what it is: a deceiver, a moment which tries to disguise itself as just another beat in the continuum when in fact it is something more than that. What, exactly, of course, I do not know.

The night before, from eleven to seven, we rode: the North End, directly above the downtown, what was once the old Polish and Hungarian towns but has become a cracked-out wasteland; Central-North, to the west, which is still working class, small bungalows and narrow two-stories built in the factory neighborhoods of the forties, still held together by nurses and guys who drive local trucks or work at the PO; and the East Side, which is a land unto itself.

I wasn't working, exactly, just riding along with Bank, which I try to do whenever I'm on call. I work days out of the Personal Crimes Section of the newly formed Investigative Services Division, but cruising with Bank keeps my toes in the muddy water of the late-night city, keeps me tapped into a side of its business that rolls up and goes away with the rising of the sun. Since the restructuring of our force, though, a year or so back, when the new Command did away with the old squad system, my on-call time has dropped dramatically, so that now I end up working only a night or two each month.

Old Bank, though, who at various times was my official partner, and who before that became my best friend the year we turned nine years old, has for years now worked a graveyard felony car alone except for those few nights I ride along with him.

Bank has some seniority. He has a rep. He has plenty of admiration on the force and in the city at large, and everyone knows he could walk the sergeant's exam. Bank is also, to a fair degree, famous in our city and even beyond. He's been the subject of local and regional television and newspaper profiles, a slick magazine article or two, and has even appeared on a couple of those nationally syndicated cop shows. The press loves him, and the public does too. More than once he has been asked to make an appearance at a school or some ceremony. And he does it, wearing a turtleneck to cover the worst of his scarred neck. But always, then, it's back out into the night. He won't give it up. He's a maverick. That's just the word. A cowboy riding around crack town all night, stirring up the dogies whenever he can, saying hey to all his dealer snitches, his buddies, ruffling the crack whores with his bright twelve-volt spotlight plugged into the car's cigarette lighter. Them holding their hands up over their eyes and c lucking like hens in their house--"Mm. Ah. Wha'choo want?" "Who izzat?" Cluck, cluck, cluck.

"Girl," Bank always says, and it was no different on this night, "it's the po-lice."

"Shit. Bank? That you? Shit. S'Bank."

"Cold out here tonight, girl," he said. "Only a couple more days." Meaning they'd be getting their government checks after the first of the month, which would buy their dope for maybe two weeks, so they could take a break from selling it. The second half of the month was their busy time.

"Mm-hm," the one said, a tall, ugly big-thighed girl in a dirty fake-fur jacket and tights. "Boyfriend gone snatch it up anyway. Don't matter."

"You need yourself a new boyfriend."

"Shit," she said. "No shit on that, Mister Po-lice."

Bank said, "Don't even let me catch you doing nothing ee-legal out here. You got it?"

"Us? We jus' takin' the night air," she said, and they all cackled.

"I'll be back by in an hour," said Bank, meaning if they were still here he might consider them to be loitering, if not soliciting as well.

"Hey, Bank," the whore said. "You know what?"

"What?"

"You my hero."

The girls broke up into laughter, and Bank laughed, and I laughed, and he killed the bright light and we drove on.

The streets at night are covered by squad cars, uniformed patrolmen. In addition, the city requires there to be a detective present at the scene of any felony arrest. Our city is not terribly large--something like four hundred thousand, double that for the metro area--so these late nights are left to a handful of felony-car dicks who handle anything that comes up, except homicides and cases requiring long-term investigations: arsons, complex robberies, that sort of thing. An on-call day-shift detective is dragged out for these. But otherwise, f-cars manage the nights. This is their job, just to be there.

Most other f-car men I know wait for the phone, riding their desks except when they can't help it, when the phone rings and they have to jump out to a scene. Then it's back in to the Public Safety Building, process the collar, call a squad for a transport, snag some coffee, and start picking away at that stack of paperwork. Until the phone rings again.

But Bank, he stays out, prowling, working the city, watching the buys and the bars and the whores. He carries four different radios with him, to monitor all the bands of the city, and he responds to every call he can, often arriving on scenes before the first squad cars. And when there are no calls, he goes out and finds one:

A kid, say, black, white, Hispanic, walking down the street at 1:00 A.M., hands in pockets. Bank will shine him with the big light, hit him in the face and blind him. If the kid stops, closes his eyes, and cocks his head off to one side, pulls his hands out of the pockets, he's okay. Bank lowers the light and rides on. If he bolts, though, Bank is off after him, out of the car and hauling ass through the ghetto, chasing a boy who an observer might think probably did nothing but got scared.

But it's never that way. They've always done something or got something or know something that allows Bank to bring them downtown and process them. Carrying a crack pipe or a rock, a BB gun, or a real one for that matter, some cash they can't explain. Even if it's only that they're wearing red or green shoelaces, which are gang signs, he'll run them in for violating the city's curfew. And the thing about Bank is, half the time he finds a way to drum up a felony charge where any other cop would see a misdemeanor, or even nothing. Take the BB-gun example. Bank might view that as "possession of tools to commit a felony." He'll figure the kid was out perping robberies with what looks, in the dark, like a real gun. So he'll make the bust, do the paperwork, and go to court to see it through. Often as not these cases get thrown out either by the prosecuting attorneys or the judges, but Bank keeps right on running them in, making everybody work harder than they want to.

Bank's willing to do more paperwork than any other cop I've ever met, and in the end, I suppose, that is one of the secrets of his success. He suffers endless bullshit and red tape to make his version of the system work the way it's supposed to.

The radios crackled and spoke in cop talk, two in the backseat, one on the dash, and one, tuned to Band 4, for the North End and the East Side, the hot one, stuck between Bank's legs, so he could get to it in an instant, without any fumbling in the dark.

Our Saturday night filled with small-time busts--robberies, assaults, dope buys, one aggravated burglary stopped in progress on a dispatch call that we beat the squads to (a kid carrying a TV set from a building in the Lloyd DuShane Homes, a huge East Side housing project), and so on. It didn't faze Bank at all that five of our perps were fifteen years old. Fifteen seems to be the high age of crime. Though I came up through the old Juvenile Squad, I still stop and wonder about this sometimes but Bank just presses on.

Bank likes it when I work a night with him. I not only ride along while he cruises, but then help him pull up the jackets, type the reports and requests for juvenile transfers and so forth, even run the collars around to the Juvie Hall or County, wherever they're headed. So, although he was officially off shift at seven, it was only after nine that we finally landed in the Denny's and ordered our food.

And so the call comes: "Available units, respond to the report of a child missing at 230 King's Court." Dispatch is Carla this morning. Her voice sounds cool and uninflected. Bank raises his ruined eyebrows at me as we listen to the patrols talking it over on the air, to the first descriptions of the scene. I wait to see his reaction.

"Three oh six. What d'you got goin'?"

Dispatch: "Three oh six, a woman says her daughter disappeared. Twelve-year-old daughter."

A young missing almost-teenager on a Sunday morning is surely either a runaway or, more likely, the result of a long Saturday-night party. The girls especially, when they show up at home, finally, with suck marks on the neck and dirty, rumpled clothing, they tell a good story about how they were abducted and violated all night long. Happens every weekend.

Bank and I are kind of smirking at each other when the radio pops again: "Three twenty to three oh six, we're here, ah, at the scene. She's pretty hysterical, the mother. This girl's out riding a bike a few minutes ago, they, ah, find the bike, no girl. Reports of, ah . . . might be that a car drove by shortly beforehand with two black males in the front seat. Followed the girl around a corner."

So this is something different. I watch Bank, again waiting for his reaction.

Dispatch: "Three two oh, code seven three. Investigative Services has been notified." This means very high priority. The only thing higher is a code seven one, officer in need of assistance, or a seven one red, an officer down.

"Three oh six responding, code seven three."

The airwaves fill with the chatter as more squads and the first detectives arrive at the scene, as it becomes apparent that this is maybe the real thing, a kid missing from a possible drive-by grab, a relatively rare crime, a potentially huge situation. And one that dredges up for us both, but especially for Bank, echoes of the soundless pleas of another child gone missing, echoes of the worst moments either of us has ever known.

And yet Bank has this look on his face, of a kind of horrified rapture. He has already lifted the radio, in preparation of our leaving.

"We're there, buddy," he says.

But I am no longer on call; Bank's off duty. We have no business at this scene. And more than that, to be honest, I feel some trepidation: at facing this situation again, at feeling that utter helplessness, the lack of any control, any ability to affect the outcome. Of standing in the river of some mother's grief and feeling my own worthlessness.

The Grand Slams have just arrived: two eggs over, toast, bacon, pancakes, and coffee. I feel starved and exhausted after the long night. I imagine, I long for, that rich sensation of crawling into my cool morning bed, narcotized with heavy food, to wake only after noon into the glare and disorientation of high daylight. There is no way we can scarf all this down. But Bank looks like he'll die on me right here if we don't respond.

I shake my head.

He nods.

"Mack," he says, in the same voice he has used to cajole me for twenty-nine years.

I had actually wondered if he'd feel up to it, if he could face it. Up to it? No force, least of all me, can keep him from that scene.

He leaves me no choice in the end except to surrender. But then, that has always been the way.

In hindsight, in history, perhaps I will come to understand the place of this moment, its meaning, what makes it remarkable, why I have frozen it in this way, so that it will remain preserved in my mind, where it can perpetually happen. Or perhaps not. In any case, I cannot foresee what is coming, but I sense something in its nascence, and it frightens me.

A missing girl. She is an essential part of our story, of Bank's and mine, the heart of it, really. And now here is another who has cried out to us in some way that Bank hears more clearly than I.

We all, I suppose, reenact our lives over and over again, each moment an echo, a mimicking of some other. And the sums of these moments, the hours and months, are echoes as well, of patterns we set before we could ever have understood such things.

I roll my bacon up in the pancakes, lay the toast on top, wrap it all in a napkin, and take a good swig of the coffee, which burns my mouth. Bank does the same. We'll live longer without the eggs, anyway. Bank points a finger at the waitress, meaning we'll catch up to her later and pay the bill, and we're gone, out into the sunlight of a new holy day.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 6 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 6 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 2, 2012

    Good read

    From the opening page, sadness seems to permeate the story although you're not sure why you feel that way. At first you think that Bank is driven but as the plot unfolds you realize there is a darkness to him. The character development is insightful and the author's ability to have you feel that you are walking in the characters' shoes is refreshing. The only criticism I have is that the transitions between past and present are not always smooth and sometimes leaves you confused . While I liked The River Sorrow better, I would definitely recommend this book.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 21, 2006

    Beautifully Written

    The prose reads like poetry. This is one mystery novel that has all the elements and more, but the sheer grace of it's prose makes it a stand out. After I read it, I went online and bought everything that Mr. Holden has written.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2003

    This book has just the right 'feel'.

    This is one of those mysteries that you can curl up with on a long winters night. It is well crafted: the characters appear real enough so as to not interfere with a good story line. The dialogue is outstanding: the writer seems to have a knack for it; it lends to that overall feeling of realism. The relationship between Mack and Bank is well tended and avoids the cardboard cutout interaction that can so easily spoil a 'buddy' tale. The plot twists are also real enough as to keep things moving but don't detract from the books tone: one doesn't get the feeling of something contrived or formulaic. And, trust me, there are some unexpected turns that are as fascinating as they were suprising. Over the years I've read a lot of varieties of detective fiction and I find that even good writers lapse into mindless repetition of what has come before. This book, with it's well thought out plot, excellent characterization and dialogue and gritty reality will please most fans of the genre.

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    Posted September 24, 2010

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    Posted July 8, 2011

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 6, 2012

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