Angels of Detroit (45 page)

It was strange seeing Mrs. Freeman like this, in the flesh. McGee had been obsessed with her for so long that she’d come to feel as though she actually knew her, as if they’d met a lifetime ago. All the arguments McGee had had in her head, it was as if Mrs. Freeman had been there, too, taking part.

“What is it?” Mrs. Freeman said.

The good thing about the radio, the distraction, was that it had kept McGee from rehearsing this moment over and over, deadening it, turning it rote. The problem was, now the moment itself had arrived, and McGee found she didn’t know what to say.

Mrs. Freeman shifted her weight, coming one cautious step closer to her car. “Who are you?”

“I need you to come with me,” McGee said. She tried not to think about how she must sound, how all this must look. A parking garage, of all places.

The old woman hitched the purse higher up on her shoulder. “I don’t suppose this can wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Mrs. Freeman had her keys clenched in her fist. McGee wondered what the old woman might be prepared to do. The elevator doors had already shut behind her. The elevator itself was rising back up into the building. The Cadillac was still several yards away.

McGee had never thought to wonder, What if she didn’t come? What if she refused? What if she resisted somehow? What in the
world was McGee going to do then? In the old woman’s place, what would McGee have done?

“Is this an abduction?” Mrs. Freeman said.

“No.”

McGee could hear the edges of the metal keys grinding against one another in the old woman’s palm.

“I’d like to know what your intentions are,” Mrs. Freeman said. “Is this about a ransom?”

“I don’t want your money.”

“No,” Mrs. Freeman said, “I didn’t think you would.”

McGee realized she’d forgotten all about stuffing her hands in her pockets, pretending she was armed.

What a joke this must seem to the old woman. McGee had managed to summon more rage toward the radio than she could right now. Fearing she was losing her nerve, she took another step forward, not certain what she intended to do.

Mrs. Freeman didn’t budge. The only thing on her that moved was her eyes, darting over McGee’s shoulder. McGee let her own eyes turn in the same direction, and she instantly saw what the old lady had seen: the elevator was moving again. And she noticed something else, too: the security camera tucked up among the girders, aiming straight at her.

How had she not thought of that before?

“Give me the keys.”

Mrs. Freeman released the ring without a struggle. On the back of the remote opener was a red panic button, untouched.

McGee took the old woman’s hand and helped her into the backseat. Then she circled around to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel.

The engine came alive the instant she turned the key. The dashboard lit up like a cockpit.

The car glided backward, and just as McGee was about to throw it into drive and race up the ramp, the elevator doors parted.

Darius was already running when he appeared, as if he’d somehow known exactly what was happening, precisely where they would be. And maybe he did. Maybe his partner was at the other end of the camera, directing his every move.

Darius was on them in seconds, slamming one hand onto the hood of the car, his other reaching around toward his holster.

Four months ago McGee and Darius had been sitting together on a loading dock, smoking and staring at a distant light and fretting over failures and half-baked plans. And now, somehow, they’d arrived at this.

“Stop.” Through the glass it sounded more like a plea than a command.

She let her foot off the brake, and the car crept forward. Darius crept backward, keeping pace. She did it again, and so did he. It was as if they were dancing. Maybe they would do it this way, then. In ten minutes or so, a few inches at a time, they would reach the street. But by then, of course, the cops would already be here. Something told her they’d move more quickly for Mrs. Freeman than they bothered to for anyone else in the city.

“Just stop it already,” the old woman yelled from the backseat.

The next thing McGee knew, the window behind her was rolling down. She reached for the buttons on the door panel, trying to figure out which one to press. But it was too late.

Mrs. Freeman poked her head out through the opening. “It’s okay, Darius,” she said. “There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.”

Hurt.
There was another thing McGee had never considered. Raising her eyes from the window buttons to the windshield, she discovered Darius had pulled his gun.

And she was surprised, unpleasantly, by how steadily he held his aim.

“Let us go,” Mrs. Freeman said. “Let us go.”

When Darius looked at the old woman, his gun drifted slightly, shifting from McGee’s heart to her shoulder.

“I can’t—” he said. “I can’t—”

“It’s just business,” Mrs. Freeman said. “I’ll be fine.”

All the while, McGee said nothing, clenching the steering wheel at ten and two. It was strange watching the two of them negotiate this without her, as if she were merely the chauffeur. Everything about this had turned ridiculous. Everything gone exactly wrong. And yet McGee could also see she was about to get out of here, and with Mrs. Freeman.

“Please,” Mrs. Freeman said, “let us through.”

Darius stepped aside slowly, reluctantly, standing there with his gun in his hand as the car jerked forward.

When they passed, McGee met his eyes. After all that, he didn’t look angry. It was something else. An expression she felt familiar with, though she wasn’t accustomed to seeing it on him: pity. He felt just as sorry for her as she did for him.

And there was something else she was aware of as they left Darius behind: he knew exactly where they were going. He’d seen Michael Boni’s map. The question his eyes had refused to answer was, would he tell?

There was no traffic out on the street, almost no one on the sidewalks. But the lights were on at the stadiums. Along the curb, the sewers were blowing steam. It had grown chilly, just as every meteorologist within broadcast range had predicted.

They headed north.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Freeman said from the backseat as her building shrank in the rearview mirror. “You’re the one who broke in.”

McGee curled her fingers around the wheel. The most important thing was to maintain control.

“They showed me your picture,” the old woman said. “They showed me all of them.”

“I’ve seen your picture, too.”

When she looked back, Mrs. Freeman had disappeared from the mirror. McGee spun around, nearly pulling the car into the curb.

The old woman had ducked, searching for her belt buckle.

“Jesus Christ,” McGee said, heart surging from her chest.

“Where did you think I went?”

They drove the next few blocks in silence, coming to a stop at a red light.

“What were you looking for?” Mrs. Freeman said. “Evidence of all my crimes? Lord knows it’s not hard to find.”

“You sure went to a lot of trouble to hide it.”

Mrs. Freeman shrugged. “Maybe you were just looking in the wrong place.”

“And where should we have looked?”

Mrs. Freeman turned toward the window. They’d left the business district behind, cruising now past blocks of empty storefronts, weedy lots.

“Anywhere,” Mrs. Freeman said, gazing beyond the glass. “Everywhere.”

“You take credit for all this?” McGee said. “You must think an awful lot of your little company.”

Mrs. Freeman turned back toward the front. “Isn’t that what
you
think?”

“I’m not that naïve.”

“Anyway,” Mrs. Freeman said, returning her attention to the view outside, “who said I was talking about the company?”

McGee once again felt a danger of the old woman slipping away from her. She had to stay focused, keep track of the timeline in her head.

The roads all around them were getting darker now, streetlights growing scarce.

“You think we’re enemies,” Mrs. Freeman said.

Michael Boni had suggested gagging her. Maybe the idea hadn’t been so ridiculous after all.

*    *    *

It was ten minutes before ten. McGee had texted Michael Boni to let him know they’d arrived. She’d brought the car to a stop in a far, dark corner of the parking lot, concealed from the road. The building before them was just shapes and shadows, and high up above, as if floating in place, there was a small blinking red light.

“We’re waiting,” Mrs. Freeman said. “Why are we waiting?” Her voice was as calm and measured as it had been from the start.

McGee felt calm herself, particularly now that the car was still, the engine off, its various clickings and clackings having finally ceased. Even on the city’s crumbling roads, the old woman’s car had ridden as smooth as a speedboat. Now that they were here, the snug, silent interior made it easy to forget why.

“Could you turn on the radio?” Mrs. Freeman said. “I wouldn’t mind some music.”

McGee turned the key halfway. Anything would be better than talking. But when she tried to make sense of all the buttons and knobs, she discovered it was the most complicated console she’d ever seen. Unlike Michael Boni’s, though, at least everything here was still in one piece.

“Upper left,” Ruth Freeman said.

A moment later the old woman added, “Just push it in.”

they care more about fish and turtles than they do about their country. More taxes, more regulations. I say, fine. Next time they need a job, let them ask the fishes

“Maybe we should listen to something else,” the old woman said. And then after a brief silence, “Lower right.”

McGee pressed a button, and on came the moans of a cello.

Mrs. Freeman’s chest rose and fell, and a slim, relieved smile came into her face. “Do you like classical?”

It was Elgar. The concerto in E minor. McGee remembered a kid at camp, fourteen years old, who’d played it. Not well, but still. More than she could ever do. The music seemed fitting, here among the
ruins of an abandoned parking lot, as if old man Elgar had had precisely this place in mind, a lament for this particular lost city.

“Not really.” In the rearview mirror, McGee could see Mrs. Freeman squinting into the darkness, trying to make out where they were.

“We’ve never met before, have we?” the old woman said.

“We’ve never met,” McGee said. “But I know you very well.”

“Do you?” Mrs. Freeman took another slow, deep breath, and a fog spread across the window. “I suppose you do.”

There was a pause, and McGee wondered if the old woman was busy contemplating the loss of all her secrets.

“In that case,” Mrs. Freeman finally said, “I wonder if you might tell me something about yourself?”

“I don’t think so.”

The old woman sighed. “It would make this easier.”

“What makes you think I want this to be easy?”

The old woman pursed her lips. “My husband will be annoyed,” she said. “I was supposed to meet him for dinner after the symphony.”

“Tragic.”

“What you kids today call a ‘first-world problem,’ ” Mrs. Freeman said. “Maybe a little disappointment will be good for him.”

“Maybe it’ll be good for you, too.”

It was so overcast, there were barely even shadows outside. McGee couldn’t remember ever seeing a darkness so thick and impenetrable.

“Are you married?” Mrs. Freeman said.

McGee didn’t even bother glancing in the mirror.

“What about the others who were with you before?” Mrs. Freeman said. “Your friends?”

McGee turned to look out her side window.

“Where are they now?”

“Maybe they’re out there,” McGee said, waving her hand toward the darkness.

The old woman seemed to think about that for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“What makes you think you have any idea?”

Mrs. Freeman leaned back. “You just seem like someone who’s very much alone.”

“I couldn’t do this alone,” McGee said, allowing herself a satisfied smirk at the car and her captive.

“There are different ways of being alone,” Mrs. Freeman said.

“You want to analyze someone,” McGee said, “analyze yourself. Maybe you should be thinking about what’s wrong with you.”

“If you were to ask my husband—”

“I’m not asking him,” McGee said. “I’m asking you. What’s your excuse for the things you do?”

“I suppose it’s the same as yours. As everyone’s.”

“And what might that be?”

“Fear, first,” Mrs. Freeman said. “And then, much later, regret.”

“I’m not afraid,” McGee said. The old woman was simply trying to weaken her, to make it seem like they were the same—two people sharing a sinking ship lost at sea. But really Mrs. Freeman was the captain, commandeering the only dinghy in order to save herself.

It was three minutes to ten. McGee searched among the posts sticking out of the steering column until she found the right one. With a twist, she turned on the headlights. And then the high beams. And for good measure, the fog lamps, too, illuminating the ugly hulk of a building in front of them. The lot was ringed with sodium lights, but they’d all been turned off. Every last loss had been cut. All except for the blinking red light, which marked the place like a hazardous shoal.

McGee pointed to the factory across the immense parking lot, the compressors and all the equipment now on its way to China. “Do you know where we are?”

“Of course,” Ruth Freeman said. “It’s ours.”

“It was.” McGee reached for her duffel bag. Inside were a few changes of clothes, her keepsakes, the little money she’d saved. She
took out the cell phone Michael Boni had given her. Now she handed it to Mrs. Freeman.

“It’s already dialed.”

Mrs. Freeman looked at the phone and then at the building. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You know that, right? It’s a write-off. An insurance claim.”

“To you, maybe.”

Mrs. Freeman set the phone down in her lap. “What if I refuse?”

McGee tucked her hair up under her hat. “You won’t.”

“And what about you?” Mrs. Freeman said. “Your life in exchange for a building?”