Bury Me When I'm Dead (15 page)

Chapter 20

The sun was setting in a blaze of tangerine across a dozen cars in the Crimson Tide parking lot. The color was cheerful as it penetrated the mini blinds in Charlie's room and helped to lessen her attention on the overwhelming din of the evening rush-hour traffic. Her suite was filled with the comforting smells of home-style food from Niki's Restaurant. She, Don and Gil shared their generous portions of side dishes and meats along with their theories about their bizarre case and its various characters.

“Mrs. Meadows is a sweetheart,” Gil said. “It's obvious she's still in deep grief, but she warmed to me right away. She made coffee and insisted I have a hot cinnamon roll. I think she misses taking care of a man.”

“Were the kids there?” Don asked, lifting a spoonful of meat loaf to his mouth.

“No, they were in school and her daughter was at work. The neighborhood guys patted me down on the way in but Mrs. Meadows walked me to the porch when I left which must have been some kind of anointing, because they were very friendly after that. I did see a guy idling in a blue Mustang around the corner from Meadows' house, but when I got back to my car he was gone.”

“We saw that Mustang,” Don said, looking up from his plate to Charlie on the couch. “Hey, are you alright?”

Charlie leaned back on the mound of pillows on the couch. She was sore but it had been a productive and satisfying day. “I'm just stiff. I was out longer than I intended.”

Don poured two fingers of scotch into a glass and carried it to her.

“Try a little of this, it'll help you sleep.”

“I doubt if I'll need any help sleeping but I'll take the scotch anyway. I'll probably stay right here on the couch tonight. I feel better sitting up.”

Gil started gathering up the food containers and plastic utensils, putting them into a trash bag. “Charlie, maybe we should call it a night and give you a chance to rest. That's what the doctor ordered, remember?”

“Sure, but I can hang. We still have a lot to go over.”

“What say we talk another hour? Can you handle that, Mack?”

“Look, I said I'm good. You two stop babying me. Pour yourselves a nightcap and let's get to work.”

Gil and Don moved drinks and notes into the suite's living area. Charlie's Post-it notes were already on the coffee table.

“I forgot to ask about Grace and Grant,” Charlie said to Don. “Did you pass on the warning that Barnes might be poking around?”

“She's such a sweet girl,” Don said with uncharacteristic sentimentality. “But the brother's a hard-ass. He found out you came to visit Grace and I had to admit to him we're not the police.”

“I guess he was annoyed by the deception.”

“That's putting it mildly. Anyway, he said he'd be alert for any trouble but made a snide remark about not being too worried since
he
wasn't the one sticking his nose in other people's business.”

“Wait until he finds out I've visited his father,” Charlie said.

“You're going to talk to their old man? For what?” Don asked.

“Well, at first it was just a hunch but the information I got today seems to confirm it.”

Charlie let a slow sip of scotch slide down her tongue. It immediately soothed her throbbing midriff. Not to be outdone, Gil and Don hoisted their glasses. This was Charlie's favorite part of any investigation, when the puzzle image was beginning to show itself. It got her juices flowing. She took a moment to savor her partners' looks of anticipation.

“Remember I asked Judy to pull Paul's birth certificate? Well today I also had her dig for Joyce's birth records. Her father is listed as ‘unknown,' just like Paul's. But I think they actually have the same father. Grant Freeman, Jr.”

“What the hell?” Don said.

“What makes you think that?” Gil asked.

“It all fits. The dates, the phone records, the family history, there are just too many coincidences.”

Gil and Don stared at Charlie. Their faces had changed to pure skepticism.

“Look, I'll walk you through it.” Charlie pulled herself erect and ticked off points on her fingers. “Today I saw photos of Freeman and Anna Stringer as a young high school couple. I saw a photo of Joyce as a child; she was born in 1961, a year after Anna Stringer graduated high school. Nine years later Paul is born and Anna Stringer names him Paul Gillette. Gillette is the nickname Freeman had as a young man.”

“Who told you that?” Gil interrupted. He was in prosecuting attorney mode.

“The owner of the barbershop, but let me finish making the case. Don, you found out the fourth property Joyce owns is the funeral home?”

“That's right. Oh, I see where you're going.”

“No, I don't think so.” The scotch had Charlie on a roll. “What was the address of that property?”

“What?”

“The funeral home property. What's the address?”

Don was puzzled by the question but started thumbing through the papers in front of him until he found what he wanted.

“I'll be damned,” Don said. “It's 2929 31st Street. When I copied the property information I saw Freeman Funeral Home and let it go at that. I didn't notice the discrepancy in the address. I just assumed it was the one on 26th Street.”

“The 31st Street address is the original building, I saw a photo of it at the barber shop and again today in the newspaper archives. It's the one the senior Freeman built when he was starting off in the mortuary business. But Grant Jr. opened the new mortuary in the late seventies.”

“So, Grant Freeman, Jr. continued to live in the old neighborhood even after he moved the business,” Don noted.

“Right. At least until Anna took Joyce and Paul to Detroit. Then he relocated his wife and twins to the suburbs.”

Don and Gil sat rapt as Charlie weaved the loose threads of an already convoluted case into this implausible story.

“Anna and Grant Jr. were high school sweethearts and I think he never stopped loving her and maybe she never stopped loving him,” Charlie said with finality.

“That's all conjecture. How are you going to prove it?” Gil asked, breaking the silence.

Charlie shrugged and picked up her scotch.

“And even if you do, how does it connect to our case?” Gil added.

“Well, I can answer that one,” Don said. “If it's true that Freeman, Jr. is Joyce's father, then maybe he's hiding her.”

Charlie pointed a finger at Don and downed the rest of her drink.

There was new energy for the partners as they plotted their next steps. Don removed one of the motel's cheap oil paintings and used the wall like a white board, arranging and rearranging Charlie's colored notes on the surface and taping up bits of paper with information from their collective notebooks. In the midst of the paper jockeying, Judy called. Her tinny voice on the speaker filled the room.

“Walter Barnes was a parking attendant at one of the casinos in Atlantic City, the same casino Owens listed on his job application when he was hired by Abrams. I spoke to Barnes' former probation officer and he confirmed Barnes was an inmate at Bayside State Prison at the same time Owens was there.”

“So they had to have known each other,” Gil said.

“There's more,” Judy said. Since Barnes is a felon he wouldn't be able to get a job anywhere near the MotorCity Casino, but the valet parking service is subcontracted to Proleus, LLC. Guess who is part owner of Proleus?”

Fueled by the scotch, Charlie responded. “The man so nice, I want to slap him twice?”

“You got it,” Judy said. “That means Barnes works for Owens.”

“And for a while, Paul was also working for him,” Charlie acknowledged.

“It's got to be the theft scheme at Reliable. Owens is involved in it somehow,” Gil said.

“I'll be damned,” Don said, pouring another single.

When Judy signed off, Don grabbed two sheets of yellow legal paper and wrote “Owens” on one and “Barnes” on the other. With a red marker, he drew bull's-eyes over the names then taped the sheets to the wall. Charlie immediately became sober. She caught Gil's eye and they went into Q and A mode to take Don's mind off murder.

“Gil, what did you think of Saint Agnes?”

“Father Straughn was away for the day so I spent about a half hour with Helen Penham. She was genuinely sorry to hear you'd been attacked and started talking about how much the neighborhood is changing. She gave me a quick tour of the school. It was like stepping back in time.”

“Same here. I forget sometimes that a Catholic school education is another thing the three of us have in common.” Charlie tried to draw Don into the conversation and it worked.

“I still put my hands in my pockets at the sight of a ruler,” Don joked and returned to his seat. “Acosta, I bet you were such a goody two-shoes you never got a single rap on the knuckles.”

“Well, you'll be surprised to hear that in the sixth and seventh grade instead of sitting with my classmates, the nuns made me sit in front of the classroom in what they called the purgatory corner.”

Charlie and Don laughed with the zeal of former recipients of nun retribution.

“What in hell did you do to get that punishment?” Don asked, oblivious to his pun.

“In sixth grade, just before summer break, I sneaked out of my house after everyone had gone to bed, climbed the fire escape to the convent and peeked through one of the bedroom windows. I wanted to see if nuns had real legs. The janitor caught me. My mother was mortified and my father beat the crap out of me. I almost got kicked out of school.”

“Way to go, Acosta,” Don said with genuine admiration.

Charlie, Gil and Don traded war stories about a parochial education—the mishaps with the nuns, odd classmates, rumors about
priests, bake sales, first kisses and the ubiquitous guilt. The food, scotch and laughter had finally taken the edge off the last couple of days. It was a release they needed but the conversation grew serious again.

“Owens must be looking for Joyce, too,” Gil suggested. “Maybe they were partners and he's trying to keep her quiet?”

“Or maybe he's the mastermind of the theft ring,” Charlie said.

“One thing's for sure,” Don said. If Barnes is working for Owens, and there's every indication he is, we know Owens is dangerous. But we have an advantage, he doesn't know we're wise to him.”

“I'll be back,” Gil said, heading for the adjoining room he shared with Don. He returned with his gun and a cleaning kit.

“I wish I had something more lethal, but this will have to do for now,” Charlie said, waving the wooden cane.

They finalized the next day's itinerary, planning to work as a trio focusing on finding Joyce. The schedule included a visit to the house in Forest Park and a visit to Grant Freeman, Jr.

“We should take the SUV,” Don said. “It'll give us more room and Charlie can stretch out on the backseat.”

“Plus, you get to drive,” Gil kidded.

“You ask Mack about my driving, Acosta.”

Charlie nodded. “I have to admit, he was masterful the other night, Gil. He evaded that van like a pro, better than I could have done.”

Don smirked and drained the last drop of his scotch.

“By the way, where's the Chevy parked?” Charlie asked, lifting herself from the sofa and reaching for the cane. “I left my sweatshirt in the backseat and it's a vital part of my wardrobe.”

“Hey, you sit back down,” Gil said. “I'll get your sweatshirt.” He picked up the keys to the rental from the coffee table and opened the front door, but before he could step out, he was met by a barrage of gunfire and fell backward. Don hit the floor and Charlie rolled off the sofa. She crawled to Gil who had blood on his face.

“I'm alright, I'm alright,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I'm not hit; I just took some splinters or something. Damn, my gun is on the table.”

Charlie squirmed to the kitchen area and watched Don dart
through the open door of the adjoining room. He doused the lights and opened the exterior door a crack, then fired off a couple of shots.

“Can you see them?” Charlie shouted from her position on the kitchen floor.

“Not yet,” Don replied.

When Don had a target, a full-fledged firefight ensued and the thick sound of Don's Ruger added bass to the higher octave handguns used by the assailants.

Charlie retrieved Gil's gun and moved to him oblivious to the pain in her side and the shards of glass from the shattered window. From his prone position, Gil had kicked the room's door closed and was now squatting at the window. Charlie handed him his gun and he shot three times through the broken pane. When shots answered from the parking lot, Gil put his back flush against the wall, waiting for a lull. When it came, he poked his head up and shot three more rounds. It was like Mogadishu where his unit had spent two days shooting and ducking.

Charlie returned to the kitchen, crouching near the refrigerator. Bullets seemed to be coming into the suite from at least two angles with round after round hitting the upper walls and ceiling. Twice she left the safety of her position to douse the overhead light but had to fall back. Eventually a bullet did the trick, sending the room into semi-darkness.

She watched Don sneak onto the balcony A half-minute later, she heard four quick shots, thuk, thuk, thuk, thuk. Shouts of panic followed, vehicle doors slammed, and tires screeched. When Don returned to Charlie's room with the “all clear,” the three went onto the balcony and stared down at the parking lot. The gunmen had left one of their own on the asphalt.

Chapter 21

Police vehicles careened into the Crimson Tide Motor Inn, lights and sirens at full tilt. Don knew the routine and placed his gun on the ground, dropped to his knees and raised his hands well above his head. Officers exited their vehicles guns drawn, and aimed at the balcony. Gil and Charlie followed Don's lead, shouting from inside the room that they were unarmed and coming out. Four uniforms carefully climbed the flight of stairs to the motel's second floor, their flashlights bouncing against the walls. A half-dozen below kept the trio in their sights.

“Gun!” one of the officers on top shouted, seeing the Ruger on the cement. The gun was well beyond Don's reach and he remained very still.

“I'm a private investigator, I have a permit for the gun and I was defending myself from an attack by several assailants in the parking lot,” Don said loudly.

“My gun is in the room,” Gil shouted.

“And I'm unarmed,” Charlie added, struggling with the pain of having to hold her arms aloft.

All three knew these first few moments were precarious because the police didn't yet know who might pose a threat to them.

“Hey, I saw this guy at the precinct yesterday.” One of the officers nodded toward Don. “He really
is
private, from Detroit, I think. Lieutenant Walker is helping him with some case.” The officer lowered his gun.

Gil's release of breath was audible as an “all clear” was given to those below, and one by one guns were holstered. Throughout the motel, doors began to open and guests spilled from their rooms or
poked heads out to get a view of what must have sounded like a scene from a movie.

For the next eight hours, uniformed cops, detectives, forensic specialists and police photographers swarmed the premises, interviewing motel guests and collecting evidence. Police tape was strung around the perimeter of the motel and portable spotlights illuminated four detectives standing in a semicircle over the body in the parking lot. Everyone seemed perturbed with the occupants of rooms 17 and 18, in particular the owner of the motel, and the Birmingham police.

Charlie, Gil and Don were first questioned individually by the detectives on-site. The second round of questioning would take place at police headquarters. Gil had sustained injuries to his face from the splintering of the door but medical technicians treated him on the scene and determined he didn't need to be hospitalized. Luckily, a motel guest, returning to his room with vending machine snacks, had seen two men exit a white van and move to the center of the parking lot. He dived for cover when the men opened fire on the motel's second level. Another witness had seen the van idling in the parking lot an hour before the shooting spree. Don reported that he'd seen the van and a dark mustang tear out of the parking lot.

The interrogation at police headquarters was more grueling than Charlie imagined. The police didn't doubt the men in the parking lot initiated the attack, but they were none too happy about a gunfight in their city and were particularly agitated that the dead man in the motel parking lot added to their growing murder record for 2005. Both Don and Gil's guns were confiscated and they were charged with manslaughter.

Charlie roused Judy from her sleep with the story of their latest troubles.

“You all need to get the hell out of Birmingham,” Judy said and volunteered to go to the office right then.

Judy checked on flight options while Charlie set about finding an attorney who would push for a Friday afternoon hearing. Later, while Gil and Don were explaining the situation to their new attorney, Charlie returned to the motel to pack up their belongings. The
Crimson Tide was still cordoned off with crime tape and the owner, Amanda Allen, was anxious.

“Who's going to compensate me for all the damage to my two rooms?”

“Believe me we're very sorry about what happened, but all the damage to the rooms came from the people shooting at us from your parking lot.”

“There'll be a lot of red tape to get the insurance company to cut a check. I'll need pictures, damage estimates, police reports; that'll take weeks.” Allen's voice rose in volume with every word.

“Look, my company has liability insurance. I'm sure we can work something out to assist in getting your repairs done,” Charlie offered. Once Judy faxed the insurance information, Mrs. Allen was actually very helpful. She suggested Charlie call the car rental company and have them pick up the Impala from the motel lot.

“It happens all the time. Just lock the keys in the car and I'll keep an eye on it until they come for it.”

Allen helped pack suitcases and haul them down to the rented SUV and before Charlie fled the Crimson Tide, Allen confided that the security cameras had caught the whole event.

“It's clear as a bell. Those guys get out of their vehicle and just open fire on your room. I've seen a lot of stuff in this business but that was a first for me.”

“For me too,” Charlie said.

At the last hearing of the day the judge released Don and Gil on bond until their trial date and gave them permission to return to Detroit.

Don made the rare suggestion that Charlie drive to the airport then slumped in the passenger seat while Gil took the backseat for the silent ride. It was nearly dawn when the Mack partners boarded a packed flight back to Detroit, and when they parted ways at eight-thirty Saturday morning at the Detroit Metropolitan Airport they were tired, disheveled, and disillusioned. They agreed to regroup on Monday at the office.

Charlie settled into a cab for the forty-minute ride to her downtown apartment. Judy called a half hour later.

“I just wanted to make sure you all got in on time,” Judy said. “How do you feel?”

“My side hurts, my head is throbbing and I'm cranky.”

“Well, I'll see you Monday. Get some rest,” Judy said, signing off.

Charlie was intent on going directly to bed and discarded her bag at the front door. She stopped at the bathroom for a pee and a swish of mouthwash but decided to take a shower. She unwound the bandage around her midriff; her bruises looked like smudged ash. She took as deep a breath as her injuries would allow and let the hot water soothe her body and soul. Fifteen minutes later she slipped into the flannel pajamas she wore when she felt sorry for herself and tucked herself into bed.

Charlie opened an eye and squinted at the clock radio. It was six o'clock, and she'd slept all day. She rolled on her side reaching for her bedside phone and her ribs reminded her they still needed rest.

“Hi Mom. I got back to town early this morning. How are you doing?”

“I'm fine Charlene. I was worried when I couldn't reach you last night.”

“I'm sorry I couldn't take your call, I was in the middle of something and it turned out we worked all night. When I got in this morning, I turned off my phone. I'm just now waking up.”

“I thought you were getting back yesterday. Did things turn out the way you wanted?”

Charlie occasionally told Ernestine about her cases, omitting names to maintain confidentiality, and leaving out the dangers of her job because her mother disapproved of her latest career choice. “You have such good experience, honey, and a stellar education. Why do you want to be an investigator?” her mother had said when Charlie announced her decision. Now, listening to her mother's comforting
voice while her body ached, Charlie thought maybe Ernestine was right. She quickly shrugged off the thought.

“We had some problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

Charlie bit at her lip and rubbed the soft nap on her flannel pajamas.

“I was mugged, and Don, Gil and I were shot at,” she blurted.

“Oh, Charlene. Are you okay?”

Charlie needed some sympathy so she gave a fairly detailed account of the events of the last four days, leaving out only the specifics of her assault and the helplessness and fear she felt lying on the cold ground under the discarded sofa.

“What did I tell you?” Her mother sounded like the school principal. “Birmingham still has a lot to account for. It's bad karma, plain and simple.”

Charlie hesitated before dialing the next number. She punched in four digits, then returned the handset to the phone charger.
Maybe I should just heat up some tomato soup and find an old movie on TV.
She browsed through the cable guide.
Five hundred channels and not a damn thing to watch.
She wondered what Don was doing—probably sitting in his recliner with a beer in one hand and baseball on the tube. Rita would be making dinner and hoping to get Rudy to bed early so she and Don could have some married-couple time.

Charlie snatched the phone from its base. Franklin answered on the second ring. “Hi. It's Charlie.”

“Well, hello Ms. Mack.” He emphasized the Ms., holding the word until it turned into a buzz. “Good to hear from you.”

“I was just watching TV and I saw one of those crazy Kung Fu movies, and thought of you.”

“Well. It's nice to be thought of.”

There was a pause as they both contemplated the real reason for the call.

“How are things with you? How's your work going?” Frank decided to break the silence.

“Work is good. And yours?”

“I'm at it now, actually.”

“You're working on a Saturday night?”

“We had a contractors' fair today. It was a huge success. I'm finishing up releases and doing notes for Fenroe's interview tomorrow on CBS radio.”

“Oh, sorry to disturb. I didn't realize you'd be working.”

Franklin and Charlie had met when she owned her PR firm. He was the Wayne County executive's handsome legislative director with political aspirations of his own. He admired Charlie, attracted to her good looks, smarts and ambition. Charlie admired that Franklin admired her, and had once accepted his proposal of marriage.

“What's up, Charlie? You don't sound like yourself.”

“I need to talk to someone.”

“Someone other than Mandy Porter?”

Detroit was a small town. He'd heard the talk about his ex-wife and a beautiful redhead seen around town. And he had recognized Charlie's excited look when she raced to introduce herself to Mandy at last year's police gala.

“I need something familiar, Frankie,” Charlie said in answer to his question.

Two hours later, the two leaned against the quilted headboard of Charlie's king-sized bed watching a DVD of
Five Fingers of Death,
Franklin's favorite Kung Fu movie. To maintain the theme, they'd ordered Chinese carryout. He had been appropriately gentle when he saw the bandage around her midriff and she didn't fault him in the least when her bruised ribs ached with each swell of her orgasm.

“How many times have you watched this movie?” she asked.

“At least thirty times.” He grinned shamelessly.

Charlie slipped into a robe, gathered the empty food cartons, soy sauce packets, and chopsticks onto a tray and carried it to the kitchen. When she returned, Franklin was getting dressed.