Bury Me When I'm Dead (2 page)

Chapter 3

Charlie and Don arrived at Reliable Restaurant Supply on Wednesday morning at nine o'clock. It was their second visit in as many days and they headed immediately to a small storage room adjacent to the warehouse floor to conduct more staff interviews. Yesterday they'd spoken to Leonard Abrams, his executive assistant and the manager of human resources. The company had thirty-eight full-time staff including administrative, warehouse, delivery and sales personnel.

Abrams considered his employees extended family, many of them had worked at the company all their lives, including Joyce Stringer. He spoke of her nostalgically.

“One morning she just walked in the warehouse door with her little brother in tow. They attended the Catholic school up the street and had just gotten out for the day. Joyce climbed the stairs to my office, looked me right in the eye and asked for a job. She couldn't have been more than seventeen, even at that age she had spunk.”

Joyce had worked part-time for a year stocking shelves and after graduating high school worked on the administrative side of the business for four years. It was Abrams who'd encouraged her to try her hand at sales, and over fifteen years she had become his top account executive. She knew the restaurant supply business inside and out and that was presumably how she managed to keep the inventory scheme under wraps for so long. Abrams wanted to make an example of Joyce. Not because he was angry but because her betrayal had broken his heart.

Charlie and Don arranged themselves at a rectangular banquet table in their makeshift interview room. The room was stuffy and they were surrounded by stacks of boxes on three sides. One of the
fluorescent ceiling fixtures had a faulty bulb that buzzed at irregular intervals.

“How many do we need to interview today? This room is making me claustrophobic,” Don complained.

“I've got six more,” Charlie said checking the list of names on her writing pad. “We should be able to finish up before lunchtime.”

By 11:30, they'd interviewed five Reliable employees and hadn't learned much that would help them find Joyce.

“What we know so far is she has never been married, has no kids, was known to drink at one of the local neighborhood bars and had a fondness for horses—the riding kind, not the betting kind,” Don said ticking off points.

Charlie shrugged. “Not much to go on. We also know the staff liked her. They felt she was still one of them.”

“We should start thinking about where we're going for lunch.” Don was a tough guy from a large Polish family, a former police officer and Marine who got bored by investigative duties where there was minimal potential for action. But he was a good interrogator.

“Okay, we'll eat after we talk to this Owens guy. He's the other account executive and might have insights about Joyce the warehouse folks wouldn't.”

“So far, Stringer doesn't sound like such a bad person,” Don mused.

“Except she's a thief,” Charlie reminded him. “But, I admit it's hard to figure why she decided to scam Abrams after he'd treated her so well.”

Owens arrived looking like a 1950s Vegas headliner. His flashy plaid sport jacket was worn over a robin's egg blue, open-collared shirt which showed off his fake tan. His newly-trimmed hair had a touch of gray at the temples, matching his steel-gray eyes. His teeth sparkled behind a huge “I want to sell you something” smile. He sported a gold signet ring on the pinkie finger of each manicured hand and his shoes were polished to a high sheen. Everyone shook hands, and Charlie gestured for Owens to have the seat across from Don so she could focus on sizing him up.

Assuming the man in the room had the power, Owens entertained Don with a story about playing golf at the Jack Nicklaus course in
Benton Harbor. Charlie observed the conversation like an anthropologist on a field assignment. He had begun to weave a second yarn when she intercepted.

“So your name is Owen Owens?” Charlie wrote his name at the top of her tablet. It was an unnecessary task but it got his attention and he pivoted in his chair turning his imagined charisma on her.

“That's right. As a kid I had hell to pay for that name, but when I got older I used it as a way to get a reaction. Especially with the ladies,” he said winking and offering a clownish smile. “You know, Owen Owens, a guy so nice they named me twice.”

He recounted a visit to Jamaica and the beautiful women who gave massages at the resort spa. Charlie gave no encouragement, but that didn't seem to deter the man. Don saw Charlie's spine stiffen and interrupted Owens for his own good.

“So what can you tell us about Stringer?”

Owens paused a moment to change gears then started an animated rant about Joyce beating him out for the top-sales bonus three years in a row.

“I always knew she wasn't playing straight. She had the numbers but her technique wasn't very good. I couldn't understand how she managed to keep her clients happy. In my opinion, she got down to business too fast. You have to tell a little story. You know? Ask about the kids, make some small talk, break a little ice.”

“So, you didn't like her much?” Don tried to pull more pertinent information out of Owens.

“No, I wouldn't say that,” Owens spoke slowly. He was staring at Charlie's notebook, testing his upside-down reading skills. “It's just that she wasn't really the right type. For sales. Know what I mean?”

“No, Owens. I'm not following you,” Don said leaning in. “What
do
you mean, not the right type?”

“Well, you know, women . . .” Owens looked from Don to Charlie's sneer. “Well, women are great at some kinds of sales. I mean just great. But the restaurant business is cutthroat. I mean, what you see when you're in the dining room drinking white wine and sampling tapas is the lipstick on the pig. You know what I mean?”

Charlie watched Owens calculate whether he was being sexist. His
pea brain finally concluded he was not, and he continued. “Restaurateurs are a rough lot. Most people imagine an organic farmer or some eccentric genius when they think of a chef but the truth is, restaurants are run by ruthless men who have to be tough as nails. I just think Joyce was in over her head. Besides, doing business in Detroit isn't easy.”

Charlie conceded Owens wasn't all wrong about doing business in this city. Like Joyce, she'd been mentored by Abrams. She'd owned and operated two successful businesses—a PR firm and a karate school—and gained a reputation as a savvy entrepreneur who just happened to be a black woman. Now, at thirty-three, she believed she'd found her professional sweet spot. But it was a tricky balancing act in the socio-racial-political rubric of Detroit's culture.

“Can you give us a specific example of how Ms. Stringer was at a disadvantage as an account executive?” Charlie opted to be formal with Owens, hoping it would keep him on point.

“Did you know she had a brother?” Owens asked rhetorically. “A real loser, but she arranged with the managers at a couple of restaurants to give him a job. It was entry-level stuff . . . busboy or kitchen assistant, nothing that took more than showing up on time and doing what you were told. Well her brother blew both jobs. It made her look bad and reflected poorly on Abrams' business. She should have known better. This isn't a career for girl scouts or caretakers,” Owens said with conviction.

A waiter wearing a paper cap, white shirt and white carpenter's pants crammed their tiny table with chili dogs, chili fries and ice-filled glasses of cherry Coke. The dogs and fries were served in paper boats with the chili heaped so it spilled over like lava. Charlie and Don squeezed gobs of mustard on the dogs and ketchup on the fries. Then made quick work of capturing the excess ground beef, beans and diced onion mixture with plastic flatware, before picking up the dogs with greasy hands to bite into them.

“So what did Abrams say about Stringer's brother?” Don said, chewing with enthusiasm. “Did he say he tried to find him?”

“Yep. He looked for Joyce and Paul. He went to the family house a couple of times and it appeared vacant. The mail was piling up and the grass hadn't been cut. He finally spoke with one of the neighbors, who told him the family had moved in late July.” Charlie dangled a long, thinly-cut piece of potato over the ketchup puddle in her paper boat and gave it a couple of dips. Then tilted back her head and dropped it whole into her mouth. “I think he also said he gave Paul a job. I didn't write that down,” Charlie wiped at stray ketchup on her chin.

“He did. Abrams gave the kid a job sweeping up and cleaning the washrooms but had to ride him all the time,” Don said. “One of the warehouse guys said he'd always find him out back smoking a cigarette.”

“Yeah, I do remember now. So Joyce seems to have a history of helping her brother with jobs. Let's also talk to some of the people he knew and maybe find out where he's working now.”

Charlie took a long sip of cherry Coke then reached for her cell phone. Don finished off his fries and started in on Charlie's as he listened to her end of the conversation.

“Judy, I need you to find a social for me. Paul Stringer, it's spelled like it sounds. He's Joyce Stringer's brother and a person of interest in this restaurant case. I'll need a current address. Call me when you have it. Things okay?” Charlie laughed at something Judy said. “Right, I'll see you later.”

Charlie snatched the last bite of her hot dog before Don got any ideas. “Oh, man these things are good.”

“Everything okay at the office?”

“Judy said to tell you she and Gil erased your whiteboard so they could play a game of hangman.”

Don was not amused. “So, what do we do this afternoon? More interviews I guess,” he said dejectedly.

“No. Let's nose around in Stringer's neighborhood. Maybe she told one of the neighbors where she was heading, or has been in touch with some of them.”

Don nodded. “I say it's time for the bookkeeper. Maybe she can give us a lead.”

“Yes, but first let's swing by Stringer's neighborhood and then we'll go see the bookkeeper.”

Charlie wiped her fingers on a napkin that was orange with chili grease and placed two dollar bills under the salt shaker for the guy in the paper hat. Then she and Don inched their way through the narrow deli's lunch crowd. “Four to go, double chili, double onions,” the man at the cash registered called out as they pushed through the door.

Chapter 4

Joyce Stringer lived on a working class block of frame houses with small lawns, wide driveways and mature trees. Most of the residents were at their jobs on a weekday afternoon; those who were home responded to the knocks at their doors by pulling back the curtains, peering at the odd couple on their porch and ignoring them. After fifteen minutes of moving from house to house, a man in the middle of the block opened his door, accompanied by a snarling pit bull on a heavy chain.

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

The man was thin and fit with a closely trimmed beard. He wore red sweatpants and a sleeveless white t-shirt. He spoke with surprising gentility considering he was restraining his dog. Don had instinctively brought his hand to his waist to brush against the .38 revolver he carried on his belt.

“Quiet Pumpkin,” the man said to the dog. Pumpkin, who had the coloring of the gourd she was named for, whimpered once in protest then yawned, pretending she was totally bored with the two visitors.

Charlie did the talking. “We're wondering if you can tell us where one of your neighbors might have moved.”

The man looked at Charlie but offered no response. Finally he blinked and for a moment Charlie thought he might match Pumpkin's yawn.

Charlie tried again. “Ms. Joyce Stringer who lived at 2317. Do you know how we might get in touch with her?”

Pumpkin was now lying at her owner's feet. She raised an eyebrow also awaiting his answer.

“No, I don't know how you can get in touch with her,” the man said. Are you the cops?”

“No, we're not cops,” Don answered. He was less worried about the pit bull but his hand remained near his waist.

Both the man and Pumpkin studied Don.

“We're private investigators. We've been hired by Stringer's employer. She used to work at Reliable Restaurant Supply,” Charlie said.

“I know where she worked and I told Mr. Abrams when he came by last month that we didn't know where Joyce was.”

“We?” Charlie asked.

“Mother and I,” the man replied. “I went to Saint Joseph's with Joyce. I used to hang out at her house. My mother and Miss Anna were good friends. That's Joyce's mother,” the man said in response to the question on Charlie's face.

Charlie jotted a note and Don posed the next question, the neighbor and dog again looking at him in unison.

“Has Miss Anna been in touch with your mother since they moved?”

“No. Like I said, we don't know where they've gone.”

“What about her brother, do you know him too?”

“Yes, I know Paul. Joyce babysat him while her mother worked, he tagged along behind Joyce everywhere she went. He was a pain in the ass,” the man added with feeling.

It was the only hint of emotion the neighbor had shown and Pumpkin rose to her feet.

“Well, thank you, uh. Mr. uh,” Charlie fished for the man's name.

“
You
can call me, Hugh,” he said with a slight tone of flirtation.

Don was already turning to leave, closely watched by Pumpkin. “Thank you, Hugh,” Charlie said using the opening. “By the way, do you happen to know where Paul works?”

“I heard he worked at one of the casinos. I don't know what he does there, but I'm sure they're smart enough not to let him near the money.”

As usual, Don insisted on taking the wheel for the drive to Windsor, Ontario where the bookkeeper, Rona Dietrich, lived. Judy called while they were en route and Charlie engaged the speakerphone.

“I have that information you wanted.” Judy was resourceful and smart. A woman in her forties who did not suffer fools, lazy people or what she called drama queens easily; yet she exuded genuine empathy and people opened up to her. She was the middle child in a family of eleven kids and bragged she knew how to manage people up the food chain and down. Judy could also lie with the best of them, which endeared her to Charlie who considered herself a first-class fibber.

“What've you got?” Charlie's pen was posed over the notebook in her lap.

“I have the brother's last known address and the name of the company he works for. I'm also going to receive phone records for the address, but I'm not sure when I'll get my hands on those. His full name is Paul Gillette Stringer, he's thirty-five years old and has received some kind of disability check for a long time. I haven't found out what that's all about but I'll track it down.”

Charlie had no doubt she would. “What's the address?”

“2317 Hendricks Street. That's on the east side.”

Detroit's east side/west side dynamic was something only understood by Detroiters. The long-standing rivalry was steeped in class, race and history, with well-deserved bragging rights on both sides. Natives always told you if they grew up on the west side or the east side of the city. Charlie was an east-sider.

“Yeah, we just left there, that's the family home but they've moved. What about the last place of employment?”

“Proleus Enterprises, Inc.,” Judy said, then spelled the name. “They own a couple dozen parking lots in the city and also have valet parking contracts.”

“We heard today the brother might be working at one of the casinos. Maybe he's parking cars there. Track it down for me, Judy, will you?”

“I'm on it. Hey, can Don hear me?”

“I hear you, Novak,” Don said.

“I sent a picture to your mobile phone, check it out when you have time.”

“Don't you have some real work to do, Novak?”

Charlie interceded. “We're headed to talk to the bookkeeper, Judy, we'll call in on our way back.”

Don eased the Pontiac forward in the customs line. Every day 40,000 commuters made the round trip between Windsor and down-town Detroit via the tunnel or bridge, and since 9/11, the crossing was more difficult. There were passport checks, more customs and immigration personnel on hand, and random vehicle searches. Don expected a delay because he had a gun to declare—he never left the office without one of his firearms. Charlie preferred to keep her gun locked in the office safe unless it was absolutely needed. Today they were in luck, the uniformed border guard was someone they knew.

“So what's shaking Nelson?” Don asked.

It took Jack Nelson a moment to recognize Don.

“Well, I'll be damned, if it ain't Rutkowski,” he squinted through the driver side window. “And Mack,” he grinned.

“How're you doing, Jack?” Charlie smiled back.

Nelson had lasted less than a year as a recruit at Homeland Security. In addition to classes in profiling, basic forensics, ballistics and negotiations, new DHS agents were expected to qualify in marksmanship and pass monthly physical fitness tests. Jack failed in all the above.

“So, I hear you two formed your own agency. How's business?”

“Business is pretty good,” Don said. We manage to stay busy. Most of it is routine stuff, though.”

“You remember Gil Acosta, don't you?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah, I remember him. Mexican guy, snappy dresser, right?”

Charlie nodded. “That's him. He's the third partner in our agency. In fact, we're working now.” Charlie wanted to get their business done in Canada so they wouldn't get caught in the afternoon rush hour.

“So what are you up to today?” Jack asked.

“We're doing an interview with a former employee of our client, she lives in North Windsor,” Charlie said.

“Look Nelson, I need to declare my weapon.” Don handed over the customs form and his concealed weapon permit.

The guard looked at the form. “Still carrying that Ruger, huh? I can recall the time you pulled it on Mack. Rutkowski, you were almost fired.” Jack laughed, remembering.

“That's all water under the bridge.” Charlie said quickly. “And speaking of bridges, we figured the tunnel might be faster than the bridge crossing today. You think that's right?”

Jack stamped Don's customs form and returned it along with a brochure on the protocols on Canadian gun laws.

“Yeah, I always think the tunnel moves faster this time of day. But when rush hour begins that changes, so you might consider coming back over the bridge. Don't forget to keep that form with you while you're here.”

They thanked Jack, promising to call him for a beer in the not too-distant future. Don pulled into the two-lane stream of traffic into the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel, which was seventy-five feet under the river. Charlie spotted a few missing tiles and water-stained concrete and took a deep breath. She leaned back in her seat and distracted herself by thinking about the gun incident Jack had mentioned. It had happened three years ago but pink rose on Don's cheeks when Jack brought it up again today.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Don said.

Charlie opened her eyes, they were almost at the tunnel's end. “Believe me, you don't want to know.”

“Hey, Nelson looks pretty good, don't you think?”

“Yeah he does. The work seems to suit him. We really should invite him out for a drink sometime,” Charlie said.

“So, what's the game plan with Dietrich? Do you want me to take the lead?”

“Let's play it by ear, Don. She's a woman, so maybe it should be me.” Charlie checked her notes. “Abrams says she's remorseful about her role in this thing and has returned all of the money she received. About five grand.”

It took forty minutes to arrive at the Dietrich house because they got lost and Don wouldn't stop to ask directions. Judy had been after them for months to buy portable navigation units, but Don would have none of it. When it came to guns and cars Don was a geek, but somehow cell phones and GPS units got the best of him.

Rona Dietrich answered the door as they stepped onto her porch. She was attractive and would have been considered pretty except
her nose was tilted slightly left. She wore a white blouse with a round collar, gray tweed slacks and brown slip-on shoes. Her brown hair was cut short with bangs that hung almost down to the rim of her tortoiseshell glasses. She offered coffee and Danish and Don accepted.

“Rona, I appreciate your seeing us,” Charlie said. “I know you've spoken to the police and we may ask you some of the same questions.”

“I understand,” Rona said, shifting her direct stare from Charlie to Don and back.

“So, our main goal is to find Joyce. Mr. Abrams wants to talk to her and he feels that she has to pay for what she's done. I've known Mr. Abrams a long time and he didn't deserve this.” Charlie was looking for a chink in Rona's armor, but she didn't flinch from Charlie's gaze or judgmental tone. “You didn't spend the money. Why?”

“I didn't mean to hurt Mr. Abrams but Joyce asked me for a favor and I did it. I really like her. She understood what I was going through taking care of my mother; that's something we have in common.”

Charlie jotted a note. “You didn't answer my question.”

“I didn't really need the money. Mother has social security and Medicare and with my salary it was enough to take care of our needs. This house is paid for and my dad made sure we wouldn't be burdened with a lot of debt.” Her eyes drifted to a photograph of a man and woman on a corner bookshelf.

Don rose to examine the photo and Rona watched as he held the framed picture. She returned her attention to Charlie.

“Joyce wasn't so lucky. She never knew her father. Growing up, it was just her mother and her brother, Paul. Paul's father wasn't around either. I did it because Joyce asked me to. I feel bad about it now, but at the time I just wanted to help her out.”

“What kind of help did you give her, Ms. Dietrich?”

“You can call me Rona,” she said with a shy smile. “Well, there was some kind of family trouble. I never knew exactly what it was, but Joyce said her mother was depending on her to take care of whatever it was.”

“What Ms. Mack is asking is, what exactly was
your
role in this stealing business, Dietrich?” Don, who was still standing near the bookcase, decided to insinuate himself into the questioning.

Rona squirmed and looked at Charlie for help. When she didn't get any, she turned back to Don, finally unnerved.

“I didn't actually take anything.” She stared at her lap, wringing her hands. “Joyce warned I might spot irregularities between the 430 form—that's a delivery document—and a few of the purchase orders for the downtown restaurants. She asked me to ignore the 430 and just invoice based on the purchase order. She said it was a family crisis and that nobody would be hurt. It only happened a few times and I looked the other way because, like I said, I like Joyce and I know what it's like to have family rely on you.”

“You did more than look the other way.” Don's voice was raised and Rona shifted in her chair. “By knowingly charging those restaurants for items they didn't receive, you were part of a conspiracy to commit fraud.” Don sounded like the police officer he once was.

Rona lost her reserve. She sobbed into her hands. Charlie looked at Don who gave her an “I couldn't help myself” look. Silence filled the room until Rona could speak again. She turned toward Charlie and pleaded for understanding.

“I know it was wrong, and I'm tremendously sorry. I told Mr. Abrams, I've never done anything like that before. He fired me, but he said he wasn't going to file a complaint against me and I've been helping the police with the case. I'm sorry. I don't know how else to say it.”

Rona's mother called out to her from upstairs and Rona took off her glasses and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse, then excused herself.

“That was just great, Mr. Sensitivity.” Charlie glared at Don.

“Yeah yeah, well I'm getting tired of hearing about what a great gal this Stringer was,” Don huffed. “Anyway,” he said changing the subject, “did you hear what she said about the brother? He had a different father. Did Judy say he was using a different last name?”