Bury Me When I'm Dead (5 page)

Chapter 7

The two-hour flight turned into four when they were late to board because of a mechanical problem. Don and Charlie made the best of it by reviewing the case notes Judy had prepared, but Don, always the profiler, was distracted. He had spotted a well-dressed man of indeterminate nationality who carried an oversized briefcase and Don considered him suspicious. When they landed at the airport terminal in Birmingham, Don continued to amble a few yards behind the poor man all the way to baggage claim. Don's luggage was the first to cascade down the conveyor belt onto the rotating slide and he practically knocked over a woman to get to his bag . . . and his gun. When his person of interest approached the luggage carousel, he went into high alert mode and didn't relax until the man snagged a fancy bag of Calloway golf clubs, and scooped up a smiling child who greeted him with hugs.

“You satisfied now, John Wayne?”

Don smirked. “Look, why don't I go ahead and get the rental car while you look out for your bag?”

“Good idea. And try not to shoot anybody.”

Don secured a roomy Chrysler 300 and using the map supplied by the car rental agent, efficiently navigated his way into north Birmingham. They arrived at the Crimson Tide Motor Inn in forty-five minutes. For PI field work, motels were better than hotels because they were more convenient for erratic comings and goings. The Crimson Tide was not fancy but it was close to the freeway, had a high-speed internet connection in the office, and an exercise room—the latter a valued amenity for Charlie. After grabbing lunch at a nearby Wendy's, Don joined Charlie in her room to look at maps and plan their movements for the rest of the day.

Don would drive downtown to Birmingham's police headquarters to find out what they knew about Joyce and Paul Stringer. The local police didn't have to cooperate with a pair of out-of-town investigators, but having Don introduce himself wouldn't hurt if they found themselves in need of law enforcement during their stay. Meanwhile, Charlie would ride the bus. It was one of her favorite things to do in a city she didn't know, it gave her a chance to see the people and places that weren't on the tourism brochures. She'd also try to get a look at the neighborhood where Paul Stringer's cousin lived. Until they became more familiar with Birmingham, it was best for Charlie and Don to venture out individually and fly under the radar.

Charlie picked up a copy of the MAX transit schedule in the motel office and returned to her room to change into her bus-riding attire. It was a hot day, a lot hotter than Detroit was in late August. She hadn't packed capris, so jeans, a pair of sneakers and a polo shirt would have to do. To blend in, she carried a shopping bag instead of a purse. She tucked her ID, cash, phone and keys into her jeans and put a tube of pepper spray and a sweatshirt in her bag. At five minutes of two, Don dropped her off at a bus stop on 26th Street. According to their maps, it was just a couple of blocks from the return address on Paul's letter. A bus was due in ten minutes so Charlie sat on the narrow, metal bench and scanned the street. There was a lot of vehicle traffic on the four-lane thoroughfare but only a few pedestrians. The area was rundown. Houses with boarded windows hinted at discarded domesticity and the overgrown lots that surrounded them had become the dumping grounds for their unwanted furnishings and other debris. Directly behind the bus stop was what Detroiters called a party store, you could buy staples like milk and bread but also beer and wine, cigarettes and lottery tickets. From its open door, cool air poured onto the sidewalk. On the opposite side of the street was a liquor store, a laundromat, a barber shop and a fast-food chicken restaurant. A couple of men came out of the liquor store carrying white plastic bags marked with a yellow smiley face. From Charlie's vantage point she counted a half dozen of the empty bags snagged by lamp posts, sewer grates and car tires. One was trapped in a tree limb just above the bus bench.

Charlie stood and stepped off the curb to look in the direction the bus would come. Seeing none, she dashed into the party store to buy chewing gum and pick up a copy of the
Defender,
Birmingham's weekly newspaper targeted to the African-American community. It was advertised on a cardboard sign propped against the store window. The first thing Charlie noticed when she entered the store was a bakery case filled with a variety of Lebanese pastries.

“Are those homemade?”

“Yes, baked fresh this morning,” the store clerk said.

Charlie stared into the case wondering if she'd be allowed to eat one of the goodies on the bus.

“You know this food?” the clerk perked up as he watched Charlie drooling in front of the case.

“Yes. I'm from Detroit.” The baked goods made her forget she was trying to blend in. “I used to work at a community center in Dearborn and I ate a lot of Lebanese food.”

The clerk looked at her with interest and identified himself as the owner's nephew. He was pleased to report he had several cousins who lived in Dearborn.

“I want one of these but I'm waiting for the bus.”

“Oh, it's always late. Here, try this one, you can eat it right now and I'll throw in a free cup of coffee.”

Charlie savored the almond pastry and hot coffee and the two chatted for a while. Charlie lied, telling the young man she was in Birmingham to visit a sick aunt. Twenty minutes later she boarded the 40 Fairmont bus heading south toward downtown. She made her way down the aisle looking briefly at each of her fellow riders and a few smiled when she made eye contact. She took an empty window seat near the middle of the bus with a view of the east side of the street.

Birmingham was situated within the foothills of the Appalachian Mountain range and the Red Mountains loomed in the distance. At the turn of the twentieth century, Birmingham was known as the Magic City but like Detroit, in the last few decades it had seen declining residents, revenues and reputation. The bus passed numerous red brick buildings, a lot of stray dogs and the steel carcasses of a half-dozen
burned cars. The scenery improved as the bus neared the downtown corridor. Colorful banners hung on street posts near the Birmingham Museum, a group of laughing school children picnicked in a beautifully landscaped park, and several gleaming high-rises reflected the energy of commerce.

At the end of the line, Charlie waited until all the other passengers had disembarked to ask the driver a couple of questions.

“What bus should I take to go back uptown?”

“You riding back to where you got on?” the driver asked with curiosity.

“Yeah, later this afternoon.”

“Well, you should probably take the 23 bus. It'll be a safer ride for a single lady.”

“So you have a lot of crime here, huh?”

“Where you from?”

“Detroit.”

“Well then, you know all cities have crime. You just have to know where not to go to avoid it.”

“Where would I go to
find
it?”

The driver squinted at Charlie. He was portly with a freckled face and reddish sideburns which extended well below his cap.

“As a matter of fact, you can find a whole lot of it, and any kind you want, right where I picked you up.”

Charlie walked a four-block square around the city's downtown area. Birmingham had a Woodward Avenue like Detroit but the sidewalks had more tree boxes and green space than Detroit's downtown. She passed the typical government and office buildings associated with a city's business district but there was notably little pedestrian traffic. She'd dutifully studied the city maps Judy provided and she should be near the main library. That's where she'd spend the next couple of hours.

The library was an elegant building, modern with an abundance of natural light. Just past the main floor information desk was a periodicals reading room with one section reserved for the public's access to the internet. That area was filled with a diverse group of men, some of whom wore suits and ties, some casual clothes and others bearing
the disheveled clothing common to the homeless. All were so intent on their screens they barely looked up as Charlie searched for an empty computer terminal, with no luck. Her task was to scan back issues of the
Birmingham News
looking for either Joyce or Paul Stringer's name in crime reports, real estate transactions or legal notices. Finally she asked for help, and a librarian directed her to a work station on the second floor. After two hours and the perusal of six weeks of archives, she got a hit. Charlie looked at her watch, it was now four-thirty. The library closed in a half hour and she needed to be back at the motel by six. She flipped opened her phone and called Don using her library whisper to ask his whereabouts.

“I'm still at police headquarters,” Don said. “Where are you?”

“I'm at the central library on Park Place. Can you pick me up? Are you almost done?”

“Yeah and I've got some news.”

“So do I.”

It turned out they had the same news: Paul Stringer was dead. He, and the cousin who sent the letter, had been murdered in early July.

“The detective I spoke to said it appeared to be a professional job. Hands tied at the back, feet bound and both shot in the face. They still had their cash and personal belongings, so it wasn't a robbery.”

“Don, what's going on here? I thought Paul was just a chronic loser who couldn't hold a job and needed his sister to rescue him from time to time. Apparently, he was into something bigger.”

“The police don't have a clue about motive. But, here's something else, they
have
seen Joyce.”

“What?”

“Joyce was listed as next of kin on Paul's employee records at the beverage company. The police reached her on the number listed and she came to the morgue to make the ID.” Don checked his notes. “A couple of days later the owner of the Freeman Funeral Home, with a signed affidavit from Joyce, arrived at the morgue to claim the body.”

“Do they know where she is now?”

“Nope. And the phone number they had for her is disconnected.”

“What about the cousin?”

“His name is Andrew Meadows. He had a sheet, but only petty stuff. They had the same address as the one we have from the letter. I tried pushing for more but it's still an active case and the detectives got a little squirrelly when I kept asking questions. I did assure the lead detective that if we found out anything that might be helpful, we'd pass it on.”

Charlie thought about it for a moment. Of course, they'd cooperate with the Birmingham police, but she wasn't forgetting her promise to Abrams to notify him before they turned Joyce in to the authorities.

“I guess the first order of business is to go to the cousin's house,” Don said, merging into the heavy flow of traffic leading away from Birmingham's central core.

“Let's do that tomorrow, Don. From what I've seen and heard that neighborhood is dangerous and we should probably visit in daylight.”

“I have my gun.”

“You were right to bring it,” Charlie conceded. “Karate and mace are no matches for professional killers. But we should tread carefully. The fact that Paul has been murdered puts a whole new spin on things. Let's get some food, take it back to the motel and get a plan for tomorrow.”

Don mastered Birmingham's rush hour, showing the locals what Detroit drivers were made of, while Charlie checked in with the office. She activated her phone's speaker function and Judy immediately put Gil on the line.

“I spoke with a clerk at the Haldeman Mortgage Company who was unwilling to provide any information about the company's relationship with Joyce Stringer except to admit they had one,” Gil said. “So, I followed up with a search in a legal database. I found a couple of real estate transactions on behalf of a Joyce Stringer but they're listed as private so I have to go another route. Don't worry. I'll get the information. No real estate transaction is really private when there are title companies and taxes to be paid.”

Don shouted a directive: “Acosta, see if you can find out who owns the house where the cousin lives.”

“That's a good idea,” Charlie said. “The return address is on the envelope in the case file. And while you're checking real estate records, would you see if the family home in Detroit has been sold?”

“Okay, will do,” Gil said. “Here's Judy, again.”

“How's Birmingham?”

“From what I've seen, I'll take Detroit.”

“I guess it's like that song about home from
The Wiz:
‘I wish I was back there with the things I've been knowing,'” Judy said.

Charlie laughed. “Right. That fits.”

Gil tolerated Judy and Charlie's show-tunes game but Don thought the habit was odd, bordering on ridiculous.

“Judy, I know it's late but will you follow up on those phone logs? Will you fax them to the motel office when you have them?” Charlie asked.

“Sure. Should I take the case file home?”