The only person I managed to get a hold of was the liquor store owner, Ali Mansu.
“The phone rang twice before someone picked up and said, “Lo.”
“May I speak to Mr. Ali Mansu?”
“This is him.”
“Hello. My name is Sylvia Wilcox. I am a private detective investigating the murder of Liza Stark, and I would like to come in to talk with you about the murder.”
There was silence on the line.
“Mr. Mansu?”
“Yes.”
“I am—”
“I don’t want nothing to do with that. Long time ago and I already talk to police about it,” the man shouted, his Middle Eastern accent thick and heavy.
“Mr. Mansu, I understand. I just need a little bit of—”
“No!”
“Mr. Mansu—”
“No, no, no!”
“Sir, what would happen if the DPD came in and checked your employee roster?”
Silence.
“What if undercover cops were in your store, waiting for a minor to buy alcohol?”
I hated to be one of those PIs, but sometimes you have to pull the police card.
“Fine. What you want to know?”
“I’d like to come by and talk with you.”
“That it?”
“Yes.”
“Not a bunch of cops?”
“No. Just me.”
“Oh. Okay.” His voice was calm now. “That is okay. I thought you want to bring a lot of cops.”
“Nope. It’s best that it’s just you and I.”
“When?”
“Today. Around noon.”
“Fine,” he said before hanging up. I showered, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and dark blue pumps, and headed out. Pushing the Taurus just a few miles per hour over the speed limit, I was able to hit I-96 at 11:11a.m. During the drive, I gave the scene a mental comb-over. Strangers in a strange part of town had found the body. Even though a multitude of murders had occurred in that area, and gunfire was a daily part of life, Liza’s murder was unique. She didn’t look like typical Brightmoor fare. That little corner of the city had little diversity, but the inhabitants had a “look”—deep bags under their eyes, faded faces, slow shuffling walks, and bovine gazes that told a story of hopelessness. If Liza Stark had been slumming it for a piece on the side, someone would have noticed her shiny red Range Rover cruising around.
Traffic was relatively light at this time of day and I was able to cruise to Brightmoor with ease. Passing through Redford Township, I was reminded of the home Derek and I had shared north of Telegraph Road. There was a time when Detroit cops were required to live within the city’s boundaries, but by the time we were in DPD, that restriction had been dropped. Even so, we had decided to move into a section of the city where a bunch of retired cops and old-timers who were still on the force lived. Our little neighborhood on the outskirts of the city had been full of cops and other civil servants who needed a Detroit address, but wanted to be as close to the border as possible. Quiet, well-kept lawns lined streets of modest, two-story brick bungalows and ramblers; children played in carefully laid-out streets. The diversity lacking in most of Detroit lived within the five blocks preceding the working-class suburb of Redford. A few mom-and-pop businesses had survived the explosion of shopping malls and corporate fast food chains, making the neighborhood a hidden jewel of community and safety. We were well armed, and all the thugs on the other side of Telegraph Road knew it.
There was little reason to venture across Telegraph Road except for work, but I had driven past the area where Liza’s body was found countless times during my time on the force. Even though the murder had taken place over two years ago, and all physical evidence was long gone, talking to the store owner who had found the body still might be fruitful. I pulled up in front of the store at around ten o’clock that morning. The sign on the storefront read simply: “Beer/Wine/Liquor.”
The corner store served as the one-stop grocery store, convenience store, and anything-else-you-might-need store. It was larger than average, but it carried with it the tell-tale signs of most neighborhood joints. Once inside the door, I spotted expired food lining the shelves, miscellaneous rotting fruit hanging off the front counter, and greasy processed pizza, chicken, and hamburgers filling the stands close to the checkout window. A thick plate of bulletproof glass separated the clerk from the patrons, and the butt of a shotgun could be seen just underneath the counter…Just your typical Detroit party store.
Ali Mansu wore a knitted cap on his balding head and a cream-colored traditional robe. His smile—thin and forced—was clear, even though he was behind the thick sheet of plexiglass. We’d made eye contact the moment I pushed open the heavy glass door. He gave a small wave, completed a transaction, and dropped a handful of change into the shallow silver well. He called for a young woman in a hijab who was stocking shelves in the food aisle. She looked up, nodded, smiled at me, and headed behind the counter.
“Mr. Mansu?”
“Mrs. Wilcox?” His eyes brightened with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
“Yes, hello. Sylvia Wilcox,” I said, holding out my hand and receiving a firm handshake in return from Ali.
“Mrs. Wilcox—nice to meet you. We can talk in the storage room,” Ali said, unlocking the cage that separated the cash register from the store.
Ali was close to six feet tall, but he walked with a stoop, which caused him to look slightly slumped over. His face was encased in a thick black beard that was neatly cropped two or three inches from his chin.
“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” I said.
“No problem,” Ali said in a soft tone.
I followed him down a tiny hallway that emptied into a room full of flattened boxes and random stock. He motioned for me to sit on a rusty, gray, folding chair.
“So, you had only been open a short time before you found the body, correct?” I asked. The rickety folding chair wobbled a bit. I said a silent prayer that it would last the length of the interview.
“Yes. We had been open few weeks only,” Ali said with a heavy accent.
“Now you’ve been open for about two years, right?”
“Correct Close to two years”
“Did you know that this was gang territory and a very bad neighborhood when you opened the store?”
“I grew up in Gaza. I’m not afraid of bad areas.”
“Would you say that you have the same customers over and over again?” I knew he did, but I wanted to prime him for the next question.
Ali shook his head—yes. He was starting to look bored.
“I know it will be hard to remember, but did anything out of the ordinary happen the day before you found Liza’s body? Was it busy?”
“My fourth son was born,” Ali said. A smile spread across his face.
“Congratulations,” I said. If Ali’s son had been born the day before Liza’s body was dumped, he would remember the day better than if nothing important had happened in his life. This interview might net good information.
“I was in the store, behind the counter, when my wife called. I jump up and down, told customers I had to close early, and left around eight that night.”
“Were there people in the store when you found out?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember them. I was too excited about my son.”
Some customers would have known that the store closed early that night. They could have spread the word.
“Is there anything else you remember about that night?”
“I was leaving around eight, but ended up staying an extra few minutes because a customer showed up. She was mad because I was closing early. I asked her if it was an emergency; she said no, and after I explained why I was closing early, she understood.”
“Do you know the woman’s name?”
“Ah, yes. She is a regular. Very nice. Lives around the corner. Nice house. Nice husband.”
“May I have her name
?”
“Amber. Amber Dukes, I think is her name. Nice house. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. That’s helpful. Do you remember posting a sign, or anything like that, to let people know that the store was closing early?”
“No. I didn’t want everyone to know—just those who came into the store. Letting the entire neighborhood know would not be smart. If someone stopped by and saw that the store was closed, it would be better for them to think that it was out of business than for me to tell everybody I was closing early.”
He had a good point. Broadcasting that he was closing early would have been an invitation for robbery.
“So, the only people who knew were customers who came into the store that day?”
Ali nodded. That meant that the killer had probably been in the store.
“Do you have surveillance tapes?”
“Of course. The police took them.”
I’d have to check with the detective who’d worked the case to see if any evidence had been garnered from the tapes.
“Mr. Mansu, is there anything else you remember?”
“The police didn’t seem interested, but you might care.”
“I do care. What weren’t they interested in?”
“The first few weeks the store was open, gangs bothered us. That’s why we have the gun. After that lady was found dead in the alley, no more gangs bothered us.”
That was interesting. Perhaps Liza had been slumming it after all.
“What were the gangs doing?”
“Breaking windows, graffiti, harassing my daughter.”
“And that stopped after the body was found?
“Yes.”
Strange.
“May I see the alley?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I followed Mansu to the back of the storeroom, dodging cardboard.
“I will wait in the door. I don’t want to leave a woman in the alley by herself.”
I nodded and headed out into the alley. A pale brown rusted out dumpster sat in the midst of trash and overgrown grass. The alley was lined with abandoned buildings. It was a great place to dump a body. I tried to imagine a scenario that would end with Liza’s body behind the dumpster. The body had not been transported. Why would Liza have been in this alley?
“Mrs. Wilcox,” Ali called from the doorway. “Will you be much longer?”
I’d come back later if I needed to.
“No. In fact, I’m all done. Thanks for your time.”
We headed back inside. I bought a pack of gum from Ali, waved goodbye, and left the store. On my way out, some unpleasant kids in gang colors pushed past me. Three loud, boyish-looking girls with cornrows, bandanas, and saggy jeans muttered a litany of swear words as they rambled up and down the aisles. Two of the girls were tall and thin, but the third one, a short, chunky girl, appeared to be their leader. I tried to avoid eye contact, but Chunky Girl fought to lock eyes with me. She was no more than fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, but her face was already hardened from the wear and tear of life. Her forehead bore several lines of wrinkles, and her eyes were a dirty sea-green color that made me think of a contaminated ocean. I nodded and pushed past the girls.
Outside, a skeleton-like body was lurching around on the passenger side of the Taurus. I ran my hand over the butt of my gun and made sure my shoes clicked loudly on the pavement. Hopefully, the being would scramble away as he heard me approaching. When I got within four feet, the emaciated body began to slowly pivot to face me. The remnants of breasts lay flat on her stomach and a white film encircled the woman’s mouth. When she tried to speak, the hole in her face produced a hollow pink-and-black pathway that croaked “Spare change?” in a raspy voice. I took my hand off the butt of the gun, dug into my pocket, and produced a piece of lint and two quarters. I dropped them in her hand, and muttered, “May God have mercy.”
On my way back to the freeway, I decided to drive past the house of Amber, the woman who had come into the store the night Ali Mansu had closed early. Nice houses in Brightmoor are noticeable because they are the extreme exception. I drove down Dacosta Street and immediately recognized what had to be Amber’s house. A modest, but well-kept brick home sat behind a gated fence. I checked my phone for the time and surveyed the neighborhood. Impromptu interviews aren’t ideal, but I wanted to at least get a look at the landscape. I looked up and down the block of burned-out houses. I assumed that some of them had been firebombed in drug turf wars. What I assumed to be Amber Dukes’ house sat behind a chain-link fence that had freshly shoveled sidewalks and a spattering of salt on the stairs leading to a tiny, uncovered porch. I got out and walked along the street in front of the house. A worn “Welcome” doormat was caked with gray snow and salt sat on the porch. There was a “Beware of Dog” sign on the chain-link gate, and to back up this warning, two large Rottweilers ran around the side of the house with gusto, barking and making their presence known. I jotted down the address and headed back to the car.
***
That afternoon I headed back to the office and did some research on what had been going on in Brightmoor over the past few years. Since my departure from the police force, the neighborhood had shown some sparks of hope. One man had taken to driving around and scaring off people who came to dump trash, or use the services of prostitutes in the area. Other residents had started community gardens and neighborhood watch groups. Even so, Brightmoor was by far one of the most dangerous areas in the city.
By five that evening my eyes were starting to blur. I closed the laptop and called Carson Stark.
“Did you find something already?” he asked.
“I’m working on gathering information. Actually, I would like to stop by your house and get a feel for the place Liza called home.”
“She hasn’t…been there for quite some time. What good will that do?”
“It’s routine. I just want to get a better feel for who Liza was. I also can update you on what I’ve learned so far.”
Dangling the carrot of information helped change Carson’s mind.
“Okay. I’m working midnights this week, so if you can come sometime in the morning that would be great.”
How about ten tomorrow morning?”
“Perfect. See you then.”
The next morning, I was in front of Carson’s house by nine-fifty-five. Carson Stark lived in the new part of Northville Township. Oversized mansions that showcased the excesses of the current millennium, but none of the charm of the previous century, filled subdivision after subdivision. The Starks’ home was a sprawling structure close to a state park. Carson met me at the side door that opened into the kitchen. He wore a tight smirk as he nodded hello. I stepped onto dark hardwood floors that sparkled with perfection. A matching, polished wooden table had place settings ready for four occupants to settle into the cloth-backed beige chairs. A little girl with wispy blonde hair muttered a shy “hi” and held her brother’s hand up to wave at me.
“Mrs. Wilcox—thank you for coming. Welcome.”
We shook hands. A quick look around the house told me two things: Liza had picked the location, but Carson was responsible for the interior decoration. The interior of the house had an old-world charm. The exterior was identical to the rest of the houses in the area.
Carson Stark was dressed in black, creased slacks and a long-sleeved, white, button-down shirt with a blazer. His clothes had a modest quality that once again pointed to the fact that he was old money. He looked like he was on the way to a business meeting. Of course, the purpose of our meeting was business, but I was a little stunned at his formal dress.
“Hi, Mr. Stark. Hi there,” I said, flapping my hand at the two children at the table.
“Hi,” the little girl said again, smiling.
“Please call me Carson. Amelia?” Carson called, and turned towards the foyer. “Can you take the kids?”
A small brown-skinned woman came into the kitchen, muttering in Spanish. Carson responded in Spanish as she gat
hered the children and left the room. The nanny/housekeeper Carson had told me about…Was she keeping any of Liza’s secrets? Perhaps she had some information on why Liza was in Brightmoor the day she was murdered. I would have to talk to her before I left.
“She’s our housekeeper and lifesaver. I don’t think I could handle the kids without her…So glad Liza found her before—” He sighed and ran a hand over his bald head. Accepting the loss of a spouse was a continuous process. It was the afterthoughts that reminded you that yes, they were really gone. I recognized that faraway, distracted look only too well.
“Mr. Stark,” I said, trying to bring him back to the present, “I have been trying to reconstruct Liza’s life. When someone is shot as many times as she was, the perpetrator is usually someone they know. With that in mind, I need to know what Liza did with her free time, and who her friends and family were. I need to know who Liza was.”
Carson Stark was standing a few feet in front of me, his eyes were downcast, and his forehead was wrinkled with worry lines. I imagined his mind was dissecting everything I said. After waiting for a response that never came, I tried to figure out how much information to give him. The investigation was new and incomplete, and no one wants to hear that their spouse had another life, so I kept the details sparse.
“I believe, Mr. Stark, that Liza knew her killer. That’s why I want to know more about the life you two shared.”
“I know that random killings are rare, but I don’t think we knew the killer, Mrs. Wilcox,” Carson replied before offering me a beverage. I could see that he wasn’t ready to believe that Liza could possibly have known someone he didn’t. I was going to need a new angle.
“What do you take? Beer, wine, cognac? Come into the bar. I’ll make some martinis,” he said before I could answer. I followed him through a huge family room with a cathedral ceiling. We stopped when we reached the living room, and he waved me over to a large, beige leather sectional opposite a winding staircase, before he headed behind the rather sizable bar tucked into the corner of the room. A warm fire crackled on one wall, and adjacent to that, a theater-sized plasma television played a twenty-four-hour news station without sound.
Who She Was Page 3