Chapter Six
Madelyn Price was difficult to read, but the fact that she had lived in Brightmoor meant that she had ties to the area where Liza had been murdered. Even though almost two decades separated her residency in the neighborhood and Liza’s demise, it was quite a coincidence. There had also been some hesitation in telling me where she’d grown up. Madelyn said she had met Liza when they were living “a different kind of life.” She had never mentioned where they’d met, but she had known her since high school. But if they met around Redford High, they were probably somewhere in Brightmoor.
Various scenarios ran through my head as I crept along the narrow dirt road. Liza Stark was killed in an alley in Brightmoor. The alley she was dumped in was one street over from where Madelyn Price had lived. If Madelyn had lived on Dolphin Street between Fenkell and Six Mile Road, it would simply be too much of a coincidence that Liza’s body had been found on Dacosta Street between those two thoroughfares. Of course, Madelyn had moved away from Brightmoor sometime during the nineties and Liza’s body was found in 2011. Well over a decade had elapsed between when Madelyn lived in Brightmoor and when Liza’s body was found. What was the connection?
Madelyn Price knew more than she was saying. She’d also been a little cagey about her life. I made a mental note to find out more about her when I got home. I glanced at the time on the car’s dashboard: 10:50 a.m. I wasn’t meeting Peter Abernathy until two that afternoon, which meant I could swing by Brightmoor.
There aren’t many restaurants in Brightmoor, but if Liza had spent time with a side piece, or anyone else, they’d probably stopped by Mickelson’s Fish N Chips. It had been in the neighborhood for decades, and their fish was well-known beyond Detroit’s borders. I stopped in for the “Famous Fish and Chips.” Simple wooden chairs and cafeteria-style tables lined the restaurant. The walls were covered in fishing and shipping paraphernalia, and an old jukebox sat in a corner. I took in the sights and waited patiently to talk with the cashier.
The woman at the counter wore an unremarkable ponytail that brushed the top of her waist. Her face was plain, but pretty, and free of make-up.
“How are things in Brightmoor these days?”
“Same,” the middle-aged woman said without looking up from the register. She pointed me in the direction of a rickety two-top.
I sat down and surveyed the room, taking note of the six other patrons. None of them looked like residents of the abandoned and fire-bombed neighborhood that lined Dolphin Street. This was a place that had survived in Brightmoor, but it was not of the neighborhood. The chairs were filled with professionals and elderly couples crowded around rickety, wooden tables. This was a place out of time. The white flight of the 1970s had taken the regulars to homes in the suburbs, but they returned to rekindle nostalgic memories of their childhoods. After cashing out several patrons, the woman from the cash register came to my table, pen and pad in hand.
“Have you ever seen this lady?” I pulled out Liza’s picture and put it on the table top.
“Ya, she’s been in here with another lady.”
“More than once?”
“Ya, couple of times. Who’s asking?”
“Sylvia Wilcox. I’m investigating her murder.”
The cashier looked up; her eyes wide with alarm.
“Oh, that’s the lady, isn’t it? The one that was having the affair and got killed? Probably a gangbanger. She should have known better…”
“What can you tell me about the two women?”
“Nothing special…Just seemed like two friends. They laughed, ate lunch, and talked.”
“What did the other woman look like?”
“Short, tiny actually, with black hair in a bun. Pretty.”
Madelyn Price? Why would they be in Brightmoor? Neither of them lived anywhere near the neighborhood.
“Were they regulars?”
“No, but they came in a few times. Nothing major. Probably three or four times. We don’t get a lot of new people in here, so when newbies come in, we notice. Try to keep them coming back.”
The fish and chip shop sat across the street from the alley where Liza’s body was found. Why were the women hanging out in Brightmoor? Two successful, attractive women of means traveled to one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the state to hang out? Why? The fish and chips were delicious, but Brightmoor was so far out of their realm.
Liza and Madelyn weren’t of the neighborhood, but they had an affinity for Brightmoor. There wasn’t really a better explanation that I could think of. Maybe they came back to stroll down memory lane. But how good could the memories be? Not better than being a successful yoga teacher and stay at home mom married to a doctor. Why live in the past?
“Thank you. Hey, great food!” I tossed a forty percent tip onto the table and left. On my way to the car, I brushed past a group of girls dressed in red, with red bandanas in their pockets and on their heads. It was the same pack I’d seen in the party store the previous week. I turned around and headed back into the restaurant.
“Hey, do the locals come in much?”
The cashier looked up. “No. We don’t allow gang colors, so most of the locals stay away. We have a good reputation. People are willing to cross Telegraph for our fish. Gotta keep it safe in here.”
I slipped back out the door, looking for the girls, but they were nowhere to be found. So far, I had confirmation that Liza and Madelyn had been in the neighborhood; now I needed more information about why they were there. I had no idea how to find that out. I decided to switch gears and head around the corner to the house of the woman the party store owner had told me stopped in after the store closed on the night Liza was shot. I drove around the corner and sat adjacent to Amber Dukes’ house. I watched for signs of life. After about twenty minutes, a small woman with thick-framed glasses came out and walked down the street. She came back about ten minutes later with a cup of coffee in her hand. Amber Dukes wore thick, Coke-bottle glasses that were pushed high on her sharp, pointy nose. Her skin was pale with a hint of orange, common in people who spend time in tanning beds. Her hair was a thick blanket of wild, curly gray hair that fanned out around her head. She opened the gate in front of her house, pulled two dog leashes out of her pocket, and hooked them to the pair of Rottweilers in the yard. I stepped out of the car and headed toward the house.
“I don’t want anything, so don’t even try to sell it.”
“I’m not selling anything. I’m a private investigator looking into a murder of a woman. She was from Northville Township,” I said, knowing that mentioning the posh town would trigger her memory. “She was murdered and left behind the party store down the street. I want justice for her family.” I spoke loudly to overcome the barking of the dogs.
“Justice? Well, ain’t that nice. Kids have been dying in these streets for decades, and now because some rich white lady died, we need to find justice? I ain’t got nothing to say.”
It wasn’t the friendliest response, but it indicated that the woman had been living in the neighborhood for quite some time. I let her anger die down a bit before continuing.
“Ma’am, I worked these streets as a DPD officer for several years. I care about justice for the people of this neighborhood, but I don’t think that just because someone doesn’t live here, or they are a certain race, they don’t deserve justice. I want justice for everyone—especially the little children Liza Stark left behind.”
The woman opened the gate and looked back.
“You worked this hood? Prove it.”
“In 2008, we ran a sting operation that ended the drug ring that ran from Dolphin to Trinity. This led to an increase in vacant houses, but most of them had been crack houses, so it made the neighborhood safer. Your former neighbor, Jon Jennings, lived two houses down. He was robbed at gunpoint one weekend and shot the next. We caught his killer within a week. Shall I go on?”
The woman freed one hand and turned to face me.
“Amber Dukes,” she said,
giving me a warm handshake. “Sorry for being so salty. I’m just tired of people looking for justice for only some people. I guess you work all sides, and that’s all right with me. What do you wanna know?”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty-five years…Bought my house for twenty thousand dollars. It’s not perfect, but it’s our little slice of happiness. I didn’t know that the drugs and gangs would spring up around here the way they did, but my husband grew up in this area. He wanted to come back for some reason— probably because he’s a long-haul trucker and he don’t have to be here often.” Amber Dukes let out a cackle. The laugh lines showed her joy and happiness.
“Did you know that the woman who was murdered in 2011 lived in that house across the street in 1996?”
“Naw! No way! You gotta walk with me: these dogs aren’t going to wait.”
I walked beside Amber as the two dogs pulled her down the street.
“Liza Abernathy lived across the street. She would have been young, in her late teens. Any of that sound familiar?”
The woman’s forehead creased as she struggled to keep up with the dogs and see if she remembered Liza.
“She looked much different then, but here’s a more recent picture.” I pulled out the picture Carson had given me.
“Yeah, I remember her. She was living with a no-good loser. He was dangerous. His whole family was into things. There was one time when his sister, who also lived there with them for a while, was dragged down the street by the father of her children. Rumor has it that the baby’s dad came back and killed her daddy. Crazy shit!”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Hmm…let me think. Dejuan? No. It was De-something. Maybe Demario…Ya—that’s it! I remember it because he ended up getting arrested later on for something. He was on the news and I recognized him.”
“Okay, and Demario’s father was allegedly murdered by his pseudo brother-in-law?”
“That’s what we heard. The father was found in an overgrown field…Was a John Doe for a few weeks. Don’t know how true that was, but there was a time when the supposed killer’s mother came over to the house and there was a huge argument. They were out in the street screaming and hollering. We called the police. It was ugly.”
“How many people would you say lived in the house?”
“Don’t know—but the family of the man was always coming and going. One night, a cousin broke the front window. It was one of those things where the family was just crazy: always arguing, always fighting, and every now and then they would shoot at one another or break windows…Not the best neighbors to have. In fact, they are the reason why we have a fence. We were worried because their kids would come into our yard and do whatever they wanted. They got no home training.”
“What can you tell me about the girl, Liza Abernathy?”
“Not much. She was just your average follower who didn’t really make much of an impression. Her eyes were dull and dim—not the brightest lady, obviously. We never saw any other white people, so her family was not involved in her life. We figured they’d disowned her, ya know? Not because he was black, but because he was no good. The only real memory of her I have is the catfight she had with this girl that came by. She was a little girl, but she was scrappy. They fought over the no-good man, which was just a shame. The black girl had a little one with her. She sat her kid on the lawn and went to the door with a great deal of fury. It was bananas! I watched the whole thing from my window. I called the cops, but they didn’t come that time.”
“You wouldn’t have recognized Liza after she got married, but she drove a red Range Rover. Do you ever recall seeing that truck on the block?”
Amber thought about it for a moment while she waited for one of the dogs to take care of his business. She pulled out a bag and cleaned up when the dog was done.
“Well, now that you mention it, I saw a red truck that was too new for this neighborhood. If you’re smart, you don’t buy new cars around here. They will be stolen, or they will get you killed. Yeah, there was a red Range Rover around these parts, but I haven’t seen it in some time.”
Of course—because Liza was now dead. I found myself going back to the fight that must have been between Liza and Madelyn.
“The fight you told me about—do you know what it was about?”
“Yeah, everyone on the block knew. The white girl was pregnant, the black girl had the man’s baby, and the man was living off both. Let’s just say it was our soap opera for a while. Every day, something new happened.”
“Is there anything else you remember about Liza, Demario, or Madelyn?”
“There were rumors that the black girl was smart…Washed her hands of him and moved out of the neighborhood after she graduated high school.”
Madelyn Price had come a long way. Impressive.
I thanked Amber Dukes and headed back to the car.
“Hey, keep me updated. I want justice too!” Amber called after me.
“Will do!” I called back to Amber. I had enough evidence to safely say that Liza was in Brightmoor prior to her death, and that information might change the entire investigation.
***
I was meeting Peter Abernathy at Liv’s Diner, a classy little dive on the edge of downtown Plymouth. I spotted a tall, thin man with white-blond hair spiked in every direction. He was leaning against the diner door, engulfed in a cloud of smoke. Peter Abernathy had a hardened look, just like his sister. According to Carson, he was five years older than Liza, ill-tempered, and had rarely gotten in touch with them. I parked in the far-right corner of the parking lot and headed toward the diner.
“Mr. Abernathy,” I said, reaching out for Peter’s hand.
Peter nodded and held my hand for a moment, applying no pressure before yanking his hand back after a few seconds. I watched him pull the cigarette out of his mouth, stomp out the butt, and apologize for smoking.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, holding my breath to avoid inhaling second-hand smoke.
It looked as though life had been hard for Peter Abernathy. His face was worn and leathery, and he looked about ten years older than he was. I watched his gnarled hands reach for the door and wondered what had prematurely aged him.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Abernathy.”
He nodded, said it wasn’t a problem, and told me to call him Peter. I followed him into the restaurant where a sign directed us to seat ourselves.
“Any preference?”
“How about that booth over there by the window?” I said, pointing across the dining room. We headed to the booth and sat opposite one another.
A tall waitress with a bored look on her face came over to the table and took our order: burger and fries with a Coke for Peter, a salad with Italian dressing and water for me. Once the waitress was gone, I tried to make eye contact, but Peter avoided it. I heard the creak of the leather booth beneath his shaking leg and wondered if he was having nicotine withdrawal already, or if he was nervous about something else.
“So, you wanna know about Liza,” he began with a jerk of the head and an evil sneer, before leaning in close over the table.
“Yes, but first, I want to say that I’m sorry for your loss. I also appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
Peter snorted and shrugged. I persevered.
“Your brother-in-law has hired me to investigate your sister’s murder, and while I understand you two weren’t close, I’m interested in what you can tell me about Liza. The detectives on the case are completely swamped and have no leads. Carson wants answers, and I believe that some of those answers will come from me finding out more about your sister.”
Peter ran a hand through his hair, leaving it a complete mess, before puffing out his cheeks and blowing cigarette-smoke-laced air my way. I held my breath and controlled my eye-roll as best I could.
“What do you wanna know?”
“What type of relationship did you have with Liza?” I asked,
now wanting to get the interview done as soon as possible.
“We weren’t close. She had her life and I had mine. We were five years apart, so we never went to the same school at the same time or had the same friends. By the time she got to high school, I was out of the house.”
The shaking of his leg had quickened.
“I can understand that. When you have age gaps like that between one another, it can be tough to be close, but anything you can tell me about the years you did spend together would be helpful.”
Peter’s head jerked again. What was all the nervousness about? Perhaps he just had a tic. Or did he have something to do with his sister’s death?
“She was my parents’ little angel. She raised holy hell in high school, but they took her back when she came knocking. I was in college then, but I know she ran away and got involved with some bad people.” Peter Abernathy wrangled a pack of Camel Reds out of his green army coat. He tapped the pack of cigarettes on the table before putting it back in his pocket. His nervousness was increasing.
“Been three months…Sobriety’s a bitch, but it’s the only way I can see my kids. Might even get my wife back if I keep it up.”
I felt my eyebrows arch in an “ah-ha!” moment. He was an alcoholic—still going through early detox. The nervousness was explained…Or was it?
“Congratulations,” I said, offering up a warm smile that produced a glimmer of hope in Peter Abernathy’s eyes. He had his own demons; probably hadn’t spent much time thinking about his sister’s. Addicts aren’t selfish. Their worlds are built on a self-centeredness that is necessary for any addiction: they don’t have the capacity to think about others because they’re controlled by a substance. Peter might not have much to tell me, but I pushed on with the interview.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the speculation about Liza possibly being involved in an extramarital affair. What do you think of those rumors?”
“She liked ’em. I mean, no offense, but she was into black guys before Carson. Growing up in Livonia, we weren’t well stocked with ’em, but Liza found ’em anyway. Not the nice ones either. I mean, no offense, but she went for the ones with the baggy pants and braids in their hair. Not the ones…like you.”
Who She Was Page 8