by Mike Brogan
Walking helped her work off the lactic-acid buildup in her exercised muscles.
Her workout had felt good. So did the shy glances from the cute new blond guy in her Pilates class. Maybe next class he’d crank up the courage to walk over and say hi to her. Or just maybe she’d go all brazen hussy, walk over and say, “Excuse me, Brad Pitt, will you please autograph my thigh?”
She checked her surroundings. No suspicious men.
As she sipped her water, the breeze felt good against her warm skin. She considered heading over to her sister’s house four blocks away, but that could turn into a gab-and-wine marathon. And she had a 7 a.m. meeting at GV to review new engineering releases.
She turned toward her street. She loved her cozy neighborhood. Small bungalow type homes from the ‘50s and ‘60s, manicured lawns and landscaping. Movies. Restaurants. Oak trees curved out over her street like a cathedral roof. She heard thunder and felt the wind kick up. If it started raining she could jog home, maybe work off her naughty lunchtime brownie.
A soccer-mom van with two kids drove by.
Is that me some day? She hoped so. Only one problem. Where is Mr. Right? Not at my office. Not at Kroger Singles Night. Not at her 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. workday. Not at the gym with all the bald Muscle Bubbas, scary as Mr. Clean, flaunting their oiled deltoids in the mirrors.
She wondered where her type guy was? Or frankly, who her type was? Maybe someone like Agent Neal Shaw. He was easy to talk to . . . and easy on the eyes. She noticed his empty ring finger and wondered if he was serious with anyone.
She heard footsteps behind her . . .
. . . and suddenly remembered Madison’s warning again.
The footsteps kept pace with hers.
She glanced back and saw a large man in a dark exercise sweat suit. Must have been at the gym. She couldn’t quite see his face to be sure. The guy looked normal enough . . . yet . . . something about him seemed out of place. She looked back again and still didn’t see what it was.
Then she saw.
His shoes.
Who wears shiny black wingtips with exercise sweats? And who wears his sweatshirt hoodie pulled over his head on a hot, humid night? The guy gave her bad vibes . . . or the heebie-jeebies, as her mom would say.
Brooke looked around and saw no one else on either side of the street. Just the two of them. Is he possibly the shy guy from Pilates? No. This man is much heavier.
She picked up her pace.
He picked up his pace.
Looking around, she still saw no one else. No passing cars, no dog walkers, no people in driveways. No moonlight filtering through the shadowy trees. How did she allow herself to get in this predicament right after Madison warned her?
Brooke started walking much faster.
So did he.
Time to run!
She started to sprint . . .
. . . but he grabbed her neck and clasped his hand over her mouth. His huge hand muffled her scream.
He dragged her down the dark alley and behind a garbage dumpster. She tried to break loose, couldn’t.
He squeezed her neck hard . . . then punched her in the jaw, knocking her to the ground.
Dazed, she shook her head and saw him grinning down at her. She also saw long knife in his hand. He moved closer.
“Scream and I’ll slice and dice your face.”
“Take my money – here!” she said, taking her wallet from her purse and placing it on the ground in front of him.
“Don’t want your money!”
“Take my credit cards. I’ll give you the pin numbers. There’s ninety dollars in the wallet. It’s all yours!”
She kicked the wallet closer to his feet.
Please reach for the wallet . . . please take it!
He didn’t.
Instead he stared at her, then his gaze crept down her body.
Her muscles stiffened.
“Why me?”
“Your mouth.”
“What?”
“You talk too much.”
“Talk to who?”
“The wrong people.”
Now she knew. He was here because of what she’d told Agent Shaw and Madison.
“I wanna know everything you told the FBI guy about Bruner, Van Horn, and his friend. You seen ‘em at Benny’s Bar.”
“I only knew Robert Bruner. Because I worked with him. So I told the FBI guy about Bruner. Only him. I didn’t know the other two men.”
“I don’t believe you. . .”
“It’s true!”
Somehow she had to distract him a few seconds.
“How would I know those other two men?”
“Cuz you seen ‘em in Benny’s.
“I saw them, but didn’t know who they were.”
“So what did you tell the FBI guy about Bruner?”
“I told them I worked with him. That he was a brilliant engineer. That he had a very nice wife and daughter who died in a car accident.”
“And what else?”
“That Robert Bruner was very emotional and angry after they died.”
She was running out of answers and time. She had to do something. Distract him, divert his attention away from her for a second. She sat up, leaned to the side, stared down the alley behind him and pointed as though she saw someone coming.
“Is that . . . ?” she said, pointing. “Can that be Nester Van Horn walking here?”
Her attacker blinked, then spun around to check who she saw coming.
She yanked something from her purse.
“I don’t see nobody!” he said.
“Do you see these?”
He turned back and stared at the bright yellow probes of her Taser XM26c aimed at his chest.
“Drop the knife!”
He didn’t drop it.
She moved the Taser closer to him - “Drop it - or I drop you!”
He dropped it . . . but his fingers inched inside his coat.
He’s reaching for his gun . . .
“FREEZE!”
He didn’t freeze.
She fired – shooting the probes out at 180 feet per second and striking him in the chest with 50,000 volts.
He collapsed groaning, his body jerking and shaking.
She grabbed her phone to call 911, dropped it, snatched it up, dialed. The operator answered after four rings.
“I’ve just been attacked by a man in an alley off Magnolia Street in Royal Oak. I’ve Tasered him and he’s down on his back. But I think he has a gun.”
“Keep your Taser on him. And keep your phone open. The police are over on Main. I’m sending them now.”
She heard the man moving. She turned and saw his hand creeping back toward his coat. She couldn’t believe he’d be willing to absorb another 50,000 watts.
“You’ve got bad muscle memory!” She aimed the Taser at him again. “It’s loaded and ready!”
Still, his hand inched toward his coat’s inside pocket. He’s crazy!
“FREEZE!”
He lunged for his pocket.
She Tasered his chest.
He collapsed back into another full-blown spasm, groaning and whimpering louder this time, trembling uncontrollably, urinating on the alley stones.
He dropped his knife and she kicked it farther down the alley.
Before he could recover, she loaded her last two cartridges into the Taser, praying they’d be enough to hold him until the police showed up.
Where the hell are they?
Finally, a siren drew louder, closer. She watched the end of the alley. Saw red flashing lights approaching and exhaled in relief . . .
. . . as a fire engine sped past the alley.
SIXTY
DETROIT
Madison’s phone rang. Christine calling from Manhattan.
“What’s up, Chris?”
“Francoise.”
“Francoise the Furious . . . ?”
“Yep.”
Francoise, her demanding, difficult CosmeTiques client
had obviously called to demand something of Madison yet again.
“She’s mad that you’re not in the meeting here.”
“Yesterday, I explained that I couldn’t attend the meeting. And . . . gosh . . . being trapped thirty feet under water focused me on stuff like breathing.”
“I hear you.”
“Our CosmeTiques account directors are in her meeting, right?”
“Right,” Christine said.
“And our creative director, and our CosmeTiques media people are also there, right?”
“Right again.”
“They know much more about her day-to-day business than I do.”
“Yes, but you know Francoise. She feels she’s entitled to have the ad agency CEO in all her meetings. Her status deserves it. Demands it. She insists.”
Madison didn’t like demanders and insisters.
And right now she had more important things to do than hold Francoise’s hand. She had to tell Agent Shaw about the Brooke’s tip about the town of Romulus.
On the other hand, not talking with Francoise now could risk angering her so much she might take her sixty-five million dollar advertising account to another agency.
“Christine, please tell Francoise about my abduction to Montauk. Locked in taxi under water, wrists cuffed, water rising, gasping air, barely escaping with my life. Maybe I have the mild case of the bends from rising too fast. I’m still recovering. But tell her that I’ll Skype in to the meeting in fifteen minutes no matter how bad I feel.”
Christine paused. “Okay . . . but . . . what if she doesn’t even accept that?”
Madison exhaled and paused before she spoke. “Then she’s what my favorite teacher, Sister Attila the Nun, would call her.”
“What?”
“An asshole!”
Christine laughed. “I like Sister Attila. But what if Francoise absolutely insists that you call her now or else?”
Madison paused. “Then tell her I’ll call right now.”
“What will you say?”
“I’ll say that I think she might feel more comfortable with another ad agency.”
“You’d really tell her that?”
“Why not?”
“You sound sick and tired.”
“I’m sick and tired of unreasonable clients.”
“Okay, I’ll call and plead your near-death underwater escape with all the emotion of Meryl Streep.”
“Do it!” Madison knew Christine would explain it well.
They hung up and Madison called Agent Shaw. He answered on the first ring.
“Hi Madison, what’s up?”
“Brooke Daniels just remembered something that might be helpful.”
“What . . . ?”
“She said Bruner idolized Romulus, the legendary founder of Rome. Bruner often said he wanted to live in a town called Romulus.”
Agent Shaw paused. “Wait – did I see a Romulus sign near the airport?”
“You did. The town Romulus is a couple of minutes from Detroit Metro Airport.”
SIXTY ONE
Slowly, Brooke’s attacker wobbled to a sitting position after shuddering and moaning through his second blast of fifty thousand volts. Despite looking weaker, he acted like he was adjusting to the jolts and might try to stand.
She walked closer to him and pointed her Taser at his crotch.
“Move – and I’ll fry your package!”
He placed his hands over his crotch.
She said, “The American Journal of Medicine reports men Tasered in the penis often lose their ability to have erections and suffer uncontrolled bowel movements.” She made it up.
He blinked, obviously envisioning life with a limp penis and wet Depends.
She made sure his hands stayed away from his jacket where she suspected his gun was.
She checked her phone’s Recent Calls and saw Special Agent Shaw had called her during her workout. She tapped on his name and his phone rang. He didn’t answer, and seconds later it flipped her to voice mail. She left a message explaining what happened and that the police were coming, but to please call back fast.
She checked her attacker.
His eyes were on her Taser.
His hands were on his crotch.
She heard another siren. She glanced toward the end of the alley, and this time saw a Royal Oak police car screech to a stop. Two officers jumped out and ran toward her.
The taller cop kept his gun trained on her attacker, as the short, burly officer placed her attacker face down on the alley, cuffed him, and removed a large handgun from inside his jacket.
“Ma’am, you need to place your stun-gun on the ground,” said the taller cop, badged Officer Themes.
Brooke put the Taser down.
“You know, ma’am, these Tasers are basically illegal without a concealed pistol permit in Michigan? Do you have a permit?”
“Judge Barton L. Kaufman said I could carry the Taser until my permit arrived in two days.”
“A wise decision. Tell me what happened here?”
She explained the attack and pointed to her attacker’s knife down the alley several feet. She also told him that the attack was due to her involvement with the FBI investigation into the Global Vehicles XCar surging problems.
“FBI” got the officer’s attention.
She said, “If you have any questions, just call Special Agent Neal Shaw.”
“I will.”
The policeman looked at her attacker.
“What’s your story?”
“It’s all an accident! I tripped and accidentally bumped into her and she went nuts! Zapped me like a crazy woman! Just cuz I fell!”
“Funny how your fall left distinct finger welts on her neck, almost like you took time to squeeze her neck as you were falling. And while you were falling you also found time to pull your six-inch-plus illegal knife out of your pocket.”
He said nothing.
“And while you were falling and tripping, those female shoeprints somehow got dragged thirty feet through the dirt in this alley.” He pointed at Brooke’s heel skid marks.
The man said nothing.
“Anything you want to say?”
“I have a good lawyer.”
“I have better forensics,” Officer Themes said, as his fellow officer placed the illegal-length knife in an evidence bag.
The policeman took out the man’s wallet, read his name – Clifford Delf, read him his rights, perp-walked him down the alley to the street. The officers started to put him in the back of the police car as a black Suburban pulled up beside their car.
Brooke saw two men in suits get out and walk toward her. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
“That’s Agent Shaw,” Brooke told Officer Themes.
Shaw flashed his badge, introduced himself to the officers.
“How’d you know I was in this alley?” Brooke asked Shaw.
“Because your phone was.”
She relaxed as Agents Shaw and Hayden explained their involvement with her and the XCar surge problem. Officer Themes nodded, made a phone call, then released Clifford Delf to Shaw and Hayden.
Officer Themes and his partner drove Brooke back to her apartment.
“We’ll drive by your apartment every thirty minutes checking up. Call 911 if there’s any problem.”
“I will. And thank you, Officer.”
* * *
Riding in their FBI Suburban toward the FBI Office in downtown Detroit, Agents Shaw and Hayden searched for information on Brooke’s attacker, Clifford Delf, cuffed in the back seat.
Shaw was disappointed. They’d found no information on Delf so far. No record. No offenses. No DUIs. No parking tickets. And no photos. Bottom line, Clifford Delf was probably an alias.
“Mr. Delf!” Agent Shaw said.
“Yeah?”
“Face Agent Hayden!”
Delf refused to.
Shaw reached over and twisted Delf’s face toward Agent Hayden’s iPhone camera.
Four minutes later, the new FAC-REC software identified Clifford Delf as one Cecil T. Mordeck, an ex-felon with convictions for assault and battery, armed robbery and spousal abuse. And those were his lesser offenses. Two of his outstanding warrants were for murder.
At the Detroit FBI Field Office, Agents Shaw and Hayden escorted cocky, cuffed Cecil T. Mordeck through the gleaming marble lobby of the twenty-seven story McNamara Building on Michigan Avenue. They hurried through the arches and glass doors and then into an opening elevator.
Neal Shaw liked the Detroit FBI’s long history of fighting organized crime. Especially stories of the 1920s Detroit Purple Gang’s rumrunners speeding booze from Canada across the Detroit River during Prohibition. When police got too close to the boats, the smugglers dumped their booze in the river. Some fishermen swore they got plastered eating walleye.
They stepped off on the 26th Floor, walked into a small interrogation room and sat at a conference table with another agent.
Shaw wanted answers and cut to the chase. He stared at Mordeck for a few seconds until he got eye contact. “Mr. Mordeck, you’ve got a clear choice.”
Mordeck stuck out his chin. “I’ve made my choice.”
“Which is?”
“My lawyer.”
“That’s usually a smart choice. Not this time, Mr. Mordeck.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re making you a good offer . . . but once your lawyer gets here, the offer is off the table.”
Mordeck shrugged. “What offer?”
“First, let’s refresh your memory. You face two murder-one felony warrants in Texas.”
Mordeck looked shocked they’d discovered the warrants so quickly. Then he acted like he’d never been in Texas.
“As you know, the Lone Star state is a no-nonsense death penalty state.”
Mordeck said nothing.
“Second, you’re being charged with the attempted murder of Ms. Brooke Daniels this evening. Your bruises are on her neck. Your DNA is likely on her clothes. Your fingerprints are on your knife.”
Mordeck stared back with altar boy innocence. “I told ya I tripped and fell on her in the alley.”
“An alley security video shows you attacking her, grabbing her neck, hitting her face, and knocking her to the ground. It also shows that the knife you pulled out has an illegal, eight-inch blade.” Shaw lied about the security camera.