Wake Me When It's Over

by Cheryl A Head

  “I’m not interested in his pride, Irwin. He works for us, and if he doesn’t like it, I’ll fire his ass,” Scott Hartwell yelled.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your work,” Cynthia said pausing just inside the outer door.

  The shouting in the conference room stopped. Cross appeared at the door with a flushed face, just as Cynthia turned to go.

  “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” she said over her shoulder.

  The tension in the conference room was noticeable as Charlie, Gil, and Don took their places around the conference table. Hartwell was fidgeting with his shirt cuffs, and Cross opened and downed a small bottled water. Don, who had been unusually quiet during the credentialing process, was ready to speak his mind.

  “Your security chief is a Nazi,” he announced to Cross and Hartwell.

  “Don, please,” Charlie said. “Forgive my partner. He can be very blunt. What he means is . . .”

  “What I mean is, the guy’s a prick. He’s obviously pissed off that we’ve been brought in over his head, and despite your pleas, he’s not going to cooperate with us.”

  “Heinrich will be cooperative, Mr. Rutkowski,” Hartwell said emphatically.

  “I’m telling you now, the guy will be trouble, and the moment his interference jeopardizes our ability to work this case, you’re getting a call from me,” Don shouted.

  “That’s fair enough,” Hartwell said looking sideways at Irwin Cross.

  “His assistant, Cynthia, seems nice enough. She’s been very accommodating,” Gil said to bring the energy level down.

  “Yes. But don’t be fooled. Her full loyalties are with Heinrich,” Hartwell said.

  “How did Spectrum come to work for DADA? Did you put out bids for the security work?” Charlie asked.

  “That’s right,” Cross replied. “Last year, we realized we should have a full-time security agency. The auto show requires a twelve-month planning cycle, and we have security needs all year long. We did a request-for-bids process, and Spectrum was one of twenty firms to respond.”

  “The company had contracts with the federal government and a dozen multinationals, and their references were impeccable,” Hartwell continued. “Everyone I spoke to mentioned Heinrich’s healthy ego and militaristic management style, but they also had high praise for his use of technology and his results.”

  Don was unimpressed. He folded his beefy arms on the table. Charlie leaned forward to parrot Don’s gesture.

  “The way I see it,” Charlie said to Hartwell, “Heinrich isn’t our problem, he’s yours. We have enough constraints to overcome. If he gets in the way, we won’t be successful.”

  “We won’t let him get in the way,” Hartwell promised.

  By 10 a.m., Judy had set up her desk in the office suite and was coordinating the Mack team’s needs. Gil might already have the attention of Cynthia Fitzgerald, but Judy would get to know the other support staff at Spectrum and in the Cobo administration offices. Her internal relationships would make their work easier. She had already procured a larger conference room for a meeting with the freelancers who would help on this assignment; they’d arrive at Cobo Center in two hours ready to work. Meanwhile, Gil had called Cynthia with a request for a person who could give them a tour of the Cobo complex. In less than a half hour a junior staffer from Cobo’s General Manager’s office stepped into the office.

  “Hi. I’m Tyson Pressley,” the young man said. “I’m going to give you the twenty-dollar tour.”

  “I thought someone from Spectrum would show us around,” Gil said.

  “All I know is my boss said we had VIPs who needed a tour, and I would find you here,” Tyson said.

  Charlie, Don, and Gil exchanged looks. Heinrich’s obfuscation was already beginning.

  “Is there a problem?” Tyson asked.

  “Not with you,” Charlie said. “We’re not VIPs. We’re, technically, Spectrum staff, but we have a special assignment. You’ll be seeing a lot of us in the next few days, and we need to familiarize ourselves with everything real fast.”

  Tyson made quick work of measuring the situation. He was tall and skinny with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but without the beard he could pass for a teenager. He wore a red polo shirt, dress khakis, and a blue blazer. He exuded a sureness that was just short of arrogance.

  “Let me guess? You got the Heinrich maneuver.”

  “What?” Don said.

  “Geoff Heinrich. He’s an ass,” Tyson said without flinching.

  Charlie scowled. Gil rested his forehead on his fingers, and Don allowed the “I told you so” look to take over his entire face.

  Charlie chided Tyson. “It’s totally unprofessional to speak of a colleague that way in front of strangers. We’re Spectrum staff.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re private investigators working for Mr. Hartwell. He told me all about you. I’m to be your inside man.”

  “You’re our inside man?” Gil asked.

  “Don’t be fooled by my good looks and youth. I practically grew up in Cobo Hall. My grandfather was part of the original crew that built this place, and my father is the president of the local electrical workers’ union. Hartwell said you would need to be familiar with the infrastructure, and he thought I could be helpful because of my background, and because I have a degree in mechanical engineering.”

  “Where from? MIT?” Gil guessed.

  “No. That place is for geeks. Do I look like a geek? I got my degree right here at Wayne State,” Tyson said with pride. “But my MBA is from Wharton.”

  “See,” Don said to Charlie. “He should know an ass when he sees one.”

  “I apologize, if what I said offended you,” Tyson said to Charlie. “But nobody here likes Heinrich. He thinks he’s some kind of genius or something, and better than anyone else in the building.”

  “Okay, you’re our inside guy, so why don’t you show us around?” Don said, putting his arm around the young man and leading him out of the office followed by a skeptical Gil and Charlie.

  Tyson pointed to a four-seater golf cart outside the Spectrum glass doors. “That’s our transportation. It’s a big place and you’re going to need one of these. Should I requisition one for you?”

  “You can do that?” Don asked.

  “Sure. I should have one for your use by tomorrow. Maybe I should get you two.”

  Don grinned his affirmation. A walkie-talkie squawked, and Tyson opened his blazer to lift the unit from his belt. He motioned for the Mack partners to take a seat in the cart, and stepped down the hall outside of earshot. Don sat behind the wheel. As usual, Gil and Charlie were to be passengers. Tyson motioned for Don to bring the cart up.

  “I see you like to drive.”

  “Better you should know that about him now,” Charlie admitted. Don had a penchant for anything with wheels and was an expert driver. Charlie had seen his skills firsthand in a high-speed car chase or two, but it drove her crazy that he insisted on driving whenever they were in the field.

  “Wait ’til you see some of this year’s concept cars. A few of them are already here, and they are sweet,” Tyson said with feeling.

  “Where are they?” Don said excitedly.

  “On level two. But first I want to show you the rest of the ground floor.”

  The use of a golf cart was the only practical way to tour Cobo in a few hours, and it didn’t hurt having the expertise of a guide like Tyson in the front passenger seat. He had an immense knowledge of the complex, and was on a first-name basis with everyone they passed in the halls. There was no door that was inaccessible to him including the lower-level areas for the water supply, electric and HVAC, all of which required key access.

  “Mr. Hartwell didn’t tell me the exact nature of your assignment, but I assume he has some concern about the show. So you’ll probably want to examine these areas in more detail,” Tyson said.

  “Where’s the retina-scanning acc
ess used?” Gil asked.

  “So far, Heinrich has it installed in the IT server room, and in some of Spectrum’s offices.”

  “Do you have access to those spaces?” Charlie asked.

  “No.”

  “What’s your opinion of Cobo’s security, Pressley?” Don asked.

  “Oh, you can just call me Ty; everybody does.”

  “Don only uses last names. If he doesn’t like you, he won’t talk to you at all,” Charlie said.

  “Got it,” Ty said, glancing at Don. “We have relatively good security, but this is a 9/11 world now, so we needed to ratchet up our game. Heinrich’s people seem capable, but they spend too much time looking at monitors instead of moving around the place. The auto show isn’t the only thing we do at Cobo, and on any given day there are probably three thousand people coming and going. Some are attending meetings, having lunch, parking in our garage, doing maintenance and construction. Or they could be employees working in our administrative departments on sales, accounting, and hospitality.”

  Cobo Hall had four public levels. The ground level had exhibit and meeting space, access to the Cobo Arena, and a food court. The remainder of the ground floor was taken up by parking garages and loading docks. The second level was dominated by the exhibitor showroom and meeting space, and the huge Joe Louis statue was a permanent fixture in the concourse. Level three had more meeting space plus administrative offices. The fourth level had the entrance to the People Mover, downtown Detroit’s above-ground rail system, and executive meeting areas with amazing views of the city.

  Charlie had spent a lot of time in Cobo Convention Center during her stint as a public relations executive. She’d been either an exhibitor or attendee at many events in the facility. But that had been two careers ago, and today she paid attention to things she wouldn’t have cared about then, like closed doors, security cameras, and utility access panels. On a 300-foot expanse of wall in the service area of the ground floor, Charlie counted seven windowless metal doors with plain silver doorknobs.

  “What’s behind those doors?” Charlie pointed.

  “Maintenance offices, HVAC systems, electric and cable wiring, water and sewer pipes, equipment storage, internal stairwells, venting that traverses all four levels of the building, access panels for the escalators and elevators, you name it,” Ty said.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Charlie asked Gil.

  “Probably. Were you thinking we’re screwed?”

  “Yeah. Something very close to that. There are too many nooks and crannies. Places where someone up to no good can hide themselves, contraband, or worse.”

  There were many options for lunch at Cobo and in Detroit’s downtown, but Charlie’s suggestion of White Castle burgers received quick agreement from her partners. Gil swept a finger through his wallet.“Okay, I’m good to go.”

  “You buying, Acosta?” Don asked.

  “Uh. No. Just wanted to make sure I had Tums,” Gil said. “I love those little square beauties, but within an hour of eating them, I’ll have either gas or indigestion.”

  Don leaned into the speaker at the drive-through window. Fourteen dollars later they had two bags of burgers, fries, and three cokes. He pulled his five-month-old Buick to the curb near one of the parkscapes along Michigan Avenue and left the car running. It was raining lightly, and temperatures were in the mid-thirties, a heat wave for December. The warmer temperatures brought out all strata of humanity and wildlife, and the trio ate in the car observing the daytime drama of the homeless and the hapless. A squirrel and a couple of pigeons inched toward the car, as did a boy under sixteen who was probably selling drugs. The rodent, birds, and boy lined up at what must have been an agreed-upon boundary, eyeing the occupants of the idling car. Within thirty seconds they each went their own way, determining they would not be rewarded with a transaction.

  “I don’t know if we have enough guys for this job, Charlie,” Gil said, tearing open a packet of mustard with his teeth. “We may also need to call in some of our informals.”

  “Let’s figure that out after we orient the freelancers. Then we can fill in the missing skills.”

  “That Pressley kid’s kinda sharp,” Don said, plopping a whole slider into his mouth.

  “I’m still on the fence about Ty,” Charlie said.

  “Well, he sure knows his way around,” Gil said. “His panache makes up for what he lacks in judgment, I’d say.” Gil prided himself on assessing people quickly.

  “I like him. He speaks his mind without a lot of pussyfooting around,” Don said, drawing the last of his Coca-Cola through a straw. “Now that was a good meal.”

  “I just hope the conference room has windows that open, or good air conditioning,” Gil said, letting two Tums melt onto his tongue.

  Judy greeted each freelancer with a one-page, work-for-hire agreement. When all eight men and four women were seated, Gil, flanked by Charlie and Don, rose from his chair at the head table.

  “Let’s start by having everyone introduce themselves,” Gil instructed.

  Ty Pressley had been invited to join the meeting, and when it was his turn to speak up, Charlie interrupted the process. “I also want to introduce Tyson Pressley. He’s on staff at Cobo Center, and extremely knowledgeable about the behind-the-scenes activities and relationships. He’ll be our go-to guy for all situations involving Cobo’s protocols.”

  Ty looked surprised at the announcement that he was part of the team. As the introductions continued, he shot Charlie a look, and she nodded affirmatively.

  “Each of you has been hand-picked for this assignment. Most of you will work twelve-hour days, and be on-call the other twelve hours,” Gil said. “It will be eight days of work, starting today.”

  Grumbles and moans floated through the conference room, and Gil held up his hands for quiet. “I’m aware that it’s New Year’s Eve, and I know those are long hours, but I’ve personally seen some of you play poker for three days straight with no sleep. So I don’t want to hear it.” The quiet slowly shifted to laughter. “The paperwork you signed spells out your specific duties and compensation. We’ll want you armed at all times. You’ll need to carry your weapons registration, and we’ll need the serial numbers,” Gil continued. “There’s also a confidentiality agreement in front of you. I want you to read it, and sign it. The work we’re doing is highly sensitive, and the general public cannot get wind of any potential problems with the auto show.”

  Mandy raised her hand with a question: “Are the local police aware of our operation?”

  “Don is our liaison with area law enforcement. And we’ll be coordinating with the local Homeland Security office,” Gil responded. “But we don’t want any of you to talk to your police contacts. We’ve been asked to keep a low profile on this case. Casual talk, even with people we know and trust, can blow this thing wide open.”

  There was another round of buzzing. Don stared straight ahead, and Charlie gave Mandy a look that said don’t push it.

  “Is everyone clear on confidentiality?” Gil asked, watching heads around the conference table nod, and waiting until each person had signed the agreement.

  After the housekeeping tasks were completed, Charlie began the team briefing with an explanation of the general concerns of DADA, and the specifics of the murder of Yu Chenglei. Don provided an overview of Cobo’s general security protocols, and Gil distributed a folder containing floor plans and infrastructure blueprints.

  “We don’t really know what, or who, we’re looking for, so question anything or everything that doesn’t feel right to you. If you step on toes, we’ll handle it,” Charlie said. “Questions?”

  A half-dozen hands raised at once. The freelancers around the table were good at what they did. Each had been selected for a particular skill, and most, like Mandy, had police backgrounds. Within a few minutes the Q & A had turned into a brainstorming session.

  “Hey, won’t we need someone who knows Chinese?” Hoyt Timbermann asked. He�
�d served on the Metropolitan Police Department with Don, and had gone private after several excessive force complaints. Still, Don said there was no one better at search work than Timbermann.

  “You’re right, Hoyt, and we’ve got that covered,” Charlie said.

  “I’ve heard the people at Spectrum are hard-asses,” Hoyt announced.

  Don and Ty locked eyes and shared a smug smile.

  “They may be more of a hindrance than a help,” Charlie conceded, “but we need them, and our clients have assured us of their cooperation. In fact, the head of Spectrum will join us sometime during this briefing.”

  “Are there other questions or ideas?” Gil asked, pausing a few beats. “Okay. You’ve all met Judy Novak. She’s the real brains of the operation. I’m going to turn the meeting over to her.”

  Judy was a logistics guru. She had the group line up for photographs, distributed folders explaining each investigator’s assignment for the case, and passed out laminated cards with the phone numbers of key team members. Judy asked Don to record the serial numbers of the freelancers’ weapons, and she distributed a new BlackBerry phone to each member of the team. Judy and Gil had become fans of the devices when they partnered with the FBI on a missing persons case. The 2006 Berry could be used for calls, messaging, and to check email, and had an exceptionally good camera.

  “You probably already have a personal mobile phone, but this is the phone you will use for this assignment. Keep it on your person at all times,” Judy said. “You’ve each been given an email address and we’ve leased a proprietary server for our communications. You’ll be able to download pictures, data, maps, and other documents. Don’t worry, we’ll teach you how to do everything.”

  Most of the freelancers looked overwhelmed by the phone’s capabilities. Only Ty was completely at home with the device, and he shot a question to Judy.