Nickel City Crossfire

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Nickel City Crossfire Page 19

by Gary Earl Ross


  We stopped at the end of the corridor. Kevin explained what would happen and then opened a dark curtain. He stepped aside as we gathered at the rectangular window. A bony-looking body lay on a stainless steel table, beneath a sheet that didn’t quite cover the matted blonde hair. An autopsy technician on the other side of the glass folded back the sheet an inch or two below the shoulders. Already the clothing had been removed and cataloged, the body likely weighed and measured. But no incision had yet been made.

  Ileana caught her breath at the sight of her emaciated friend. “That’s her,” she said, swallowing hard. “That’s Veronica Surowiec.” Then she buried her face in my sweater and began to cry.

  The corpse’s face should have been a puffy pinkish-blue, blood having settled there as she floated face down. Her upper lip was split, rotting teeth visible behind it. One cheek was gashed, the other swollen, and her jaw dislocated. None of that had been caused by her position in the water. The upper surface of the skin we could see was a bloodless white, with puckered sores visible on the shoulders and scapulae. If she had died soon after speaking with Ileana, she might have been in icy water for nearly two days before being transferred to refrigerated storage. The absence of signs of decay was to be expected, but I was certain drowning was not the cause of death. Nor was the bluish-gray discoloration on the back of the shoulder facing the glass, the right color to suggest hypothermia. Veronica had taken her last breath well before immersion and exposure to the cold. She had been struck in the face—at least three or four times—and had lain on her back long enough for livor mortis to set in. Whatever the COD, somebody had dumped her in the canal. Gazing over Ileana’s head, I exchanged looks with Chalmers and Piñero. Their expressions said they had reached the same conclusion, even before I had.

  Homicide.

  “Like she was sewage,” Ileana said, shuddering against me and gripping my sweater with her fist. “Just another piece of shit to flush away.”

  So much for Nasty Nica, I thought.

  After closing the curtain, Kevin extended his sympathy and offered to direct Ileana to a grief counselor located elsewhere in the hospital. She declined. Then he led us around a corner to a well-furnished office where she signed several forms, including one that indicated she would claim the body when it was released. Once the copies were in separate wire letter baskets, he handed Chalmers a chain of custody form and an itemized list of what had been collected from or near the body. Everything had been transferred to Central Police Services on Elm Street for processing in the forensics lab. After scanning the list, Chalmers passed it to Piñero, who studied it before handing it to me.

  One yellow wool coat, torn and dirty.

  Remembering the filthy coat she had worn at Sanctuary Nimbus, I held the list so Ileana and I could read it together. There wasn’t much. Coat. Cap. Three shirts, two pairs of leggings, and two pairs of socks, all worn in layers and cut from the corpse with blunt-tipped scissors, along seams where possible. Fingerless gloves inside knitted mittens. Split sneakers. Scarves. Plant debris and trash had been collected from the fabrics, rips and stains noted, pockets emptied. A few coins and two wet dollars. No jewelry. No underwear. No bra. No—

  “She carried bags, didn’t she?” I said to Ileana. “Cloth shopping bags, I think.”

  “Probably stolen,” she said. “More than half a million people sleep on the streets every night in this country. They’re robbed, raped, assaulted, murdered—and nobody cares. The richest fucking country in the world and nobody gives a shit!”

  None of us said anything as fresh tears rolled down Ileana’s cheeks. After a moment she wiped her eyes and accepted the arm I offered. I handed the list back to Piñero. Kevin guided us back to the corridor that would take us to the exit. Chalmers took the lead once more. We passed Mira’s office again. This time she stepped out, gowned and gloved, face covered by a protective plastic shield—as if she had been present for the removal of clothing and collection of trace evidence and was ready to resume the procedure as soon as we left.

  Our eyes met for barely a second before she turned to Chalmers and Piñero.

  “Detective sergeant. Detective.” She nodded to each. “Nice to see you.”

  “Dr. Popuri,” Chalmers said, as Piñero returned the nod. “We’re done with the personal identification.” He angled his head toward Ileana, who still held my arm.

  “Of course.” Then Mira looked at me as if she had never seen me before. The dark eyes behind her splash shield twinkled with momentary mischief but held only respectful sympathy when she looked at Ileana. “You’re the family? I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Only a friend,” Ileana said. “She doesn’t—didn’t—have family.” She looked up at me. “He’s not my husband or boyfriend, just somebody kind enough to help me through this.”

  “Mr. Rimes is a private investigator,” Piñero explained.

  “I don’t see many Sam Spade types in here,” Mira said, eyeing me up and down.

  She was enjoying herself so much she had chanced an in-joke. I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. I would have to do my Bogart impression for her later, somewhere more appropriate, like Christmas dinner. As teenagers, we both had followed Bobby’s suggestion that we read The Maltese Falcon before watching his VHS copy.

  “Rimes, this is Dr. Popuri,” Piñero continued. “Assistant medical examiner.”

  “Gideon Rimes,” I said, nodding rather than reaching for a gloved hand. “Pleased to meet you, doctor. This is Ms. Tassiopulos.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Rimes.” Mira’s smile vanished when she turned back to Ileana. “Ms. Tassiopulos, I want you to know I will take great care with your friend.”

  “Thank you,” Ileana said. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Mira excused herself and disappeared around a corner as I zipped my jacket.

  Outside, Piñero to my left, I walked Ileana to the unmarked sedan. She sank into the back seat as he held the passenger side door. Chalmers looked at me over the top of the car.

  “Thank you, Gideon,” Ileana said. “I hope we can talk soon.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “We will,”

  Then Piñero shut the door. He sighed, shook his head. “From the look of things, the body on that table was in terrible shape before she died.” He kept his voice low so Ileana wouldn’t hear through the safety glass. “I’d say she was a heavy user as well as a heavy bag.”

  “Truth undisputed,” Chalmers said softly. “A toe tag waiting to happen.”

  “She was a doctor,” I said, letting that fact sink in a moment. “She lost her way.”

  “She was still a user, and abused,” Piñero said. “What is it with you and druggies anyway? That’s two in just a couple of days.”

  “Three, if the other doctor he’s talking to is a user too,” Chalmers said.

  “By the way.” Piñero snapped his gloved fingers—which made a small thump. “Got your girlfriend’s prints back from the other night.” He took a notebook from his coat pocket and thumbed it open. “Felicity Sillers.” He spelled the surname. “An arrest record from here to Pittsburgh, mostly Southern Tier, mostly petty. Drug use. Solicitation. Public lewdness. Public intoxication. On the way here I half expected her to be the one under the sheet.”

  “Guess she lost her way too,” Chalmers said.

  “Easy to do mixing it up with Rimes,” Piñero said.

  I ignored the dig. “Either of you ever hear of a guy named Dante Cuthbert?”

  Both detectives shook their heads.

  “He got something to do with this?” Piñero asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I just came across the name in my investigation.”

  Chalmers threw up his hands. “Course you did. Local boy?”

  “I think he’s out of Detroit.”

  “Is he even here?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Piñero laughed. “This just gets better and better, Terry.”

  “May
be we just came across another murder that could have been prevented if you weren’t stumbling through your investigation like a kid in a cookie factory,” Chalmers said. “You gotta talk to us, Rimes. Plus, we gotta sit down with Dr. Simpkins.”

  “Soon as I get something you can use, I’ll bring her in,” I said.

  “Fine, but I want to see you tomorrow. Let’s say noon.”

  “I’ll provide the cookies and milk,” Piñero said.

  Without waiting for my confirmation, Chalmers opened the door, sank behind the wheel, and keyed the ignition.

  Piñero opened the front passenger door as the car rumbled to life but stopped before climbing inside. “Man, I think that pathologist likes you. The way she looked at you, she was seriously flirting. Hey, if Phoenix comes to her senses and dumps your sorry ass, you got options. Very pretty options.”

  I shook my head. “Dr. Popuri looks too smart to hang out with a guy like me.”

  Piñero laughed and said, “Truth undisputed.”

  I gave him my most innocent grin as he got in the car. “Besides, she reminds me of my sister.”

  33

  After reading Mira’s text—Fun not knowing you. Talk tomorrow—I spent more than three hours on IntelliChexx and other restricted search engines that evening. I copied and pasted into separate files every bit of information I could find on Dante Cuthbert, QC Griffin, and Flame Bright Fame. By ten-thirty I had more than twenty pages to print and add to the envelope that held Keisha’s files.

  Just before I went to bed, I got a text from Jen Spina: Mom out in a.m. We’re taking everyone to family out of state. Back by tomorrow night. Keisha will call early Saturday.

  In the morning I joined Bobby for breakfast.

  As he stirred sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, and peppers in his favorite cast iron skillet and sprinkled in shredded cheddar, I set plates, utensils, and coffee mugs on the counter. While we ate the frittata, I summarized my investigation. Having sat with Mona, he already knew several names of those involved, so I saw no need to withhold new names and new developments. It was as if I were rehearsing what I would say to Chalmers and Piñero.

  I told him about the attempted break-in at the Simpkins home, the Navigator that followed me, my interviews with Reverend and Mrs. Markham, Ileana and her co-workers, Keisha’s oldest friends and her ex-boyfriend, Carl Williamson, even Glendora Chancellor-Pratt, though I kept her proposition to myself. I described the trip to Sanctuary Nimbus, the hospital fight with Felicity Sillers, her rescue from Interview One by Harlow Graves, and Veronica Surowiec before her autopsy. Finally, I showed him Keisha’s documents from Flame Bright Fame.

  “Do you think it’s some kind of hostile take-over?” he asked after skimming several pages. “Hostile enough to kill for?”

  “Maybe,” I said. After a swallow of coffee, I continued. Dante Cuthbert and QC Griffin were also names Bobby had not heard before. Now he listened attentively as I recounted what I had learned of them and even held off interrupting me until I finished my recitation.

  Both had been born in Detroit, forty-six years ago, five months apart. Dante was the oldest of four children and the only boy born to Rod and Lizzy Cuthbert, both auto workers. Dante’s cousin Quentin Cuthbert Griffin was an only child born to Rod’s sister Paula, who died in childbirth, and her husband Archie, who signed over care of his newborn son to his brother-in-law and sank into an alcoholism so intense cirrhosis claimed his life less than a decade later. Dante and Quentin were raised as brothers. When they were thirteen, Quentin was hit and killed by a car as the two crossed a street. For a time Dante was in and out of trouble but he straightened up by tenth grade and attended Eastern Michigan on a scholarship. After graduation, he took a job in a finance company. Ten years later, he established FBF to buy, rehabilitate, and sell abandoned houses in the inner city, many of which had sat empty for decades. Unlike other developers, FBF prospered during the subprime mortgage crisis, because their homes were affordable even as the market collapsed. Dante began a slow expansion during the economic recovery. The company was still small enough to avoid the scrutiny invited by larger organizations but apparently successful enough to establish a presence in mid-sized cities eager to attract young professionals with new developments.

  “The question,” Bobby said, “is how a dead boy got to be chairman of the board.”

  “Probably the same way he worked part-time jobs in his teens and twenties and even earned a GED,” I said. “I have a theory.”

  “But I thought you said he finished high school and went to EMU.”

  “Dante did,” I said. “Quentin got the GED. Dante had access to his dead cousin’s birth certificate and social security card. Both have driver’s licenses, employment histories, tax returns. Quentin wears glasses while Dante doesn’t, but their faces in DMV photos look the same. For years they shared an address, but now they live in different places, twenty miles apart, Dante in a Brush Park condo with a wife and Quentin in a studio apartment on Woodward Avenue near Pontiac. Neither one, by the way, has ever been arrested.”

  “Of course not,” Bobby said. “Dante probably had to be fingerprinted and bonded to work in finance. Quentin’s getting arrested would ruin that.” He ate another forkful of the frittata. “What about the parents? Do they know all this?”

  “Can’t say. Rod died when Dante was still in high school, Lizzy three years ago.”

  “So he established a separate identity because he anticipated it would be useful—lower taxes if total income isn’t lumped together, a wife in a condo and maybe a girlfriend in the studio. There are probably other angles we don’t know yet. That’s pretty calculating.” Bobby thought for a moment. “But why bring them together? Why make your dead cousin board chair? Won’t other board members notice a resemblance?”

  “If there are other board members. It could all be a front for something else.”

  Bobby excused himself and went into his living room, which had floor-to-ceiling bookcases and even a rolling library ladder. Several minutes later he returned with a thick paperback and took his stool again.

  “I remembered something,” he said. “One of my hobbies is etymology.”

  “Everything is one of your hobbies if it involves reading,” I said. “Word origins?”

  He smiled. “Yes. Take window. It’s from the Old Norse vind, for wind, and auga, for eye. Thus window means wind eye. Sometimes in a child’s drawing of a house—”

  “The windows look like eyes,” I said. “You just can’t stop teaching, can you?”

  “True, but I think you’ll find this one interesting.” He opened the book and turned it around so I could see the page. “Given names and surnames have meanings too.” He pointed to my name on the page. “Gideon, for example, means destroyer or warrior.”

  “From the Old Testament.”

  “My name, Robert, means bright glory. The -bert names are all related because the -bert root means bright. Robert. Herbert. Norbert. Albert.” He flipped to another page and tapped. “Cuthbert. It means bright fame.”

  “Cuthbert gave a form of his surname to his company?”

  “What does that tell you about him?”

  I thought for a moment. “He’s a narcissist who plasters his name on things, in code. Add to that a second identity and you’ve got a secretive narcissist.” I shrugged. “Educated enough to know the etymology. Clever enough to have a back-up identity if something goes wrong. That means he’s formidable. He’s—” I whispered the name Dante Cuthbert and the company name once more. Then it hit me, and I looked across the counter at my godfather. “Dante.”

  Bobby’s smile widened. “What’s the best-known part of The Divine Comedy?”

  “Dante’s Inferno,” I said. “Flame Bright Fame. He named the whole damn company after himself as if he shares his identity with it.”

  My phone vibrated. I took it from the pocket of my jeans and looked at the screen.

  Mira.

  34

  I don’t
see any cookies and milk,” I said.

  In dark slacks and a heavy green sweater, Terry Chalmers sat behind his desk in the squad room, which was busier than it had been the other night—voices, ringing telephones, clicking computer keyboards. Tan suit jacket unbuttoned and a round toothpick in his mouth, Rafael Piñero straddled a steel folding chair beside the desk, his arms resting atop the back. As I took the chair across from Chalmers, and put my manila envelope on the desk, they looked at each other for a few seconds. Then Chalmers sighed and leaned forward to pull a wallet out of his back pocket. He took out a ten and gave it to his partner, who pocketed it.

  “A bet whether we’d have to go get you,” Piñero said. “My faith was not misplaced.” He took out the toothpick and made a sad face. “But I hear Cookie Monster got busted last night trying to pick up a hooker on Genesee Street. Means you’re shit outta luck on snacks.”

  Chalmers stood, several file folders in hand. “Too noisy here. Interview Two is free.”

  Picking up my envelope, I followed them to the same windowless, pale green interrogation room where I’d spent a Sunday morning back in October. This time, however, I was dressed in more than shorts and a T-shirt. Nor would I be cuffed to the table ring. I pulled a chair to one end of the rectangular table and sat. Piñero took the opposite end, and Chalmers sat on the interrogator’s side, tapping his file folders with a ballpoint pen.

  “Two city homicide cops, one retired CID investigator, and nobody wants to sit in the suspect chair,” I said, putting my envelope on the table. “Interesting.”

  “Okay, Rimes, no smart-assedness from here on out,” Chalmers said. “You too, Raf.”

  “All right,” Piñero said.

  Chalmers sighed. “We got enough work to do on a normal day—if there is such a thing around here—without having to waste time on every crazy idea you get, G. But I spent part of last night and most of this morning going over that overdose case and the old lady’s shooting.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Shit doesn’t add up.”

 

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