We turned into the parking lot. Half of the land jutting out from the shore was reserved for slips. The other half was a small park.
“Looks dead during the week,” I said.
“Over there,” Wilkinson pointed. “Near the far corner. They found the body inside that gazebo.”
“From the looks of it, I’d say our killer had plenty of time with his victim.”
19
By the time we had the car parked in the lot next to the precinct, the heat index had hit ninety-six degrees. The humidity didn’t help either. It felt like I stepped out of an air-conditioned car and straight into a sauna. I fussed with my hair for a bit before noticing a newsstand on the corner. “Hang on. I’m going to grab a newspaper.”
“A little light reading?” Wilkinson asked when I returned.
“You could say that.” I flipped through the Detroit Free Press until I found the auto section. “This is who we need to talk to.”
Wilkinson looked where I was pointing. “An auto industry columnist?”
“Who else would know everything there is to know about the auto industry? He might be able to help us narrow the field on our guy or point to an event worth investigating.”
The second we opened the doors to the precinct, a whoosh of arctic wind swirled around us. It felt wonderful, but I slung my jacket back on. We were heading for the lieutenant’s office, and he was the last person I wanted ogling my chest. Yes, I’m one of those women. If the wind blows, I become a pointer. It has its pros and cons.
Wilkinson stopped outside our office. “Tell you what; I’ll get a head start on tracking this guy down. I’ll rendezvous with you later.”
“Okay. See you in a bit,” I said and continued on.
I gave White’s door a couple of knuckle raps.
“Agent Kane. Come inside.” He motioned for me to sit. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got questions. I hope you have answers.”
“Shoot away,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his lap.
“I had a conversation this morning with Michael Garrison—”
“I heard.”
“Word travels fast around here.”
White just looked at me blankly. I hoped his job wasn’t to humor me. “He denies killing anybody except for a handful of hostages in the bank.”
“Don’t all inmates deny the charges against them?”
“Some of the hostages that day were shot. The rest were cut and bled to death. In my experience, serial killers don’t change their M.O. on a whim. Perhaps over time, for some reason bearing significance.”
“The two surviving victims said they saw Garrison shoot those people.”
“Lieutenant White, I’m not arguing that. I believe Garrison shot a handful of hostages that day. It’s the others I question. He has no medical knowledge or knowhow that I’m aware of. Those incisions had to be precise and were done quickly.”
“Agent Kane, everyone here appreciates your expertise with serial killers. You’ve got a record most in law enforcement would kill to have. But I have no idea why you’re wasting time on a case that has already been put to bed.”
I started to get irritated. White seemed like a nice guy and was probably toeing the line. Loyal cops do that; they get on board and roll with it. They don’t question.
“Lieutenant, I also learned that the FBI agents that worked the Garrison case stopped the minute Detroit PD had him under arrest. Special Agent Tully said he received word from your department that the case was under control and their help was no longer needed.”
“We had a handle on it. We were thankful for their help. What more is there to know? If they didn’t close their cases properly, that’s their problem and you should look to them for an answer.”
“It just doesn’t add up—Garrison going through the trouble of killing the hostages two different ways, confessing to all of the previous murders even though there’s no evidence that I have seen so far that puts him at any of those crime scenes.”
The lieutenant shifted in his seat. “Agent Kane, what is it you want from me?” he asked. His head had tilted down to one side. The crinkles in his forehead deepened. “What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking for the truth here.”
“Truth?” His voice was noticeably lower. “Isn’t that what we all want?” He clucked his lips a bit. “The truth is what we believe. Do you believe the problems you have with the Garrison case will prevent you from catching the killer?”
“No.”
White reached across the desk and took one of my hands, holding it gently between both of his. “If you catch the killer, Agent Kane, everything will work itself out.”
Before he could let go of my hand I grabbed his. “Wait. What do you mean by that?”
White’s eyes were glassy and tired. If there was something going on here, a cover-up, White probably knew about it. After looking me directly in the eyes for a few seconds, he seemed to relinquish the wall he had erected.
“I’ve worked for the Metro Detroit Police my entire life. I love this job. I believe we make a difference in this city. I’m a year away from retiring and collecting my pension. I’ve got a daughter who’s getting married next spring and a wedding I need to pay for. I’m helping my son and his wife purchase their first home. I might not like what’s going on here anymore than you do, but I still need my job.”
White leaned back in his chair and let out a heavy sigh. He was a defeated old man trying to make it to retirement.
“Can you—wait, strike that. Will you help me?” I asked, my voice low.
“I can’t answer all your questions, but I’ll try to help you as much as I can. You have got to understand the situation I am in, though.”
I nodded. Hopefully, he understood the situation I was in.
20
“I was born to do this.” That’s what Chief Reginald Reed told others. He loved everything about law enforcement—everything except the visits.
They took place on the first Friday of every month at 9:00 a.m. sharp. For eight long years he had kept his displeasure about those trips to himself. He never spoke a word about his feelings to anybody, not even his wife. It was his little secret.
About quarter to nine in the morning, Reed would leave his office at Central and stroll over to the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center, formerly known as the City-County Building. Reed still called it that, and so did everyone else in Detroit that was his age. By 10:00 a.m. he would be done and could forget about it for four more weeks. That changed recently. He was now being summoned, at whim.
He received the call a little after eight that morning and was told to come over “A.S.A.P.” no later than 9:30 a.m. Reed groaned a little. He hadn’t even had his first cup of coffee, and he had already put up with some EMB—Early-Morning Bullshit.
Reed grabbed a cup of wake-up on the way out of the office, keen on downing it as quickly as possible. He liked being awake and having his senses on point for those meetings. It was important to know the difference between what was discussed and what was actually said.
Ten minutes later, Reed stood outside a drab building, a wall of gray with windows, really. Functionality at its finest. He drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into a trash bin. Walking toward the glass door, he used it as a mirror to look himself over and straighten his jacket.
As always, Steven Roscoe met Reed in the lobby. He had on his usual attire: a suit more aligned with a nightclub rather than the public sector. He extended his hand. “Good to see you, Chief. You keeping Detroit safe?”
Same fucking greeting every time. It had been that way from the very first visit. Reed never understood why he had to be escorted up to the office. It was ridiculous. Reed took the man’s hand and shook it. “You still walking, ain’t you?” It was his standard answer. Reed knew he wasn’t really interested in an answer to his question.
Steven Roscoe told everyone he met to call him “Stevie.�
�� Thought it was catchier than Steven. Reed preferred to call him Weasel, on account of the way he looked, the way he acted, and the man he worked for. Either way, Stevie was slime poured into a suit. He walked with a swagger that left the taste of foulness in your mouth, and he always flashed that silly smile. You’d think he was running for office 24/7, the way he held himself up.
The ride up to the eleventh floor was quiet. The cordiality between the two never went further than the greeting downstairs. Stevie always led the way out of the elevator and down the hall to where the double wooden doors stood. He opened them and allowed Reed to enter before following and pulling them shut.
Sitting at a desk was the long-time administrative assistant to Stevie’s boss, Louisa Sweeney. She looked up over her glasses with a wrinkle at the top of her nose before she recognized the man standing in front of her. “Reginald, how are you today?” She was the only person, besides his mother, who ever called him Reginald; most people called him Chief or “Yes, sir.”
Reed smiled back and gave her a friendly squeeze to her arm. “I’m doing okay, Louisa. Thank you for asking.”
“Is he ready to see us?” a voice piped up.
Louisa looked around Reed and saw Stevie behind him. Her smile disappeared. The crinkle on her nose resurfaced and it was business as usual. “Go on inside. He’s waiting.”
21
A well-dressed man sat behind a large mahogany desk with intricate carvings. He was puffing away on a cigar when Reed and Stevie entered the large office.
“You know it’s against the law to smoke in this building.” Reed said as he took a seat in front of the desk.
“I know that. I helped pass the law,” the man said with a grin. A touch of gray detailed the sides of his slicked back hair. Reed watched him pick up a crystal glass by the rim and dangled it. “Something to drink, a kick start for the day?” the man asked.
“I’m fine, thank you. How can I help you?”
“Why is Agent Kane investigating the old case and not the new one?”
“Your information is wrong. She’s working the new case.”
“That’s not what I hear.” The man took sip from the glass he held. He pursed his lips before swallowing the liquor. “I was informed she visited the jailhouse and spoke with Michael Garrison. After that, she spent time at the FBI field office looking at their case files.”
“So she’s getting up to date.”
“Don’t play me. It doesn’t look like she’s investigating the new murders.”
“She’s one of the best. I have complete confidence in her ability to apprehend our killer.”
“Is that so?” The man stood up and walked over to a large window with sweeping views of the Detroit River. “Two more bodies showed up this morning. The press will be all over it.”
“She’s the best option we have right now. She’ll catch him. You have my word.”
The man turned around and brought a hand up to his chin, feigning deep thought. He looked Reed in the eyes. “Your word? Anything else you care to wager? Your career? Your life?”
22
Wilkinson and I returned to our hotel at ten that night. He pointed to the lounge. “You interested in a drink before heading up?”
That sounded great, but at the moment, I wanted nothing more than to change out of my grimy clothing and have a bath. Plus, Ryan and Lucy would be in bed soon. “I’m sorry.” I pointed to my watch. “I want to catch the kids before bedtime.”
Wilkinson flashed his dimpled smile. “I understand.”
He had asked the same question every night since we had arrived in Detroit, and I had entertained it only once. I’d had fun. He told me all about his hippie parents and his Berkeley upbringing. He even mentioned his quick stint as a fitness model. I’ve yet to see Wilkinson with his shirt off, but his arms and shoulders did a wonderful job of backing up his claim. We were both buzzed when we finally headed upstairs that night. He kept sneaking peeks at me as we rode the elevator. I was glad he didn’t make a move. I would have been too weak to resist, and he would have woken up in my bed the next morning.
I didn’t doubt that we would have had fun, but we would be playing in a dangerous area. The truth was, we’d still have to work together. I wasn’t quite ready to screw up our professional relationship should the morning after turn awkward. I admit I liked the attention. What woman wouldn’t? Wilkinson was smart, funny at times, and dangerously good looking.
I returned his smile. “Tomorrow night, I promise.”
“Goodnight, Abby.”
He was also the only agent who called me Abby. I didn’t mind that either.
When I got to my hotel room, I stripped off my holster and then my bra, leaving my blouse on. It was one of those days where the underwire killed. God, it felt good to let them breathe.
I made a beeline to the mini-bar and grabbed the bottle of Jameson. It wasn’t the usual stock, so I had a bottle brought up the night I checked in. I poured a glass, neat, and sat on the bed with my back against the headboard. I let the first sip sit in my mouth for a second or two before swallowing. A few moments later, I felt the golden liquor working its way through my body. Calm had come to me. I took another sip, a larger one so I could savor that sweet taste. I started to think about the case but was able to banish it from my mind. I needed to relax. I had taken myself off duty.
A few sips later, I got off the bed and walked over to the window. The city was beautiful at night. The buildings reminded me of Hong Kong. Here I was, back in the thick of it, investigating a serial killer. And I was away from home. Even with me on East Coast time, I called the kids every night except for the few times Wilkinson and I worked past their bedtimes. I picked up my cell and dialed. I was looking to make good on my promise of being a mother to them.
• • •
Across the street from the hotel was an old office building. Most of the floors were vacant and dark. From the fourteenth floor, a person would have a clear view into Agent Kane’s room if they wanted. And that’s exactly what the stranger with the binoculars had hoped for. He had waited all evening for her return, and she did not disappoint. There she stood, wearing nothing but black panties and an unbuttoned blouse, unaware of her audience of one.
23
The next morning we took a drive out to Rochester Hills. Wilkinson had secured a half hour with Elliot Hardin, the auto columnist for the Detroit Free Press. We parked the Yellow Jacket in front of a two-story brick house.
“Looks like the reporting business pays well,” I said, giving the neighborhood a once-over.
I rang the doorbell, which signaled the other doorbell. High-pitched yapping could be heard inside the house. I imagined the source to be small, brown, and ugly. A few seconds later, a tall, lanky fellow in a gray cardigan sweater answered the door. The tiny yapper stood between his legs, snarling. You nailed it, Abby.
“Mr. Hardin. I’m Agent Abby Kane and this is Agent Trey Wilkinson. We’re with the FBI. My partner spoke to you earlier about answering a few questions.”
The man seemed flustered, and his clothes were a bit disheveled. What is it about writers that make them so messy?
“Yes. Now I’ve got to tell you; I can only spare thirty minutes,” he said.
“Mind if we come inside?”
“No, no, of course not.” He held the door open and used his right leg to pin the dog against the wall behind him. “Be nice, Bella.”
I slipped past the growling mutt and into the living room where Hardin motioned for us to sit. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’m going to put Bella out back.”
From the looks of the décor, I was now assured he made more than a modest living. But that’s not what was interesting about his place. Hardin’s living room did double duty as a magnificent library. Hardcover, softcover, and leather bound editions lined shelves on every wall. A built in hutch appeared to display his most prized novels. I recognized one of the books, Hemingway’s The Old Man and The Sea.
“That
’s a first edition, first printing signed by the author himself,” Hardin said as he returned to the room.
“So you’re a book collector,” I commented.
“Yes,” he said as he looked around at the books and then back at me. “Have been my entire life.” He took a seat opposite us. “Now, how can I help you two?”
“We’re investigating the murders of Marian Ward and Dennis and Irene Walters.”
“Yes, of course. Terrible thing to have happen to them. Any luck in catching the person responsible?”
“Well, that’s why we’ve come to talk to you.”
“Me?” Hardin straightened up in his chair and fiddled with his glasses. Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with these murders.”
“Quite the opposite, Mr.—”
Hardin waved his hand at me. “Please, call me Elliot.”
“All right, Elliot. We’re wondering, with your vast knowledge of the car industry, if anything comes to mind that could tie these two together, something that could have caused public outrage or angered workers or miffed the competition.”
“You think the killer is after the auto industry?”
“We think there’s a possibility he might be targeting auto executives.”
Hardin leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. “What’s in it for me?”
I looked at Wilkinson. He seemed just as confused. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
Hardin leaned forward and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I’ll come right out with it. I want the exclusive.”
“Exclusive?” I didn’t expect to hear that. Hardin wasn’t that type of reporter. He maintained a column about the ins and outs of the big three automakers. He must have sensed our befuddlement.
“Let me explain,” he said with a shake of his hand. “I’ve always wanted the big scoop, the front-page knockout. That doesn’t happen too often in my area of focus, but a serial killer—”
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