“All my tax dollars,” Skittles said, “and that’s the best code them FBI mothafuckas can come up with?”
“You don’t pay taxes, Skittles.”
“A technicality. Let me net it out for you, Snowman. I’ll be damned if I’m going back in that system. But I’ll give this up for free: The BIOS of their system is the kind of shit a lot of offshore banks have. Wicked exotic steganographic encryptions. My guess? Since offshore banks be under constant FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, MI-6, BND and Interpol microscopes, what better way to protect big-ass pallets of off-the-grid cash than to move offshore onshore?”
“Switzerland and the Caymans come to Detroit?”
“Sounds stone-cold crazy, I know,” Skittles said. “And that’s exactly why it works. Money at that level’s just a concept, man. An abstract. Lines of code jumpin’, jivin’ and jittering through T-1 or T-3 lines, bouncin’ off satellites, nesting on this server for an hour or that server for a day. What if while everybody’s lookin’ at the big banks, the small banks become cash flow servers? It’s all just ones and zeroes, baby. Your credit and debit cards. Everything. I mean, you got paid, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I got paid.”
“And where you keepin’ them millions, Snowman?” Skittles laughed. “Tens and twenties in your mattress? Little Sears home safe under the floorboards?”
“I get the point, Skittles.”
“Good,” he said. “’Cause most people don’t. Watch your ass out there, Snowman. And start stuffin’ mattresses, baby.”
Seventeen
Mind, body and soul; locked and loaded; forever and always.
We should have had Tshirts made …
My mother wore a navy spaghetti-strap dress, navy high heels and a yellow silk floral shawl. She rocked it like a telenovela star on the red carpet at my graduation from the academy. She wept as only a loving mother can at the sight of her child framed in a crowning moment of achievement. My father looked recruitment poster perfect in his DPD dress blues. He gave me a stern look and said, “Well, you’ve really stepped in it now, jarhead.”
At my graduation party at the house on Markham Street he took me aside, sniffed me and said, “Ah, that new cop smell. Like—fresh panties and blooming daffodils.” Then with tequila-glazed eyes he said, “What’s the mission now, son?”
“To Serve and Protect,” I said.
“No,” he snarled. “It’s the same as it was in Afghanistan: find the enemy, hunt the truth. Kill one, set yourself free with the other. And God help you if you lose focus ’cause that’s when some second-rate bagpiper follows your coffin into the boneyard. Ain’t no damned grateful public. Ain’t no pats on the back. And like our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, you gonna have a Judas or two in blue. So again, boy—what’s your mission?”
“‘Mind, body and soul; locked and loaded; always and forever.’”
“Well.” My father laughed brightly. “I guess you did listen to the old man from time to time.”
As a child and adolescent I’d always thought my father was preparing me to be a man. He wasn’t. He was preparing me for war. A war waged every day on men, women and children. A war waged on the poor and disenfranchised regardless of race or sex. And a war that would most likely never be won save for the occasional fragile battle victory.
With Eleanor Paget’s death there was no enemy in sight. No scent or tracks leading me to an undiscovered truth. All I had was a deep-seated suspicion that death had not come to Paget by her own hand. That, a couple mil, Catholic guilt and my family home in a necrotic part of southeast Detroit.
Meanwhile, FBI Special Agent Megan O’Donnell provided me with the perfect opportunity to brush up on my evasive driving skills.
On my way back to Mexicantown from the suburban grocery store where I’d talked with Frank the ex-security guard, I noticed her navy-blue Chevy Suburban three cars behind me as I drove east on West 12 Mile Road. It was four o’clock and rush hour traffic was at the beginnings of its stranglehold.
Whoever was chauffeuring O’Donnell was doing a pretty good job: Not following too close. Dropping back every once in a while. But being followed by a Chevy Suburban was like Goliath tip-toeing inches behind David.
I threw O’Donnell’s driver a curve by making a quick “Michigan left,” heading west on 12 Mile Road and taking the first entrance into a subdivision called Barrington Green.
Most of the streets in Farmington Hills subdivisions were narrow and serpentine. If you had a good lead, it was easy to lose a tail in any one of these subs, considering each was its own little Bermuda Triangle. I managed to round a long curve through look-alike early ’70s homes, then backed into the tree-shaded driveway of a yellow two-story house with black shutters.
O’Donnell’s car—dangerously exceeding the 20 mph speed limit and blowing past a “Deaf Child” caution sign—rounded the curve, its wheels screeching as it passed the yellow house where I sat. Sliding out of the driveway, I eased up behind them and flashed my headlights.
The Chevy Suburban pulled to the side of the narrow subdivision road and I pulled alongside it. The rear driver’s side window lowered and I lowered my window in kind.
“Nice fall day we’re having, isn’t it?” I said to Agent O’Donnell.
“We need to talk,” O’Donnell said, once again proving that she either didn’t like or didn’t understand my particular brand of humor.
“Always a pleasure to chat with the FBI,” I said. “Where to? I could fix a nice late lunch at my house. Or maybe a pricey little restaurant out here, your treat. Antonio’s is just up the street. Really good Italian.”
We settled on my house in Mexicantown.
“You need the address?” I said. “Oh, wait. You’re FBI.”
Five minutes after I’d lost them on the Lodge and I-75 South they parked in front of my house on Markham Street. A few neighbor curtains edged back, eyes in the shadows carefully assessing the young, petite blonde with the altogether too serious look.
Her driver stayed in the SUV.
O’Donnell looked around the house, nodding approvingly. “Nice digs. Not so sure about the neighborhood, though.”
“Where I grew up,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ve got some leftover Chinese, or I could—”
“I’m not here to eat, Mr. Snow,” she said. “I’m here as a courtesy to warn you off looking any further into Eleanor Paget’s bank. As I’m sure you’re well aware, I don’t have to be courteous.”
I grabbed myself a Negra Modelo from the fridge, flipped the cap off and said, “I’m not looking into Paget’s bank. I’m looking into her death—”
“A suicide?” O’Donnell laughed, even though I was beginning to think she thought very little if anything was funny. “Not much to look into there, bucko. Seems the Grosse Pointe police, the state police, the Detroit police and assorted sundry others have quickly concluded she took her own life.”
“They’re not as smart as me,” I said, taking a healthy swig of my beer. Michigan might be at the forefront of making quality craft beers, but so far none even approached a good Mexican beer. “Nor are they as righteously vigilant.”
“Wow,” O’Donnell said as she scrutinized what few pictures I had hung in the living room. “Is it me that brings out the asshole in you, or is this just you being natural?”
“Don’t mind me, Special Agent O’Donnell,” I said. “I get ner-ner-nervous around pr-pr-pretty women. Makes me think I have to act movie-star tough. I’m really a nice guy who enjoys poetry and cooking.”
“Somehow you don’t strike me as a New Age, kale smoothie kinda guy,” she said. “Maybe something to do with that sizable callous on your right inner palm, eh, gunney?”
O’Donnell continued her stroll around the living room, running a hand appreciatively along the back of my sofa. “I understand you had a close encounter with a Mr. Kosimer Kolochek several nights ago?” I gave her a look. “A.K.A. Bob Franks.”
“Oh,” I said. “Him
.”
“What did you and Bobby talk about?”
“Franks—or Kolochek—and his partner made a run at me.” I plopped down on my sofa. I was really beginning to like this sofa. O’Donnell, her head cocked, was evaluating the gravitas—or lack thereof—of my books on the shelves near the fireplace. “I tried to make him understand that such a thing was unwise.”
“And you didn’t think to call me about this?” she said, stopping at the two pieces of art I’d hung on my walls. One was a 2008 campaign poster for President Barak Obama that had been signed by the artist. The other was an oil portrait of Octavio Paz that my mother had painted.
“Didn’t think whatever your investigation is and Mr. Kolochek were connected.” I took another pull of my beer. “Are they?”
“Let’s just say he’s a known low-end felon.” Now she was studying my mother’s painting. “Jersey mostly. Stops in Cleveland and Nashville. Petty larceny. Some extortion. Small time drugs. Nearly beat a guy to death in Toledo over eighty bucks. Public defenders keep dumping him back on the streets. Any idea why he might be in Detroit, Mr. Snow?”
“Maybe he’s here for a ballgame,” I said. “You follow the Tigers? They’re leading the ALC Central, you know.”
“How nice for them.” O’Donnell took a step back from Octavio Paz. “Who did this painting?”
“My mother,” I said.
“Lady’s got talent,” she said, nodding approvingly.
“She’s dead.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Do you know what an ‘amusement park’ is?” I said. O’Donnell turned from the painting and, with her arms folded over her chest, captured me in her dispassionate gaze. “Ask your cybercrimes guy what an ‘amusement park’ is. I bet he’ll know. And I’ll bet you come real close to lighting his hair on fire after he tells you.”
O’Donnell held me in her unblinking ice-blue gaze for several long, hard seconds.
Then she said, “Nice sofa.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “I picked it out all by myself. Works well with the TV.”
“A few more pieces of furniture,” she said, “and this place might actually look like somebody lives here.”
“Would you like to see the bedroom?” I said, giving my eyebrows a Groucho Marx flex. “It’s state-of-the-art.”
“Think she’d mind?” O’Donnell nodded to the photo of Tatina and me near a fjord in Alesund, Norway on the fireplace mantle. Impervious to my charms, O’Donnell left without closing the door behind her.
It would have been easy to dismiss her as a sharp-knuckled, humorless government automaton. Truth of the matter was I was beginning to like O’Donnell, even if the admiration wasn’t mutual.
Eighteen
Much of Eleanor Paget’s considerable personal wealth had been willed to various charities, local hospitals, and the Detroit Institute of the Arts. From what I could gather, her daughter Vivian stood to inherit sixty-five million from her mother’s estate, including the Grosse Pointe Estates house, an apartment in New York overlooking Central Park and a small villa in Tuscany.
When my parents passed away, I got my childhood home in a dying part of town, a couple grand from a life-insurance policy, their books and my mother’s oil paintings.
Vivian Paget, now in her mid-twenties, lived the quiet, unassuming life of a watercolor artist in Traverse City, four hours north of Detroit. I remembered her as an attractive younger version of Eleanor. As opposed to her mercurial and bombastic mother, Vivian had appeared sullen and self-contained, full of secrets and deeply-rooted fears.
Through a bouquet of condolence flowers, I managed to charm Rose Mayfield into giving me Vivian’s telephone number. I also managed to get on Atchison’s calendar. It was time the CEO of Titan Securities Investment Group and I sat down and had a little chat about the bank, the board of directors and his professional relationship with Eleanor Paget.
Before disconnecting, Mayfield thanked me again for the flowers and quickly added, “When you call Vivian, be gentle with her. She’s a wonderful, talented young lady but she’s—how shall I say?—delicate. Tell her I gave you her number. We’ve known each other since she was five. She trusts me and I love her.”
“Thank you, Ms. Mayfield,” I said. “I owe you one.”
She laughed. “I may just take you up on that someday.”
Just as I was about to make the call, there was a knock on my door, followed by the overly gleeful sing-song voices of two women calling, “Mr. Snoooow!” and “Hello-ke-dokey, neighbor!”
Carmela and Sylvia.
I briefly considered not answering the door, but against my better judgment I did.
Carmela—her eyes glimmering above round, dimpled cheeks—was holding a large plate wrapped in tinfoil. Sylvia, her abundance of silver hair whipping about in the fall breeze, held out a shining wine bag.
“We just wanted to stop by and thank you for everything, Mr. Snow,” Carmela said. “Flautas,” she said of the plate. “I just made them.”
“And what are flautas without sangria?” Sylvia said.
I invited the two old women in.
“I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Sylvia said, her eyes darting around me for a more comprehensive view of the house.
“Not at all, ladies,” I said. “Just making a few calls.”
In the kitchen I got out plates, glasses and some ice from the fridge. Carmela and Sylvia served up the flautas and poured the sangria. It might have been a little early in the day for sangria, but it wasn’t exactly like I had any place pressing to be. And I doubted the old girls had very much of anything to do, save for watching The View.
“To good neighbors,” I said, raising my glass of sangria.
The ladies raised their glasses, then each took a surprisingly big gulp, which was followed by girlish giggles.
We sat at the kitchen island and talked.
As we talked, I felt something I’d not felt in a long time: Comfortable. Relaxed. At home in my own skin. My mother had always had people in her kitchen. Talking, laughing, eating. And the aroma of Carmela’s flautas only further transported me back to those halcyon days of getting my cheeks pinched and jiggled by an endless array of adopted aunts all speaking Spanish at the speed of light.
Both Carmela and Sylvia had retired from the Detroit Water & Sewage Department. They’d been hired on at the same time, became friends and retired the same week. Carmela was born and raised in Mexicantown while Sylvia was from Detroit’s Polish enclave, Hamtramck. Carmela had two sons and a daughter and all three jealously laid claim to her upon her retirement. Early in her retirement she split the difference, agreeing to live with each for four months of the year—one in West Bloomfield, one in Farmington Hills and the other in San Diego.
Sylvia had two daughters. She enjoyed her house of thirty years in Hamtramck. After two breakins, the increasing noise from neighboring clubs and the changing nature of Hamtramck—from shops selling Polish red floral silk scarves to shops selling stylish silk hijabs—she was ready to leave. Not that she had anything in particular against her new Muslim and Chaldean neighbors. It was just that she saw her life—familiar aromas, small stores where Polish was spoken—evaporating. She was ready for a change. She wasn’t, however, ready to move in with either of her daughters and their young children.
“Last thing I want in retirement is to be somebody’s live-in babysitter,” Sylvia said. “Lord knows I love my grandkids. But, God forgive me, two hours a week with them is enough.”
And thus hatched the plan between two old friends over too many margaritas and nachos to buy the house in Mexicantown.
“We love it!” Carmela said.
“Apparently, you don’t love it enough,” I said. Both women gave me a quizzical look. “The kitchen cabinets?”
Sylvia patted my hand. “Oh, now, don’t get all upset, dear. You’re a man. How are you to know what looks right?”
They giggled. Partially at my overly dramatic reaction,
mostly, I suspected, from the sangria.
I asked them how Jimmy Radmon was working out. They spoke of him as mothers speak of loving, accomplished sons: He was conscientious. Considerate. He had manners—“You don’t often find that in young people these days.” And he was funny.
“He speaks very highly of you, too,” Carmela said.
The only concerns the two women had were the two houses to the east of them that were empty. One a foreclosure, the other simply abandoned. So far the empty houses posed no threats. But empty houses in Detroit were always a big draw for vermin of the four-legged and two-legged varieties. Carmela and Sylvia were considering buying one of the houses and renovating it, but they’d have to sit down and see where they were with their pension checks (recently reduced by virtue of Detroit’s bankruptcy settlement), investments and savings.
After an hour the ladies said they’d kept me from my day long enough and, buoyant from the sangria, made their way back to their house. Though their walk was only a minute or so, I watched to make sure they got home safely.
Gathering my senses, I finally made the call to Vivian Elizabeth Paget.
Using my most calming and reassuring voice—honed by the many interviews I conducted during my brief and illustrious career as a cop—I said that she and I had briefly met when I worked a case for her mother several years ago. I was sorry about her mother’s death and I was not convinced she had committed suicide. And any information she could provide me concerning her mother, the bank and the people surrounding her might be helpful.
“I—I’m uncomfortable with this.” Vivian Paget’s voice was soft, unsure. “I’ve already talked to the police. I don’t know anything about the bank or the people she associated with. My mother and I weren’t exactly—”
In the background another woman’s voice bellowed, “Who is it? Who is that?”
Vivian’s already soft voice became muffled—a hand lightly held over the speaker.
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