“Somebody named August Snow,” I heard Vivian say. “It’s about Mother.”
The next voice I heard was not Vivian’s. “Who the hell are you?” the woman said. “What do you want?”
I calmly told her who the hell I was and what I wanted.
None of that carried much truck with the woman.
“Listen, jerk-off,” the woman said in a hushed voice, “Viv’s been through a lot already. Twenty-six years’ worth of a lot. And if you knew her piece-of-shit father and her controlling bitch of a mother then you’d know what I’m saying. So do whatever you gotta do without bothering us, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You are?”
“Gone.”
The woman disconnected.
I called back.
“Listen, motherf—” the other woman began.
“Rose Mayfield,” I said quickly. “That’s how I got your number. Rose Mayfield gave it to me.”
After a long pause, the woman pulled away from the phone and said, “He claims Rosey gave him this number.” Then her voice came back to the phone and she said in a calmer yet no less stern voice, “This better check out or I will seriously injure you.”
“You’ll have to take a number and get in line for that,” I said.
“Five minutes,” the woman said.
“Five minutes.”
Then the line went dead.
Five minutes seemed ample time to finish off the bottle of sangria and wonder what the hell I was doing.
A few sips in, the other woman called back. “Sorry to give you a hard time, Mr. Snow.”
“August,” I said. “Please.”
“I’m Colleen,” the woman said. “Viv’s wife.”
Nineteen
“Viv’s a beautiful human being,” Colleen Belluomo said. “Smart. Incredibly talented. Generous and thoughtful. No thanks to her crappy-assed parents. You’ve got to understand—I love her and I don’t want anything or anybody to hurt her.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Rosey—Rose Mayfield—was about the only person who came close to being a real mom to Viv,” Colleen said. “She’s the only reason you and I are talking right now.” Then Colleen sighed heavily. “What’s your interest in any of this, August?”
“I used to be a cop,” I said. “When I was on the job I caught the case with her father’s death and the death of his—girlfriend. I got to know Vivian’s mom, and yeah, she was tough and nasty and vindictive as hell. She also came to respect me. Who I am, what I did and how I did it.”
“You’re that cop?” Colleen said. “The one who got shit-canned for blowing the whistle on Detroit’s old mayor and his dirty cop pals?”
“One and the same,” I said. “Vivian’s mom recently asked me to help her and I didn’t. Two days later she was dead. Probably would have happened whether I helped or not. If it was suicide I want to know what drove her to it. If it wasn’t—”
“Jesus,” Colleen said. “You think somebody killed her?”
“I don’t know. All I know is I failed her trust. I don’t like to fail.”
“Guilt’s a hard way to live,” Colleen said.
“I’m Catholic. You get used to it.”
There was silence at the other end.
Then Colleen pulled away from the phone and said, “Hey, hon? He seems all right. Come on, baby. Talk to him.”
Before she handed the phone over to Vivian, I heard Colleen say, “Any problems, you just hang up. Or you hand him over to me, n’k?”
The sound of a quick kiss, then, “Hello?”
I apologized for bothering her and said I wished I didn’t have to. But as I’d said to her wife, this was the only way I knew how to live. The way I’d been taught by my parents, the marines and the DPD. I asked her how long it had been since she had seen or talked to her mother. She said it had been at least two years since she’d seen her mother. About the same time the investigation into her father’s death closed and she’d come out of the closet.
Vivian said her mother had found her lifestyle embarrassing. Her embarrassment had nothing to do with perceived political or religious implications. Eleanor Paget created her own constructs of politics and her religion was clearly self-fulfillment. And as to sex—straight, gay or otherwise—I was pretty sure Eleanor Paget equated the act with any business negotiation where all parties vied for the dominance of their own personal interests.
But to have a daughter who, by birth alone, had an “obligation” to the generations-old Paget name, the Paget legacy—and have her turn out to be a lesbian artist was an unnecessary distraction from the business imperative of maintaining an empire.
Sexual opportunism was, Vivian believed, the only reason Eleanor had consented to marry Vivian’s father: Maurice Allensworth had risen through the ranks of Detroit’s car companies, ultimately and by sheer force of will building his own automotive interior components business.
“She’s the one who convinced him to sell his business and put the money into the family bank,” Vivian said. “He didn’t want to, but—well, you know how forceful she is. Was.”
Allensworth caved to Eleanor’s considerable will and sold his business, folding the proceeds into hers. Of course had he maintained the business up to the 2008 economic collapse, he would have been bankrupted. Nobody bought cars for the next three years and, as such, parts suppliers were the first to die.
Knowing Eleanor, she probably lorded this over her husband without shame or reservation.
Vivian finally said, “I spent most of my childhood at boarding schools. I—I actually preferred it that way. I didn’t want to be around him—her. Sometimes I’d spend several weeks at Aunt Rosey and Uncle Desmond’s house.”
“‘Uncle Desmond’?”
“Aunt Rosey’s husband,” Vivian said. “He’s—he passed away.” She took in a ragged breath and exhaled slowly. “Those were really some of the best times. Being with them. I felt safe with Aunt Rosey and Uncle Des. I felt—wanted.”
I asked Vivian about the last time she’d spoken to her mother. She said, “Until about eight months ago, we spoke maybe three times a year. Then she started calling more frequently. The last couple months she called at least once every two weeks. She sounded—different. Smaller. Unsure of herself. She’d ask how Colleen was and if I needed anything. How my art was selling. I asked her if everything was all right and she just laughed it off, saying it was the wine talking and everything was fine.” Vivian paused. “I’d never heard her sound like that. Ever.”
“Tell me a little bit about your mom’s relationship with Rose Mayfield.”
“Rosey made my mother—human,” Vivian said. “She confided in Rosey. Trusted her. And Rosey could see things in my mother no one else could. Good things. You don’t think—”
“No,” I said. “Frankly, I don’t know what to think at this point, Ms. Paget.”
“Rosey’s a wonderful person, Mr. Snow,” Vivian said. “If she’s guilty of anything it’s taking more of my mother and father’s shit than she should have. I blame myself for that. I think the older my mother got, the more she felt replaced by Rosey as my mother. And my mother was never replaced by anybody.”
I figured Vivian needed a break, so I asked her about her art.
She was a watercolorist, having studied at Detroit’s world renown College for Creative Studies. She loved CCS, but it wasn’t far enough away from her parents. She finally studied at the Sorbonne and began selling in small Parisian and Italian galleries.
I told her I’d just moved back to Detroit, that I was decorating my house and would be interested in seeing some of her work.
She surprised me by asking, “Are you simply interested in decorating?”
It took me a second or two to decipher her question, but when I did, I answered, “My mother was a painter. Not professional, but you’d never know it from her work. I’m looking at one of her paintings right now. A portrait of the Mexican poet Octavio Paz. There’s a lot of h
er soul in that painting and it warms me every time I look at it.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
Finally, she said, “Go to my website, Mr. Snow. Just pick something out and email me your home address. Whatever you choose, it’s yours.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Please,” she said. “Let me do this for you. Because of what you said about your mother. I envy you that. And because—you let me talk. It was hard to talk about this stuff with Colleen. Not because of Colleen—she’s fantastic—but—”
“Just think of me as a priest and this is our confessional moment,” I said. Then, making the sign of the cross in the air, even though she couldn’t see it, I said, “Bless you. Now say three Hail Marys and drink a pitcher of margaritas.”
Vivian laughed a bright, clear, lilting laugh.
“Goodnight, Vivian,” I said.
“Goodnight, August,” she said. “If you’re ever up this way, promise you’ll stop by. We’ll skip the Hail Marys and go directly for Colleen’s homemade honey vodka.”
“Deal.”
We hung up.
I finished my sangria, retrieved a beer from the fridge and flopped on my new sofa. For a moment I stared at the blank screen of my TV over the fireplace. Then, without really looking, my eyes settled on my mother’s painting of the Mexican poet.
Something at the very back of my mind. The claw of a small animal scratching on black glass …
Twenty
I bought my second new suit in less than a month: a nice Calvin Klein three-button slim-fit in a heather-grey wool blend. Once again Marcus, the Eastern European tailor, was on the case. While fitting me he occasionally consulted a small black notebook and, like a mad scientist, found a passage or note that had him exclaiming, “Ah! Yes!” Then he would make his chalk marks. At one point Marcus stood on tippy toe and whispered, “You buy a new gun, you tell me. Makes difference in measurements, yes?”
When Tuesday morning came, I was looking good and ready to meet Kip Atchison, CEO of Titan Securities Investment Group.
Eleanor Paget was one of the first Detroit entrepreneurs to take an interest in revitalizing the city’s business core. Her considerable efforts had little to do with altruism. They had everything to do with money and solidifying her public legacy. Paget had shouldered, elbowed, bit, clawed and bludgeoned her way into the boys’ club of other Detroit business luminaries, all millionaires tens and hundreds of times over.
After the riots and “white flight” in the ’60s, several crushing recessions and astoundingly bad political management, property in Detroit became dirt cheap. Architectural wonders that had fifty years ago boasted ninety to a hundred percent occupancy had in recent decades gone begging. Four-star hotels went dark and Michelin-rated restaurants were shuttered. A pall settled over the city, lingering like smog over L.A.
This was the perfect multi-generational storm for entrepreneurs with pockets full of cash, including Paget. Detroit real estate in the early 21st century meant power. The power to shape a municipality to the benefit of the wealthy. It was the Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889.
41781 Titan Place on Woodward Avenue was Eleanor Paget’s land grab acquisition: a white skyscraper built in the late ’70s, gone into disuse for much of the ’90s and brought back to vibrant life in 2000.
The lobby of Titan Securities Investments Group was large and open, with an expanse of polished white marble floors, tall windows, lazily curving black leather sofas and ultra-modern stainless steel coffee tables. There were four dogwood saplings growing up through mulched holes in the marble floor and a modern take on a Japanese garden fountain at the lobby’s center. There were expensive sculptures, paintings and three large wall-mounted flat screen TVs.
None of the TVs were showing SportsCenter.
An expansive curved desk sat in front of a two-story marble wall bearing the Titan logo in polished stainless steel. At the desk sat an attractive black woman with short-cropped auburn hair, her expression pleasant but very professional.
The appearance of the lobby was inviting and feng shui. I took note of at least six security cameras. There were three security guards—one of them a big, beefy black guy—dressed identically in well-tailored black suits. One of the guards sat at the end of one of the sofas near the main entrance. A gaunt white guy with brown hair streaked with grey at the temples and wearing wire rim glasses. He was casually flipping through a magazine. It was my guess this guy was in command and on-point. The other two guards—bigger and beefier—were stationed by the elevators behind and to the right of the reception desk.
Looking like a million offshore bucks, I walked up to the good-looking woman at the lobby desk and announced myself.
“August Octavio Snow,” I said. “I have a nine o’clock with Mr. Kip Atchison.”
The receptionist smiled a perfect hostess smile, welcomed me to TSIG, Inc. and briefly consulted an iPad. She swept an elegant and well-manicured forefinger across the screen, then tapped something. Looking up at me and still holding her perfect smile, she said, “Please have a seat, Mr. Snow. Mr. Atchison’s executive assistant will be with you momentarily. Would you like something to drink? Spring water? Cappuccino?”
“Got any single malts back there?” I said.
“Glenmorangie? Glenfiddich?”
“Seriously?” I said.
“I never joke when it comes to providing our guests and patrons with the highest level of comfort and convenience.”
I guessed “patrons” meant “customers” or “shareholders.” From a credenza drawer behind her, she pulled out a Waterford crystal tumbler and placed it on a rolling tray.
“May I assume you take it neat?” she said.
“It’s nine in the morning,” I said.
“It’s happy hour somewhere,” she said with a demure smile.
Inadvertently, I laughed. Then with a raised palm I said, “Pass.”
She touched a finger to her ear, said, “Yes, ma’am,” listened for a few more seconds and then said, “Ms. Mayfield will be with you momentarily. She apologizes for an unavoidable delay.”
I took a seat on one of the leather sofas. On the coffee table in front of me were an assortment of neatly arranged magazines and newspapers: Barron’s, Bloomberg Businessweek, The Wall Street Journal. There were also magazines like Architectural Digest, National Geographic Traveler and Travel + Leisure. Nothing with comics except for the most recent issue of The New Yorker, and I rarely found their cartoons funny.
In the fifteen minutes it took Rose Mayfield to come and retrieve me, ten people had entered the lobby. Three talked briefly to the woman at the desk before heading to one of the three elevators at the back of the lobby. Five checked in at the desk, nodded and took seats on the other leather sofas, or simply stood and looked out the windows at the crowds and traffic on Woodward Avenue. The remaining two—a well-dressed elderly couple in the middle of a discussion—stopped near me to reassess exactly how much they needed for their annual month abroad.
“I thought we decided?” the elderly man said to the woman I presumed was his wife.
“Well,” the woman said hesitantly, “we kind of did. A month’s a long time, Jessep. I’m not so sure fifty’s going to be enough. And I don’t want to put a lot on our cards.”
The man shrugged his narrow Harris Tweed-covered shoulders (as I assumed many a man married for over thirty years shrugs when discussing plans with his wife) then proceeded to the desk, where they were unctuously greeted by the receptionist and escorted to an elevator.
Customers of TSIG coming to check on their pirate’s chest of gold doubloons.
A minute later the doors of an elevator slid open and Rose Mayfield emerged. One of the two security guards at the elevators started to escort her, but at a briefly raised hand from Mayfield he stopped and went back to his sentry post. As soon as the young woman at the lobby desk saw Mayfield, she stood, smiled and gestured discreetly to me. Mayfield nodded—she knew who I
was—and walked toward me.
No sooner had I stood than the security guard with wire-rim glasses and grey-streaked hair quickly approached Mayfield. She held up a palm and he obediently stopped.
“Wow,” I said to Mayfield. “You’re like a Cesar Millan human whisperer.”
Mayfield and I shook hands. She said, “I am so sorry for the delay, Mr. Snow. Every day is a challenge, emergency or test of faith. We’ve avoided disaster thus far.”
I said it wasn’t a problem and that I’d been enjoying the ambiance and riveting conversation—“Boxers, briefs or commando”—with the dead-eyed security guard who at this point stood well within earshot of me.
We entered the elevator and the doors slid closed. Mayfield swiped a keycard against a laser reader and we began to ascend.
“How many floors?” I said.
“TSIG has the first ten,” Mayfield said. “Eleven and twelve belong to one of our non-profit ventures—LifeLight, Inc. Fourteen through eighteen we lease. Nineteen and twenty are TSIG executive offices.”
“What’s this LifeLight thing?”
“We buy state-of-the-art streetlights—solar powered LEDs—and install them in neighborhoods that have been without them for ten, fifteen years. We’ve partnered with some of the car companies as well as DTE and a few others, to offset the costs. We’ve still got a long way to go. So far we’ve installed sixty-five with a goal of a hundred and twenty by the end of this quarter.”
“I think some of those lights are in my neighborhood,” I said.
“Really?” Mayfield said, smiling. “Which neighborhood is that?”
“Mexicantown.”
We came to a stop on the twentieth floor and emerged into a large, airy office space decorated with curving glass block cubicles and Scandinavian-styled pearwood furniture. It was mostly well-dressed young people gazing intently into the hypnotic glow of tablet computers or talking the lingua franca of finance on telephones. Others were performing their mission-critical walk along the plush carpeting, consulting notepads, checking emails or texting on smartphones.
“A twelve million dollar settlement from the city and you move to Mexicantown? Isn’t that a bit of a risky proposition?”
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