“The guy didn’t know how to hold his liquor. Lainey was in danger of losing her gigs if Peter kept interfering with her act.”
“How did he interfere?” Charlie asked.
“Peter was jealous. Lainey knows the score. She dances the pole, and she’s an artist at it. The men come to see her. They pay a cover charge and they drink, which is good for the club. The men also tip, which is good for Lainey’s college tuition.”
“Where were you on Wednesday?” Charlie asked.
“Seeing to one of my acts at a club in Dearborn. I was there all evening. It’s called the Roundtable.”
“That’s a good alibi. But maybe you paid some guys to take Peter out,” Don said.
“Look, I told Lainey if she continued to hang around Peter the gigs might dry up. That’s all there is to it. I might not be dealing with A-list talent anymore, but I have a good business, and I wouldn’t jeopardize it for a client who brings in maybe ten percent of my income. The papers say the Rogers guy killed Peter. I guess you think he didn’t. But I didn’t do it either. You’re looking for someone else.”
Chapter 11
The memorial for Peter Fairchild was a small service for family and close friends only. The insignificant amount of snow around St. Aloysius Church had been carefully shoveled and the surfaces treated. A half-dozen black limousines sat parked in the circular drive flanking a simple black hearse. Two of the limo drivers stood off to the side of the rectory smoking. Two security agents stood next to a Lincoln Continental with plates marked “MichGuv.”
Charlie was parked across the street in the lot of a rotary club. She’d watched the Fairchilds enter the church a half hour ago, joining what looked like about seventy-five guests. She’d been surprised to see the chief of police arrive, and Franklin’s boss, the Wayne County Executive, pulled up to the sanctuary a few minutes later. Charlie was even more surprised to see Karen Scanlon. So that’s what she had to do today. Karen was dressed in a tasteful black coat and accompanied by a man Charlie recognized as the mayor’s brother. An article in yesterday’s paper had reported that the Fairchilds would receive friends at their residence in Indian Village after the memorial.
The display of power and influence at this service made Charlie think about something Franklin had said during their McDonald’s parking lot conversation. Who would be inclined to believe his suspicions about Stanford Fairchild? In these lofty social circles, the cards were stacked against Franklin.
# # #
“I have some dirt on Karen Scanlon,” Judy said as soon as Charlie walked through the door of the Mack Agency.
“Let’s talk in the conference room.”
Judy was still adjusting to her new role of investigator. This morning she worked side by side with Tamela, color-coding and labeling file folders. Tamela handed Charlie six phone messages as she passed the front desk.
“These came in this morning, Ms. Mack.”
“Thanks, Tamela. Is there coffee in the conference room?”
“Yes, and it’s fresh.”
Charlie flipped through the phone slips. One was a puzzling message from her mother, and another was from a number she didn’t recognize. She poured a cup of coffee, added half-and-half, and erased the whiteboard. A mainstay of the conference table was the small plastic box with a variety of dry markers and Charlie’s green, red, and blue sticky notes. She sipped coffee and stared at the white space. Writing notes and manipulating them on a flat surface was her way of working a case. Dissecting the details, framing ideas, filling in holes, pointing the way for the next steps in the investigation.
Judy entered with her laptop and file folders. Charlie gave her only a glance before returning her attention to the empty board. Judy quietly took a seat. She’d seen Charlie in this meditative state before. It was the way she cleared her mind so she could look at a case or a suspect in a fresh way. Charlie credited her martial arts training for the technique. It wasn’t until the Mr. Coffee unit let out a last gasp of steam that Charlie emerged from her reverie and took a seat.
“You have some ideas?” Judy asked.
“Maybe. But first let’s hear what you have on Scanlon. She was actually invited to Peter’s memorial service. Can you believe it? She walked in big as day with the mayor’s brother.”
Judy had done an extensive workup on Karen Scanlon. Her real name was Carrie Sketcher, and she had two more aliases, which she’d used in the half-dozen states where she’d been a resident. Although she’d been charged with larceny and related crimes, she’d never been convicted.
“Mostly witnesses recanted their statements, or prosecutors just couldn’t get a grand jury to indict her,” Judy said.
“What’s her financial situation?”
“I got only a limited credit report. There are two properties in her Scanlon name in Florida, and the other is in Pennsylvania. Her home address is in Ferndale. She has a real estate license, and she’s listed as an interior designer.”
“Does the report show she owns a design business, or is she a consultant?”
Judy pushed a paper toward Charlie. “That’s the application for the business license. She’s the owner, but there’s a co-owner. It’s listed on page two, halfway down the page.”
“Motor City Design Suite, LLC?”
“I’ll dig into it. I’ve also put out calls to our FBI contacts about her, and I have one of our subs checking on her family in Allentown.”
“That’s a great idea, Judy,” Charlie responded, obviously distracted.
“What’s bothering you?”
“I had the feeling someone was following me today. Have you noticed anything unusual?”
“No. Someone followed you from the memorial service?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe it’s the police.”
“Possibly. I also think Franklin called again this morning,” Charlie said, waving one of the phone messages.
“He leave a name and number?”
“He left a coded message and a number.”
“Are you going to call?”
“Yes. But first I’m returning Ernestine’s call.”
# # #
Don sat across from Detective Wallace’s desk in the cramped office. A monkey wrench had been thrown into the Peter Fairchild case.
A fingerprint on the windowsill at Peter’s apartment was a hit for a convicted felon. Thirty-eight-year-old Caesar Oliver Sturdivant had spent six years in Rikers for armed robbery and had been picked up by Toronto police two days ago for an assault.
Don stared at the photo of the man taken from the New York State Prison archive. A second photo, showing Sturdivant older and heavier, was a mug shot from the database of the national police service of Canada. Wallace pulled up a third photo on his computer screen: a freeze-frame from the security footage at Peter’s building. It was the man they’d seen slinking away from the building a half hour before Franklin on the night of the murder, and presumably the man Charlie and Don had watched leave the loading dock on Tuesday afternoon.
“This is good police work, Wallace. You and your team deserve credit.”
“I thought so, too.”
Don looked at the detective who was leaning back in his chair and thumping a pencil on the desk.
“You’re getting pushback from the higher-ups?”
“I can’t really talk about it.”
“So you called me so we could not talk about it.”
“I’m just doing what Travis promised you. I’m keeping you and Ms. Mack in the information loop.”
“Is anybody going to Canada to question the guy?”
“It’s not in the budget. I sent a query to the Toronto PD. Sturdivant has been arraigned, but his case won’t come to trial for several months. He’s got dual citizenship so even if we could charge him, I’m not sure we can extradite. Meanwhile, he’s cooling his heels in a medium-security facility outside the city.”
Don studied the file. Sturdivant didn’t have a homicide rap, but he had a long list o
f violent crimes.
“Did you even know he was in Detroit?”
“No. We don’t know when he got here or when he left. Peter had a cleaning company come into his place every two weeks, but there’s no guarantee they cleaned the woodwork. We found only the one print from Sturdivant.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Wallace. I’ll share the info with Mack,” Don said, sliding the file across the desk.
“That’s yours to keep. I made a copy. Look, Rutkowski, what do you know that I don’t?”
Don shook his head.
“Do you have an alternate theory about who killed Fairchild?”
“Mack does.”
“Who does she think did it?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“The sister?”
“Why do you say that?”
“We found out she’s been moving around a lot of money. She’s made two big cash withdrawals in the last couple of weeks.”
“That’s interesting,” Don said.
“Okay. I understand. I guess you can’t talk about it because she’s your client, and my superiors wouldn’t be too happy that I’m sharing that file with you. But unofficially, Rutkowski, let’s stay in touch.”
Don sat in his car a block away from police headquarters thumbing through the file. In addition to the photos, there was the fingerprint report, a history of Sturdivant’s criminal activity, and a list of his known associates. The folder also included the address and telephone number of a detective at the Toronto Police Service, and a commander at the Ontario Provincial Police.
The last page in the folder was a copy of a Comerica bank statement for an account in the name of Pamela Fairchild. On the statement, two five-thousand-dollar withdrawals were circled. One two weeks ago, the other on Wednesday morning.
Chapter 12
Don greeted Karen Scanlon in the lobby of Peter’s building, then introduced Charlie.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t know I was meeting anyone else.”
“Don and I are partners.”
Karen’s expression reflected her noodling on the various things that could mean. Charlie didn’t try to help. They greeted the officer on duty at the elevator banks. Don showed him his PI license, and the officer checked him against the list he had. On the ride up Charlie self-consciously looked up at the camera. Karen checked herself in the mirror. She wore a white parka and fitted ski pants inside Ugg boots. A Burberry scarf was tied for fashion rather than protection from the cold. Charlie and Karen exchanged strained smiles when their eyes momentarily locked. At the second floor, the elevator opened and the vestibule light and camera sprang to life. The apartment’s solid metal door was crisscrossed in crime-scene tape.
“Damn, I forgot to get the key. We’ll have to go back down,” Don said.
“I have mine,” Karen said with no hesitation. She unzipped her designer tote, reaching into a sleeve to retrieve the key, then expertly unlocked the door and pushed it open.
“You’ll probably need to turn in that key to the officer when you leave,” Charlie said, not smiling.
Karen started to respond, but stopped when she got the same serious expression from Don. “I guess you’re right.”
“Do you mind if I get my personal items before we talk?” Karen said, discarding her jacket and heading to the bedroom.
“I’ll go with you,” Charlie said, following.
Karen moved immediately to a dresser drawer, and Charlie watched her pull out a few intimate items. She turned to the closet and took a small cardboard box from the shelf.
“What’s that?” Charlie asked.
“A few papers Peter and I were discussing. Nothing of value to your investigation.”
“I’ll need to take a look at them,” Charlie said. “If you’re done in here, let’s go to the other room.”
They sat in the living area near the fireplace. Charlie found certifications of authenticity for several expensive pieces of artwork in the box. Karen aka Carrie might have been planning on claiming the art as her own.
“We understand you were with Peter in his apartment on Tuesday night,” Charlie said. “How was he?”
“Who told you that?”
“We saw you on the security cameras,” Don said. “By the way, the name’s Carrie, isn’t it?”
Karen’s eyes darted nervously. Under pressure from the truth, her demeanor shifted 180 degrees. She sucked her teeth and shrugged. Karen, the refined and successful interior designer, became Carrie Ann Sketcher from Allentown, Pennsylvania. “Yeah. I was with Peter on Tuesday. I spent the night. What of it?”
“You may be aware we’ve been hired by Peter’s family to investigate his death. I’m sure they’ll want to have these documents,” Charlie said, tucking the box next to her on the couch.
Scanlon sucked her teeth again. “What did you two want to talk to me about? I have other things to do today.”
“Do you know if Peter was in some kind of trouble? Was there anyone with a grudge against him?” Charlie asked.
“If so, he didn’t tell me. But there was always somebody pissed off at Peter. He flaunted his wealth when he shouldn’t have, and he wasn’t a very good judge of character. He was a pushover for any Tom, Dick, or Harry with a business scheme.”
“His sister said he was investing in a liquor distillery. You know anything about that?”
Scanlon took a moment to answer, and Charlie prepared herself for a lie or half-truth.
“He told me about it,” Karen admitted. “I went with Peter to one of the investor meetings. The guy lives in Windsor. Big house. Big crowd. He’s dripping in money. The drinks were flowing pretty heavily that night, and Peter really can’t hold his liquor. I think I ended up driving him home. Anyway, Peter told me he was considering the deal, but didn’t have all the money. He’d already asked his father for the cash, and maybe his sister, but they weren’t interested.”
“If the guy had money, why did he need Peter’s?” Don asked
“I think he needed an American investor, or something like that.”
“You got this guy’s name?” Don was taking notes.
“Bobby something,” she scrunched her face in concentration. “His last name is like one of those revolutionary guys. You know, like Hamilton or Washington.” Karen ran her manicured fingers through dirty-blond, salon-styled hair. “I remember. It was Madison. Uh, Robert Madison, I think.”
As Scanlon spoke, she surveyed the room. Sometimes she’d stare at a corner and blink as if taking a photograph. It was clear to Charlie that if Karen got the chance, she’d rob the place blind and then sweet-talk her way past the cop downstairs.
“Did Peter ever talk to you about his father?”
“All the time,” Karen said, swiveling her head to Charlie. “He had a complex when it came to the old man.”
“Tell me,” Charlie said.
“What’s there to tell? I’ve seen it a lot with these trust-fund kids. Either they have no ambition at all, or they want to be successful on their own. Peter wanted to prove he didn’t have to depend on his father.”
“You ever meet Mr. Fairchild?”
“No. Is that it? I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
Charlie eyed the woman skeptically. There was probably a lot more she could tell, but they suspended the questions for now. The three returned to the lobby with no conversation. The cop was talking to the security guard. While Don signed the three out, Charlie held her palm out to Karen who pretended not to understand the gesture.
“Keys?” Charlie said with a squint.
“Oh yeah.”
Karen bypassed Charlie’s hand, and dangled the fob in front of the officer. “Mr. Fairchild gave me a key to his apartment. Under the circumstances, I guess I should give it to you.” Carrie, the small-town grifter, was Karen the big-city sophisticate again.
# # #
Sitting in Don’s Buick, they watched Karen navigate her huge vehicle through the exit.
“You know she l
ied about not having met Fairchild, don’t you?”
“Yep. She gave it away with the eye dart and the change in subject.”
“What do you make of her?” Charlie asked.
“She’d knife her mother,” Don wisecracked. “If the old lady was foolish enough to turn her back.”
“Speaking of mothers, I have been summoned by Ernestine this afternoon,” Charlie said, reaching for the door handle. “She wouldn’t tell me what it’s about, but I promised to come by.”
“She okay?”
“She’s a lot more forgetful, but she sounded fine. Just mysterious. So I told her I’d see her this afternoon. But first I’m meeting with Pamela to lie to her again. It’s getting harder and harder.”
“Did you reach Franklin?”
“Not yet. I left a message on the number he provided.”
“I sure hope you can talk him into giving himself up.”
Charlie nodded. “You all packed for Canada?”
“Yep. I’m starting off now. I’ll call in this evening.”
Chapter 13
An anxious Pamela agreed to meet Charlie at a small restaurant/bar on East Jefferson. Pamela sipped hot tea. Charlie took a gulp of iced tea, cleared her throat, and reported on the Mack team’s efforts to prove Franklin’s innocence. The account was rife with omissions, half-truths, and outright lies.
“How well do you know Karen Scanlon?” Charlie asked.
“Karen? Why do you ask? Surely she had nothing to do with Peter’s death.”
“She’s just a person of interest. What can you tell me about her?”
“Not much. She’s been helping Peter with furnishing his apartment. She’s supposed to be some kind of designer,” Pamela said, rolling her eyes. “She and Peter became fast friends. More than friends. He seemed to like her, but I don’t think they were serious.”
“Do you know how they met?” Charlie asked.
“I think one of my father’s associates recommended her services. Why all the questions about Karen?”
Charlie answered the question with one of her own. “Did you know that Scanlon is not her real name?”
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