Find Me When I'm Lost

by Cheryl A Head

  “Oh no!” Charlie said.

  Don finished the Pringles and ate a package of nuts while recounting the details of his last twenty-four hours in Toronto. Caesar Sturdivant had been pronounced dead at six in the morning—cause of death, an infection related to his injured organs. Don had checked out of the motel and returned to the hospital in his own car to meet Sturdivant’s lawyer. They had met for almost two hours, and Don was eager to get on the road for the trip home. Don speculated the white, four-door Honda might have trailed him from the hospital parking lot because within five minutes the shot was fired. He hadn’t gotten more than a glimpse at the driver or the shooter in the passenger seat. Nor did he get a look at the license plate. He’d called Detective Li from the road to inform him of the attack, but refused Li’s request to stay and file a report.

  “We’ve got to figure this out,” Charlie said. “First, someone tries to kill Franklin. Now Sturdivant is dead, and people are taking potshots at you. Things are getting more dangerous by the day.”

  “And if we’re right,” Don said, “Stanford Fairchild is behind all the attacks. I arranged for us to meet with Wallace today to fill him in. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want us coming around police headquarters, so I invited him here.”

  “When?” Judy asked.

  “At three.”

  “Okay. In the meantime, I’ll get Tamela to order in some lunch.”

  “Good idea, Novak.”

  “I’ll have her get comfort food. Something that goes with dodging a bullet.”

  “How about corned beef sandwiches?” Don proposed.

  Judy had seen it many times before. No matter the danger, Don was always ready to eat. She teased him about it, but it was one of his more endearing qualities.

  “Done,” she said.

  While they waited for lunch, Charlie worked her board exercise. Fairchild’s name was on one side, Karen Scanlon’s on the opposite. Under Fairchild’s name was a row of red sticky notes—the questions. What’s the motive for having his son killed? For framing Franklin? What is Fairchild’s relationship to Scanlon? Did he pay her to kill Peter? What, if any, connection did Fairchild have to Sturdivant? How do we prove Stanford Fairchild’s guilt?

  There was a similar row of questions under Karen’s name, along with the facts. Scanlon had a key to the condo. She had a police record, used an alias, and now there was a claim from Sturdivant that Karen shot Peter.

  “Is there anything in your research to suggest she’s capable of murder?” Charlie asked Judy.

  “No. But there’s one thing my grandfather used to say. ‘If you can lie, you can steal. And if you can steal, you can kill.’”

  Charlie gave Judy a pensive look. “You and I are pretty good liars, you know.”

  Judy shook her head. “It’s different. We’re lying in the name of justice. Aren’t we?”

  Charlie smiled. In the center of the board, she replaced the current blue note with another. A conjecture. Pamela Rogers is unaware of her father’s murder conspiracy.

  “You’re convinced she’s not involved?” Don asked.

  “That’s my opinion,” Charlie said.

  “And mine,” Judy added.

  “What about the two bank withdrawals?” Don asked. “The last one the day Peter was killed.”

  “I’m still trying to track that down,” Judy said. “But she always gives a lot of money to charity.”

  “The withdrawals were five grand each,” Don said, looking at the document he’d received from Detective Wallace.

  “I guess we can ask her about that,” Charlie said. “We don’t officially work for her anymore.”

  “We still need to get Don’s travel expenses paid and get our final check,” Judy noted. “So let’s not piss off Pamela until we have that money in hand.”

  “She could tell Carruthers to pull the plug on us anytime she wants,” Don observed.

  “The fact is, no matter what we do, by the time this case is over Pamela will probably hate the Mack Agency,” Judy added.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Charlie said.

  # # #

  Wallace arrived alone and in plain clothes. Don still had a lot of police contacts, but the department had graduated a half-dozen classes of officers since he’d left the force. They were well-educated, many with military backgrounds, and some with previous policing experience. Wallace had been a patrolman in Atlanta before joining the Detroit force ten years ago and had quickly worked his way up the ranks to detective status. Wallace stood just inside the conference room door staring at the whiteboard.

  “I hope nobody outside of this office has seen that board,” Wallace said before reaching out to shake hands with the three Mack partners.

  “Nope. Only us,” Charlie said. “I guess your case board looks a lot different.”

  “You’d guess right. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get one of the higher-ups interested in investigating the Fairchild connection without kicking it up to the chief. I think if I bring these allegations to Captain Travers, he’ll respond based on the politics. He’s too interested in being chief himself one day.”

  “We’ve worked with Travers before,” Charlie said. “I think you’re reading him right.”

  “We have only a matter of hours, not days, to make a legitimate case against Fairchild,” Wallace said. “I got a call this morning from the prosecutor’s office following up on the Sturdivant information they received from Toronto police. Fairchild’s not above going straight to the mayor, or even the governor, to keep our investigation focused on Rogers.”

  “Right,” Charlie agreed.

  “I think Fairchild may already know about our extradition inquiries.”

  “We’re pretty sure he does know,” Don said. “I didn’t tell you when I called earlier, but Sturdivant was attacked in his cell yesterday, and he died this morning.”

  “Aw shit, man!”

  “And somebody took a shot at Don before he left Toronto this morning,” Charlie added.

  Wallace, who always presented as a cool customer, grimaced. His hands turned into fists, and his eyes took on a mean glint. “We’ve got to get this dude. I don’t give a fuck who he is.”

  “Have a seat, Wallace, and let’s compare notes,” Don said.

  “I want to get a closer look at that board first,” Wallace said, moving around the table and reading each note. He stepped back and crossed his arms. “This is pretty good. Whose work is it?”

  “It’s Mack’s way of figuring out a case,” Don replied.

  “I’m impressed,” Wallace said with an admiring look for Charlie. “What’s the category for the blue note?”

  “Conjecture. Sometimes just a gut feeling,” Charlie said.

  “I’m not sure you’re on the right track with that one. Pam Rogers withdrew $10,000 over two weeks. That feels like a payoff to me.”

  “We’re going to find out more about that. She gives a lot of money to charity. It could simply be that,” Charlie said.

  “Don’t donors usually write checks?” Wallace asked.

  Charlie conceded the point. “The more I get to know her, I can’t believe she knows about her father’s treachery, and I’m positive she wouldn’t be involved in framing Franklin for murder.”

  “Woman’s intuition?”

  “Call it whatever you like. I’m a pretty good judge of people. We think Fairchild is behind this conspiracy. Probably with Karen Scanlon. Maybe with others.”

  “Okay, okay,” Wallace raised his hands in surrender. “Let’s talk about what evidence we have to prove your theory.”

  Wallace refused a sandwich, but accepted a cup of coffee and settled into a seat next to Charlie. Using the board diagram, the Mack partners brainstormed with Wallace for almost three hours. In the end, they had very little proof of Fairchild’s guilt that would stand up in court.

  “Can’t we get a deposition from Sturdivant’s attorney as to what his client confessed?” Judy asked.

  �
��We could. I think he’d cooperate. He’s a decent guy,” Don said.

  “I’m not even sure Sturdivant’s direct testimony would have been enough to convince a jury over the word of Stan Fairchild,” Charlie said. “But it’s worth a conversation with the attorney. Don, would you take that on?”

  “Sure. As long as the conversation is over the phone. I’ve had my fill of Toronto.”

  “Judy, I want you to continue checking on Scanlon,” Charlie said. “Find a connection between her and Fairchild. We really need that.”

  “Okay,” Judy said, making a note.

  “How do you think you’ll start?” Wallace directed his question at Judy.

  Judy had the attention of the other three in the room. She shifted in her chair. “Well, I’ve already found a few records on her. They’re in that folder,” Judy said pointing, and Charlie pushed the folder toward Wallace. “I’ve been using our regular subscription service for financial and criminal checks. But I can pay for a more extensive backgrounder, and I have a subcontractor checking on her connections in Allentown and Sarasota, Florida where she owns property.”

  “I can check in with the departments there,” Wallace offered. “And run her prints through the national database.”

  “That would be very helpful,” Charlie said.

  “What else, Novak?” Don challenged.

  Judy squared her shoulders. “I want to follow up with Sharon Fairchild. We haven’t heard much from her. She’s much more in touch with Peter’s life than Mr. Fairchild or Pamela. I think she’ll know what was going on between Peter and Karen.”

  “That seems really smart,” Charlie encouraged.

  Empowered by Charlie’s support, Judy offered another idea. “When I met with the family, it was really clear the Fairchilds didn’t see eye to eye on Peter or Franklin. Stanford was constantly trying to throw Franklin under the bus, and he practically rolled his eyes any time I asked about his son. Maybe Sharon will provide more insight about her husband. That would help us to understand the guy, and how he could possibly be involved in Peter’s death. Maybe I can also get her to open up about Stanford’s feelings regarding Franklin.”

  “If anyone can get her to talk it’s you, Judy,” Charlie said.

  “Yeah. That’s a good use of your time,” Don said begrudgingly.

  “Is there anything else I need to know?” Wallace asked.

  Don and Charlie shared a look, and Charlie gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “We know of another piece of evidence you haven’t heard about. Something that was found at the crime scene,” Don began.

  Wallace sat upright, his face grimacing in astonishment. “What do you mean?”

  “When Rogers came to, he found a money clip on the floor. He took it with him. The clip belongs to Stanford Fairchild,” Don said.

  “And you’re just telling me about it now, Rutkowski? I thought we were sharing intel on this case.”

  “We are, but . . .”

  Charlie interrupted. “It’s my fault, Detective. I didn’t want anyone else to know because Franklin doesn’t want Pamela to hear about it. The clip implicates her father, and he can’t figure out how to explain it to her.”

  “Where is it now?” Wallace asked.

  “I have it,” Charlie explained.

  “Let’s see it.”

  Charlie left the conference room to retrieve the clip from her desk in the bullpen. The desk had belonged to her late father, and she kept the key to the bottom drawer on her key chain. Charlie returned to a tense and silent conference room. She placed the plastic bag containing the money clip in front of Wallace.

  He stared at the bag for almost thirty-seconds before unzipping it and removing the evidence with a handkerchief. He held it up to the light for a closer examination.

  “I guess nobody bothered to preserve the fingerprints,” Wallace growled.

  The group looked sheepish. Wallace put the clip back into the bag and pushed it to Charlie.

  “Put this back wherever you had it.”

  “Don’t you want the lab to run it for fingerprints?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes, but not now. There will need to be paperwork, and the chain of evidence is already screwed up, so it doesn’t matter if we test it now or later. How do you know the clip belongs to Fairchild?”

  Judy spoke up. “They’re specially made for him by a jeweler in New York. Fairchild orders other clips—a dozen or so a year—for business associates, but this one is a special run. The clip is sterling, the diamonds are high quality, and the stem at the top of the F is an emerald. Only three of these clips exist, and they’re for Fairchild’s personal use.”

  “Hmm. Well, depending on how many prints we can pull, and exclude, from those who touched it,” Wallace said, looking around the table and scowling again, “this might turn out to be useful evidence.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Charlie said. “Fairchild knows Franklin found the clip in Peter’s apartment.”

  “How does he know that?”

  “Franklin sent a note to him.”

  “Why in hell did he do that?”

  “He was under stress. Still on the run. I think he thought Fairchild might back off on trying to frame him if he knew about the clip.”

  “It probably had just the opposite effect,” Wallace said. “That’s probably why Franklin came under attack in your mother’s parking lot.”

  “That’s what we thought too,” Don said.

  “Do you think Fairchild knows you have the clip?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We better double up on guards at Franklin’s hospital room. I’m going to take care of that now,” Wallace said, standing. “Say, do you guys want police protection?”

  “Hell no,” Don said. “In fact, maybe we should be part of the security rotation at the hospital.”

  “I doubt that I can get clearance for that, but let me see what I can do.”

  # # #

  After Wallace left, Tamela appeared in the doorway. “Can I leave now, Ms. Mack?”

  “I’m sorry Tamela. Yes, you can leave. Thanks for staying late. Oh, and one more thing. Starting tomorrow, one of our contractors will be doing some work around the office. I’ll introduce you to him in the morning.”

  “Okay, Ms. Mack. See you all in the morning.”

  “What’s that all about?” Judy asked.

  “I agree with Don. We can take care of ourselves, but Fairchild has shown his hand, and we should take a few precautions. Let’s start locking the office door. I want to bring in Hoyt Timbermann to be in the office. Don, will you see if he’s available?”

  “Okay. And if not, I’ll find someone else.”

  “Starting tomorrow, I’ll carry my revolver,” Charlie said.

  “Judy, except for the interview with Sharon Fairchild, I want you to stay in the office.”

  “I already sent her a message. She can see me at Pamela’s house tomorrow at nine.”

  “Great. She liked you, and I know it helped that you sent flowers to the memorial service. That was good thinking.”

  “Mack, we should have our people at the hospital. Even if Wallace can’t make it official,” Don said.

  “You’re probably right. I’ll discuss it with Serena tomorrow. Pamela can always insist on a private detail.”

  “Do you really think we’re in danger?” Judy asked, looking worried.

  “I think the failed attack on Don proves we are. Now that Sturdivant is out of the way, Fairchild may feel he can relax a bit. But when he finds out we’re about to start fishing in all of his ponds, he’ll get nervous again.”

  “It’ll be okay, Novak,” Don said. “We probably have twenty-four hours before the shit hits the fan. Take your meeting with the mother tomorrow. Then you’ll be laying low.”

  “Let’s all go home and get some rest,” Charlie said. “Things are about to get interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Don said. “Interesting, like a house fire.”

>   Chapter 18

  Serena’s office had a one-eighty view of downtown Detroit. Her desk was an enormous plexiglass structure decorated with lovely paperweights and mementoes. There was a framed picture of Serena posed with the mayor; another of her in tennis togs with her name counterpart, Serena Williams; and a photograph of a young Serena with former President Jimmy Carter. Neatly stacked folders covered the wings of her desk, and Serena sat in an expensive white Eaton swivel chair. Across from the desk, Charlie sat in an upholstered chair cupping a mug of hot coffee.

  Serena had carefully established the hierarchy in their new working relationship. They were both lawyers, but Charlie kept her license only so she could handle occasional paperwork. Serena, on the other hand, was a legal power broker in the city and the region.

  They’d begun the meeting with the execution of the contract drafted during Charlie’s last visit. It was a simple work-for-hire agreement with a beefed-up confidentiality and nondisclosure addendum protecting the work, clients, and proprietary information of both signatories. Serena’s associate, who sat in for the first part of the meeting, was off to make the appropriate copies of the agreement. That’s when Serena shifted the conversation.

  “What do you think of Pamela?”

  Charlie took a sip of coffee before speaking. She and Serena had never considered themselves sister-friends, who would gossip over lunch or cocktails about relationships, the people they knew in common, or the latest rumor about the mayor’s shenanigans. Charlie’s therapist asked her once if she had girlfriends who were her confidantes, her sounding boards, and could provide her a shoulder to cry on. She had none. What she had were her partners, her mother, and now Mandy. For the time being she would keep it that way.

  “Pamela is okay. I hadn’t met or even talked to her before she called me about Franklin. I got an invitation to the wedding, but I decided I shouldn’t go.”

  “I went. It was lovely. Expensive. Actually, I was surprised Frank was marrying a white girl, and I wanted to get a good look at her and her family.”

  “In the first meeting with her, I left thinking she was snooty,” Charlie admitted. “My partner, Judy Novak, went with me and she agreed. We chalked it up to her family upbringing. But now I believe she truly loves Franklin and will do anything to help him.”