Find Me When I'm Lost

by Cheryl A Head

  Pamela looked between them, searching for the veracity of that statement.

  “Tell her the rest,” Charlie said. “About the men who tried, again, to kill Franklin.”

  “Two of the men who tried to get to Franklin’s room last night were arrested and questioned,” Serena said. “One of them implicates your father and one of his business associates. That man has already signed a statement to that effect.”

  “You can’t be serious. You still think my father killed Peter and now is trying to kill Franklin?”

  “Pamela,” Charlie said with all the sympathy she could muster. “All the evidence points to your father’s involvement in Peter’s death, the attacks on Franklin, and the killing of witnesses. I don’t know what would drive a man of his wealth and influence to behave this way, but he’s guilty of these crimes.”

  Pamela began to cry and then to sob. Neither Charlie nor Serena knew the appropriate thing to say or do. Finally, Charlie stood.

  “I have to go home and rest. I was on duty yesterday when those men tried to storm Franklin’s room. I had to kill one of them. You’re going to have to make a choice. A hard one. Between your husband, and your father. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.”

  Chase, the butler, was nowhere to be seen so Charlie and Serena let themselves out. Serena turned over the engine and let it warm.

  “That was some tough love in there, Charlie,” Serena said. “She needed to hear it from someone, and it really could only have come from you or her mother.”

  “I’m too exhausted to be gentle anymore,” Charlie said. “I just want to go home now.”

  “Sit back and relax and enjoy your ride,” Serena said, putting the car in gear and coaxing a hum out of the Lincoln.

  Chapter 26

  On Monday morning Charlie and Don met with Detective Wallace in his office. The three sat at his tiny conference table holding files in their laps. They read the transcript of what was the first of a two-part statement from Stanford Fairchild. His smart lawyers had negotiated the parameters of the interviews. They were taking place at his daughter’s home. Second, they could last no more than two hours. Third, they were not being videotaped, although there could be an audio recording.

  The transcript began with questions about Fairchild’s knowledge of, and association with, persons of interest in the murder investigation of his son. Fairchild claimed to know Karen Scanlon only as a person involved in one of his subsidiaries, and as Peter’s friend. He stuck to the story that he’d met the woman only once, and that was at his son’s memorial service. He denied knowing Caesar Sturdivant at all and said his business dealings with Robert Madison had been infrequent and a long time ago.

  “The next interview is at the end of the week. We have an assistant prosecutor sitting in, and one of our detectives from the Criminal Investigations Unit.”

  “He’s really calling the shots,” Charlie noted.

  “As you and I knew he would, Ms. Mack.”

  “You might as well start calling me Charlie, or Mack if you prefer, like Don. I’ve been spending more time with you recently than at home.”

  “Well, maybe you can hire me after I’m fired from the department. The chief has already told me my job is on the line.” Wallace gave more of a grimace than a smile. Then, in an unusual request, he asked Charlie and Don to participate in Fairchild’s second interview.

  “Let me think about it, Wallace,” Charlie said, “I’d like to look at the witness statements first. How long is Franklin’s video?”

  “Almost an hour. We can take a look at that now,” Wallace suggested.

  In the video, Franklin was dressed in a prison-issue blue denim shirt. The strap of a sling crossed his shoulders in the medium-closeup shot. Charlie recognized the wall behind him as the one in his hospital room. He looked tired, had a full beard, and needed a haircut, but was otherwise himself.

  The off-camera questioner was Serena. Her first prompt to Franklin was to talk about the day Peter died. Franklin’s story didn’t hold any surprises as he recounted meeting Peter at Club Lenore and talked about the hours that followed. He described the trip to Peter’s apartment and his last memory before he was rendered unconscious.

  Peter was sick. About to vomit. I helped him to the bathroom. I didn’t hear the noise at the front door, but I felt someone behind me, and before I could turn around, I was hit. I felt my legs turn to rubber, and I blacked out. When I came to and lifted myself from the floor I found the money clip. I didn’t pick it up at first. I was confused and groggy. Then I saw part of the bathroom wall through the partially open door. I could see the blood. Then I saw Peter.

  Franklin’s head fell to his chest, and he wiped at his eyes. The camera stopped recording. When the tape picked up again, Franklin’s face was drawn. Off camera came a question from Serena: I want to clarify something you said. When you regained consciousness, you were lying on the carpet. You weren’t near the bathroom?

  No. I woke up in the living room area. Someone must have dragged me to the carpet. But then I made my way to the bathroom door. I was just standing there staring at Peter’s body and . . . and all the blood.

  Serena prompted again: Tell me more about the money clip.

  I knew it belonged to my father-in-law. I’d seen him pull it out of his pocket many times to tip a maître d’, or when he was buying some bigwig a drink. It was sort of buried in the rug. I was lying on top of it when I came to. The imprint of the dollar sign had left an indentation on my arm. The money clip is very distinctive, made of dozens of tiny diamonds.

  Franklin described fleeing Peter’s apartment without any idea where he was going. He didn’t know how long he walked before he decided to go to his father’s church. He had a key to the building and stayed there until the next morning when he went out to buy a coffee. Peter’s murder, and Franklin’s status as the primary suspect, was top news on the TV at the coffee shop. When the story mentioned his gun being found at Peter’s apartment, he realized he was being set up.

  I never use my gun except at the range. It’s for home protection. It’s kept in a locked safe in my den.

  The tape ended after Franklin described surrendering himself to Charlie, and recounted the gun attack that left him wounded, hospitalized, and arrested.

  “That’s pretty straightforward,” Charlie said.

  “I agree. We transported Rogers to Ionia immediately after the video was shot. He’s been checked in under an alias. We probably can’t keep his identity hidden for long, but he’s safe for now.”

  Charlie nodded. “Can we look at the statements of the hospital shooters now?”

  Both shooters admitted to being paid by an intermediary of Canadian businessman Robert Madison. One of them had been involved in the attack on Franklin as he exited the apartment complex on West Grand Boulevard with Charlie, and the other had taken the potshot at Don in Toronto. Both had worked with another man involved in the hospital attack. One of the shooters also admitted knowing about an additional assignment. I heard a guy talk about taking out some woman. There was like, a hit list.

  “Apparently, all these men know each other and Madison,” Wallace said. “The two have given us enough that our prosecutors are willing to make some kind of deal with them. I think they’ll be solid witnesses.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging,” Don agreed.

  “So what do you say, Charlie? Will you assist with the Fairchild interview? We only have two hours with the guy, and I want to make every minute count.”

  Chapter 27

  The butler was back on the job, and Charlie felt heady as he escorted her into Pamela Fairchild’s home for what she knew would be the final time. The last couple of days had been frantic. Wallace had discovered, and closed, the leak in his office—another detective in his unit. Wayne County prosecutors had cut deals with two of the hospital attackers for hard evidence against Robert Madison, and Madison had been arrested. Now to get Fairchild.

  Extra chairs had been brought i
nto the Fairchild family room. Charlie greeted Detective Wallace, a young attorney with the prosecutor’s office, and Don who had arrived before her. A police technician stood against the wall. Wallace and the prosecutor sat in armless straight chairs with their backs to the fireplace. Charlie sat next to Don across from Wallace and the young lawyer. The four outsiders faced each other like cowboys in a seated gunfight.

  The distance between the chairs didn’t facilitate private conversation, so they made small talk about the snow forecast for next week, the uncomfortable chairs, and the Pistons’ disappointing season.

  “Let’s trade seats,” Charlie said in a flash of inspiration.

  “You mean you want to sit closer to the fireplace?” Wallace asked.

  “No. No. What I’m suggesting is you and I sit together.”

  Wallace looked puzzled.

  “I see what you’re doing, Mack,” Don said. “You’re playing a race card.”

  “Fairchild has already played the race card by framing his black son-in-law for murder. I’m just doubling down. And, besides, this is going to be fun.”

  # # #

  Stan Fairchild entered the room followed by an attorney Charlie had seen in the society pages of the Free Press, and Crain’s Detroit Business. He was a law partner in an extremely expensive firm.

  Fairchild was dressed as if this was a shareholders meeting in his corporate board room. He scanned his visitors without making eye contact and sat in one of the armchairs. Charlie couldn’t help but admire his expensive gray leather shoes. The lawyer sat on the sofa across from his client.

  Wallace cleared his throat and signaled to the police technician, who approached Fairchild and waited.

  “Like before,” Wallace said. “Our technician will need to fit you with a microphone. May he proceed?”

  “Yes,” Fairchild said. His voice and movements reeked with annoyance.

  The technician attached a tiny black lavalier to Fairchild’s gray-and-white silk tie. He asked Fairchild to say a few words while he tested the audio levels on a laptop, which sat on the coffee table. He gave the okay sign to Wallace.

  “Are you ready to begin?” Wallace asked.

  The lawyer interrupted. “Before we do, I’d like to know why Ms. Mack and Mr. Rutkowski are here?”

  Charlie shot Don a ‘he knows who we are’ look. Don responded with a sophomoric smirk.

  “I requested their attendance. They’ve been working with the department on the Peter Fairchild murder case from the beginning. In fact, it was my understanding, from an earlier conversation with Mrs. Rogers, that it was Mr. Fairchild who suggested bringing in the Mack agency.”

  Very smart, Wallace, Charlie thought, giving a slight smile to the attorney.

  Fairchild’s response was an almost imperceptible glint of anger directed at Charlie. It was so slight that probably no one else in the room saw it, but Charlie recoiled as if a finger had been pointed in her face.

  “Well it’s highly unusual,” the attorney said.

  “I agree. But I believe this is a highly unusual situation,” Wallace countered, “and we’re following the parameters your client set for this set of interviews.”

  The young prosecutor also weighed in on the issue. “There was no mention of who could, or couldn’t, be involved in questioning Mr. Fairchild in his interview.”

  The high-priced attorney knew he had been outsmarted. He nodded to Fairchild and adjusted his posture on the sofa.

  “May we begin? Our two hours don’t start ticking until we’re recording,” Wallace said.

  “Yes, yes. Let’s just get this over with,” Fairchild said with a wave of his hand.

  Wallace nodded to the tech, who leaned over the mouse and double clicked the record button. Charlie saw the reflection of an illuminated red light.

  “This is Detective Maynard Wallace of the Detroit Police Department’s Homicide Division. I am with Stanford Fairchild; his attorney, Martin Conway; Wayne County Prosecutor Daniel DePriest; and Charlene Mack and Donald Rutkowski of Mack Private Investigations. I am conducting the last part of a two-part interview with Mr. Fairchild of Palm Beach, Florida, in case number 45767889, an investigation into the death of Mr. Peter Fairchild. It is 10:33 a.m. on Thursday, February 21, 2008.”

  Wallace began the questioning with statements made in Franklin’s hospital deposition.

  Fairchild deflected, denied, and dismissed the questions with short answers.

  “Despite what Franklin says, I really think the evidence speaks for itself,” Fairchild finally said.

  “What was your relationship with your son-in-law?” Wallace asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “How well did the two of you get along?”

  “We were cordial.”

  “Would you say you had a friendship with Mr. Rogers?”

  Fairchild gave a quick glance at Charlie, then his attorney.

  “Please answer the question,” Wallace said.

  “No. He wasn’t what I’d call a friend. But we spent time together during family affairs, and holidays, and such.”

  “Were you aware Mr. Rogers kept a handgun in the house?”

  “Yes, I was aware that he had a gun for protection.”

  “Did you have access to that gun?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who did have access?”

  “Well, other than Franklin, I imagine Pamela knew where the gun was kept.”

  “But you didn’t know where it was kept?”

  “I believe the gun was kept in a safe.”

  “Okay. Now I’d like to have your reaction to information we received earlier in the week.”

  Fairchild looked bored. He crossed one leg over the other and drank water from the crystal goblet on the table next to him. He cleared his throat.

  “Now we know you may balk at this next question, and call it attorney-client privilege, but we have filed for an exemption here,” Wallace said to Fairchild’s attorney. “A deposition by Caesar Sturdivant’s attorney indicates that you met with his client the day before your son’s murder. Is that true?”

  Fairchild’s attorney made a note, but said, “You may answer the question, please, Mr. Fairchild.”

  “I don’t know this Sturdivant person, and I’ve never met with him.”

  “In a direct conversation with Mr. Rutkowski, a Toronto police detective, and his attorney, Mr. Sturdivant claims you paid him several thousand dollars to assist in the murder of Peter Fairchild. Do you have any comment about that?”

  “That’s absurd. I am not involved in my son’s murder. In fact, I’m aware that you’re in possession of a note from Ms. Scanlon implicating Franklin in a horrible accidental shooting and cover-up.”

  Fairchild’s snobbery and finger-pointing angered Charlie, so she fired the next accusation.

  “Sturdivant confessed on his death bed that you paid him five thousand dollars in cash to work with Karen Scanlon.”

  “Why would I possibly do that?” Fairchild raised his voice. “I told you I don’t know Sturdivant, and I barely knew the Scanlon woman.”

  Fairchild lifted his glass for another swallow of water. They were getting to him.

  “Your money clip was found at Peter’s apartment. Franklin recovered it when he regained consciousness,” Charlie pressed.

  “What does that prove?” the high-priced attorney interjected. “That clip could have been dropped at any time. Peter might have been the one to drop it, or maybe Mr. Fairchild left it there during a visit.”

  Fairchild smiled smugly.

  “Mr. Fairchild,” Wallace said. “Perhaps you’re unaware that one of the men arrested in the planned hospital attack against Franklin Rogers says he was hired by a business associate of yours. Robert Madison.”

  Fairchild’s attorney, with a nervous look, jotted a note.

  Wallace had been playing with Fairchild the way a cat swipes at a captured mouse. They’d all discussed how satisfying it would be to let
Fairchild think his money and power could subvert justice. The plan was to string Fairchild along with questions that no longer mattered. Listen to his answers filled with lies and omissions. Then go in for the kill.

  Days before, Robert Madison had laid out the whole plan, naming Fairchild as the architect in a conspiracy to kill his son and later those who could implicate him. Madison had the recorded conversations to prove it. It was Madison who had hired the men who killed Scanlon and faked her suicide, who bribed a Toronto prison guard to deliver a knife to an inmate in Sturdivant’s cell block, and who failed in two attempts on Franklin’s life.

  Wallace, the department, and prosecutors had all the evidence they needed to separate Fairchild from his money, his business, and the reputation he’d spent all his life flaunting in the faces of those he considered lesser. Those people included Franklin and, sadly, his own son.

  “Why did you hate your son?” Charlie asked, startling the room.

  Fairchild’s face shifted from cool boredom to vein-pulsing furious. “How dare you speak to me that way, you . . .”

  “Careful, Stan,” the attorney said, leaning toward his client.

  “How dare you, sir,” Charlie said. “Admit it. Peter never lived up to your standards. He confided to many people that he could never earn your love.”

  “That’s enough, Ms. Mack,” Fairchild’s attorney said.

  “No. It’s not nearly enough. Not when men like your client are so self-important, so egotistical, so manipulative, they believe they have the power of life and death.”

  Charlie returned her ire to Fairchild. “No matter what Peter did to please you, it was never enough. He wasn’t like you. He wasn’t hard and efficient and as shrewd as you. You would rather see him dead than be embarrassed by him again. What did he do this time? Did he ask one of your friends for money? Use your name to gain some favor without telling you?”

  Fairchild flushed red with rage. He stood, shaking, and his hands tightened into fists. Charlie stood too, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the sudden movement. There was no time to react as Sharon Fairchild slipped through the door with the fleetness of a cheetah and crossed the room to her husband’s side. The sound of the shot and the flash were simultaneous. Wallace, Charlie, and Don sprang toward the woman. But they weren’t fast enough to grab the gun before a second shot rang out. Charlie grasped Sharon’s arm and wrenched the pistol from her shaking hands as Pamela rushed in from the private quarters.