The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1)

by T. V. LoCicero

  Instead, he was gazing at a wallet-sized snap shot of his dead son Tom. And then seemingly out of nowhere, an image suddenly popped into his head of Tommy at 21 months, clamped in his car seat in the back of their old Pontiac, watching with those big brown eyes out the window at a brilliant autumn afternoon as they cruised through their old neighborhood in suburban Pleasant Ridge. It was lined with modest homes and all those big red and yellow Oaks and Maples. And filled with the boy’s delight, his little voice had announced, “Daddy, the trees are flowers!”

  He had known then that his first-born son had the soul of a poet.

  And now following immediately was an intensely vivid memory of how he had so often felt at moments like that, with Tommy and, of course, with the other kids as well. A totally desperate and hopeless love that let him know without a doubt that he could not survive the news of something awful happening to one of his children.

  In those days, if some random, nightmare thought occurred involving one of the kids, he was simply not able to hold it in his mind. His brain would reel away in terror. He could not bear it. Over the years, as the children had grown older and seemingly a bit less vulnerable, that feeling had abated slightly, or at least occurred a bit less often.

  Until that unthinkable August day a year ago when the nightmare had actually happened. And he had, in the end, not fallen apart.

  Over the next days, weeks and months he had continued to hold it together, for Marci, Jen and Bobby, for friends too moved or worried to know what to say, and yes, for the tough, unyielding public persona that over the years had actually become part of how he saw himself.

  In the end, perhaps, the most powerful motive force had been a fear that never left him, that had simply not allowed thinking or feeling much about his son, that had always threatened to confirm the haunting old certainty that losing a child was something he could not endure.

  So many times in the past year he had stopped himself from replaying memories like, “Daddy, the trees are flowers!” Until just the past several days when on the island that locked door had begun to crack open.

  Now his first tears since the funeral were running on his cheeks. And he simply let them come.

  Chapter 74

  The bright mid-morning sun’s gleam on the Airport Ramada’s once-white walls only revealed their grime. Next to the dirty Ranger pickup in the parking area in front of Room 17 was the blue, unmarked Channel 5 van. And moving into the parking lot now was the red Viper. Rolling slowly until it got close to the pickup, it then wheeled into an adjacent empty spot, roared and shut down.

  Out of the roadster popped Andy in jeans and a windbreaker. He looked around, then called to the security guy, who was up out of his chair with a cigarette, “Frank told me to bring it here.”

  The guy took a drag. “Yeah, he said.”

  Andy looked back one last time at the Viper, then climbed into his pickup. He leaned down for the keys under the seat and then took three tries at the ignition to get it started.

  Chapter 75

  The good-sized interior of Room 17 was so jammed with people and equipment that it now seemed only a small, cramped space. In his navy suit and red tie, Frank leaned forward on a straight-back chair, leafing through pages of notes. On a tripod over his right shoulder was a Beta Cam, manned until two minutes ago by Marty, who had announced he had to take a leak.

  Two stand lights were shining at a second straight-back chair occupied by Anthony Peoples, his long, narrow hands fidgeting in his lap.

  The bulky black audio tech James had clipped a mike to a lapel of the frayed brown sport coat Peoples was wearing over a black t-shirt. Sitting on one of the beds next to his audio equipment, tape boxes and colored lighting gel, James put his headset on and gazed at the portable monitor occupying the other bed with the image of Anthony Peoples on screen. Also on that bed sat the second security guard, hunched over but keeping his eye on the door. Marty finally came back to his camera, gazed into the eyepiece and made sure of his focus.

  Frank was still looking at his notes. “How we doin’, Marty?”

  “Give it five seconds, Frank, and I’ll have speed.”

  Frank glanced up at the security guard. “Luke, for this part I’d like you to sit outside with your partner and keep us safe and sound.”

  Luke nodded and went to the door. “Okay, Frank.”

  Once the door closed, Frank picked up a Hi-8 videotape cassette from the bed next to him. “So, Anthony, let’s get to how this videotape was made.”

  Anthony nodded but said nothing.

  “First, tell me how this meeting with Judge O’Bryan and your attorney Sam Dworkin was arranged.”

  “Okay, well, like I said, I told Dworkin I got the fifty grand, all in twenties and such—like he said the judge wanted. But I said I won’t do the deal less I can give it to the judge myself. And with him there too.”

  “You mean Dworkin.”

  “Right. The judge and Dworkin. Cause I said I need to see the judge take the money and say I’m getting’ off. And Dworkin I wanted so I’m not accused by the judge of tryin’ to bribe.”

  “And they agreed to this?”

  “Yeah, well, first they said no. No way. I should put the cash in a bag and bring it to Dworkin’s office. So I says then no deal. I’ll just be takin’ my chances and get me a different attorney. Cause I’m innocent of this shit anyway.”

  Frank’s face did a quick grimace. “Again, Anthony, I know this is emotional stuff for you, but if you can avoid using the vulgarisms, we won’t have to bleep you and we’ll both be better off.”

  Peoples nodded. “Sorry.”

  “So anyway, you said no deal, and they changed their mind?”

  “Yeah, they changed it, but not right away. Took about two weeks, and Sam kept sayin’ the case against me was strong, was gonna put me away for good, never see my family again, all kinda bullshit.” Peoples shook his head. “I mean lies.”

  Frank grinned. “It’s okay, Anthony. In the meantime you’re talking with the prosecutor, Mr. Gant. And he’s telling you what?”

  “Well, Gant, he already told me there’s no good case on me. And he says, just hold on, their greed is gonna get ‘em. They are just too greedy to pass on fifty grand.”

  “Okay, so tell me something, Anthony. Why did you do this? Why agree to cooperate with Gant?”

  Peoples shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

  “I mean you were putting yourself in some jeopardy. And as it turned out, you lost your family over this. So why do it?”

  The grooves in his black face getting blacker, Peoples twisted a bit in the chair. “I dunno. Maybe I got greedy.”

  “Greedy?”

  “Yeah. Cause Gant said he would get me a job, a good one.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “He said investigator for the prosecutor’s office.”

  “So you did it for the job, to support your family, for the security that a good job would mean.”

  “Yeah, well, Juanita, my wife had a job. She was workin’ at the bank and doin’ okay. She was basically supportin’ us. And I couldn’t find much of nothin’ in this town.”

  Frank looked into the black man’s face, those haunted eyes staring at the floor. “So anyway, Anthony, the judge finally agrees. What happened at this meeting?”

  Peoples looked up finally and gathered himself. “Well, I go to the courthouse like they said, with this bag fulla cash. Gant said it was all marked and all. And I went to the judge’s courtroom and the bailiff, you know, the po-lice that works with the judge there, he put me through the metal detector they got for the courtroom.”

  “To make sure you’re not armed or wired or something. So then what happens?”

  “So then he takes me through the courtroom to the judge’s office, off the hallway in the back there, behind the courtroom. And we did the deal.”

  “Okay, before we get to what everybody said, tell me how this was videotaped.”

  “Yeah
, well, Gant, he figured the judge wouldn’t want any place but his own chambers, like in his office there. And Gant knew about this janitor’s closet off the hall and right next to the judge’s office. And in the middle of the night, I guess, they hid this little TV camera in there and cut this little hole in the wall.”

  “And they were able to get what happened with you and the judge and Dworkin on tape?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what they did, just like you saw.”

  Chapter 76

  At the back end of the Ramada lot, the fellow wearing the hooded sweatshirt over a ball cap slouched in the black Taurus. With the seatback lowered so only the top of his hood was visible, he could still look through the steering wheel at the Viper, the unmarked Channel 5 van, and the entrance to Room 17. The electronic buzz of a car phone cut the silence.

  “Yeah. (pause) They’re still in there. (pause) If they come out together, I could... (pause) Yeah, the rent-a-boys are still here. But anything we do now’s gonna be messy. You shoulda let me do him last night. (pause) Okay.”

  He clicked off the phone, put it down and thought, yeah, very messy indeed. Last night was the time, even with the rent-a-boys there. But he and the judge were not on the same page. Maybe there’d still be a chance to do the newsboy on his way back to the station.

  Of course, it was only dumb fucking luck they were in this fix at all. The idiot Peoples was supposed to have his family out of town, and the pea-brained big mouth Byrd should have been at the bottom of the river a long time ago.

  Still, he had the exit plan. Just head for his little 21-foot runabout at the marina in St. Clair Shores, buzz across the lake to enter Canada unnoticed by docking at a friend’s cottage, and then drive the old clunker he kept there into the wilds of the north woods. With a pile of cash and new ID documents good enough to let him globe trot anywhere he wanted.

  But the fact was, with another few years to feed the kitty in the Caymans, he’d then be in a much better position to keep himself comfortable into a pleasant old age. So if there was any chance to keep the current deal working, he had to take it.

  Picking up the binoculars, he moved them in a slow scan past the Viper and the van, and just as he got to room 17 and the guards smoking, the door opened and Frank came out carrying the garment bag.

  The guards apparently wanted to shake his hand, and Frank obliged. As he walked to the Viper, he looked around, but his gaze slid right past the Taurus.

  Chapter 77

  Opening the Viper’s driver side door, he tossed the bag inside and climbed in. A reach under the seat produced the keys. Backing out of the parking space, he headed for the driveway. By the time he reached the street, the Taurus was moving.

  Quickly on his car phone, he traveled a busy surface street leading away from the airport and heading for I-94.

  “Fay, I’m 20 minutes away. You won’t believe what I’ve got to show you. (Pause) Yeah, we’re gonna blow this old town wide open. (Pause) Look, I didn’t want to say anything until I was absolutely sure of it. And I’m not saying anything now, the way these phones broadcast. It’ll have to wait ‘til I see you. Just tell Dennis I’ve got a wet dream with Peoples. I’ll need at least the first two blocks, maybe three.”

  He moved the Viper onto the eastbound ramp to I-94, at the moment more focused on this phone conversation than on anything else in his world, and oblivious to the Taurus keeping pace two cars behind.

  In the freeway’s light traffic both cars were soon moving past the 70 mph speed limit, the Viper sailing down the middle lane.

  “No, this story can’t wait.” (pause) “No, believe me, there are lives at stake here.”

  For some reason—perhaps the echoing import of what he had just said—he glanced at the right-side mirror and was shocked to find a black sedan racing up so fast, it would be on him in a second or two. Turning back over his right shoulder, he saw the black Taurus pulling even and in its open window, pointing directly at his face, was the barrel of a large black handgun,

  ”Shit!” he screamed, dropping the phone, ducking and jerking the wheel to the left just as a hooded guy with black wraparounds fired the gun, and the Viper’s passenger side window exploded. Tires screeched, a second shot cracked and metal screamed against concrete as the Viper glanced off the median divider. Wrestling with the wheel, he barely managed to keep the car on four wheels as it swerved wildly between lanes and the Taurus was forced to back off.

  Finally, pointing the Viper’s nose down the freeway, he jammed the accelerator to the floor, and the roadster roared away. For a few seconds, as he glanced in the rear view mirror, the Taurus looked almost as if it were parked.

  “Jesus Christ, Fay, are you there?” He glanced at the glass shards in his lap and spotted the phone on the floor in two pieces, the battery dislodged from its impact against the dash.

  Within seconds there were vehicles ahead to deal with, two sedans and a pickup in the left and center lanes and a semi in the right. All of them were doing no more than the limit. A look in the mirror showed the black Taurus closing the distance between them, so he swerved to the right, used the paved shoulder to pass the semi, then floored it again as the trucker blared his horn.

  “Yeah, I know, buddy.”

  His heart was still pounding in his chest, but for two minutes he had nearly clear sailing, easily blowing past several cars and trucks, the speedometer pegged past 130. With an exit coming, a glance in the mirror told him that the gunman in the Taurus, though quite a ways back, could still see him leaving. The freeway seemed the better bet.

  But where the hell were the cops when you needed them, the blue state police bubbletops or those sneaky black unmarked jobs that were always lurking on the median or behind a bridge abutment? How about a flasher or a siren right now?

  No such luck.

  What about the phone? As he tried to reach for it, he knew he’d have to slow considerably to grab and put it back together. Forget it.

  Another glance at the mirror showed the Taurus just a speck back there, but just as he started to breathe more easily, he sailed around a curve, and, suddenly, not far ahead he was staring at a heart-stopping collection of taillights. Braking hard enough to squeal and lose rubber, he tried to sit tall to gauge the size of the jam. It looked massive.

  “Fuck!”

  Swinging hard to the right, he flew recklessly up the shoulder past row after row of jammed vehicles, for at least a half-mile. Then ahead he saw others who had tried this same tactic, and their taillights were beginning to flash. With a glance in the mirror he saw several vehicles that were following him up the shoulder. Then stomping on the brake pedal, he got the Viper to a sliding, screeching halt, barely avoiding the rear end of the last in a line of five now stopped on the shoulder by a bridge repair project. Twisting for a look back, he spotted the Taurus also skidding to a stop on the shoulder, maybe six cars back.

  Frozen for a second, considering his options, he finally bolted. Running between cars and trucks he looked back to find the guy with the wrap-arounds and black hood climbing out of the Taurus and heading after him. A knife point of panic stabbing at his chest, he raced ahead, trying to run flat out for the first time in how long? His body felt awkward and strange—the muscle memory remained from years ago, but the execution seemed stiff and labored. One more backward glance showed the black-clad guy gaining on him.

  “Move!” he screamed at himself, and finally, after more than a minute, his lungs on fire, his running mechanics on the verge of break down, he spotted open freeway ahead of the jam. Cops! Of course, cops would be working to free the jam and ready to help him avoid the intention of the asshole in black.

  But after several more strides, there were no flashers, no bubble tops, no cops! Just a few helpful citizens trying to direct the removal of a couple of lightly dented sedans to the shoulder. They had just about made it as he reached the head of the jam, and the impatient drivers in front were already beginning to move.

  He headed for the le
ft lane, but it was moving the fastest, and the drivers, intent on escape, hardly looked at him. Fear clutching him, he wheeled and found himself face to face with a bearded fellow in construction garb behind the wheel of an ancient Ford pickup. The guy was grinning at him through an open window, lit up with recognition but cool, as if it was an everyday occurrence to find his favorite local TV anchor stranded in the middle of a busy freeway.

  “Hey, Frank, you’re my guy!”

  “Well, buddy, how about a lift?”

  “Really? Sure, man. Hop in.”

  Frank was already moving around the front of the truck to the passenger door. He yanked it open and hopped in, yelling, “Hit it, pal, there’s a guy back there trying to kill me.”

  He slammed the door, his new best friend floored it, and they squealed away. With a glance back, he saw the hooded asshole running hard but still three cars back, his hand beginning to emerge from under his sweatshirt. Within seconds, it sounded like the old pickup had backfired, but the rear window was shattered and its windshield badly cracked. The two new friends were covered with glass.

  “Holy fuckin’ christ!” screamed the driver, still jamming the accelerator to the floor. “You weren’t kidding!”

  “No, I wasn’t,” said Frank over the speeding truck’s weird, throaty roar. Sneaking another look back, he saw the asshole, engulfed in traffic now, stowing the gun under his sweatshirt.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the windows.”

  “Christ, Frank, how about a new fuckin’ truck!”

  Chapter 78

  Only a handful of people were in the WTEM newsroom at this hour. Dennis and Francine were eating sandwiches and drinking Cokes. Holding up a Detroit News, she read the headline aloud. “‘Frank is...Frank!’ Yeah, brilliant. So clever.”