by David Grace
“Ancient history. I left the Marshals almost seven years ago.” She glanced past him at the dwindling parade of travelers. “Let’s get your bag,” she said. “We can catch up later,” and turned away. Quinn paused for a moment then hurried after her. When he caught up she gave him a tight smile and increased her pace.
“What carousel are your bags coming in on?”
“Ahh, two,” he said.
“OK. Baggage is this way.” She pointed vaguely ahead of them and moved forward leaving Virgil to follow in her wake.
“So, you’re with the DPD?” he asked once they had positioned themselves at the edge of the carousel.
“I joined up in 2010,” she told him with an almost embarrassed smile then quickly turned away, apparently enthralled by the motionless ring of stainless steel.
What the hell is going on with her? Virgil wondered. He half opened his lips to say something then decided to let it go, for now.
“Did they feed you on the plane?” She asked a few minutes later when the bags from flight 1315 first began to tumble off the belt.
“I passed up the $10 ham sandwich. I’m still on California time anyway.” A patch of color caught his eye and Quinn leaned forward and grabbed his suitcase.
“I’ve got a unit parked outside.” She turned toward the wall of glass doors, leaving Quinn to trail along behind.
“The Department’s got you booked into the Doubletree in Fort Shelby. That’s about three blocks from headquarters,” she told him as they pulled onto the ramp for the eastbound I-94. “I thought we’d get you checked in. We can have dinner if you’d like,” she said in a voice that told him she was hoping that he’d say “no.”
“What can you tell me about what I’m supposed to be doing here?”
“The brass has a briefing set up for you in the morning. They’ll give you the whole rundown.”
“So, you’re not going to tell me what this is all about? Is it a secret?”
“No, of course not,” Janet said, forcing a laugh. “It’s just that they’ve got their dog and pony show all planned out and, umm, hell, you don’t want to have to go through all that crap twice, do you?”
“Sure,” Virgil said after a half-second’s pause. “Right.”
For the next few minutes Janet concentrated on driving then pulled her Department Malibu into the Doubletree on Lafayette.
“Is there anything you need?”
“It’s been a long day,” Virgil said and unsnapped his belt. “I think I’ll just unpack and call room service. You said the DPD’s picking up the tab?”
“Right, but you probably don’t want to order the lobster and a bottle of champagne. The city’s barely out of bankruptcy, you know.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself. Well, thanks,” Virgil said, stepping out then leaning back in to shake Janet’s limp hand.
“Sure. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Eight-thirty?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Virgil closed the door and extracted his suitcase and carry-on from the trunk. Staring straight ahead Janet pulled back into traffic before he had even cleared the hotel’s front doors.
What the hell? he asked himself for the second time then strode inside.
* * *
Janet appeared at exactly eight-thirty in the same dark blue, city Chevy. Virgil was waiting for her at the hotel’s front doors and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Who’s going to be at the meeting?”
“There’s been a change of plan,” she said as she pulled into traffic. “The Mayor wants to talk to you first.”
“The Mayor? I thought this was about some home-invasion gang. What’s that got to do with the Mayor?”
“There are some political aspects to this,” Janet said, then concentrated on changing lanes.
“Jesus, Janet, what the hell is going on?”
“The Mayor’s going to explain it all to you.”
“I’m not talking about the goddamn Mayor! I’m talking about you.”
“I don’t know what–”
“Don’t give me that crap! We were partners for two years and now you’re treating me like some stranger who you’re afraid is going to steal your wallet.”
Janet bit her lip and for several seconds gave all her attention to the traffic.
“A lot’s happened,” she finally said as she turned onto Woodward, “and we don’t have the time to go into it right now. That’s City Hall.” She pointed at a glass and concrete tower ahead of them. “Just let Grantham say what he’s got to say and later . . . later we can have a talk. OK?”
“Sure,” Virgil said, “OK, fine. You said his name is Grantham? Is there anything you can tell me about him?”
She stopped and showed her ID to the guard then headed into the garage. “The Honorable Charles Everett Grantham, AKA ‘Big Charlie,’ was the President of the Detroit City Council and became the Mayor by default when his predecessor, Herbert Freeman, resigned for ‘health reasons,’“ Janet’s tone put verbal quote marks around the words ‘health reasons.’ “Three weeks later he was indited by a federal grand jury. To save money the City Council scheduled the Mayor’s special election to coincide with the national election this November. Charlie Grantham is one of nine candidates but only two of them count, Grantham and City Councilman Sammy Theriot.”
Janet pulled into a space marked “Official Vehicles Only” and turned off the engine.
“What’s he like? What does he want from me?”
Janet twisted sideways and looked at her watch.
“OK, we’ve only got a couple of minutes so I’ve got to keep this brief. Grantham was a real estate developer, which is a hard way to make any money in this town, but he did it. He’s supposed to be worth a couple of hundred million. Then he got the political bug and ran for city council on a ‘Politicans are all crooks’ platform. Three years later here he is.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Quinn said, throwing up his hands. “What kind of a guy is he?”
“They call him the Black Donald Trump if that helps you any.”
“So he’s an egomaniacal asshole. What does he want from me?”
Janet glanced at her watch. “We’ve got to go,” she said and opened her door. Virgil had to jog to catch up.
“Janet, tell–”
“His philosophy is that good people have jobs, pay their own way and obey the rules,” she said while they waited for the elevator. “Everybody else deserves to take it in the ass. He got elected on a law and order platform and these home-invasion murders are making him look bad. He wants them stopped before the election. That’s why you’re here.”
The door whined open and Janet led Virgil inside where she punched the button for the eleventh floor.
“That doesn’t explain how I got here. Why me?”
“Why you? You called out that scumbag lawyer on the Internet. You’re a star.”
“You’re saying that Grantham saw the video and said, ‘I want him’?” Virgil asked as the car slowed to a stop.
“I saw the video,” Janet said in almost a whisper. “I knew you would be in trouble with the Service and I called Kenner–” The doors slid open and a short, thin white man took a step toward them.
“Captain Tanner,” he said, nodding to Janet. He extended his hand toward Virgil. “You must be Marshal Quinn. I’m Mayor Grantham’s Chief Of Staff, Peter Fineman. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” Virgil said, taking care not to bruise Fineman’s delicate fingers.
“Well,” Fineman said, glancing at his watch, “let’s get you in to meet Mayor Grantham.” Janet started to follow but Fineman stopped her. “Captain Tanner, would you mind waiting here for Marshal Quinn? He won’t be long.”
“No, problem,” Janet said but Fineman had already moved on and opened the Mayor’s door.
Charlie Grantham looked up from his precisely organized desk and examined Quinn like a horse trainer appraising an animal he was considering buying. After a moment he stood and pace
d around the desk. At six feet five and two-hundred ninety pounds Quinn understood why people called him ‘Big Charlie.’ Grantham reached out with a hand the size and color of a catcher’s mitt then motioned Quinn to a chair opposite a leather couch.
“Did Tanner tell you why you’re here?” Grantham asked, settling into the couch while Fineman took a chair off to one side.
“Just that you’ve got a problem with some home-invasion robberies and you think I might be able to help you with it.”
Grantham stared at Quinn for a long heartbeat as if mentally adding up a string of numbers in his head, then seemed to come to some decision.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, waving his right hand at Virgil’s chest. “There are winners and losers in this world. Winners are good and losers are bad. Winners advance civilization. Losers tear it down. I’m here to protect the winners from the losers. Drug addicts – losers. People who sit on their ass all day and get welfare – losers. Criminals – big losers. People who help drug addicts, slackers and criminals – the enemy. Based on what you told that lawyer when you thought nobody was watching I figure you feel the same way.” Grantham waited a moment for Virgil to respond, then shrugged and carried on. “You’re not kissing up to me. I like that. I’ve got enough kiss-ups around me already.” Grantham shot a glance in Fineman’s direction.
“Handling the kiss-ups is my job, Marshal,” Fineman said with a little smile, though Virgil wasn’t so sure that was the message Grantham’s look was meant to convey.
“Successful people elected me to the City Council because I told them that I was going to fight for them and against the losers, and they’re expecting me to give them a city where a bunch of thugs aren’t going to kill citizens in their beds. That’s where you come in.” Grantham pointed his finger at Virgil’s chest.
“You want me to find your home invaders,” Virgil said. It wasn’t a question.
“I want you to end the home invaders. I want them gone before election day.”
“Mayor, I’m not a–”
Grantham waved Virgil to a stop. “You’re a specialist in finding people. You’re a man hunter. I want you to hunt them down. You’ll have the rank of DPD Lieutenant. Technically, you’ll report to Captain Tanner, but since you two were partners in the Marshals’ Service I’m figuring that you’ll partner up here too to get the job done. You’ll have the department’s full support. If you need something you call Peter,” Grantham nodded at his assistant, “and he’ll make sure you get it. Any questions?” Grantham asked, giving Virgil a hard stare.
“Nope.”
“Good. Tanner will handle any issues with the DPD. Keep me apprised of your progress.” Grantham eased himself out of the half-deflated couch and headed back to his desk. Apparently the meeting was over. Fineman led Virgil to the door.
“Here’s my card with my office number and my work cell,” Peter said once they were back in the lobby. “I’ve written my home number and my personal cell number on the back. You can call me anytime, day or night.”
Virgil slipped the card into his shirt pocket and paused to shake Fineman’s hand, but the little man was already turning toward his office. Janet waited until Fineman was gone then crossed the room and joined Virgil in front of the elevator.
“How’d it go with Adolf and Little Joe?” she asked with a twisted smile once the doors had closed.
“Swell,” Virgil said with a shake of his head. “What’s next?”
“I’ll drive you over to headquarters to meet my squad. Then we’ll take you through all the case files and you can tell us how we’re going to catch these guys.”
“Yeah, right,” Virgil muttered. “We still need to do some catching up, you and me,” Virgil said as Janet backed the Chevy out of the space.
“Yeah, I know. Let’s get through the meeting with the brass and the guys on the squad first. Tonight we’ll have that dinner and I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Janet promised, but to herself she whispered Almost anything.
Chapter Thirteen
It was a typical squad room, a small glassed-in boss’s office at one end, two rows of gray, steel desks down the middle, file cabinets, a copier, a mini-fridge and a coffee station against one wall. When Quinn entered, the detectives put on their poker faces while trying to figure out if he was some asshole Fed who was there to tell them how to do their jobs, get in the way, and then take the credit for any successes but none of the blame if it all turned to shit.
Quinn smiled, nodded through the introductions and made a mental note to get a two-sentence bio on each of the team members before the end of the day. Janet had called her boss when they reached the Department of Public Safety garage and he appeared a couple of minutes after she introduced Virgil to her team.
In contrast to most of the detectives’ baggy sport coats and scuffed shoes, Deputy Chief Raymond Rogers looked like he had just stepped out of an ad in GQ. He wore a charcoal gray suit with thin, lighter gray stripes, a red and black rep tie and a starched shirt so white that it almost glowed. All the detectives stood when Rogers entered the room.
“Virgil, this is our boss, Deputy Chief Raymond Rogers. Chief, this is Deputy U.S. Marshal Virgil Quinn.”
Rogers gave Quinn a tight smile that didn’t make it from his lips to his eyes.
“Mr. Quinn, glad you could join us,” Rogers said, briefly shaking Quinn’s hand.
Mister Quinn, Virgil thought.
“Same here,” Virgil said, deliberately omitting Rogers’ rank.
Rogers’ smile tightened a millimeter and he glanced at Janet.
“Let me give you a run down on the men we’re after,” he said turning toward Tanner’s office. Once inside he sat behind Janet’s desk and they settled into the two steel chairs that filled most of the rest of the available space.
“You know we don’t normally give badges to people who haven’t been processed through our system,” he said, staring at Quinn, “but the acting Mayor,” he said the word “acting” like it was the name of a disease, “ordered special privileges for you. As instructed, here are your badge and ID. Captain Tanner supplied us with the picture. I hope it meets with your approval.”
Rogers slid a leather credentials folder across the desk. Virgil opened it and made a show of studying the photo.
“That’s not my best side. I think I look a little stern there . . . .” Quinn watched the frown creep across Rogers’ face, “but I guess it’ll do.”
“Excellent,” Rogers said in a clipped tone. “Do you need a weapon?”
“I’ll use my Glock.”
“All right then,” Rogers said, standing. “I think we’re done here. Captain, I’ll expect daily reports on your progress.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stiff as a board, eyes looking neither left nor right, Rogers marched through the squad room and out the door.
“Is he pissed at you or at me?” Virgil asked.
“Both. They initially hired me to be the liaison between the Felony Fugitive Squad and the Marshals, DEA and FBI. Things went well and about three years ago my boss, Hank Vergari, made me squad whip. Promoting a woman and somebody from outside the department to lieutenant didn’t sit well with Rogers but Vergari and I had a good relationship and he pushed it through. Then a couple of months ago Hank left early to see the doctor and he never came back. Kidney disease. He’s on dialysis twice a week now and they’re looking for a transplant. Rogers wanted to bring in one of his buddies to take over the squad, but he didn’t have a good reason to pass me over. He still tried to get rid of me, but someone whispered the words ‘gender discrimination lawsuit’ into the City Attorney’s ear and Rogers was overruled. As for you . . . .”
“I’m an outsider and a Fed and the Mayor shoved me down his throat. Three strikes.” Virgil glanced at the squad room and a couple of detectives quickly looked away. “Is he going to try to screw us?”
Janet laughed. “He can’t do anything before the election, but if Sammy Theriot wins,
we’re toast.”
“Rogers is supporting Theriot?”
“That’s his only play. He’s getting no love from the Chief. A new Mayor might mean a new chief and Rogers figures that if he helps Theriot get elected the new Mayor might give him the top job.”
“So, we’ve got about two months to find these guys.”
“More or less,” Janet agreed.
“OK, then I guess we’d better get started.”
Janet took a breath then led Virgil into the squad room.
“Gather around, everybody,” Janet told her detectives. “We need to bring Virgil up to speed on these animals. Stan, you want to give him the rundown?”
A doughy detective with a walrus mustache and barrel chest moved to the front of the room. He dragged a whiteboard from the left-hand wall then flipped it over to expose a complicated network of lines, pictures and not a few question marks. Virgil somehow remembered that the detective’s last name was ‘Kudlacik.’
“We’ve got a crew of between five and seven guys,” he began, tapping a box in the upper left-hand corner labeled ‘Mad Dogs.’ “It’s hard to say for sure because they make a habit of killing all the witnesses. We’ve got one eleven-year-old kid who somehow managed to survive two gunshot wounds who says it was four guys, he thinks, but that wouldn’t include anyone they might have left outside in the vehicles. A neighbor at a different location saw two vehicles, a van and a sedan, and she thinks that the driver never left the van. So, it could be four inside and one outside, but that’s mostly guesswork. It could be five guys inside and two drivers outside or more or less than four guys inside and zero, one or two drivers outside so, for now, we’re going with five to seven perps.”
“And,” Janet broke in, “it could be different participants on different jobs. There could be ten guys in the gang and the number and the participants varies depending on the target and which gang members are available at any given time.” Janet paused for a moment then nodded. “Go ahead, Stan.”