Catch Me When I'm Falling

by Cheryl A Head

  Charlie sat upright and was winding up for a comeback, when Don responded. “Mack is very good at whatever she does, Travers. But your concern is appreciated.”

  Travers shifted his eyes between the two investigators, getting a resolute stare-down. Scott got up for another cup of coffee and threw a question over his shoulder.

  “You want to know about Monty Valenzuela?”

  Charlie moved to the sink to dump her bad coffee. “Yes. We’ll take whatever info you have.”

  “This is the file we have on him,” Travers said, shoving a folder to Don. “We’ve had Monty on our radar for almost two years.”

  As Charlie peered over Don’s shoulder, she could feel Travers’ eyes on her, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her attention. She pointed to a note a third of the way down the first page.

  “That’s interesting,” Charlie said, retaking her seat.

  “He’s been arrested thirteen times but never prosecuted?” Don asked Scott.

  “Remember I told you about the gangs using minors? We’ve never caught him directly committing a crime. He pays for good lawyers, and nobody will testify against him.”

  “What do you make of a DPD officer’s transaction with one of the L2D gang, Captain Travers?”

  Charlie’s question startled Travers. He’d been staring again, but the lock of her eyes caught him off guard.

  “I’m not sure you saw a transaction.”

  “I told you exactly what I saw. There was a handoff of something. Money, drugs, a love note?” Charlie said sarcastically.

  Travers wasn’t amused. “As you know, Ms. Mack, the DPD is under a lot of scrutiny by federal law enforcement agencies, and the department’s reputation is under a cloud.”

  “And much of the negative press has been justified,” Charlie interjected.

  “I’m part of an internal task force revamping our policies. We’ve cleaned house of those who were involved in wrongdoing.”

  “The ones you know about,” Charlie countered

  “. . . and we’ve put safeguards in place to monitor the actions of our officers.”

  “And what if this isn’t just a rogue cop?”

  “What are you implying Ms. Mack?”

  The conversation had gotten louder with each back and forth, and when Charlie stood and placed her hands on the back of her chair, Travers stood too. That’s when Don also lifted from his chair in a protective mode. Only Detective Scott was still in his seat. He pushed his chair back from the table more loudly than necessary, and the other three turned toward the sound.

  “Ms. Mack may have a point, Captain,” Scott said.

  “What?”

  “There’s been a rumor for a while that Monty has someone on the inside at DPD. We’ve raided his place a few times, and it always seemed he’d been warned.”

  “Why haven’t I heard about this before?” Travers asked indignantly.

  Scott shrugged. Charlie folded into her chair. Travers and Don exchanged a look, and sat down almost simultaneously. Scott opened the file in front of Don and placed a single page into the middle of the table for the others to see.

  “See right here,” Scott pointed. “The first raid was early last year. The Wayne State police alerted us to activity at the house on Wabash. A few weeks later, the gang squad and drug unit did a joint operation. There were even a couple of DEA agents along. We rounded up seven juveniles, Monty, and three women. There were also two infants in the house. We were in that house for six hours and found zero drugs. Not even a joint.”

  “Somebody tipped him off,” Don said to himself more than to the group.

  “We did a second raid around Christmas. Monty wasn’t even there that time. Again, no drugs. No guns. We impounded a couple of the cars in the lot next to the house, and DEA handed over a couple of the juvies to immigration services,” Scott continued. “The last time we checked out the house was in response to a complaint by a neighbor who called 911 about shots being fired. When we got there, Monty claimed he was the victim, said there had been a drive-by involving an Asian gang.”

  Charlie read the file upside-down. “What does that say under occupation? Does it say Monty’s a franchise owner?”

  “Yep,” Scott said. “He reportedly owns a couple of check cashing operations. One is in the Corridor; the other is in Highland Park.”

  “Can we have this file?” Charlie asked. “I’d like to see what else we can dig up on this guy.”

  # # #

  The information provided by Detroit police would be helpful in making a correlation between the burning deaths and gang activity in the Corridor, but Charlie and Don had agreed she shouldn’t do any more meetings with Travers.

  “It’s like you two have the hots for each other,” Don said in Neanderthal fashion.

  “Please. I know his type. His ego is the biggest thing he has going for him. On top of that, he’s a brownnoser. I bet if you ask around, people will tell you they don’t trust him.”

  “Could be. But Scott seems all right.”

  “Agreed. But he’s new to the force. Probably college-educated. He knows how to use statistics and technology. It’s old school versus new.”

  Don drove past Henry Ford Hospital on West Grand Boulevard, then a few blocks later pulled into the parking lot where Charlie pointed. He backed the Buick into one of the visitor spaces.

  “How long has your mother lived in this building?”

  “Three and a half years. She likes it. It’s a comfortable space, the staff is very good, and she’s met some new friends.”

  Charlie waved to the front-desk attendant as she entered, and the elevator was already at the ground floor. Charlie had called ahead to announce their visit, but the look on her mother’s face when she opened the door was full of disapproval.

  “Hi, Ms. Mack. Nice to see you again.”

  “Mr. Rutkowski,” Ernestine said with formal politeness.

  Charlie narrowed her eyes for her mother to see, then gave her a peck on the cheek. “Mom, you know Don. What’s this Mr. Rutkowski stuff?”

  Ernestine didn’t answer, just waved her hand toward the dining-room table, her makeshift research office. A stack of files covered one end, and her laptop and phone were in the middle. On top of the file folders sat an old-fashioned phone book and a city map.

  “I just put on some coffee. Can I get you both a cup?”

  “That would be great, Ms. Mack,” Don said, trying to crack the ice from Charlie’s mother.

  “I’ll get it, Mom. Do you still have some of those apple turnovers?”

  “Yes. In the cake tin.”

  Ernestine sat in front of her laptop and began fidgeting with her phone. Don sat at the end of the table opposite the files and closest to the door. They sat for thirty seconds in silence.

  “You’ve got a nice place here,” Don offered.

  “Thank you. It’s adequate for my current needs.”

  The silence extended, and Charlie stuck her head out the kitchen door. “Mom, where’s the sugar? I don’t see it.”

  “Isn’t it on the counter?”

  “No. Wait. I see it.”

  “How are your wife and son?” Ernestine finally gave Don her attention. “It’s Rita, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and my son’s name is Rudy. They’re both good. We’ve been planning a vacation for Rudy’s birthday, at Disney World.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Charlie hurried back with three cups of coffee and three turnovers. She put a cup in front of Don along with a small plate and napkin. She passed a cup to Ernestine, then sat across from her. She wished her mother didn’t resent Don, but it was an old grudge, unlikely to be resolved anytime soon.

  During Charlie’s first year at Homeland Security, she and Don had been involved in a very brief affair. Don was a married man, and Charlie had been engaged to Franklin at the time. They’d both called it off quickly, but not before Ernestine found out. It was a personal factor in their professional relationship
that made Don overprotective of Charlie, and left Charlie feeling guilty. She was also more understanding of Don’s antics than she might otherwise be. Only occasionally, like over this morning’s cake and coffee, did the past come up in the present.

  “Mom, we’d like you to change your focus for the research.”

  Ernestine looked from Don to Charlie. “Good. I’d just about exhausted my options on getting more information for victims five and six on your list. For the rest, I was able to acquire some welfare records, and on most of the nine I got my hands on some school records. I had to use my ex-principal status to get those documents.”

  “Great job. Judy said you were going gangbusters.”

  Ernestine beamed with satisfaction at the compliment. She stirred a bit of cream into her coffee, took a sip, and reached for a turnover. “What’s the new research?”

  Don slid the police folder across to Charlie, who in turn passed it to Ernestine. She put her cup down and quickly perused the two pages in the folder.

  “Who’s this Monctezuma Velanzuela?”

  “Monty. He’s the leader of a youth gang in the Corridor. They definitely deal in drugs, but I think they may have something to do with the immolation murders,” Charlie said.

  Don picked up the story. “They’re a Mexican gang.”

  “Mexican-American, most likely,” Charlie corrected.

  “Whatever.” Don shrugged. “They use teenagers to do a lot of the day-to-day street transactions, which keeps Monty out of trouble. If the juveniles get caught, most of the kids are freed because it’s their first offense.”

  “You remember the Young Boys Incorporated gang back in the eighties, mom?”

  “Of course, I do. Those thugs tried to recruit boys, and a few girls, right out of my school. But I put a stop to it by going directly to the parents. We had a parents’ brigade walk the kids to and from school, so those drug runners couldn’t get to them, and they knew better than to be hanging around my sports fields.”

  “Way to go, Ms. Mack.” Don and Ernestine shared a rare kindred glance.

  “Well, this gang works a lot like the old YBI group,” Charlie continued. “We know where Monty lives, so we want you to find out what you can about the house. Who owns it? Who sold it to him? Who pays the mortgage? The folder also has some personal info on Monty, but we’d like you to dig up anything else you can about him. He allegedly owns some local businesses. I want you to check on that, too.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Charlene. I said I can do it!”

  “I believe you, Ms. Mack.”

  “Thank you, Don. I talked to Reggie today. He told me about the other lady who was burned,” Ernestine said, with no attempt to hide her revulsion.

  “I was going to tell you about that,” Charlie said.

  “How could anyone do that? You’d have to be a very sick person to want to burn someone.”

  “We don’t know exactly who or what we’re dealing with, but you’re right. It takes a vicious mind to commit that kind of act.”

  “He also told me about this Betti person. He’s a man dressed up like a woman?

  “No. She’s a transgender woman,” Charlie said. “There’s a difference.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Ernestine juggled unasked questions. She pushed her coffee cup away and entwined her fingers.

  “I don’t know if I believe in that gender-bending stuff. I’ve read about it. It seems, uh, confusing.”

  Again, Don and Ernestine shared a look of covenant. The silence continued until Ernestine shifted her attention.

  “You think you’ll be able to catch whoever’s doing these horrible things?”

  “We may not catch the person, or persons, murdering these people, but I think we can uncover enough evidence to point the police in a probable direction.”

  # # #

  “Your mother still doesn’t like me,” Don said as they walked to the car.

  “Sometimes she’s too judgmental.” Charlie hoped Don would get the not-so-subtle suggestion that this description also included him.

  “Does she like Mandy?”

  “She adores her.”

  “Well, that’s good. Your mother seems to be doing okay in her own place. What with the Alzheimer’s and all.”

  “She’s doing okay. I’m encouraging her to stay busy, to keep her mind active. Her memory isn’t too bad, but she misplaces things. Like today. I couldn’t find the sugar, because it was in the microwave.”

  # # #

  Charlie finished organizing and packing the file drawer and safe in her home office. She had six fully packed, sealed, and labeled boxes to show for it. The few items left in her safe—the power of attorney for her mom, the hard-copy of her own will, and her father’s bonds—she would leave locked in the safe until moving day. The shredding of old bills, tax documents, hospital and doctor reports yielded enough torn paper to fill two large garbage bags. The job had taken longer than expected—four hours—which meant no nap until after her evening shift at the Avalon bakery.

  This time, Charlie arrived at the bakery twenty minutes early, and the manager acknowledged her with a wave. “We don’t close until six, but you can start sweeping up outside. The broom and bags and stuff are hanging near the basement door.”

  Charlie moved around to the outside patio. A young couple commandeered one of the metal tables. They appeared to be students, maybe in their late teens or early twenties. Their backpacks and yellow writing pads sat next to tea bags on smudged napkins, empty juice bottles, and the remnants of cookies and cakes. Crumbs from their purchases dotted the ground beneath their seats. Charlie swept the perimeter, gathering cups, pastry wrappers, napkins, and paper plates, and emptied her dustpan into the wastebasket near the alley. People leaving work from the nearby medical center, Wayne State University, and downtown offices passed the bakery as they headed to homes, student housing, and happy hours at nearby bars.

  Charlie looked up when she heard music blaring, and a blue Corvette turned from Cass Avenue onto West Willis. The Vette was the latest model, a year newer than Charlie’s, and had special wheel coverings with blue LEDs, and tinted windows. The car cruised to a stop in front of the bakery, and the driver gave a quick horn toot. The girl at the student table bounced up. She wore a denim jacket and jeans and a Jamaican knit cap pulled back over corn-silk hair done up in loose dread locks. She nonchalantly walked to the car. The window on the driver’s side glided down, and the girl leaned into it. A tattooed hand reached around her shoulders, and down her arm. She and the driver momentarily touched hands, and she giggled before stepping back. The Vette wheels rolled a slow departure, and the girl returned to her table. Charlie felt the eyes of the car’s occupants on hers as the vehicle traveled down Willis.

  “You got it?” the boy asked.

  The girl giggled again. “Yes. I told you I would.”

  The boy looked at Charlie, and said something she couldn’t hear. Pretending to concentrate on her sweeping, she watched as they stuffed pads and textbooks into their backpacks. The girl handed something to the boy, and it was his turn to drape an arm around her shoulders as they walked away. Charlie swept up the crumbs under the table, rearranged the chairs and finished tidying up outside. After another hour during which she swept the inside of the bakery and helped stack a dozen cans of pineapple onto metal shelves, Charlie stood at the side door and retrieved a twenty-dollar bill and two oatmeal cookies in a paper sleeve.

  “See you tomorrow at 4 a.m.?” the manager asked.

  “I’ll be here,” Charlie said.

  # # #

  “I’m going home to sleep.” Charlie spoke into her car phone system.

  “Good idea,” Gil said. “I just got back to the Corridor, and I’m watching the house. Betti is with me. Monty called her and wants her to come by today, but she told him no.”

  “Okay.” Charlie was groggy. There was something else she wanted to say to Gil, and it
took her a few seconds to remember. “Oh, Gil. Take an inventory of the cars in the lot. Are you close enough to get license plates?”

  “I can probably get some of the plates. I have binoculars.”

  “Is there a blue Corvette?”

  “No. But the Camaro you saw is there.”

  “Okay. Call the plate numbers in to Don. What time should we meet tonight?”

  “How about eleven?”

  “That works for me. Bring Betti with you.”

  Chapter 8

  Charlie, Gil, and Betti sat in Grand Circus Park. Tonight, there were no street performers entertaining, but at midnight the Avalon bakery truck pulled up and the horn honked. Gil and Betti joined the line of homeless men and women in search of sugar and starch, but Charlie remained on the bench with her cart. Reggie hadn’t come to the downtown McDonald’s for their agreed-upon meeting, and hadn’t returned her phone calls. He’d been extremely upset by Carla’s murder, and Charlie worried that his guilt, fear, and alcoholism had spiraled him into an acute depression. She planned visiting his haunts in hopes of finding him.

  After ninety minutes in the park, Charlie led Gil and Betti down the same route she and Reggie had taken earlier in the week. At the Temple Bar, a dozen men sat on the curb and Gil and Charlie joined the line. Betti worked the crowd.

  “Hey, Eddie’s replacement,” one of the men said down the line. “You got anything?”

  If Charlie hadn’t been so distracted by Reggie’s absence, she’d have purchased a couple of bottles to put in the cart. She pulled her cap low over her forehead and shook her head. But Gil came through. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of inexpensive scotch. He snapped the cap, took a swig, and passed it down to Charlie, who wiped the bottle top and pretended to take a drink. She twisted the cap on tight and sent the bottle down the line. She whispered something in Gil’s ear.

  “Anybody seen Reggie?” Gil called out.