Catch Me When I'm Falling

by Cheryl A Head

  They were on the second pot of coffee, and the box of donuts Judy had provided was empty. Charlie and Reggie had been strategically positioned at the end of the table, closest to the open window. Reggie sipped gin from his cup, and Betti, fueled by coffee and confections, was in full animation. Charlie, Gil and Betti had recounted the shooting incident with the L2Ds, and Ernestine and Judy cringed with every detail.

  “I met with a metro unit guy this morning and gave him the particulars you called in to me, Acosta. He said the shooting and robbery in the Corridor hadn’t been reported. He also had somebody check with the area hospitals, and nobody treated a gunshot wound last night.”

  “The L2Ds are not going to report that somebody kicked their ass and took their money,” Betti announced.

  Ernestine’s eyes grew narrow. Charlie had been watching her look from person to person around the table with a mixture of judgment, curiosity, and, in the case of her friend Reggie, pity. But, like Don, she was completely disdainful of Betti. Every time she spoke, Ernestine’s eyes squinted at Charlie with a huge question mark.

  “This time, uh, he happens to be right,” Don said icily.

  “The name’s Betti, thank you very much.” Betti put both her folded hands under her chin, and cocked her head in a gesture straight out of a junior beauty pageant.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, what’s this freak show doing here, Mack? This is a serious meeting.”

  Charlie began to protest, but Gil leapt to his feet. “Shut up, Don. You’re out of line.”

  “Who the hell are you telling to shut up, Acosta?” Don’s face turned red.

  Charlie had rarely seen her two male partners butt heads. Along with Judy, the four of them were quite compatible in their skills, knowledge, and temperaments, but she was the managing partner, and it fell upon her to squash their conflict. She was about to do so when Judy spoke up.

  “Charlie, Ernestine has something to report. She’s already found out a lot about this Monty character.”

  “I did uncover a few things,” Ernestine said with uncharacteristic timidity.

  Slowly, Gil took his seat, avoiding eye contact with Don, who was drinking coffee. Charlie glanced a silent “thank you” to Judy, while the others shifted into more relaxed positions. Everyone turned their attention to Ernestine.

  She opened the folder in front of her and sorted a few pages. Then she put on her reading glasses and cleared her throat. Even Betti waited patiently for her to begin.

  “I checked on the house. I found the ownership papers and date of sale. The house is owned by Altameda Enterprises, bought at an auction three years ago. The auction house handles sales for various groups, including banks, mortgage companies, and city agencies, and this house was seized in a drug raid five years ago. Altameda is registered as a limited partnership, and I paid a fee to get the state records. There are three owners: Charles Davis Jr., William Anderson, and Burton Hillschiger. I paid an online service for the records of all three names. The Davis and Anderson names are too common to determine if I had the right people. But I got a hit on the Hillschiger name. Burton Hillschiger owns a few properties in the Detroit Metropolitan area. One of his properties is leased to Cass Checking Company, which, for the record, is owned by Monctezuma Valenzuela.”

  “That’s Monty’s legal name,” Charlie explained.

  “It is?” Betti asked, bouncing in her seat.

  “That’s good work, Mom.”

  “Wait. She’s your mother?” For a second time, Betti heard information that surprised her. “Wow. That’s your mother,” she said with excitement.

  “I’ve got something else,” Ernestine said, finally taking her eyes off Betti. “It bothered me that I couldn’t connect this Charles Davis and William Anderson to Monty. So, I did an ordinary Google search. It took me an hour to find something pertinent.”

  Ernestine pushed a copy of an image across the table to Charlie who looked at it, with Reggie and Betti straining to see. Charlie pushed the photograph to Don. It was from the Michigan Chronicle, of the 1995 fall graduation of the Detroit Police Academy. In the first row was Officer Charles Sherrod Davis, and in the last row Officer William Anderson.

  Don took a thin spiral notebook from his breast pocket to confirm what he remembered. His face paled. He had been a loyal member of the force for seven years, and it was hard for him to think ill of fellow officers

  “I got the DMV records on all the license plates Gil gave me for the vehicles in the lot next to Monty’s house. Four new cars: all leased to Altameda Enterprises.”

  “So you know what’s happening here, right, Don?” Charlie asked.

  “You mean that a couple of cops are cozy with Monty? Yes. I got that.”

  “Not just that. Don’t you see? I’m betting that William Anderson is detective Bill Anderson, the drug unit guy. The one who’s driving the black Ford.”

  Gil grabbed the photo and stared at it. “So not only is it probable that Anderson is getting a kickback from Monty’s drug sales, but he’s also involved in Monty’s other businesses. We need to check further on this Davis guy, too.”

  Charlie and Don left the others in the conference room to take a walk, traveling the first few blocks in silence. As usual, mid-morning pedestrian traffic was light until they reached City Hall. Don wasn’t much of a walker or exerciser, but he kept up a good pace. Charlie waited for Don to start the conversation and realized they were getting weird looks as they trudged along Detroit’s downtown streets.

  “Damn, I forgot to change clothes.”

  “It’s the first time we’ve been out together when I’ve felt I was the best-dressed partner,” Don joked halfheartedly.

  “You were out of line back there with Betti.”

  “Mack, you’re not going to change my mind on this. It’s not natural to be a man who wants to be a woman. It’s not normal.”

  “Who knows what’s normal?”

  They walked in silence for a while, crossing Woodward Avenue heading west.

  “Hey, your mother did a great job with the research. She’s good.”

  “I’m sorry the facts are pointing to some sort of police corruption in the Corridor.”

  “There are always going to be a few rogue cops, Mack. But, I’m beginning to agree with what the FBI has been saying about the department, that there might be a culture of misconduct.”

  They were now walking toward Cobo, and Charlie’s stomach lurched as she thought about the terrorist she’d killed four months ago right below the Cobo People Mover station. Charlie still visited a therapist monthly to talk about coping with that tragedy. Funny, she hadn’t even thought of the shooting last night when she drew her gun again. Last night it had been pure survival instinct kicking in.

  “What do you think this Anderson is up to?” Don’s question interrupted Charlie’s thoughts.

  “Up to? I imagine it’s straightforward. He and Monty are partners. He looks the other way and gets a cut of the drug revenue Monty accumulates. He also gets money from Monty for the check cashing business. I’m sure that’s a way to launder the drug money.”

  “He was probably the one tipping Monty off before the raids,” Don said.

  “Yep.”

  “Who should we tell? Travers?”

  “I vote for Detective Scott,” Charlie said. “You know how I feel about Travers. Do you think Scott will meet informally?”

  “I’ll give him a call to find out.”

  “You were a good cop, Don. There are lots of good cops.”

  Don nodded. “How are you feeling about having to draw your gun last night?”

  “I was just thinking about that.”

  “You killed that damn terrorist right over there,” Don said, pointing.

  “I finally stopped having dreams about it,” Charlie admitted. “But I don’t think I’ll ever forget. By the way, Gil was superb last night. He went right into special forces mode. But he’s also under stress. He feels protective of Betti.”

&nbs
p; “That’s pretty obvious. But I don’t get it.”

  “Frankly, neither do I,” Charlie admitted.

  “I don’t think you and Gil should go back to the Corridor. Monty may not know who you two are, but he sure as hell doesn’t think you’re just some homeless dudes.”

  “Well, I can’t go back tonight anyway. Tomorrow is my house closing.”

  “That means you’re off the clock, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What about Gil?”

  “He can’t go back either—not without protection. Plus, we need to put Betti someplace safe.”

  “I say, let’s put her in a hotel, and Gil can be the bodyguard,” Don said. “We’ll stay away from the Corridor for the rest of today and tonight, and I’ll come up with a plan for tomorrow while you handle the settlement.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve called Betti ‘her.’”

  “Whatever, Mack. Look, if I can get Scott to meet me for lunch this afternoon, you want to come?”

  “No. I’m tired. Let’s go back and tell the others the plan. After that I’m going to get some sleep. I want to be with Mandy tonight. Tomorrow’s a big day for us, and I don’t want to blow it.”

  Chapter 10

  Don sat at a back table of the Polish Village Café. The building on Yemans Avenue was a Hamtramck landmark, only a five-minute drive from his house. Hamtramck had changed a lot in the thirty years since Don was a boy. Once an enclave of Polish-American residents and culture, the city was now a diverse mix of ethnic groups, including a large percentage of Bangladeshis. But the PV Café hadn’t changed much. The wood-paneled walls, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, and framed photos on the wall were the same. The grouping of tables in the main dining room made the decibel level high, and the dim lighting made the place cozy. Only the menus had been revised, a few times, to account for inflation, but that hadn’t affected the food. It was still hearty, authentic, and prepared with expertise.

  Don saw Alonzo Scott enter the door, pause to let his eyes adjust to the low light, and look around. Don waved until the detective saw him at the rear of the room.

  “How you doing, Scott?”

  “I’m good, Rutkowski. I’ve never been to this restaurant. I don’t think I’ve even been on this street.”

  “Yeah, you’d have to be a good Pole to know about this place. I appreciate you coming at such short notice.”

  “I rarely pass up a free lunch,” Scott said.

  “Well, check out the menu. You want a beer?”

  “I can do a beer,” Scott said, scanning the menu.

  Don rose to walk to the bar. He knew the bartender, the owners, and most of the waitstaff. His parents had brought him and his brother here often as kids. Now he, Rita, and Rudy came as a family at least once a month for dinner, and Rudy’s Polish Village Café cap was one of his favorites. Don returned to the table with two mugs of draft, and settled into his chair with a shoulder nestled against the wood paneling.

  “What are you getting?” Scott asked.

  “Chicken livers.”

  Scott closed the menu and shoved it to the edge of the table. He picked up his mug and took a full sip. “No man, I can’t do no chicken livers. Maybe I’ll just get a sausage or something.”

  “Okay, then get the smoked Kielbasa, or if you’re a bit more adventurous try the ‘taste of Poland.’”

  Scott retrieved the menu and glanced at the description of the combo plate. Then he sneaked a peek at the plates on the table next to them. “What’s a pierogi?” He pronounced it pie roe guy.

  “Pierogi. It’s a dumpling filled with meat, and cheese or vegetables.”

  “I guess I’ll stick with the kielbasa.”

  After ordering, they sipped their beer and made small talk. Don looked up, and Scott turned in his chair to see a quartet of uniformed Hamtramck cops come in. The officers scanned the room and took seats at the bar.

  “What did you want to see me about, Rutkowski? I assume you wanted to talk without Travers.”

  “You assumed right. We’ve got problems in the Corridor. My partners were involved in a shooting incident there last night.”

  Scott put his beer down and leaned forward. He glanced at the neighboring tables to make sure the diners weren’t eavesdropping. Don fidgeted with the menu.

  “A shooting? I didn’t hear anything about a shooting.”

  “It probably wasn’t reported. My partner had to wound one of the L2D crew after the guy took a shot at him. It’s a long story, but he was protecting a, uh, a prostitute. Acosta, that’s my partner, wanted to make an impression so he took the dealer’s stash of drugs and cash. I’ve got the stuff here.” Don handed Scott a paper bag under the table.

  Scott opened the bag and peered in. He glared at Don, quickly refolded the bag, and wedged it between his hip and the wood panel.

  “What are you getting me into, Rutkowski?”

  “Nothing. But somebody on the force needs to be aware of this.”

  Scott lifted the beer mug to his lips, then put it down hard on the table, causing the occupants of the next table to look over. The waitress came with a tray of food and unloaded their two plates. Scott ate his sausage, fried onions, and mashed potatoes with gusto. Don mixed his chicken livers with his mashed potatoes before taking a giant mouthful. While they were eating, one of the Hamtramck officers came over to the table.

  “I thought that was you, Rutkowski,” the policeman said.

  “Kaminski,” Don said, releasing his fork and shaking hands. “It’s been a long time. When’d you get back in the uniform?”

  “It’s almost a year now.”

  Fred Kaminski eyed Alonzo Scott with active curiosity. Scott nodded a hello and put his head down, cutting into a piece of sausage. If Kaminsky was waiting for an introduction, he didn’t get one. Don glanced over at the other officers, who were talking to the barman and preparing to leave.

  “You still private?” Kaminski asked.

  “Yep. But I stay in touch with some of the guys at DPD. Your family good?”

  “They’re all good. My mom and dad just had their silver anniversary. How about you? How’s your wife and kid?”

  “Both well. We’ll be heading off to Disney World next week.”

  “Sounds like a winner. Well, take care, Rutkowski.”

  Kaminski and Scott shared a nod, and the officer rejoined his friends. The policemen glanced at their table, then exited the front door, letting the midday light pour into the bar area.

  “Thanks for keeping me off the record,” Scott said.

  “You bet. I’m not even going to deduct this meal on my taxes.”

  “You’re a funny guy, Rutkowski. I didn’t know you were married.”

  “Yep. Been married thirteen years.”

  “You got a boy or a girl?”

  “A boy. He’ll be nine this year. You married?”

  “Naw man. I’m not ready yet.”

  “It’s good to be ready when you take the step.”

  “You and Ms. Mack seem to have a good relationship.”

  “We do. I get along well with both my partners. We also have an office manager, and the four of us have become sort of a family.”

  “That sounds good, man. Is that why you’re buying me lunch, to protect your family?”

  “In a matter of speaking. We have evidence that Bill Anderson is your problem with the L2Ds.”

  Scott squirmed in his seat and downed the last sip of his beer. He glanced at the bag on one side and the table occupants on the other. Don stared, waiting for a response, so Scott leaned across the table to whisper.

  “What have you got?”

  “Anderson was there last night when Acosta tussled with the two gang members. He showed up right after the shooting. Mack was there, saw his car. So, it’s odd that DPD doesn’t know about it.”

  Scott sat with that thought a moment. “Maybe he didn’t want to give away his cover.”

  “Is that what you really thin
k?”

  “After our meeting yesterday, I did some informal checking on Anderson. I know one of the guys on the DEA task force, went to school with him. He says Anderson just goes through the motions, and doesn’t really offer anything to the work. The feds let him sit at the table so they can say they have a department representative.”

  “We’ve got proof he’s connected to Monty through real estate transactions. One of them is the house on Wabash.”

  “Damn.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “Why aren’t you providing this information directly to Travers?”

  “Mack doesn’t trust him.”

  “They both seem to be carrying a grudge. Do they have a history?”

  “Somewhat. He’s a fraternity brother with her ex-husband.”

  “She’s quite a looker.”

  “That, and a smart cookie. We worked together at Homeland Security.”

  “I heard something about that. Look, Rutkowski, if you’re asking me, I think you should share all this with Travers.”

  “Maybe we should, but we needed to tell somebody right away, and you won the vote.”

  “Lucky me,” Scott paused. “Travers will never win any popularity contests, but from what I hear he’s on the up and up. If he was on the take, I think I’d get an itch. You know what I mean?”

  Don stared at Scott over the rim of his mug as he downed the last of his beer. A good undercover cop had to have a keen sixth sense and notice things others didn’t. That’s how they stayed in the game and stayed alive. Don knew he didn’t really have that gift, but Charlie did, and he thought Detective Scott had it too.

  “I absolutely know what you mean,” Don finally said.