I carefully set the figure back on the table. Rathmore had caught me off guard. "I...I'm sorry," I managed to stammer. "I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't. Otherwise you wouldn't have handled it."
So much for pleasant greetings.
"Please sit down." Rathmore motioned to one of three dark leather chairs.
"That carving is a ritual figure," Rathmore said, perhaps trying to make up for his initial harshness. "It's from the island of Jaina, off the coast of Campeche, Mexico. The Mayas used the island as a burial place for nobles between six and nine hundred A. D."
"Interesting," I said, wishing he would get to the point of this meeting.
"My mother was a descendant of the Mayas; my father, a British archeologist. They met in Mexico City while he was studying the Otomi paper makers of San Pablito, northeast of the City. They moved to London shortly before my birth.”
"You seem to have inherited your father's interest in archeology."
"It's merely a hobby with me, I'm afraid." Rathmore paused. "I understand you have a hobby, too, Miss James. An unfortunate one."
"What do you mean?"
"You seem to fancy yourself a detective. What other reason would you have for trespassing into a secure area?"
"If you mean the VanBuhler side of the sixth floor, I had a good reason for being there. I was looking for a stolen DVD. I found it in Mr. Bacalla's office."
"Mr. Bacalla says one of his people discovered the disc on the lift."
"The lift?"
"The elevator."
"That was his story."
Rathmore threw up his hands. "I know very little about your DVD or how it got to Mr. Bacalla, Miss James. But I do know profit and loss statements. With the American Vehicle business in jeopardy, the VanBuhler account is more vital to this agency than ever. We cannot afford to lose it."
"Mr. Rathmore, I have no intention of jeopardizing this company's standing with Niles VanBuhler's people."
"Please see that you don't. I've seen your personnel file, Miss James, it's very impressive. It would be a pity to terminate someone with your talent over a matter like this."
Rathmore stood. The meeting had ended.
30
8:42 p.m.
The lonely baritone of a freighter's horn rolled through the fog, down the Detroit River. I heard it over the echoing click of my heels on the pavement of A & B’s parking lot.
Strolling toward my car, I replayed the day’s achievements. In spite of my run-in with Rathmore, I felt good. The Ampere commercial was on disc, layouts mounted on boards. Tomorrow we would rehearse for Saturday’s presentation to Cunningham, Adams, Rathmore and Higgins. Matt, Manny and the others had left earlier, but I stayed to write the outline for our dog and pony show for A & B management.
The Detroit River reminded me of a song I loved to play on the piano: Old Man River from Showboat. Like the Mississippi, this was a blue-collar river, its waters the blood that carried nourishment to industrial facilities north and south. Coal in the bellies of northbound freighters fueled power plants in Marquette and Duluth. Southbound ships carried iron ore to steel mills in Ohio and Pennsylvania.
The A & B parking lot ran along the riverbank and I could hear waves licking the sea wall in the darkness to my left, where the light of the parking lot ended abruptly.
The lot was illuminated in circular patches of yellow that streamed from lights atop two rows of tall lampposts. Between the circles lay shadows of darkness. The temperature was mild, but a sudden rush of cool air blowing off the water sent a chill through me. My back to the building, I walked from light into darkness and back to light again, toward my car at the far end of the nearly empty lot.
The growl of an engine ripped through the fabric of my thoughts, a presence somewhere behind me. Startled, I whirled to see a car burst through the darkness, into a pool of light nearly a hundred feet away. Its headlights were off and it came at me fast.
I turned toward a light post fifteen feet to my left. If I could get there, it would shield me from the car. I ran, cursing the heels of my shoes. I lunged the last five feet, the car virtually on top of me. Its roar was deafening and I felt a rush of air as it sped by.
Tires squealed as the driver spun it around. It stopped about seventy feet from me, ahead and to my right.
There it sat, a black, ominous shape, half hidden in darkness. With the downtown lights in the background, I made out the silhouette of the driver waiting for my move. I wondered whether to stay behind the relative safety of the pole or to make a run for it. A tiny flash of light and a loud pop came from the direction of the car. I felt rather than heard something fly past, just over my head. A bullet.
I had to move. Another pole waited directly ahead, the distance about forty feet, but reaching it would put me closer to my car. I sensed the driver staring at me. I kicked off my shoes pulled my short skirt up around my waist and ran.
I heard the tires squeal and knew the race to the pole would be close. Maybe a photo finish. My heart beat wildly, my lungs burned for air. The pole loomed closer, but so did the car, a blur of motion to my right, its engine screaming. I made it to the pole as the car raced by, the driver braking hard, sliding almost to the riverbank.
I hugged the pole, breathing out of control, my vehicle another thirty feet straight ahead.
No time to rest.
I went for it, and heard tires squealing and an engine howling behind me.
I reached my car and fumbled for the key. The phantom car sped closer, engine shrieking. I felt the key, jammed it in the lock, opened the door and jumped inside. I pulled the door shut as the vehicle raced by. In another second it would have slammed into the door, crushing a leg or arm.
I stuffed the key into the ignition and twisted. As the engine started, I looked up to see the taillights of the phantom car race past the A & B Building, across Atwater Street and onto the short road leading to Jefferson Avenue.
Why had the driver given up so easily? The answer came from behind me as light flooded the interior of my car. In the rearview mirror I saw the headlights and silhouette of a security vehicle that had come into the A & B lot from the far entrance. With the dual lights on its roof, the car gave the appearance of a Detroit Police vehicle in the darkness. Police or security staff, it didn’t matter.
I got out, waving at the vehicle. It rolled to a stop behind me.
"Help you, Miss?"
I struggled to catch my breath. "That car,” I pointed toward Jefferson Avenue, "It tried to kill me."
"Which car?" The security officer squinted out toward the lights on Jefferson Avenue. By now whoever tried to run me down would be a mile away.
31
The patrolman and his partner arrived within five minutes of the security guard's call.
I had caught my breath, and calmed down somewhat.
"What was the make of the vehicle?"
I didn’t have an answer. It was dark and everything happened so quickly I hadn't gotten a good look at the car or driver.
"Did you see the vehicle?" the second officer asked the security guard.
"Afraid not. When I drove back here on my round, the lot was deserted except for Ms. James. She got out of her car and waved me down. I called you. That's it."
"He had a gun,” I said. "The man in the car shot at me."
"Where was the vehicle at the time the driver discharged his weapon?” the first cop asked.
I motioned to where the car had stopped. "Over there. I saw a flash, and I could feel the bullet go past and out there." I pointed at the river.
I walked the cops to the spot where the car had stood. The officers ran flashlight beams over the pavement for five minutes looking for a shell casing.
"Would there have to be one?" I asked.
"Not necessarily," the second cop said. "Not if the man had a revolver."
"How many shots?" asked the first cop.
"Just one."
"If there was a shot," he said,
looking at his partner, "the bullet is at the bottom of the river."
"What do you mean, if? You think I’m making this up?” In a city the size of Detroit, with shootings every day, why was it so inconceivable that somebody might try to kill me?
"Are you sure it wasn't his car backfiring?" the first policeman asked.
"You're damn right I'm sure. The man fired a gun at me. What are you going to do about it?"
"Don't get excited, ma'am," the second officer said. "We're going to file a report. But you do realize that without a description of the driver or the vehicle, there's not much to go on."
I sat in the police car and tried to hold my temper as the cops asked more questions. With my life in danger, all they intended was to file a report. Worse, the driver got away. He missed this time, what about the next?
When the policemen figured they had enough answers, they walked me back to my car. I drove home alone, feeling a vulnerability brand new to me. I checked the rearview mirror constantly, watching for a car that might race up beside me...or one that might stay behind me too long.
The drive to Indian Village, just ten minutes from Adams & Benson, seemed to take forever. I stopped halfway up my driveway, directly opposite the side door of my house. I cut the engine, turned off the headlights and looked in every direction.
Was it possible that the man who tried to run me down knew where I lived? Had he followed me? Was he watching me now in the darkness, waiting to spring from behind my garage or one of the trees just a few feet from my car?
I pulled the key from the ignition and fumbled with the ring, finally locating the key to the side door. In one continuous motion I unlocked and opened the car door, swung out, jammed the key in the side door, opened it, slammed the car door, ran into the house, pulled that door shut and turned the bolt.
I left the interior lights off as I walked to the rear of my kitchen and peered out into the backyard. Bathed in moonlight, it looked empty. I double-checked the locks on front and back doors, then ran upstairs. I considered calling my father, but decided against it. I didn’t want to worry him, and needed time to put tonight’s happenings into perspective.
Feeling sweaty and dirty from running, I finally turned the bathroom light on, took a quick shower and went to bed. I hoped to doze off quickly, but it was well after three a.m. before I finally fell asleep.
32
Friday, Oct 15 9:27 a.m.
"What are the cops doing about last night?" Manny Rodriguez asked.
He, Matt Carter and I were having coffee at the table in my office.
I shrugged. "They filed a report. As far as I know, that's it."
The easy-going attitude was an act. I still hadn't gotten over last night, but I didn’t want to burden the group with my anxiety and take their focus off the Ampere.
"Filed a report, huh? That's guaranteed to strike fear into the guy who tried to run you down," Rodriguez deadpanned.
"Too bad you didn't get the license number," Carter said. I shot him a look, and he realized how foolish his remark sounded. "Sorry."
I hadn't planned on telling anyone about the incident, but the night security guard told the man who relieved him, and the story had spread through the agency. Even so, I kept my suspicions about Bacalla, Roland and the Ampere campaign to myself. That too would create a diversion the group didn't need.
"What was the guy's motive?" Carter asked. "Why would anyone want to run you down?"
"Who knows? Look, I appreciate your concern. But for now, let the police worry about it."
"Doesn't sound like they're very worried," Rodriguez said.
"No, it doesn't. But let’s leave the detective work to the cops and concentrate on creating advertising. And hope Ken Cunningham's strategy works."
***
Cunningham had asked for a final run through Saturday at three o'clock. I spent the rest of the day fine-tuning the presentation. All we lacked was an overall theme line.
"That's like saying the only thing the Titanic needed was an iceberg-proof hull," Bob Roy said. But by now the team was dragging after four straight twelve to fifteen hour days.
"I want all of you to go home and rest," I told them. "Come in fresh at ten sharp for the final push. We'll find a theme line that'll blow their socks off."
Rodriguez hung around after the others had gone.
"Planning on camping here tonight, Manny?"
"Nah. But I am going to stay awhile to work on that theme line."
"Be my guest." I had my briefcase in my hand. "Just turn out the lights when you leave."
"One more thing," Rodriguez said. "I borrowed that Avion submaster from Carter. I plan to give it a look on my Sony setup at home."
I gave him a thumbs up sign as I walked out the door.
33
11:12 p.m.
In the dream, I tried to tell my father something but the telephone kept interrupting. Each time I spoke, the thing rang.
Rinnggggg.
I struggled to open my eyes.
Rinnnggg. Part of the dream was real...I reached for the phone on the bed stand.
"Hello?"
"Darcy...it’s Manny. I almost hung up."
"What's up?"
"The DVD.”
"What about it?"
“Darcy...what do you know about subliminal persuasion?”
“Subliminal persuasion? Manny, what are you talking about?”
"How soon can you be here?"
"You at home?"
"Yeah."
"How do I get there?"
It took fifteen minutes to drive to Rodriguez’s condo near Detroit's New Center Area. I turned into the parking lot, barely avoiding a speeding sports car on the way out.
I found the address and pulled into an empty space. I pressed the button at the front door and waited. I hit the button again. Voices came from the next building and three people emerged laughing. Inside, a stereo blared an ancient Motown song.
I tried the knob; it turned easily. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, finding myself in a small dark foyer. The only light came from the hallway straight ahead.
"Manny?" I called. “Manny!”
I proceeded slowly into the narrow hallway and called once more. Manny kept his condo as orderly as his office, so my heart skipped when I noticed a chair tipped on its side.
In the sparse light, I saw another hallway to my left, on the far side of the living room. I approached it, and looked right. Light came from underneath a closed door at the end of the hall. I reached it, pushed the door and it creaked open.
Nothing could have prepared me for the scene: blood everywhere...red splotches and streaks on the white wall...Manny Rodriguez in a red-soaked circle on the beige carpet.
"Manny! My god!"
Rodriguez opened his eyes, staring blankly. Trying to move, his limbs jerked sporadically. I rushed to him, kneeling at his side. I lifted his head and rolled it to the left. Rodriguez coughed, and spit red on my blue parka.
"Manny, what happened?"
"The...DVD...they..." Every word a struggle. "They took it..."
"Who, Manny? Who did this to you?"
Manny was fading fast. His eyes closed, then opened. This time the stare was blank. I reached up, pulled a pillow from the bed and pushed it under his head. I grabbed the telephone on the desk and hit nine-one-one. I gave the address to the woman, and told her to rush an ambulance.
Then I found the bathroom -- in time to throw up into the toilet.
34
Saturday, Oct. 16 -- 12:10 a.m.
I followed the ambulance to Henry Ford Hospital, five minutes from Rodriguez's condo.
Rushing through the automatic glass doors, I found myself a few feet from the reception desk. The expression on the face of the chubby, middle-aged African American woman at the desk told me to stop there.
"I'm looking for Emanuel Rodriguez. He was just brought here by ambulance."
"Are you a relative?" The woman typed something on the compu
ter in front of her.
"No. A friend."
"I have no record of an Emanuel Rodriguez. You say he just arrived?"
"Minutes ago.”
"It’ll take time to process him," the woman said. "Have a seat in the waiting room."
"You’ll call me?"
"Check back in ten minutes."
I walked into a small, brightly lit waiting room overflowing with people. I picked up a Newsweek and found an empty chair next to an older woman. Niles VanBuhler's picture peered at me from the cover. The story inside featured VanBuhler’s surprising success in the spring primaries.
I tried to read, but my mind wandered. What had Manny found? Who had beaten Manny and stolen the disc? Were Bacalla or Roland involved somehow?
"Pardon me."
I looked up to see a tall black man in the uniform of a Detroit patrolman.
"Are you the lady who found the man they just brought in?" the policeman asked. "The man who was assaulted?"
"Yes. How is he?"
"I wouldn't know, ma'am. But I need your name, address and telephone number so our detectives can reach you."
"Why isn't someone here, now?" Rodriguez’s beating deserved more than the mechanical recording of names and phone numbers.
"Busy night. A detective will call you tomorrow. Now may I have your name?"
I gave the policeman the information, then decided to check on Manny. But the woman at the desk said his information still hadn't reached the computer.
I found a bank of telephones in the small snack room and decided to tell someone from the agency what was happening. My first call, to Matt Carter, found his answering machine.
Reluctantly, I called Sean Higgins. He answered on the sixth ring.
"Sean? It's Darcy James."
"Darcy? What’s up?"
"It's Manny Rodriguez, Sean. He's in the hospital."
"Hospital?"
"He's been beaten. Badly. They just brought him to Henry Ford Emergency."
"How is he?"
"No word yet. I just thought...well, I thought someone from the agency ought to know."
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