“These guys are good.”
“Keystone Cops,” said Wendy.
“Matty just told me Manny is some hotshot al-Qaeda type,” I said. “Think about it. He produced a van full of men ready to shoot up the city of Wyoming in less than an hour. I couldn’t do that. They came to get the money. They got the money. They got away. And when Manny was done, he was gone with the money, and everybody thought he was dead. That’s not dumb. That’s diabolical.”
“Khan tried to mug you with a toy gun,” said Wendy, tapping out a cigarette.
“Manny used Khan the same way he used Karen. Khan had no idea what he was walking into, but he tightened up his game and came back the next day. The dead man you found in his trunk was murdered slowly and face to face. Khan wanted Karen, and he got her.”
“So that leaves Manny,” said Wendy. She lit up her smoke and pulled the ashtray to her side of the table. “How do we find him? If that Mayada woman sees us again, she’s gone.”
“Mayada will tell us, but in her own way,” I said. “They like to play the game. I haven’t seen any surveillance, and they’ve been on our cars and our house like they had a printed program. Somebody put a tap on our telephone. If it’s not Archer Flynt, that leaves Manny or his playmates.”
“That would explain how they knew to look for Karen and me in Holland,” said Wendy. “I don’t see how that helps us.”
“We give them a game.”
Wendy made a squint and a tilt of her head.
“This is going to cost,” I said.
“Karen is a friend,” said Wendy.
I took a drink of my coffee and said, “Several thousand dollars.”
Wendy closed her eyes, dropped her chin to her chest, and muttered, “I’m going to kill her.”
• • •
Wendy typed the letter: “Dear Sales Tax License Holder,” followed by three paragraphs about distributing plastic children’s toys. The signature line read “Al A. Hakbar.” I signed it with an illegible flourish in felt marker.
Behind an import store, I climbed into the dumpster and emerged with a FedEx carton that had originated in Frankfurt, Germany. At an office stationary store with a self-help printing department, I scanned the routing label into the computer, changed the addressee to Rashid Erekat at the Southfield address, and printed a fresh label complete with sticky backing.
We tried three bookstores hoping for a Middle Eastern English-language daily newspaper but had to settle for a two-month-old copy of the London Times. From there we drove to the Southfield Public Library and recopied our letter until it faded to barely legible. I found a slick magazine entitled Saudi Aramaco and made a photocopy of the cover.
With my felt marker, I circled the date and volume number on our copy of the magazine cover. I took a tear sheet from the British newspaper, numbered the columns across the top, and circled a dozen words at random in the text. Back in the car, I folded it in quarters, and Wendy stashed it in the FedEx box with our letter and the photocopy of the magazine cover.
On Southfield Road near 1-696, we visited a shop that had been helpful in the past. Their merchandise included teddy bear cameras used to videotape nannies, telephone recording devices, and microphones used to monitor a nursery. We purchased a child’s watch that included a GPS locator. With its wide plastic band and large liquid-crystal face, it looked like a video game at first glance. We bought the “cosmic purple” model and got it cheaper than I expected—less than two hundred dollars.
We found a dollar store in the Farmer Jack shopping center north of Twelve Mile Road. We bought a bag full of plastic toy boats, airplanes, cars, animals, and the like. Wendy used my felt marker to number any of the toys that included the color red. Hopefully, that would keep them scratching their heads and take the onus off the purple watch.
The watch went into the FedEx box first, and we piled in the toys enough to fill the carton. So far, pretty cheap, but the laptop computer with a cell phone modem cost more than the car Ben wanted to buy.
“C’mon,” said Wendy. “I’ve been telling you to buy a computer. So has Marg. You can take it as a tax deduction.” The salesman slashed my Gold Card through the reader, and I could see my profit-and-loss statement bleeding red ink. Thankfully, Wendy already had an online address and an account. As I drove, Wendy fired up the laptop and punched the access code for the watchmaker’s locator website, which took longer than I liked, but Wendy finally announced, “According to this we are at the corner of Catalpa and Stuart.”
“Works,” I said. “Silk City Surveys could buy it.”
Wendy smiled. “I already have a computer.”
“Not like this,” I said as I turned onto Stuart. “You can take this anywhere.”
“I generally work out of the house,” said Wendy, still happy with herself.
We rolled by Mayada’s house. The black Lincoln Navigator filled the driveway. “Doggone it!” I said.
“You don’t have to get mean about it.”
“Not you, doll,” I said. “Mayada’s home. We need to leave the package.”
“She keeps her blinds drawn and her curtains closed,” said Wendy. She took her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll get her on the phone while you leave the package at the door.”
“She sees either one of us, this project is in the toilet.” I looked in my mirror. The neighbor I’d interviewed was backing out of his drive. We circled the block. I left the package at his door.
When I got back to the car, Wendy said, “Hope they weren’t on their way to Florida.”
“We’ll give them an hour. Let’s go get a bite.”
“No Coney Islands,” said Wendy.
“No,” I said. “There’s a place I want to check out—haven’t been there since I was a teenager.”
On Greenfield, south of Twelve Mile Road, I turned left into the drive for Sweet Lorain’s Cafe—“Parking In The Rear.” “I used to bring dates here,” I said.
“Do tell,” said Wendy. “You didn’t bring me.”
“When I was in high school,” I said. “In those days, the sign read ‘The Raven Gallery.’ They had coffee, surreal paintings, and folk singers. I saw Josh White Junior here, and The Rovers when they were The Irish Rovers and still a pig-and-whistle band. I didn’t know you then.” I eased into a parking slot, leaned over, and gave Wendy a kiss. “I wish I had.”
Wendy brought the laptop. “Who are The Rovers?”
“The song about the unicorn—wouldn’t get on the ark because it wanted to splash and play in the rain.”
“I remember that,” said Wendy as I held the door for her. “I liked that song. They were here?”
“Yep,” I said. A two-story atrium with a ring of balcony tables made up the seating area. “Looks different now. The stage is gone.”
Wendy loved the menu—French cuisine, all too clever for me. She had what looked like a grilled ham and cheese served with a fried egg on top. I had the burger.
For dessert, Wendy ordered the cherry cheesecake. I ordered the apple pie and headed for the restroom. Wendy flipped open the laptop. When I got back to the table, I found Wendy savaging the cheesecake with her fork.
“That good?” I asked.
“The package has moved to Southfield Road north of Twelve Mile.”
“The Coney Island,” I said and beckoned the waiter for the bill.
“Something wrong with the pie, sir?” asked the waiter, a tall thin fellow with too much oil in his hair.
“Suddenly, I’m kind of full,” I said. “Gimme a bow-wow bag and a plastic fork.”
• • •
We found the black Lincoln Navigator parked in the American Patriot Coney Island lot. I parked kitty-corner in the parking lot of the gas station that now pumped donuts. Wendy turned on the radio, found a local talk station, and we settled in to watch.
The first caller said that since the population of Hamtramck was one-third Muslim, the local mosque should be allowed to broadcast the call to prayer five t
imes a day over a loudspeaker. He said the call to prayer calmed nerves and was far less intrusive than the clanging of local church bells. The second caller got cut off, the station broke for news, and a white Cadillac Escalade pulled into the parking lot of the Coney Island.
“West Michigan’s talk TV icon Mark Behler, a staunch anti-gun rights activist, has been turned down for a permit to purchase a firearm due to a previous felony conviction,” said the announcer. “Chet Harkness, Behler’s producer, states that Behler made the application as part of research for a show segment. Mark Behler told reporters from The Grand Rapids Press that he was testing the licensing system. He would not comment on the felony conviction, which reporters had learned involved the delivery of a controlled substance.”
“Oh, my God,” I said.
“I told you he was a weasel,” said Wendy.
“No, look at the guy who just climbed out of the Escalade. The one with the unibrow.”
“Who?”
“White shirt with sleeves down to his wrists and black slacks,” I said.
“You’re right,” said Wendy. “He was with Manny at Karen’s house.”
“And on the road by our house,” I said.
“Isn’t Manny, though,” said Wendy.
“Maybe he’ll lead us to Manny.”
Mr. Unibrow walked behind the restaurant to where the restrooms were located. When he returned, he had the FedEx carton. He climbed into the Escalade, threw the package on the seat, and headed south on Southfield Road. I waited for him to pass before I pulled the car into reverse and let out the clutch.
“Don’t crowd him,” said Wendy. “We’ve got the locator.”
“As long as he doesn’t find it.”
“So far, he’s not looking,” said Wendy.
He started looking in the parking lot of Hudson’s Northland shopping center, north of Eight Mile Road on the west side of Greenfield, parked within sight of a police mini-station. We watched as he examined the page from the London Times. That’s when my cell phone started buzzing in my pocket.
“Hardin,” I said.
“Special Agent Svenson,” said Matty. “Where are you?”
“Surveillance.”
“We got a hit on the Rashid Erekat name you gave me. Are you still in the Detroit area?”
“Northland Shopping Center.”
“Who are you watching?”
“The dude with one eyebrow,” I said.
“That Rashid?”
“Don’t know—sure hope not. I take it that Rashid Erekat isn’t the name on Manny’s Canadian passport.”
“Rashid Erekat is a Canadian citizen with no passport, but he just deposited two hundred eighty-seven thousand American dollars in a Canadian bank in Windsor, Ontario.”
“You have some documents?”
“Yes.”
“Fax me a copy?”
“Not a chance,” said Matty. “Time for you to back off this case.”
“So, why did you call?”
“We’re pulling the surveillance detail off your house,” said Matty. “You need to come home.”
“It’s only been a couple of days.”
“They pulled a Jane Doe out of the Detroit River at Wyandotte,” said Matty.
“Could be anybody,” I said.
“Female, Caucasian, no head, no hands, but bound and weighted and pretty much matching what Khan told us.”
I had to think about that.
“Art, you still there?”
“Yeah. ‘Pretty much’ is a guess.”
“Hardin, you’re a loose cannon. They want you out of there. Now! That’s not a guess, it’s a quote.”
“Karen was worth too much money to dump in the river. Khan had a body in the trunk of his Lincoln. God knows who else he killed or how he disposed of the bodies. I need you to fax me the documents. If Karen’s dead, it doesn’t matter, but if she isn’t, it could make all the difference.”
I listened to dead air until Matty finally said, “Can’t do it, Art. Sorry. You need to break it off and get back to your house.”
“I’m not pulling off a hot surveillance,” I said.
“We can’t stay on your house,” said Matty.
“I’ll put my own people on it,” I said. I could see the man with one eyebrow folding the newspaper.
“We don’t want any more civilians in this,” said Matty.
“Then leave the detail on my house.”
“Art,” said Matty, “I don’t make those decisions.”
The Escalade showed me brake lights as the driver pulled it into gear. “Ask the guy who does.”
“I’ll call you back,” Matty said and hung up.
“What’s that about?” asked Wendy. She patted my shoulder. “He’s moving.”
“FBI has Canadian bank documents,” I said. “They won’t share.” I eased out onto southbound Greenfield behind the Escalade.
“We’ve got the GPS,” said Wendy. “We can get the address that way.”
“And if he figures out the watch, we’re cooked.”
“Don’t get too close,” said Wendy.
Mr. Unibrow took the Ditch downtown.
“They’re pulling the FBI detail off the house,” I said. “If Matty can’t get them to stay, we have to go back.”
At Old Mariners’ Church, Mr. Unibrow turned right and took the tunnel to Canada. Wendy and I, both armed, had to watch him fade from sight.
23
MY CELL PHONE PESTERED my pocket. I cussed the traffic and the traffic light, then flipped open my telephone. “Matty?”
“Special Agent Azzara. Agent Svenson is having a heated discussion just now. I would like to help you ‘look behind the door.’ Give me a number where I can fax you a document.”
“I’m at a stoplight,” I said. “All I have is a computer. Can you e-mail it?”
“I am at my desk. All I have is a fax. In five minutes, my opportunity to share this information will have passed.”
The light changed. I said, “Hang on.” The next drive on the right was the Crest Park Motel—that’s where we went. Under the portico, I launched myself out of the car only to bang chests with a blue-clad uniformed guard, armed with a whistle, nightstick, and satin-nickel Desert Eagle. Without taking a back step, the guard said, “Man, you can’t park here.”
“I’m checking in,” I said.
“Y’all haffa park on the street,” he said, leaning his chest into mine. “You can’t be on this lot ’less you a guest.”
“That’s Jefferson Avenue,” I said. “There isn’t any street parking.”
“You juss haffa work that out,” he said as he screwed his face into a sneer.
I brushed by him. “So call the police.”
“I’m havin’ this piece o’ shit towed, mutha fucka.”
I grabbed the handle of the entrance door and found it locked. I knocked. The desk clerk looked up from a newspaper spread open on the counter, adjusted her wig—a mass of tight auburn braids—and turned the page of her newspaper. I knocked again. She gave me an insolent face and spoke into a microphone mounted to an aluminum gooseneck on the counter. “You haffa come round to the winna.” She pointed to a portion of the glass area around the corner from the door.
I turned and found that the guard had installed himself on the walk in front of me with his arms folded to his chest. “Man, you best move that damn car.”
I shouldered by him. “Don’t you have to call the police, or a tow truck, or something?” On the way to the window, I slapped my cell phone to my face and said, “Agent Azzara?”
“Tick, tock, Mr. Hardin,” he said.
At the walk-up window, the desk clerk spoke to me through a round hole in inch-thick Plexiglas. “Waash you want?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Do you have a fax machine?”
“Foh the guests,” she said, rocking her head from side to side for each word.
“Great, I want a room.”
“Booked up.”
&nb
sp; I could see the head and shoulders of an Asian man with a round face and gray at his temples, seated at a desk through a door behind the counter. “May I speak to the manager, please?”
“He on his lunch break.”
I yelled through the hole in the Plexiglas. “Hey!”
The man looked up from his desk, and I beckoned with my hand.
The desk clerk said, “Fool! Why doan you just take your ho and park in an alley.” She slid a metal door down to close the hole.
In the parking lot, the guard rapped on Wendy’s window with his nightstick. I heard myself say, “Oh, shit.” I would have gone back to the car but the man from the office had started for the window. The clerk backed up a step. The Asian man, short but wide and wearing a white shirt and tie, slid open the metal door.
“Yes,” he said. “There is a problem?”
“I want to rent a room.”
“I ain’t changing no damn nasty sheets jus ’cause they gone in half an hour,” said the desk clerk. “You gots to get a maid on nights.”
I heard the car door open and Wendy launch, but all I could make out was the “dumb son of a bitch” part. Wendy stood with her finger pointed directly between the guard’s eyes.
The manager consulted a document on the counter with his finger. “Have a suite,” he said.
“I’ll take it.”
The desk clerk folded her arms and leaned to her left so she could tap her right foot on the floor. “Fool didn’t ax for no damn suite. Said he wanted a room. You know what that’s about this time o’ day.”
“Two hundred-fifty dollars?” asked the manager, showing me question mark eyebrows.
“Fine. I need the fax number here.”
The manager dropped a card into a metal pass-through drawer and pushed it out to me. The card had the name of the motel and phone numbers, including the fax. I dropped my credit card into the drawer and read Agent Azzara the number. He read it back.
“Right,” I said. He hung up. I put the cell phone away.
“I don’t gots to do anything!” Wendy shouted from behind me. I looked back over and saw that she’d backed the guard up several steps, her finger still in his face.
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