Bury Me When I'm Dead

by Cheryl A Head

  “That’s all water under the bridge.” Charlie said quickly. “And speaking of bridges, we figured the tunnel might be faster than the bridge crossing today. You think that’s right?”

  Jack stamped Don’s customs form and returned it along with a brochure on the protocols on Canadian gun laws.

  “Yeah, I always think the tunnel moves faster this time of day. But when rush hour begins that changes, so you might consider coming back over the bridge. Don’t forget to keep that form with you while you’re here.”

  They thanked Jack, promising to call him for a beer in the not too-distant future. Don pulled into the two-lane stream of traffic into the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel, which was seventy-five feet under the river. Charlie spotted a few missing tiles and water-stained concrete and took a deep breath. She leaned back in her seat and distracted herself by thinking about the gun incident Jack had mentioned. It had happened three years ago but pink rose on Don’s cheeks when Jack brought it up again today.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Don said.

  Charlie opened her eyes, they were almost at the tunnel’s end. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  “Hey, Nelson looks pretty good, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah he does. The work seems to suit him. We really should invite him out for a drink sometime,” Charlie said.

  “So, what’s the game plan with Dietrich? Do you want me to take the lead?”

  “Let’s play it by ear, Don. She’s a woman, so maybe it should be me.” Charlie checked her notes. “Abrams says she’s remorseful about her role in this thing and has returned all of the money she received. About five grand.”

  It took forty minutes to arrive at the Dietrich house because they got lost and Don wouldn’t stop to ask directions. Judy had been after them for months to buy portable navigation units, but Don would have none of it. When it came to guns and cars Don was a geek, but somehow cell phones and GPS units got the best of him.

  Rona Dietrich answered the door as they stepped onto her porch. She was attractive and would have been considered pretty except her nose was tilted slightly left. She wore a white blouse with a round collar, gray tweed slacks and brown slip-on shoes. Her brown hair was cut short with bangs that hung almost down to the rim of her tortoiseshell glasses. She offered coffee and Danish and Don accepted.

  “Rona, I appreciate your seeing us,” Charlie said. “I know you’ve spoken to the police and we may ask you some of the same questions.”

  “I understand,” Rona said, shifting her direct stare from Charlie to Don and back.

  “So, our main goal is to find Joyce. Mr. Abrams wants to talk to her and he feels that she has to pay for what she’s done. I’ve known Mr. Abrams a long time and he didn’t deserve this.” Charlie was looking for a chink in Rona’s armor, but she didn’t flinch from Charlie’s gaze or judgmental tone. “You didn’t spend the money. Why?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt Mr. Abrams but Joyce asked me for a favor and I did it. I really like her. She understood what I was going through taking care of my mother; that’s something we have in common.”

  Charlie jotted a note. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I didn’t really need the money. Mother has social security and Medicare and with my salary it was enough to take care of our needs. This house is paid for and my dad made sure we wouldn’t be burdened with a lot of debt.” Her eyes drifted to a photograph of a man and woman on a corner bookshelf.

  Don rose to examine the photo and Rona watched as he held the framed picture. She returned her attention to Charlie.

  “Joyce wasn’t so lucky. She never knew her father. Growing up, it was just her mother and her brother, Paul. Paul’s father wasn’t around either. I did it because Joyce asked me to. I feel bad about it now, but at the time I just wanted to help her out.”

  “What kind of help did you give her, Ms. Dietrich?”

  “You can call me Rona,” she said with a shy smile. “Well, there was some kind of family trouble. I never knew exactly what it was, but Joyce said her mother was depending on her to take care of whatever it was.”

  “What Ms. Mack is asking is, what exactly was your role in this stealing business, Dietrich?” Don, who was still standing near the bookcase, decided to insinuate himself into the questioning.

  Rona squirmed and looked at Charlie for help. When she didn’t get any, she turned back to Don, finally unnerved.

  “I didn’t actually take anything.” She stared at her lap, wringing her hands. “Joyce warned I might spot irregularities between the 430 form—that’s a delivery document—and a few of the purchase orders for the downtown restaurants. She asked me to ignore the 430 and just invoice based on the purchase order. She said it was a family crisis and that nobody would be hurt. It only happened a few times and I looked the other way because, like I said, I like Joyce and I know what it’s like to have family rely on you.”

  “You did more than look the other way.” Don’s voice was raised and Rona shifted in her chair. “By knowingly charging those restaurants for items they didn’t receive, you were part of a conspiracy to commit fraud.” Don sounded like the police officer he once was.

  Rona lost her reserve. She sobbed into her hands. Charlie looked at Don who gave her an “I couldn’t help myself” look. Silence filled the room until Rona could speak again. She turned toward Charlie and pleaded for understanding.

  “I know it was wrong, and I’m tremendously sorry. I told Mr. Abrams, I’ve never done anything like that before. He fired me, but he said he wasn’t going to file a complaint against me and I’ve been helping the police with the case. I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to say it.”

  Rona’s mother called out to her from upstairs and Rona took off her glasses and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse, then excused herself.

  “That was just great, Mr. Sensitivity.” Charlie glared at Don.

  “Yeah yeah, well I’m getting tired of hearing about what a great gal this Stringer was,” Don huffed. “Anyway,” he said changing the subject, “did you hear what she said about the brother? He had a different father. Did Judy say he was using a different last name?”

  “No, but it’s something we should check into. Look, when Rona returns I’ll ask her a couple of questions about Paul. I’d appreciate it if you would just observe.”

  Don shrugged and reached for another Danish.

  Chapter 5

  Don and Charlie sped to the border. It was nearly rush hour, and if they could cross the Ambassador Bridge in the next half hour they’d get into downtown Detroit before the peak traffic.

  “We need to give Abrams a briefing tomorrow and if the Alabama lead pans out, he’ll have to approve our travel.”

  “You sure you want me to go and not Gil?”

  “I think you’re better for this trip. You never know what we’ll run into in the South. We might have to work both sides of the street to get anything accomplished.”

  Over the last few years, Charlie and Don had reached a pragmatic approach around race and gender, using their differences to full advantage. As a white male, there were doors Don could more easily walk through than Charlie. On the other hand, being a woman had often been the key to getting a recalcitrant witness to open up. When they dealt with law enforcement in other jurisdictions, Don always took the lead, not just because he had been a cop but because he fit most people’s idea of what an investigator looked like. But Charlie could visit any black business or organization, Don at her heels, playing up the “sister in charge” act and information would pour like syrup on pancakes.

  Their song and dance had worked with Rona. She opened up to Charlie about the challenges of being her mother’s primary caregiver and Charlie shared information about her own sixty-eight-year-old mother, who had an assisted-living apartment in Detroit’s New Center area. They chatted awhile about the pros and cons of aging parents living at home, and agreed many boomers would have to face this decision sooner or later. When
Don went out to the porch, pretending to need a smoke, Rona recalled the document Joyce had once asked her to notarize, giving her power of attorney to a mortgage company in Birmingham, Alabama. It was their first real clue to finding Joyce.

  They reached the security checkpoint at the bridge and were cleared through without a hitch. Charlie began to strategize aloud to keep her mind off the water crossing.

  “Let’s get Judy working on a number for the mortgage company Rona told me about. If there’s a power of attorney, we should be able to track down an electronic copy. If not, we’ll sic Gil on them.”

  “Where is Paul Stringer working?” Don asked.

  “Judy tracked him to the MotorCity Casino. I’ll go down there tonight, have dinner and nose around a bit.”

  “Right, and get mugged by the one-armed bandits.”

  “Okay, I might find myself at the quarter machines while I scope out the place.”

  Charlie caught Don’s disapproving gaze; he knew of Charlie’s weakness for the slots. He would never be accused of being new age but he understood human behavior better than most.

  “Well, I can’t just hover around outside, can I?”

  “Whatever, Mack. Look, I’m not judging. I spend almost a thousand dollars every year to sit in a cold bleacher seat watching the Lions get their asses whipped every Sunday. So we both have some unconscious desire to be victims,” he said.

  Charlie sat in a row of fifty-cent slots near the casino’s main entrance which allowed her a view of the comings and goings near valet parking. After an hour she took a break for a chicken Caesar salad and a glass of red wine. Forty-five minutes later, she returned to the same machine. She was down seventy-five dollars.

  A well-dressed man was directing the four younger guys jockeying the cars at valet parking. She watched him schmooze with a high roller who had passed him a tip to skip the wait-line. Charlie slipped into her tangerine, all-weather jacket. She’d worn a tan turtle neck and matching slacks. In brown boots with a small heel she was just two inches shy of six feet. She stepped out the casino door and the wind blew across the crown of her neatly cropped, curly Afro. She approached the parking supervisor.

  “How are you this evening . . .” Charlie looked at his name tag, which read Walter Barnes “. . . Walter?” She said his name using her flirty voice.

  “How are you, miss?” He displayed a smile that made him look like the first bite of an Almond Joy.

  “Well, I’d be doing better, but I’m down almost a hundred dollars.”

  He nodded knowingly.

  “And unfortunately, I’m also working tonight.”

  She watched Walter assess the kind of work she might be doing and before he got the wrong idea, she handed him her business card. “Could I ask you a couple of quick questions about a guy who I think works here?” she purred.

  Walter realized her coyness had a purpose and his smile drifted. He seemed a lot less handsome.

  “What guy?”

  “Paul Stringer,” Charlie said. She pushed the button on the digital voice recorder hidden in her jacket pocket.

  Walter Barnes shook his head. “Oh him. I don’t know where he is, don’t care and don’t even want to know why you’re asking.”

  “I just thought you could tell me when you saw him last or where he might be working now?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. The last time I saw him he was running across that parking lot,” Walter pointed toward Grand River Avenue. “He left a brand new Lexus unattended with the keys in the ignition. I haven’t seen his sorry ass since.”

  Walter Barnes walked away to shake hands with a well-heeled gentleman wearing a cashmere sports coat with a leggy blond on his arm. Charlie hit the stop button on the recorder. She waited until Walter wasn’t facing in her direction and strolled to the cashier window.

  “Hi there,” Charlie said.

  A thirty-something woman with a red-streaked, flip hairdo, too much makeup and a low-cut black blouse looked up. She pulled a red cardigan sweater across her shoulders and opened the plastic slot in the window.

  “Do you have your parking ticket and casino card?” she asked.

  “Uh, no I self-parked, but I wanted to ask you about a guy who works at valet parking. Paul Stringer.”

  The woman gave Charlie a very evil eye. Charlie engaged the digital recorder.

  “Why do you want to know about Paulie? Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of his sister,” Charlie lied. “We all grew up together in the same block on the east side. I’m in town for a couple of days and my mama said she heard Paul worked here parking cars, so I just thought I’d tell him ‘hey’.”

  The cashier shifted from the evil eye to a once-over. She didn’t buy the story at all but was amused by Charlie’s bullshitting ability. Plus, she was curious.

  “He doesn’t work here anymore,” she finally said. “And, I don’t believe you grew up with him and his sister. You don’t look like an eastside girl,” she said with authority.

  “Well okay, you found me out. I’m not really Paul’s friend, I’m just looking for him. But I am from the east side. I grew up on Hunt Street.” She extended her hand through the little window. “Charlene Mack.”

  The cashier stared at Charlie’s manicured hand. “Carla Wilcott,” she said showing off her own gel French tips. “I grew up on Field Street.”

  Charlie nodded her recognition and the two girls from the east side of Woodward Avenue dropped their judgments of each other.

  “Why you looking for Paulie?”

  “I’m really trying to find his sister, Joyce. I’m a private investigator.”

  “You mean like on TV?”

  “Something like that except I rarely come across dead bodies.”

  “Well, Paulie might be dead. He just up and left two or three months ago. He didn’t even come back to pick up his check. And he left his bag.”

  Carla moved, snail-like, to the back of the small booth. She leaned under a counter to retrieve a blue backpack, revealing thick thighs in black leggings under a tight purple skirt.

  “This has been here since he took off. You can take it if you want, this ain’t no pawn shop,” she said indignantly.

  “Were you and Paul close?”

  Carla sucked her teeth. “I was too much woman for that boy. Said he had a girlfriend somewhere and he was always on his phone. But he was nice enough, you know.”

  Charlie thanked Carla and headed to the self-parking lot feeling pretty smug at scoring a bag that belonged to Paul Stringer. She pressed her key fob and the lights on her Corvette flashed, but before she could open the door she was shoved hard against the vehicle and the backpack was ripped from her hand. She spun to find the parking honcho, Walter Barnes, lurking over her. He must have seen Carla give her the bag, she thought, and followed. She considered hurting Walter, but instead pushed the panic button, hoping he’d back off. The alarm startled him but instead of moving away he threw a left hook, glancing Charlie’s chin and making her mad. She lifted her knee hard into his groin and he dropped to the pavement. People were showing interest in the commotion so she picked up the backpack, got in the car and drove off. In the side mirror Charlie saw a couple of people next to Barnes, who remained slumped over. She winced when she put a hand to her tender chin.

  “Can you come over?”

  “I’m on duty. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Well, actually, I had a run-in tonight with an asshole and I have a couple of bruises. But I’ve already been seen by nurse Glenlivet.”

  “Oh. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine. Would just like to see you.”

  “Maybe I can swing by on my lunch break.”

  “Only if you can. I really am okay. It’s just that when I have scotch and hurt feelings I think of you.”

  “Wow. What a blazing endorsement.”

  “Will you come, if you can?”

  “Yep. Gotta go.”

  Charlie picked up the sweating glass an
d sipped. She knew she was in love with Mandy and the idea scared her. Mandy was fearless about everything, her job, her finances, her politics. Even her love life. They’d met a year ago at the Police Benevolent Association Gala. Franklin said Charlie was the best looking woman in the ballroom and she believed him until Mandy Porter walked in. She was radiant—a combination of self-confidence and energy. As she danced, the disco ball caught the tips of her short, auburn hair and she glowed in the dimly lit room. Over Franklin’s shoulder, Charlie met Mandy’s stare. When Charlie asked, Franklin knew all about Mandy. “A cop,” her ex-husband said. “On one of the suburban forces. I forget which.”

  “Right. I think I’ve heard of her.”

  “She’s an advisor to the County Executive’s crime prevention task force. Quite a looker, isn’t she?”

  The two women sized up each other again during the champagne toast and later, when Mandy’s escort steered her towards the door, Charlie intercepted.

  “Hello. I wanted to catch you before you left. I’m Charlene Mack. I own a small private investigations firm. I believe you know my business partner, Don Rutkowski.”

  “Oh yes, Don. How is he? I’m Mandy Porter.” She offered her hand.

  “Yes, I know. Don is fine.”

  Mandy matched the pressure of Charlie’s handshake, letting go only to introduce her escort. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is Ken Rainey.”

  Charlie eyed Rainey for a millisecond and reached into her handbag. “Here’s my card,” she said, handing it to Mandy. “Perhaps you, Don and I can have lunch one day soon. We like staying in touch with our law enforcement partners.”

  Mandy tucked the card into her pocket without looking at it. Her green eyes narrowed and she held Charlie’s unflinching gaze. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  Two days later, dinner was arranged. The first dinner of animated conversation concluded in a promise for another. After two more meals of white wine and chicken Marsala at Mario’s and chile relleno and sangria at Xochimilco’s, they found themselves at Charlie’s apartment in downtown Detroit. Their lovemaking lived up to the anticipation.