“You don’t miss much, do you?” Charlie said, sucking her tender tongue. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
Fitzgerald chuckled. “I can’t help myself. Now that I’m an old man it’s even easier to read people because when I stare they look away. I think it has something to do with the fear of lost youth.”
“And a philosopher, too,” Charlie said.
Fitzgerald smiled. His eyes lost focus for a moment and Charlie thought she saw loneliness wash over him.
“Do you think you have a photo of Freeman’s graduating class?”
Fitzgerald’s eyes lit up. “Positive of it. Junior went to Northern High School. I took all their photos. Sports, social clubs, portraits, homecoming. All of it.”
“Do you happen to remember what year he graduated?”
“Now that I’m not sure of, but after you called I pulled out my file boxes for 1957 through 1962.”
Fitzgerald and Charlie navigated to his dining table where he had laid out six yearbooks and three large manila envelopes filled with photographs.
“So, what’s your interest in Junior?”
Charlie’s instincts told her that John Fitzgerald was a straight shooter. His way of speaking and some of his mannerisms reminded her of her father. But she wasn’t ready to tell all. “I’m investigating Paul Stringer’s death. I think it’s at the center of something sinister and I’m chasing every hunch and lead I get.”
“But, you’re from Detroit, what interest is it to anyone there?”
“Well, Paul lived in Detroit for more than twenty years before he returned to Birmingham.”
“I forgot about that. When Anna moved away her daddy was none too happy.”
“Do you know why they moved?”
Fitzgerald shrugged his shoulders. “I always figured it had something to do with the girl. She was very smart. To give her a better future, you know?”
“You knew her? Joyce Stringer?”
“I knew the whole family. Bobby Stringer lived in this community all his life. His daughters were pretty girls; Anna was almost as good-looking as my Cynthia. I was always taking photos of Joyce winning some award or getting some recognition. I used to wonder how her brother would get along since she got so much attention.”
Charlie and Fitzgerald divided up the work. She thumbed through the yearbooks looking for the names Freeman or Stringer in the photo captions and he examined the loose photos. He got the first hit.
“Here’s Junior,” he said, sliding a photo of a group of young men in football jerseys across the table. “He’s the third one from the left.”
Charlie smiled involuntarily. Grant Freeman, Jr. was strikingly handsome but it was the exuberance of all the young men in the photo that was so appealing.
“Not a care in the world, right?” Fitzgerald said, reading Charlie’s expression accurately.
“You know, in some ways Black folks didn’t have it so bad in the Fifties. I mean, I know those of you who lived through it were second-class citizens but it seems to me some things were better than they are now. You had closer-knit neighborhoods with little or no drugs, parents took their children to church, there was no misogynistic hip-hop music, no assault weapons and no 9/11.”
“Hold on there, young lady. That’s the stuff I’m supposed to say. You’re what? Maybe thirty years old?”
Charlie had to laugh at herself. “I guess I’m feeling old today. I’ve been through a lot the past twenty-four hours.”
“I noticed. How’d you get that bruise on your face?”
“Somebody attacked me right after I left the barber shop.”
“Was it that guy you recognized at the shop?”
Fitzgerald really was observant. Charlie allowed the shiver. It happened every time she thought about her close call. But she didn’t let herself think of it for very long.
“I’m pretty sure it was him. He left me for dead in an empty lot.”
“Did he kill Paul?”
Charlie shook her head. “I don’t know anything for sure. I’m still trying to put all the pieces together. There are a lot of pieces.”
Fitzgerald bowed his head for a moment. “Why’d you decide to become a private investigator?”
Charlie spent the next ten minutes explaining her ambitions to help people, her sense of justice, and her curiosity about the way people operated in the world and why they did the things they did. “I have a growing understanding that humankind, despite our differences and conflicts, are more alike than not.”
Fitzgerald listened intently. When Charlie stopped talking and took a long sip of tea, he sat back in his chair and took a fresh assessment of her. “Well, I imagine being a lady private eye does require someone with serious intentions.”
Charlie’s phone rang sending the cavalry charging. “Excuse me, I have to take this call.”
“Hi Judy. Sorry, I forgot to call you. I know I said two hours but it’s taken a bit longer. I’m fine. I’m sitting with a man who is helping me with some research.”
“I just spoke with Gil,” Judy said. “Do you want him to pick you up?”
“Yes, that would be great.” Charlie turned to Fitzgerald, who was examining more photos. “Would it be okay if one of my colleagues comes to retrieve me?”
He nodded his consent.
“Okay, Judy. I should be done here in a half hour. Here’s the address.”
Charlie picked up another yearbook and resumed the search.
“Look at that one.” Fitzgerald pointed to a photo of a freshly barbered Grant Freeman, Jr. wearing a tweed jacket and a striped tie. “I’ve written the date on the back, so that’s the yearbook we’re looking for.”
Nineteen-sixty had been a stand-out year for Freeman. He was a three-letter athlete at Northern High School playing varsity football, basketball and track. He was the senior class president and voted “most likely to succeed.”
Anna Stringer had graduated that year also. There was a photo of her and the other girls who made up the Homemaker’s Club. They posed wearing aprons and holding up Betty Crocker cookbooks. Like the football players, their demeanor was optimistic and cheerful.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, I understand Anna’s father and Grant’s father were friends.”
“You can call me Johnny, young lady,” Fitzgerald said.
“And please call me Charlie. My nickname. I was always a tomboy.”
Johnny reflected on that information for a moment. “I knew Bobby Stringer and Grant Sr. pretty well. We were all kicking around the neighborhood about the same time. Yes, they were friends for a long time. They worked together in construction until Bobby had his accident.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, I believe he fell from a scaffolding or something. He was paralyzed from the waist down. Couldn’t work anymore and used a wheelchair after that.”
“And the elder Freeman, what did he do after that?”
“I believe Bobby’s accident changed Grant’s life, too. He stopped doing construction work and started working downtown with a white man who owned two funeral homes. Stayed there five years learning the business and saving up money. Did you know he built the original mortuary himself with a few of his construction buddies?”
“No, I didn’t know that. Did the two men remain friends?”
“Yes, and no. They still lived on the same block and their families knew each other but what I heard was Bobby was sort of resentful. He and Grant were supposed to make their fortunes together but because of the accident, Bobby got left behind.”
“Johnny, last question. Do you know if Anna Stringer and Grant Freeman, Jr. ever had a relationship?”
Again, wise old Johnny had anticipated the question and slid two photos across the table to Charlie. “See for yourself.”
In the first, Grant Jr. and Anna were among a group of kids at what looked like a prep rally. Everyone was smiling. Grant wore his football jersey and had his arm around Anna, who wore a cardigan sweater and plaid skirt and loo
ked every bit the pretty ingénue. She stared up at Grant Jr. adoringly. The second photo showed the two dressed up in formal wear, posing in front of a banner that read: Northern High School Senior Prom 1960.
“What do you want to bet Bobby Stringer was dead set against this relationship?” Charlie said, waving the two photos.
“That’s a bet I’ll not be taking, young lady.”
Chapter 20
The sun was setting in a blaze of tangerine across a dozen cars in the Crimson Tide parking lot. The color was cheerful as it penetrated the mini blinds in Charlie’s room and helped to lessen her attention on the overwhelming din of the evening rush-hour traffic. Her suite was filled with the comforting smells of home-style food from Niki’s Restaurant. She, Don and Gil shared their generous portions of side dishes and meats along with their theories about their bizarre case and its various characters.
“Mrs. Meadows is a sweetheart,” Gil said. “It’s obvious she’s still in deep grief, but she warmed to me right away. She made coffee and insisted I have a hot cinnamon roll. I think she misses taking care of a man.”
“Were the kids there?” Don asked, lifting a spoonful of meat loaf to his mouth.
“No, they were in school and her daughter was at work. The neighborhood guys patted me down on the way in but Mrs. Meadows walked me to the porch when I left which must have been some kind of anointing, because they were very friendly after that. I did see a guy idling in a blue Mustang around the corner from Meadows’ house, but when I got back to my car he was gone.”
“We saw that Mustang,” Don said, looking up from his plate to Charlie on the couch. “Hey, are you alright?”
Charlie leaned back on the mound of pillows on the couch. She was sore but it had been a productive and satisfying day. “I’m just stiff. I was out longer than I intended.”
Don poured two fingers of scotch into a glass and carried it to her.
“Try a little of this, it’ll help you sleep.”
“I doubt if I’ll need any help sleeping but I’ll take the scotch anyway. I’ll probably stay right here on the couch tonight. I feel better sitting up.”
Gil started gathering up the food containers and plastic utensils, putting them into a trash bag. “Charlie, maybe we should call it a night and give you a chance to rest. That’s what the doctor ordered, remember?”
“Sure, but I can hang. We still have a lot to go over.”
“What say we talk another hour? Can you handle that, Mack?”
“Look, I said I’m good. You two stop babying me. Pour yourselves a nightcap and let’s get to work.”
Gil and Don moved drinks and notes into the suite’s living area. Charlie’s Post-it notes were already on the coffee table.
“I forgot to ask about Grace and Grant,” Charlie said to Don. “Did you pass on the warning that Barnes might be poking around?”
“She’s such a sweet girl,” Don said with uncharacteristic sentimentality. “But the brother’s a hard-ass. He found out you came to visit Grace and I had to admit to him we’re not the police.”
“I guess he was annoyed by the deception.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Anyway, he said he’d be alert for any trouble but made a snide remark about not being too worried since he wasn’t the one sticking his nose in other people’s business.”
“Wait until he finds out I’ve visited his father,” Charlie said.
“You’re going to talk to their old man? For what?” Don asked.
“Well, at first it was just a hunch but the information I got today seems to confirm it.”
Charlie let a slow sip of scotch slide down her tongue. It immediately soothed her throbbing midriff. Not to be outdone, Gil and Don hoisted their glasses. This was Charlie’s favorite part of any investigation, when the puzzle image was beginning to show itself. It got her juices flowing. She took a moment to savor her partners’ looks of anticipation.
“Remember I asked Judy to pull Paul’s birth certificate? Well today I also had her dig for Joyce’s birth records. Her father is listed as ‘unknown,’ just like Paul’s. But I think they actually have the same father. Grant Freeman, Jr.”
“What the hell?” Don said.
“What makes you think that?” Gil asked.
“It all fits. The dates, the phone records, the family history, there are just too many coincidences.”
Gil and Don stared at Charlie. Their faces had changed to pure skepticism.
“Look, I’ll walk you through it.” Charlie pulled herself erect and ticked off points on her fingers. “Today I saw photos of Freeman and Anna Stringer as a young high school couple. I saw a photo of Joyce as a child; she was born in 1961, a year after Anna Stringer graduated high school. Nine years later Paul is born and Anna Stringer names him Paul Gillette. Gillette is the nickname Freeman had as a young man.”
“Who told you that?” Gil interrupted. He was in prosecuting attorney mode.
“The owner of the barbershop, but let me finish making the case. Don, you found out the fourth property Joyce owns is the funeral home?”
“That’s right. Oh, I see where you’re going.”
“No, I don’t think so.” The scotch had Charlie on a roll. “What was the address of that property?”
“What?”
“The funeral home property. What’s the address?”
Don was puzzled by the question but started thumbing through the papers in front of him until he found what he wanted.
“I’ll be damned,” Don said. “It’s 2929 31st Street. When I copied the property information I saw Freeman Funeral Home and let it go at that. I didn’t notice the discrepancy in the address. I just assumed it was the one on 26th Street.”
“The 31st Street address is the original building, I saw a photo of it at the barber shop and again today in the newspaper archives. It’s the one the senior Freeman built when he was starting off in the mortuary business. But Grant Jr. opened the new mortuary in the late seventies.”
“So, Grant Freeman, Jr. continued to live in the old neighborhood even after he moved the business,” Don noted.
“Right. At least until Anna took Joyce and Paul to Detroit. Then he relocated his wife and twins to the suburbs.”
Don and Gil sat rapt as Charlie weaved the loose threads of an already convoluted case into this implausible story.
“Anna and Grant Jr. were high school sweethearts and I think he never stopped loving her and maybe she never stopped loving him,” Charlie said with finality.
“That’s all conjecture. How are you going to prove it?” Gil asked, breaking the silence.
Charlie shrugged and picked up her scotch.
“And even if you do, how does it connect to our case?” Gil added.
“Well, I can answer that one,” Don said. “If it’s true that Freeman, Jr. is Joyce’s father, then maybe he’s hiding her.”
Charlie pointed a finger at Don and downed the rest of her drink.
There was new energy for the partners as they plotted their next steps. Don removed one of the motel’s cheap oil paintings and used the wall like a white board, arranging and rearranging Charlie’s colored notes on the surface and taping up bits of paper with information from their collective notebooks. In the midst of the paper jockeying, Judy called. Her tinny voice on the speaker filled the room.
“Walter Barnes was a parking attendant at one of the casinos in Atlantic City, the same casino Owens listed on his job application when he was hired by Abrams. I spoke to Barnes’ former probation officer and he confirmed Barnes was an inmate at Bayside State Prison at the same time Owens was there.”
“So they had to have known each other,” Gil said.
“There’s more,” Judy said. Since Barnes is a felon he wouldn’t be able to get a job anywhere near the MotorCity Casino, but the valet parking service is subcontracted to Proleus, LLC. Guess who is part owner of Proleus?”
Fueled by the scotch, Charlie responded. “The man so nice, I want to slap
him twice?”
“You got it,” Judy said. “That means Barnes works for Owens.”
“And for a while, Paul was also working for him,” Charlie acknowledged.
“It’s got to be the theft scheme at Reliable. Owens is involved in it somehow,” Gil said.
“I’ll be damned,” Don said, pouring another single.
When Judy signed off, Don grabbed two sheets of yellow legal paper and wrote “Owens” on one and “Barnes” on the other. With a red marker, he drew bull’s-eyes over the names then taped the sheets to the wall. Charlie immediately became sober. She caught Gil’s eye and they went into Q and A mode to take Don’s mind off murder.
“Gil, what did you think of Saint Agnes?”
“Father Straughn was away for the day so I spent about a half hour with Helen Penham. She was genuinely sorry to hear you’d been attacked and started talking about how much the neighborhood is changing. She gave me a quick tour of the school. It was like stepping back in time.”
“Same here. I forget sometimes that a Catholic school education is another thing the three of us have in common.” Charlie tried to draw Don into the conversation and it worked.
“I still put my hands in my pockets at the sight of a ruler,” Don joked and returned to his seat. “Acosta, I bet you were such a goody two-shoes you never got a single rap on the knuckles.”
“Well, you’ll be surprised to hear that in the sixth and seventh grade instead of sitting with my classmates, the nuns made me sit in front of the classroom in what they called the purgatory corner.”
Charlie and Don laughed with the zeal of former recipients of nun retribution.
“What in hell did you do to get that punishment?” Don asked, oblivious to his pun.
“In sixth grade, just before summer break, I sneaked out of my house after everyone had gone to bed, climbed the fire escape to the convent and peeked through one of the bedroom windows. I wanted to see if nuns had real legs. The janitor caught me. My mother was mortified and my father beat the crap out of me. I almost got kicked out of school.”
“Way to go, Acosta,” Don said with genuine admiration.
Charlie, Gil and Don traded war stories about a parochial education—the mishaps with the nuns, odd classmates, rumors about priests, bake sales, first kisses and the ubiquitous guilt. The food, scotch and laughter had finally taken the edge off the last couple of days. It was a release they needed but the conversation grew serious again.
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