Bury Me When I'm Dead

by Cheryl A Head

  “My partners are back in Birmingham. We’re still looking for Joyce, so they’re going to visit the home she owns in Forest Park.”

  “We’re aware of that house and we have people keeping an eye on it.”

  “So, you know where she is?”

  “We aren’t really looking for her,” he said, not answering the question.

  “Look James, my stolen notebook may have set up some people for harm. I appreciate your position and I know you have a job to do but I have one, too.”

  “Those things don’t have to be at odds. All I’m asking is to leave Owens alone for now. Believe me, he’s going to get what’s coming to him. Barnes too.”

  “Well, now I’ve got another problem. Owens thinks I’m in touch with Joyce and that puts me back on his radar.”

  “You’re probably right, and I’m sorry about that.”

  Chapter 25

  Don and Gil’s flight to Birmingham was efficient. No delays, no turbulence and no suspicious characters to pique Don’s paranoia. They picked up a Chevy Blazer at car rental and drove downtown to check into the suites Judy had reserved at a full-service hotel. There was underground parking, a restaurant on-site, concierge service and a minibar in each room. The hotel was within walking distance to Haldeman Mortgage and police headquarters.

  Deputy Police Chief Robert Lowenstein agreed to meet the PIs from Detroit and invited Lieutenant Walker to join him along with detectives Brunson and Fletcher, who had shared lunch with Don a week ago. Lowenstein’s corner office was tastefully decorated and befitted his ranking. Some of the wall photographs showed him as a young patrol cop, but the majority depicted his more recent managerial and political duties, posing with the chief at the mayor’s inauguration, posing with graduates of the police academy, and receiving a commendation from the city council. The private investigators and public servants shook hands all around and settled at Lowenstein’s oak conference table.

  “I appreciate you seeing us,” Don said. “I know we made a mess for you last week. Believe me we feel really bad about it.”

  Don looked in the eyes of each man during his apology, but ended it by locking eyes with Lieutenant Walker, who was probably taking the most heat for the motel shootout. Walker offered a lukewarm smile.

  “Well, we don’t take too kindly to the discharge of weapons on our streets, Mr. Rutkowski,” Lowenstein said, opening a folder that lay in front of him and flipping through a few documents. Don could see the folder contained color photographs of the man he shot. “We haven’t closed our investigation yet, but you should know all charges against you and your partner will be dropped.” Lowenstein closed the folder. “A homicide makes a lot of paperwork for us,” the Deputy Chief said. “And bad press for the city.”

  “Please, call me Don, and I really do understand that, Deputy Chief. I was a member of the Metropolitan Detroit Police force a lot of years before I went private.”

  “And also at Homeland Security,” Walker added.

  “Yes, we both were.” Don included Gil.

  The attention of the four Birmingham law enforcement officials shifted to Gil.

  “You’re Hispanic,” Lowenstein said more than asked.

  “Yep, Mexican-American,” Gil said. “My family moved to Detroit in the seventies, but before that my uncle had an auto dealership in Mobile. As a boy I’d visit him every summer, and work for him washing cars. I still have relatives in Mobile.”

  Smooth as ever, Gil’s invocation of his youthful Alabama memories brought affirming murmurs and more relaxed postures. He was “other” but he had connections to the South, so he understood how things were.

  “We’re ramping up our efforts to recruit more uh, more Hispanics, to our force,” Lowenstein said, causing additional stirring in chairs.

  The conversation shifted to the culture of DHS. Homeland Security was still a relatively new agency and local police were curious about the work. Don and Gil accepted the offer of coffee and regaled the group with tales of their cases with ICE. They described some of the new technology being used in the war on terrorism, and acknowledged the debate about new interrogation tactics. They left out the stories of unglamorous and ceaseless paperwork. When Lowenstein’s assistant interrupted the meeting to remind him of his appointment with the mayor’s chief of staff, the Deputy Chief quickly returned to the business at hand.

  “Deputy Carroll at the Detroit MPD called me. He said it would be a personal favor to him if we provided you any consideration we could, and we’re happy to do so,” Lowenstein said.

  “But we’re hoping you won’t be shooting at anybody else and they won’t be shooting at you,” Walker added in “good cop, bad cop” style.

  “Yes, we hope that too. That’s why we wanted to check in, give you our itinerary and also register our side arms with the department,” Don said.

  Lowenstein excused himself to go to his appointment while Walker, Brunson and Fletcher shared an update on the motel shooting investigation. Neither the van nor the passenger car had been located but the parking lot camera showed the passenger car had the license plate removed. The video corroborated Don and Gil’s account of the shooting and the man Don shot had been identified through the national fingerprint database.

  “He was a small-time criminal with a record in New Jersey,” Fletcher said.

  “Based on your suggestion, we’re also checking whether the white van at the motel could be the same one seen at the Meadows-Stringer murders,” Brunson said to Don.

  Don and Gil left the police in better standing than they’d arrived. After a quick lunch at the hotel restaurant, the pair made the ten-minute drive to Forest Park. Don spotted a patrol car near the entrance of the community’s northern border and he made a point of not driving too slowly nor exceeding the twenty-five mph speed limit. When he pulled the Blazer to the curb at 263 Poplar Alley, the burgundy Acura was in the driveway. The lawn was meticulously cared for and late summer blooms were dotted along the lattice at the bottom of the porch. As was the case in the previous visit to this neighborhood, there were few pedestrians and no other cars parked on the block. The inconspicuous bungalow on this inconspicuous residential street with regular security patrols would be a perfect location for someone who wanted to hide safely in place.

  Gil heard the sound of water splashing from the rear of the house and gestured for Don to follow him along the walkway leading to the backyard. A border of Stoke’s aster and purple, orange and white chrysanthemums accented dark mulch alongside the house. A low, wooden gate made a break in the fence line and white pickets paced off the length of the backyard, ending at a gray shed with the same blue shutters as the front of the house. A middle-aged woman, wearing navy slacks and a loose-fitting patterned blouse over a pink t-shirt, aimed her garden hose at a cluster of blooms, the sprinkler head set on a light spray. She was startled when she saw the two men at the gate and dropped the hose; she seemed to be debating if she should run into the house.

  Don realized there had been no discussion about how they would explain their visit to whomever they encountered. If Charlie had been along, they would have spent the trip over practicing a script, but Gil seemed to already have a plan.

  “I’m sorry to startle you, ma’am. My name is Gil Acosta and this is Don Rutkowski. We’re members of the Presbyterian church on the next block and we’re going house to house to share information about our Sunday service and to invite our neighbors to attend.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I’m afraid I’m not Presbyterian,” the lady said, scrambling to retrieve the hose that was leaving a puddle at the base of a contingent of bronze mums.

  “May I ask your denomination, Mrs., uh?” Gil paused expertly.

  “Mrs. Hunter. Anna Hunter.” She self-consciously touched the collar of her blouse.

  “Are you Baptist, Mrs. Hunter?”

  “No, no. I’m Catholic. I attend Saint Agnes.”

  “Oh. Well that’s a good distance from here. But, I’ve met Father Straughn
and he’s a very good man,” Gil said.

  At the mention of the priest’s name, the woman let down her guard. She turned off the water hose and approached the gate. She had a pleasant face with flashing brown eyes, plump cheeks and soft, gray curls. She was what Joyce Stringer would look like in twenty years. The three talked for a few minutes of St. Agnes and the challenges of inner-city parishes.

  “That’s why it might be good to at least think about visiting our church,” Don said getting into the church board-member role. “I know they call us the ‘frozen chosen,’ but we’re really a lot of fun,” he joked.

  Anna Stringer had obviously been told to remember her alias and be wary of strangers, but she laughed and chatted like a person craving human connection. Gil used his tried-and-true salesman skills to nimbly shift through a variety of subjects while Don smiled and surreptitiously scanned what he could see of the house. When Gil admired Anna’s garden and showed some knowledge of the blooms, she opened the gate so they could have a closer look. Gil and Anna traded information on perennials, bulbs and pest control. Don was sure he saw a curtain move in an upstairs window.

  They had just pulled away from the Poplar Avenue house when Charlie called.

  “Glad you called. We’ve got news,” Don said.

  “Me too,” Charlie replied. Better put me on your speaker so Gil can hear this.”

  “Judy and I just had a visit from Yusef.”

  “You’re kidding?” Don said.

  “Get this. He’s an undercover FBI agent.”

  Gil gave a low whistle which was followed by the crackle of static.

  “You still there?” Charlie asked.

  “We’re here. Wait a minute, I’m pulling the car over so I can take this in,” Don said.

  Judy used the break to fill up her coffee mug. Charlie blocked her mug with her hand when Judy hoisted the carafe above it.

  “Yusef is with the FBI?” Don was incredulous.

  “An undercover agent working on a case that involves Owens and Nate Sparks, the warehouse manager at Reliable. His real name is James Saleh.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Don said, tilting his head against the truck’s headrest.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it? I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it,” Charlie said.

  “It explains why the guy had his eye on everybody and everything,” Don said. “But that’s a good break for us, isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no,” Judy spoke up.

  “Judy’s right,” Charlie said. “James filled in the answers to some of our questions about the theft ring and Gil, he confirmed many of your theories. He knows Joyce wasn’t involved in the inventory pilfering but he won’t say who the FBI suspects in Paul’s death. He asked, and I agreed we’d back off trying to speak to Sparks, and he doesn’t want us to touch Owens because they have bigger plans for him.”

  Charlie rehashed the entire conversation she’d had with James. Don and Gil took turns being curious or outraged just as Judy and Charlie had done.

  “How could he know so much about our investigation?” Gil wondered aloud. “You think the FBI has been watching us?”

  “They’ve been keeping tabs on us ever since I showed up at the convenience store and showed Yusef, or I should say James, the photos of Joyce and Andrew,” Charlie said.

  “We just left the Forest Park house and we found Anna Stringer,” Gil said. “She’s using the name Hunter.”

  “And someone else is in the house, maybe Joyce, but there was no way to get inside,” Don said.

  “Yusef, I mean James, hinted that Joyce wasn’t at the Forest Park address, but I’m convinced he’s not telling us the whole story.”

  “I have an observation about Anna Stringer,” Gil said. Each of the Mack partners had trained in behavioral analysis at DHS, but Gil had a natural affinity for profiling. “She seems pretty happy for a person who’s had a complete upheaval of her life in the last couple months.”

  “Hmm. Now that you mention it, you’re right, Acosta,” Don said.

  “Not everyone responds to adversity in the same way,” Judy said.

  “That’s true,” Gil conceded. “I think she’s naturally an upbeat person; it’s quite contagious really, draws you in. But Anna’s not depressed like her sister. She was cautious, and a bit nervous at first, but not wearing a shawl of sadness around her shoulders.”

  “What do you make of that, Gil?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m not sure. I may have more ideas after we see Jennifer again this afternoon.”

  “When are you seeing Freeman?”

  “He said he’d see us Friday,” Don said. “He already knew who I was from Grant the third so I didn’t try to lie to him. I just told him we were looking into Paul and Andrew’s murders.”

  “Where’s the meeting?”

  “He didn’t say. I assume at the funeral home. He’s calling me back to confirm a time.”

  “We should definitely brainstorm before you meet him. It’ll be a tricky conversation. He’ll be defensive. He won’t just admit to being Joyce and Paul’s father. If it’s true, then he’s carried the secret around for decades.”

  “You think his wife knows?” Gil asked.

  “She might. But I doubt anyone else does.”

  “What are you up to next?” Don asked Charlie.

  “Well, I’ve got to come up with a plausible story for Owens about why Joyce is backing out of meeting Abrams. Even if I come up with a whopper, my guess is he’ll be suspicious.”

  “If he thinks you know how to find Joyce, it will put you in danger again, Charlie,” Gil said.

  “Yeah. I already thought of that.”

  Helen Penham greeted Gil and shook hands with Don. Father Straughn was in the gymnasium watching a scrimmage between the boys’ varsity and junior varsity basketball squads, so Helen walked the two to the school side of the building.

  The game was close, with the junior varsity team down by one point with three minutes left in the contest, and the air was electric with the possibility of an upset by the lower-classmen. Helen pointed to the middle of the animated crowd on the bleachers, spotting Father Stephen. The priest jumped to his feet, arms raised, when number 81 on the JV squad sunk a free throw to tie the game.

  “You want me to tell him you’re here?”

  “No,” Gil said. “We can wait. He knew we were coming, right?”

  “Oh yes, I told him. He’s very curious about how your investigation is going, and concerned about Joyce. By the way, how is Ms. Mack? Recovering from that unfortunate incident, I hope.”

  “She’s doing very well. But the doctor told her she shouldn’t travel. I’ll tell her you asked about her,” Gil said.

  Penham left Don and Gil watching the final action of the game. As is the case in basketball, with time-outs, fouls and free throws three minutes turned into fifteen. The two teams were taking a twenty-second time out when Father Stephen balanced his way down the bleachers and headed to the exit. Don and Gil intercepted him before he got to the door.

  “Father Straughn, I’m Gil Acosta and this is my partner Don Rutkowski.”

  “Oh, how do you do?” The priest offered a handshake to both. “I was expecting you. Did you see any of our game?”

  “We did,” Gil said. “You have some very good players. How strong is your league?”

  “Well, there are too few Catholic teams to have our own league, so we compete against the charter schools, and we always do well. We expect one or two players from our varsity squad to qualify for the All-City league. Did you play?” The astute priest noticed Gil’s obvious interest and excitement.

  “At a gym not much bigger than this,” Gil said, smiling. “I was All-City and All-State in my last year of high school and received a basketball scholarship to the University of Detroit- Mercy.”

  “Ah, the Jesuits,” Fr. Straughn nodded, then turned to Don with the same question in his eyes.

  “St. Ladislaus in Hamtramck,” Don offered. “But I pla
yed football.”

  “Welcome home, my sons,” the priest said, laughing.

  Straughn gestured Don and Gil to the chairs across from his desk. “I hope Ms. Mack is doing better.”

  “She is, and sends her regards,” Don said.

  “How’s the investigation?”

  “We think we can give some closure to the family, soon.” Don picked up Charlie’s fib.

  “Joyce was surprised to learn there was an independent investigation into Paul’s murder.”

  “You’ve spoken to her?” Gil asked.

  “Yes. She admitted to me she has a problem with the Detroit police. Something minor, she said.” The priest let the statement hang in the air as he scrutinized both men.

  “Fr. Straughn, we really need to speak with Joyce. We’re on her side. Can you help us with that?” Don asked.

  Shouts from the basketball game wafted down the hallway suggesting the game must have ended. “Was your Catholic upbringing a help to you in your lives and career?” Straughn asked, catching the two off guard.

  “What do you mean?” Don asked.

  But Gil didn’t miss a beat. “After graduating from college, I enlisted in the Marines and served in Somalia. Only two things kept me alive, my faith and my training.”

  Straughn looked at Don for an answer. Now Don understood what Charlie meant about sitting in his office. The sensory cues of a Catholic education were as powerful as the Marine Corps indoctrination. “I have a son who is autistic. My upbringing helps me understand he’s a gift to our family, and I believe he’s here to teach me.” Don stared at his hands and cleared his throat. He hadn’t come to Saint Agnes to sit in confessional.

  Gil wriggled in his seat, feeling his partner’s embarrassment. Father Straughn removed his eyeglasses and concentrated on cleaning the lenses. He finally spoke. “Paul was also a special needs child. Full of life and joy, friendly and kind to everyone.” Straughn leaned to rest his forearms on the desk. “I can get a message to Joyce if there is one you wish me to convey.”

  Don gave the priest his card. On the rear, he wrote Charlie’s cell number. “She can call either number. Tell her the FBI is also interested in Paul’s murder, and tell her that we know Owens set her up.”