Bury Me When I'm Dead

by Cheryl A Head

  “We’re sure,” Agent Goodman inserted himself.

  “The Forest Park house is also on Owens’ radar,” James said. “Is that where you’re planning to meet Ms. Stringer today?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” Charlie asked with sarcasm.

  “No. Ms. Stringer is using a disposable phone and we don’t have a tap on your mobile.”

  “Hallelujah!” Judy shouted through the speaker phone.

  “We’re meeting Joyce and Freeman in Forest Park this afternoon,” Charlie said.

  James and Goodman shared a look. Goodman removed a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and made a quick note.

  “What time?” James asked.

  “One o’clock.”

  “We prefer you meet her somewhere else,” James said. “Why don’t you meet her here?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be possible,” Charlie said. She wants to keep a low profile.”

  Goodman excused himself and left the suite.

  “Where’s he going, to order a spy satellite?” Don quipped.

  “This hotel is probably one of the safest places to meet Ms. Stringer. Owens’ people are still looking for her in North Birmingham but not downtown. Plus, thanks to Ms. Mack they think she might be in Detroit.”

  “Okay, so say we can convince Joyce and Freeman to meet us here, then what?”

  “We’ve reconsidered your idea about laying a trap for Owens,” James said slowly.

  “Why?” Charlie asked.

  “Thanks to Mr. Sparks we have good physical evidence on his contacts, bank accounts and inventory hubs, but he has access to expensive lawyers who might be able to exclude that information at trial. We need something else to pin on him, something that really scares him. He has to feel like a rat trapped in a corner.”

  “Something like attempted murder,” Charlie stated.

  “Can’t you already tie him to the murders of Paul and Andrew?” Gil asked.

  James shook his head. “No. That case won’t hold up.”

  Charlie watched James carefully. For a second, he looked as if he might say more, but stopped himself.

  “So you want us to convince Joyce to be a guinea pig?” Charlie asked.

  “Wasn’t that your original plan?”

  “Well. Yes,” Charlie conceded.

  “I think we can work together to get Owens. And Barnes,” James said, sweetening the pot.

  Don responded to another knock at the door and Goodman returned with news which he whispered to James.

  “As I was saying, let’s cooperate on this. Our goals are the same,” James said.

  “For the moment,” Charlie said. She looked at Don and then Gil. They returned glances that were angry and suspicious, respectively.

  “I have a couple of favors to ask,” James said. “We’d like to keep the wiretaps on your office phones for now and we’d also like to monitor Ms. Mack’s cell phone. It’ll allow us to track her whereabouts.”

  The sound of Judy’s harrumph filled the room. Don was more direct.

  “Oh, so now you’re asking permission? What other taps haven’t you told us about?”

  “We have a tap on Ms. Mack’s home phone,” James said matter-of-factly.

  Charlie gave James an evil look but he didn’t back down from her stare. She did a quick mental inventory of a week’s worth of personal calls. Conversations with her mother, a few to the office, one with Mandy and the booty call to Franklin. Don was now pacing about the room and Goodman was back in alert mode. Only Gil remained the cool observer. James doubled down.

  “We’d also like you to keep this conversation confidential. If you get a call from the local police, stonewall them.”

  “You’re a son of a bitch,” Don said with venom.

  James remained a cool breeze, not changing his posture nor demeanor. It was now clear to Charlie how he’d managed to be successful in the FBI, even though his religion and nationality worked against him.

  Don initiated a loud and animated conversation with James. Anyone passing in the hall would think the occupants of room 1840 might be on the verge of physical violence. When Charlie’s mobile rang, she moved to the bedroom to hear the caller. When she returned to the living room the color was drained from her face. Don stopped his tirade.

  “What is it, Mack?”

  “That was Joyce. She asked if we’d mind having the meeting here at the hotel. They’ll be here at two-thirty. On Friday. Tomorrow. I’m sorry, Don.”

  With that, the partners of the Mack agency resigned themselves to the FBI’s superior hand. Don took a seat on the couch next to Charlie. Goodman relaxed by leaning on the back of one of the room’s stuffed chairs.

  “Judy, I guess we can let you go now.” Charlie looked at James for permission, he nodded.

  “Okay, but call me later when you can talk.”

  “Sure, I’ll call. But we won’t be having a private conversation.”

  “Right. Maybe I’ll come up with some codes,” Judy said, before hanging up.

  “Ms. Novak is quite efficient,” James said. “I understand she’s the one who tracked down the Haldeman connection.”

  “You obviously know a lot about us, Agent Saleh.” Gil addressed James formally.

  “I make no apologies for out tactics, Mr. Acosta. It comes with the territory, as I’m sure you must know. ‘El deber es nuestro maestro.’”

  “Duty is our master,” Gil translated for his partners.

  “Anybody need a drink?” Don asked.

  “It’s mid-morning,” Gil said.

  “Then why does it feel like midnight?” Don said ruefully.

  “Let’s order a pot of coffee, instead.” Charlie moved to the desk for the menu.

  The Mack partners spent the next hour in a frank conversation with the FBI about the requirements of their working relationship. Charlie, Don and Gil were to share anything they learned with James, and if he wasn’t available, with Agent Goodman. Agents Saleh and Goodman would share nothing, and that’s just the way it was. James tried to play peacemaker by dangling one last tidbit of information.

  “Grant Freeman, Jr. is assisting us in our case but Joyce isn’t aware of that. He’s been very helpful.”

  “Yet another secret,” Charlie mused.

  James would monitor the meeting with Joyce and Freeman from a nearby room. FBI technicians were en route, to plant two small cameras and several microphones in Charlie’s suite.

  “We have a wire on Freeman?” James confirmed with Goodman, who nodded.

  “Why wire Freeman if you have audio and video in the room?” Gil asked.

  “It’s for before and after. We think he’s picked up a tail. It might be the police mole or someone else. If someone intercepts him, we want to be aware of it.”

  “Look James, why not just sit in on the meeting with Joyce instead of all this surveillance?” Charlie asked. “I could explain to her about the wiretap so she knows I haven’t betrayed her.”

  “We think you’re better suited than me to convince her to help us,” James said.

  “So what’s in it for us?” Gil asked.

  “That’s a fair question. You get to help us put Owens and Barnes out of commission.”

  “Sounds good so far,” Don spoke up. “What else?”

  “Your cooperation will help keep Grace Freeman safe, not to mention Anna Stringer and her sister. And if you want, when things are over, we can help you brief Abrams.”

  “That might be a big help,” Gil said, looking to Charlie for agreement.

  “Is Grace in danger?” Charlie’s sixth sense was tugging at her.

  “She may be, if Owens thinks Paul confided in her about any of the operation.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes. For the time being.”

  “What about the danger to Joyce?”

  “I’m not going to say there won’t be risks, if we use her to set a trap for Owens, but I promise you, if her efforts
help us nab him, she’ll be saving the lives of a lot of people.”

  On Friday morning Charlie’s hotel room underwent a transformation. Three FBI technicians installed cameras in obscure locations around the room. Audio bugs were placed in a lamp, the TV remote control, and on the underside of the coffee table. Each unit was tested and, when necessary, moved for better coverage. Charlie, Gil and Don watched the setup for a half hour, then gathered in Don’s room for lunch.

  “Were we that paranoid when we were at ICE?” Gil asked.

  “The question is, were we as big a group of assholes?” Don said, chomping down on a fifteen-dollar cheeseburger that came without fries.

  Charlie had opted for a tuna salad sandwich, pickles and chips, and Gil won the “most expensive lunch” award for a Reuben sandwich and soup combo. Don, again, mentioned a drink from the minibar but decided against it. His agitation was fueled equally by the FBI’s arrogance and his desire to depart Birmingham.

  “I’ve had it with James and the rest of the Fibbers,” Don said, using the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s pejorative nickname.

  “They’re probably listening to our conversation now,” Gil pointed out.

  “I don’t give a damn,” Don said. “I didn’t want to stay in this city a moment longer than we had to, and now we have to hang around another day for a damned debriefing.”

  Meat often quelled Don’s outbreaks of testosterone and Charlie was thinking of ordering him a second cheeseburger. “I’ll spring for steaks and scotch for dinner tonight to make it up to you, Don, and we’ll try to get flights home as early as possible tomorrow.”

  Don growled.

  “James is hiding something.” Gil stated.

  “I agree,” Charlie said.

  “Like you said before, Acosta. They’re just paranoid.”

  “Since James wouldn’t entertain any of my questions about Paul, I think it has something to do with his murder. Maybe they have another witness,” Charlie speculated.

  “That could be it,” Gil acknowledged.

  Five minutes before Joyce Stringer and Grant Freeman, Jr. knocked at Charlie’s door, an agent called to announce their arrival. Sort of like having a butler, Charlie thought.

  The pair were extremely attractive. Joyce looked amazingly like the young Anna Stringer in the yearbook Charlie had seen, and nothing like a fugitive. She wore a tailored, skirt and sweater set and her hair was stylish in a mid-length bob. Freeman was distinguished. He was tall and immaculately groomed as his nickname, “Gillette,” implied. His thin mustache complemented the gray at his temples, and the salt throughout his hair. Only someone who didn’t want to see the family resemblance between the two would miss it. Joyce gave Charlie a tentative smile, then hesitated, but Charlie saved the awkward moment.

  “I’m Charlene Mack, it’s good to put a face with the voice,” she said, extending a handshake.

  “Happy to meet you,” Joyce said.

  “And you must be Mr. Freeman,” Charlie offered her hand again. “I’ve met your son and daughter. I like Grace very much.”

  “And she likes you,” Freeman replied. “She’s mentioned several times that you brought her hash browns. She also talks about you hiding in your car in our parking lot.”

  Freeman raised his eyebrows and Charlie laughed. “That wasn’t one of my finest moments as a PI.”

  The laughter broke the ice, and introductions were made all around. No one seemed bothered that Charlie hadn’t mentioned liking Grant, the Third. Gil escorted Freeman and Joyce over to the FBI-monitored sitting area.

  “You must have a million questions,” Charlie said. “And we have a few of our own. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No thank you, we had some at lunch,” Freeman said.

  “Where should we begin?” Charlie asked.

  Freeman became the seasoned businessman. “Well, you asked for this meeting, so why don’t you tell us why?”

  Charlie spent five minutes telling them about her agency’s involvement with Leonard Abrams. It was a good place to start. Joyce’s eyes misted as she listened to the account. She obviously had the same fondness for Abrams that he had for her. Joyce smiled when Charlie described meeting Rona, the bookkeeper, and she couldn’t suppress a grin when she heard about the interrogation of her former neighbor and his pit bull.

  “You miss Detroit, don’t you?” Gil asked, chipping another crack in the ice.

  “Yes, I do,” Joyce said softly.

  Charlie glanced at Don. He was eyeing Freeman, who was listening to the banter while sizing up the Mack Agency partners. Both of them were still on guard.

  “Charlie and Don are native Detroiters, and I moved there just before high school,” Gil continued. “There’s something about the place that stays in your blood, even when you’re away.”

  “I understand you all used to work for Homeland Security?” Freeman quipped.

  “Where’d you hear that?” Don asked.

  “Oh, we’ve done some checking,” Grant said, trying to maintain a power position.

  Charlie gave Don a look of caution. James had instructed them not to even hint about knowledge of Freeman’s cooperation with the Bureau.

  “We left Homeland Security’s immigration enforcement unit over a year ago to go private. It works a lot better for our families,” Don said.

  Freeman nodded. “I’m an old man and one thing I’ve learned is there’s really nothing more important than family, and faith in God.”

  “We’ve done our homework, too, Mr. Freeman. We know you’re Catholic and that’s something else we all have in common,” Gil said, still working the connections angle.

  The FBI was accustomed to small talk and they were getting plenty of it. The group discussed Catholicism, Birmingham’s role in the civil rights movement, Detroit’s high unemployment rate and its ongoing political chess. Charlie offered coffee again, and this time it was accepted. Somehow Don and Gil’s military service came up, and Freeman explained his exemption from the Vietnam War due to his civilian mortuary work. It was finally Joyce who turned the conversation in the appropriate direction.

  “Ms. Mack, you said the FBI knows I’m not guilty of stealing from Mr. Abrams?”

  “That’s what one of their agents told us.” Charlie glanced at Freeman, who shifted uncomfortably. “The FBI’s only interest in Reliable is the connection to their investigation of illegal trafficking.”

  “Owen Owens,” Joyce said with distaste.

  “That’s right.” Charlie nodded.

  “I discovered he was bringing in undocumented workers for some of our client’s back-of-house business,” Joyce said.

  “I’m afraid it goes a lot further than illegal busboys and dishwashers,” Charlie said. “The FBI says Owens is part of a syndicate that also transports sex workers.”

  “And drugs,” Joyce said.

  “What?” Don asked.

  “The owner at one of my restaurant accounts told me the FBI raided his kitchen looking for drugs,” Joyce said.

  “Smack in the salmon?” Don asked indelicately.

  “Something like that,” Joyce said, giving Don a good look-over before taking the conversation in a new direction.

  “Does the FBI really have new information about Paul’s murder?”

  “We think so.”

  “What makes you think that, Ms. Mack?” Freeman asked.

  “Instinct, I guess. And the agent I’ve spoken to has been evasive when I’ve asked about Paul,” Charlie said for James to hear. She felt the nudge of her sixth sense. “Do you know Nathaniel Sparks?” Charlie looked at Joyce.

  “Yes, but not well. Why?”

  “He’s helping the FBI with the larger case.”

  “Nate is?”

  “That’s what they tell us,” Gil said. “The syndicate Owens works for has to keep records, and these days, information is electronic and encrypted. Nate’s helping the Bureau retrieve that data,” Gil explained.

  “Did you warn Paul to r
un?” Don asked Joyce.

  Joyce stared at her hands as she answered. “He had worked at the restaurant that was raided, and the owner told me the FBI specifically asked about Paul. So, I called him at his new job and told him to get the hell out of there.”

  Joyce dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. Freeman reached for her other hand and gripped it.

  “I helped Paul move his stuff to Birmingham. I drove him. It’s my fault he’s dead,” Joyce said.

  “It is not your fault, daughter.”

  So there it was. Without a question from anyone, Grant Freeman, Jr. confirmed Joyce’s lineage.

  “Mr. Freeman, does your family know you’re Joyce’s father?”

  “My wife, Ruth, knows. But my children do not.” His baritone voice never wavered. “It is a secret we have held for a long time.”

  “And Paul?” Don asked.

  Freeman looked startled, and then resigned. “Yes, I’m also Paul’s father, and my wife knows that, too.” He held onto Joyce’s hand until she freed it to retrieve a tissue from her purse.

  Joyce wiped at her eyes and there was a momentary lull in the questioning while she regained her composure. That’s when the dull light bulb, flickering in Charlie’s mind for a week, finally glowed bright.

  “And that’s why Anna took the kids to Detroit, isn’t it?” Charlie turned her attention to Freeman. “Even as children, Paul and Grace were drawn to each other.”

  Freeman nodded. “My wife noticed it before I did. By the time Paul was eight years old, he was telling people he was going to marry Grace.”

  “Father Straughn told us Paul always looked out for Grace at school,” Charlie said.

  “That’s right. We put Grace in a private school for a time but she was very unhappy there. She thrived at Saint Agnes and she had grown close to Paul, closer than she was to her twin brother.”

  The room was quiet, filled with the fresh air of released secrets. Joyce and Freeman hung their heads, and the silence began to feel awkward and judgmental.

  “Holding these secrets must have been exhausting for you, Mr. Freeman,” Gil said.

  “Anna and I have loved each other for a very long time but marriage was out of the question. First, it was bad blood between our fathers and later . . . well, Catholics don’t divorce,” he said matter-of-factly.