Bury Me When I'm Dead

by Cheryl A Head

  “I hope you don’t have to shoot anybody,” Judy said.

  “I hope not, but even the FBI thought it was a good idea to have our weapons,” Charlie said.

  “Be sure and test your communication device as soon as you cross the bridge,” Gil advised. “There’s a Coast Guard station nearby and sometimes radio frequencies can be interrupted by their signals.”

  “Got it Gil. But, I’m sure the FBI has accounted for that.”

  “Probably, but this operation has plenty of room for error.”

  “Too damned many moving parts if you ask me,” Don added.

  He had been increasingly grumpy during the days leading up to the planned entrapment of Owen Owens. When James and Agent Goodman dropped by the office on Friday for a final briefing, he was barely civil.

  “I’m glad you’ll be there and watching my back,” Charlie said to Don.

  “I still think I should be driving Abrams to the meeting,” Don complained. “Then I’d be closer.”

  “Well, you heard what James said. If Owens chauffeurs Leonard, the FBI won’t have to go hunting for him later.”

  “You guys better get started,” Judy said, pushing back from the table. “It’s time.”

  Everyone shook hands and Judy gave Charlie a hug so she could whisper in her ear.

  “Don’t forget the backup plan.”

  Charlie patted her jacket pocket. “I won’t.”

  Owens had a busy morning with sales calls. He wanted his routine to be normal. He’d had a late lunch, got the car washed and stopped by his barber for a trim. It was a big day for him. The spring on the trap was set and now the only thing to do was be patient and wait for the rat to do its thing. He punched in Barnes’ number on his phone.

  “Is everything in place?”

  “Yep. Any changes?”

  “No. I’m still driving Abrams in. We’ll be leaving at three.”

  “Where should we hook up after?”

  “Just come by the apartment tonight and we’ll settle up.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

  Owens returned the receiver to its cradle. He hadn’t been able to sleep last night, but Barnes didn’t sound nervous at all. He retrieved a piece of scrap paper from his shirt pocket and made a second call.

  “Yes,” the deep voice said.

  “This is Owens.”

  “I’ve just been waiting for the word.”

  “Well, this is the word. Wait until you see him leaving. He’ll be riding a bicycle.”

  The line disconnected. Good. Barnes will take care of Joyce and then Barnes will be dealt with. Tonight I’ll sleep like a baby.

  He gave the sales order on his desk a cursory look, skimmed through a stack of pink phone messages, and after taking a sip of cold coffee, dropped the paper cup into his plastic-lined wastebasket. He pushed away from his desk. He tightened his tie, slipped into his sports jacket and opened the closet door to admire himself in the full-length mirror. Maybe I’ll get that tailor in Atlantic City to make me a pinstripe.

  The WWJ weather report warned of a sixty percent chance of rain for the evening commute so he pulled his tan, half-length raincoat from the hanger, patting the small pistol in the inside pocket.

  Time to take the old man for a ride.

  Joyce had to admit she was having second thoughts about being a sacrificial lamb. To keep up her nerve she recalled the conversation she’d had with her mother last night.

  “I’m glad to hear from you. Are you safe?” Anna asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine, Anna. I’m staying in a nice hotel.”

  The FBI had warned Joyce not to disclose her whereabouts to anyone. There was an awkward pause in the conversation. After a tumultuous two months of hiding, Joyce was short on information and Anna had learned not to ask a lot of questions.

  “Don’t worry, I’m in good hands. I think after today everything will work out alright.” Joyce tried to convince her mother and herself.

  “Except for Paul,” Anna said woefully.

  “Yes. Except for Paulie.”

  Charlene Mack had suggested she have breakfast in her hotel room rather than eat in the restaurant. They would stop somewhere for a quick lunch and then meet with the FBI before they drove to Belle Isle. Joyce peered into the mirror; she looked haggard and needed some color in her hair. There hadn’t been much time for vanity of late. Her maroon pantsuit fit her well and she’d put on her favorite polka-dot blouse. As an afterthought she brushed on a bit of mocha-plum lipstick. Charlene Mack is an attractive woman, energetic and passionate. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way again. The TV weather girl said showers would come later, so she unpacked the green all-weather coat she’d thought to bring. She sat on the room’s overstuffed loveseat and sipped bottled water. It will be good to see Mr. Abrams. She couldn’t help noticing the water bottle shake as she raised it to her lips.

  “It’s George Farr from Farr Insurance on line one, for you, Mr. Abrams,” Alicia announced.

  Abrams looked at his watch, he had to leave in a few minutes and Farr was always long-winded. “No, I can’t take his call now. Tell him I’ve got an appointment away from the office and will be gone the rest of the day. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “He’s returning your call, sir.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s right. I wanted to speak with him about the Rotary meeting.” Abrams ran his hand along the top of his thinning hair, then tapped his fingers on the desk.

  Alicia had been assigned to Reliable Restaurant Supply by the temp agency, filling in for the regular girl who was on vacation. She wanted to do a good job so they would ask her back but she wasn’t sure she wanted to work for Mr. Abrams again. He seemed awfully confused and not nearly as nice as the agency coordinator described.

  “Uh, I just can’t speak with him right now. Uh, what did you say your name was?”

  “Alicia,” she said with attitude.

  “Right. Alicia. Look, tell him I’ve gone for the day. You know, say the usual stuff.” Abrams was agitated.

  Alicia sucked her teeth. “Okay, Mr. Abrams.”

  “Thank you, uh, thank you.”

  Abrams had already forgotten her name again. He never thought he’d feel so anxious about seeing Joyce. It wasn’t until his wife asked about it last night that he allowed himself to revisit the disappointment of her betrayal. Of all his workers, it was odd that this Black woman was the one who reminded Abrams the most of himself. Because he and his wife had no kids of their own, he liked taking young people under his wing, offering them advice and sharing the information he’d learned the hard way. Joyce could have had any number of careers. She was smart, creative, and cared about the people she worked with. His wife said he should be willing to forgive Joyce, not because it would help her but because it would heal his own hurting soul.

  Abrams looked through the glass door and watched Owens schmooze with the temp. When Owens came to Reliable, he was already a seasoned salesperson. He wasn’t the kind of man Abrams preferred to spend time with, but he’d been very supportive about everything that was going on the last couple of months. Owens had been happy to drive him to the meeting with Joyce. It’s good to know there are still people who will go out of their way to offer a helping hand.

  “You ready, boss?” Owens asked.

  “Yes, I’m ready Owen. I really do appreciate you driving me. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit nervous.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll get you there and back in one piece. Oh, and you better take this.” Owens pulled an umbrella from the stand next to the assistant’s desk.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, Alicia.” Owens turned a sixty-watt smile on the girl.

  “Okay, Mr. Owens. Goodnight, Mr. Abrams.”

  “Uh yes, uh, Alicia. Goodnight.”

  Charlie and Joyce were shirtless as a female FBI agent fitted them with earpieces and adjusted the tiny microphones clipped to their bras. It was awkward. “Just speak normally, we’ll be able to pick you up,” the agent instruc
ted. Joyce’s hair was long enough to conceal her earpiece but the agent gave Charlie a headband to wear.

  “You’ll be able to communicate directly with Special Agent Saleh, but the equipment is sensitive so let’s try it out.” They practiced with the communications gear, switching out earbuds, tweaking until they had the best audio level, relocating the mics until the sound technician was satisfied everything worked properly.

  James was to manage the Belle Isle operation from a massive tactical truck parked on East Jefferson Avenue several blocks away from the bridge. Three agents sat before an impressive array of high-tech video screens, soundboards, and a microwave console.

  “Can my partners hear me?” Charlie asked James.

  “Yes, but they can’t speak to you. Only I can do that.”

  “How many men do you have at the location?” Joyce asked nervously.

  “About a dozen, and the Detroit police at the mini-station have been alerted but they won’t be directly involved. The only agents you might see are the two dressed as workers. They’ll be in the parking lot or inside the pavilion. Because of the construction, the pavilion itself is closed to visitors.”

  “Got it,” Charlie said. “I guess we don’t know if Barnes will be alone or if Owens will have more men.”

  “We’ve already spotted a couple of guys parked near the conservatory. If they move, my guys will intercept them.”

  “What if Owens calls the whole thing off?” Joyce asked.

  She was anxious, concerned about how Abrams would receive her, and now overwhelmed by the seriousness of her situation and the possibility of violence.

  “We have enough on Owens and Barnes that if one of them stops to pick a wildflower, we can still arrest them.” James gave both women a reassuring smile.

  Charlie also put on a good face for Joyce. “Things will be okay. The FBI knows what they’re doing.”

  The rain started earlier than the forecasts predicted. The sky was graying quickly and wind gusts made Charlie’s two-seater difficult to handle on the half-mile long bridge to Belle Isle. Fat drops pelted the windshield and Charlie turned on the wipers. As Gil suggested, Charlie tested her microphone.

  “We’re just about to enter the island, can you hear me okay?” Charlie spoke aloud.

  Yes. Loud and clear. James’ voice filled the earpiece.

  Joyce, will you please say a few words, too, James ordered.

  “This is Joyce Stringer and I’m on my way to a meeting with Leonard Abrams.”

  Good.

  Charlie followed the one-way traffic onto Sunset Lane and then bore left onto Casino Way. The Casino was a gathering place, not a gambling facility, and a dozen or so cars were in the parking lot. If Charlie continued on Casino Way it would intersect the Strand at the bottom of the island below the skating pavilion, so she bore left onto Central Avenue and then made a quick right turn onto Muse Road, following it past the pedestrian bridges on their right until it curved to the pavilion parking area. There were two Caterpillar tractors in the lot, some broken pavement piled high on one side and orange safety cones around the excavation, but no sign of workers and no other cars in the crescent-shaped lot. The rain was moderate but steady and without the sun, it seemed more like six o’clock than midafternoon.

  “Here we are,” Charlie said.

  She pulled her convertible into a space facing Muse Road and the woods beyond. The pavilion and Lake Tacoma were behind them but from her vantage point Charlie could see anyone approach from the road. She kept the car running and turned on her fog lights. It was a quarter after three and chillier than it had been an hour ago.

  “It’s gotten pretty dark,” Joyce said.

  “It sure has. Don is in the band shell about seventy-five yards over there.” Charlie pointed past Joyce, east of the parking lot.

  The two watched a few cars pass the lot, their headlights illuminating the rain, but not slowing. A bicyclist sped by, sending puddles upward, and an elementary school bus traveling west was probably transporting its tiny passengers away from the Giant Slide.

  “I have a lot of fond memories of Belle Isle,” Charlie said, making small talk. “I used to come here with my mother and father to ice skate, and during the summer we’d come once a week for picnics. Then when I was in high school, my friends and I would come here on weekends to party.”

  “Were you a party girl, Ms. Mack?”

  “Please, call me Charlene. I guess you could say I was part of the good-time crowd. But I attended a Catholic high school and my mother was a public school principal, so my partying was fairly mild. I think I was trying to prove I was cool.” Charlie laughed at herself.

  “And what does your father do?”

  “He was a lawyer.”

  “Ah. That’s why you’re so accomplished. You grew up in a stable, professional, two-parent home.”

  “Well you certainly have accomplished a lot in your own life, Joyce.”

  “I’ve often wondered what I really could have done if I hadn’t had to take care of Anna and Paulie.”

  Charlie remembered her promise to James. If it were just a matter of keeping another secret for Freeman, she would have refused to support the man’s duplicity. But James feared Joyce wouldn’t cooperate in their sting if she knew Owens hadn’t succeeded in murdering her brother.

  “Mr. Freeman gets some of the blame for that, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll admit my family life is very complicated. I think Grant would have married Anna if my grandfather hadn’t resented the Freemans.”

  “There’s something I’ve been curious about, Joyce. Why would you and your mother, and Father Straughn, approve of Paul and Grace’s relationship?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Grace. And I saw a photograph where you all looked very comfortable.”

  Joyce nodded.

  “Father Straughn isn’t aware that Paul and Grace are related. No one knows except Anna and Grant, Ruth Freeman and me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Charlie said, “I figured it out.”

  Neither woman spoke for a moment.

  “When Paulie turned thirteen he was given a vasectomy.”

  Charlie was sure her face showed the shock she felt and she was grateful for the car’s dim interior. Joyce looked away.

  “I suppose you think that’s cruel, and I felt the same way at the time. It was a condition my grandfather forced upon my mother. Otherwise he wouldn’t leave his money to Paulie.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He and Anna were both convinced Paulie would never be able to live independently, so my mother agreed.. She wanted to be sure Paulie would always have a regular source of funds.”

  Joyce stared out the passenger window and Charlie faced the opposite way, her hand tight against the steering wheel.

  “Maybe I should have protested more,” Joyce added as if reading Charlie’s mind.

  “A few days ago I thought I’d lost my mother. She was counting on me and I completely let her down. Things turned out alright, but it was a wake-up call for me.” Charlie loosened her grip on the steering wheel and stared down at her lap. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this except to say I realize I am the last person who should judge anyone.”

  Joyce again nodded and the two women sat elbow to elbow in silence. The blurred trees, murky sky and cacophony of rain had lulled them into a state of confession, forgetting that others were listening to every word they said. Joyce dabbed her knuckles across her eyes and Charlie watched the wipers work.

  “Abrams and Owen should be arriving any minute,” Charlie said, breaking the stillness.

  “So, Paulie couldn’t father any children,” Joyce said.

  “Huh?” Charlie turned to her passenger.

  “That’s why I approved of Paulie and Grace marrying. Grant was against it, but I think I had Anna convinced. I know it doesn’t take care of the moral question but at least there could be no offspring who might suffer.”
>
  It was Charlie’s turn to nod her understanding.

  “They were completely devoted to each other,” Joyce added. “Why should they have to suffer for the sins of their father? You know? After all, what good is morality without compassion?”

  Barnes cycled in the rain, circling the route from his truck, past the pavilion, and back to the vehicle. The wet pavement was a hindrance and he had to work hard to keep the bike from skidding. He’d debated whether to take a small automatic rifle that he could strap to his body or a handgun that would be precise, efficient and, if necessary, easily discarded. He had chosen the handgun and he could feel its pressure against his spine. A sports car with its fog lights illuminated was parked in the front area of the pavilion lot. He made out two passengers. That must be them. There were no other vehicles in the lot except a couple of bulldozers.

  He continued along Muse Road heading north, then bearing right onto Central Avenue away from the Casino and finally turning right onto Inselruhe Avenue. He had cockily parked his truck within view of Belle Isle’s police mini-station. He lifted the dripping wet bike into the bed of the truck and slipped into the driver’s seat to wait. He glanced at the dashboard clock: just a quarter after three. Owens should be arriving with Abrams shortly and he’d give them all time to take up their positions before he returned to the pavilion. Because of the rain, Abrams and Joyce might decide to talk on the lake side of the pavilion where they could stand under the roof’s overhang. He’d stow his bike across the road in the trees and approach from the east end of the lot, which would give him good cover. He’d stage it to look like a robbery but if he didn’t have time to set it up, the police would think it was just another case of random violence. He hoped the Mack woman wouldn’t stay in her car. If she did, he’d shoot Stringer, wait for Mack to come running and then shoot her, too. If it’s the last thing I do I’m going to get that bitch, and if Abrams gets in the way I’ll take him out, too.