Barnes hunkered down in the seat and turned over the engine for a bit of heat. There were other vehicles around, including a few police cars but no one on foot, most people had taken cover from the rain. Through the side window he saw another car, engine running, and the faint glow of two cigarettes.
Chapter 36
At twenty-five after three, Owens turned onto the Belle Isle Bridge. They’d left Del Ray with time to spare, but traffic had moved at a snail’s pace because Motown drivers were better in a foot of snow than they were in the rain.
Owens is headed your way now, James said in Charlie’s ear.
An approaching car flashed lights and Charlie flashed her headlights in response. The car turned into the parking lot and pulled alongside Charlie’s Corvette.
Charlie rolled down her window for a better view and Abrams followed suit. Charlie nodded a greeting and rolled up the window. “Okay, it’s Abrams. Let’s get out, Joyce,” Charlie directed.
Be careful, James said.
The rain was steady and the wind occasionally gusted. Abrams emerged from the car with his umbrella open and Owens stepped out as well. Charlie moved to her passenger door and Joyce had already extended her arm from the car to open her umbrella. Charlie held the door as she swung her legs and lifted herself out of the car. The four stood awkwardly at the rear of the cars, the rain helping them avoid eye contact.
Charlie was the first to speak. She had to yell to be heard over the rain. “Joyce would prefer if the meeting is just between the two of you,” she said to Abrams.
Abrams beckoned Owens nearer and spoke into his ear. Owens shrugged.
“Come on, I’ll walk you two over to the pavilion. There’s a cover on the other side of the building and a place to sit.” Charlie said.
The three walked to the rear of the pavilion along the side of the building. When they reached the deck area, Abrams and Joyce left Charlie without an umbrella. She leaned against the railing at the end of the pathway and a moment later Owens joined her.
“They’re talking over there.” Charlie nodded toward the front of the building.
Abrams and Joyce were barely visible in the mist, just two forms standing together at the front windows. The overhang was deep enough that they’d folded their umbrellas and Abrams stood leaning on his handle while Joyce appeared to be talking. Charlie noticed Owens was fidgeting and looking around.
We have a person on foot approaching from the east side of the building. James’ voice was urgent in Charlie’s ear. She took a step forward, putting a hand under her jacket to touch her holstered pistol. Owens nervously moved with her, then stopped in his tracks.
“Look, I’m going back to my car. No need in standing here getting wet,” Owens said.
As he turned to leave, a shot rang out and Charlie ran toward Joyce. There was a second shot and Charlie heard the whiz of a bullet pass her ear. She hit the ground and her healing ribs filed a complaint. Up ahead, Joyce was slumped on the deck of the pavilion, and Abrams hovered above her. A third shot rang out, followed by a volley of shots from the direction of the lake. Then more blasts sounded from the wooded area between the pavilion and the band shell.
We have two more shooters!
Charlie looked over her shoulder in time to see Owens scrambling in the direction of the parking lot. She crawled to Joyce and crouched next to Abrams. Joyce had been shot in her right shoulder and Abrams was putting pressure on the wound.
“We need an ambulance,” Abrams shouted.
Charlie’s microphone hadn’t survived her dive against the deck, but her earpiece was still intact.
Officer down! We have an officer down and at least one automatic weapon.
Agents were now closing in from all directions, some ran toward the band shell where a full-fledged firefight was underway.
Charlie looked into Joyce’s eyes, saw her determination to live, and decided she would be okay. “I’m going after Owens.”
“Get him,” Joyce said in a strong voice.
Don couldn’t see a thing from the roof of the band shell. The FBI sniper had a night scope and had relayed the information that a lone figure was approaching the pavilion from the east.
“I can’t see him,” Don shouted.
“It’s pretty shadowy out there,” the agent replied. Then he announced into the open channel, “I see the subject below the pavilion deck. I have a shot.”
Hold your fire, hold your fire, James had responded.
Moments later, when a single shot was heard from the direction of the pavilion, Don dropped the binoculars, tore off his headset and climbed down the slippery ladder leaning against the band shell wall. Why didn’t I insist on being closer to Mack?
A half-minute later, the entire landscape between Don and the skating pavilion lit up with the flash of gunfire and Don darted back to the band shell to crouch against the base of the ladder. He peered into the mist, watching what might have been the interplay of fireflies had it not been for the accompanying sound of explosions. If he ran toward the pavilion, he’d be in the line of fire. Instead, he moved to his right to intersect Muse Road, then drew his weapon and turned west toward the pavilion parking lot. He hugged the road’s perimeter, staying low. A few yards ahead he heard a noise and stopped. Fog was lifting from the ground in waves and it was difficult to see but he made out a figure darting across the road toward the trees. His instincts told him to follow and he was off the pavement and into the trees in a quick sprint. He moved forward cautiously, the vegetation underfoot was slippery and his boots sank into the ground with each step. He heard thrashing ahead of him, someone was moving quickly and deliberately. Don picked up his pace, his revolver held in both hands near his side, then he stopped. He saw a man in a hooded jacket fumbling with a large shrub. Don squatted and watched the man finally free a bicycle. The man mounted the bike but the ground was too mushy for him to stay upright so he dismounted, lifted the bike with one arm and trotted toward the road.
Don waited until the man was parallel to him, then stepped in his path.
“Going somewhere?”
The man dropped the bike and moved his hand toward the back of his jacket so Don struck him across the face with the butt of his gun. The man fell and Don straddled him.
“Okay, okay, I give up.”
Don held his revolver next to the man’s right eye and reached beneath him to retrieve a handgun.
“What’s your name?” Don ordered.
“Barnes. My name is Barnes, man. Don’t shoot.”
“Oh. Walter Barnes?” Don said with a sneer. “I have a message for you, from Charlene Mack.”
Don hit him twice more with his Ruger. When he stood, Barnes lay bloodied and unconscious next to his bicycle.
Owens was motionless in the high grass adjacent to the skating pavilion’s parking lot. He could tell from the chaos behind him that something had gone wrong. The rain was hard now and his clothes soaked through. Two law enforcement officers had rushed past his hiding place a moment ago and it was clear from the conversation on their squawking radios that he had been set up. He couldn’t go back to his car but he might be able to escape if he could get to the Casino and from there to the bridge. He lifted to his feet and pushed through the grass and shrubs until he reached the trees bordering the road.
“I’ve completely lost the audio feed,” Judy said, rushing to Gil’s desk.
“I know, I know. It’s the rain, and Charlie’s microphone is dead but we know where she is. Owens took off and she went after him.”
Judy peered over Gil’s shoulder. “Do you see her?”
“Not anymore. She entered this area right here.” Gil placed his finger on the computer screen.
“I’m sending you another satellite view.” Agent Emily Griggs’ voice streamed through Gil’s computer speakers. Then James’ voice also came through the computer.
“Griggs, we’re pulling into the pavilion lot now. Do you have eyes on Owens?”
“Not anymore, si
r. But I’m putting in new coordinates and we should have a different view in a second.”
“How come we can hear James?” Judy whispered.
“He must have switched to our channel,” Gil replied.
The screen flickered and a fairly clear picture came into view. They could see the pavilion parking area, the woods west of it and a pedestrian bridge that led to the Casino. An RV, several vehicles and two ambulances were parked in the lot. There were also several huddles of FBI and police personnel. Flashlight beams and flashers bounced all over the place.
“You should have the picture now, sir,” Griggs said.
“I’ve got it, but I don’t see Owens,” James said.
“There,” Judy shouted. “Just above the bridge. I think that’s Charlie.”
“Then Owens can’t be too far ahead,” Gil said.
“We’re going after them,” James announced.
Judy and Gil watched the monitor as three figures jumped from the RV and moved quickly along the part of Muse Road that ran parallel to the Casino. Agent Griggs expanded the view but visibility was compromised by the rain. After a minute of staring at the screen they caught sight of someone dipping in and out of the trees.
“There’s a person ahead of you about eight hundred yards. It’s probably Owens. He’s staying near the trees,” Griggs reported.
“Copy,” James responded. “Where is Ms. Mack?”
“Not sure,” Griggs said.
“Where’s he going?” Judy whispered to Gil. “There’s no way to escape.”
“Ms. Mack is at your eleven o’clock position about five hundred yards,” Griggs said.
“Copy that.”
Agent Griggs, Gil and Judy watched Owens pause several times while Charlie gained on him.
“Look,” Gil pointed. “Owens is moving away from the road now. If he gets to the Casino, he could steal a car.”
The three figures that were James and his two agents moved quickly in a straight line. The satellite picture was deteriorating and James’ audio signal was failing.
“. . . coming down hard . . . only a few feet,” James’ fractured voice came through the computer’s speakers.
“It’s probably difficult to see or hear anything in that downpour,” Gil said.
“Right,” Griggs replied.
Charlie was now within fifty feet of Owens. He had turned in her direction and was squatting.
“What’s he doing?” Judy asked, squinting at the screen. “Oh, no, Gil,” Judy screamed.
Charlie moved to her left a few paces. Behind her, James stopped abruptly, then crouched. The men behind him also dropped low.
“Owens is at your one o’clock position. One o’clock,” Griggs shouted into her microphone.
“I don’t think he can hear you, Emily,” Gil said.
Judy reached into her pocket.
Owens was cold, wet and dirty. He felt a shudder move through his chest and his teeth chattered. How did I get into this mess? That young punk, Grant Freeman III, assured me the FBI was not onto me. Obviously he was wrong, or lying. Charlene Mack. She’s the one who set me up. She must be in cahoots with Joyce.
He leaned against the nearest tree and tried drying his face on the lining of his raincoat. He lifted the collar. A useless gesture. Maybe things will still be okay. I saw Joyce fall. If she’s dead and my guys took care of Barnes. Then there’d be nobody to testify against me.
Something behind him moved and he sunk down to the base of the tree. He’d seen Charlene Mack leave the pavilion deck to come after him. She might be right behind him. He fumbled in his pocket until he found the gun, it was wet like everything else and he hoped it would still fire. He looked back from where he’d come, but all he could see was a curtain of rain. He raised his arm to shoot but the sound of an engine starting pierced the rain. He pocketed the gun. If I can just make it to the Casino I can grab a car or force someone to drive me off this damn island, and I can get to my boat. I have to keep moving.
Owens stood, straining to see the lights of the Casino ahead. But a sudden noise made him turn again. It sounded like music. No, a bugle. I must be imagining things. Then he heard it again. He fired his gun twice in the direction of the sound, and someone shot back. The first bullet slammed into the tree over his right shoulder, the second and third bullets cut through his raincoat. His chest burned like a furnace. He thought he heard someone yell “hold your fire.” Yes, please hold your fire, I’m shot. Then his knees buckled and his nose settled into the sodden grass.
When an FBI bulletin about multiple shots fired at Belle Isle appeared on the patrol car monitor, Mandy ordered her partner to use lights and sirens to respond.
“Out of our jurisdiction you know, Porter.”
“I know, but every jurisdiction east of Detroit will show up. Besides, it’s not that far away, rookie. Call it in.”
Mandy was right. Patrol cars from Hamtramck, the Pointes, St. Clair Shores, even Macomb County arrived on the scene of the FBI operation. No one knew for sure what the operation entailed, but those gathered—including a handful of reporters—got an informal briefing from a MPD communications officer who would only acknowledge there had been a fatal shooting. The crime scene was cordoned off while the FBI discreetly gathered their bullets, firearms, men, and equipment. Avoiding questions was further complicated by the presence of the black and shiny, unmarked tactical vehicle with microwave, radio antennae and satellite dish aloft. Law enforcement personnel flanked the RV as if it were in a parade.
Mandy left her partner jostling to get a look inside the RV while she searched for Charlie. She spotted Charlie’s empty Corvette in the parking lot blocked in by a half-dozen vehicles. She headed for the front of the pavilion with a plan to sweet talk her way to the other side of the crime tape, when she caught sight of Charlie sitting on a backhoe near a pile of broken concrete.
“Is this the latest acquisition for the Mack Partners fleet?” Mandy joked.
“Where’d you come from?” Charlie asked.
“I drove in with the rest of the cowboys to get a look at the fancy gear. What’s shaking, Rutkowski? Long time no see.”
“Right Porter. Good to see you.”
The three stood quietly for a few seconds with the police lights pulsating across them. Don stared at Mandy. Charlie and Mandy stared at each other. In the strobes, Mandy noticed Charlie’s disheveled condition.
“You get hurt?”
“No. I’m just dirty and wet. And my ribs kind of hurt again,” Charlie said, just registering the soreness in her midriff.
“You should get in some dry clothes.”
“I will. As soon as I can move my car.”
“I guess you probably can’t talk about what happened.”
“No. We can’t,” Don said gruffly.
He had been watching the interaction between the two women. So the rumors are true. And the woman is Mandy. He hadn’t believed it but now he’d seen it for himself.
“Well, I guess I’ll be leaving. I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” Mandy said.
“I’m good.”
“Everything’s under control. And I’ll make sure Mack is okay,” Don said, to establish his rank.
The three weathered another awkward silence. Charlie avoided Don’s questioning look and Mandy turned to go.
“Will you call me when your shift ends?”
“You sure? It’ll be late,” Mandy said.
“I know. Call anyway.”
They watched Mandy join the pack of cops at the other end of the lot. Then Charlie felt Don’s stare.
“Something you want to tell me?” he asked accusingly.
“I can tell you I’m happy. And when there’s more to tell, you’ll be one of the first to know.”
“It’s a big change for you, isn’t it?”
“Yep. But change is what happens when you’re still alive.”
“Okay, Mack. If you say so. Let’s see if we can’t get some of these cars out of the w
ay, so you can get home.”
Chapter 37
Tuesday was atypical for Mack Investigations. The office was closed for the afternoon. Charlie, Don, Gil and Judy were headed across town to Reliable Restaurant Supply for the FBI debriefing on one of their most challenging cases. No one complained when Don offered to chauffeur the team in his roomy Buick LeSabre.
“Nice car, Don,” Judy said.
“Thanks Novak.”
They hadn’t become bosom buddies, but Judy’s imaginative phone strategies during this case had elevated her position with Don. Yesterday, hours before the Belle Isle rendezvous, Judy had cornered Charlie to express her skepticism of the complicated FBI plan.
“I know Don will be there to protect you, but be sure to take your mobile phone.”
“My phone?”
“Yes. If I call it’s because you’re in danger. If you hear the cavalry bugle, just hit the deck.”
“Judy, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I’ll be surrounded by a dozen FBI agents. Things won’t get far out of hand.”
“That’s just it,” Judy had said. “Too many cooks and not one of them has the full recipe. Please, Charlie, just do it for me. Put the volume on high and keep the phone in your breast pocket where you can hear it.”
Abrams was a gracious host for the briefing. A large carafe of coffee had been prepared and there was Danish and fruit. Each place at the conference table had a tablet, pen and bottled water. Per James’ instructions, Abrams had provided a projection screen at one end of the table and the eight floor-to-ceiling blinds on Abrams’ office windows had been closed three-quarters, cloaking the screen in shadow.
The Mack team arrived first and Don made a beeline for the pastries and coffee. Abrams was relaxed, almost content. Not the way you’d expect a man to look the day after such proximity to flying bullets.
“Everything is perfect, Alicia,” he told his temporary assistant. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Abrams.” The young woman beamed as if she’d been told she had an extra week of vacation.
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