This picture was different from the rest, and it always had been. The photo was of the Ben boy. The child wasn’t propped against a tree, but wedged in the corner of his old van, the one that was used when Ahote snatched Ben from the house in Sparrow. The child was young and should have been afraid, but in the photo, his spirit and expression were angry and defiant. Ahote had taken the picture seconds after he had pulled the Ben boy back in the van when the child had tried to escape.
“Where were the others, boy?” Ahote asked. “There was supposed to be a girl at your house, too. A little sister.”
“I don’t have a sister. It’s just me,” Ben lied.
“What are you hiding in your hand, boy?” Ahote asked.
“Nothing,” Ben answered.
“Give it here,” Ahote said.
Ben stretched his hand out and opened his palm, where he revealed Julia’s birthday charm bracelet, which he had snatched up after it had fallen off his sleeping sister while he hurried her inside the closet before Ahote came into their room.
“You said there’s no girl in the house. That’s a girl’s bracelet,” Ahote said.
“A girl at school gave it to me,” Ben lied again. “She likes me. My dad is a cop and he’s going to kill you when he finds out what you did.”
Ahote opened up his big mouth and laughed. He reached his hand out to pat Ben’s, but the boy snapped his hand back before Ahote could reach him.
“You lie like your father. And you’ll pay like he will, too,” the big Indian said.
The door of the trailer swung open and slammed against the aluminum siding as Ahote hurried to hide his photographs. He looked up to see his new boss entering inside, with the same look of revulsion and disappointment the big Indian’s father had worn when Ahote was a young man.
“Was this you?” the boss yelled. He thrust his cell phone in front of Ahote’s face. On the screen was a story from a local Detroit newspaper about the brutal murder of Angel Perez.
“I promised I’d stop. And I did for a long time,” Ahote tried to explain. “I was careful. I always am. He was a nobody, a day laborer, probably an illegal that couldn’t be tracked. No one cared about him.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, idiot. The kid you killed was the nephew of a city councilman. Duke Gooden’s daughter wrote the article, as if what you did wasn’t bad enough. I warned you, Ahote. You had some good years, but you failed your job with Chip Haskell. You went too far with him. You torture someone, you pull back so they can give you what you want, before you go at it again.”
“He was close to telling me, but he had a heart attack or something.”
“You carved his friggin’ eye out. You want to cut his ear off, okay. Guy would’ve likely bled out from the eye thing, if he hadn’t had the heart attack first.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“It better not. I hear you’ve done some real good work through the years. Chip Haskell’s body is still in the trunk of Jameson’s car. Haskell was shot in the head. You know anything about that?”
“No. Jameson took Haskell after I had my round with him. Jameson must’ve shot him. Jameson worked with me for a long time. It sounds like his style.”
“You need to get rid of the body and the car. Don’t do anything weird with the body, like I know you’re going to want to do. Be clean about it and just bury it in the woods. Are we clear?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve got more problems. Jameson’s gone.”
“What do you mean?” Ahote asked.
“When I showed up at the Sparrow place, Jameson wasn’t there, but his car was. Either Duke got him, or his kid did.”
“The reporter woman?”
“Another problem. She had the local sheriffs at her house earlier, and I hear there’s a guy in the Detroit PD who’s watching over her like a hawk.”
“Do we have another back door to get to Duke?” Ahote asked.
“Duke’s got another daughter, Sarah. We thought she was still in Florida, but turns out she’s working at a rehab facility downtown. Julia just met with her. Sarah’s got a record. Not close to being the con that Duke is though. It takes a master’s hand to make people believe that you’ve been dead for the past thirty years.”
“I started the fire.”
“Well, you should’ve stuck around to be sure they both burned. This whole Gooden situation is your fault. The night you snatched the boy, you should’ve checked the house better and taken the other kids, at least the Julia girl. You threaten to hurt a little girl, it has a deeper impact on a man.”
“I went back and looked. There was nobody else in the house besides the mother. I had to hurry.”
“You keep screwing up, Ahote, I don’t know.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Curb your twisted bow-and-arrow killing shit and bring me Julia or Sarah Gooden by tomorrow. One of those girls knows where Duke is. And your pet in the bowl there, it looks like it’s got some problems.”
CHAPTER 9
Julia ran the four blocks from the Renaissance House to her paper, and then sprinted up the six flights of stairs until she reached the newsroom. She hurried to her desk, which was positioned on the far side of the newsroom next to the now-vacant, recently laid-off business editor’s desk, and was greeted by a large yellow Post-it note from her city editor, Virginia, that read, GET IN MY OFFICE. NOW.
Julia shoved the note into her wastebasket and looked up the contact information for Mike Ballentine on her computer. A quick search showed three Mike Ballentines listed in the Greater Detroit area. By process of elimination by age, Julia found a Mike Stavros Ballentine, sixty-five, who lived in a different trailer park, Red Run in Madison Heights this time, as opposed to the one Sarah had first found him in during their visit with benefits ten years earlier.
Ballentine answered on the third ring in an annoyed, drowsy tone, like Julia had woken him up, even though it was late afternoon.
“Mr. Ballentine. You used to know my father, Duke Gooden. I’m his daughter Julia. I’m a reporter. I’m not writing a story about Duke, but I’m trying to find out some information about my dad that may link to my brother, Ben.”
“How do I know you’re Duke’s kid?”
“You had sex with my sister, Sarah, when she came to talk to you about Duke ten years ago. Does that work?”
Ballentine let out a dry hack on the other end of the line.
“Duke never mentioned you,” Ballentine answered.
“No surprise. Duke had three kids, Sarah, Ben, and me. I’m guessing you only knew about Sarah from her visit. My dad brought plenty of people over to our house in Sparrow, but I don’t remember you.”
“No. We’d usually meet at my house in LaSalle Gardens back then.”
“LaSalle Gardens. Did you live in a yellow duplex?” Julia asked.
“That’s right. How’d you know?”
“There was a time when my family lived in Duke’s Chrysler. I remember he left us in the car for hours in front of your place a couple of times for some big meeting he said he had.”
“Jesus. I didn’t know Duke had his kids out there. What do you want to know about Duke? An FBI agent, Terry something or other, came by a couple of weeks ago asking about your dad. The agent showed back up here again yesterday. I can tell you what I told him.”
“The FBI is looking for Duke?”
“Duke was part of a case the agent was working. That’s all he’d say.”
“How did you know my father?”
“Duke had oversized dreams, but not the means to make them real. We had worked a couple of cons together, small stuff. Fake real estate deals, passing bad checks. One time, Duke and I were having coffee at a sandwich shop, and I bumped into a guy I knew, but made a big point to avoid at all costs. Duke could smell money on him and threw him that killer smile of his. Duke could turn that smile on and make a person feel like they were the only ones that mattered in the entire universe. He had a skill that way.”
> “I remember. Sort of like a snake that hypnotizes a mouse just before it swallows him whole.”
“The guy we ran into that day, he was a businessman, if you could call him that. He picked up something in Duke that he liked right away, and the two started talking, like I wasn’t even there. By this time, I had somewhere to be. I’d heard there was a shipment of electronics that was going to be delivered at the port, and I had partnered with a worker there to benefit our mutual interests. He had the product, I had the customers. When I left Duke, he was still talking it up with the guy.”
“The man you’re talking about, was his name Peter Jonti?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Jonti knew my dad and it sounds like you two were in the same line of business,” Julia said.
“Then I would’ve definitely known him, but like I said, I’ve never heard of the guy.”
“What was the other man’s name, the one in the sandwich shop?”
“Max Mueller. I just read his obituary online in the Free Press.”
“Who is he?”
“No way. Like I told the federal agent, you can figure that out on your own. I don’t want anything coming back to me. You look the Mueller family up on your own. Don’t you dare mention my name or that we talked.”
“Do you know what happened to Duke?”
Julia listened in as it sounded like Ballentine was hocking up a phlegm ball.
“You don’t know?” Ballentine asked.
“I’d heard my parents died in a fire.”
“That’s right. The day before I got the news that your parents were dead, Duke shows up at my door with Marjorie. She had always been a fine-looking woman, but the booze made her sloppy. But this night, she was stone-cold sober. I hear someone pounding on my door real hard, and it’s Duke. Your dad, he always liked to look sharp, even if his clothes were from Goodwill. But this time when he showed up at my house, he was all spiffed up, wearing a real suit that fit. The guy had friggin’ cuff links on. He looked good, but it was the first time I’d seen him nervous. I mean that cool, relaxed thing he always had going was completely gone. Duke was scared shitless. He asked me if I’d be willing to stash something for him, and he’d pay me to do it if I kept my mouth shut. Five grand a year. Can you imagine? But I didn’t want to risk it.”
“Did he tell you what he wanted you to keep for him?”
“No. I liked your dad, and the five grand was real tempting, but I knew what Max Mueller was up to. He had two businesses. Neither of them was good, but one was downright evil. I like money, but not at that price.”
“What can you tell me about Max Mueller?”
“Nothing if I want to live.”
“You said Max is dead. Why should you be worried about talking about him?”
“Max’s got a bunch of goons and a son who might be running things now. The kid’s name is Liam. I don’t know if he followed in his old man’s footsteps or if someone else is heading the Mueller show. For all I know, the business got parceled out to Max’s competition at a price before he died or if there’s a power struggle going on. Listen, I’ve told you all I can. You need anything else, don’t call me. Do me a favor, though. Tell your sister Sarah I said ‘hey.’ ”
* * *
Julia hung up and made another phone call, ignoring an incoming call from Virginia, and hoped one of her ace-in-the hole sources, Tyce Jones, would answer.
Tyce was an up-and-coming Detroit music producer after his previous life as a drug dealer put him in a wheelchair, although Julia was never quite convinced that Tyce was completely out of the life.
“Julia Gooden, damn, girl. I thought you’d died. I personally saved your ass a couple of months ago, and you only came to see me one time since. You use a man for his connections, a brother has to start thinking it’s a one-way street.”
“Nice to talk to you, too, Tyce.”
“How’s Helen since her old man died? I sent flowers to his funeral and she sent me a real nice thank-you card. A man doesn’t forget something like that, appreciation. Do you know what that word means?”
“I do. And since I helped incarcerate the man who put you in your wheelchair, I’m thinking that we’re even.”
“Big Nicky Conti. All right. You laid your case and we’re square. What do you need?”
“Information about a man who just died. His name is Max Mueller.”
Julia could hear Tyce groan. “I’m not talking to you about this shit over the phone. You want to drill me for what I know, you know where my place of business is.”
“Okay. I need a few minutes to wrap something up.”
“Come by in an hour. You’re not the only one who’s busy,” Tyce said, and hung up the phone.
Julia was about to launch into an online search for Max Mueller, when a tall, redheaded woman, with her arms folded across her chest, rapped hard on Julia’s desk with her knuckles.
“So nice of you to join us. Can I have a word if you can fit me into your schedule?”
* * *
Virginia made her way to her office, and Julia followed, all the while working up a strategy on what she could tell Virginia to buy some time. Julia knew Virginia respected her, and Julia felt the same way about her city editor.
Virginia had worked her way up from general assignment reporter to covering county government, where she nailed the Wayne County treasurer for her coverage on how he skimmed three million dollars to finance his second home and mistress. Virginia’s series on the treasurer landed her the coveted investigative reporting slot, which she had held until she took a management job as a way to avoid an early buyout, like many other fiftysomething veterans in the newsroom had taken under duress. The two women would never call themselves friends, but they both had a mutual admiration for each other’s work.
Virginia shut her office door and pulled the shades.
“What are you doing, Julia? This is a big story, the biggest one in a long time, and you’re dumping it off on the Detroit reporter. We both know Tom lost his fire years ago. Between us, he’s next on the chopping block, and rumor has it he’s short-listed for a public relations flacking gig with DTE Energy. I hope to God he gets it, because I’m getting an ulcer from having to lay off people I used to go out for drinks with after deadline.”
“I’m sorry, Virg. But on the Perez murder, I got you information no other news organization had on the serial killer and bow-and-arrow angle.”
“I know. Thank God for your sources. CNN picked it up and they’re citing us. That was good work. But I don’t get what you’re doing now, passing the story off to the B Team. I had to pretend that I had a great reason why I sent Tom to the press conference when Edgar Sanchez called me and wanted to know why you weren’t there.”
“Sorry to put you on the spot like that. Edgar is a good man, and that’s horrible what happened to his nephew. I promise, I’ll help Tom fill in the blanks if he can be the point person on the Angel Perez coverage for now. I’m looking into something else. I need some time to work on it. A few days are all I’m asking.”
“I don’t like this. What’s the story?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you right now. Something heated up on a prominent cold case. It could be huge.”
“I don’t like betting on a horse when I don’t know its odds. The Angel Perez story is big right now.”
“I understand. But I also know that you’ve been in my shoes, and you’ve had to sit on a big story until you could get more information to back it up,” Julia said, and then she played her next card. “I don’t want to get pushed to write what I have now, because I’ll run the risk of my sources clamming up and the competition getting it before we do.”
“Fine. I’ll keep Tom on the Perez murder for now, with the understanding that you’ll give us twice-daily updates on what the cops tell you. Tom isn’t even close to being as connected as you are with the Detroit PD. You know I’m doing you a big favor here.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You still like being out there?”
“You mean reporting? I do. Journalists go into this thinking we can make a difference, but we rarely do. But on those few occasions, it makes it all worth it.”
“What I wouldn’t do some days to be back on the beat instead of worrying about ad sales or how many stories we should let online readers access before we put up a pay wall. But the money is better in management. Between us, there’s talk about the metro editor leaving to take a job at the Globe. I’m the obvious successor. You’d be a great city editor. I could put a word in for you if it works out.”
“Thanks. But sitting behind a desk all day would kill me. I need to be out on the street. Did things work out with the freelance photographer Fish used for the Angel Perez story?”
“I think so. Fish showed us the photos his freelancer took during the press conference, and he got a couple of old family photos of Angel at his prom, one with his pregnant girlfriend, and one with his uncle Edgar. Fish showed us the pictures at the three o’clock editorial meeting. They looked good. The photographer must have made some inroads with the family, which helps. You never know when you work with freelancers, but they are cheaper than full-time employees, who need benefits.”
“Have you ever turned into a bean counter.”
“A good one, too. Call me at five and give me a briefing on what the cops tell you. I’m trusting you on the Angel Perez story and on the article you’re working on. We’ve got at least one dead body in the Angel Perez story. Possibly three more. How many bodies do you have in your mystery article? None?”
“At least two that I know of,” Julia answered.
“Okay. Sounds promising.”
* * *
Julia left a message for Navarro to see if he could run a background check on Max Mueller after coming up with scant information on her father’s old associate through an online search and the paper’s own database. All Julia could find was that the man Duke had been affiliated with at the time of Ben’s disappearance owned a company called Mueller’s Antiques and Fine Goods, in the Greater Detroit area, and it specialized in consignment sales of jewelry, vintage books, and various objects of fine art. The only news story Julia could find about Max Mueller wasn’t crime-related, as she had expected, but was on the obituary page. In addition to his business, the obituary said he was the son of immigrant parents from Germany who settled in Detroit after World War II, and that Max was a patron of the arts, specifically the Detroit Opera House and the Detroit Institute of Arts.
Worth Killing For Page 10