Duplicity

by Jane Haseldine

  “Lucky I still have all my clothes here. Not too obnoxious?”

  “Much better.”

  “Tell the kids I’ll see them tonight.”

  “Logan has a field trip at the courthouse, remember? You might see him there. I’m going to meet his bus at the courthouse when it arrives.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “It’s during the lunch hour. I’m the queen of multitasking, baby,” Julia says. “I’m not sure if you’ll have time this morning, but if you get a few minutes, I think I’ll stop at Chanel’s over in Greektown before I go into the newsroom. Navarro and Russell are meeting up there.”

  David shoots Julia a sideways glance and is about to respond when his cell phone vibrates on the desk. He snatches it up, looks at the number, and then shoves the phone into his pants pocket.

  “You can take that.”

  “Not around you. This one can wait. It’s nothing urgent. I’ll call them back. How’s Navarro doing? Still coveting my wife?”

  “Now who’s insecure?” Julia asks. “You have nothing to worry about. Never have. Navarro is dating some big restaurateur from New York anyway. She opened Chanel’s and a couple of other restaurants in the Art Center and Eastern Market.”

  David stretches into his blue suit jacket and drapes his long wool coat over his arm.

  “Wish me luck,” he says. “Don’t worry so much about what the Detroit News puts out. And stop your hunt for my new witness. Understood?”

  Julia crosses her arms in a natural defense move. A light tapping on the front door tables any chance of a rekindled argument as David hurries down the hallway with a heavy briefcase in either hand. Julia follows his path and watches as David greets their housekeeper, Helen Jankowski, a painfully thin, older woman with a thick Polish accent and the best pierogi recipe in all of Greater Detroit. She nods at David and gives Julia’s bare legs a disapproving glare.

  Julia ignores the judgment and gives David a thumbs-up sign. “You’re going to be great.”

  He leans in and whispers in her ear, “We’ll take some time after this is over. I promise. Just you and me.”

  “We’ll talk about your moving back in after you get a guilty conviction for Rossi.”

  “I like the way you think,” David says. He walks out the door toward his car and then hesitates, turning back one last time as he takes a long look at Julia, who for a second thinks her husband is going to cry.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I just missed you guys and I’m glad you all came home. I wasn’t myself without you.”

  * * *

  The hot water of the shower runs over Julia’s still cold body, which begins to thaw underneath the heat. Julia does her usual ritual, turning the water temperature to the coldest setting, and stands underneath the icy spray until her shivers become uncontrollable and she grants herself a reprieve.

  Julia stands soaking and naked in front of the bathroom mirror, and a striking reflection stares back at her—her eyes, the same shade as her con man father’s, a bright, startling light blue, contrasting against her olive skin and dark hair. But like most women, all Julia sees are her flaws. Journalism was the lifeline that first pulled her out of her often-crippling insecurity and gave her strength beyond the reserve she had stowed from her brother Ben’s love and protection from the ugly life they shared as children. But then David and her boys became her salvation. Julia catches herself smiling in the mirror over her realization that maybe this time, she and David could really make it work.

  The sound of little boys’ feet tearing down the hallway breaks Julia out of her dark trance, and she hurriedly gets dressed, pulling on a fitted yet tasteful black skirt and a loose cream-colored top. She hustles barefoot toward the kitchen, carefully balancing her heels in one hand and her laptop in the other. She sticks her flash drive with the Rossi file in her purse and turns the corner to see the back of her two sons’ heads pressed together over the kitchen counter.

  Logan, her eight-year-old, sits on a barstool and is engrossed in his Minecraft game on the family iPad. Will, her two-year-old, teeters on the other stool as close as he can to his brother so he can watch the action on the screen.

  Julia rushes over and rights the stool before Will takes a spill.

  “Good morning, beautiful boys,” Julia says, then kisses Will on the top of his golden-blond hair.

  “Play with Lo Lo,” Will says, and keeps his eyes riveted on the action on the screen. Julia smiles over the mundane domestic bliss and realizes she’s already become second fiddle to Logan in Will’s eyes, but takes comfort in the fact that the two boys will always likely have a close bond.

  “Sorry to spoil the fun for both of you this morning,” Julia says. She places an ABC picture book in front of Will and snags the iPad out of Logan’s hands. Julia then gets on her tiptoes so temporarily she can tuck it away from his grasp on the pantry’s highest shelf.

  “Hey, Mom, why’d you do that?” Logan asks.

  “You don’t need to play video games first thing in the morning. Let’s practice for your spelling test instead,” Julia answers, and gives Logan a playful swat on his bottom with his homework folder.

  Helen brushes into the kitchen and begins to stir brown sugar and raisins into a pot of steaming steal-cut oatmeal simmering on the back burner of the stove.

  “That smells delicious, Helen,” Julia says while handing Logan a notebook and pencil. “The first word is ‘between.’ ”

  “Between,” Logan recites, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he carefully writes each letter. “Are you going to be there for my field trip today?”

  “Absolutely. Next word is ‘system.’ There’s a tricky letter in the word. One that is sometimes a vowel. I’m meeting your bus outside the courthouse at twelve-thirty.”

  “Don’t be late again. The tricky letter is y.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I got stuck at work just one time, and I swear it will never happen again. I should be at the courthouse all day, so I’ll already be there before your bus arrives.”

  “You don’t have to volunteer for everything,” Logan answers. “There’s like four teachers and a bunch of other parents always at these things.”

  “Cities are dangerous places. You need to be very careful whether I’m there or not. Besides, I like participating in your school activities. I’m proud of you, you know.”

  “My friend Sarah wishes Daddy would go instead. She thinks he’s hot.”

  “Good lord. Third graders shouldn’t think anyone is hot,” Julia says.

  “I think you’re beautiful, Mom.”

  Julia smiles and looks back at Logan, with his jet-black hair, dark eyes that turn up on the end, and a sprinkling of freckles that scatter along his high cheekbones. She is always amazed how much her son looks just like her brother, Ben. And Will is a dead ringer for David.

  “That was a very kind thing to say. Thank you.”

  “Things are still good with you and Dad, right?” Logan asks.

  “Everything is fine. Why would you ask that?”

  “I thought I heard his voice this morning. Were you guys fighting?” Logan asks.

  Julia curses herself silently for not being more discreet and for opening the door of possibility for Logan to hope that his parents may be reuniting.

  “Daddy came by to pick up some work papers. That’s all. Things are fine between your dad and me.”

  Logan nibbles on the inside of his cheek, a lingering nervous habit he picked up after the incident at the lake house last summer.

  “Swear?” Logan asks.

  Julia draws an X across her heart with her finger.

  “Cross my heart. I’d never lie to you. You know that.”

  Logan gives Julia a small smile, seemingly satisfied with her promise.

  Julia scoots Will’s stool up closer to the counter as Helen places a bowl of oatmeal in front of each boy.

  “I’ll be home by five-thirty tonight. Six tops. Hel
en, please leave Will’s door ajar when he takes a nap. You’ll stay with Logan at the curb and not leave until he gets on the bus?”

  “Of course,” Helen answers. “I always do. I’ve raised four children of my own and all survived to adulthood.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Julia says, and pats Helen’s hand.

  “It’s just the rest of the world she doesn’t trust,” Logan answers. “Don’t worry, Helen. She does that to everyone. She just wants to keep us all safe.”

  “Please call me if anything comes up. I’ll keep my cell phone on vibrate even in the courtroom,” Julia says to Helen. “Something tells me you won’t need to call me, though. I get the feeling it’s going to be a great day.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Seven-fifteen AM. The black Mercedes creeps along I-94, the Edsel Ford Freeway, and cruises off the exit ramp that hugs the forty-acre site that was once home to a Detroit legend, the Packard Plant. The name still resonates and stubbornly remains, even though the last Packard automobile rolled off the assembly line in the 1950s. Once a bustling empire that employed thousands in the east side neighborhood, it has long since become a gaping eyesore, mirroring the crumbling and decay of Detroit, a city with problems so big, many of its residents feel it was left to rot. The buildings that make up the abandoned Packard Plant are empty shells, except for trash, squatters, scavengers, and a matrix of graffiti strewn across the crumbling concrete remains, as crews of taggers tattoo what’s left into a hopeless urban masterpiece.

  The Mercedes pulls behind the south side of the blighted manufacturing plant. The car’s driver is not worried anyone will notice their entrance, including the police. Bankrupt Detroit can’t afford to pay to replace streetlights, let alone bankroll extra patrols for the high-crime areas of the city.

  Inside the car, rules are being reset, in case they weren’t understood the first time.

  “It has to be small and compact but powerful. I’ll pay up to one hundred thousand, but lowball at fifty thousand first. If you run into any trouble, you pull the trigger first. Got it?”

  The two men—boys really, both barely older than nineteen—nod in agreement. This isn’t their first job.

  The two exit the car—Carlo, tall and thin, and Pete, muscular and short, both dressed in dark leather jackets and jeans, their hair black and shiny, the only thing beautiful against the backdrop of debris, unforgiving grey sky and cinderblock rubble.

  They make their way up the side stairwell, carefully stepping over broken concrete as if dodging land mines, until they reach the sixth floor, the location where the salesman is supposed to await them.

  “What are you going to do with the money when we get paid?” Carlo asks. “Man, when I get my five thousand, I’m going to Miami. Michigan can kiss my white ass good-bye, piece of shit. I hear they got sexy girls all over Miami who are just begging you to give them some.”

  Pete pauses at the sixth-floor stairwell and stares through a hole in the concrete at the cold sky. He closes his eyes and mumbles something.

  “You praying, man? You’re scaring me. What the hell you praying for? You think something bad is going to happen?”

  Pete turns slowly toward him, centered and calm. “No. God is in control. If we die, it’s His will.”

  “What are you talking about? If you aren’t in this anymore, tell me now, and I’m out of here.”

  Something seems to pass across his friend’s eyes as Pete turns back with fascination to the hole in the wall. Carlo pulls his Glock out of his pocket and points it at the back of his childhood friend’s head. His finger hesitates on the trigger as he recalls them as two little boys, shy and holding their mothers’ hands on the way to Communion.

  “Take care of us, Blessed Mother,” Pete says, and then crosses himself. “Put the gun away for now. We have a job to finish.”

  A small shiver runs through Carlo, who wonders if Pete has eyes in back of his head like the devil. He keeps a strong hold on the gun until he decides whether his friend can be trusted. He finally tucks the gun against the small of his back, praying that he is making the right decision.

  Pete turns around finally and embraces his friend, giving him a kiss on each cheek.

  “You’re creeping me out, man,” Carlo says. “You all right?”

  “Of course. Let’s go.”

  As they reach the landing of the sixth floor, Pete recovers the role as leader, pushes ahead, and scans the expansive, yawning cavity of the sixth floor before them.

  In the far corner is a pile of metal, looking like a tall scrapyard of twisted steel and the picked-over carcasses of long-abandoned, rusted cars. Pete moves stealthily, almost catlike, toward the agreed-upon meeting spot until a voice rings out from inside a far room.

  “The Madonna waits for no one,” a voice calls from behind a door.

  “Until pure innocence is found again,” Pete answers.

  A man surfaces from the hidden confines of the room. He’s wiry and haggard, like a homeless man whose skin is now weathered and shriveled under the daily effects of the sun and frigid temperatures.

  “How can I help you, boys?”

  “We need a device that’s compact and can do the most damage,” Carlo says.

  The bomb dealer lifts the handle to a sliding metal door that creeps up until his wares are in full view.

  “I got the regular pressure cookers that would cost you fifty thousand or so, but for something that high-tech, I’d need one twenty-five, and that’s a steal,” he says, and wheels out an expensive-looking leather suitcase with something that looks like a miniature fat beer keg inside. “These are top-of-the-line designs just coming out of Russia. Maximum damage guaranteed. It’s compact, and as you can see it fits easily into a midsize rolling suitcase. Dress someone up in a suit and have the guy leave it where you want the initial point of impact. After the Boston Marathon bombings, you have to be smarter. Anyone sees a nice leather suitcase sitting around, they’re going to think some distracted businessman left it behind by accident. Then he walks away about three blocks and calls a number that belongs to the cell phone that’s attached to the bomb. The cell phone is the activator, the call comes in, and bam, there you go. It’s Fourth of July. This thing is guaranteed to cause major destruction. I’m talking a city block, half a building, or a jetliner, if you can get it past airline security these days. Like I said, a hundred twenty-five thousand. I’ll even throw in the suitcase.”

  Pete reaches his hand inside his jacket pocket for his gun when Carlo speaks up.

  “Seventy-five thousand. That’s our top offer. You make this sale, there’ll be plenty more opportunities coming your way.”

  The salesman digs at his greasy hair with long, yellowed fingernails and makes a decision.

  “Eighty-five thousand and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Done,” Carlo decides.

  Pete stands beside him as still as a stone.

  The bomb salesman rolls the newly purchased weapon of mass destruction in their direction and smiles at the young men like a car salesman who is about to give them the keys to a brand-new Bentley.

  Carlo takes a long moment to study the case in front of him, trying like hell to pretend he knows what he’s doing.

  “Fine,” Carlo says with authority. “This thing isn’t going to blow up on us, right?”

  “No, it has to be activated. It won’t spontaneously combust, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Okay. Give him the money, Pete.”

  Pete stares back at the bomb seller with pure, unbridled hatred.

  “Careful, boy,” the bomb salesman says.

  Money is exchanged, and Pete carefully holds the suitcase in his arms, cuddling it close to his chest like a newborn.

  “Guy was a prick,” Carlo says as they make their way back to the parking lot. “What do you think? All sales are final?”

  The passenger-side window of the Mercedes lowers, and the driver motions the two men forward.

  “
Do you have it?” the driver asks.

  “Yes,” Carlo answers, badly wanting credit. “We had a little trouble inside, but I handled it.”

  “Then why is your partner carrying the goods?” the driver asks. “Come here, Pete.”

  “No,” Pete says, staring back at the Mercedes without moving. “You come out.”

  “Hold on. Don’t screw this up, man,” Carlo says, and begins to walk toward his friend.

  A single shot fires from the Mercedes and makes a perfect hole through Carlo’s chest, just to the left of the breastbone. Before he takes his last breath, he thinks about banging the wild, sexy girls of Miami. The driver turns to Pete, considering more carefully how to deal with him without damaging or setting off the bomb. But the problem is already solved. Pete tries to disappear behind the Packard Plant, leaving the small rolling suitcase on the ground in his escape. The driver fires, and the bullet penetrates the back of Pete’s skull. Pete falls before he can turn the corner. The driver exits the vehicle, carefully scoops up the bomb, and returns to the Mercedes.

  Directly across from the action, a junkie huddles behind a large cardboard box, praying to God the driver of the Mercedes didn’t see him. He pulls the syringe of heroin, still halfway full, out of his arm and reaches inside a dirty plastic bag filled with all his earthly belongings. He finds what he’s looking for, a card that he holds between two mud-stained fingers, and reads the name: Detective Raymond Navarro.

  CHAPTER 4

  Julia backs her SUV into a tight parking space across from the restaurant, fondly remembering her first junker of a used car she bought with her own money while a senior in college. On a full four-year scholarship to Syracuse University, she worked three jobs and was the only student in her dorm who had a vehicle their daddy didn’t pay for. Her motto even back then was, if you came from nothing, you have to fight like hell to get something.

  Julia slides four quarters into the meter and looks up at the flashing CHANEL’S sign, like a silver and gold strobe light illuminating the gritty Greektown block. The sign looks ostentatious and out of place in her city. To Julia, Detroit is a kindred spirit, an unaffected, scrappy survivor. And Julia believes Detroit is going to make it through the troubled times, just like she did.