Julia lets Logan continue his bedside vigil as the steady beeps and clicks of machines monitoring David’s vitals play on in the background in a steady rhythm. After fifteen minutes, Logan stands up and pushes the chair back in the corner.
“I really thought he’d wake up when he heard my voice.”
“He knew you were here. I believe that. Do you want to take a break for a few minutes? There’s a gift shop down the hall, and you could get a candy bar if you like.”
“You’ll let me go alone?” Logan asks incredulously.
“This time is okay. The hospital is swarming with cops. Just don’t talk to anyone you don’t know.”
Logan doesn’t hesitate and hurries out of the room, leaving as fast as he can before Julia changes her mind.
“I guess now’s not the time to be the jealous wife here,” Julia says, and brushes her fingers against David’s newly shorn short stubble. “But if I could play twenty questions with you, I would.”
A heavyset, dark complected man in a pair of hospital scrubs pokes his head inside the doorway.
“Sorry, wrong room,” the man says, and disappears into the hallway.
An instinctual worry tugs at Julia’s gut. She follows the orderly and catches a glimpse of his wrist, heavily inked with tattoos, poking out from beneath a long white T-shirt. The man slips around the corner in a hurry and toward the stairwell door. Before it closes behind him, Julia spots another tattoo on the back of the orderly’s neck, this one a single teardrop cascading from a densely inked half-closed eye.
“Hey!” Julia yells from the top of the twelfth-floor landing, but her voice echoes down the now-empty stairwell.
The orderly’s out-of-place appearance sticks with Julia, and she hurries to the lobby to find Logan.
In the waiting area, a small entourage has gathered around a single man, Acting Mayor Lester Anderson, who is busy giving a big hug to the woman with the rosary beads. Julia looks past the crowd and feels relieved when she spots Logan by the gift shop. He clutches a candy bar and seems engrossed in a conversation with a police officer she knows from her beat.
Julia tries to walk in Logan’s direction, but Gavin Boyles, Anderson’s chief of staff, corrals her before she can escape. Boyles, a good-looking man in his early thirties, is tall and wiry with blond hair and wears an expensive-looking designer suit. His one distinct feature is a flat, red birthmark that trails up the side of his forehead, which he often rubs when the pressure is on. Boyles laces his fingers around Julia’s arm and steers her toward his boss.
“The mayor is just devastated to hear about what happened to David,” Boyles says. “What a tragedy this is. We just got word another victim died a few minutes ago. A child. Detroit is going to need to do a lot of healing to recover from this.”
“It’s going to be worse for the city if the person responsible for the bombing gets off. That’s going to happen if Judge Waters declares a mistrial.”
Boyles ignores Julia as his phone’s ringtone, Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop,” goes off and he reaches into his breast pocket to monitor the call.
He lets it go to voice mail and turns his attention back to Julia.
“Bill Clinton’s theme song when he ran for president in ’92.” Gavin explains his choice of ringtone. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. The Clinton years, now that was a winning team.”
“I need to get my son,” Julia says.
“Logan is in good hands. He’s with a police officer. Hold on a second, Julia. Let me get the mayor.”
Boyles nabs Mayor Anderson, who is a big bear of a man with a thick, barrel chest. And, he’s a hugger. The mayor catches a glimpse of Julia and nearly lifts her off the ground in an embrace. Before he lets her go, Julia catches a small flash in the corner of her eye and realizes Boyles has just taken a picture.
“What the hell are you doing? This isn’t a goddamn photo op,” Julia says.
Mayor Anderson’s sympathetic expression stays intact. “Enough with the photos, Gavin. Let me just say, Julia, I have been praying for David and the rest of the victims nonstop since the bombing. Your husband is a good man, and he’s a tremendous asset to our city. You know, I think I almost had David convinced to delay his D.A. run for another year to come work for me as my lead counsel.”
“I wasn’t aware you two had that discussion.”
“Over coffee in my office just the other day when he briefed me on the Nick Rossi trial. David told me he’d consider the offer and get back to me after the case was over. I want you to know, I’m here for you, Julia. I met with the governor this morning after the press conference, and he has given me his full commitment to help the city of Detroit get through this. We may be able to get some federal funding as a result. We also have a strong congressional delegation here in the state of Michigan that cares about what happened here to the people of Detroit, and they will push Washington for assistance as well. Gavin will give you the details, as I’m sure your paper will want to write a story on all the efforts behind the scenes. But of course, this isn’t about money. I’ve organized an interfaith prayer dinner tonight at the Sweetest Heart of Mary Roman Catholic Church over on Russell Street. I hope you can be there. It’s going to be big. I’ve got Congregation Beth Shalom, Second Baptist Church, Fort Street Presbyterian, and Historic Trinity Lutheran committed to being there.”
A good cross-section of voters, Julia thinks to herself.
“I’m not very religious,” Julia answers instead.
“That’s okay. There’ll be plenty of people there praying for you. So be sure to come down. I know Gavin would like a picture of David we can show during the PowerPoint presentation that will be playing continuously in the background. We’re going to be showing pictures of all the bombing victims, so a photo of David with you and your boys would work real well. I obviously have great respect for your husband, and I know if he were able, he would be at the prayer breakfast. So please think about giving Gavin that photo.”
Julia gives the mayor a flat smile, knowing there is no way in hell she’ll offer up anything like that. She pulls away from the mayor’s tight circle and notices Logan, no longer with the police officer but now in deep conversation with Tandy Sanchez, the Detroit News reporter. Julia plants herself between her son and Tandy, ready for her second battle of the morning.
“How did you get in here? There’s not supposed to be any press up here bothering the victims or their families.”
“I’m a guest of the mayor,” Tandy answers. “Gavin Boyles invited me to join the mayor to cover his trip to the hospital this afternoon. I’m so sorry to hear about David. How’s he doing?”
“You’ve got balls,” Julia sneers as she feels Logan pulling on the back of her shirt to get her attention. “You sweep in here and corner a kid who’s all alone to try to get some touching comment you hope he makes about his dad.”
Julia spins around to confront Logan.
“Did you talk to her?”
“She’s a reporter like you. I thought it would be fine.”
“It’s okay, Logan. You didn’t know better. But she’s not a reporter like me,” Julia says, and turns her attention back on Tandy. “I swear to God, if one comment from my son shows up in your story, I’ll sue you, your paper, and I’ll go to every single media outlet in the state telling them what a sleazebag you are, cornering a helpless child to try to get a sound bite. You want to go to a bigger market, that stain won’t go away. The only place that will have you after I’m through with you is the National Enquirer or TMZ.”
Tandy takes a defensive step back as Detective Russell heads in their direction.
“Russell, members of the press are restricted from this floor. Tandy Sanchez just interviewed my son without my permission. She should be removed from the hospital grounds immediately,” Julia says.
“Detective Russell, I was so sorry to hear you got hurt in the bombing, but I’m glad you’re okay. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m here with the mayor
,” Tandy insists.
Russell, freshly injured but still unable to help himself, takes a quick pan of Tandy’s ever-present cleavage. “Sorry, Tandy. Mayor or no mayor, hospital rules.”
Russell escorts Tandy to the elevator. She calls out to catch Mayor Anderson’s attention, but Boyles whispers in the mayor’s ear and the mayor reacts with a friendly wave to Russell, not wanting to catch any blame. Boyles hurries into the elevator to do damage control.
“You should have followed her to be sure she actually left the building,” Julia tells Russell. “You don’t want her roaming around this place.”
“Looks like she already had a date.”
“Sorry to ask you to jump in like that. Listen, maybe I’m being paranoid, but there was a hospital orderly I saw outside of David’s room a little while ago. He was a big guy, heavily tattooed. Something about him didn’t sit right with me.”
“I’ll take a look around,” Russell answers. “We weren’t instructed to guard anyone’s room. The theory around the station is the intended target, the Butcher snitch, was taken out, so no one should be at risk.”
“Thanks. We just can’t be too sure. Why are you here anyway, Russell?”
“I just got discharged and Navarro asked me to tell you something personally. The Cole boy didn’t make it. He died a few minutes ago.”
“Christ. I wonder if his mother is still here. She lost her kid and her husband.”
“I can stay with Logan if you want to check. Navarro said the boy was in room 313B.”
Julia leaves Logan in the care of Russell and takes the stairs up one floor, wondering what she will say to the child’s mother. She searches for commonalities, something she always does to try to bond with sources on her beat. Both she and the boy’s mother had loved ones injured in the attack. And while Julia never lost a child, she lost a brother, who was only nine when he disappeared, probably about the same age as Michael Cole.
Julia reaches the thirteenth floor and is ready to turn around, wondering why in God’s name she is doing this, when she sees a young woman, probably mid- to late twenties, with strawberry blond hair and pale blue eyes, the same eyes that looked up at her with longing and fear on the sidewalk. The woman wears a beige polyester Dunkin’ Donuts uniform with the name Brenda stitched on the lapel and clutches a Walmart bag that contains a child’s Detroit Tigers jacket. The woman, Brenda, stares straight ahead as if in a daze.
“Excuse me, are you Michael Cole’s mother?” Julia asks as she carefully approaches Brenda, whose eyes slowly snap into focus as she looks on with distrust at the approaching stranger.
“Yes.”
“My name is Julia Gooden. My husband was injured in the blast. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I was there with Michael right after the bomb went off.”
“You’re that lady he told me about.”
“I don’t mean to bother you. I heard the news from a police officer who is a friend of mine.”
“Michael told me you left him.”
“I didn’t want to. I tried to help him. But my husband was in the courthouse and I thought my son was in there too.”
“Was your son there? Did he get hurt like my kid?”
“No. His bus got stuck in traffic. He never made it to the courthouse.”
“I guess one of us got lucky then, huh?” she says, her accusatory tone ugly and cold.
“My son is fine, but my husband is still in critical condition.”
“Mine died in the blast. I got two other kids at home, a two-year-old and six-month-old. You tell me how I’m going to be able to take care of them now,” she says.
“I shouldn’t have bothered you. I had told Michael I’d check on him. I made him that promise, but I guess I was too late.”
“You got that right.”
Julia, feeling foolish and guilty, turns to leave.
“Michael was a good kid,” Brenda calls out to her. “He told me what you did, wrapping that belt around his leg to try to help him. I know you stayed with him until the doctors came.”
Julia finally exhales. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
“There’s no one to call. You want to do something for me and my family, you find out who did this to them.”
“I can do that. I promise.”
“Make sure you kill that bastard when you find him.”
Julia makes it to the staircase, hears the door close behind her, and then sits heavily on the first step. She puts her head in her hands and starts to weep.
Julia gives herself exactly one minute and then forces herself to get it together. As she rises, she feels her phone vibrating in her pocket.
“This is Julia Gooden,” she says in a somewhat clear voice.
“It’s Navarro. Judge Waters declared a mistrial. Tarburton is trying to get Rossi out by the end of the day. He’s going to be a free man. Tarburton just called a press conference, and I hear he’s supposed to claim his client can’t be tried again because of double jeopardy, just like you thought.”
“Son of a bitch. I’ve got to go.”
“Hey, Julia . . .” Navarro continues, but Julia hangs up before he can finish and dials the number she committed to memory.
“Gallo Family Cleaners, this is Salvatore,” the voice on the other end of the phone answers.
CHAPTER 11
Julia pulls into a space along Riopelle, directly across the street from Roma Cafe in the Eastern Market region of Detroit, and ignores a call from Gavin Boyles. She takes in the unassuming brick building with the red-and-white awning and does an internal check one more time to be sure she is certain of her decision. She’s not confident Gallo will be true to his word to help her—in this case, give her information that could link Rossi to the bombing. But she’s desperate enough to take the chance.
Four in the afternoon, the late lunch crowd is gone, and just a few older Italian men and tourists, anxious to visit a Detroit staple before they return home, sit at the counter or in one of the black vinyl booths.
“Can I help you?” asks a middle-aged hostess with dyed platinum blond hair.
“Yes, I’m here to meet Salvatore Gallo, please.”
The hostess assesses Julia in one quick stroke of her eyes and then motions Julia to follow, leading her to a private room in the back. Julia takes a seat facing the door, and the hostess lays down a menu on the deep red tablecloth in front of her.
“I’m good for now, thanks,” Julia says.
Julia battles her nerves as she waits for Gallo, reassuring herself that he isn’t connected to the mob and gossip on the street led her to believe Sal wasn’t involved in the darker side of his nephew’s business. Gallo’s only known brushes with the law were limited to his bookie operation. Just nickel-and-dime stuff. That’s why it never made sense to Julia that Gallo would have been involved in a murder, and her instincts helped to exonerate him of the bogus charge that most people believed was Sal being framed to get to his nephew.
The hostess escorts Gallo into the room, and Julia quickly stands. Gallo is in his early seventies, with a thick mane of black hair with gray at his temples. He is of average height for a man, only a few inches taller than Julia, but he’s big, with thick muscles and a wide neck. He approaches with a masked expression, leading Julia to wonder what he really thinks about their meeting.
“I heard about your husband, David. You have two sons as I recall. I hope they’re doing all right, considering the circumstances,” Gallo says.
“My boys are okay. My older son is taking it hard,” Julia says, trying to downplay the defensiveness she feels creeping into her voice from Gallo mentioning her children.
“I’m sure your older boy is more aware of the gravity of the situation. Please, let’s sit,” he says, and motions to the hostess. “Dorothy, bring me an espresso, and for you, Julia?”
“Just water, please.”
“Bring my visitor a pastry. She probably hasn’t eaten in a few days,” Gallo says, and then waits a beat for the hostess
to leave. “Now, how is your husband?”
“There’s been a slight improvement since his surgery. We’re hopeful.”
“I was surprised to get your call. I owe you a favor. That’s why I agreed to this meeting. I keep my word. But what is it exactly that you think I’m going to tell you about my nephew?”
“He’s responsible for the courthouse bombing.”
Julia prepares for Sal to get up and leave, or worse, but he looks back at Julia with eyes that look like flinty steel.
“And you believe this because of what?”
“The target of the attack was his former employee who was going to testify against him.”
“The snitch.”
“Call him what you want. Sammy Biggs is dead, along with about eighteen other people. In addition to my husband, there was a little boy I tried to help. His leg was blown off. He died a few hours ago.”
“For that, I’m sorry. But you’re wrong to think Nicky had anything to do with the attack.”
The hostess returns with an espresso in a simple white china cup for Gallo and a piece of rum cake for Julia. She then places an assortment of biscotti between them.
“That’s very nice, Dorothy,” Gallo says, and twists the slice of lemon rind between his fingers before dropping it neatly into the demitasse cup.
“So, what is it that I can do for you?”
“Did Rossi tell you he planted the bomb?”
“Of course not. Like I said, Nicky wasn’t involved.”
“But you have your doubts.”
“Listen, I granted you this meeting out of respect for a promise I made you. But you’re either foolish or you grossly underestimated me. Nicky has been under my roof since he was nine. I took him in as my own son after my sister was killed. Nicky was spirited, and rightfully angry after what happened to his mother. Nicky may be a hothead, but he’s a good kid. He came back to Detroit to take care of my business after my heart attacks a few years ago. He did that because with family, there’s loyalty and a bond that goes beyond anything else. You know this too, I imagine.”
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