“I wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting if I knew a reporter would be here. My husband has had enough negative coverage,” Isabella says, and turns to Julia. “I recognize your name. You wrote those stories about my husband, so many lies. Your articles damaged Nick’s reputation and hurt my family. What you did, we’ll never forget.”
“I’m not writing an article,” Julia answers. “But whatever you tell the police in my presence, I will not publish it now or at any future date. This is the agreement I’ve made with the detectives.”
Isabella stares at Julia for an uncomfortable ten seconds and then turns her body in the direction of Navarro and Russell.
“I assume this man is your partner?” she asks Navarro.
“I guess I look like a cop,” Russell answers. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“My husband would normally require me to have a lawyer here, but since his attorney is still embroiled in legal red tape, I’ll agree to talk to you alone. As you’ll see, Nick and I have nothing to hide.”
“Where’s your husband, Mrs. Rossi?” Navarro asks.
“Call me Isabella, please,” she says, and gives Navarro a smile that is pure sexuality, a skill that has obviously worked well in her favor, Julia thinks. “Are you married, Mr. Navarro?”
“No.”
“A man of your looks, I’m very surprised.”
Isabella’s play fails to disarm Navarro. “You didn’t answer my question. Where is Mr. Rossi? Is he still in Detroit?”
“No, he’s on a trip. My husband travels a great deal. He’s an international businessman. I’m not aware of every move my husband makes. It’s not common knowledge, but Nick and I are estranged and have been for over a year. My daughter was murdered two years ago. After that, our marriage was never the same. My husband has his life, and I have mine.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your daughter. But you and Mr. Rossi stay married?” Russell asks.
“For now.”
“Does your husband see other people?” Russell asks.
Isabella shrugs casually as if the question holds no great importance to her.
“It’s possible. Nick is a powerful man. I’m sure Ms. Gooden can attest to the way men operate. Your husband works for the district attorney’s office, I believe.”
“Your husband told you this?” Julia asks.
Isabella points a long finger toward a computer on the sleek stainless steel kitchen countertop. “I keep up with the news. I read about your husband’s injuries from the bombing. Such a shame. He looked like a very handsome man in the photos before the attack.”
Julia forces herself to not throw herself across the table and wrap her fingers around Isabella’s throat.
“Do you know Jim Bartello?” Navarro asks, steering the interview back on course.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s a business associate of your husband’s, the former head of security for the MGM Grand,” Russell says.
“I’d think I’d recognize the man’s name if he worked for my husband. Let me get you something to drink.”
Isabella slips into the kitchen and returns with a tray holding a glass pitcher of water with fresh-cut lemon slices floating on top. She pours a glass and hands it to Navarro, and then does the same for Russell, and then Julia.
“Please forgive my earlier reception. This trial and the media coverage have caused Nick and our family great pain. And then this terrible bombing. We were worried the police would blame Nick, so we were very nervous until he was rightfully acquitted. I swear to you, Nick had nothing to do with the courthouse attack. We’ve had our problems, but Nick is a good man. He loves the city of Detroit.”
“Your husband was acquitted because the judge and the prosecutor, who happens to be my husband, and the key witness were either gravely injured or killed. If this case had gone to trial, your husband would not be a free man,” Julia says.
Navarro holds up his hand for Julia to stop, but Isabella sweeps in.
“We are more alike than you may think, Ms. Gooden. Our husbands are both powerful men. When they are accused wrongly or hurt, we jump to their sides to protect them. As women, we would do anything to defend our family,” Isabella says.
“Including setting off a bomb in the courthouse to take out a witness, a snitch who you and your husband once trusted?” Navarro asks. “You and Mr. Rossi may lead separate lives as you say, but if he went to prison, his assets would be frozen and you wouldn’t be able to afford the luxuries that you’re used to.”
Isabella’s slender and elegant hand flutters to her throat, and she lets out a hearty laugh at the accusation.
“Do I look like a bomber to you, Detective? I couldn’t even imagine where I would find such a thing. My days are spent shopping for purses and shoes at Neiman Marcus, not purchasing explosives on the black market.”
“Did your husband tell you who he hired to take out Sammy Biggs? That’s what he had Bartello do, right? Find a hit man to kill the witness?” Navarro goads. “I’m confused why he hired someone to plant the bomb, though, instead of just hiring a sniper to do the job. Seems cleaner that way, unless your husband has no problem taking a lot of innocent lives along with the intended target.”
“Detective Navarro, you obviously take me for a fool, which I am not. Not all beautiful women are stupid, isn’t that right, Ms. Gooden? I can assure you my husband had nothing to do with the unfortunate attack on the courthouse. It was a tragic coincidence that the bombing occurred during my husband’s trial and people involved were hurt. My husband is as much a victim as anyone else. It’s a miracle he wasn’t hurt in the attack.”
“You say Mr. Rossi isn’t here. Do you mind if we take a look around for ourselves?” Russell asks.
“Yes, I do mind if you don’t have a warrant. Now, if you don’t have any other questions for me, I have to return to the hospital. Nick’s grandma, Carmella, is in the hospital with pneumonia. She is an old woman, so I hope you will keep her in your prayers,” Isabella says, and moves gracefully to the door to escort her visitors out.
“If you think of anything else, please give me a call,” Navarro says, and hands Isabella his business card.
“I hope to see you again, Detective.”
Isabella reaches into her purse—a soft, butter-colored Prada bag that sits on the entryway table—and pulls out a card that she presses into Navarro’s hand.
Navarro, Russell, and Julia exit the penthouse and wait to discuss the encounter until they are out of the populated elevator and back on the street.
“What’s going on over there?” Navarro asks as he points to the front of the Quicken Loans building where the CEO and Mayor Anderson are mugging for the cameras, along with a young man in a wheelchair who is missing the lower part of his left leg.
“Some kind of photo op,” Julia answers. “I’m betting Dan Gilbert is starting a fund for the bombing victims.”
“He’s done a lot for the city,” Russell says, and gestures across the street to Gavin Boyles, who now has his hand on the mayor’s arm and is hustling him toward a waiting car. “There’s your boy, Julia. And he’s got a nice ride.”
“I prefer American-made vehicles myself,” Navarro says.
“And Michigan-made women. I think Isabella Rossi likes you,” Russell says as he climbs into his partner’s Chevy Tahoe.
“I don’t think so. I know that type of woman, but usually it’s her pimp, not her husband, trying to use me so I won’t make an arrest,” Navarro answers.
“You think Rossi uses his wife to help him close business deals?” Julia asks. “Nick Rossi obviously has a huge ego. Do you honestly think he’d let his wife sleep around even if they’re separated?”
“Maybe they have an open marriage,” Russell says.
“My source told me they believe someone very close to Rossi was the bomber, whether they acted on his direction or not. I think we can rule Isabella out, though. I got the immediate impression Isabella wouldn’t w
ant to miss a pedicure appointment, let alone plan an attack on the courthouse,” Julia suggests.
“I feel like we’re missing something obvious. Russell, did you check Bartello’s property records to see if he owns anything else besides that townhome in Wyandotte?” Navarro asks.
“Yeah, and I talked to Bartello’s mother, too. She swears she hasn’t heard from her son since Christmas,” Russell says. “It looks like he used to own a hunting camp outside of Escanaba in some tiny one-stop-sign town called Perkins in the U.P., but he hasn’t paid property taxes on the place in a few years, so it’s been foreclosed on. No one has repurchased the property from the bank yet.”
“Probably spending his money on drugs instead of paying the mortgage,” Navarro says. “Call the local sheriff up there to do a check on the place. If he’s got a pair of wire cutters, he can get inside.”
“You should hurry,” Julia adds. “If you were able to find Jim Bartello’s hunting camp through property records, Nick Rossi’s thugs will be able to as well.”
* * *
Jim Bartello combs the sum total of the three aisles in Brandstrom’s Convenience Store, Perkins’s only business besides the corner bar that has changed hands more times than Bartello can remember, and he loads his basket up with Cheetos, Hot Pockets, and a couple of cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. He tops off his purchases with two six-packs of Bud Light. Bartello smiles at the young blond girl who waits on him from behind the counter as he tries his best to look like a regular guy passing through town instead of a fat, sweaty creep with a three-day-old beard who’s crashing from a heroin high.
“Just got to town to see an old friend,” Bartello explains to the girl. “Who owns the bar across the street now? It used to be Pals when I came up to hunt a couple of years ago.”
Bartello’s familiarity with the area softens the girl a bit.
“No, the Johnson family hasn’t owned the place in a while. Somebody from Marquette bought the bar. They’re fixing it up, and it should be open by Memorial Day.”
Bartello hands the girl thirty dollars and feels important when he sees her surprised expression as he tells her to keep the $2.40 change. Bartello then loads up and takes the familiar dirt road to his friend Steve Crandall’s house. Bartello knows he can trust his childhood buddy to keep his secrets and his whereabouts under wraps, even more so than his own mother. Bartello and Steve grew up down the street from each other in Wyandotte and stayed friends until they drifted apart a few years ago when Bartello started working at the MGM Grand and Steve moved to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula after getting laid off.
Steve’s maroon Ford F-150 truck is parked in the driveway. Bartello grabs one of the six-packs and a manila envelope he extracts from the glove compartment and heads toward his friend’s doublewide trailer.
Bartello can hear Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band’s “Rock and Roll Never Forgets” playing through the thin walls as he gives a light tap on the door.
Steve opens the door, wearing a plaid shirt and a pair of faded Levi’s, his face and hands chafed and red from the elements of a lifetime of working outside in Michigan’s unforgiving winters.
“Jesus, Jimmy, what the hell are you doing up here?” Steve asks.
Bartello looks nervously over his shoulder, but the only other life around them is a dozen or so scattered birds pecking hungrily in a field across the street, trying to poke through the still-frozen soil for something to eat.
“Can I come in?” Bartello asks.
“Of course, man.”
Bartello follows his friend inside to a place he’s been to many times, although it’s been a few years. Steve’s trailer is neatly kept and smells like freshly cooked eggs and just a hint of marijuana that Bartello figures his friend smoked the previous night.
“You want a beer?” Bartello asks, and cracks one open for himself.
“No, thanks. It’s only ten-thirty. I drink this early only when it’s hunting season.”
“Seven months away, huh?” Bartello asks, and takes a steady chug from the can.
“What brings you up here? I’m glad to see you, Jimmy, but I got to say, it’s a surprise, you showing up like this.”
“Remember when we were kids, and we’d lie on the railroad tracks behind your house?” Bartello asks.
“Yeah, what a pair of stupid idiots we were, playing chicken with a train. I swear, to this day, every time I hear a Norfolk Southern blasting its horn, I still get a shiver down my spine. You would always wait until the last minute to get off the tracks, but as soon as I could feel the vibration of the train coming, I bolted.”
Bartello pulls the envelope out from under his leather jacket and places it on a coffee table between them. “I waited on the tracks too long this time. I got into some trouble downstate.”
“What kind of trouble are we talking about? I heard about the heroin bust in the Detroit casinos, but your mom told my aunt you were cleared of all that.”
“It’s worse than that. All my life, you’ve been the only person I could trust. I know we drifted apart the last few years, but we’re still close, I think.”
“Yeah, man. Of course we are. Like brothers,” Steve answers. “What did you do exactly?”
“I got involved with the wrong people. When I worked security at Tiger Stadium, I had played around a little, connecting people who wanted to buy coke, so I thought this would be the same type of thing. I got approached by this guy when I started heading up security at the MGM Grand. His name is Enzo Costas and he works for Nick Rossi.”
“That big Detroit criminal dude I’ve been reading about.”
“That’s him,” Bartello answers, and finishes his beer before he continues. “It was easy money. I’d arrange for Rossi’s pickups to get the VIP rooms in the MGM Grand.”
“What were they picking up in the VIP rooms?” Steve asks.
“Drugs. High-end stuff. Rossi also ran an illegal gambling ring in the VIP suites. These rich dudes would put down tens of thousands of dollars on games. Sometimes even over a hundred thousand. My role, I just made sure Rossi’s guys got the rooms they needed. That’s all I did. It’s not like I was setting up old guys to bang young kids up there or anything. This cop Navarro posed like he was a high roller and started talking to people. Then he put the heat on some assistant for a movie producer in L.A. who was there to buy smack, and this guy spilled his guts and ratted out the whole operation. The Detroit cops did a sting up in one of the rooms, and Rossi got busted. From there, Navarro and his partner swept in and started arresting almost everyone involved.”
“You didn’t get arrested.”
“No, Navarro and this other cop interviewed me and sweated me hard. But they couldn’t prove I was involved, and Enzo Costas said he and Rossi would protect me and not tell the cops of my involvement if I continued to work for them. It got worse, though, man. I felt like I was their bitch. Instead of arranging meetings between the gamblers and dealers, they made me run errands. I was blackmailed. Enzo Costas made me hire a hit man to take out the witness at the courthouse the day the bomb went off. I don’t know what freaking happened, though, with the bomb going off like it did. That wasn’t what was planned.”
“You should go to the police,” Steve says.
“It’s too late for that. I ran away and came up here because I knew Rossi’s guys were going to get me. I’m behind on money to them, and they think I botched the courthouse job. With all the pressure they put me under, I started using.”
“What, like coke?”
“No. Heroin,” Bartello answers.
Steve’s face falls in surprise and disappointment as he looks at his old friend.
“I’m still the kid you knew back when we were growing up. I just got a little lost,” Bartello says, his words sounding desperate and whiny in the confines of the small trailer. “That’s why I need you to take care of something for me.”
“I care about you, Jimmy, and we go way back, but I can’t do that. I’m not getting inv
olved in some drug deal, no matter how much history is between us.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. If something happens to me, I want you to go to the police. Don’t open this now,” Bartello says, and slides the manila envelope across the coffee table to his friend. “I’m going to hide out for a while in my hunting camp. If I’m murdered or it looks like I killed myself—which, believe me, I wouldn’t do—you give this envelope to the police and call Detective Ray Navarro at the Detroit Police Department. His card is in the envelope. He gave it to me after I got questioned after the drug bust. There’s a flash drive in the envelope and a note that explains everything and will implicate Enzo Costas and Nick Rossi.”
“I don’t like this. What if those guys come for me?”
“They won’t. I’m leaving and I won’t come back here until this blows over. Rossi is going to move the majority of his operation to the West Coast, so maybe they’ll leave me alone.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Steve answers, but neither man believes it. “You got enough food up there?”
“I’ll be fine for a couple weeks. It’s not the food I’m worried about, though. I’m going to have to go cold turkey off the drugs in a couple of days when I run out.”
The once childhood friends give each other a quick man-hug, and Bartello wipes away a tear before his buddy can see it.
“Take care, man,” Steve calls out from the doorway as Bartello walks across the frozen ground to his car.
Bartello waves, feeling his head start to pound from the heroin crash, the beer obviously not helping. He grabs another Bud Light from the fresh six-pack sitting on the passenger seat and pops the top as he heads down the three-mile stretch of dirt road deep into the woods, where the only other people who ever bother to go there vacated their bluffs last November after the deer season ended.
Bartello reaches the camp and does a slow drive-by first, looking for any fresh tire tracks, but all is clear. He parks his car behind the rear of the structure that he and his uncles built when he was fifteen, and he pulls out his wire cutters from the trunk, swearing at the stupid bank as he cuts the padlock sealing the door.
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