“He still needed David to throw the case, so he had Enzo instill the fear of God into David. One night, Enzo waited for your husband in the parking garage across from the D.A.’s office. He held a knife to David’s throat and warned him that if he didn’t go ahead with his original agreement, your children would be killed. And you too.”
“David never told Rossi about your involvement?”
“No. But he was going to screw me over, so he’s no good guy. The morning of the trial, I called him. David said he was going to come clean. He was going to tell the judge and your cop friend about everything, including the Ruiz tape and the money. He said he didn’t care if he went to jail. He would have hung me out to dry with the cops if Nick didn’t get me first.”
Franco turns the Lexus onto Holburn Avenue, and Julia can see the Packard Plant in the distance.
“Rossi planted the bomb to take out David,” Julia says. “David told me in the hospital that Rossi was the bomber.”
“He got the wrong Rossi. Poor brain-addled David meant me, not Nick. I told your husband I would come after you and your children, starting with your oldest boy first, if David refused to give me my share of the money. Logan was to arrive at the courthouse the time the bomb went off, right? Very logical reasoning for a lawyer. I’m impressed.”
“You set the bomb to try to kill Logan as a warning to David about the money.”
Isabella looks away from Julia and stares out at the quickly passing city blocks outside her window.
“I know too well the pain of losing a child,” Isabella answers, and then turns back toward Julia with a stone-cold expression. “Your husband lied to me in the hospital about the security deposit box number and code. You’re going to give it to me now, and then we’ll take a drive down to Infinity Holdings where you’ll take out the money and give it to me.”
“The police have the money and they’re onto you.”
“You’re a bad liar. You could have made this easy, but I’ll make you tell me the truth.”
Franco parks the Lexus in the rear of the Packard Plant. He jumps out and then pulls Julia from the car. He grabs both her wrists and wraps them tightly in front of her with duct tape.
“You go first,” Isabella commands Franco.
Franco takes the lead as they approach the building, and Isabella pushes Julia to follow as she walks behind Julia with her gun pressed against her back.
Franco enters through what remains of a rusted metal door at the far side of the building, and Julia looks up at the once-mighty Detroit landmark, the Packard Plant’s now helpless ruins bearing silent witness to what is about to happen to one of its own.
* * *
Three miles away, Helen rushes through Shed 3 at Eastern Market, a cold pit of dread growing in her stomach. She pulls each boy along with her until she gets to the one area she hasn’t checked. Helen darts out to the alleyway and quickly moves the boys behind her so they won’t see Julia’s purse spilled across the sidewalk.
Helen fumbles for her phone in her coat and finds the sheet of paper Julia gave to her with the number Julia said she must call if there was ever an emergency.
Helen’s hands shake as she dials the number.
“Mr. Raymond,” Helen says, her voice cracking as Navarro answers. “Something has happened to our Julia.”
CHAPTER 30
Franco bounds up the maze of crumbled concrete steps of the Packard Plant, and Isabella cuffs Julia in the back of the head with the butt of the gun to make her keep up. Julia knows she could easily outrun Franco, but she slows her pace as she searches for an exit route.
At the center of the seventh-floor stairwell, Franco stops abruptly in his tracks.
“What’s going on?” Isabella calls from a story below.
“There’s a guy up here,” he calls back.
“I told you to search the place to be sure something like this didn’t happen,” Isabella yells.
“I did. I swear, this guy wasn’t here before.”
Isabella shoves Julia forward until the two reach the seventh-floor landing. Sitting huddled on a flat cardboard box is a scrawny man in a yellowed T-shirt with greasy, long hair and a stringy brown beard pocked with thick white patches. A hypodermic needle almost drained of heroin sticks out of his right arm. The man, well on his way to being high, looks up at Isabella.
“Who are you, man?” the junkie asks. He scoots like a crab across the cardboard box as he tries to get away from his unexpected company.
“Shoot him,” Isabella commands.
“You didn’t tell me I’d have to kill someone,” Franco answers, a heavy film of sweat now covering his face.
Isabella jams the barrel of her gun next to the junkie’s temple and pulls the trigger.
“Jesus! His shit got all over me!” Franco screams as he tries to wipe off the remnants of the junky from his own face. “I’m going to throw up.”
“Get up. If you can’t do what I paid you for, then stay here and make sure no one else comes up.”
Franco gives Isabella a quick nod and succumbs to an undulating series of retching and dry heaves.
Isabella turns her back on her employee and pushes Julia inside the seventh-floor entryway. The massive space of dirty gray concrete is littered with beer cans, garbage, and disintegrating car parts that even the most desperate pickers didn’t want.
Isabella shoves Julia toward the back corner of the long room and into a chair. She takes the butt of the gun and gives Julia a hard punch with it against the side of her temple.
Julia scrambles to get up but is snapped back as Isabella wraps a heavy chain around both of Julia’s ankles and the rear legs of the chair. Isabella then secures the rest of the chain to a narrow strip of frame connecting the passenger door to the caved-in roof of a green truck, an old metal carcass of a vehicle but still sturdy and Detroit made.
Isabella busies herself looking at the contents of two large brown bags. She extracts a switchblade, and her knee-high black boots tattoo a path through the rubble in Julia’s direction. Isabella opens the blade, its silver point glinting menacingly in the muddied light of the Packard Plant. Isabella gathers Julia’s hair in one hand and jerks her head back so her neck is exposed.
“I like the way you carved up Enzo,” Isabella says, and eases the blade down Julia’s neck. “Now, where’s the money?”
Isabella works the knife until Julia can feel it begin to pierce her skin.
“Is it still at Infinity Holdings? You’ll tell me the security deposit box number and the security code, or I’ll start cutting.”
“The police have the money. I told you,” Julia cries.
“Hey, someone is coming,” Franco yells from the stairwell.
Isabella drops the knife and hurries to the stairwell for a better look, then she finds a position where she can lie in wait, hidden behind the door.
“You say one word and I’ll shoot you in the head,” Isabella warns.
“I’m in here!” Julia screams.
Isabella, as promised, fires off a shot, and Julia recoils as a bullet ricochets off the concrete a few inches above her head.
Three shots echo from the stairwell as Franco exchanges gunfire with the person below. The steady thud of a body tumbling down the steps reverberates into the space as Russell cautiously enters the room with his gun drawn.
“No, Russell!” Julia screams. “She’s behind the door.”
Russell tries to retreat, but Isabella is too fast. Her bullet connects, and Russell flies back against a concrete wall. The downed officer collapses to the floor.
Isabella stands over Russell and places the toe of her black boot on his chest where the bullet went in, pressing hard until the detective lets out a low and animal-like moan.
“If Russell is here, then the police are on their way.”
“There’s no policeman to save you this time. Oh shit,” Isabella says, correcting herself as another set of fast footfalls echoes up the stairwell.
Isab
ella launches herself back to the seventh-floor landing, panning for the incoming target.
“Russell, are you all right?” Julia calls out.
“I’m hurt bad.”
“Can you move?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let Isabella get the shot.”
“It’s okay. We’ll find a way out. How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. Ray wanted to talk to his informant again,” Russell says.
The ricochet of gunfire rings out as Isabella rushes back into the room and crouches behind a thick cement column for cover.
“Drop your weapon!” Navarro calls out as he takes a quick scan of the room, using the door as a blocker.
“She’s hiding behind the third column in front of you,” Julia shouts.
Navarro ducks back into the hallway just as Isabella takes a shot. Isabella then sprints to the other side of the story and presses her gun against Julia’s temple.
“Throw down your gun or I’ll shoot her,” Isabella warns.
“Don’t do it. Take the shot, Ray,” Russell begs.
“I’ll give you to the count of three. Walk slowly into the room with your hands where I can see them,” Isabella says.
“Take the damn shot, Ray,” Russell pleads.
Navarro appears in the doorway with his weapon down at his side before Isabella can begin her count.
“Good. Now put the safety on and kick the gun to me,” Isabella says.
“Take it easy. No one needs to get hurt,” Navarro says as he secures his weapon and then slides it across the floor in Isabella’s direction.
“Jesus Christ, Ray,” Russell cries. “You should’ve shot her.”
“Give it up, Isabella,” Navarro says, his voice echoing through the vast space. “I called backup when I saw the dead junkie.”
“I would have heard you. You should have listened to your partner and taken a shot when you had the chance.”
Isabella removes the gun from Julia’s temple and advances toward Navarro to finish off her most dangerous adversary in the room.
Julia jumps up from her seat and pulls forward, the chains constricting more tightly around her ankles as she tries to get free. Julia strains against the chains with her strong legs, runner’s legs, that made it easily up the twelve-mile steep incline in the mountains to Rossi’s compound. Julia pulls forward as hard as she can, pushing through the pain as the muscles in her legs feel like they are on fire. Julia stretches her body forward, like a horse trying to pull an impossibly heavy cart behind it, until she hears the groan of the truck’s rotting metal beginning to bend.
“Stupid cop, giving in to a woman,” Isabella says as she draws her gun.
Julia pulls forward in the chair again, the chains attached to the thin metal frame of the old truck stretching taut this time until they have no give.
Julia closes her eyes and concentrates. She hears a loud pop behind her as the rusted old bolt that held the truck frame in place cracks loose just as Isabella fires at Navarro, the sound distracting her just enough so that the bullet veers a few inches away from her intended target and clips Navarro in his shoulder.
Navarro staggers backward and drops to his knees as Isabella moves toward him to deliver a fatal shot.
Julia jams her body forward, her muscles feeling like they will explode, until the tired metal strip of the truck the chain is looped around snaps. The chain springs free from the vehicle, and Julia, still trapped in the chair, charges toward Isabella. Julia slams into the side of Isabella like a linebacker, knocking Isabella off her feet. The unexpected ambush causes Isabella’s gun to fall from her hand, and it skitters across the room in Russell’s direction. Isabella stretches her body across the floor toward the gun until her long fingers graze the barrel.
In a flash of a second, Navarro reaches behind his back, pulls out a gun hidden at his ankle, and shoots Isabella.
Isabella drops to the ground, looking small and pale as she curls her body into a fetal position. Blood leaks from her torso and stains the dirty floor underneath her. Something seems to pass over Isabella’s face, and her eyes lose focus.
“Julia, are you all right?” Navarro asks.
“I’m okay,” Julia answers. “How’s Russell?”
Navarro squats down next to his partner and tries to stop him from bleeding out as police sirens wail their approach.
CHAPTER 31
Julia sits on a hospital emergency room plastic chair, concentrating on the wall clock she checks every ten seconds while she waits to get updated on Navarro and Russell’s conditions.
Navarro’s phone buzzes in his black leather jacket, which Julia took from the Packard Plant when the police and EMT crews arrived. She instinctively reaches in and pulls out the cell.
“Julia Gooden.”
“Uh, yeah. Julia? This is Officer Gary Smith. Is Ray out of surgery yet?”
“No. He should be out soon, I hope. His surgeon thinks he’ll be okay. He got a pretty clean shot through his shoulder. It’s Russell I’m worried about.”
“Geez, poor Leroy. Keep us posted, all right?”
“I will. Do you want me to leave a message for Navarro?”
“Yeah, tell him I got a hit on that plate he wanted me to look up. Granted, Ray gave me only four numbers, but it looks like the car matches a 2014 black Mercedes E-Class sedan that was leased from Deluxe Automotive.”
“Let me guess. It’s registered to Nick Rossi,” Julia says.
“No. The name on the lease agreement is Lester Anderson.”
“The acting mayor?”
“That’s right. I’m not sure what Ray wanted it for. But those politicians always seem to get themselves in trouble. Be sure to let us know when Leroy and Ray get out of surgery,” Smith says, and ends the call.
Julia stares down at Navarro’s phone, realizing she should wait until she talks to Navarro, but she can’t help herself. She reaches for her own phone and dials Gavin Boyles. The mayor’s chief of staff picks up on the first ring.
“Julia, my God, I heard about what happened to you down at the Packard Plant. I left you a voice message. I’m so glad you called me back. Are you okay?”
“Fine. Listen, is the mayor around?”
“No. He’s at a fund-raiser for a family who lost two kids in the bombing. Did you change your mind about the ad campaign? It’s not too late. The mayor would be thrilled if you were part of it.”
“What kind of car does Anderson drive?”
“His car? If you’re trying to write something about Anderson using taxpayers’ money for personal use, you’re totally off base here, Julia. That incident with the missing campaign funds the Free Press wrote about, it’s been handled. The campaign finance director was fired, and I assure you, Mayor Anderson had nothing to do with it. What are you trying to do here? Bradley Dole announced he was running for mayor this morning on the Republican ticket. Did he put you up to this?”
“No. This is important, Boyles. Did Anderson lease a black Mercedes recently?”
Boyles pauses for a moment, and Julia can hear a door close in the background.
“Yes. Why are you asking?”
“I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but I think Anderson may somehow be involved in the courthouse bombing.”
“There’s no way. I assumed with what happened at the Packard Plant with Isabella Rossi, she was the bomber. What’s this about the car?”
“Well, nothing is confirmed. A police informant who was at the Packard Plant the day the bomb was purchased gave a police detective a partial on the plate he saw. I answered the detective’s phone a few minutes ago and just found out.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“No.”
“Now listen, Julia, I know we’ve had our issues in the past, but I need you to keep a lid on this until I confront the mayor. This has to be a mistake.”
“The police need to question the mayor, not you. I agree, it doesn’t mak
e sense, but Anderson’s car was there. There’s a witness.”
“Who saw the mayor or the car?”
“Just the car.”
“Okay, then. You’re jumping to conclusions on a delusion of a drugged-up junkie.”
“How did you know it was a junkie?”
“Who else is going to be hanging around the Packard Plant and would be giving tips to the cops? Listen, I’ve known Anderson for fifteen years, and there’s no way he’s a part of this. We get the police involved, the mayor gets crucified in the press for no reason, and even if the issue is resolved, the voters won’t trust him anymore. I’m already doing damage control with the campaign finance director fiasco. We need to meet.”
“I’m at the hospital. I can’t.”
“I’m in Rochester Hills picking up a campaign check. You still live there, right? I’ll meet you at your house in an hour,” Boyles says.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Gooden, hold on. . . .” Boyles says, but Julia hangs up as she sees a doctor walking out of the surgery suite and feels as if she is forever stuck in a life-or-death déjà vu moment at Henry Ford Hospital.
She tries to read the surgeon’s face as he approaches, and he picks up on it, offering a small nod of reassurance.
“Leroy’s out of surgery. We’ve moved him to the ICU, but he’s still in critical condition. The bullet we removed was just a centimeter away from a major artery. If it had been nicked, he wouldn’t have made it out of the Packard Plant alive.”
“Jesus. Is he going to be okay?”
“We’ll be keeping an eye on him, but the surgery went well.”
“I need to see Navarro.”
“Your other friend is in good condition, and if all goes well, he’ll be released tomorrow. But he’s still heavily sedated. Why don’t you go home and come back later this evening? You look like you could use some rest.”
* * *
Salvatore Gallo stands motionless in front of his living room fireplace mantel in his Sherwood Forest Detroit neighborhood home, staring at the framed photographs of what was his life.
Gallo Family Cleaners opening day, April 17, 1962, with Sal and his father, Joe, standing out front, proud and smiling, both wearing identical starched white uniforms with the family name stitched in red on their lapels.
Duplicity Page 27