by Penny Drake
“Sons of bitches,” she muttered. “Bad as KGB. Give me five minutes alone with them, they never bother you again. My mother always say, ‘You can’t run if legs are broken.’”
That got a smile from me, and I felt a little less uneasy.
The guys in white continued to work on my car. And then Ms. Hawk found us in the crowd. She wore a severely tailored navy suit with a small matching bag. The silver hawk pendant gleamed at her throat. Her serene, competent presence granted me even more relief than Slava had. It was good to have people looking out for you.
“I ran over from the office,” Ms. Hawk said calmly. “You’re having an interesting series of days.”
Inside the perimeter, the bomb guys had opened the hood of my Jeep. They’d already checked underneath and gone through the inside. I held my breath. I didn’t really think there was a bomb in there, but—
One of the bomb guys pulled off his headgear and waved an okay at the officers. A ripple went through the crowd and my knees quivered with relief. Some of the crowd drifted away, but most of the people stayed, clearly hoping for more of a show.
A TV reporter with a microphone was moving through the crowd, asking if anyone knew whose Jeep was involved. Ms. Hawk and I exchanged looks, and as one we slipped away and ducked into the garage’s office. Slava followed. Henrietta and Carl were both there, talking to one of the bomb guys.
“Your Jeep?” the bomb guy asked. At my nod, he said, “It’s clean. We didn’t find any kind of explosive.”
“Makes for a boring day,” I managed.
“Best kind, in my line of work,” he said, and gave me my key back. I didn’t even remember giving it to the cops.
“Are you going to be all right?” Henrietta asked solicitously.
“I think so,” I said. “The more I think about it, the more this feels like empty threat. If whoever’s behind all this really wanted me dead, all it would take is a high-powered rifle from a distance.”
“Don’t laugh, chicky-boo,” Carl said. “Warnings escalate. I see it all the time. You just watch yourself.” Then, as if he had realized he was expressing concern, he added, “Because I don’t want to be stuck hosing your blood off the sidewalk.” Then he strode quickly out the door.
I turned to Henrietta. “What was that all about? He’s been acting almost human lately.”
“This whole thing touched a nerve with him,” Henrietta said quietly. “Carl’s son is gay, and—”
“He has a son?” I interrupted. “That implies a wife. And actual physical contact with her.”
Slava lit a cigarette. “They say there is someone for everyone,” she said.
“And he’s gay?” I continued. “I’ll bet that coming out went over well.”
“They were on the outs for a while,” Henrietta said. “But then Jeff received a bomb threat, one addressed to ‘The Fag,’ though his bomb turned out to be real. Jeff didn’t die, but he spent six weeks in the hospital, and he still walks with a limp. Carl hates bomb threats.”
“As if I needed more sobering thoughts today,” I muttered.
“Do you need anything else, Detective?” Ms. Hawk asked.
“Terry needs to stop down at the station sometime this evening or early tomorrow and sign a statement,” she said. “We’ve taken the jack-in-the-box as evidence. Do you want a receipt for it?”
“God, no,” I said.
“Then that’s pretty much it for now.”
The door opened and a dark-haired, square-jawed, blow-dried reporter strode in. A cameraman followed. “Can anyone tell me whose Jeep that is out there?” he boomed. “It’s yours, right ma’am?” This last was addressed to me.
I froze like a deer in headlights. The stress of the entire incident combined with the unexpected question to lock down my higher brain functions. The reporter took my lack of response for a “yes” and started forward, holding his microphone out like a royal scepter. I blanched. A Hawk Enterprises employee appearing on television news—bad, bad, bad. Too many old enemies floating around out there, too many disgruntled men. I shot Ms. Hawk a desperate glance, but if she stepped forward, the camera would only focus on her, which would be just as bad.
“Is my Jeep,” Slava said, leaping in front of me. Her expression was wild eyed and frantic. “It was horrible! Just awful! Terrible men break into helpless woman’s car to plant bomb. Just like KGB. I tell everything to handsome reporter. You turn on camera and listen good.”
Ms. Hawk and I were already out the door. We both leaped into my Jeep and I put the key into the ignition. There was a moment when the two of us traded looks. Then I held my breath and turned the key. The Jeep purred to life as if nothing at all had ever happened to it. The door to Dave’s office opened and the dark-haired, square-jawed, blow-dried reporter sprinted out, the cameraman hot on his heels. Slava stood grinning in the doorway.
The reporter shouted something, but I was already peeling out of the parking lot. I was giggling and Ms. Hawk shook her head with a small, restrained laugh. Our laughter increased until I was wiping my eyes, barely keeping control of the Jeep and Ms. Hawk was laughing like a little girl. Release of stress, I suppose, though it felt odd to be sharing a laugh with someone like Ms. Hawk. It was like seeing a cat with a fit of the giggles.
Ms. Hawk’s cell phone rang, and she answered, a wide smile still on her face. “Diana Hawk.” Her face brightened. “Hello, darling. You got my message, then? Yes, a few things have come up and I’ll be a little late tonight. How’s eight-thirty instead? Good. See you then.”
She clicked off.
“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” I said, greatly daring.
“Mmmm.”
“What’s his name?”
She arched an eyebrow and fingered the hawk pendant at her throat. “All the men in my life are named ‘Darling’ until I find the one who is willing to become Mr. Hawk.”
“You mean you wouldn’t change your name to—”
“Certainly not.”
Funny thing is, I couldn’t tell if she was kidding. I turned my full attention to the street, realizing just how little I knew about Diana Hawk. I didn’t even know how or why she had started Hawk Enterprises. Sure, I’d done some checking around. The paper trail on Hawk Enterprises began about five years ago, but we have files going back at least six. I’ve never asked Ms. Hawk, and she’s never volunteered. Maybe one day.
As we continued down the street, Ms. Hawk called Belinda to tell her we were on our way and to apologize for our tardiness, though she told me in an aside that she had left a note for Belinda on the office door, along with a key so she could get inside with the air conditioning. Our client was waiting for us on the window seat, paperback book in her hand, purse at her feet. She wore a different sun dress, a blue one with white buttons this time, but still Neiman Marcus-y, and she carried a different handbag—Prada, if I wasn’t mistaken.
Ms. Hawk sailed in and escorted Belinda into the conference room with more apologies but no explanations. Belinda accepted this with quiet equanimity as we settled around the table. The battered notebook and the shoebox with the documents sat to one side, and Belinda eyed them with curiosity, though she made no move to touch them.
“We have a great deal to discuss,” Ms. Hawk said. Her firm demeanor and her navy suit made it clear she was in charge here, no matter how many checks Belinda might write. “Terry, why don’t you tell Ms. Harris what you’ve learned so far?”
I outlined what Zack and I had learned about the paper treasure, the Peale family history, and the Chicago Peales. I left out the pictures and the bomb threat. Hawk Enterprises doesn’t worry its clients unless absolutely necessary.
“Did you know about the treasure?” Ms. Hawk said.
“I’d heard of it from my mother,” Belinda said, her eyes a little wide, “but I’d dismissed it as a legend. It’s sounds so improbable, you understand—a bunch of papers or a diary worth a fortune. Do you think it’s real?”
“Someone does,”
I said.
Belinda jerked her head at the shoebox. “Is it in there?”
“No,” Ms. Hawk said, drawing the box to her. Even this simple movement crackled with energy. “We found your uncles’ wills and various other papers you might need, including your grandmother’s divorce records.”
“Really?” She clapped her hands in delight. “That’s wonderful! How on earth did you find them so fast?”
“Actually Zack found them,” I said. “He came across a room filled with papers and found them.”
“Then I’m certainly glad I asked you to include him,” Belinda said with a twinkly smile. “Have you read them? I don’t know if I should open that box, you understand. Mold.”
“Of course.” Ms. Hawk tapped the box lid. “Your uncles appear to have left their estates to each other.”
“Oh dear,” Belinda sighed. “This will make things so much more complicated. Well, family’s family, and I’ll do what I can.”
“Do you think the house would go to you?” I asked.
“Probably,” Belinda said. “I’m their closest living relative, as far as I know. The house is probably a total loss, you understand, but I’ve done some checking and the property is worth quite a lot.”
“We also found this,” Ms. Hawk said, and slid the notebook over to Belinda. “Does it mean anything to you?”
Belinda flipped the notebook open and leafed through it. “Well, it’s Uncle Lawrence’s handwriting. The last entry is dated around the time of his last letter. Other than that, I have no idea. What does it mean?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Ms. Hawk said. “Terry learned that the Chicago branch of the Peale family is known for smuggling, though the police have never managed to prove it. Lately, rumor has it the street supply of drugs the Chicago Peales usually spread about has dried up and that the family is involved in something new. I’m wondering if this notebook might have something to do with that. Do you now know anything that might be helpful?”
“The Chicago Peales are criminals?” Belinda said, clearly taken aback. “My lord! Where did you hear this?”
“We have contacts in Chicago,” I said. “You really didn’t know about this?”
“I had no idea.” Belinda fanned herself with one hand. “I don’t know anything about them, really. Drug smugglers! That’s terrible!”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Ms. Hawk interjected.
“It’s not your fault. I’m just a little shocked, you understand.”
“Would you like some tea?” I said. “Coffee? A soda?”
“No, no. Thank you.” Belinda drew herself up in her chair. “We might share blood, but they aren’t me. May I keep that notebook? I can look at it some more and see if anything comes to me.”
“It came from your uncles’ house,” Ms. Hawk said, “so you are certainly entitled to keep anything you wish. Though may I ask that we keep the original and give you a photocopy?”
“Please,” Belinda said.
I felt like I was at a tea party, everyone was so excruciatingly polite. Southern manners meet Diana Hawk. Ms. Hawk gave me the notebook and I popped out to the entry area, where we keep the copy machine. When I returned, Ms. Hawk was giving Belinda a more detailed description of the house’s interior.
“Those poor men,” Belinda said, shaking her head. “What’s the next step in your investigation?”
“We need to look into the warehouse mentioned in the notebook,” Ms. Hawk said.
“What will you be looking for?”
“Anything that might tell us what’s going on with the Chicago Peales,” Ms. Hawk replied.
“Back in the days of Prohibition, Detroit was a major entry point for illegal liquor coming in from Canada and even overseas. Bootleggers, which no doubt included your family, ran alcohol down Michigan Avenue from Detroit to Chicago. Nowadays they use I-94, and the illegal materials are drugs, but the general principle is the same. No doubt the Chicago Peales have been using this warehouse as an entry point for quite some time, possibly even for generations. They’ve stopped smuggling drugs, but I doubt they’ve stopped smuggling altogether. We need to learn what they’re up to.”
“How does this relate to my uncles and the treasure?” Belinda asked.
“I don’t know,” Ms. Hawk admitted. “That’s why we need to investigate.”
A few more pleasantries were exchanged, and we ushered Belinda to the door. Once she was gone, I said, “When do you want to leave for the warehouse?”
“Just after dark,” Ms. Hawk said. “I would prefer not to be observed.”
Ms. Hawk left the office. I passed the time at my desk, looking up directions to the warehouse on MapQuest, catching up on filing, answering e-mail, and performing other sundry tasks. After a while I realized I was engaged in busy work, putting off something I knew needed doing. The sun headed for the horizon, and I tapped a pencil against a message pad, chewing the inside of my cheek. My dad’s voice popped into my head: The longer you put it off, the harder it gets.
I sighed. Words of wisdom from a surprising source. Well, my dad wasn’t all bad. No one is. Yeah, Dad liked to drink and slap and think up some weird-ass punishments for stupid little shit, and yeah, he liked to pretend he had more money than he did, but he paid all my college bills and didn’t seem to mind that I changed majors at least once a semester. I dropped out of college and married Noel partly to piss Dad off, not realizing that I had run away from my father only to marry someone even worse.
Anyway, Dad was right—the longer I put it off, the harder it would get. So I picked up the phone and dialed the home number of Wendy Schultz, a woman I know who works in the Washtenaw County sheriff’s department.
“Wendy,” I said after hearing about her kids, her dogs, and the latest complaints about her neighbors, “when you get in to work tomorrow, could you run a background check on someone for me? It’s worth lunch.”
“Oh, sure, hon,” Wendy said. Gum cracked in my ear, and I imagined Wendy sitting on the couch with her feet up, her wild red hair poofing out in all directions. “What’s the name?”
“Zackary Archer.”
“You better spell that, hon,” she said, and her gum cracked again. “And give me any aliases he might have.”
I spelled Zack’s name for her. “I don’t know if he has any aliases,” I said. “But let me know anything you might find.”
I hung up and dashed home, feeling oddly guilty. I wasn’t snooping, I told myself. I needed to learn more about Zack and his motivations. The problem was I liked Zack. He was funny and smart and damned sexy. I didn’t want to learn anything bad about him. But I also knew it was stupid to ignore various suspicions.
Back at the Biemers’, I grabbed a snack to make up for missed supper, breezed past the other residents—the Biemers had long since retired to their basement apartment—and headed to my room, where I put up my hair and pulled on my black Catwoman outfit. All the better for skulking in, my dear. I exited out my sliding door and made my way through the back yard to my Jeep. Easier to sneak out than explain my outfit to the other boarders. It was already dark out, and crickets chirped all around me. Warm air slid sultry around me, and I felt like a creature of the night, gliding around the oak tree and across the grass to the driveway. I got into my Jeep and drove down to the office. Ms. Hawk, also dressed in dark clothing, was waiting in the foyer. We made a hell of a pair, slinking back out to the parking lot like two black cats on the prowl.
We decided to drive separately to the warehouse because sometimes it’s best to have two getaway vehicles. I was armed to the teeth—pistol, pepper spray, illegal stun gun, and my own two hands. My cell phone was plugged into my ear so Ms. Hawk and I could talk to each other without being overheard. I followed my GPS directions carefully—even with detailed instructions, it gets tricky driving around Detroit, especially at night.
Downtown Detroit’s national reputation as a crime-ridden city is exaggerated. Slightly. A little. I kept m
y windows up, the doors locked, and my senses alert. The casino district is well lit and quite clean—the casinos don’t want potential gamblers to be frightened away by anything unseemly—but the areas around it are a little nerve-wracking. Streets are studded with half-wrecked buildings of crumbling brick, some boarded up, others not. Street lamps are often broken, leaving large sections of town in a blanket of dark pierced only by headlights of passing cars.
Eventually I reached a section of warehouses down by the river in what had to be some of the most depressing areas to work ever. I checked the directions again and located the building. It looked perfectly anonymous, surrounded by a litter of near-identical brothers and sisters. I found a side street where I could park my Jeep, took a quick look around, locked my steering wheel with a big red bar that said, “Sorry pal—you ain’t driving this Jeep anywhere,” and got out. Ms. Hawk parked a little ways up the street and got out herself. She looked like a shadow pouring itself into a pool of ink. I switched on my cell phone’s walkie-talkie function and set it to voice activation.
“Can you hear me?” I murmured.
By her car, Ms. Hawk put a hand to her ear and nodded. “I hear you, Terry. Let’s get into that alley, shall we?”
The area was not well lit, which worked to our advantage. We slipped into a wide alley that ran between two warehouses. Cracked concrete pushed against the soles of my shoes, and ahead of me I smelled dirty water. The Detroit River is a ribbon that connects Lake Huron to Lake Erie and is more of a channel than a river, a narrow place where Michigan’s thumb almost touches Canada.
The warm night air was humid enough to drink. Water lapped against a dock in the distance, and through the mouth of the alley I saw a large boat or small ship drifting slowly down the river, its running lights ablaze. For a moment I was back in Russia, hunting down little Andy and rescuing his fellow slaves, though it had been way colder in Moscow.
Bright lights illuminated the side of the warehouse that faced the river. A set of huge loading doors took up most of that wall. Near the corner stood a normal-sized door, though it still looked formidably thick and heavy, and it was brightly lit. A car whooshed by in the street behind me, and I glanced around nervously.