Bury Me When I'm Dead (3 page)

“No, but it's something we should check into. Look, when Rona returns I'll ask her a couple of questions about Paul. I'd appreciate it if you would just observe.”

Don shrugged and reached for another Danish.

Chapter 5

Don and Charlie sped to the border. It was nearly rush hour, and if they could cross the Ambassador Bridge in the next half hour they'd get into downtown Detroit before the peak traffic.

“We need to give Abrams a briefing tomorrow and if the Alabama lead pans out, he'll have to approve our travel.”

“You sure you want me to go and not Gil?”

“I think you're better for this trip. You never know what we'll run into in the South. We might have to work both sides of the street to get anything accomplished.”

Over the last few years, Charlie and Don had reached a pragmatic approach around race and gender, using their differences to full advantage. As a white male, there were doors Don could more easily walk through than Charlie. On the other hand, being a woman had often been the key to getting a recalcitrant witness to open up. When they dealt with law enforcement in other jurisdictions, Don always took the lead, not just because he had been a cop but because he fit most people's idea of what an investigator looked like. But Charlie could visit any black business or organization, Don at her heels, playing up the “sister in charge” act and information would pour like syrup on pancakes.

Their song and dance had worked with Rona. She opened up to Charlie about the challenges of being her mother's primary caregiver and Charlie shared information about her own sixty-eight-year-old mother, who had an assisted-living apartment in Detroit's New Center area. They chatted awhile about the pros and cons of aging parents living at home, and agreed many boomers would have to face this decision sooner or later. When Don went out to the porch,
pretending to need a smoke, Rona recalled the document Joyce had once asked her to notarize, giving her power of attorney to a mortgage company in Birmingham, Alabama. It was their first real clue to finding Joyce.

They reached the security checkpoint at the bridge and were cleared through without a hitch. Charlie began to strategize aloud to keep her mind off the water crossing.

“Let's get Judy working on a number for the mortgage company Rona told me about. If there's a power of attorney, we should be able to track down an electronic copy. If not, we'll sic Gil on them.”

“Where is Paul Stringer working?” Don asked.

“Judy tracked him to the MotorCity Casino. I'll go down there tonight, have dinner and nose around a bit.”

“Right, and get mugged by the one-armed bandits.”

“Okay, I might find myself at the quarter machines while I scope out the place.”

Charlie caught Don's disapproving gaze; he knew of Charlie's weakness for the slots. He would never be accused of being new age but he understood human behavior better than most.

“Well, I can't just hover around outside, can I?”

“Whatever, Mack. Look, I'm not judging. I spend almost a thousand dollars every year to sit in a cold bleacher seat watching the Lions get their asses whipped every Sunday. So we both have some unconscious desire to be victims,” he said.

Charlie sat in a row of fifty-cent slots near the casino's main entrance which allowed her a view of the comings and goings near valet parking. After an hour she took a break for a chicken Caesar salad and a glass of red wine. Forty-five minutes later, she returned to the same machine. She was down seventy-five dollars.

A well-dressed man was directing the four younger guys jockeying the cars at valet parking. She watched him schmooze with a high roller who had passed him a tip to skip the wait-line. Charlie slipped into her tangerine, all-weather jacket. She'd worn a tan turtle neck
and matching slacks. In brown boots with a small heel she was just two inches shy of six feet. She stepped out the casino door and the wind blew across the crown of her neatly cropped, curly Afro. She approached the parking supervisor.

“How are you this evening . . .” Charlie looked at his name tag, which read Walter Barnes “. . . Walter?” She said his name using her flirty voice.

“How are you, miss?” He displayed a smile that made him look like the first bite of an Almond Joy.

“Well, I'd be doing better, but I'm down almost a hundred dollars.”

He nodded knowingly.

“And unfortunately, I'm also working tonight.”

She watched Walter assess the kind of work she might be doing and before he got the wrong idea, she handed him her business card. “Could I ask you a couple of quick questions about a guy who I think works here?” she purred.

Walter realized her coyness had a purpose and his smile drifted. He seemed a lot less handsome.

“What guy?”

“Paul Stringer,” Charlie said. She pushed the button on the digital voice recorder hidden in her jacket pocket.

Walter Barnes shook his head. “Oh him. I don't know where he is, don't care and don't even want to know why you're asking.”

“I just thought you could tell me when you saw him last or where he might be working now?”

“Like I said, I don't know. The last time I saw him he was running across that parking lot,” Walter pointed toward Grand River Avenue. “He left a brand new Lexus unattended with the keys in the ignition. I haven't seen his sorry ass since.”

Walter Barnes walked away to shake hands with a well-heeled gentleman wearing a cashmere sports coat with a leggy blond on his arm. Charlie hit the stop button on the recorder. She waited until Walter wasn't facing in her direction and strolled to the cashier window.

“Hi there,” Charlie said.

A thirty-something woman with a red-streaked, flip hairdo, too
much makeup and a low-cut black blouse looked up. She pulled a red cardigan sweater across her shoulders and opened the plastic slot in the window.

“Do you have your parking ticket and casino card?” she asked.

“Uh, no I self-parked, but I wanted to ask you about a guy who works at valet parking. Paul Stringer.”

The woman gave Charlie a very evil eye. Charlie engaged the digital recorder.

“Why do you want to know about Paulie? Who are you?”

“I'm a friend of his sister,” Charlie lied. “We all grew up together in the same block on the east side. I'm in town for a couple of days and my mama said she heard Paul worked here parking cars, so I just thought I'd tell him ‘hey'.”

The cashier shifted from the evil eye to a once-over. She didn't buy the story at all but was amused by Charlie's bullshitting ability. Plus, she was curious.

“He doesn't work here anymore,” she finally said. “And, I don't believe you grew up with him and his sister. You don't look like an eastside girl,” she said with authority.

“Well okay, you found me out. I'm not really Paul's friend, I'm just looking for him. But I am from the east side. I grew up on Hunt Street.” She extended her hand through the little window. “Charlene Mack.”

The cashier stared at Charlie's manicured hand. “Carla Wilcott,” she said showing off her own gel French tips. “I grew up on Field Street.”

Charlie nodded her recognition and the two girls from the east side of Woodward Avenue dropped their judgments of each other.

“Why you looking for Paulie?”

“I'm really trying to find his sister, Joyce. I'm a private investigator.”

“You mean like on TV?”

“Something like that except I rarely come across dead bodies.”

“Well, Paulie might
be
dead. He just up and left two or three months ago. He didn't even come back to pick up his check. And he left his bag.”

Carla moved, snail-like, to the back of the small booth. She leaned
under a counter to retrieve a blue backpack, revealing thick thighs in black leggings under a tight purple skirt.

“This has been here since he took off. You can take it if you want, this ain't no pawn shop,” she said indignantly.

“Were you and Paul close?”

Carla sucked her teeth. “I was too much woman for that boy. Said he had a girlfriend somewhere and he was always on his phone. But he was nice enough, you know.”

Charlie thanked Carla and headed to the self-parking lot feeling pretty smug at scoring a bag that belonged to Paul Stringer. She pressed her key fob and the lights on her Corvette flashed, but before she could open the door she was shoved hard against the vehicle and the backpack was ripped from her hand. She spun to find the parking honcho, Walter Barnes, lurking over her. He must have seen Carla give her the bag, she thought, and followed. She considered hurting Walter, but instead pushed the panic button, hoping he'd back off. The alarm startled him but instead of moving away he threw a left hook, glancing Charlie's chin and making her mad. She lifted her knee hard into his groin and he dropped to the pavement. People were showing interest in the commotion so she picked up the backpack, got in the car and drove off. In the side mirror Charlie saw a couple of people next to Barnes, who remained slumped over. She winced when she put a hand to her tender chin.

“Can you come over?”

“I'm on duty. What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Well, actually, I had a run-in tonight with an asshole and I have a couple of bruises. But I've already been seen by nurse Glenlivet.”

“Oh. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine. Would just like to see you.”

“Maybe I can swing by on my lunch break.”

“Only if you can. I really am okay. It's just that when I have scotch and hurt feelings I think of you.”

“Wow. What a blazing endorsement.”

“Will you come, if you can?”

“Yep. Gotta go.”

Charlie picked up the sweating glass and sipped. She knew she was in love with Mandy and the idea scared her. Mandy was fearless about everything, her job, her finances, her politics. Even her love life. They'd met a year ago at the Police Benevolent Association Gala. Franklin said Charlie was the best looking woman in the ballroom and she believed him until Mandy Porter walked in. She was radiant—a combination of self-confidence and energy. As she danced, the disco ball caught the tips of her short, auburn hair and she glowed in the dimly lit room. Over Franklin's shoulder, Charlie met Mandy's stare. When Charlie asked, Franklin knew all about Mandy. “A cop,” her ex-husband said. “On one of the suburban forces. I forget which.”

“Right. I think I've heard of her.”

“She's an advisor to the County Executive's crime prevention task force. Quite a looker, isn't she?”

The two women sized up each other again during the champagne toast and later, when Mandy's escort steered her towards the door, Charlie intercepted.

“Hello. I wanted to catch you before you left. I'm Charlene Mack. I own a small private investigations firm. I believe you know my business partner, Don Rutkowski.”

“Oh yes, Don. How is he? I'm Mandy Porter.” She offered her hand.

“Yes, I know. Don is fine.”

Mandy matched the pressure of Charlie's handshake, letting go only to introduce her escort. “Oh, I'm sorry. This is Ken Rainey.”

Charlie eyed Rainey for a millisecond and reached into her handbag. “Here's my card,” she said, handing it to Mandy. “Perhaps you, Don and I can have lunch one day soon. We like staying in touch with our law enforcement partners.”

Mandy tucked the card into her pocket without looking at it. Her green eyes narrowed and she held Charlie's unflinching gaze. “Yes. I'd like that.”

Two days later, dinner was arranged. The first dinner of animated
conversation concluded in a promise for another. After two more meals of white wine and chicken Marsala at Mario's and chile relleno and sangria at Xochimilco's, they found themselves at Charlie's apartment in downtown Detroit. Their lovemaking lived up to the anticipation.

“Pull over here. I need to visit a friend during our lunch break,” Officer Porter said to her new partner, a first-year rookie eager to please and to prove himself in the field.

“Should I wait?” he asked, slowing the patrol car at the curb.

“I won't be too long. She lives here. There's a bar and grill on the first level with decent sandwiches.”