Corktown (12 page)

“How big was this group of RRs?”

“There were six.” Hardin gave the restaurant another quick look. “I have to go.”

“Wait. Were any of them our victims?”

“I’m out of time.” Hardin stood up. He removed a piece of paper out from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table. “I’ll text you the others when I have them,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward the door.

I picked up the paper. There were four names written down.

Wilkinson eyed the paper as he sipped his coffee. “What does it say?”

“There are four names. Three are our victims. The other one is Archie Becker.”

“You believe him?” he asked.

“Right now, I don’t know what to believe. This whole case is getting stranger by the minute.”

I put a call into Solis and Madero and filled them in. I wanted them to track down Archie Becker for questioning and put a patrol car on his residence. For all we knew, the killer could have been targeting him as we spoke.

36

With Hardin admitting he was being watched, I had to assume we were, too. Whoever was responsible for the cover-up was eager to make sure it remained that way. It seemed like every person we came in contact with didn’t want to talk or appeared to be scared of something.

With the revelation of the Redline Rogues, Eddie Bass’ sister, Claire, quickly became a person of interest. I somehow had a hunch “The Motor” might have known about them. And if he did, my hope was that he had mentioned them to Claire or his daughter. I was glad Hardin had emailed me Claire’s address the day after we met.

The drive down to Mansfield, Ohio took us a little less than three hours. We were told she lived by herself just outside of the city in an old farmhouse.

When we arrived, the structure looked a lot older than I’d pictured. It was quaint and cozy, and the wood had that aged look that’s all the rage for country living in the Hamptons. Still, I wished I had a hard hat for entering.

Wilkinson parked the Yellow Jacket near the front of the house. Besides a few chickens pecking around, there didn’t seem to be any other signs of life—no noises coming from or around the house. Claire lived off the highway at the end of a quarter-mile dirt road. She had no neighbors.

The screen door rattled when I knocked on it. Wilkinson tried peeking inside through one of the windows. That’s when we heard the voice behind us.

“Can I help you two?”

We turned to face an elderly woman dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and had a blue and white handkerchief tied around her neck. But the 12-gauge shotgun in her hands was what really caught my attention.

“Easy, lady,” Wilkinson said.

“Claire Bass?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” she responded, calmly and without waver. Her eyes were squinted and her finger was wrapped around the trigger.

“We’re FBI agents. You’re not in trouble. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

She remained quiet and focused.

“We’re going to reach into our jackets and take out our IDs, okay?” I said.

She kept a close eye on both of us. Her arm seemed to be shaking a little. Either the gun was getting heavy, or it was some uncontrollable tick. I didn’t want to find out. She took a few steps closer and leaned forward, examining our identification.

Satisfied, she lowered the gun. “I’m sorry about that, but I live alone and I’m old. I’ve got to be careful.”

“We understand,” I said. “You snuck up on us there.”

Claire chuckled a little. “It’s a good skill to have.” She stomped her shoes on a worn mat before entering the house. “Make yourself at home while I put a pot of coffee on.”

It was impossible to ignore the décor. The inside of Claire’s house was neatly cluttered with little Hummel figurines. Where there was space, there was a little boy or girl carrying a bucket of water, praying, or picking flowers.

Fifteen minutes later, Claire shuffled back into the living room with three mugs and placed them on the coffee table. She appeared to be in her sixties and able, though she didn’t stand fully upright. “Any of you take cream or sugar with your coffee?” she asked, pausing in front of her rocking chair.

We both shook our heads and watched her sit and slowly start to rock.

I spoke first. “Claire, I’m Agent Abby Kane and this is Agent Trey Wilkinson. We’re investigating a series of murders that have taken place in Detroit—”

“Wasn’t me,” she shot back.

I gave Wilkinson a quick look before speaking. “We’re aware of that. We’re here to talk about your brother, Eddie Bass.”

“He’s dead. So it wasn’t him, either.”

I smiled. “We’re aware of that, too. We understand your brother was a vocal supporter of GM while he worked there.”

“They called him The Motor. He loved working for that company. Being able to make a living and provide for his family made him a proud man. Terrible thing they did to him.”

“You mean the company, right?”

“Who else would I be talking about, dear? Not only him, but the whole town got hit.”

“That’s when he moved here, with his daughter?” I asked.

“Yes. His wife, Christine, had already passed. She had breast cancer. There wasn’t any need to stay in that town. It had a terrible effect on him. He started drinking… I worried about him.”

“So he moved here, to Ohio?”

“I finally convinced the stubborn mule.” Claire drifted off into her thoughts before speaking again. “He had only been here for a little over a year when he passed.” Claire continued to rock and sip. Her eyes appeared heavy, but she never kept them off of us for long.

“Claire, did Eddie ever talk about the Redline Rogues?”

She took a moment before answering. “Not that I recall. What is it?”

“A bunch of GM executives. There’s a rumor that they were responsible for shutting down the plant in Flint.” I figured it was best to leave out their names and the fact that three of them were dead.

“Oh, you’re talking about the Good Boys,” she said. “That’s what Eddie called them. Anyhow, he came upon them late one night at the plant, had forgotten something in his locker. That’s when he over heard a group of people talking in hushed tones.”

“Did he know them?” I asked.

Claire shook her head. “No, but he snuck up on ’em and listened. He said he only heard bits and pieces. He had a bad ear,” she motioned, “but he swore they were talking about shutting down the plant. Eddie was the one to spread the word before the company said anything. Everyone thought it was crazy talk until it happened.”

Claire’s story supported what Hardin told us earlier. Pieces were coming together. I started to believe our own hype; someone wanted revenge for what the RRs did.

“Did Eddie mention what they looked like?”

“From where he hid, he said he couldn’t see them all too well. But he was sure there were men and women. As far as I know, he never told anyone where he got his information on the plant closing. If you ask me, I’d say something had him spooked.”

I looked around but saw no pictures of him or his daughter.

“What about Eddie’s daughter? Do you think he mentioned it to her?”

“You mean Lisa?” Claire shrugged and took another sip of her coffee.

Wilkinson wrote her name down in his notepad.

“Sorry, we didn’t have a name for her. Do you know where we can find her?” he asked.

“I don’t know where she is. We never did see eye to eye. She moved out when she was seventeen.”

“Do you have an address or a phone number?”

Claire finished the last of her coffee. She stood up and cleared our cups on the way back to the kitchen. I looked at Wilkinson. “Looks like our chat is over.”

“No address or number. She could be anywhere,” he said.

I tried to remain optimistic.

Claire reemerged from the kitchen with a dishcloth in her hand. Wilkinson and I booth stood up.

“Do you have any idea how we can get a hold of Lisa? It’s very important we talk with her.”

“You think she killed those people?”

“No, not all,” I said. “We’re just trying to gather as much information as possible.”

“She was a quiet one. Was cordial to most. She didn’t have me fooled, though. That girl had a mean streak that would surface every now and then.”

“In what way?”

“The littlest things would set her off. I rearranged her closet once. I never did
that
again.” Claire bent down and gave the coffee table a once over. She then walked over to a desk and wrote something down.

“You might try Flint. It’s where she’s from,” she said as she opened the front door. She slipped me a paper with a name and an address on it as we exited the house.

37

We were still an hour’s drive from Detroit when I got a call from Solis. I was expecting an update on Archie Becker, the suspected RR. What I got instead felt like a punch to the gut.

“I hope you’re sitting down.”

“Spit it out,” I said.

“Your reporter friend, Elliot Hardin. He’s dead.”

“Come again?”

“Couple of hunters came across his car in the woods. He was inside with a gunshot wound to the back of his head.”

I whispered to Wilkinson that Hardin was dead.

“There were two vehicle tracks, so whoever did this was in the car with him with an accomplice following.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, the only reason to come up here is to hunt elk, and Hardin doesn’t look the type.”

I shook my head slowly. Hardin had been telling the truth earlier.
How the hell am I supposed to solve this case if my informants keep showing up dead?

“What about Becker?”

“We tracked him down at Ford. He’s one of their top engineers. He denies knowing anything about the RR. He’s also refusing any help from the police. We put a patrol car outside his house anyway, as a visual deterrent in case our guy is targeting him. He’s not being helpful, though.”

“Keep an eye on him until we can get back. I want to question him personally.”

38

We reached Archie Becker’s house a little before seven that night. The sun had started to set, but kids of all ages were still out playing. Becker lived alone in the family-friendly Bloomfield Hills, north of Birmingham. Solis and Madero were parked out front in a brown unmarked vehicle waiting for us. Across the street was a patrol car, like they said.

When I got closer to their car, the detectives exited. “We followed him back from work,” Solis said. “He’s been home for maybe forty minutes.”

“Thanks. Wait outside, please.”

Wilkinson and I continued up the driveway of the ranch style home. We rang the doorbell.

A neatly dressed man answered the door. His posture deflated when he saw us. “How can I help you?” he asked, dryly.

“Archie Becker? I’m Agent Kane. This is Agent Wilkinson. We were hoping we could ask you a few questions.”

Becker flopped his head to the side and exhaled loudly. “Look, Agents. I’ve already answered a bunch from the two sitting in the car,” he pointed.

“I realize that, Mr. Becker, but you didn’t answer our questions.”

He let out another breath of air and added an eye roll. His antics were starting to annoy me.

“I suppose you want something to drink,” he said as he swung the front door open and led the way.

Actually, I would love to punch some sense into you.

Wilkinson and I looked at each other before following him. “What can you tell us about the Redline Rogues or the RRs?”

Becker never bothered to get us something to drink, but instead, he took a seat in the living room. We stood.

“I’ll repeat what I told the two detectives outside. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Isn’t it true you worked with Marian Ward, Dennis Walters, and Rick Tanner at GM during the eighties?”

“That’s true. But I worked with a lot of people. It’s common for auto execs to move around between the big three.”

“You realize all three of them are dead. They were murdered.”

Becker looked down, then back up, but avoided eye contact. “Yes, of course. I’m very saddened by the news. I didn’t spend much time with them after I left GM, but I still considered them friends.”

“Mr. Becker, we have reason to believe whoever killed them might try to harm you.”

“Why?” he asked, his posture stiffening. “I’ve done nothing.”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We know you were a member of the RRs. Who else knew?
Think
, Mr. Becker. Who might have grievances against you or them?”

Becker ran his hands through what little hair he had. “Look, you guys are sounding like a broken record. I’ve already answered these questions.”

“Then it should be easier the second time around. What are you afraid of? We can protect you.”

Becker threw his head back and laughed. “Like how you protected the others?”

The mouth on this guy.
Solis was right; he was definitely the short name for Richard.

“Look, I don’t need your help.”

“Funny, last time I checked, your name was Archie Becker, not Chuck Norris.”

Becker shot me a look that rivaled a snotty teenager’s. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work I need to do.”

We may have left his house, but we weren’t about to let him leave our sight. I tapped on Solis’ window. “This guy’s got an attitude and a death wish.”

“Told you.”

“I want you guys to start interviewing all of the top execs. Start at GM. Maybe we can flush out the other two that way.”

We cut the detectives and the patrol car loose and did a drive around the block before parking farther down the street. With only three of the RRs alive, I wanted to make sure it stayed that way.

39

It had been a while since I’d taken on babysitting duty. I had forgotten how slow the hours could drag. Thankfully, Wilkinson could hold a conversation. I remembered being in a similar situation with someone who didn’t speak much, and it was painful.

A patrol car had relieved us about an hour earlier and took their position in front of Becker’s place. We were four houses down the road, but we were so enjoying our conversation that we stayed put.