Corktown (8 page)

21

A well-dressed man sat behind a large mahogany desk with intricate carvings. He was puffing away on a cigar when Reed and Stevie entered the large office.

“You know it’s against the law to smoke in this building.” Reed said as he took a seat in front of the desk.

“I know that. I helped pass the law,” the man said with a grin. A touch of gray detailed the sides of his slicked back hair. Reed watched him pick up a crystal glass by the rim and dangled it. “Something to drink, a kick start for the day?” the man asked.

“I’m fine, thank you. How can I help you?”

“Why is Agent Kane investigating the old case and not the new one?”

“Your information is wrong. She’s working the new case.”

“That’s not what I hear.” The man took sip from the glass he held. He pursed his lips before swallowing the liquor. “I was informed she visited the jailhouse and spoke with Michael Garrison. After that, she spent time at the FBI field office looking at their case files.”

“So she’s getting up to date.”

“Don’t play me. It doesn’t look like she’s investigating the new murders.”

“She’s one of the best. I have complete confidence in her ability to apprehend our killer.”

“Is that so?” The man stood up and walked over to a large window with sweeping views of the Detroit River. “Two more bodies showed up this morning. The press will be all over it.”

“She’s the best option we have right now. She’ll catch him. You have my word.”

The man turned around and brought a hand up to his chin, feigning deep thought. He looked Reed in the eyes. “Your word? Anything else you care to wager? Your career? Your life?”

22

Wilkinson and I returned to our hotel at ten that night. He pointed to the lounge. “You interested in a drink before heading up?”

That sounded great, but at the moment, I wanted nothing more than to change out of my grimy clothing and have a bath. Plus, Ryan and Lucy would be in bed soon. “I’m sorry.” I pointed to my watch. “I want to catch the kids before bedtime.”

Wilkinson flashed his dimpled smile. “I understand.”

He had asked the same question every night since we had arrived in Detroit, and I had entertained it only once. I’d had fun. He told me all about his hippie parents and his Berkeley upbringing. He even mentioned his quick stint as a fitness model. I’ve yet to see Wilkinson with his shirt off, but his arms and shoulders did a wonderful job of backing up his claim. We were both buzzed when we finally headed upstairs that night. He kept sneaking peeks at me as we rode the elevator. I was glad he didn’t make a move. I would have been too weak to resist, and he would have woken up in my bed the next morning.

I didn’t doubt that we would have had fun, but we would be playing in a dangerous area. The truth was, we’d still have to work together. I wasn’t quite ready to screw up our professional relationship should the morning after turn awkward. I admit I liked the attention. What woman wouldn’t? Wilkinson was smart, funny at times, and dangerously good looking.

I returned his smile. “Tomorrow night, I promise.”

“Goodnight, Abby.”

He was also the only agent who called me Abby. I didn’t mind that either.

When I got to my hotel room, I stripped off my holster and then my bra, leaving my blouse on. It was one of those days where the underwire killed. God, it felt good to let them breathe.

I made a beeline to the mini-bar and grabbed the bottle of Jameson. It wasn’t the usual stock, so I had a bottle brought up the night I checked in. I poured a glass, neat, and sat on the bed with my back against the headboard. I let the first sip sit in my mouth for a second or two before swallowing. A few moments later, I felt the golden liquor working its way through my body. Calm had come to me. I took another sip, a larger one so I could savor that sweet taste. I started to think about the case but was able to banish it from my mind. I needed to relax. I had taken myself off duty.

A few sips later, I got off the bed and walked over to the window. The city was beautiful at night. The buildings reminded me of Hong Kong. Here I was, back in the thick of it, investigating a serial killer. And I was away from home. Even with me on East Coast time, I called the kids every night except for the few times Wilkinson and I worked past their bedtimes. I picked up my cell and dialed. I was looking to make good on my promise of being a mother to them.

• • •

Across the street from the hotel was an old office building. Most of the floors were vacant and dark. From the fourteenth floor, a person would have a clear view into Agent Kane’s room if they wanted. And that’s exactly what the stranger with the binoculars had hoped for. He had waited all evening for her return, and she did not disappoint. There she stood, wearing nothing but black panties and an unbuttoned blouse, unaware of her audience of one.

23

The next morning we took a drive out to Rochester Hills. Wilkinson had secured a half hour with Elliot Hardin, the auto columnist for the
Detroit Free Press
. We parked the Yellow Jacket in front of a two-story brick house.

“Looks like the reporting business pays well,” I said, giving the neighborhood a once-over.

I rang the doorbell, which signaled the other doorbell. High-pitched yapping could be heard inside the house. I imagined the source to be small, brown, and ugly. A few seconds later, a tall, lanky fellow in a gray cardigan sweater answered the door. The tiny yapper stood between his legs, snarling.
You nailed it, Abby.

“Mr. Hardin. I’m Agent Abby Kane and this is Agent Trey Wilkinson. We’re with the FBI. My partner spoke to you earlier about answering a few questions.”

The man seemed flustered, and his clothes were a bit disheveled.
What is it about writers that make them so messy?

“Yes. Now I’ve got to tell you; I can only spare thirty minutes,” he said.

“Mind if we come inside?”

“No, no, of course not.” He held the door open and used his right leg to pin the dog against the wall behind him. “Be nice, Bella.”

I slipped past the growling mutt and into the living room where Hardin motioned for us to sit. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’m going to put Bella out back.”

From the looks of the décor, I was now assured he made more than a modest living. But that’s not what was interesting about his place. Hardin’s living room did double duty as a magnificent library. Hardcover, softcover, and leather bound editions lined shelves on every wall. A built in hutch appeared to display his most prized novels. I recognized one of the books, Hemingway’s
The Old Man and The Sea
.

“That’s a first edition, first printing signed by the author himself,” Hardin said as he returned to the room.

“So you’re a book collector,” I commented.

“Yes,” he said as he looked around at the books and then back at me. “Have been my entire life.” He took a seat opposite us. “Now, how can I help you two?”

“We’re investigating the murders of Marian Ward and Dennis and Irene Walters.”

“Yes, of course. Terrible thing to have happen to them. Any luck in catching the person responsible?”

“Well, that’s why we’ve come to talk to you.”

“Me?” Hardin straightened up in his chair and fiddled with his glasses. Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with these murders.”

“Quite the opposite, Mr.—”

Hardin waved his hand at me. “Please, call me Elliot.”

“All right, Elliot. We’re wondering, with your vast knowledge of the car industry, if anything comes to mind that could tie these two together, something that could have caused public outrage or angered workers or miffed the competition.”

“You think the killer is after the auto industry?”

“We think there’s a possibility he might be targeting auto executives.”

Hardin leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. “What’s in it for me?”

I looked at Wilkinson. He seemed just as confused. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

Hardin leaned forward and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I’ll come right out with it. I want the exclusive.”

“Exclusive?” I didn’t expect to hear that. Hardin wasn’t that type of reporter. He maintained a column about the ins and outs of the big three automakers. He must have sensed our befuddlement.

“Let me explain,” he said with a shake of his hand. “I’ve always wanted the big scoop, the front-page knockout. That doesn’t happen too often in my area of focus, but a serial killer—”

“We didn’t say there was a serial killer.”

“Okay, a killer taking out auto execs one by one. Now that’s front-page news.”

“Tell you what; you don’t print or mention anything until we catch our guy, and we’ll give you the scoop… provided the information you give us helps us solve the case.” I stuck my hand out. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

Hardin went on to tell us how the GM plant shutdowns affected Flint. I had already heard the same story from Wilkinson. I hoped Hardin had more. “What does that have to do with our victims?”

“They both worked at GM at the time.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Are you telling us they were responsible for the plants shutting down?”

“Possibly…”

For a reporter, Hardin was light on his facts. “What does that mean?” I asked.

“I need to dig around before I can expand on that.”

“Okay. Anything else you can tell us?”

Hardin leaned back and fiddled with his chin until he popped forward, clapping his hands together. “The local newspaper did a story on a man named Eddie Bass. Before the hard times hit, he championed GM, almost like their de facto mascot. He was known around town as The Motor. All he ever talked about was working at the factory, until he lost his job.”

“I’m sure a lot of people had a beef with the company. Was there something special about him, besides being a cheerleader?”

“Well, I imagine he was shocked when they let him go. Probably found it difficult to deal with,” Hardin said. “Granted he wasn’t the only casualty, but a lot of people thought he would be safe, being who he was.”

“Their number one fan,” Wilkinson added.

Hardin nodded. “He didn’t take it well. The story goes that he took to drinking and eventually drank himself to death. Left behind a little girl. His wife had died a few years after she was born. Cancer, I think.”

“Where’s the daughter now?”

“Before Eddie died, he and his daughter moved to Ohio to live with his sister. I’m guessing the sister ended up raising the kid after his death. You’ll have to talk to her for more information.”

We thanked Hardin, but I wasn’t so sure we were any further along on the case.

24

That same morning, Katherine Carter drove her two boys to St. Mary’s Grade School at the corner of Woodward and 12 Mile. Eight year-old Lorenzo was starting third grade. He was a pro at school and was excited to be back. Jackson, however, was starting kindergarten, and at four he had not grasped the concept of leaving his mom.

As soon as Katherine parked the white Land Rover in the school parking lot, Lorenzo got excited. “Mommy, Mommy, look. There’s Marcus and Toby.”

“Are you happy to see your friends again?”

“Yes! Yes!” Lorenzo had already unbuckled himself and gathered his things.

Katherine turned to Jackson. “What about you Mr. Big Boy? See how excited your brother is? It’ll be fun.”

Jackson sat in the back seat, pouting and wiping his eyes. “I don’t wanna go.”

“Come on, Jackson,” his brother said. “You’re going to love it.”

Lorenzo ran ahead to meet his friends while Katherine carried Jackson to the drop-off point. She knelt down and faced Jackson toward her. She fixed his collar and straightened his Mickey Mouse backpack. “I know you’re scared, but you’re going to have a lot of fun, and your brother is here, too. Soon you’ll have plenty of friends.”

Katherine wiped away the tears that ran down Jackson’s cheeks. It took everything she had not to cry herself as she struggled to maintain a smile. She wanted to hug him and take him home.

“He’s going to be just fine, Mrs. Carter. We’ll take good care of Jackson,” one of the teachers said. Katherine watched the teacher lead Jackson away. He kept looking back at her with his puffy cheeks and big eyes. She turned away just in time to avoid him seeing her cry. A quick wipe before turning back to wave goodbye.

She hurried back to the SUV, her heels clicking noisily against the asphalt. Safely out of view, she let it out of her system. A few moments later, she composed herself and fixed her makeup. Katherine now had to go to work, the reason she wore an elegant black pantsuit that morning—certainly not the norm for most of the other stay-at-home mothers who were dropping off their children.

A twenty-five minute drive on Woodward Avenue had put Katherine just north of downtown Birmingham—Yuppieville. She turned off the main drag, down one of the tree-lined roads, until she found Hazelwood Street. Katherine parked two houses down from 813 Hazelwood, where a Victorian home with white and blue trim sat. It stood out from the other homes with their muted colors.

Katherine grabbed a handful of business cards from the glove box and slipped them into her purse. On her way to the house, she surveyed the neighborhood out of the corner of her eyes but kept her head straight. Katherine followed the cement path that cut through the lush front lawn and walked up the wooden steps. Just as she was about to knock, the door suddenly opened.

“Oh, excuse me,” Katherine blurted, taking a step back.

The woman who opened the door jumped back as well. “Sheesh, you scared the heck out of me.”

Katherine smiled at the woman. “I am so sorry. I was just about to knock. My name is Cheryl Newton. I’m a Realtor,” she said, extending her hand.

The woman shook Katherine’s hand. “Hi, I’m Rebecca Tanner. I’m sorry, but I’m on my way out.”

Katherine looked behind the woman and saw two large suitcases. “I guess you’re heading out of town?”