Motor City Shakedown (5 page)

“How've you been?” she asked, her eyes still on the china.

“Fine, good.” I stopped. “No, not so well, really, as you might have guessed.”

Alberts gave me a sympathetic grimace before placing the roses in the vase and setting it on the center of the table. While he exited into the hallway, Elizabeth walked around to the other side of the table and said, “How is your hand?”

“It's all right,” I said, slipping it behind my back. “I can't do much with it, and it's no joy to look at, but I manage.” Time to change the subject. “How have you been doing? And your mother?”

She placed both hands on the back of a chair. “I'm fine. I'm keeping busy with the Michigan Equal Suffrage Association and the McGregor Mission.”

“Oh. I thought you just got back to town.”

She laughed, and it sounded a bit nervous. “Well, yes, I just started. But I can see how they're going to keep me busy.”

“Good.” I tried to read her eyes. “We all need goals to achieve.”

She cocked her head and her eyes narrowed, but the next second she smiled at me. “I'll tell you what's exciting. This morning my mother had Mrs. Bell from next door over for coffee.”

I waited for the exciting part.

“No, you don't understand,” she said. “My mother hasn't so much as initiated a conversation with anyone since we left for Europe. She's been so buried in melancholia she hasn't been able to find her way out.” Elizabeth gestured around us. “I think coming home is what did the trick. She might snap out of this after all. I was beginning to give up hope.”

“That's great. I'm glad for her.”

“It was a last-ditch effort. Frankly, it's the only reason I decided to come back. Paris is such a beautiful city, and Detroit, well…”

“Isn't the Paris of the West anymore?”

She turned and glanced out the window. “It's not so much the city,” she murmured, “as it is the memories.”

I understood. Much better than I wished I did.

The kettle began whistling, a slow and wavering note that built toward a scream. I walked to the stove, took the kettle off the burner, and turned back to her. “Did you hear? One of Adamo's men was murdered Sunday night.”

Her eyes locked on me.

“Here, let me.…” I gestured in the direction of the teapot. “You sit. I'll get it.”

She sat at the kitchen table while I prepared the tea. With one hand, it was awkward, but I used my body to shield Elizabeth from my fumbling. I brought the pot to the table, and then the cream, and finally, our cups. Elizabeth didn't speak, just looked at me, expressionless.

I sat across from her and tipped some tea into her cup. “It was Adamo's driver—Carlo Moretti. I'd actually been watching him, though I didn't see who killed him.” I clenched my teeth, seeing his corpse in my mind. “His throat was cut. He went into his apartment building with a prostitute who ran out a few minutes later. She might have killed him, though I think it was a man because … well, let's just say I think it was a man.”

“So you were there?”

Pouring my own tea, I nodded and leaned in toward her. “Yes. And a woman saw me.”

“The prostitute?”

“No. Moretti's neighbor.”

“Were you in his apartment?”

“Outside it. But close enough.”

“Do you think she could identify you?”

“Probably,” I said. “But I think she's an illegal, so it's not likely she'll go to the police. I know she didn't tell them anything initially, because Detective Riordan didn't lock me up.”

“Well, let's hope that's the end of it.”

“Somehow I doubt it will be.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Did you get a good look at the prostitute?”

I thought that a curious question. “No.” I took a sip of my tea.

“So, you don't think you could identify her?”

“No. I've tried to find her. It's hopeless.”

Elizabeth looked down at the table and nodded. “You know, I don't think I've ever properly thanked you for what you did. I guess … I guess the pain is still there from that, from everything.” She reached out, took hold of my left hand, and met my eyes. “But you saved my life. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I wish I could have done more. For you. And for Wes.”

We talked for a few more minutes, and I left while I was ahead, catching a Jefferson Line streetcar downtown. I was happy she was home and that if I played my cards right, I'd get to see her, but I considered her comment about keeping busy. By her count, she'd been home for only three days, which after seven months overseas was barely enough to unpack, much less have a need to keep busy.

I hopped off at Woodward. After I withdrew another hundred dollars from the bank I caught another trolley home. I decided to get off a stop early, at Temple, and bought a few apples and peaches from the fruit market before cutting through the alley that led to the back of my apartment house.

I was strolling through the shadows of the dusty alleyway, wiping peach juice off my chin with my handkerchief, when I caught a fleeting movement in my peripheral vision. Someone stepped into the doorway at the back of my building. Though I had no more than a glimpse, I was certain it was a man wearing navy blue—a uniform, perhaps—and I had the impression that he'd stepped backwards in one quick motion.

He was hiding, not entering the building.

Without pausing long enough to think, I turned and ran.

CHAPTER FIVE

I sneaked to the side of the house on the corner of Second Street and Peterboro, catty-corner to my building, and crouched behind a shrub. It had been dark for two hours. No light or movement showed through the windows of my apartment. No police cars, wagons, or motorcycles were in sight.

Had I imagined it? Two days ago the police, having no evidence of my involvement in the murder of Carlo Moretti, had done nothing more than question me. But of course the woman could have come forward. If that was the case I'd never get Adamo, much less Big Boy or Sapphira.

A gray Model T touring car crawled by in front of me, passing through the light from the electric streetlamps. When the
putt-putt-putt
of the motor faded off into the distance, the cicadas' drone drowned out the murmur of late-night traffic. The night smelled of peat and dried horse manure.

Though I had no good reason for it, I never considered crossing the street. The whole situation felt wrong. My body was taut, my gut said stay away, yet going on the run seemed premature. I'd run before, and what had that gotten me? Arrested, beaten, nearly killed. That, and the fifteen ounces of morphine hidden in the back of my wardrobe contributed to the feeling that I should be sure before I ran.

A man walked, a bit unsteadily, up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. When he passed under a streetlamp I saw it was my new neighbor, Arthur Preston, his face shining with sweat. He was a puffy though not corpulent thirty-year-old, the
head
accountant (his emphasis) for the Detroit Salt Mining Company, and an exceedingly dull dinner guest. His collar was sprung on one side, his tie askew, his derby pulled down around his eyes.

When he reached the sidewalk in front of our building, he turned and looked up at the miniature towers and turrets that festooned the roof of the three-story toy castle in which we lived. He was also interested in the level of activity on the top floor, although his concern would be different from mine—was his teetotaling wife awake? He was probably more relieved than I had been to see no lights on in his apartment. Straightening his waistcoat, he marched up to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.

He stopped. It appeared he was talking to someone, though I couldn't see the other party. After a minute or so, he walked out of sight, and another man stepped forward and peered out the door. This man wore the navy blue wool of the Detroit Police Department, complete with brass buttons and a badge.

I cursed and fingered the little morphine bottle in my pocket. I would have to say good-bye to that sixteen-ounce bottle. At least I had plenty of money to replace it. As soon as the cop moved from the door I slipped away and circled around to the south, toward Jefferson Avenue.

She must have come forward. It was time to leave town and work up a plan.

*   *   *

I crept down the shoreline, heading for the downtown Michigan Central Depot. I entered from the track side, hidden by the rows of empty boxcars on the auxiliary tracks. The moon had disappeared. Behind me it was black, the gurgling of water against the bank the only evidence of the Detroit River. The platform lights reached out far enough that I could see the cars' black shapes.

I crept forward, careful to make as little noise as possible. This was the main hub of the Michigan Central line. Hundreds of trains left this station every day. If the police wanted me, they might expect to find me here, particularly as it was the only place to catch a train in the middle of the night. Even if they weren't after me, the railroad cops would be out looking for hoboes. Unfortunately, I felt I had to take the chance. My face was too well known in Detroit for me to hide for long.

When I reached the set of cars closest to the station, I peeked around the edge of one in the middle. The platform, only fifty feet away, was nearly empty. A man lay on a bench, and a handsome young couple sat slumped against each other, staring straight ahead.

To my right, a ringing of metal on metal caught my attention. It sounded like a muffled bell clanging violently. It stopped as quickly as it had begun. I crouched and looked to where the sound had come from. A few tracks over, the light from a swinging lantern moved toward me, careening back and forth through the boxcars. Now the sound of boots crunching against stone began to filter to my ears. The ringing sound started and stopped, started and stopped. This time of night it could only be a policeman of some sort. If I were caught here, it didn't much matter whether he was specifically looking for me or not. At best I'd be arrested for trespassing. It would be only a matter of time until my identity was discovered.

I took one step away from the light and froze. Another light moved toward me from the other direction. The first light was close enough now that the man would surely see me if I made a break toward the river. I'd have to go through the station.

I glanced around the side of the boxcar toward the platform again. A Detroit policeman stood on the edge staring directly at me. I froze, my heart hammering in my ears. He seemed to hold my gaze for a few seconds before his eyes swept away, down the train of cars. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was hidden by the darkness. He hadn't seen me, but he had me hemmed in. I slipped under the car and hid behind a wheel.

The first light stopped two tracks over, almost directly behind my position. The metal bottom of the lantern clanked against wood, and I heard a grunt of exertion followed a few seconds later by the striking of a match. Inwardly I cursed the Detroit Police. Leave it to one of those lazy bastards to take a break in a boxcar at the worst possible time and place.

The other light moved away from me down the tracks but soon turned again and headed toward me, up the last set of cars. The light got brighter. I gauged my position by the light, staying in the shadow of the wheel. The sounds got louder, the intermittent ringing, the boots like teeth chomping on gravel.

A voice bawled out, “Mueller!”

“Yes, Sergeant?” the man near me replied in a clipped German accent.

“Seen him?”

Mueller let out a quiet sigh and, under his breath, said,
“Dummkopf.”
He raised his voice and said, “No. I have not seen anyone.”

I didn't have to wonder any longer if this was a routine patrol.

“Carry on,” the sergeant called.

“Jawoll,”
Mueller muttered. I almost felt sorry for him. He stopped just in front of the wheel behind which I was hiding, thrust a thin metal rod under the car, and whipped it back and forth. The rod whistled past my face, just missing me, and clanged off the metal pieces on the underside of the car like he was ringing a gong.

He walked past me and repeated the action, then moved to the next car. Once he finished with that, I began crawling under the train in the other direction, moving slowly in the darkness. When I'd gotten a few cars between us, I pushed myself to my feet, peering behind me at Mueller slowly moving away. Near as I could tell, the sergeant was still sitting two rows back, smoking. I took a cautious step, heel to toe, trying to muffle the sound of the rocks, and another, and another.

Three cars ahead of me a bright light flared. “Here!” a voice shouted. “Here he is!” It was the policeman from the platform. He blew his whistle and began running toward me, gun in hand. “Freeze, Anderson!”

I ducked under the train and rolled to the platform side of the last set of cars, visible in the station lights, and ran for the edge of the platform amid shrieking whistles. Another policeman ran from inside the station onto the platform. I veered off and ran west along the tracks with at least two of them on my tail. As soon as I was in the darkness again, I turned south, heading for the river. In the dark, I tripped but scrambled to my feet and ran with all I had, vaulting a track and another before the ground gave way under me and I flew, arms flailing, into the water.

I shrugged off my coat and swam with the current, putting distance between them and me as quickly as I could. Shouts and whistles rang out behind me. When I'd gotten a few hundred yards downstream, I changed direction, pulling across the current for the other side of the river and Canada, almost a half mile away.

After five minutes or so, my left calf began cramping. I stopped and treaded water as best I could while massaging the muscle, and looked across the river again. I was downstream now from Windsor, but the shoreline looked as far away as it had before.