by Frans Harmon
“Oh, golly, the promotional payment, yes. I’m so excited.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure they explained all the terms and conditions, but if you could sign here, then it’s yours.”
“What now? I thought—”
“After the show, yes. But well you see, your Mustang is the last on my truck, and I have eight others to deliver in Petoskey.”
“A long drive.”
He stroked his beard, and his face seemed to tuck into his shoulders. “Yes, could we, I mean, possibly do it now?”
“I’m on in less than twenty minutes, Mr. Bigelow.”
“Yes, of course, that’s a big ask, I understand, but if you could sign now, I’ll wait. Not a big problem.”
Sharlene smiled and signed the invoice. “Give a copy to Mick and thanks.”
“Okay, and by the way, it is the same color as your dress, a midnight blue.”
Sharlene turned away and rolled her eyes as Bigelow walked toward Mick, still busy with cabling at the equipment pile.
The first all-electric Mustang, they were going to deliver it days from now, but now, ooh and a photo op after the show, well, maybe.
“Mr. Bigelow.”
* * *
Mace and Helyn moved from the ornate waiting room to an equally-sized but the more functional architecture of the concourse. The room had a reconstituted black and white marble floor and rooms and walls showing signs of renovation progress. The white tented stage, a precaution against the somewhat-suspect ceiling, occupied a large corridor that once led to elevated rail platforms. The roof over the concourse, once a crystal wonder of glass and steel, was now a rusting skeleton picked clean by the vultures of time and weather.
A carpeted platform in front of the stage had VIP seating for a hundred, and a cluster of them, dark-suited and in animated conversation, gathered in a narrow aisle between two sections. A tall silver-haired woman in a white hooded coat, seemingly ready for a sleigh ride, stood out and gestured to Mace to join them.
Mace waved back. “Cassandra’s over there,” he said to Helyn.
“Always nice to see the Lieutenant Governor,” Helyn said.
Mace hesitated in front of the platform. “Brings back memories.”
“Not pleasant ones. You go.”
“Meiler is still big in Michigan politics, and she is my boss, sort of.”
Helyn looped her arm around Mace’s. “How nice. Over it is.”
Cassandra stretched her arms for a Hollywood embrace. “The Franklyns, how nice to see you both. What brings you here to Ford’s big splash?”
Mace returned the gesture. “Sharlene gave us backstage passes.”
“For behind the drapery.”
“Helyn has a thing about that,” Mace said, “but Sharlene and I went to high school together.”
“Saint Claire?” Cassandra asked.
“Chandler,” Mace replied.
“Yes, of course. Well, you would have been a few years before me in any case,” Cassandra said.
“A few,” Helyn said, casting her eyes to the side.
“Well, this is going to be great for Michigan, and a boost for Detroit.”
“You’re speaking, I take it,” Helyn said.
“There are cameras, so of course, dear. But I wonder if we could chat a bit, Helyn. You are testifying before the State House Ways and Means, next week aren’t you.”
Helyn nodded.
A short black-haired woman touched Mace’s shoulder. “Mr. Franklyn, I’m sorry to interrupt lieutenant governor, I’m Lesley, Sharlene’s personal assistant, could we talk?”
“Politics is not my thing, so Cassandra, if you could excuse me.”
The women locked eyes and began a focused conversation.
Mace and Lesley stepped a few feet away. Lesley started explaining with searching for Sharlene’s choker. Mace half-listened and noticed a dark blue Mustang drifting through the east entrance to the building. While Lesley continued to talk, it struck Mace as odd. There were no other vehicles on the concourse.
A split second later, he forgot about the car.
“Mr. Franklyn, Sharlene is missing.”
Chapter Three
With Mascara streaks trailing from her eyes, Lesley looked more clown than a personal assistant, but Mace felt her anxiety. He nudged her in the direction of the stage. “What do you mean, Sharlene is missing?”
“Oh, God, she’s on in five minutes, I’m going to get fired.”
“Lesley, pull it together. When is the last time you saw her?”
“Ten minutes ago. She needed her choker. I didn’t know where it was…”
They mounted steps behind the stage. “Lesley, ten minutes, really?”
“You don’t understand; she is always on the stage a half-hour before. She never leaves.”
“Do you know why she did this time?”
“The Ford guy wanted to see her.”
“Ford guy?”
Lesley wiped tears with one hand, holding the pearl choker in the other. “I went to the trailer; I didn’t know where it was, but …”
“Lesley, what guy?”
“I had to find it. She never goes on without her choker.”
Mace took hold of Lesley’s shoulders. “Stop, just stop. Take a breath, Lesley. Now point out the Ford person to me.”
Lesley sniffed and gazed around the room; her mouth opened, but she just shook her head.
“Did he have on a blue jacket?”
She nodded, confirming that he did. Mace saw Mick sitting on a pile of cables, his legs spread, and taking a long draw on something that its aroma said was not a cigarette. “Did you see which way Sharlene went?”
Mick jerked his head in the direction of stairs on the opposite end of the stage. “Parking, below.”
Was this a case of new-toy-can’t-wait-to-see-it, or something more concerning. Mace’s gut said something was off. Mace jumped down the stairs taking two at a time.
A narrow corridor led to stairs for underground parking, but a chained gate blocked the stairwell after the first landing. Mace’s jaw tensed. He turned to retrace his steps but saw shoes protruding from under boxes stacked under the first flight of stairs.
Knocking the boxes aside, Mace found a balding man in a bloodied white shirt, a Ford nametag identified him as Roger Bigelow. Mace propped him against a carton and tapped his face.
“Mr. Bigelow, can you hear me? Are you alright?”
His eyes fluttered open; his free hand rose to the side of his head, clamping over a gash. A slight nod convinced Mace he was, and then blood oozing from his belt line convinced him otherwise.
Mace clamped his hand over the wound. “What happened?”
“I was…” He took in a deep breath. “I was coming from the carriage entrance, heard steps behind me, thought it was my partner. I turned…” Roger looked down at his side. “I think I’ve been stabbed.”
“Yes, you have, and you are bleeding badly. We need to get you help.”
Bigelow gave a slight nod and licked his dry lips.
Mace pulled his phone and dialed 911. “Do you remember anything? Any details?”
“Shaggy,” Bigelow said, and his eyes rolled back into his head.
“911, what is your…?”
“This is Mace Franklyn; I have a stabbing victim, a Ford employee at the MCS event in… hello?”
“Ple.. repeat.”
“He’s lost a lot of blood, MCS parking garage, east stairwell.” The static whispering back told Mace he wasn’t getting through. He moved his hand, and the bleeding increased. He clamped back down.
Mace set down the phone and tapped out a message to Helyn, giving her his location.
Car, there were at least ten on display in the general waiting area. Was the Mustang a ploy to get Sharlene? Or was there more?
Mace kept pressure on Bigelow’s wounds. It seemed an eternity, but his watch said it had been only five minutes when he heard the clicking of high heels. “Helyn, over here.”
Helyn and Cassandra rounded the bottom of the stairs, followed by two beefy men in black suits and comm gear, Cassandra’s security team. “Helyn, take over here. You two, get some EMTs here. He’s been stabbed.”
Helyn pulled off her scarf and pressed it against Bigelow’s wound.
“EMTs are on the way, ma’am.” One of the security men said.
Mace stood. “Cassandra, I think you should evacuate.”
With that, her security spun Cassandra around, heading back up the stairs. Cassandra protested. “What, why?”
“Sharlene is missing, and it has something to do with a car,” Mace said.
Her security prodding her forward, she twisted around to Mace. “A bomb?”
Mace brushed past Casandra. “Possible, I might be paranoid, but better that than blown away.”
“Notify DPD, Bob. We need to evacuate everyone, not just me.”
“Yes, ma’am, and let’s get you to your car.”
Mace found a roll of paper towels at the back of the stage, ripped off some sheets, and wiped his hands. He scanned the scene around him. The VIP section in front of the stage was nearly full, and a small group of Ford officials gathered in front of the microphone chatting and smiling about their big day. A Ford security officer with stars on his collar interrupted the official’s conversation. Their faces whitened to stone; the officer approached the standing microphone. “Everyone, please your attention. Attention, please. I’m sorry, things like this happen, but we have received a bomb threat. It’s probably nothing, so please remain calm but do evacuate to the front of the building. We will try to clear things and get back to our celebration as quickly as possible. Please go, please go now.”
Everyone in the VIP section stood and began moving toward the doors. Mace looked towards the carriage entrance and saw visitors still browsing the exhibits. Due to the acoustics, they likely did not hear the announcement.
Security guards spread out intercepting visitors and pointing them towards the central front entrance. Mace remembered the dark blue Mustang at the carriage entrance end of the concourse. A small family group, kids with balloons and mom pushing a stroller, were headed that way. Mace leaped from the stage and ran towards them. The family group stopped and changed course, diverting to an ice cream cart several car lengths away. That is not far enough.
Mace caught up to the family. “I’m sorry to interrupt your visit, especially the ice cream part,” he said, smiling at a balloon totting little girl, “but some crank called in a bomb scare. You need to evacuate, just as a precaution.”
“But I want my ice cream,” the girl said.
“Yes, well, this nice ice cream man is going to take his cart outside with you so you can have all the ice cream mom and dad will let you have out there.”
The girl smiled and turned with her parents, who strolled towards the exit.
Mace turned his attention to the blue Mustang. Except for the windshield, its heavily tinted side windows obscured everything. Mace was on the passenger side. He walked within a car length, and through the front, he could see someone was lying across the seat. He took a few steps closer. A tall thin man sporting a leather biker jacket and a Van Dyke goatee approached the driver's side.
“Hey, don’t go near that car,” Mace shouted.
Flashing his middle finger, he reached for the door handle. Too late, Mace saw the wire. He spun and dove for the floor.
The room blazed to white. A deafening steam-behemoth’s roar slammed his head. Dust and debris roiled with the force of raging rapids, tossing him as if a log across the floor. The blast slammed Mace, face down, into the wall, and pelted his back with fragments of glass and metal. When it stopped, he could only hear the shrill ringing in his sensory saturated ears.
Mace rolled over. Forcing himself up from the floor, the effort akin to peeling sagging January sap from a tree, he tried to focus. His eyes adjusting to a surreal haze, a soundless geyser of flame shooting from the car towards the high trusses of the concourse. Glass, metal, and exhausted plaster ripped from the walls by the blast, littered the floor. The charred body of the thin man sat blackened against the opposite wall like a macabre beggar. There was no sign of the family.
Mace stumbled towards the mangled metal that was the Mustang. The shrill ringing faded, replaced by screams of the injured and deep thrumming hiss of the flaming geyser. Eyes regaining their focus, Mace saw legs protruding, and raced towards the inflamed vehicle. He took hold of the shoeless feet just as a surge of flame slapped at him, tossing his battered body back across the room and into the wall. His head throbbing, his legs sprawled in front of him, Mace starred at his hands. His final thought as his body shut down yielding to trauma: What’s wrong with my hands?
Chapter Four
They stumbled out, men, women, and children, engulfed in billows of black smoke. Choking and clinging to each other, they collapsed on the sod in front of the towering Michigan Central Station. Screaming emergency vehicles swarmed from every road leading to the station. An avalanche of men and equipment bounded from them as they jammed the access roads in front. In their midst, a black SUV, red and blue lights pulsing from behind a black gaping grill lurched to a halt.
Three dark-suited detectives with silver medallions slung from their necks, and Sergeant Anstice Behrenhardt jumped out of the vehicle. Brushing her auburn hair off her face, she barked orders into her communicator. “Secure the perimeter and hold everyone. Give EMTs access, but no one leaves.”
“Secure the site of the explosion,” she yelled at the men as they charged into the building. Ribbons of white fire hose shot out from two pumpers as the fireman raced inside. Anstice looked around for the white-helmeted battalion chief. Recognizing him, he stood between a specialized pumper, hook and ladder combination known as a quint, and initial attack truck shouting into his communicator.
Anstice sprinted over. “Charlie, preserve the crime scene, minimize the water.”
“And you sweet talk your perps into giving up their guns.”
“Charlie.”
He waved her off, just as numerous voices squawked at him from his radio. “You’ve got two bodies in there. Fires out.”
Anstice nodded. It wasn’t what she was hoping, but hard to avoid with fires, all the trace evidence down the drains with the water. She picked up her pace and jogged into the building.
The front main waiting area with its high vaulted ceiling was accumulating the smoke, and firefighters were already setting up massive fans to clear the building. She passed through the cavernous former waiting room, through the central train lobby, and into the concourse. She followed the hoses to the left and east side of the building. A blackened mass of melted plastic and twisted steel occupied the center of the east end, a yellow tarp over what was once the front seat told her she had a body. Another tarp draped on the north wall raised the tally, and EMTs were attending to someone on the south. She started there. “He still with us?” she asked of the attending EMT.
“Lucky. Caught a concussion, but his heavy jacket saved him from the flames.”
He had thick dark brown hair that dangled over his brow and a close-cropped beard that outlined a sharply defined jaw. Anstice squatted down in front of him. “Sir, can you hear me?”
Eyes closed. Mace gave a tenuous nod.
“What’s your name, can you tell me that?
“Mace… uh, Franklyn.”
“Good. Can you tell me anything about what happened here?”
He opened his brown eyes and pushed forward from the wall. He fumbled with his back pocket.
“You want to show me something? Here let me help.” Anstice pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. She saw his Michigan Bureau of Investigation ID.
“Oh, MBI. Your guys will be trampling all over my crime scene in five minutes. So, before they do, what happened here? Why were you near this car?”
“Sharlene McCrary.”
“The singer?”
Mace nodded. “St
aff said she was missing. She texted me, thought she was in the car.”
“So, the body inside is McCrary?”
Mace shook his head. “Not sure.”
“She texted you over, but you're not sure? Okay, did you know the other victim, on the other side of the hall, here?”
“No, triggered the explosion, though. Tripwire.”
The emergency medical technician returned, handing Mace a bottle of water, and with another EMT placed a flattened transport bed next to him. “We have to get him to Chandler Trauma and checked out.”
They slid Mace onto the bed and expanded it up onto its wheels. “Do you still have your phone?” Anstice asked.
Mace felt the front of his jacket and retrieved his phone. “Thanks, we’ll see who sent that text message.”
“Mace, Mace, are you, all right?”
Mace nodded.
“Are you related? One EMT asked.
“I’m his wife… uh, ex actually.”
“We’re taking him to DMC Chandler if you want to ride along.”
“No, I can’t, Mace… the bodies.” Helyn turned towards the medical technician, “I’m the state medical examiner, the lieutenant governor was here, and these bodies and any forensics are high priority.” Facing Anstice, she added, “Could you see to his car and get him back to Ypsilanti, uh, detective—”
“Sergeant, Anstice Behrenhardt, and yes, I will.”
“Let’s go, Mr. Franklyn, we can’t hold your bus forever.”
Mace tossed Anstice his car keys from his jacket pocket, and the EMTs moved Mace toward the line of emergency vehicles at the east carriage entrance. Anstice followed their movement until she caught sight of a tall scowling man, stridently approaching her from the center of the building, the site of the old train lobby. His head covered in a fuzz of gray, bent and thrusting ahead, gave the aurora of a prizefighter entering the ring. She pocketed Mace’s phone. Here comes heartburn.
He held his ID in an outstretched hand as he approached. “Detective Sergeant Gavin McIlrath, Michigan Bureau of Investigation.”
“Sergeant Behrenhardt, Anstice Behrenhardt, DPD Major Crimes. Nice to meet you, McIlrath, but I don’t recall requesting your assistance.”
