Returning Fire

by Frans Harmon

  Mace stepped to the empty chairs. He glanced at Dorian and then faced Cassandra. “My apologies Lieutenant Governor, I did what I felt I had to, and kept my name out of the press.”

  “Sit, let’s hear it,” Cassandra said.

  Dorian tracked Mace with a studying stare as he settled into his seat. “Helyn, Shing, you start.”

  Helyn explained the DNA difficulty identifying the bodies and the finding of the chip. Shing detailed the procedure for determining the age of the bodies. In closing, Shing surprised Mace. “If Mace hadn’t argued the inconsistency of the cadaver’s height measurement versus the DMV data, we would have never looked at the age of the bodies. I guess he has learned a thing or two since his FBI days.”

  Mace nodded in appreciation.

  Gavin covered the interview with Sean McCrary and discovering the phone activity. “We are continuing to ping her phone, but we haven’t got a hit in the forty-eight hours since the first report by her husband.”

  “From the chip Helyn found, Detroit PD—"

  “What the hell, Mace,” Emmitt said, “why wasn’t that sent to the bureau? You breaking protocol again?”

  Dorian shifted in his chair and glanced at Cassandra. Her eyes narrow with a knitted brow communicating. “Calm down,” Dorian said, “you’ll get your chance. I’m sure Mr. Franklyn can explain his actions.”

  Mr. Franklyn, is it? Dorian’s not happy either. “Sergeant Behrenhardt was first on the scene and active in this investigation. Turns out, the chip was registered to a former Detroit resident, Mrs. Emily Dupree. Working with Sergeant Peter Mock of the cold case division, we were able to identify a Mrs. Betty Warren as the body recovered at the scene for Coria Brien, and Gloria French as the actual body instead of Trina Burkett’s.”

  “Tentatively identified,” Emmitt interjected.

  “How did you make the identification for Brien and Burkett?” Cassandra asked.

  Helyn explained the hip replacement for Mrs. Warren and a broken arm for Mrs. French.

  Mace leaned forward in his chair. “Peter Mock used that information along with the approximate time of death and age of the victims to narrow our search. So again, I kept my fingerprints off it.”

  Emmitt smirked and shook his head. “You telling me you got down to one possible with just that criteria?”

  Gavin glared at Emmitt. “No, we were able to confirm a GPS track Mace received from the family of Mrs. Dupree. Home Care maintained a log of her activity. The last data point located her body at the Salpmore Funeral Home and Crematorium.”

  “Using Salpmore,” Mace said, “Mo was able to ID the bodies. It appears Dadua Salpmore was providing the bodies, all of whom likely died of natural causes. There were no Vulcan murders in this investigation, these women are alive, and we need to focus resources on finding them.”

  “Fine, you do that,” Emmitt said, “the perp isn’t accelerating, we’ll keep working his profile, we have, what, a hundred and fifty days given his current timeline.”

  Mace twisted in his chair. Hands, hands, sitting on our hands. He faced Emmitt. “No, not true. All three abductions occurred on blue moons, that’s true, about a hundred and seventy-six days apart. But in just seven days, we’ll have an event of significance on a lunar calendar, the feast of sacrifice that is when he will strike again, and this time it will be his end game.”

  Emmitt chuckled, “Yeah, and what’s your proof.”

  “Just my gut for now. But what difference does that make? Coria Brien has been held for over a year, Trina, for over six months, and Sharlene for two weeks. Isn’t that enough urgency. Every hour we waste is one that could be their last.”

  “Okay, Brainiac,” Emmitt said, “where do you propose we start looking? Detroit? Or maybe a house by house for all of Michigan?”

  “Salpmore,” Gavin said, looking at his phone. “seems central, and we just got a hit on a cell tower near there.” He showed his phone, displaying a contact alert to the room.

  Cassandra folded her arms and pushed back in her chair “Seems solid to me. Does the FBI have anything factual to add?”

  Emmitt shook his head.

  “Good,” Gavin said, “I have Circuit Court Judge Barnet queued to issue a search warrant. One call and we can be good to go in thirty minutes.”

  ‘Lieutenant Governor?” Dorian asked.

  Cassandra nodded.

  “Okay, get the warrant,” Dorian said, “but we’re not going off halfcocked.” Dorian checked his watch. “We go in six hours, zero two hundred tomorrow. Gavin, you coordinate with SWAT. Helyn, I want you there also, no telling what we will find, and I want to avoid delay. What is the closest precinct, Mace?”

  “Fourth,” Mace answered.

  “Good, we will assemble there. Invite Detroit PD, your Sergeant Behrenhardt, to participate.”

  “Thanks, everyone,” Cassandra said, standing. “No one releases anything to the press, I’ll handle that myself.”

  “Not a peep to anyone outside this room.” Dorian said, “All conversations are on a strict need-to-know.”

  They all walked out. Crossing the sky bridge Mace was feeling good, and thinking, inviting DPD to participate was the leverage he needed to get Anstice talking about what was really going on.

  Passing over west parking, he saw Emmitt entering his SUV with his phone plastered to his ear. Maybe after tomorrow morning, I won’t have to deal with him any longer.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Anstice savored the quiet and calm of her sanctuary, her two-bedroom apartment in the Atrium. Once Dearborn’s premier enclosed mall, it now was an attractive apartment building, complete with interior green space. She stood on her apartment balcony, drink in hand, absorbing the soothing sounds. Above the garden promenade, a staccato of rain beat on the glass roof, offset by the rhythmic splashing of a fountain below. She had violated her own sanctity, brought the tape home, and looked at it again. Why?

  In her working white blouse and gray slacks, she kicked off her flats, sipped her drink, and rolled the ample glass of iced scotch over her forehead. Calming her angst.

  It didn’t last.

  The buzzing of her phone reminded her a detective’s life is not her own. She took another sip before checking her phone. It was the Atrium’s security APP. She had a visitor.

  She opened the APP, which displayed front door video. “Mace, what are you doing here?”

  “Social call,” Mace said, nodding a broad grin.

  Certain Trayn was going to embroil her in another kickback scheme, and nothing short of indictment for Mace would get Emmitt to help her. Anstice felt it was hopeless and desperate. Was sacrificing her relationship with Mace the price she would have to pay to survive her career? Could she do that? Her insides felt a kick of panic. If Mace said anything, she couldn’t unhear it. Sooner or later, Emmitt would know.

  “Not tonight, Mace, I’ve had a horrible day. It started with you and hasn’t got any better.”

  Mace held a bottle high. “I know, that’s why I brought something to share. McGregor Reserve.”

  The darkened shoulders of his wet coat, water dripping from fingers of unruly black hair that fell down his forehead, and a scruffy beard spoke a disarming unruliness. She was afraid but longed for his company. “That a bribe? I told you this morning I can’t help you.”

  “Come on, Bear. One drink, we’ll catch up, and I’ll go.”

  Anstice’s heart ached. “No shop talk. Unit three ten,” she said, as she buzzed him into the building.

  A few minutes later, he was at her open door. She smiled and stepped aside. “You ever hear of an umbrella?

  “Isn’t that something you keep in your car?”

  She had few visitors but was proud of her apartment. Contemporary furnishings, low back mauve sofa and chairs, simple end and coffee tables inlaid with complementary colored tiles.

  “Nice place,” Mace said, handing her the bottle. “You moving in or moving out?”

  “Excuse me?”
/>   “No pictures. Usually means one or the other.”

  “Haven’t decided.”

  They moved to a gray marble breakfast bar that framed one side of the kitchen. Mace braced himself on the edge of a stool as Anstice broke the seal on the scotch. “Truth is,” he said, “I didn’t want to leave us the way we parted this morning.”

  A stab of regret surged in her. She cleared her throat. “No, I… it was just business. I didn’t mean for us…anyway.” Anstice poured their drinks, straight up, and handed a glass to Mace. She forced a smile. “To a new beginning.”

  Mace raised his glass and took a sip. “I know about Robers.”

  “What?”

  She stood with one arm crossing her chest and propping the other with her drink. Mace told her about his conversation with Mo.

  What should I say or leave it there? She decided being open could help her situation. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but— “

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “No, I… it’s hanging over me, I… want to. It’s about my time in Dearborn. I was in investigative operations, robbery, theft, minor crimes mostly, same as the Eighth’s C-Ops. I was new to the job, idealistic, everything was black or white to me, within the law or breaking it. I worked robbery for about two years. Then, I uncovered a pay-for-play ring. High-value robberies never solved for a cut of the insurance money.”

  “Did you take it to the brass?”

  “I was about to when deputy chief of ops called me into his office.”

  “Let me guess, Trayn Robers.”

  Anstice nodded. “He laid out a trail of evidence, circumstantial, but intimating, I was a person of interest. Said he didn’t seriously believe I was involved, but also that it would be best if I didn’t say any more about it. They called it a reduction in force, but it was leave-quietly-or- pay the price.”

  “Sounds familiar. What did you then? You obviously didn’t give up.

  “Took the opportunity to get a master's in criminal law from Wayne. My uncle O'Reilly was alderman when I graduated, he got me into Detroit PD. The rest I did on my own.”

  Mace raised his glass in a toast. “Well played.”

  Anstice smiled and topped off their glasses. “Let’s move to the sofa, it’s practically virgin.”

  “So, as long as we are doing confessions,” Anstice said, “we are doing that, right?”

  Mace raised his glass. “Go for it.”

  What he says cannot be unheard. A tremor rolled through her. She leaned into the back of her sofa to mask the effect. “You told me, that night on the Eddystone, you chased Jirair Houssain to the edge of the roof, and you don’t remember much beyond that. That right?”

  Mace nodded.

  “But what do you believe happened?”

  Mace held his drink in his lap. He studied Anstice’s face.

  She sipped her drink; her insides were twisting and knotting. Her every fiber strained to remain placed. She waited.

  “I saw his body in the alley, thirteen stories below. He got there somehow, and I was the only one on the roof.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself to quell a tremor. “Okay, but when I saw you a week ago standing on the edge of the roof, your arms raised over your head. Do you believe you did it, that you threw him off the roof?”

  Mace had not moved. His eyes locked onto hers, she could feel his searching. “I do, but I know he was a serial killer, had taken at least three lives. I don’t regret it.”

  Her mind screamed, what are you doing? Anstice stood, she pulled a hand through her hair. “Mace, you have to go. I can’t do this.”

  “Do what? I know Robers has the IA files and blackmailing you. You can’t let him do that.”

  Anstice screamed. “You must go.”

  “I’m not. Not until you tell me what is going on.”

  Anstice could feel it, even before he learned the truth, she was falling in love with him, and she had already lost him. Her eyes filled with tears, so fast and thick she could hardly see. She reached into her skirt pocket, pulled out her phone, and dropped it onto the coffee table. “Listen to it.”

  “You were recording me?”

  * * * *

  Mace grasped her desperation. She needed him, and he wanted her. He moved closer and took her hand.

  Anstice wiped underneath her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mace. I made a mistake, but I didn’t know what to do.” A hand over her mouth, she struggled to suppress her sobs.

  “Anstice, start from the beginning, tell me what happened.”

  Anstice told Mace about Trayn, how he had forged her transfer request, and that he did have the Dearborn IA files and had threatened her. Then about her mistake going to Emmitt.

  “Why would you go to him for help?” Mace asked.

  “Remember, I was married once, high school.”

  “That was Emmitt?”

  Anstice nodded. “Yes, he knew about Trayn three years ago. I guess Emmitt still had feelings for me back then. He became incensed, got them to suppress everything. I thought he would help me again.”

  “Why not this time?”

  “Revenge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He believes he has evidence you murdered Jirair.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “That’s not you, and I…” Her hand went to her lips, her eyes pools of regret, she stifled a sob, and ran into her bedroom. Mace followed and found her sprawled face down across the foot of her bed. He gently rolled her over.

  She wiped her eyes, locking onto his. “I’m trapped. Oh, Mace, I feel so awful,” she said, choking back another sob. “What kind of person is willing to sell out someone they love to save their skin? You should go.”

  Mace pushed her down onto the bed. “But that is not you. You weren’t going to Emmitt, you were going to risk your career. You gave that up, that’s what I see this morning was about.”

  Mace combed back hair from her face and kissed her. “Say it again.”

  Anstice’s eyes squeezed narrower in a look of confusion. “That I am a bad person?”

  Mace laughed and rolled onto his back “No, that you love me.” Anstice stifled a sob and climbed on top of him. She hugged tight, kissing his cheeks and then locking onto his mouth. She arched away and drank in his face. “I’ve made such a mess, what am I going to do?”

  “Work with me. You’re Fourth homicide till Saturday, right?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “We’ve identified the other two bodies. MBI SWAT, Emmitt’s boys, are raiding Salpmore’s, and Dorian wants DPD, specifically you to be a part of it.”

  Mace began unbuttoning Anstice’s blouse.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking tactical advantage. We are forming up at your precinct at 5:00 AM.”

  Mace shifted her arms out of her blouse and slid her bra up off her breasts. He kissed each nipple. She moaned. “Mace don’t… please…oh, don’t stop what you are doing.”

  Mace unhooked and removed her bra. Rolling her over, he straddled her and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Oh… wait, my mind, I can’t do this. What about Emmitt, about Trayn?”

  “Play the recording for Emmitt. Give him what he wants.”

  “What, Mace, that’s crazy.”

  Mace shed his pants and hers as well, then underwear. “No, this is, and it’s going to get a lot crazier.”

  He laid on top of her, his mouth covering hers, her arms wrapping behind him, a hand running through his hair, pulling him closer. He broke away and kissed her eyes. “We’ll handle Trayn as well, but right now, I think I need to work off some Irish girl tension.”

  He kissed her along her neck, and Anstice giggled.

  * * * *

  Anstice lay with a hand propping her head, admiring Mace’s muscular back. Not how I thought this day would end. A dream, a beautiful dream, only if it were true. She slid out from under the sheets and put on a terry
-cloth rob from her closet and slipped out of the room.

  She flopped down onto her sofa, in the grips of a warm, soothing glow. She knew that wouldn’t last much longer, either. She leaned forward and picked up her phone from the coffee table. She listened for sounds of Mace stirring. Hearing only the soft purr of a sleeping man, she punched in the number. It was a call she had to make.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The growth in his head screaming for his thoughts. Sar seated at a small white metal chair challenged its delicate structure. Folding his meaty hands on the matching patio table, he observed the shadows in the courtyard growing longer, the chill deeper, and his approaching reckoning with Allah. He took a final sip of his kahwa, the sweetness yielding to an intruding bitterness of coffee grounds. It is cast, the mold destroyed, as Ulama had said. Now he was waiting.

  More than a year ago, the doctors found the growth in his head. He had returned here and asked his forever silent Ulama what he should do. Lying in his bed, Ulama in his chair next to him, he realized Ulama was speaking to him from beyond this life. Ulama told him what he must do to atone for his sins and behold the face of Allah.

  A shrill voice. Sar tilted his head toward the double doors. From some distant spot in the complex, the squeaking sound of Dadua called his name. An annoyance, Sar thought, a mouse of a man, easily manipulated, and of diminishing utility. He lived because of his usefulness but believed his arrogant image was his strength. As Ulama had predicted, soon he would be of no use at all.

  A red door shot open. “Sar.”

  The fleshy figure of Dadua stumbled to the center of the courtyard. He mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief, he spun towards Sar. His breath came in huge pants. Dadua had his sleeves loosely rolled up, his short arms seeming more so protruding from a black vest above baggy black trousers. “Sar, you must leave now. They’re coming.”

  A smile, small, thin, and beguiling as a fox’s spread across Sar’s face. Ulama instructed me to prepare. “I know.”

  “You know? Then why are you here?”