by Frans Harmon
Anstice sat in a straight-back chair in front of his desk. “No, two legit and Dadua Salpmore. FSD found half-eaten food. Mace was right, but we were too late.”
“Mace, Mace, the boy scout, screwed up again.”
“Seems to me, they were tipped, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Emmitt smirked and pushed back in his chair. “You know Ants, for someone needing help, you’ve got a mouth. Of course, I had nothing to do with it. Anyone who says different is a liar.”
Interesting, she thought. “Okay, forget it,” she said and tossed a thumb drive onto his desk. “MP3 file should give you all you need to tarnish that boy scout image.”
Emmitt didn’t move. She could feel his eyes analyzing every twitch. She fought to keep a placid face and her breathing regular. He picked up the thumb drive, and his face bunched into a skeptical grin, inserted into his laptop on his desk.
He listened to the recording. “What’d you do to get him to talk, sleep with him?”
His words dripped with contempt, squeezing her gut. She bit her lip to quell her venom. “What makes you think that is the limit of my persuasive powers?”
Emmitt snorted. “Well, it's not good enough. I need to hear him say the words that he killed Jirair. Then I’ll handle Trayn for you, and only then.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
Emmitt tossed his hands into the air. “Maybe you should try sleeping with him.”
Anstice glared, rose from her chair, and then carefully pushed it toward his desk. She smiled for the eyes beyond the glass. “Fuck you, Emmitt.”
She went to his office door and opened it, and then faced him. “You know I never realized before I met Mace, Emmitt, how small you were. Where it counts.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mace backed his purple KIA mini-van rental into his designated spot under building one in the Lansing Government Complex. He leaned back into the stiff bench seat and groaned. Three vehicle explosions in two weeks were taking their toll on his body. A white pickup truck with green trim and flashing green lights with ‘Security’ written along the sides pulled in front of his car.
“Sir, you’ll have to move your car,” came a raspy announcement from the truck, “that is reserved parking.”
Mace reached inside his jacket and held up his retrieved MBI identification. The driver of the security patrol waved and then exited his vehicle carrying a coffee. Mace opened his door and recognized George, a short silver-haired man of slight build.
“Mr. Franklyn, sorry, didn’t recognize you. My, where d’ya get this old bus? Haven’t seen one like it since Iacocca ran Chrysler.”
“Rent-A-Junker in Ypsi. They were the closest and the cheapest.”
George set his coffee on the car’s hood. “Here, let me fix you with a temporary permit. Don’t want you to get towed.” He pulled a pad from his back pocket and began writing.
Mace exited as George tore off a sheet from his pad and handed it to Mace. He tossed the permit onto the dashboard and flipped his car door closed. George’s coffee began to slide off the car. George grabbed for it, but only managed to propel it upwards and towards himself. The contents emptied onto his shirt. “Ahh,” George yelled.
“Sorry, George, how did that happen?”
“No worries, Mr. Franklyn,” he said, absently brushing off the front of his shirt, “happens a lot. I have a bundle of clean shirts in the truck.
Mace nodded, stifling a spreading grin. “Catch you later, George, got to get over to FSD.”
* * * *
Brok was organizing his crime scene bag when Mace entered his lab office. “Hey, Brok, you just back from the scene?”
Brok Blivens nodded. “Yeah, I worked it with Shing Mac, mostly the van, though.”
“I didn’t see you. Umm, find anything usable?”
“Same phone detonator was used at the Van and MCS Mustang.”
“Alright, another piece tying the perp to Sharlene’s disappearance.”
Brok walked over to a cardboard box in the corner of his office and lifted out an evidence bag containing a cigarette sized scorched box with dangling black wires. “Found this in your car.”
“What is it?”
“What you suspected shouldn’t be there, it was a signal booster tied into your BMW’s ARTTI system. I found identical hardware in the Brien’s Audi and Burkett’s BMW.”
“Solves how he approached his victims. But their vehicles weren’t crashed. So, I’m guessing he disables the cars, perhaps…”
Brok slumped against his desk. “What, what are you thinking, Mace?”
There was a tow truck dogging me in Ypsilanti just before the accident. That’s how he does it. Disables the cars, service truck pulls up behind them. Women are in a rush to get to the airport. Trusting and anxious to get going, they literally jump into his truck.”
“Also means they weren’t selected at random.”
“Okay, why are you thinking that Brok?”
“Takes about twenty minutes to hook that box into the ARTTI system.”
“Right, so stalked them learned their schedule. Then it was easy to pick his time to install the device.”
Mace laughed and then high fived Brok. “I think I can put a name to our perp, Brok. If he hadn’t been so fixated on killing me, I might not have figured it out.”
“Begs another question, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm, you’re right Brok, why?” But let’s see if we can tie the knot. You have access to all the service truck operators, the wreckers, don’t you?”
“Yeah, you have a name you like?” Brok said and sat at his desk, tapping some keys bringing his computer to life.
“I do, Brok. Sar Salpmore.”
Brok typed again, querying a service vehicle database. “How does Sarkis Salpmore sound?”
“Pass that and the vehicle ID and license number to Gavin for me, will you, Brok? I have a date with a blond, and I’m already late.”
“Sure thing, Mace. Good luck with Helyn,” Brok said, but Mace was already out the door.
* * * *
Mace sprinted from Brok’s building-three-annex to the main building and Helyn’s office in the burn-lab. He pressed the visitor button and smiled into the security camera. It was Sar all along, not Jirair. What is the relationship? With Anstice's help, Emmitt doesn’t have a case, and my instincts were right all along.
The door clicked. Helyn in fresh makeup and a light mauve raincoat stood in the open door. “I have to go, Mace,” She said, shaking her head.
Mace stood silent, but with a beggar’s grin on his face.
“Can’t this wait?” She asked, searching his unchanging face. She sighed. “Of course not.”
Helyn pivoted towards the inner doors and swiped her card. They entered her office, and Helyn dropped her purse and raincoat on her desk but remained standing. “What’s up, Mace?”
“Quite a bit, actually. Sar has moved from a missing person of interest to target and prime suspect. Jirair, a.k.a. the Vulcan was never involved, and I’m taking you up on your offer for a drink and a chance to catch up.”
“Catch up?”
“Yeah, us. Sound good?”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, forget what I whispered in your ear a week ago, never happened.”
Helyn sat down. “What, you find a magic wand? You seemed pretty upset at the time. You had me scared.”
Mace sat on the edge of her desk. “Found better, a video. Shows Lewis Tuller heaving Jirair off the roof.”
“Tuller? The pictures I remember were of a thin, slight man. Takes a lot of strength to toss someone off a roof, especially when they don’t want to.”
“I agree. Except if he had motive, a real motive, a massive adrenaline rush one.”
“What are you getting at, Mace.”
“Joan Tuller. I think Lewis found his sister and put two-and-two together. Mo remembers finding five gallons of MEKP next to her car. Any eviden
ce it was found on her?”
“Case closed, those records are sealed. Only a state supervising investigator can open them.”
“Hmm,” Mace said, I just happen to know one. What if I say pretty please?”
Mace gave a child’s imploring look. Helyn slumped slightly in her chair, her eyes locked onto Mace. “This is going to cost you more than a drink.”
She turned on her computer.
“Whatever you have in mind, you’ve got it.”
Helyn tilted her head and smirked as she typed her keys. After she logged into her system, she accessed the state medical examiner records. She read the resulting query. “Cause of death, latent lividity, contaminates… MEKP.”
“Bada-bing, bada-boom,” Mace said, “Jirair killed Tuller’s sister. So maybe the source of my nightmare is not me tossing Jirair off the roof, but my inability to stop it. I just have to prove it.”
“You happy now?”
“Very,” he said and kissed Helyn on the forehead. “Only two things could make it better, finding the women and dinner with you.”
Helyn pushed back in her chair. “How are things with Anstice?”
“Rocky, but we’re good.”
“Why am I not surprised. Look, Mace, we have to talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yeah, us, sound good?”
Mace dropped his head and then lifted it again with a forced smile.
“I’m going to dinner tonight,” she said and looked at her wristwatch, “and I’m late.”
“So, not with me.”
“No.”
“Rain check?”
“Stop it, Mace, listen. I’m seeing someone else, a doctor. We’re serious.”
“Serious?”
“Yes. Damian is an attending at University of Michigan’s Trauma Center. I think he is going to propose tonight.”
“Huh, and…”
Helyn rubbed her forehead. “We had a good marriage—"
“Until it wasn’t,” Mace said, his face flowing into a grimace.
Helyn sighed. “You’re not making this any easier. Yes, until it wasn’t, but I still want you—"
“Well, that’s awkward.”
“As a friend, darling, as a friend my darling Mace,”
Mace pivoted and sunk into a chair next to the desk. He bent low, his eyes examining the floor, seeing what might have been. He straightened and forced a smile. “You deserve it, Helyn, happiness, I imagine a great guy, a doctor who won’t get you trapped in a tunnel with some crazy holding a knife. I made a mess of things. I wanted to put things back together, I thought that meant us,”
“There is no going back, Mace.”
“No, you’re right. There isn’t.”
“You have Anstice, don’t you? That should make it easier.”
Mace stood, and so did Helyn. “I hope dinner tonight is ten times better than you expect. I’m glad for you, I truly am.”
Mace kissed Helyn, a hard-loving kiss. They exchanged hugs.
They separated, her tear-filled eyes underscoring reality. Mace chucked her chin. “Doesn’t mean I won’t be back with more questions.”
Helyn nodded, a hand over her mouth.
Mace walked back to his rental car. His euphoria dampened, but his direction clear. Find Sharlene.
Chapter Forty
Large wet snowflakes surfed down a cold rain striking her windshield like Lilliputian fireworks, silently exploding from white to wet. Anstice's insides twisted tighter with each impact. She cracked open her passenger side window, hoping the cold air would temper her angst, but instead, wafting odors from a nearby Nicky D’s Coney Island worked towards a nauseous revolution.
She closed the window.
“You all right?” Asked a uniformed patrolman behind the wheel. She smiled his way and nodded. His muscular body sagging into a pudgy middle age, he was wearing dark glasses and, given the weather, a vanity that spoke to an inflated ego. She looked straight ahead, focusing on him added a knife to her roiling insides.
He flicked on the wipers removing the accumulation off the windshield. They were the first black SUV in a caravan of five parked on Stoepel Street facing Six Mile Road behind the Tractor Supply. Robers was nowhere in sight.
Trayn’s plan was simple, the tried-and-true sting operation. Stem’s Tractor Supply dealt in stolen construction equipment. An undercover detective would offer to buy a known stolen backhoe. Once the gear and money exchanged hands, they would swoop in for the arrest.
The patrolman sipped a coffee. “So, how do you know Trayn?”
“What makes you think I do?”
The officer laughed. “No one gets on a gig without Trayn planning it that way.”
“I’ve worked with him before, Dearborn. What about you?”
The officer barked a laugh and removed his glasses. “Anstice thought the name was familiar, you remember me, Jack,” he said, punctuating with a riffle of laughter.
Anstice searched his face. Jack Bigstone, a laugh you couldn’t get out of your head, and one that liberally peppered his conversations. He worked my first homicide, Joan Tuller. Not a connection I want flowing back to Emmitt.
Still grinning, he added, “C’mon, Sarge, class 1102, Bigstone, Jack Bigstone.”
“Sorry, Jack, I don’t really. I do remember the class, only one other female cadet, and a lot of guys. At times it felt like being caught in an octopus convention.”
“Ah, sorry about that, just the times. But I will admit to having a crush on you back in the day.”
“Eew,” Anstice said and grimaced, her arms wrapping around her stomach and squeezing, stifling the revolution.
Jack laughed, his chest bouncing in great heaves.
“So how’s this go down, usual?’ She asked.
“Profitable, mostly, sometimes straight, keeps everyone in line and IA in the dark.”
“And today?”
“Don’t be coy, Sarge, you know as well as I do. New mark, you’re a new face, cameras rolling. It’s payday, It works, you get tagged as part of the crew.”
Anstice smirked a nod. “Hit the wipers, this could still go south.” Just then, a red pickup drove past the intersection of Stoepel and Six and into the alley behind Nicky D’s that led to the Tractor Supply parking lot. “Keep the wipers going,” she said and then barked into the unit’s communicator. “Heads up, we’re hot. Body cams on.”
Jack put his glasses back on. The snow falling heavier than the rain.
Anstice removed the Glock from her hip holster and cocked it. “What happened to the guy I’m replacing,” she said, as she turned on her own body camera.
“Boating accident on the St. Clair. A lot of bookies were pissed.”
The red pickup made a left into Stoepel. It was towing the bright yellow backhoe on a flatbed trailer.
“Light it up.”
Lights blazing the caravan shot onto Six Mile Road and made a sharp turn down the alley, and swarmed around the back door to Tractor Supply. A tall, shaggy-haired man froze in place. He carried a black duffle bag and stood, mouth agape, eyes wide, his massive arms extended out on either side of him.
Anstice jumped from her SUV and approached the rigid man. “Mr. Stem, please put down the bag, you are under arrest for the receipt and sale of stolen goods.”
He dropped the bag, and two patrol officers folded his arms behind him. Anstice picked up the duffle bag riffled through the contents, her hand emerging with a fist full of one-hundreds.
A siren blared, and all heads turned toward the other end of the alleyway. Anstice stuffed the bills into her vest as the red pickup towing the backhoe rolled slowly toward them. Behind the truck was the siren source. A highly polished marked DPD patrol car, Trayn was on the scene.
“Hold it, hold it, sergeant.” Trayn shouted in his raspy voice, “I think there has been a misunderstanding here.” Trayn walked past Anstice snagging the bag and over to a bewildered Mr. Stem. Trayn motioned for the officers to uncuff him. Anstice could not h
ear what he was saying to Stem. Jack joined them as they walked into the Tractor Supply building. “Secure, and return to squad,” Trayn said to everyone over the unit’s communicator.
Anstice leaned against the SUV, and ten minutes later, Trayn emerged from the back door of the building. With long strides, he approached Anstice. His face inches from hers. He reached up, covering the body camera mounted on her shoulder and clicked it off. “What part of secure didn’t you understand,” he said, his head vibrating in a nod as he spoke.
Anstice tightened her lips. “Just playing it safe.”
“Safe, for whom?”
Anstice’s head shuddered side-to-side. “Where’s Jack?”
“Inside. It’s all cleared up. Got a bad tip. Mr. Stem wrapping a purchase for me, set of box wrenches.”
“Box wrenches? Really?”
“Yeah, don’t be too smart, Ants. I want you to bring the wrenches to my house tonight, ‘bought nine. I’m going back to the station.”
Anstice nodded and headed toward the back door. “Nine sharp, Ants. Don’t be late.”
Inside, Mr. Stem was wrapping something in brown paper on a counter next to a cash register. Anstice noticed that Jack’s body camera was still on. A spindle with store receipts sat next to the register. She saw something and clicked her camera on as she bent over to take a closer look. Mr. Stem finished wrapping and pushed the package towards her. To Anstice, it looked nothing like a box of heavy wrenches. “This is what Trayn wanted?”
Stem nodded. She picked up the package. “Let’s go, Jack.”
Jack turned off his camera and followed Anstice out of the store. “You’ve been invited to the party tonight, I take it.”
“Party?”
“Yeah, nine o’clock right. And don’t get any IA wet dreams. You were recorded picking up the package.”
“Is that what this is? Your payday you were talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Ants. You know it is. But don’t be too mad, you’ll get your cut tonight.”
* * * *
The forecast snowfall was starting. Anstice checked her mirrors and the vehicles parked on Whitcombe Avenue, an aging but still upscale street of Federalist styled two-story homes. Smack-dab in middle of the Eighth Precinct’s section of Detroit, it was a desirable area for those midways up the ladder of business fortune. Trayn is more than that, but too smart to draw attention with a visibly moneyed location.
