by Frans Harmon
“Yeah, a case of mistaken identity, charges dropped,” Mace said, removing his jacket and grabbed a clean shirt out of his desk drawer.
“Do us all a favor and bury that one. Hey, what’s happening with your McCrary case?”
“Kidnapping’s part of a larger picture, terrorist threat. Sar’s fondness for bombs has grown. Question is what’s his target and when?” Mace said, stripping off his shirt.
“Tonight, at seven, women’s hockey league holding an exhibition at Joe Louis Arena, where the Redwings—"
“Red, that’s it. One of the women scrawled red inside one of the vaults they were transported in.”
“Well, that may be, but—”
Mace tucked his shirt into his trousers and picked up his jacket. “Renaissance Center is next to it, and so is the Crowne Plaza.”
“Yeah, and there is a lunar eclipse tonight, in fact, it’s a—"
“Thanks for your help, Mo. I’ve got to alert Dorian
Mace sprinted up the stairs from the basement to the first floor, stopping for three coffees before taking the elevator to the fifth floor. He found Gavin and Anstice in his office perched over Gavin’s computer display. He handed each a coffee. “Any luck?”
“Little Italia’s in Detroit are as thick as fleas on a goat’s back. Any hotel in the city could be a target.”
“Any near the Joe Louis Arena?” Mace asked.
“A high end one in the Crowne Plaza next door, why?” Anstice said.
“I think that is our target. Women’s hockey game there tonight, something that would get our misogynist, Sar’s, attention. And there is a lunar eclipse tonight.”
Gavin’s phone rang, and he answered. “Not sure, yes, he’s here.” Gavin looked up at Mace. “You heard from Brok, yet? They are about to put a diver in the water.”
Anstice bit her lip as she watched Mace look away with a hand massaging his brow. “You’re guessing, Mace. Without a DNA read on that napkin, we have nothing.”
Gavin held a hand over the mouthpiece. “If Coria’s under that ice, I can wait a day, a week to find out.”
Mace nodded and reached for the phone. “Dorian, don’t do it. They’re not there. We’ve retrieved evidence before you got there. We confirmed it had Sharlene’s DNA on it, she left a message, it was cryptic, but I know the target and the timing. It’s today, Joe Louis Arena.”
“You are certain of this, Mace?”
“Only public event in town, it’s got to be it. So, yes,” he replied.
Dorian barked a command obscured by the phone reception. “Dorian,” Mace said, “we need to keep up the comm chatter as if we are searching for the women. Sar did Mud Lake as a diversion, we keep the tactical advantage as long as he thinks that.”
“We’ll keep it going as long as we can. Bring what you have to the JOC, we’ll meet there in ninety minutes. What? Make that forty-five, Emmitt’s got a chopper inbound.”
Mace handed the phone back to Gavin, who hung it up. They stood facing each other, each holding a coffee and staring. For Mace, he was straining to see his future if he was wrong. He imagined Anstice and Gavin were thinking similar thoughts.
Gavin’s phone rang again. Gavin looked at the display. “It’s Brok,” he said and handed the phone to Mace.
“You're sure?” Mace asked, “understand, yes, do that.” Mace hung up. We’ve got an eighty-five percent DNA match. We’re a go on this, let’s get to the JOC.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
A phalanx of state patrol vehicles escorted Gavin’s SUV stuffed with a squad of agents and a trailing DPD squad car with Mace and Anstice. The wailing caravan blazed past bewildered drivers on I96 in Howell and through Brighton.
“What’s he doing?” Mace asked Anstice intensely focused on the flashing lights ahead.
“Over one-ten.”
“We’ll be at the JOC in less than an hour.”
Anstice flicked her wheel following the careening conga line from lane to shoulder and back again. “If we survive,” she said.
Mace chuckled, then braced himself as Anstice snapped left then right around a semi, leaving a comet-like tail of dust and debris behind them.
“You certain about this, Mace? Joe Louis Arena, Crowne Plaza?”
Mace didn’t respond.
“What, Mace?” She asked, flicking a perplexed face, “shit, you’re not. What did Brok tell you?”
“Sar’s DNA was on the napkin.”
“Sar’s not Sharlene’s?”
“That’s the problem. Brok found hers as well.”
“So, is this right or another dead end? We’ve strung together a lot of hypotheticals. If Sharlene wasn’t sending us a message, what have we got?”
“The day is right, the target high-profile, sure to get attention. He wanted us out of the city, and this is the only publicized event through the weekend.”
The convoy and Anstice slowed as the interstate became the Jefferies Freeway, they were in Detroit, the JOC minutes away. “If you’re wrong?”
“Won’t be the first time as an investigator.”
“Might be your last,” she said as her cruiser exited onto East Jefferson and looped under the Joe Louis Arena, maintaining a high-G turn all the way into the underground parking for One Woodward Avenue.
Vehicle doors flew open as Gavin and his agents scrambled toward the elevators. Mace and Anstice joined them for the silent ride to the eighth floor. Gavin ‘s eye followed the floor status buttons over the door, his hand alternating between unbuttoning his coat and punching the eighth-floor button. Mace could see where his mind was. His daughter, was she alive? Where was she? Mace had his own questions: Did he believe what he just told Anstice? Was he right? The doors opened. He had to be.
In the JOC, Emmitt, the SWAT team leader, and Dorian surrounded a table blanketed with sheaves of arena floor plans and road maps.
Dorian, his arms bracing him over the table, looked up. “It’s a nightmare, Mace. SWAT is still traveling back. Now please tell me you have something solid.”
Mace, Anstice, and Gavin joined him at the table. “We found a napkin at Mud Lake.”
“A napkin,” Dorian shouted, spinning away from the table. “For the love of Christmas, what else?”
“Sharlene’s DNA was on Little Italia’s napkin with one-half covered in red pizza sauce, not blood. It was crumbled as if pulled from a pocket. Sharlene’s a freshwater sailor, she would know a square half red, half white would be recognized as a signal flag, phonetically, hotel. The only hotel with a Little Italia’s is the Crowne Plaza, next door to a high-profile women’s event. All this is too much just to be a coincidence. The arena is the target.”
Dorian braced himself on the table, silent for a moment, his head nodding. “Given the circumstances of this event, we can’t wait for the SWAT team, their MRAPs are at least an hour and a half out. So, this is what we have a nightmare. The arena is configured for a hockey game. Zamboni access runs directly from the street to the ice. I’ve requested sanitation to park a garbage truck to block the entrance.”
“Truck would be the direct approach, but that is not Sar’s,” Mace said. You know, when I worked a charity affair like this as a student at Quantico, they gave out all-access passes like candy to volunteers. Explosives may be already here. In storage rooms where you would expect to see stacks of boxes.”
Mace flipped through card-table sized sheets starting at the basement and working up. “Nothing like that until the second floor where the concession stands are located. I think we should start there.”
Dorian nodded, “I don’t like it, but I concur that this is Sar’s target. It’s more than a hockey game, the lieutenant governor is attending as honorary chair for the event.”
“Ahh, didn’t know that.”
“And she will be here any minute,” Dorian added.
“Going to be tight, only six hours to set up the electronic screening,” Emmitt said, “but I think we can do it.”
“If we are lucky,
Sar could still be inside,” Mace said, “has to be the reason why he wanted us out of the city.”
“What about the women, my Coria, where are they? What is their part in this?”
Mace massaged his temples, flipping his hand away as if tossing thoughts into the air. “Revenge, but also atonement. That’s what the Feast of Sacrifice is about. Sar believes he is on a Jihad. This attack is his ultimate sacrifice for a just cause. The women are an offering, hostages, as well as everyone who dies in the explosion.”
“Why now? He’s had Coria for over eighteen months, Trina Burkett for almost a year, and Sharlene for a month.”
“Tetrad,” Mace responded, “fourth red moon and a lunar eclipse. Compelling significance for anyone who views life using a lunar calendar.”
“Right that may be,” Dorian said, “but we’ll figure out his motives later. Right now, everyone comm up. Emmitt, you and your agents sweep the vendor areas, as Mace suggested. We find anything suspicious we’ll have to call in the bomb squad. Anstice, I’ve already talked to DPD Deputy Superintendent, Salkowski, he will seal off all arena exits. DPD’s Tactical Unit is waiting for you outside the Crowne Plaza by the loading dock here on Shelby,” he said, tapping a map.
Double doors to the JOC slammed opened the Lieutenant Governor’s security detail burst into the room, followed by a scowling Cassandra Meiler. “What’s going on, Dorian? I don’t want anything screwing up my campaign launch.”
“We believe Sharlene McCrary’s abduction is related to a terrorist attack,” Dorian said.
“Terrorist, here at the arena?”
“Yes, your charity hockey venue seems to be the target.”
“You may have been at least a secondary target all along, fits with your appearance at the Ford event,” Mace said.
‘Being a target of a terrorist isn’t bad politically, but, oh God, no bodies, Dorian. Get this over with.”
“It will have a minimal impact on your event. We have a little time, thanks to Mace, here,” Dorian said and motioned to Emmitt to begin his sweep.
“Mr. Franklyn, I might have known. You can’t seem to keep a low profile and out of the press.”
“I have no desire to be on the front—"
“Save it, Mace. Just be right about this and keep a low--and I do mean invisible--low profile. In your hands, Dorian. Keep my staff current, I want no surprises. I’m hosting a luncheon at the Crowne; you can reach me there.”
* * * *
Anstice and Mace found the tactical team, a group of ten patrol officers trained to saturate an area with a show of police force and to assist in crime scene searches. Anstice recognized the senior officer. “Aaron, good to see you again, what is your status.”
“We’ve searched the Plaza’s perimeter with Mack here,” he said, pointing to a black tail wagging Labrador Retriever. We got a reaction at the lobby entrance, But Mack seemed confused. How much explosives we looking for, specifically?”
“Enough to fill up a medium-sized panel truck,” Anstice responded.
“An Oklahoma size bomb. That would be a lot of luggage,” Aaron said.
Anstice pressed a hand to her ear with the communications ear-plug in it. “They found some suspicious boxes in the vendor area, they are requesting the dog.”
“Okay, I’ve made the case that the arena is the target, so Aaron, take your crew and dog to the arena, second floor, and see what your dog thinks.”
Aaron looked at Anstice. “I’ll accept Mr. Franklyn’s recommendation. Go ahead, Aaron, link up with Emmitt and his agents.”
Anstice shoved Mace with both hands. “Don’t do that again.”
“What?”
“You undermined me. I’m a DPD Sergeant, remember?”
Mace held open palms in front of him. “You’re right, sorry. Think we should search the building ourselves?”
Anstice nodded. They interviewed lobby staff and those serving Cassandra’s luncheon. No one saw anything suspicious. They worked their way to the top floor, and Mace went up to the roof. A few minutes later, Anstice joined him. “Mack had a negative reaction to boxes in the vendor area.”
Looking back towards the arena, Mace saw long lines of impatient spectators forming on the high stairs to the main entrance. “We’ve got nothing. Sar is still calling the shots.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
“After a two-hour delay to what authorities say was a credible bomb scare, the annual charity hockey game between Windsor’s Canadien Chicks and Detroit’s Dames got underway at the Joe Louis Arena. The Chicks topped Detroit four to one.”
“Turn that damn thing off,” Dorian said and spun in his chair, facing the now-empty desks and blank computer screens of the JOC.”
“I’m sorry, Dorian, the timing, event, everything seemed to fit,” Mace said.
“Until it didn’t, Mace,” Emmitt said, his face contorted with ridicule. “You ever consider another line of business? You sure as hell suck at this.”
“That’s enough,” Dorian said. “We took our shot, now we will give it a rest, particularly you, Mace. I was worried you were too close to this with the press jumping on the Vulcan theory and Sharlene. And now I’m convinced you are. Take a few weeks off. Then come see me. I’ll see what other cases you could possibly help us with. MBI’s leaving this in your hands, Emmitt, but I suggest you take some time as well.”
Dorian rose. “Gavin, you can drive me back to Lansing. We are done here.”
* * * *
In an off-stage anteroom set aside for VIP speaking engagements like hers, Cassandra Meiler was staring out a tall window at a brownstone building towering over the Palace Italia Arena. The Eddystone was a remnant of Detroit’s glory days. A grand old lady, once the most sought-after hotel on Detroit’s pretentious Park Avenue. Would that be the way, one day, people would think of her, her time as Governor of Michigan, or would they only remember her as the wife of Roger Mandell, politician turned serial killer. She hoped not. If she didn’t win, her career would be a footnote, truncated just as Park Avenue had been by the fickle hand of fate.
The lieutenant governor’s musing ended there as the applause from the adjoining dining room signaled that her stout gray-haired chairwoman had finished her fire-the-donors-up introduction. Cassandra walked towards the connecting door and reached for the handle. Screams from the dining room startled her back. Crissy Kim, her campaign manager, burst into the room. “Cass, you can’t go in there.”
* * * *
Anstice and Mace picked ups some Chinese take-out and landed at her Atrium apartment. Mace lay with his head rocking over the back edge of her sofa, she unpackaged the food and placed it on the coffee table along with two beers.
“What did I miss?” He asked.
“We were reaching, no there, there,” she said with a shrug.
Mace took a sip of his beer, picked up a pair of chop-sticks, and poked at his General Tso chicken. “Blood moon is today. He’s done everything on a lunar event.”
“Technically, tonight…”
“That’s what I missed,” Mace said and retrieving his cell phone, punched in a number.
“Who you calling this late, it’s almost eleven?”
“Peter Mock.”
“Mo, sorry, did I wake you.”
“Mace, no, but it’s kind of hard to tell when your body doesn’t move much. What’s up.”
“What were you trying to tell me this morning?”
“About what?”
“Events this evening, exhibition game at the Joe Louis Arena where the Redwings play.”
“No, that is what I was trying to clarify, Joe Louis was their former home. Their new home is the arena at Park and Sproat, the Palace Italia.”
“The Palace?”
“Yeah, where the lieutenant governor, what’s her name…”
“Cassandra Meiler.”
“Yeah, that’s it she’s having a party there tonight, her Take a Stand women’s rights group, she is supposed to announce she’s running
for governor, yeah, turn-on the news.”
“Anstice, turn-on the news.”
“I thought you wanted it off?”
Mace nodded and pointed to the blank screen. “Yes, but what Mo is saying.”
The screen came to life, the commentator talking about Cassandra’s announcement and stock footage, an aerial view, showing a giant version of the logo they had seen on the napkin. “The Palace Italia,” Mace said.
Anstice dropped the controller. “What’s going on? Is that the target?”
Mace, grim-faced, nodded.
“Yeah,” Mo said, “and that brown building next to it is what is left of the Eddystone. A real shame, probably the last aerial with the old hotel in it, they’re taking it down tomorrow, imploding it.”
The screen changed to a live view of a news commentator, and in the background over his shoulder, a rising moon appeared with a dark sliver growing over it.
“Somehow, I have the feeling it is going to be sooner than that, Mo, thanks.”
Mace clicked his phone off and began dialing again. “Get your gun, that is the target. Cassandra and her Take a Stand movement.”
“Who you calling now?”
“Gavin, I don’t think anyone else will listen.”
* * * *
Cassandra stood blinking, trying to comprehend her usually cold and decisive campaign manager with swollen red eyes on the verge of tears. A habitual hand fingered her neckless. “What’s going on, C K?”
“There are two women wearing vests, explosives, I think, they are blocking the doors.”
Cassandra strode to the dining-room door. Crissy blocked her way. “I just want a peek.”
Cassandra cracked the door open and saw two women in bulging green vests, arms outstretched determined to block the doorways but had tears streaming down their faces. Cassandra retreated back to the windows and took out her phone.
“What are you doing, they said no phones.”
“I’m using the intercom feature, its VHF not microwave, just for the MBI. Hopefully, someone is in range.”
