“That book has some of the latest research on Alzheimer’s. I’ve been reading up on it. Checking to see what I’m in for.”
“You’re still managing pretty well I think.” Charlies’ eyebrows formed a “V.”
“I know. But I’ve never been one not to have a plan, and a contingency.”
Charlie looked over at Mandy who was dipping a sugar cookie into her tea. Then her mother picked up a cookie and dipped hers.
“I know you’re worried, Charlene. You’re a worrier, you always have been. Did you know that, Mandy? My daughter has been a worrier since she was a little girl.”
“I’m not too surprised to hear that, Mrs. Mack.”
“What do you want to talk about, Mom?”
“Charlie, I don’t want you to be alone. It’s not good for your mind, body, or soul. Or your heart either. I want you to know I’m glad you’ve found someone like Mandy. I know I’ve criticized you over the years for leaving Franklin, but I understand more now.”
“What do you think you understand?”
“I’ve been doing some reading about LGBT issues. I’ve read about Stonewall and Barbara Gittings, and I read this book of essays by Audre Lorde. Now I’m reading that book over there.”
Mandy lifted the hefty volume about activist Bayard Rustin and held it up for Charlie to see.
“The history is fascinating, and now I’m looking at the parallels between the gay rights and the civil rights movements. You know I love that stuff.”
Charlie took a deep breath, and grabbed a cookie.
“Anyway, I don’t understand much about what it means to be a lesbian. But I do know you seem happier and more relaxed than you have been for years, and I think it has a lot to do with Mandy.”
Mandy and Ernestine beamed at each other, and dipped their cookies again. Charlie rounded the table to sit next to her mother and put an arm around her.
“I’m not as comfortable with, uh, this lifestyle as Mandy. But I am happy. She’s very important to me.”
“I can tell.”
“I was never fully myself with Franklin. That isn’t the case with Mandy.”
“You guys know I’m here, right?” Mandy asked.
“I appreciated the things you said about me to your mother.”
“Surprised?”
“A little. She’s a fine woman, Charlie. I see where you get so many of your good qualities, and also your independence.”
“Uh-huh.”
It was a cold night, the kind where the air chapped your lips and stung your skin. They walked quickly through the parking lot to Charlie’s Corvette, and as they settled into the warming car shared a kiss.
“Your mom doesn’t want to be ruled by her disease, and she doesn’t want to be a burden.”
“I know. It was her decision to try an assisted-living facility.”
Mandy slipped her hand through Charlie’s heavily layered arm. “Your instinct is to be protective of your mother, but you have to let her be in charge of her life for as long as she can.”
“I know.”
Charlie navigated West Grand Boulevard, passing the iconic Fisher Building and the St. Regis Hotel, and turning south on Cass Avenue. This was familiar territory. She’d received her undergrad degree from Wayne State University, and she silently noted the buildings she’d roamed as a student. Despite the cold, there were plenty of pedestrians on the sidewalks. People coming or going into the area bars, students leaving evening classes, people waiting on buses, and New Center residents making their way home.
“Are we going back to your place?” Mandy asked.
“I thought maybe you would spend the night, and I’ll take you home tomorrow.”
“Didn’t you say you had an early appointment?”
“Shit, I forgot.”
“It’s not like you to forget appointments.”
“It’s because I hate this case we’re on.”
“And because you’re worried about your mom.”
“True.”
“Okay, so drive me home. Come in for a little while, and I’ll make you a hot toddy.”
“You are a hot toddy.”
“You’re such a flatterer, Ms. Mack.”
Chapter 2
Friday, December 30, 2005
Charlie saw the four men in business suits around the conference room table when she entered the Mack offices, one of whom she recognized as Oscar Acosta, Gil’s uncle. She had purchased her Corvette from Mr. Acosta last spring.
“What’s up? Did they come early?” She asked Judy.
“They arrived ten minutes ago, looking nervous. I made them coffee and Gil is doing his best to keep the small talk going, but I think you should go right in,” Judy said. “Are we done with the Cashin case?”
“Not quite yet. I’ll explain later,” Charlie said, dropping her purse on Judy’s desk. “I’m going to the ladies’ room to freshen up. I’ll only be five minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll let the others know.”
Charlie stared into the mirror. The sunlight from the windows mixed with the fluorescents, and her skin was radiant. Not bad for thirty-four. She brushed her fingertips through her short hair and freshened her neutral-colored lipstick. Her blue tweed suit and cream blouse contrasted nicely. She washed her hands, checked her nails, and put on a dab of lotion. “Dressed for success,” she said aloud.
The men in the conference room rose when she entered the room. All except Don, whose scowl and folded arms announced he was already upset about something.
“This is our partner, Charlene Mack.” Gil made the introductions. “You remember my uncle, Señor Acosta.”
“I do. Que bueno verte, señor.” Charlie practiced her Spanish.
“It’s also good to see you again, Ms. Mack. I hope you’re still enjoying your convertible,” Oscar Acosta said.
“Charlie, this is Irwin Cross, Scott Hartwell, and Tommy Kozol,” Gil said, pointing to each.
“Glad to meet you all. Please, let’s sit,” Charlie said. “Do we need more coffee?”
“We’ve had enough coffee,” Don said curtly.
“Uh, Ms. Mack? I’m afraid we’ve gotten off to a bad start with your partner,” Irwin Cross said. “We have a very, uh, sticky problem, and we wanted to wait until you arrived to discuss it. We’ve come to you because of your reputation in Detroit’s business community. Your agency is also highly recommended by Mr. Acosta, who has been a member of the DADA board for many years.”
Cross was a youthful fiftyish, handsome, fit, well-dressed, with salon-styled, salt-and-pepper hair. Don was irrationally annoyed by men he labeled dandies, since his own style leaned toward corduroy and short-sleeved shirts. Cross sent a blue-eyed glance toward his companions, which was met with silent authorization to proceed with presenting their case.
“We have a very troubling situation that requires imagination, fearlessness, and good instincts,” Cross said.
“And utmost secrecy,” Hartwell added.
“Yes. That’s crucial,” Cross agreed.
“Please explain, Mr. Cross. When you called yesterday, you mentioned someone had been murdered?” Gil asked.
“That’s right.”
Cross nodded at Kozol, who produced three manila folders from his briefcase and slid them across the table to the Mack partners. The folders were stamped ”confidential” in red stencil. Inside were three photographs: one of a body lying on its side, a close-up of the victim’s face with a bullet wound at the forehead, and the last, an enlarged photo of a passport. The man’s name was Yu Chenglei, a resident of Beijing.
“This man was a member of the delegation from Guí Motors. It’s the first year the Chinese have exhibited with us, and their team arrived five weeks ago to meet with their U.S. counterparts. Mr. Chenglei is credentialed as a design engineer. The police report— you’ll find it in the folder— says he was murdered in an attempted robbery four nights ago,” Cross said.
“It says here, witnesses saw this Chenglei being c
hased by a man wearing a mask who cornered him in an alley, and a few minutes later shot him at close range,” Don noted. “Seems like a robbery to me, maybe gang-related. You think something different from the police?”
“Yes, Mr. Rutkowski, we do. We’ve been told by Homeland Security that Mr. Chenglei was in their database as a person of interest.”
“Did they say they were investigating him?” Don asked.
“No. And we’ve had no follow-up with Homeland Security. They said the notification to us was just a courtesy.”
“What do you suspect?” Charlie asked.
“We have reason to believe Mr. Chenglei was planning, um, a disruption during the auto show, and we believe he was not working alone.”
“Do you have evidence to confirm your suspicions?” Charlie asked.
“One of our longtime vendors reported an Asian man offered him $100,000 for his exhibition permit. When the vendor refused, the man paid him $10,000 for a copy of the exhibitor planning guide, which includes maps, security information, and the names and numbers of key Cobo Hall personnel.”
“You haven’t shared this information with the police?” Don was still irritated. In addition to a stint in the Marines, he’d been a Detroit police officer for nine years, and he still had lots of friends on the force.
“No.”
There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation. Gil exchanged a nervous glance with his uncle. Scott Hartwell was sweating. He was a slight man, younger than Cross, and he reminded Charlie of a nervous cat. His head turned with every movement in the room. When the coffeemaker gave a final, exhausted gasp of steam, he almost sprang from his chair. Kozol, on the other hand, was a cool customer, fastidious in his dress and grooming. He wore a half smile throughout the meeting, and his elbow rested casually on the chrome suitcase in the chair next to him.
“Ms. Mack, we want to hire you and your partners to discover whatever Mr. Chenglei and his cohorts were plotting. The Auto Show opens in nine days, so time is of the essence, and we’re prepared to pay you handsomely for the work.”
“Well, I don’t know, Mr. Cross. There’s not much to go on. It’s really just speculation that there even is a threat.” Charlie looked at her partners for their concurrence. “That means we have to talk to a lot of people, in a short amount of time. We’re a small firm, and this sounds like a big job.”
“If we had more time for planning, we could do it, “Gil said.
“Or, if we could rely on help from the police or the FBI,” Don added.
“People carrying badges and wearing uniforms would just upset people. We’re downplaying this incident because we don’t want negative publicity for the show. We like it that you’re a small firm. We prefer a low-profile investigation,” Cross said.
“Really? For a potential terrorist attack?” Don asked incredulously.
“We haven’t used the word terrorism,” Cross said.
Don looked disgusted, and pushed his chair back from the table loudly. He refolded his arms across his ample stomach.
“You must understand how important this event is to Detroit’s economy and its reputation, Mr. Rutkowski. This is a very big year for us.”
Don wasn’t impressed.
“It’s the Super Bowl,” Gil said matter-of-factly.
“What?” Charlie asked.
“You’re worried about the Super Bowl, right?” Gil asked, looking at his uncle, and then scanning the faces of the other men.
Cross went silent. So did the others. Kozol lifted the chrome suitcase into his lap. Gil’s question hung in the room.
“A lot is at stake. The success of the auto show is critically important to us, but if we somehow jeopardize next month’s Super Bowl, Detroit won’t host another important cultural, political, or sporting event for decades,” Scott Hartwell responded.
Charlie began reading the brochure in her folder. “The auto show brings in three-quarters of a million people? That’s amazing.”
“That’s more visitors than we expect for the Super Bowl,” Cross said. “This year, the show is fifteen days. We’ll introduce sixty new cars and host journalists, auto manufacturers, suppliers, dignitaries, and car lovers from all over the world. The media preview begins next week.”
“What do you expect we can do in such a short time without the assistance of federal or local law enforcement?” Don pushed the point.
Sr. Acosta spoke up. “We hope you can find the source of our threat, neutralize it, and do it all . . . discreetly.”
Charlie and Don shared a glance. Gil stared at his uncle, and the three other DADA members kept their eyes locked on the table.
“Tio?” Gil asked.
“Es muy grave y peligroso, sobrino,” the elder Acosta said, then switched to English. “There’s been no major terrorist attack in this country since New York City on 9/11. Detroit doesn’t want the distinction of being the next location.”
So there was the word. Terrorism. Kozol lifted the heavy briefcase onto the table, opened the lid and turned it toward the Mack partners. The case was filled with neatly stacked packets of twenty-dollar bills.
“There’s twenty-five thousand dollars here. We prefer to pay you in cash. It’s for your expenses and the like. Just a down payment, but it will get you started,” Kozol said.
The partners gathered around Judy’s desk to discuss their options. This was the most unusual case they’d been offered. It would require them to bypass their usual sources of information, and tax all the firm’s energy and resources.
“I don’t like it. We can’t consult with the police,” Don said. “It makes no sense. If this really is a terrorist cell, everyone should be involved.”
“If Homeland Security knows about the dead man, you can bet they’ve already done some investigation of their own,” Gil said.
“That’s right. So we’ll just make it clear to the suits in there, that working on this case is contingent upon our cooperating with DHS,” Don said. “Otherwise, they can find other investigators.”
“Agreed,” Charlie said. “But I’m not convinced we should even be involved. Suitcases filled with money don’t sit well with me.”
“Suitcases of money?” Judy’s face lit up.
“They brought twenty-five thousand in cash for our startup expenses,” Charlie said.
It was now open-and-shut for Judy. Among her office manager duties, she was the firm’s conscientious bookkeeper, helping Charlie keep an eye on expenses and pay the bills. She’d been warning Charlie for weeks that their cash reserves were under duress.
“We only have the Cashin job to close out,” Judy said. “The rest of our cases involve legal hearings and such, and they’re on hold for a couple of weeks. Right, Gil?”
“That’s right, but this DADA case is going to be grueling work for all of us. We’ll likely need to hire a dozen or so subcontractors. We gotta have more feet on the ground.”
“We’ll probably need to use Judy in the field, too,” Charlie said.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to use Novak in the field,” Don said. “What would she do?”
Judy was creative, and could charm the rubber from a Good-year tire. It was, however, one of Judy’s less obvious skills that had won her a place in Charlie’s heart. Like Charlie herself, Judy was a champion liar, a skill that often could make or break a private investigation.
“People open up to Judy. Besides, we’ll need her fibbing talents.”
“I can tell a whopper when it’s needed, and so can Acosta,” Don argued.
“Yes. But Judy can weave three fabrications in the time it takes you to come up with one,” Charlie said admiringly.
Judy smiled at the compliment, and sang: “Anything you can do I can do better, I can do anything better than you.”
“You and your blasted musicals,” Don said with agitation. “Look, are we ready to go back in there and take this job, or what?”
“Wait a minute,” Gil said shaking his head. “Are we absolut
ely sure?”
“What’s on your mind, Gil?” Charlie asked.
“My uncle. He doesn’t worry easily.”
“What did he say in there? I couldn’t make it out.”
“He called it a grave situation and said it was very dangerous.”
Judy’s smile faded.
The Mack team returned to the conference room and listed their conditions for accepting the case. Kozol took notes. First, something in writing that would serve to explain their arrangement with the auto dealers. It would be token protection, but at least a line of defense if laws were broken in the course of the investigation. The fee would be one hundred thousand dollars, plus expenses. The number didn’t seem to faze the four business owners. There was only one sticking point, and after initially refusing, the men reluctantly agreed to allow the Mack partners to brief Homeland Security.
“It’s a deal-breaker,” Don stated, with Charlie and Gil nodding their assent.
“I guess we’ll just have to trust your judgment, and discretion, in how you handle your former colleagues at Homeland Security,” Cross finally acquiesced.
Kozol left the conference room with Gil to draft a letter of agreement. With Judy, they also established a process for billing and receiving payments. Charlie and Don brainstormed with Cross and the other DADA execs about the best cover for the partners as they began their investigation.
“Perhaps the easiest thing to do would be to give you Cobo security credentials. Earlier this year, we hired a private security firm for the show. You could use their offices, and you’d have access to the entire building.”
“That’s a possibility,” Charlie said. “Can we also use their manpower?”
“Uh, that probably won’t work,” Cross said, his brows tightening into a furrow. “The new security chief is a man by the name of Geoff Heinrich. We haven’t told him about hiring you, but obviously he would have to be in the loop on this.”
“You haven’t even confided in your own security guy?” Don asked.
“Mr. Heinrich tends to be a bit heavy-handed. He stepped on a lot of toes, including one of the mayor’s security team, when the police investigated Chenglei’s death.”
Wake Me When It's Over Page 2
