Wake Me When It's Over

by Cheryl A Head

  Charlie was aware of the chasm in the relationship between the city’s business community and the second-term mayor. Kilpatrick’s flamboyant confidence and political pedigree had at first won over voters, especially the city’s disenfranchised black working class, but reports of cronyism, abuse of power, and questionable use of public funds had gotten the attention of the FBI. DADA had been very vocal in their assessment that the mayor’s negative publicity was bad for the city’s economy.

  “We’re pretty good at balancing the power dynamics,” Charlie said.

  “So we’ve heard, Ms. Mack. We’re relying on that, and your agency’s networks, to provide us a positive resolution,” Cross said.

  Gil, Kozol, and Judy returned with the letter of agreement, which everyone tweaked until they had an acceptable version. Judy produced two originals, which were signed by all parties.

  “We’ll need a point of contact. Someone we can call day or night if we need something, or run into trouble,” Don said.

  “That’ll be me,” Scott Hartwell said.

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. Hartwell seemed the least likely to be helpful under pressure. Cross read the body language and offered a defense of his colleague.

  “Mr. Hartwell is a third-generation auto dealer. He knows the business in and out, and has been the president of DADA for seven years. He has the full cooperation of DADA’s executive committee, and we’ll stand by any decision he makes.”

  “On this matter, we’ll have to trust your judgment, Mr. Cross,” Charlie said.

  It was three o’clock. The Mack team was in full throttle in the office bullpen. Judy had ordered in corned beef sandwiches, and the room smelled of meat and pickle brine.

  “What time is tomorrow’s appointment with DHS, Don?” Charlie asked, taking a large bite of dill pickle.

  “They just confirmed for 5 p.m.”

  “They don’t care that it’s New Year’s Eve?” Judy asked.

  “To Homeland Security, it’s just another day,” Don said.

  “Okay. I’ll email Hartwell and tell him we want to meet with the Cobo security guy first thing in the morning,” Charlie said. “Judy, add Josh Simms to our list of subcontractors. How many does that make?”

  “Eleven. We just need one more. What about Mandy Porter?”

  “Let me think about that. I’ll let you know tomorrow morning.”

  “Do we know anybody who speaks Chinese?” Don asked. “Might come in handy.”

  “Remember that geeky kid from the community center, Charlie?” Gil asked. “His mother enrolled him in your martial arts class because he was being bullied in school.”

  “Oh, right. Lin Fong. He spoke Mandarin. But I haven’t seen him in four years. He might not even be in the area.”

  “Would his mother remember you?” Judy asked.

  “I’m sure she would. I worked with Lin one-on-one several times. She came around to thank me after he finally got the better of one of his bullies. I think she said he’d been accepted to U of M, so he may be in the area.”

  “Give me a couple of days and I’ll find him,” Judy said.

  “We don’t have a couple of days,” Charlie said, swallowing the last chunk of thick homemade bread smeared with mustard and meat juice. “I’ll call his mother.”

  “I’m going to start contacting the subs,” Gil said. “We’ll need them to start no later than Sunday. Judy, will you copy that list for me?”

  “Sure. I’ll also draw up a freelancer’s contract you can use.”

  “While we’re talking about calls: Everybody should call their mothers, wives, husbands and significant others,” Charlie said. “Because this year we won’t be counting down the clock on New Year’s Eve; we’ll be on the clock.”

  “Charlie, didn’t you say you had some follow-up with Mr. Cashin?” Judy reminded.

  “Damn, that’s right. He wants us to do a background check on the boy. Judy, send him a final invoice. I’ll tell him to find someone else to harass his daughter.”

  “And somebody has to take that cash to the bank before it closes.” Judy continued the reminders.

  “I’ll take care of that,” Don said, taking his gun from the desk. He adjusted his shoulder holster, put on his tweed jacket to cover his firepower, and buttoned his fifteen-year-old raincoat. He picked up the chrome suitcase and the bank deposit slip Judy had prepared, and headed to the door. “I’m a man with a gun, a car, and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. Maybe you’ll see me in the morning, and maybe you won’t.”

  Skinny snow chips, too cold to hold together as flakes, fell and then bounced around with the wind. A sweep of stars glinted to be admired, but those walking in Greektown held their heads down and leaned into the bracing gusts. Charlie and Mandy walked arm-in-arm to the parking garage, and Charlie stiffened each time they passed someone.

  “No one’s looking at us,” Mandy said, reading Charlie’s body.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. You tensed up as soon as I grabbed your arm.”

  “It’s cold, that’s all.”

  “Uh-huh, frigid.”

  Their cars were parked side by side, and Charlie pulled Mandy as close to her as their padded parkas would allow. They kissed a long time.

  “Did that feel frigid?”

  “No. I can’t say that it did.” Mandy smiled, and played with the zipper of Charlie’s coat. “But you wouldn’t do that if anyone were around.”

  Charlie began to protest, but Mandy stopped her with another kiss. When they released each other, Mandy pointed in the direction of the elevator. “Smile.”

  Charlie turned to see the oversized surveillance camera mounted above the elevator doors. It blinked.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Get in,” Charlie said ducking into the car.

  “You’ve got to get over this. It’s irrational fear. Nobody cares that we’re lesbians; they really don’t.” Mandy’s voice revealed frustration.

  Charlie was five years older than Mandy. That gap, along with her upbringing, accounted for the discomfort she had with being labeled a lesbian. Mandy had been out to her family and friends since high school, but Charlie was still closeted, and it had caused many awkward moments in their six-month relationship.

  “It’s easier for you, Mandy. Black folks have a harder time accepting gay people. It’s the church thing and . . .”

  “I know. You’ve told me that before. And some people have a problem with an interracial couple, but you knew all that when you said you wanted to be with me.”

  “I do. I introduced you to my mother, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. But we’re still hiding the truth from your partners.”

  “Judy knows. And I’m pretty sure Don knows, too.”

  “You know what I mean. You haven’t told them we’re a couple. If we’re going to be working together on this case, I don’t want to have to pretend we’re not lovers.”

  Charlie shook her head. “It won’t be an issue. I promise.”

  Mandy responded with a hurt look.

  “Are you absolutely sure you want to freelance on this one? It might be dangerous.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  Charlie ran a fingertip across Mandy’s chin, and up to her lips. “You’re beautiful,” Charlie said.

  “That won’t get you off the hook.”

  “Can I come over and stay the night?”

  Mandy didn’t answer. She turned toward the passenger window, drawing the collar of her parka closer to her.

  “I’d have to leave early tomorrow,” Charlie said. “I need to go home and pack some clothes, because I’m checking into a hotel close to Cobo for the duration of this case. Tonight could be the last time we get to sleep together until this is over.”

  “You really believe there’s a threat to the auto show?”

  “I know our clients believe it, and they don’t seem like ala
rmists. I hate an investigation like this, where you don’t have any real clues to follow so all you can do is ask questions and wait for someone to show their hand.”

  “Terrorism is an awful burden for the modern world to bear. Even after four years, I’m angry about 9/11. I think about it almost every day,” Mandy said.

  “Well, that’s understandable, since your brother died that day.”

  “It’s not just that. It’s how much our lives have changed and how that terrible day still makes us feel so vulnerable.”

  “We’ve had terrorism in this country since the Revolutionary War. Only the form has changed.”

  Mandy gave Charlie another look of exasperation.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so academic about it. C’mon, don’t be mad.”

  Charlie leaned over and buried her face in Mandy’s hair. Mandy responded by turning her lips toward Charlie’s hungry mouth.

  “Okay, come over. When you get to my place, let yourself in. I’m going to stop for champagne so we can celebrate New Year’s early.”

  “Why don’t I just follow you?”

  Mandy smiled provocatively. “Anywhere?”

  “I’m beginning to think so.”

  Chapter 3

  Saturday, December 31, 2005

  Auto Show: 8 days

  At 6:30 a.m., Charlie, Don and Gil were escorted by a sleepy uniformed security guard to a stairwell that led from the Cobo lobby to a lower-level office wing. The stenciled letters on the glass double doors read “Spectrum Security Services,” and above the name was the logo of a satellite dish riding on a beam of light. A red beacon flashed above the door and turned green when they were buzzed in. It was clear that Spectrum was not your grandfather’s security company.

  The interior continued the high-tech theme. The floor plan was open, with a maze of low cubicles and conversation pods. The subdued lighting was punctured by a splash of illumination at each work area. The massive room had a carpeted walkway on each side, and a glass and steel catwalk stretched overhead. In the middle of the cubicle configuration was an elevated glass-walled room where a row of fifty-inch video monitors hung above a streamlined counter. Charlie counted a half-dozen men and women seated at the counter observing the various views of Cobo Hall. Attached to the catwalk were two mega-screens. One displayed time zones for cities in the U.S., Europe, Africa, Asia, and South America; the other had a panoramic view of the Detroit River.

  There was no receptionist, so the Mack partners moved off to the side of the double doors where an orange rug provided the perimeter of a visitors area. The space was completed with a round, white marble pedestal table and contemporary white stools. Spectrum employees wore white shirts, black ties, and green blazers. A few looked curiously at the visitors, and one or two nodded a greeting. Within a minute, a tall brunette wearing the company attire stepped out of a door along the nearest walkway and approached the group.

  “Ms. Mack, Mr. Rutkowski, and Mr. Acosta? I’m Cynthia Fitz-gerald, Mr. Heinrich’s executive assistant. We’ve been expecting you. Won’t you follow me?”

  Cynthia had short-cropped hair and wore a black pencil skirt with three-inch black heels. Charlie noted Gil and Don’s attention to her legs as she led them along the corridor, and Charlie took a good look, too.

  Irwin Cross and Scott Hartwell sat in sleek, gray chairs across from Geoff Heinrich who was seated at a pretentiously large desk. Cross and Hartwell popped up when Charlie and the others entered the room, but Heinrich didn’t bother lifting himself from his black leather chair. His mouth was a tight line, and his stare unnerving.

  “These are the people I was telling you about, Geoff,” Irwin Cross said.

  Charlie moved toward Heinrich’s desk to offer her handshake, but he abruptly stood and gestured toward his stainless-steel conference table. He was tall, maybe six-five, and wore a charcoal pinstriped suit with a cobalt blue silk tie. He was tanned and fit, and Charlie was sure his Italian shoes had cost no less than eight hundred dollars.

  “I’m going to have some breakfast; may I offer you some?”

  “Coffee would be fine for me,” Charlie said.

  “Same here,” Gil said.

  “Help yourself,” Heinrich said pointing to the open pantry. “There are a variety of grains, dried fruit and nuts. There’s yogurt in the refrigerator, and greens and fresh fruit for the juicer,” Heinrich listed.

  “Do you have any Danish or a muffin?” Don asked.

  Heinrich looked at Don as if he were in a specimen tube. Don returned the glare. The two were sizing up each other— a rhinestone-collared tabby versus a scrappy alley cat.

  “I can’t offer you any pastries. We only serve whole foods in the office. We’re extremely health conscious,” Heinrich said, opening a sliding door to reveal an espresso machine.

  “Would you like me to go to the Starbucks upstairs, Mr. Rutkowski?” Heinrich’s assistant, Cynthia, asked. She was hovering, always keeping one eye on Heinrich. She carried an electronic tablet and had a phone bud in one ear. Heinrich seemed to dislike her offer of hospitality.

  “That’s nice of you.” Don finally shifted his eyes from Heinrich. “But I’ll just have a couple of pieces of fruit and some bottled water.”

  “Actually, we only have filtered water. I’ll get you a glass,” Cynthia said.

  Heinrich had taken a seat at the head of the conference table with a bowl of granola and strawberries in front of him. Irwin Cross made a cup of espresso, while Hartwell watched the dynamics from his seat near the desk.

  “Shall we get down to business,” Hartwell said, standing. “As I told you, Geoff, I need you to provide staff credentials to Ms. Mack and her colleagues. They need to have access to every space in the building, and a complete report on security measures. They will sit in on any event-related meetings, and they need a private office space with a conference room.”

  “We’ll also need copies of any reports you’ve compiled on Mr. Chenglei, as well as a list of your employees, Mr. Heinrich,” Charlie said.

  “Why do you need my employee list? They’ve all been fully vetted. Credit reports, background checks, and drug tested. The works.”

  “Mr. Heinrich personally hand-picked most of his staff, Ms. Mack, and I spent a good deal of time investigating Spectrum, including checking all their references,” Hartwell said from across the room.

  “It’s just part of the protocol. It’s a system of exclusion, which we’ve used before at Homeland Security. It’s quite effective when looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack,” Charlie said.

  “Geoff, I want you to provide your staff records to Ms. Mack, and I want you to give her, and her colleagues, your full cooperation. If you have any concerns, bring them directly to me,” Hartwell said, receiving a hard look from Heinrich.

  “Can we get our credentials and office today?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes,” Heinrich said, pouring a green concoction from a pitcher into a large glass and returning to his desk. “Cynthia will show you to your office suite and handle your credentials. We have four levels of security clearance. You’ll have level three clearances, the same as my department heads.”

  “Who has the top clearance?” Charlie asked.

  “Only me,” Heinrich said, staring adamantly.

  Charlie smiled and turned slightly toward Don and Gil to discourage any pushback they were about to offer. “Well, we better get to work. Thank you for your cooperation.” Charlie’s words dripped with sarcasm.

  There were no goodbyes from Heinrich for the Mack Partners. Hartwell shook hands with the trio and stayed behind, while Cynthia and Irwin Cross escorted them to a large two-room corner office nearest the main entrance.

  “I think you’ll have everything you need here— copiers, fax machines, desktop computers. I’ve made extra keys for the Spectrum doors and your office suite; and the door to your conference room has a separate lock. They’re in the envelope on the table. There is a phone card at each desk with Mr.
Heinrich’s office number and cell phone. My private number is also on that card. You can reach me there day and night.” Cynthia’s last statement seemed to be directed at Gil. He responded with a smile.

  “Ms. Fitzgerald, we’ll need access to your email server and databases, and the names and contact information for the companies and people handling the auto show, like registration, vendor licensing, and the technical setup for the show,” Charlie said.

  “And blueprints of the building,” Don added.

  Cynthia punched notes into her tablet, keeping pace with the requests.

  “We also need the contact information for all the unions working the show. I bet there must be a half-dozen,” Gil said.

  “That’s about right,” Cynthia said, punching in more notes. “Anything else for now? Will you need an administrative assistant?”

  “No. Actually, our office manager will be here soon, and you’ll be seeing a lot of her,” Charlie said.

  “Okay, we’ll also get credentials for her, and I’ll get her a set of keys. Will you have other associates using the office?” Cynthia asked.

  “We’re hiring contractors. They’ll all need credentials. We hope that won’t be a problem,” Gil said.

  “No. We’ll just need to discuss their clearance levels with Mr. Heinrich. If you come with me, I can get your ID cards made now,” Cynthia said.

  “If you don’t mind I’ll wait here, Ms. Mack,” Cross said. “Scott and I would like to speak with you and your team before we leave.”

  Spectrum had a full-service photo and biometrics lab. The staffer who took their pictures and made their chip-based security badges was cheerful and efficient. An optical technician, wearing a lab coat, used a piece of equipment with a long, black tentacle to scan their retinas. He had a more reserved personality, but was very professional. Cynthia chatted amiably with Charlie, Don, and Gil about the capability of the lab as she waited with them to receive their credentials. Within fifteen minutes, the Mack Partners had level-three security status, and Cynthia guided them back to their temporary office space. Cross and Hartwell were having a heated argument in the conference room when they arrived.