Wake Me When It's Over

by Cheryl A Head

  At tonight’s teleconference, he would have to listen to his bosses’ complaints about the diplomatic fallout. He, in turn, would report the programmer’s death as an unfortunate, but random, act in a city with a reputation for violence. He would tell the Guí owners that by the time the show opened next week, the launch would be a success. On the other matter, he’d report that another young programmer was already in place, and the job was almost complete. Kwong buzzed the intercom a second time.

  “Would you freshen my drink, Amy?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kwong.”

  When she leaned over to place his drink on the napkin, Kwong thought about touching her hand, but didn’t.

  “Thank you, Amy. Is the presentation ready for tonight’s meeting?”

  “Yes, everything is ready. I put the finishing touches on the presentation this afternoon as you instructed. I emailed the reports to Beijing an hour ago, and called to confirm they had been received.”

  “Thank you. You’re very efficient. Why don’t you go get yourself some dinner?”

  “Can I bring back anything for you, Mr. Kwong?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. I had a late lunch.”

  Amy Wu gathered her purse, coat, and keys. Mr. Kwong’s late lunch had consisted of a scotch on the rocks. She jotted the word Dewar’s on her calendar as a reminder to replenish the supply in his cabinet. Kwong was an odd man. Hardworking, but very secretive, and unable to disguise his lustful thoughts. Amy was sure he would have made a pass at her long ago were it not for her grandfather’s reputation on the mainland.

  She portrayed the demure young girl at work because that’s what Mr. Kwong required, but she was a second-generation American. Away from the traditional environment of this office she was a modern woman. She didn’t dislike all black people the way Mr. Kwong and Mr.Heinrich did. She’d overheard the derision they used when talking about Chenglei’s assailants. She would never repeat those conversations, filled with the N-word, to her mother or father who were both professors at the University of Michigan. Kwong and Heinrich had only slightly more respect for white Americans. They called the U.S. hypocritical and laughed at what they called the softness of America.

  Amy pulled her late-model Chrysler Sebring up to the exit gate and pressed her badge against the electronic pad. When the gate opened, she eased into traffic heading away from downtown. There was a light rain, so she turned on her windshield wipers and her radio. “Oh, this is my jam,” she shouted, and punched the up button on the volume until Beyoncé’s “In Da Club” reverberated through the car.

  Lin Fong tapped his foot nervously under the counter in the control booth. His orders from Mr. Heinrich were to appear to provide technical support for the videoconference in the next room. He followed the directions of the Spectrum technician who was doing audio checks, adjusting the table cameras, and monitoring the satellite feed from Beijing. The third person in the booth was Amy Wu, who worked for the head of the Chinese auto manufacturer. She was observing, and a couple of times Lin caught her staring at him. She was an attractive girl, but a bit too young and buttoned-up for his tastes. He preferred Cynthia, who had seemed even more seductive after he’d downed a glass of wine during their dinner.

  Cynthia had asked about his family, and his childhood, and his experiences growing up as an Asian-American in southeast Michigan, and she marveled that he had such an impressive work background. A half hour into their dinner, Cynthia discarded her Spectrum blazer and he was rewarded with flashes of cleavage through her white cotton shirt. He might have talked too much after that. When his BlackBerry vibrated in his pocket, he waited until she visited the ladies’ room to check the message from Ms. Mack— a reminder that she’d pick him up from the top level of the parking garage.

  “Okay, we’re ready to begin,” the Spectrum tech said into the microphone that fed Heinrich’s earpiece.

  “Keep an eye on the audio levels,” the tech reminded Lin, who squared his chair to the console. “I’m opening the feed to your guys,” the tech said in Mandarin to his counterpart in Beijing.

  Kwong began the transcontinental meeting by introducing Geoff Heinrich. He then switched to Mandarin and began reading his report. Within five minutes, one of the executives in Beijing closed his copy of the report with a slam, and began firing questions at Kwong. Lin Fong picked up a pen and began writing. Geoff Heinrich was nonplussed, and he leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers on the table.

  “The boss is pissed,” the technician said to no one in particular.

  When the meeting was completed, Lin left the control room to hand Heinrich a few pieces of folded paper. Lin noticed Amy watching. She remained in the conference room as her boss debriefed with Heinrich. Lin helped the technician pack the microphones and portable cameras, then said his good-byes. At 9:30 p.m., he punched the button on the parking elevator and tapped a message into his phone. As the elevator doors were closing, he caught a glimpse of Amy Wu stepping into the corridor.

  The Mack team was still hard at work reviewing the personnel files. Charlie’s BlackBerry buzzed, and “OTM” appeared on the screen.

  “OK, I’ve got to go pick up Lin and drive him to his aunt’s house,” Charlie said.

  “You want me to go with you?” Don asked.

  “No, I can handle this solo.”

  “Then I’ll go check on the night patrols. You coming back?”

  “No. When I’m done, I’ll try to get a few hours of sleep. See you in the morning.”

  Heinrich slipped out of the olive green silk sheets and into a deep blue brocade robe. He tightened the belt around his muscular waist, eased onto his chocolate-leather chaise, and lit a small cigar. The slight burn in his throat, and the sound of running water, made his abs tingle with the memory of sex with the girl in the bathroom. He smiled, leaned back on the chaise, and watched the snaking smoke. He sat up when the nude girl tiptoed from the bathroom door onto the deep, gray shag carpet. Tonight’s annoying conference call with Kwong’s people had driven him to this tryst, against his better judgment. He looked at his watch and beckoned her over.

  “I have a business meeting tonight. You’ll have to go now.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “It’s after midnight,” the girl protested. “And it’s raining.”

  “I’ll call you a cab. Get dressed.”

  The girl’s disappointment quickly shifted to anger. She spun, grabbed up her clothing from the floor, and returned to the bathroom, closing the door with a slam. He ordered a cab, lit another Italian cigarillo, and leaned deeper into the chaise, thinking about Mandy Porter.

  Her sensuality sprang, he believed, from a complete disregard for limitations. She was not likely to be caught up in romantic notions, like the girl in the loo. He should have absorbed her flirtations, rather than responded to them. He then considered Charlene Mack— all caramel skin and sinewy limbs. Charged and unpredictable like the air before a thunderstorm. “Hmm.” But it was Mandy he couldn’t shake from his thoughts.

  Yesterday, she’d come to his house for breakfast and deflected his not-so-subtle proposal with complete confidence. He hadn’t forced the issue, because the power was in having a woman offer herself to him.

  “You’re flirting with me.”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” Mandy asked.

  “I want sex with you.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I know what I want. I believe you’re a woman who shares that trait.”

  “I know exactly what I want, and right now that’s your full cooperation in thwarting this threat to the auto show.”

  “There is no threat.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Mandy’s dossier described her as a hero. Three bullets had lodged in her back, one barely missing her spine, when she’d traded gunfire with bank robbers. He tried to imagine how she’d react to the touch of his cigarillo against
the scar tissue on her body. Three beautiful wounds— fleshy, disfiguring, erotic. He felt the rise pushing against his silk robe and inhaled deeply, then released the smoke, following its path as it curled and rose toward the cathedral ceiling. He looked at his watch and swung his legs to the floor. He needed to be on time for his late-night meeting.

  Charlie was awakened by a sound, and she shifted to her back on the hotel’s king-sized bed. She splayed her legs across the cool sheets as if making a snow angel. The phone vibrated again, and she turned toward the nightstand to see the phone’s green light blinking. The red display on the clock showed 1:30 a.m.

  “Hello?”

  “Mack, it’s me.”

  “Don, what is it?”

  “Josh Simms has been shot.”

  “What?”

  “He and Hoyt were walking the parking levels and spotted activity at the back of a white van. They went over to investigate, and someone started shooting. Josh was hit twice. He’s dead.”

  “Oh, no, Don.”

  Charlie jerked herself to a sitting position and her stomached lurched. The dark, unfamiliar room brought a flash of an empty, debris-filled lot where she’d been bound and left to die. Charlie shook the memory from her head.

  “There’s something else, Charlie.” Don only called her Charlie when he was worried or sentimental.

  “My God. Mandy. Is she okay?”

  “It’s not Mandy. She’s fine. She was on patrol on the other side of Cobo. But the white van. It was filled with electronics.”

  “You mean like TVs and stereos?”

  “No. Like circuit boards, wiring and batteries,” Don said. “We’ve got to get back to Cobo.”

  “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday, January 3, 2006

  Auto Show: 5 days

  It was three in the morning. Tyson had returned to Cobo, and Tony Canterra and Scott Hartwell also joined the sullen group in Heinrich’s office. He sat at his desk with the air of a king holding court. The Detroit police commander who had left a few minutes ago was livid when he learned the auto dealers had kept the department out of the loop on the auto show security investigation.

  “I’ll speak with the Commissioner,” Hartwell announced to the room as he paced the office. “I’ll make him understand the sensitive nature of this situation.”

  “Look, to hell with the politics,” Don yelled. “I don’t give a damn about your PR issues anymore. One of our guys was killed last night, and the contents of that van suggests there’s some crazy terrorist shit going on.”

  “I don’t think we can jump to conclusions about that,” Tony said. “The police know DHS is claiming jurisdiction over this shooting because of the van’s contents, but our preliminary search didn’t turn up any explosives or residues. It’s not against the law to have wiring or circuits, but the van is stolen, and there were plenty of fingerprints that we’re checking out.”

  “What were those guys doing in that garage in the middle of the night anyway?” Gil asked.

  “It’s a good question,” Charlie said. “Maybe meeting someone. A half-dozen exhibitors had crews working here overnight.”

  “You have surveillance cameras in all the parking areas, correct, Mr. Heinrich?” Tony asked.

  “Yes. But after hours, that particular garage is only for our monthly parkers, and the van was in one of our blind spots.”

  “How convenient,” Don said bitterly.

  “If your people knew what they were doing, and had called for backup before moving in on a situation they didn’t understand, this might not have happened,” Heinrich countered.

  Hoyt Timbermann had been sitting quietly in the corner. He’d tried to resuscitate Josh and, when he realized his partner was dead, had followed a blood trail from the van into the northeast stairwell before he was stopped by three Spectrum security guys moving up the stairs. The police had grilled Hoyt for two hours, and he was haggard and despondent. Now he lifted his head to glare at Heinrich.

  “Why you contemptuous little . . .” Hoyt was rising from his chair to confront Heinrich, but Don interceded by putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “I know you feel like smacking this prick, but it won’t do any good. I promise you we’ll find out who shot Simms.”

  Charlie noted Heinrich’s posture. He wasn’t at all intimidated by Don or Hoyt, but he shriveled a bit under the glower of Scott Hartwell. Like Charlie, everyone had dressed hurriedly before coming to Cobo, and it showed. But Heinrich hadn’t hurried. He was dressed casually, but neatly, and was freshly showered. He offered an apology.

  “We’re actually very sorry about your team member’s death. It’s a tragedy.” Heinrich glanced at Cynthia who obediently nodded her agreement.

  There was ten seconds of quiet while the group assessed the sincerity of Heinrich’s apology. It gave Scott Hartwell the opening he needed to get the players refocused on the safety of the auto show.

  “We have five more days. What are our next steps, Ms. Mack?”

  “Two murders in two weeks at Cobo Hall is no coincidence. Whoever’s behind this is getting reckless,” Charlie said. “We need your approval to add more security cameras. Temporary ones that can take care of the blind spots in the building. These guys seem to know the terrain.”

  “We should also add cameras at the entryways of every exhibitor office,” Gil added.

  Heinrich objected. “Our international automakers are strident about their privacy, and they’ve paid a lot of money to be here.” Heinrich looked toward Hartwell for help, but received none. “These people think of their offices as extensions of their embassies. They won’t allow us to put cameras in those areas.”

  “We need those cameras,” Charlie stated emphatically.

  Hartwell was pacing again his face heavy with worry. “You’ll have them.” He stopped to give Heinrich a “this is not negotiable” look, and returned to his walking. “What else do you need, Ms. Mack?”

  Charlie understood now why the auto dealers had chosen Hartwell to represent them. She had mistaken his catlike alertness for nervousness. But, in fact, he made decisions with the agility and speed of a cheetah.

  “I have a call to make,” Heinrich said in Hartwell’s direction, and popped up from his desk. “Cynthia can authorize anything else you need.”

  Hartwell left the office a few minutes after Heinrich, and Tony excused himself to check his messages. The rest reconvened around the conference table in the Mack team’s suite, and were joined by the freelancers to map out a new game plan. Judy made fresh coffee and put doughnuts out on a platter, but the atmosphere in the conference room was too sober for eating. Now they were one man down.

  Hoyt was the first to speak up. “I know we should have called for help, but everything happened so fast. We didn’t even have our guns drawn. Josh just called out to the people behind the van, and they opened up on us.” Hoyt ran his hands through his short-cropped hair and coughed.

  “We probably need to establish specific protocols for the situations we run into,” Mandy said. “And, when we’re on duty, we should wear jackets marked with the word security.”

  Charlie nodded to Judy, who wrote down the suggestions. “Any other ideas?”

  “It might make sense to get bulletproof vests since people are shooting at us,” Gil said.

  Mandy had another request. “Also, the BlackBerry phones are fine, but let’s get some walkie-talkies for the patrol crews. They’re not new-tech, but they work.”

  “We have walkie-talkies and the vests, too, if you want them,” Cynthia offered. “We can also help install the security cameras.”

  Cynthia’s suggestion set off a full-fledged disagreement among the team.

  “I think we should have the monitors here, Mack,” Don said. “Spectrum can still keep an eye on the cameras they have in place, and we can monitor the new camera locations. That’s the practical thing to do. The more eyes on Cobo, the better.”

  “I
t might be a waste of manpower to have people sitting around in front of monitors,” Gil offered.

  “I can take a monitor shift,” Judy said.

  “So can I,” Carter Bernstein said. He had commandeered the conference room cot as his new home away from home, and he had traded his suit for a T-shirt and jeans.

  “That’s fine,” Charlie said, “but I agree with Gil. Spectrum can continue the camera monitoring. We should be moving around.”

  “We can set it up so you can see the output of the new cameras on a laptop. Or two laptops. It’s just like the new security monitoring systems you can get for your house,” Cynthia said.

  “We accept,” Don said.

  “Okay. That’s a good compromise,” Charlie agreed. “We also accept your offer to have Spectrum install the cameras in Cobo’s blind spots. But we’ll supervise the camera installations at the exhibitor offices.”

  “Whatever you say,” Cynthia replied, taking notes on her tablet.

  “I’ll rework the schedule to keep most people on patrol, and have one or two people monitoring the cameras,” Hoyt said. “I have to do a new shift schedule anyway.”

  Remembering Josh, the mood in the room shifted to sober again.

  “Please, keep me in the field, Hoyt?” Mandy pleaded. “I’d be useless to everyone watching a monitor.”

  “I know that, Mandy.”

  “Did you determine where the guys in the van escaped to?” Gil asked Cynthia.

  “We spotted three people fleeing the parking garage, and sent our guys to intercept them, but we lost them.”

  “I’d like to take a look at the camera footage from the parking lot,” Gil said. “Did DHS already take it off-site?”

  “No. It’s all digital. I’ll send it to you as a link,” Cynthia said.

  Tony Canterra burst into the conference room. “I’ve got news,” he said. “The fingerprints in the van were in our national database. Three sets. American. Small-time crooks. Theft, arson, aggravated assault. But, obviously, now also armed and dangerous. A fourth set of prints was found on three cash labels discarded on the floor of the vehicle. Not in our database. We’re working with Interpol to see if the prints are in the international databases. We’re trying to trace the blasting caps and wiring, but they’re easily bought online and, in the case of the phones, you can get them at any mall kiosk. We also retrieved information on the van. Get this, the van was leased three months ago to an employee of the Chinese Consulate in Chicago.”