Catch Me When I'm Falling

by Cheryl A Head

  “That means you can arrest them, but you can’t usually hold them,” Gil said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Would this L2D gang be involved in a series of murders in the Corridor in the last few months?” Charlie asked.

  “Possibly. All gangs use violence to protect their turf and gain more of a foothold. Gang wars are happening all over the country.”

  “I don’t think this is about gang warfare. These murders are of homeless people who have been burned to death,” Charlie said.

  “Really?” Scott said. You’re right, that doesn’t sound like turf war violence.”

  “Could it be part of an initiation?” Don asked.

  Scott’s eyebrows wrinkled in concentration. “That’s an interesting idea. There’s always some kind of task to perform to get into a gang. Everything from taking a beating, to committing a crime. Sometimes even murder. I haven’t heard specifically of burning homeless men.”

  “At least one woman has been immolated,” Charlie corrected him.

  “Wow. Why haven’t we heard about this?”

  “Your higher-ups don’t want to unnecessarily alarm the public,” Charlie said.

  “Have you spoken to anyone in the Drug Unit?” Scott asked.

  “No,” said Don. “Who would that be?”

  “Bill Anderson. He’s working on a new task force with the DEA and the state police. They’re putting a lot of effort on Kalamazoo and Grand Rapids; I’m not sure they’re focusing much on the Corridor. There’s a new drug, something called Fentanyl, that everyone’s worried about.”

  “Wow. The shit never ends, does it?” Don said.

  “You got that right,” Scott said.

  # # #

  “You come out with me tonight, Gil,” Charlie said.

  “Good. I can meet you here at the office. What time?”

  “I’m meeting Reggie at 8:30. So, maybe eight.”

  “How will you get there?” Don asked.

  “I can drive us and park my car somewhere,” Gil said. “There’s plenty of parking on John R on a Friday night. Then we can walk over.”

  “Good. I’m heading home for a few hours of sleep, and to have dinner with Mandy.”

  “I’ll see if I know anyone in the department’s drug unit, and then go and buy you another burner phone.”

  “Oh, thanks, Don. I forgot.”

  “What happened to your phone?”

  “She gave it to that Betti person,” Don said derisively. “I think he’s a drag queen.”

  “Not a drag queen. She’s transgender.”

  “Oh?” Gil asked.

  “All I know is she’s not a she. I wasn’t sure at first. But I figured it out when she, uh he, was in my backseat.”

  “Most transgender people have a pronoun preference, Don. I believe she identifies as a woman,” Charlie said.

  “Don’t try to confuse me. Betti is a prostitute, and a man. That’s what I know.”

  Don’s social views leaned toward bigotry. That had been apparent the first day Charlie and Gil met him, as a trainer at the Department of Homeland Security where he announced to the freshman class of agents: “You can’t fight terrorism with empathy.” But they’d also witnessed Don’s world views softening over the years, especially when faced with direct proof that his prejudices were wrong.

  On weekdays during his second year at DHS, Don’s parents sometimes picked up Rudy from school and drove him to their house in Hamtramck to wait until Rita got off from her part-time job. One Wednesday afternoon, Don’s dad, Walter, stopped by a convenience store where he bought his weekly lottery ticket and a hot dog for Rudy. Rudy was taking a huge bite of the dog when he began to choke. Walter reported seeing his grandson’s face discoloring, his eyes bulging, and the boy flailing at his throat when Rauf Al-Hamzi, the son of the store’s owner, took quick action. Leaning Rudy over his knee, the young man executed several swift blows between the boy’s shoulder blades until a hunk of hot dog dislodged from Rudy’s throat. Don’s father cried as he recounted the story to Don and Rita: “That Arab boy saved Rudy’s life,” he said. That single act of kindness for Rudy convinced Don to soften his views and depart Homeland Security where the good guys–versus–bad guys litmus test was too narrow.

  “I almost forgot,” Gil said, “Ernestine called. She got in touch with Eddie’s landlord, and she spoke to Reggie. She was fishing for information about where you were. Did you tell her about the undercover work?”

  “No. I didn’t want to worry her.”

  “Well, I think she knows.”

  “Okay. I guess I’m in trouble now with my girlfriend and my mother.”

  # # #

  Charlie rang Mandy’s doorbell and Judy opened the door with pieces of fabric draped over her arm.

  “Ah. A homeless person. How’d you get by our doorman?”

  “Hilarious. Where’s Mandy?”

  “She went to get more boxes. We’re really making progress.”

  “Is there something I can help with?”

  “I’m packing up the linen closet, and you can help with that if you like.”

  “Sure, I can do that.” Charlie placed the black trash bag with her homeless clothes on the floor of the bathroom, ran wet fingers through her hair, then washed her hands. When she returned to Mandy’s living room, she sat next to Judy on the sofa.

  “You look tired. How’d you sleep last night?” Judy asked.

  “Actually, not too bad. There just wasn’t enough of it.”

  “Then you should take a nap. You going out again tonight?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Charlie didn’t recognize the look Judy gave her. “What is it?”

  “Mandy says you’ve been complaining every day about the packing. She thinks the undercover work is a way to avoid your feelings about you two moving in together. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “Mom says it’s normal, but I am a little scared.”

  “You better work it out fast. Mandy has no doubts at all.”

  The sound of a key in the lock cut the conversation short. The door swung open and Mandy entered carrying two boxes in each hand and pushing two more with her foot.

  “Let me help,” Charlie said, rushing to the door.

  “You can go back to the car with me. I have eight more boxes.”

  When they entered the elevator, Charlie pulled Mandy in for a kiss and a long hug. “I missed you yesterday.”

  “How’d the job go?”

  “Not bad. I ate a couple of times at McDonald’s, and I had a yummy loaf of pecan bread. Then I slept pretty good on an open-air bed.”

  “Sounds like you enjoyed it.”

  “It wasn’t a matter of enjoying it, but I made the most of the experience. Best of all, we have a viable clue to follow up. I’m tired, though; I need three or four hours of sleep.”

  “So, you’re going back tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  Mandy opened the hatch of her car. In addition to the boxes, there were two rolls of packing tape and a roll of large labels. They scooped up the moving materials, and Charlie felt Mandy’s stare in the glow of the garage fluorescents.

  “You promised you’d help pack today.”

  “I will. Then I’ll take a nap, and we’ll get some dinner. It’ll have to be early, though. I have to be at the office at eight.”

  # # #

  Gil and Charlie found a parking spot on John R Street under a light near the Detroit Medical center, and turned off the engine. Don was on the phone, on speaker, with an account of his conversation with the DEA.

  “Some of the members of the Mexican gangs grew up in the city, but many more came illegally to Michigan for better lives. With few jobs in the region, the young men turned to the underground economy, primarily selling drugs,” said Don.

  “Was the DEA aware of gang involvement in the murders of the homeless?” Gil asked.

  “No. The guy I spoke to said pretty much the same thing
as Scott. There are ongoing turf battles around drug trafficking, but no reports of assaults on individuals.”

  “Hmm.” Charlie was forming a question. “Don, did you talk to that officer Scott mentioned? Uh, Anderson was his name, I think.”

  “No. He’s assigned to the drug task force, and reports to the DEA. That’s why I called them.”

  “Okay,” said Charlie. “We just got to the Corridor, and we’re waiting for Reggie.”

  “I thought you were picking him up downtown?”

  “He wanted to meet closer to the shelter, so here we are. We’re good for now. But we’ll call if anything goes down,” Charlie said.

  “You’d better,” Don said and disconnected.

  Gil was right. There was very little action on John R Street on a Friday night. The area was mostly residential, but there were parking lots for the hospital a couple of blocks away, and an occasional car entered or exited. The area was dark because only a few of the streetlights worked.

  “Did you reach Betti?” Gil asked Charlie.

  “No. She didn’t answer. We’ll call her when Reggie gets here.”

  “Okay.” Gil settled into his seat. He was good at waiting, not like Don who grew impatient when their cases called for strategy over action. Gil could also blend into almost any population, and was amazingly intuitive. Those characteristics, along with his good looks, made him successful at almost everything he did. Tonight, he looked just like one of the street people they would soon be joining.

  “Where’d you get the clothes?”

  Gil smiled. “This is basically what bachelors look like on the weekends. I just grabbed a few things from my dirty clothes hamper. I’m wearing my old Chucks from my basketball days, and the gloves and hat I got from the dollar store. Don’t I smell the part?”

  “You’re quite ripe.”

  They laughed. Charlie knew she was privileged to have partners who had become valued friends. Their obvious differences made the firm stronger, allowing them to approach the problems of each case with a variety of perspectives and experiences. That diversity set them apart from other investigation firms in the region, and their reputation—with law enforcement, local governments, the business community, and power brokers in Detroit’s vast metropolitan area—had kept the Mack Agency’s doors open.

  “We got a guy coming up the sidewalk,” Gil said, peering into the side mirror. “Is that Reggie?”

  Charlie leaned into the mirror. “Yes, that’s him.”

  They got out of the car to greet Reggie. Charlie wanted to make sure he was sober, or at least not in his shaky, needy state. He stood tall and confident, so he must have had a recent dose of the medicine he needed.

  “This is my other partner, Gil Acosta. Gil, Reggie McCandless.”

  “Glad to meet you.”

  Reggie offered his hand. “Where’s the cop?”

  “He’s off tonight,” Charlie said. “We have a change of plans. I’m not going to the shelter. I want to walk some more. Betti is trying to get me more information about the man who threatened Carla.”

  “Oh. Have you talked to Betti?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “There’s been some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Gil asked.

  “Somebody beat her up. I heard she went to the hospital,” Reggie reported.

  Charlie’s heart plunged. “She was going to talk to one of her johns about this new Mexican gang in the Corridor,” Charlie said.

  “Well, maybe somebody took offense,” Reggie replied.

  “Where do you think we can find her?”

  “If she’s out tonight, she’ll find us. Let’s grab some coffee. There’ll be lots of coming and goings outside the shelter until ten o’clock or so. We can wait there, and I’ll ask about her.”

  Reggie and Charlie sat together on the curb across from the Safe Harbor shelter where they could keep an eye on the door, and the surrounding street. Gil was somewhere nearby keeping an eye out too, but Charlie couldn’t see him. When a light rain started, the line outside the shelter doubled, and Charlie and Reggie stepped under the metal awning of a closed storefront church nearby. A few people jockeyed for spots closer to the shelter entrance, and a staffer with a walkie-talkie came out to restore the integrity of the line.

  “When do they open the doors?” Charlie asked.

  “Nine or nine-fifteen. They take the women first, because some of them have children.”

  “Children? I haven’t seen any children. Wait, that’s not true. I saw a couple of kids at NSO.”

  “Oh, there are many homeless people with children,” Reggie said. “A lot of the agencies send them to the shelters when the residential programs fill up, and they don’t have any other place to go. The kids are in school or daycare during the day, but at night their mothers, fathers, and in some cases both parents have to find places for their kids to sleep.”

  When the shelter opened, a male and a female staffer began the entry process for those lucky enough to get an overnight slot. They jotted information onto a clipboard while security patted down each person before they were allowed entry.

  “No drugs or liquor are allowed, and if they find a weapon you’re banned from the shelter,” Reggie explained. “There are a lot of rules. Some folks get in, but decide they can’t stay.”

  Charlie counted four dozen people ushered into the shelter before the intake staffers disappeared into the doorway. A security guard blocked entry for the rest. Even with the distance and the rain, it was easy to hear the raised voices of anger and disappointment at being too far back in line.

  “What happens to those who don’t get in?”

  “Try one of the other shelters, but tonight it’s probably too late because the rain drives people indoors. They find other ways to keep dry, like a tent city or an abandoned building. Sometimes the bus station.”

  “What’s the procedure once you’re inside?”

  “You’re assigned a cot in the separate areas for men and women. They pass out blankets, serve a snack pack, and televisions are on until eleven-thirty. Then it’s lights out until 6:30 a.m. I’ll stay in the shelter when it gets too cold, but rain, snow or cold, Eddie could never stay. And once you leave for the night you’re not allowed back in.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you manage to stay at a shelter if you can’t drink?”

  “I have a way to smuggle in a flask.”

  They waited under the awning for more than an hour. As predicted, four or five people left the shelter and moved deeper into the Corridor for other overnight accommodations. The rain was steady now, and the forecast called for thunderstorms. Reggie retrieved a poncho from his backpack, and Charlie removed the flannel throw from her cart, draping it over her shoulders. She’d also remembered to bring several pieces of cardboard for a dry seat. She was beginning to look and act the part of a homeless person. Two men joined them under the awning, and Reggie passed his gin bottle. A couple of times, one of the sporty muscle cars rolled by slowly, tires spraying rainwater, and everyone locked their eyes on the tinted windows.

  “This is going to be a slow night for drug sales,” Reggie said.

  Another hour passed. The temperature dropped, and the rain pinged the awning above them in a steady staccato. Charlie was glad for the thick-soled shoes that had belonged to Judy’s husband, but her hands were getting chilly.

  “I’m going to walk over to Mickey D’s for a cup of coffee and an apple pie. You want one?” Charlie asked Reggie.

  “You need me to tag along?”

  “No, I’m good. But I’ll leave the cart.”

  “What about your friend? I haven’t seen him,” Reggie whispered.

  “You won’t. He’s a former Marine—special forces.”

  Charlie moved along Cass to Canfield holding her blanket tight around her, with her cap pulled snug to her ear tips. She’d just turned the corner when she heard a sound behind her. She stopped, turned, and squatted, putting her han
d on the grip of the revolver in her sock. The figure trotting toward her wore a yellow rain poncho over a broad torso. Out of the corner of her eye Charlie saw another swift movement, and she rose to her feet quickly.

  “Wait, Gil, it’s Betti,” Charlie hollered.

  Betti and Gil froze in place, and for a few moments Charlie, Gil and Betti formed a human triangle. Gil’s gun was drawn. Betti stood on her tiptoes in yellow slippers.

  “I wanted to talk to you alone,” Betti shouted above the rain. “Who’s this guy?”

  “My other partner, Gil. He’s sort of my bodyguard.”

  “I could have used a bodyguard earlier,” Betti said glibly and lifted the left side of her poncho to reveal her arm in a cast.

  Charlie’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “My client thought I was being too nosy. He threw me against a wall.”

  “C’mon, let’s go to McDonald’s,” Charlie ordered.

  They sat at a booth near the restrooms. The manager eyed them suspiciously, but took their order when she saw the twenty-dollar bill Gil pulled from his pocket. Nevertheless, she strolled past their seats a couple of times to make sure they weren’t causing trouble. Betti had already succumbed to Gil’s charms, and they chatted animatedly. The left side of Betti’s face was badly bruised, her lip cut.

  “Is your arm broken?” Charlie asked.

  Betti reluctantly peeled her eyes from Gil’s face, and shifted in the seat to answer. “No. It’s a fracture.”

  “A fracture is a break,” Gil said sympathetically.

  “Yeah. I guess it is,” Betti said with a shy smile.

  “Who was the man who hurt you, Betti?” Charlie asked.

  “Monty. He’s the boss of those drug guys in the cars. I told him what I heard about the boy with the cigarette lighter and he said it wasn’t true, but I told him Carla was talking about it, and she was telling people the boy is crazy.”