Bacalla. The description fit the man like a condom, but I found something curious about Gracie Caponi's tone. She seemed nervous, maybe too nervous. If we could get inside and question her a little further...I decided to try.
"May I use your bathroom, Mrs. Caponi?"
“Sure, I guess so." The door opened and we stepped into a small living room. "Through that doorway, on the left."
Walking down the narrow hallway, I noticed a doorway that led into a small den. The room held a playpen along with the standard couch, easy chair and a TV tuned into Hollywood Squares. On the far wall hung a dozen or more framed photographs. Perhaps they could shed some light on Vince Caponi.
Moving closer, I saw a mixture of family snapshots and pictures of Vince Caponi with business associates: Caponi and Cato in tuxedos standing next to EMMY Chairman Rod Burton at the award presentation; Caponi along with Chris and Dave Sarris at the Caddy Banquet, a local award ceremony; and Caponi and Gracie with Matt Carter and a date, seated in a restaurant booth. Their body language, arms intertwined, said they were close business associates, if not friends.
"The lavatory is down the hall."
I turned to find Gracie Caponi in the doorway, holding her daughter. Sean Higgins appeared behind her, palms outstretched in a “Sorry, I couldn’t stop her” posture.
“Mrs. Caponi, you said you didn’t know Matt Carter. But this picture... obviously you knew Matt well."
"I think you'd better leave."
"Mrs. Caponi...Gracie," I said. "Matt and your husband were friends. We want to help.”
Gracie’s expression softened, so I went on. "Federal Express records show that your husband sent a copy of that disc to you. One of our friends almost died trying to keep another copy from getting into the wrong hands. We want to make sure the right people see it."
Gracie Caponi began to cry. She set her daughter in the playpen and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
"I didn't... didn't know what to do. Vince called me that night to say he was FedExing a package here. He said to hide it... not to show it to anyone."
"Where is it?" I asked.
"C’mon."
She led us through a small kitchen to a side door and into a brick garage in back of the house.
"Here. Take it." Gracie seemed relieved.
"You're doing the right thing," I said.
"I told the cops I didn't have it. What will they do?"
"Sergeant Kaminski is an old friend," I said. "I think he'll understand."
Higgins and I said good-bye and started walking.
"Darcy?"
I looked back. Standing alone under the garage's single light bulb, Gracie Caponi appeared small and fragile. "What could be in that package that someone would kill Vince over?"
"I don't know, Gracie,” I said. “But I promise we'll find out."
48
7:15 p.m.
Street lamps cut yellow streaks through the darkness as Higgins and I walked down Gracie Caponi's wet driveway. The aroma of freshly-watered grass hung in the air.
Higgins backed the Avatar out of the driveway and we started down the street, Higgins still babying the car. A few blocks from the house he turned to say something and noticed my expression. “What is it?”
"A car...following us."
"You sure?" He searched the rear view mirror.
"Don't you see it? A Dodge Viper."
"Yeah...there. You sure it’s following us?"
“Turn here and see."
Higgins cut the wheel sharply at the next street, nearly running onto a lawn. The Viper followed. Higgins pressed tentatively on the accelerator pedal and the Avatar responded with a quick jump from twenty-five to thirty-five miles per hour.
The Viper saw the ten and raised five, creeping closer.
"Turn again."
Higgins feathered the brake pedal, and guided the Avatar cautiously into the turn.
"Still there.” I could have saved my breath; Higgins’ eyes were fixed on the rear view mirror. He pressed the accelerator again, coaxing the AVX to forty miles an hour.
Higgins turned my way. "What do they want?"
"The DVD. What do you think they want?"
Higgins inched the accelerator toward the floor, tacking on another ten miles an hour.
As the Viper drove under a street lamp, I saw two men inside, one talking into a cell phone.
"I can't go faster on these side roads," Higgins said. "Let's get to a main street." He cut sharply at the next intersection. The bright lights of Gratiot Avenue lay dead ahead, the Viper followed close behind.
49
The traffic signal at Gratiot came up fast and red. Higgins swung the Avatar around the corner without stopping, and eased into traffic. A horn blared behind us. Sprinting the same corner, the Viper had cut someone off.
With Higgins coddling the Avatar like a delicate work of art, we’d never lose the Viper. Our attention suddenly focused on three flashing blue lights behind us, a police car coming fast. The Avatar’s digital speedometer read sixty miles per hour. In the Avatar AVX, it felt like thirty-five. The police car weaved its way through the maze of vehicles behind us. The flashing lights passed the Viper. I never thought I’d be glad to see a traffic cop, and I bet Higgins felt the same way. Guiding the Avatar AVX over two lanes, he pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall.
The policeman leaped from his car and ran toward us. "Everybody out. Hands against the car. You inside," he yelled at me, "that means you."
The cop continued shouting. Higgins leaned against the AVX, placing one hand on the extended gullwing door, the other on the roof. The policeman patted him down.
"Okay, Miss, you too." The cop pushed me against the vehicle. I put my hands on the car as he gingerly patted me down.
"Officer, we were being chased."
"You're driving a stolen vehicle."
"Stolen?" Higgins took his hands off the Avatar and stood facing the policeman.
The cop’s hand was on his holster as he turned to Higgins. "Got the registration?"
"It's an experimental vehicle, a prototype, owned by American Vehicle Corporation...loaned to Adams & Benson, the advertising agency. I'm a vice president."
"It’s reported stolen," the cop replied.
"Stolen? That’s crazy."
The Viper pulled into the small parking area. As driver and passenger emerged from the vehicle, I recognized Bacalla and Roland.
"Bacalla," shouted Higgins. "Tell this man who we are."
"Never mind that," said the policeman, turning to the two, "who are you?"
"Bob Bacalla and J.R. Roland," Bacalla said. "We're with Adams & Benson, AVC's advertising agency. We spotted this Avatar AVX a few miles back, and we've been following. It's an experimental model, very valuable."
"Let's see some I.D."
Both men produced driver's licenses. Bacalla reached into the Viper and retrieved an attaché case. He produced several documents with Adams & Benson letterheads, enough to convince the policeman.
"You know these two?" he asked, motioning to Higgins and me.
"I've seen them around the Adams & Benson building."
"Are they authorized to drive this vehicle?"
"As I said, it's very valuable. I can't answer that. You'd have to ask someone on the AVC advertising account."
"I run the AVC account, you ass," Higgins roared. "Tell him who I am."
"Get away from the car," the cop shouted. Roland was on the driver's side of the AVX, leaning across to the glove compartment. He straightened up, holding the Avion DVD.
"Just getting this DVD,” Roland said. "It's agency property." I noticed he slurred his words. There were sirens in the distance, more cops on the way.
"It's also evidence," the policeman said. "It stays with the car."
Bacalla started toward the patrolman. "Officer, that DVD is needed in a high-level conference tomorrow morning."
While the policeman concentrated on Bacalla, I
saw Roland pocket the disc, and pull another from his coat.
"Sean," I called, "Roland switched DVDs. The submaster’s in his pocket."
As Higgins started for Roland, the cop stepped in his way. Higgins avoided him, but Roland suddenly had a pistol in his hand.
Higgins surprised me. I hadn’t figured him for the hero type; it must have been a reflex instinctive to an athlete. He took a step toward Roland, grabbed the big man's gun hand and pushed it away from his body.
A flash of light followed and a pop as the gun fired so close I caught the acrid smell of cordite in my nostrils. The policeman dropped to one knee, clutching his right side. Drawing his own gun, he pointed it unsteadily at Roland.
Higgins still held Roland's gun hand. He shook it violently, and the weapon hit the ground. As they struggled, Higgins appeared overmatched at first. Roland equaled Higgins’ height, but was stockier and had moves straight from a Jackie Chan film. But Roland seemed slow. Higgins said later he’d caught the aroma of alcohol on the man’s breath. The fight ended with Higgins wrestling Roland to the ground and tearing the DVD from his coat pocket.
Bacalla, meanwhile, had drawn his own gun and was yelling at the policeman, trying to convince him the shooting hadn’t been Roland’s fault.
Realizing Bacalla would soon have that gun pointed at us, I jumped into the driver's seat of the Avatar AVX and waved for Higgins to follow. He hesitated, then leaped into the passenger seat.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Driving," I shouted back, hitting the button that lowered the gullwing doors. "You'd better buckle up."
A twist of my wrist sparked the engine to life. I slammed the gearshift lever forward and wheels spit gravel. Second gear came a split second later at sixty-five. In the mirror, I saw the cop slump to the pavement, and two figures run for the Viper.
Flashing lights in the distance grew larger.
50
Monday, Oct. 18 2:23 a.m.
Dad. I know you’re sleeping and I’m actually glad I’m speaking to your voice mail right now. What I have to say isn’t easy, and I don’t have answers for a lot of the questions you’re going to have. If you haven’t heard already, you’re going to, about a policeman being killed. They think Sean Higgins and I...had something to do with it. We did. I mean, we were there. But it was an accident. Sean Higgins wasn’t even holding the gun. The police are looking for us and we have to hide for a while. I know we can prove we’re innocent...but I can’t go into that right now. I hope to see you soon. Good-bye, Dad. I love you.
51
Now...or Never
Wednesday, Oct. 20 –- 1:23 p.m.
My visit to the Gaylord library had confirmed my suspicion that the Avion DVD contained some sort of subliminal message.
Fortunately, for once Higgins agreed.
We sat on the deck, a warm breeze blowing through the trees nearby, mulling over the consequences of what I had just learned.
"We need evidence,” Higgins said. “That DVD; we’ve got to examine it like Rodriguez, and presumably Caponi, did: frame by frame. If you’re right, we’ll find some sort of message.”
A blue heron flew by out over the lake, barely ten feet off the water. I turned back to Higgins. "We need the right equipment."
"There's a television station in Traverse City that would have the technology. If we go near it, though, it could be the last TV station we visit for thirty years."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"Sean, shouldn't there be copies of that commercial in Detroit? At the TV stations that ran it?"
"Yeah."
"Let's ask Matt Carter to visit Channel Four, find their copy and run it on their equipment."
"Good idea; but I wonder how he’s handling the fact that we're wanted by the police."
"Let’s get him on the phone and ask."
52
Carter’s voice mail message reported he was on a video shoot. A call to his cell phone ended in another recorded message.
"There’s nothing we can do until we talk to Carter,” I said. “Let's take a walk and give our minds a rest.”
The sky was clear, temperature in the high sixties with a warm breeze drifting out of the west. I wore shorts and a sweatshirt, Higgins jeans and tee shirt with a red windbreaker. We talked as we strolled along a sandy trail just wide enough for two hikers. Higgins recognized each specie of tree, and called them out by name: oak, northern white pine, poplar, cedar, birch. Small white and brown birds darted from branch to branch, punctuating their flights with high-pitched peeps. Rounding a corner, we surprised a black squirrel, sending him scurrying up a pitch-stained pine.
The bright sun and pleasant surroundings helped push the crisis into the background. I found Sean easy to talk to, almost charming, away from the agency.
"Look, up there." I pointed to a clearing in the trees ahead. Blue water appeared through the branches as we got closer.
"Hart Lake," Higgins said. "Uncle Frank and I came here bluegill fishing twenty years ago. Those were some of the best times of my life."
We stood quietly for a while, looking out over the water. Hart Lake was small and round, no more than a half mile across. Only two boarded-up cottages, one white the other blue, broke up the array of green, orange, red and yellow foliage. The bright sun, coming from almost directly overhead, made the blue water sparkle with silver.
I caught Sean’s profile in the corner of my eye, and inhaled a hint of his cologne. I was beginning to experience a closeness to this man I hadn’t felt since my early days with Garry. I fought an urge to lean against him; afraid he'd move away.
Then I felt him brush against my arm. On purpose?
We stood like that awhile, enjoying the beauty of the vista and the feeling of being close. A breeze wafted by, carrying the pleasant aroma of dry autumn leaves. We were in the eye of a hurricane: calm here, but violent winds were swirling somewhere out there; winds neither of us could control.
It seemed too soon that Sean spoke. "Ready to go back?"
"Sure."
The spell broken, we headed back along the trail.
It was a beginning.
53
8:36 p.m.
I got through to Carter later that evening, sitting on the living room couch, portable phone to my ear. As we talked I gazed out the front window, squinting into the darkness at a growing ball of light on the beach where Higgins nursed a bonfire.
"What the hell's going on, Darcy? Cops are all over the place looking for you and Higgins."
"It was an accident, believe me." I gave Carter a quick synopsis of the events.
"I knew it, Darcy. Higgins may be a jerk, but he’d never kill anyone. Not that policeman, not Darren Cato. Cops are calling Cato’s death murder, but I’m sure it wasn’t Higgins."
"Glad you feel that way, Matt. We need your help, desperately."
"What can I do?"
I ran through my theory and Carter agreed to visit Channel Four the next day. He had spent a summer there as a college student several years ago, and still knew many staff members.
"Can you be there first thing in the morning?"
"I've got to spend time on the Ampere commercial with Klein. Cunningham’s called for a progress report by three. Promising the Ampere spot on air next Monday might have gotten the account, but it's put a hell of a burden on us."
My pause telegraphed the disappointment I felt. Carter picked it up.
"Darcy, I’ll have the Avion commercial on the monitor at Channel Four as soon as I can after that. I’ll call you by four o’clock."
54
I picked my way through the darkness, following light from Sean's fire, now a roaring blaze on the beach.
Standing by the fire, I related my conversation with Carter: his reaction to my explanation of the shooting and the plan to visit Channel Four tomorrow. The news called for a toast and Higgins ran up to the cottage for two glasses of wine.
Sitting on a log close to the flames, I heard wav
es lapping at the shore behind me. I welcomed the warmth. Despite the unseasonably mild temperatures of the day, the October night was downright cold. The crackling fire shot sparks upwards, into a sky so peppered with stars they seemed to meld together in spots, forming glowing white masses. The screen door slammed, and I saw Higgins’ silhouette against the cottage lights, making his way with two glasses of wine.
We clinked glasses, and I felt the pleasant warmth of the wine blend with the heat of the fire. Why couldn't we be two people on vacation, enjoying the moment? I wished our problems would disappear.
"I hate this waiting," I said. "Sitting up here seems like we're in limbo."
"What would you suggest? Riding back to Detroit on a white horse and putting the bad guys in the hoosecow?"
"Not hoosecow...gow. Hoosegow. If you’d watched old cowboy movies on TV with your dad like I did, you'd know all about hoosegows."
"I never knew my father that well. He never seemed to have time for me. At least until I was all-state in football.
"It was my mom who insisted I go to Catholic school. She would give my butt a good whipping when I complained a nun had paddled me for screwing up."
"What was it like? I mean, being a football star."
"Okay, I guess. Football saved my parents a lot of money...got me through college on a full ride."
"That was it? Saving your parents money?"
Higgins looked at his glass. "You know the most important thing I ever got from football?"
"Tell me."
"My father's attention." He spoke slowly, on a journey into unfamiliar territory. "It’s the old story: the father who's married to his job; too busy for his wife and kid. Other dads came to Little League games. Mine was at the office. Uncle Frank was more of a father. I couldn't wait for summers, when I'd come up here."
I’d never seen this side of Higgins. He exhibited a tenderness, a vulnerability, miles from the hard-driving advertising agency vice president I thought I knew.
"Football changed that?"
"It did when I made all-state. My father suddenly realized he had a son. But it was almost too late."
"Too late?"
"He died the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at Michigan."
"I'm sorry."
Freeze Frame Page 10
