Dying in Detroit (A Bright & Fletcher Mystery)

by Jonathan Watkins

  “Look, Theresa—”

  “I’m sorry about your old man.”

  The ire Issabella had felt toward her dissipated. Theresa shifted her weight from one foot to the other and said, “Mine wasn’t much better. That don’t help you, I know. Anyway, sorry you have to go through all this on account of him.”

  “You’re sorry? I’m sorry. You’re the one who had that psycho come into your bar. I should be apologizing to you.”

  “He wasn’t there for me,” Theresa said as she settled her forearms on the counter and leaned her weight on them. One of her fingers traced invisible patterns on the countertop. “He was real clear. Said he wanted to make sure Darren understood to stay out of Howie’s business. He didn’t say it, but I figure he’s gonna try and kill your daddy, Izzy. Way he was—way he wasn’t right. He ain’t some guy just looking to get somebody else’s money back for ‘em. If somebody hired him, it was because he’s to kill someone. I don’t mean to scare you or nothing. I just thought you should know what I know. Or not know, really. Not for sure. Just feel, I guess.”

  Issabella groaned and scrubbed her palms over her face. She was tired, exhausted and Theresa’s dire assessment just made her feel doubly so. She needed sleep. More than that, she needed time to process everything that was happening. Her father was back, and his bad behavior had...what? Made her a target? Why her? What did she have to do with any of it?

  And why seek out Darren? Issabella didn’t know. Had her father thought that approaching Darren first, and allowing Darren to then alert her of his existence second hand, would somehow lessen the distress she would feel over his abrupt return to her world? She could imagine that was true. It seemed like something her father would devise: a maneuver designed to look like he was softening a distressing blow to her, but in truth was just a cynical way to spare him the discomfort of having to tell her in person all the things he’d admitted to Darren.

  And now Darren was bent on protecting her. He was getting himself deeper into the disaster her father had created. The thought of it made her want to shout and bang her fist against the counter. Her father had blown up her life when he abandoned her and her mother. And now, when she had finally put together a life she really cherished—with Darren and with her professional goals—her father had returned to blow it all to pieces again.

  “Want me to make you a drink?”

  She looked at Theresa through heavy eyes. Theresa grinned, reached for a folded dish rag and slung it over her shoulder. The big woman gave her a friendly wink, and Issabella erupted with laughter. It was short-lived, but full-throated—a pouring out of anxiety.

  “What’ll it be, buddy?” Theresa drawled.

  “Hmm. What’s your best drink?”

  “Crown and Seven.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “He’s the only regular.”

  “I think he keeps some wine up above the fridge.”

  Theresa found the wine, and soon Issabella was sipping it while Theresa nursed a glass of Pepsi.

  “You think Darren would throw a fit if I lit up in here?”

  “Well, I don’t mind. So forget what he’d say. He’s running around thinking he’s Batman or something.”

  The ashtray was retrieved from the terrace, and once Theresa was seated on a stool across from her, cigarette lit, she seemed as comfortable and at home as any human being could hope to get. Issabella decided to put the insanity of their situation away for now. This was the first opportunity she’d really had alone with Theresa. She wanted to have a real conversation with the person who was, as far as she could tell, her boyfriend’s best, only friend.

  “So, how did you and Darren meet?” she said, and inwardly winced. It sounded prodding, baldly inquisitive. Theresa didn’t seem to notice, just blew out a column of smoke and shrugged her shoulders.

  “He just walked in one day. Came in, all wrinkled and lost. Didn’t ask for a drink or anything. Walked right down to the end of the room and sat down in that same booth he’s always in. I thought maybe he was drunk already. Or, you know, maybe some guy who’d gone off his meds, like schizophrenic or like that. He was just out of it. I come over to see if he was buying anything or was I going to have to throw him out on his butt. Then he pulls a green envelope out of his pocket and sets it down and just stares at it. You know what I’m talking about.”

  She did. Five years before Issabella had met him, Darren had defended a man accused of abducting a child. The man, James Klodd, had walked free on a bad search warrant and disappeared. It was Darren’s motion in court that got the warrant thrown out. Since then, every few months or so, Darren received a lime green envelope in the mail with no return address. Inside each envelope was a single tooth belonging to the missing girl. The experience had, apparently, shattered the once up-and-coming lawyer—driving him from a high-end practice, down into Theresa’s bar, where he had languished until meeting Issabella.

  “So you took him in,” she said.

  “Guess so. He fixed up some tax issues with me and the bar. Didn’t ask him to. He just started asking about this and that, and having me show him all my paperwork. Months went by, you know? He didn’t do anything but drink and find some kind of little legal thing he could do for me. Wrote me a will. Got a guy who did some work on the roof to come back and fix what he hadn’t done right the first time. Little things like that. But mostly he just kept himself in that corner, looking off into space. But he came around, little by little. Started taking those cases for poor people the court would offer him now and then. Started talking more and smiling. Then you two hooked up, and you know the rest of it.”

  Outside, the lights of the city blinked to life as day gave way. A series of recessed lights in the ceiling turned on, bathing the living room and dining counter in a soft, warm glow. Theresa peered up at them.

  “Some sort of timer, I guess.”

  “I don’t know. This place is like a...” She didn’t know.

  “A rich dude’s place,” Theresa offered.

  “Yeah. But, how? I mean, seriously, how? He almost never works, and when he does it’s just court-appointed cases. They pay, like, a couple hundred bucks.”

  Theresa shrugged and sipped her Pepsi.

  “You’re not going to tell me are you?”

  “He never told me, neither,” Theresa admitted. “But if he did, still wouldn’t be my place to go putting it out there. You should ask him yourself, if it’s important.”

  “He’ll just say something clever and avoid the issue.”

  “Then I guess he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “It just doesn’t make any sense—”

  The light chime of the doorbell tingled through the air, and both women froze, their heads turning in unison to stare at the door only a few feet away from them. They sat in silence, and it rang again.

  “Food,” Theresa said finally. “We ordered food.”

  Issabella relaxed and shook her head ruefully. She was far too wound up. Sitting there, coming down off the electric panic of thinking a crazy stalker was at their door, she decided she would eat and have a second glass of wine. Then it was bed, and nothing would prevent that. She would sleep and in the morning she’d confront Darren with reality: they were calling the cops and doing whatever they needed to do to keep themselves out of her father’s bizarre problems.

  She sipped her wine, as Theresa had gotten to her feet and walked around the counter toward the door. The big woman reached out one hand to turn the knob, but stopped in mid-motion. She hesitated for a second, then leaned forward and looked through the little copper-ringed peep hole in the center of the door.

  “Huh,” Theresa mumbled. “Never thought I’d get to say this.”

  “Say what?”

  Theresa turned back around and shot a thumb over her shoulder.


  “The FBI is at the door.”

  Chapter Seven

  The deputy at the service window had changed since Darren’s earlier visit to the jail. In place of the big, bored woman was a slim, bored man. He took Darren’s bar number and ID, and pushed over a log-in sheet.

  The deputy looked down, read the sheet and shot Darren a startled look.

  “You’re here to see Bright?”

  “Yeah. Professional visit. I’m his lawyer.”

  “That gal send you down?”

  Much of Darren’s work as a criminal defender consisted of being quick in his reactions to new information, and subtle in his responses to that information. So in the face of a bizarre and unexpected question falling from the deputy’s lips, Darren didn’t let his confusion touch his eyes. Instead he nodded nonchalantly.

  “Yep,” he said.

  The deputy smiled ruefully and shook his head as he stabbed Darren’s log-in slip down onto a little metal spear-stand, mashing it down on top of the dozens of earlier sheets that had been filled out that day.

  “I figured. She didn’t look too happy when she strutted out of here. Just about cussed one of the other deputies out when the sally port wouldn’t open quick enough for her. I guess you got an earful, huh?”

  “That’s half my job,” Darren said. “Dealing with the client’s friends and family is more work than any of the stuff I do in court, you know?”

  “Same on this end of things. You want a conference room? Not a booth?”

  “Yeah. Papers need signing.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay, have a seat. Might be a while.”

  “I know. No problem.”

  Trying to get in to see someone in custody was, depending on the time of day, often a long waiting process. Evenings were bad, and so was any time close to a meal. The deputies didn’t like hauling inmates out of their meals or their shower times. They didn’t like handling visitation requests during shift change or when the inmates were sleeping. The best time to get in relatively quickly was in the morning, right after breakfast.

  Darren sat down in one of the lime-green chairs that lined one wall of the little hallway and watched the deputy disappear from the window, back into the jail.

  A woman had come to see Howard Bright.

  Darren chewed on the idea. It hadn’t been Issabella. She had been safely ensconced in the apartment all day. And even if he hadn’t been certain of that, she simply didn’t have it in her nature to cuss out a Wayne County Sheriff’s deputy, no matter if she was justified or not. He couldn’t remember her ever uttering a single swear word.

  Then who on earth would be coming to visit Howard?

  Darren was on his feet. He looked down the hallway toward the glass exit door, confirming that there was nobody on the other side waiting to be rung into the building. He was alone.

  Moving quickly, he slid one long-fingered hand under the Plexiglas service window, through the space at the bottom where papers and payments were slipped back and forth. He wiggled his wrist under, then the first few inches of his arm, before he was as far in as he was going to get.

  The spear-stand with its skewered logsheets was an inch out of reach. Shit.

  He withdrew his arm and strained to listen for anyone approaching. He heard a heavy jail door slam somewhere deeper in the building. Behind him, the exit door was still devoid of any new arrivals. On the wall just inside the door, a large placard was bolted so that everyone passing through would see it. It read Premises Under Video Surveillance.

  Darren glanced up at the ceiling of the service cubicle, into the black globe of the surveillance camera positioned there.

  They won’t have any reason to watch the tape. Not if you stop worrying and just do it right.

  This time when he reached his hand under the window, he had a pen extended in his fingers. He slipped the pen under the three-legged base of the little spear-stand. Lifting just slightly and pulling his arm back toward him, he scooted the stand over until it was right next to the Plexiglas barrier.

  Still straining to hear the jingle of keys or the scuff of boots approaching, he used the end of the pen to flip though each of the sheets pinned on the stand, curling up their corners and peering to read anything he could.

  He was five sheets down when he was able to make out “How” scrawled in the upper corner of the sheet, above the line where the inmate’s name was to be written. Darren set the pen down, grabbed the edge of that sheet and pulled it with a sharp yank. The sheet tore, and he brought it through quickly, stuffing it into his pocket.

  A man coughed, down the hall on the other side of the cubicle. A thrill of panic raced up and down Darren’s spine.

  He took up the pen again and pushed the little stand away from the window, until it was approximately where it had been.

  The deputy appeared in the cubicle again, a foam coffee cup in one hand. He took a long sip and peered at Darren from over the cup’s rim.

  Darren shifted in the lime-green chair, feigned a yawn and offered the deputy a friendly smile.

  * * *

  Issabella watched Theresa hand Isaac Schultz a mug of coffee and exit the terrace, leaving her alone with the FBI Agent. Issabella munched on the oriental chicken salad she’d ordered from the restaurant downstairs, stabbing at it with a plastic fork.

  The handsome, broad-shouldered agent whom Issabella knew had once been an athlete, then a law school graduate and now a federal cop, had a flat expression on his face. She recognized it. It was the face cops put on when they’re on the job and feeling around for information.

  His unannounced appearance hadn’t been so beyond the pale to ring any alarm bells until now. Isaac Schultz had been involved in the criminal case that had first brought her and Darren together as lawyers.

  She didn’t think of herself as a particularly oblivious woman. While the FBI Agent hadn’t ever been explicit about any personal feelings he had for her—had, in fact, been the picture of professionalism—she’d noted the way his eyes lingered on her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She’d never given it a thought since their last meeting to finalize the immunity deal they’d hashed out for a former client. Now, with his sudden appearance, the memory of his apparent interest in her came rushing back.

  But sitting there in the deepening shadows of evening, it didn’t seem he was here to feel around if she was available. It felt formal.

  “How’d you know where to find me?” she said.

  “I went to your place in Canton first,” he said. “When you weren’t there I thought I’d try Darren’s address. Issabella, there’s been a break-in. At your office and at your apartment. Do you know where Darren is?”

  She set the fork down and folded her arms across her chest.

  “What do you mean a break-in? At...at my home? A burglary?”

  “Of sorts,” he said, looking suddenly pained. “Someone broke your kitchen window and got in that way. I noticed it when I walked around to knock on your back door. I...I doubt any property was taken, though. I didn’t go in, because I needed to find you first.”

  “Jesus...” she breathed, as understanding began to dawn. A tremble started in her shoulders and spread down into her fingers. She hugged herself tighter, not wanting Agent Schultz to notice.

  It was that man, she thought. The one who took the photo.

  “Issabella, do you own a cat?”

  “Yes,” she said, numbly. The conversation seemed to be taking place from a distance now. Her mind was racing too fast, running away with fear. The man from the bar, who had threatened Theresa, who had pursued her father from Arizona to here, who had stalked her—this was his next volley. Agent Schultz had come to explain how that man had done something awful.

  “What I know is this,” he continued. “Your back window was broken in. Also, your office
door was smashed. I heard the call come over the police band and I was nearby so I stopped by to see if you and Darren were alright. Someone broke in the office and left a dead cat there. A black cat. It was, ah, very ugly the way he did this. This is someone very disturbed. Which is why I need to know if you know where Darren is. It’s his office, too, so maybe this person is a danger to him as well. I think we need to make sure he’s safe, and then there’s a lot more to talk about.”

  She nodded along, but not much was registering.

  “I know this is a shock to hear all at once.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you call Darren for me?”

  “He killed my cat?”

  “Yes. Whoever he is, this is a very dangerous person. Let’s call Darren. Let’s get him back here and then we can figure everything out, okay?”

  He leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing once.

  “I’m sorry to be here like this.”

  “There’s a lot to tell you,” she said, the words running out and away before she could think twice. But she didn’t regret it. Yes, she’d said she would give Darren a day. But that was before. This needed to end. It needed to end, and the only way that would happen was by doing the sane thing and telling everything to law enforcement.

  Agent Schultz nodded and offered her a reassuring smile.

  “I figured there probably was.”

  “I’ll call Darren.”

  She got up and walked into the apartment.

  Isaac Schultz leaned back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath. He glanced around at the draping clusters of ivy, the magnificent view of the Detroit River and, beyond that, Windsor’s blinking skyline.

  How the hell does he afford this place? he mused, a slight frown creasing his handsome face. I thought he was supposed to be some has-been gutter lawyer.

  He decided to put the question away for later, but not so far away that he couldn’t pick it up and maybe pursue it when the time was right.

  * * *

  Solomon had been reclining in the driver’s seat of the Ranger for more than half an hour when the parking lot attendant disgorged himself from his wooden shack and began to amble toward where the little pickup was parked in the shadow of a three-story brick office building.