Julia closed out of her computer, feeling frustrated over her lackluster search, and decided to go to Tyce’s place, even if it was early.
Julia took the stairway again, down this time, and came out in the lobby. She made her way toward the revolving glass door just as the photographer she had seen earlier, Phoenix, came through it into the building.
Phoenix moved his camera bag to his hip and flashed Julia a peace sign.
“Julia Gooden. My lucky day. I was hoping I’d run into you back here. I wanted to thank you for your advice earlier and for keeping me from getting kicked out of the Angel Perez crime scene. I owe you big-time.”
“You don’t owe me anything, and nice work. I heard the pictures you got from Angel Perez’s family were good.”
Phoenix’s smile widened even further, and he started to walk backward to keep pace with Julia’s forward motion toward the street.
“You could trip doing that. And good luck trying to make it through the revolving door in reverse,” Julia said.
“I was going to drop off a memory card with some photos to Fish, but it can wait. How about I buy you a drink as a thanks?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Okay, then. How about five minutes for coffee? I wanted to run something by you on the Angel Perez case. Fish wants me to shoot other assignments connected to the murder story if they come up, and I could use your thoughts on an idea I had.”
Julia looked at her watch. She didn’t want to slow down, but she could afford five minutes to help out a fellow journalist, who was trying to get his foot in the door.
“Okay. There’s a bagel shop at the end of the block. Let’s swing by there and we can talk for a minute. A minute is about all the time that I’ve got.”
“Then a minute is all the time I need. How did you wind up as a reporter?” Phoenix asked as he shoved his way into the narrow revolving glass door slot with Julia.
“You have an issue with personal space, don’t you?” Julia asked.
“I figure if I don’t have much time to talk to you, I need to make the most of it.”
“Some breathing room. Please,” Julia said.
The two made it out to the street and Phoenix moved to the opposite side of the sidewalk and away from Julia.
“Is that better? I can yell louder if you can’t hear me,” Phoenix called out as a passing businessman carrying a briefcase shot the photographer an odd look.
“Very funny.”
Phoenix sidled up to Julia again and kept her fast-moving pace.
“You didn’t answer my question. How come you became a journalist?” he asked.
“I got a full scholarship to Syracuse University, and they had a great J school. But I guess the real reason is that I like to help people find answers that they’re looking for, especially if they’ve undergone a tragedy in their life. I’m not a big fan of personal questions. What did you want to ask me about the Angel Perez case?”
Phoenix held the door to the bagel shop open and spread his other hand in a sweeping gesture for Julia to enter.
“I’m going to start calling you Dudley Do-Right,” Julia said. She took a seat on a stool next to a high counter that faced the street.
A waiter appeared, and Phoenix ordered a coffee and a bagel and Julia ordered a bottle of water.
“You’re a cheap date,” Phoenix said.
“This isn’t a date.”
“That big cop who walked you to your car at the crime scene, are you seeing him?”
“And the five minutes I said I could spare just ticked down to two.”
“Okay. So I heard you were the one who dug up that bow-and-arrow angle on the killer. I was going to pitch this to Fish, but I wanted to see what you thought first. What if I called some local bow-and-arrow hunters in the area and took some pictures of them out on the hunt? I could shoot inside some hunting shops that sell the gear, too. What do you think?”
“Maybe an interesting sidebar story, if Tom worked with you on a short piece about how hard it is to kill a human being with that kind of weapon. What I would do, and I’m sure Tom is working on this, is I’d start digging around the other victims who were killed the same way. Unless there’s anything new on the investigation, that’s the angle I’d take. You could also go to the Home Depot and Lowe’s to interview day laborers to see if they saw Angel. Best time to go would be first thing in the morning when they’re trying to get work. Be sure you work with Tom.”
“See, I knew I needed to talk to you. I’m good at taking pictures, but I’m still green. Photography is a second career for me. I was an art teacher before this. After ten years, I realized I couldn’t handle teenage angst anymore.”
“High school, then.”
“In Grand Rapids. I went back to school at Wayne State, got my photography degree, and then realized pretty quick that the photojournalism career I had dreamed of was going to be harder to break into than I thought. You have family here?”
Julia looked at her watch and started to stand. “Thanks for the water. I’m going to take it on the road.”
“You really don’t like personal questions, do you?”
“I have no problem with questions. I just prefer asking them. And besides my kids, I don’t have any family here.”
“You’re an orphan?” Phoenix asked.
“Something like that. What’s your last name? You never told me. I only know you as Phoenix.”
“Pontiac. Phoenix Pontiac. Oh shit,” Phoenix said, and pointed his finger toward the glass window in front of them and the street. “I’m about to get a ticket. I parked illegally in the red unloading zone, and there’s a cop up the block who’s starting to give out tickets. I’ll be right back.”
Phoenix ran out of the bagel shop, giving Julia her cue to cut and run. Julia put down five dollars for her water, which hadn’t arrived yet, when she noticed Phoenix left his camera and camera bag behind on the counter. It was a Nikon D800, an expensive piece of equipment that Julia realized if he purchased it new, would cost him several thousand dollars. Julia realized if she left now, she’d still have a few minutes to wait around for Tyce. She sighed, anxious to get moving, but she also knew the right thing to do, and she didn’t want Phoenix’s camera, which doubled as his livelihood, to get stolen. She watched as Phoenix got into his car, a Subaru, and squeezed his way into traffic, maneuvering his way several cars ahead of the cop car before it reached him and turned the corner. She sighed, sat back down on her stool, and picked up the camera. Julia wasn’t much of a shooter, but she was curious to see what pictures Phoenix had taken for the Angel Perez story and began scrolling through his recent shots.
The most recent picture was of Julia and Chief Linderman talking at the crime scene. The photo had been taken at a distance, and Julia realized Phoenix must have shot it while hiding out in the house across the street. Julia began to skim through the other photos and felt an icy prickle go down her back when she saw herself in each subsequent frame, going about her daily activities over the last few days, running along the Detroit RiverWalk, outside of Navarro’s apartment, and giving Logan a hug as she picked him up from summer camp.
“Who are you, asshole?” Julia asked.
Julia popped out the camera’s memory card, shoved it in her bag, and hurried out of the bagel shop to her car. She started up the engine and called Fish’s number at the newspaper.
“Photo desk,” Fish answered.
“It’s Julia. There’s a guy who’s doing freelance work for you. Phoenix Pontiac. I met him at the Angel Perez crime scene. Something’s not right. What do you know about him?”
“Nothing.”
“You have to know something. You hired him. He used to be a high school art teacher and got his degree at Wayne State.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Damon Crandall shot the Perez story. He was at Edgar Sanchez’s press conference. Damon did a good job. He met with the family and warmed them up.
I’ll use him again. He got a bunch of family photos of the victim.”
“What does Damon look like? The man I met at the crime scene has shoulder-length dark hair and an olive complexion.”
“Not my guy. Damon is bald and black. Whoever claimed he was one of my guys is a liar.”
CHAPTER 10
Julia parked her car outside of Hello Records on Bagley Street and made her way to Tyce Jones’s studio, which encompassed a three-story brick building that had been newly renovated, thanks to a grant from the city of Detroit. The elected officials had obviously forgiven or turned a blind eye to the reputation of its former drug-dealing prodigal son. Julia knocked four times on the front door, and Tyce’s Rasta security guard opened up, shielding the interior with his mammoth body as if Julia could somehow squeeze by or outmuscle the mountain that stood before her.
“I’m here to see Tyce. I have an appointment. I’m Julia Gooden.”
“Let me see your ID.”
“You know who I am. Come on,” Julia said.
“You carrying?” he asked.
“No. I don’t own a gun and I haven’t bought one since I saw you a couple of months ago.”
Tyce’s guard gave Julia a suspicious once-over, and then slammed the door in Julia’s face, a greeting Julia was starting to get used to from him. She waited for five minutes until the door opened and the very large man reappeared.
“Dude, you treat my guests this way?” Tyce Jones called out from behind the big Rasta. The security guard moved out of the way, and Julia could see her source whiz down a ramp in his wheelchair in her direction.
“Julia’s a VIP. Don’t act like you don’t know who she is. Julia’s on the approved list. So stand the hell back.”
“People change,” the Rasta answered. “Just because she was on your side before doesn’t mean she won’t turn on you. Let me pat her down first.”
“Like hell you will. This is the house that Tyce built,” Tyce said and turned to Julia. “Please excuse my cousin.”
“You’re related?” Julia asked.
“My mother’s from Jamaica. You know that.”
Three years earlier, Tyce Jones had been gunned down in a territory dispute, and Julia had visited him in the hospital, where she had met Tyce’s mother. Tyce had become a close source for Julia on the beat, and although she surely didn’t condone his line of work at the time, he usually provided her with valuable information when it came to the goings-on of the street.
Tyce Jones made his right hand into the shape of a gun and blew on his index finger, giving Julia a wink. He had on a yellow L.A. Lakers jersey, which contrasted against his dark skin, and a purple baseball cap, which was turned backward on his head. He wore a pair of white gleaming Versace Medusa high-top sneakers on feet that no longer worked, and in his lap was a pile of demo tapes.
“You come empty-handed,” he said.
“I didn’t have time to run home to get you eats from Helen.”
“You keep losing points with me, Gooden. But you’re still in the safe zone, for now anyway. Follow me. I want you to hear something.”
Julia tailed Tyce up a wheelchair ramp to the second floor of his building, to his recording studio, where a young, skinny teenager, with almost-white blond hair and a streak of freckles over each cheek, was belting out in a perfect falsetto “Ave Maria.” Next to him was a shy-looking black teenage boy, who had his eyes closed tightly as he listened to the music.
“Last time I was here, you were mixing rap and opera,” Julia answered. “That young man has a beautiful voice.”
“I’m still looking for the right mix, things need to juxtapose, you know? That’s right, ‘juxtapose,’ Gooden. I know your mind is working, like how does this fool know that big, fancy word. But I did not become the man I am today without being close to brilliant. Now watch, wait, and listen. That white boy singing now, I handpicked him from St. Aloysius Parish. The other kid, man, you should hear him sing. He’s about to go to town on ‘Go Tell It on the Mountain’ in a minute and you gonna melt. That was my all-time favorite gospel song when my mamma used to take me to church. I found that boy at my grandma’s place of worship at Second Baptist. Makes the goose bumps bust out on me just about everywhere I can feel these days.”
“So you’re doing gospel music now.”
“Not just gospel. Gospel mixed up with speed metal, kind of like a heaven-and-hell matchup in the big ring. It’s going to be off the chain. Already picked out my suit for the MTV Music Awards. You could be my date,” Tyce said, and gave Julia a wink. “Don’t worry. You booked with a guy now, I’ll take Helen. I’m just playing with you. Gooden, you’ve got one serious look on your face that won’t let go. You want to talk business. I gotcha.”
Tyce led the way up the ramp until they reached the third floor, where his office was located. The space was filled with giant white leather couches and Tyce’s bright red desk, which stood in the middle of the room. Big and gaudy, Tyce Jones’s style.
Tyce pulled out a cigar, removed the cellophane, and stuck it in his mouth.
“Don’t worry. I won’t light it ’til you leave. What you need to know, reporter girl?”
“I need to know everything about a man named Max Mueller. He died recently. I don’t know much about him besides I heard he was running a couple illegal side businesses.”
“You always come to me about the bad dogs. The worst ones in the pack. Granted, what big daddy Max was up to, in the early days, that was way before my time on the streets. But that Max dude was a trip. The guy went to the opera, wore these little square-framed glasses, and walked with a cane. Not because he needed to, but because he thought it made him look dignified. That’s what I heard anyway.”
“You ever meet Max Mueller?”
“No, but he had a reputation. As a businessman through the years, I needed to know what was happening on the streets and people like to talk,” Tyce said.
“Max had some kind of antique store?”
“That’s right. In the front room anyway. I heard he had a private collection of stolen stuff worth a lot of money, old books, sculptures, paintings, jewelry, that kind of shit. Not my style, but it could make you some bank if you’re into that kind of thing.”
“So he stole high-end items.”
“Yeah, and other things too.”
“Like what?”
“People. That’s what I heard anyway. Max had a pretty decent-sized human-trafficking ring back twenty, thirty years ago, right here in our ‘God bless America’ of Detroit. But I’m pretty sure he hung up that end of his business a while back. Too risky. The Feds were close to busting him.”
“Human trafficking?” The word came out of Julia’s mouth like a stutter, something she hadn’t done since she was a child, right after Ben was taken. “Are we talking kids here?”
“I don’t know the specifics about the freaky deaky’s business. All I heard was that Max, he made his cash on his human-trafficking shit, and that helped him bankroll his art. I heard the guy was nutty for weird collectibles. Paintings, rare books, sculptures, and some odd-ass crap that only crazy people would want. Torture shit from like a thousand years ago or something.”
“Tell me more about Max’s human-trafficking business,” Julia said. She hid her hands underneath her legs on the seat so Tyce wouldn’t see that she was trembling. Julia had pushed away the darkest folds of her imagination that taunted her with scenarios of what really happened to her brother, but if he had been sold as a nine-year-old boy for God knows what, Julia wasn’t sure if she’d be able to face that truth.
“I think it was a domestic setup. Max would prey on illegals or the people on the fringe or young runaways, then he’d sell them to a third-party source for some kind of indentured-servitude shit. Don’t know who Max was working with on the back end, though. But like I said, he stopped all that probably twenty years back. The consignment joint he owned may still be around. He had a kid. Maybe he’s still running it.”
“Lia
m.”
“Right. Liam Mueller. We don’t run in the same circles, but the guy is weird, just like his dad was. All this Julia Gooden shakedown on the Muellers, is this for some kind of story you’re working?”
“It’s personal. You ever hear of a man named Phoenix Pontiac?”
“No, but that would be a damn fine name for a recording artist. You going to try and find Max’s kid?”
“That’s my next stop.”
“What you really want with him?”
“Between us.”
“Always, you know that. I got you covered.”
“My brother disappeared when we were kids. My dad worked with some shady figures at the time, and I believe whoever my dad was tangled up with is connected to my brother’s abduction. I believe my dad was working for Max.”
“Damn, Gooden. You keep your personal life on a tight leash. If you’re looking into the Muellers and the other dudes your dad messed with, then take Animal with you. You call me when you need backup and he’ll be there.”
“‘Animal’ is the name of your cousin?”
“His nickname. Animal’s real name is Rupert.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I work alone.”
“I’ll have Animal follow you, then. Where you going next?”
“Birmingham, to Mueller’s Antiques and Fine Goods.”
“Fine, then Animal is your shadow. You don’t come out of the building within five, ten, my man gets you out. Like I said, the Muellers and I don’t play in the same pen, but I know the old dude’s rep. I’m not sure if the kid took over his dad’s bad ways, but you know the platitude ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’”
“Platitude?” Julia asked.
Worth Killing For Page 11
