Bury Me When I'm Dead (19 page)

The game was close, with the junior varsity team down by one point with three minutes left in the contest, and the air was electric with the possibility of an upset by the lower-classmen. Helen pointed to the middle of the animated crowd on the bleachers, spotting Father Stephen. The priest jumped to his feet, arms raised, when number 81 on the JV squad sunk a free throw to tie the game.

“You want me to tell him you're here?”

“No,” Gil said. “We can wait. He knew we were coming, right?”

“Oh yes, I told him. He's very curious about how your investigation is going, and concerned about Joyce. By the way, how is Ms. Mack? Recovering from that unfortunate incident, I hope.”

“She's doing very well. But the doctor told her she shouldn't travel. I'll tell her you asked about her,” Gil said.

Penham left Don and Gil watching the final action of the game.
As is the case in basketball, with time-outs, fouls and free throws three minutes turned into fifteen. The two teams were taking a twenty-second time out when Father Stephen balanced his way down the bleachers and headed to the exit. Don and Gil intercepted him before he got to the door.

“Father Straughn, I'm Gil Acosta and this is my partner Don Rutkowski.”

“Oh, how do you do?” The priest offered a handshake to both. “I was expecting you. Did you see any of our game?”

“We did,” Gil said. “You have some very good players. How strong is your league?”

“Well, there are too few Catholic teams to have our own league, so we compete against the charter schools, and we always do well. We expect one or two players from our varsity squad to qualify for the All-City league. Did you play?” The astute priest noticed Gil's obvious interest and excitement.

“At a gym not much bigger than this,” Gil said, smiling. “I was All-City and All-State in my last year of high school and received a basketball scholarship to the University of Detroit- Mercy.”

“Ah, the Jesuits,” Fr. Straughn nodded, then turned to Don with the same question in his eyes.

“St. Ladislaus in Hamtramck,” Don offered. “But I played football.”

“Welcome home, my sons,” the priest said, laughing.

Straughn gestured Don and Gil to the chairs across from his desk. “I hope Ms. Mack is doing better.”

“She is, and sends her regards,” Don said.

“How's the investigation?”

“We think we can give some closure to the family, soon.” Don picked up Charlie's fib.

“Joyce was surprised to learn there was an independent investigation into Paul's murder.”

“You've spoken to her?” Gil asked.

“Yes. She admitted to me she has a problem with the Detroit police. Something minor, she said.” The priest let the statement hang in the air as he scrutinized both men.

“Fr. Straughn, we really need to speak with Joyce. We're on her side. Can you help us with that?” Don asked.

Shouts from the basketball game wafted down the hallway suggesting the game must have ended. “Was your Catholic upbringing a help to you in your lives and career?” Straughn asked, catching the two off guard.

“What do you mean?” Don asked.

But Gil didn't miss a beat. “After graduating from college, I enlisted in the Marines and served in Somalia. Only two things kept me alive, my faith and my training.”

Straughn looked at Don for an answer. Now Don understood what Charlie meant about sitting in his office. The sensory cues of a Catholic education were as powerful as the Marine Corps indoctrination. “I have a son who is autistic. My upbringing helps me understand he's a gift to our family, and I believe he's here to teach me.” Don stared at his hands and cleared his throat. He hadn't come to Saint Agnes to sit in confessional.

Gil wriggled in his seat, feeling his partner's embarrassment. Father Straughn removed his eyeglasses and concentrated on cleaning the lenses. He finally spoke. “Paul was also a special needs child. Full of life and joy, friendly and kind to everyone.” Straughn leaned to rest his forearms on the desk. “I can get a message to Joyce if there is one you wish me to convey.”

Don gave the priest his card. On the rear, he wrote Charlie's cell number. “She can call either number. Tell her the FBI is also interested in Paul's murder, and tell her that we know Owens set her up.”

Don and Gil were allowed entry into the 31st Street house and were treated like family members by Jennifer Meadows. She grabbed Gil on one arm and Cookie took the other. The two grandkids were as fascinated with Don as they had been the first time they saw him.
They hung onto his legs and stared up at him with big eyes and smiles. Because Gil had called ahead, Mrs. Meadows had lunch prepared for her favorite Latino PI, and Don was allowed to share in the bounty. She proved she knew something about cooking Birmingham meat 'n sides.

After lunch, Cookie took the kids upstairs for a nap. Don offered to help clean the table, but Jennifer waved him back to his chair at the dining table. “Aren't you something,” she said to Don with a warm smile. Then the smile faded and she squinted her eyes. “Have you learned anything more about who killed my boys?”

“Well, I can tell you we've got the local police interested in reviewing the case again,” Don offered.

“Does it have something to do with the two of you being shot at?”

“How'd you hear about that?” Gil asked.

“This is a tight community. Not much we don't hear about.”

“Do you know your sister is in town?” Don asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Anna left Detroit and she's back in Birmingham, we've seen her.”

Gil had agreed Don would ask the questions of Meadows and he would observe. It was plain to see she was not aware of Anna Stringer's return.

“I don't believe that. Anna wouldn't come home and not let me know.” She shook her head in support of her statement. “No. No, that's not possible.”

“She hasn't called you?” Don asked.

“I spoke to her right after the funerals but the last time we talked was a couple of weeks ago.”

Meadows was distraught at the news. In a matter of two minutes her demeanor shifted from contentment to confusion to despair. She was sobbing when Cookie came downstairs.

“What did you say to my mother?” Cookie glared at Don accusingly.

Don started to respond but Gil cut him off.

“We didn't mean to upset her.”

“Have you found out who killed Andrew and Paul?” Cookie's tone softened for Gil.

“No, not yet.”

“Well, we heard whoever it was is after you, now.”

“Yeah. That's what we think too,” Gil said.

“Did you know your aunt was in town?” Don asked.

“Is that what you said to make my mother cry?” Cookie put her arm around Jennifer's heaving shoulders. “You sure you don't mean cousin Joyce?”

“Why? Have you seen Joyce?” Gil asked.

“One of the guys said they thought they saw her in the neighborhood. I told him he was crazy but maybe he was right.”

“I don't know about you, but I could use a couple of beers,” Don said, turning over the car's engine. He drove south, away from the renewed sorrow of Jennifer Meadows.

“Those two houses are like night and day, aren't they?”

“What?” Don asked.

“31st Street and the house in Forest Park,” Gil said. “It's not just that one is in the inner city and the other is in the 'burbs.”

“I'm listening.” Don kept his eyes on the road.

“Like I said before, Anna is at peace, but Jennifer is stuck in a dark place, emotionally. The environment
is
a factor though. Think about it, flower gardens versus boarded windows. Which would you prefer?”

“Right now, I prefer those couple of beers.”

They parked in the garage and took an elevator up to the lobby level. The hotel bar was called “The Refuge” but at 3:00 p.m. only a few patrons sought its sanctuary of booths and tables. They sat at the bar, ordered Heinekens, and, ignoring the glasses, took a few pulls through the long-necked bottles. A couple at a front table were finishing a late lunch. They were dressed in business attire, but their hushed tones and rippling laughter suggested they might have consummated something other than a work deal. A balding man wearing a yellow polo shirt, a cotton jacket and khakis sat at one end of the bar watching a TV sports program and nursing a mixed drink. The television commentator and his sidekick were deriding NASCAR's
efforts to attract more minority spectators. “Is this taking political correctness too far? What's next? Hockey?” the commentator said. The man with the highball chuckled and looked down the bar for agreement. Don lifted his beer in salute.

“Wonder why we haven't heard back from Freeman?” Gil asked.

“Damn. I think I turned off my mobile when we went into Saint Agnes.” Don fumbled with his jacket until he found his phone in the inside pocket. He flipped the cover, turned it on and once it booted up, it began buzzing with messages.

“Here, Acosta. Get the messages off this damn thing, will you?”

Gil pushed his beer aside. “Don, how is it you know so much about car engines and gun technology but a cellular phone can whip your ass?” Gil asked.

“Just check the messages, will you.”

Freeman
had
called, and also Father Straughn. The priest said he'd contacted Joyce and passed on Don's message. Freeman's message suggested meeting Friday at three-thirty and asked for a call back to confirm the time.

“Damn. I was hoping by Friday afternoon, we'd be on a plane heading home,” Don said.

“I think we should be flexible to stay over the weekend if we have to, Don.”

“There's no reason to stay longer unless we hear back from Joyce, and she agrees to talk in person, right?”

“I guess that's right,” Gil said.

“So why don't I get back to Freeman and see if he can schedule us for tomorrow instead of Friday?”

“You can try.”

“I'll call now, but I'm upping the ante with Freeman, maybe that'll get us an earlier meeting.”

Chapter 26

Anna was exuberant as she described her preparations for the freshly baked apple pie she presented to Grant. He stared at her across the kitchen table and his heart skipped a beat, she was as sweet as the hot apples he swirled on his tongue. Anna was passionate about everything she did; while his wife was all elegance and cool reserve.

Ruth Freeman was a serial do-gooder. She organized benefits, volunteered at the hospital and supervised the city's Jack and Jill clubs without ever raising her voice or pulse. She was the perfect spouse for a successful Birmingham businessman, black or white. Over forty years ago, he'd let others force a decision upon him that he regretted from time to time. However, the years had proven he was capable of loving two women.

Freeman laid the fork next to his plate when Anna mentioned the two visitors she had earlier that day. He listened carefully as she recounted the interaction.

“I didn't even hear them drive up, I was so intent on watering my plants.” Anna smiled. “How do you like your pie?”

“It's delicious, sweetheart. Perfect, like you,” Freeman said. “What did these two men look like?”

“Oh.” Anna took a sip of her coffee, giving the question some thought. “They were both very friendly. One was white, heavy-set with blue eyes, and the other was Spanish, I think. You know, Mexican. He was younger. He reminded me of you when you were a boy. Wavy dark hair, caramel skin and nice teeth.” She looked up at Grant and blushed.

“You remembered to use the right name?”

She nodded. “I'm sort of getting used to it.” She laughed and he returned a smile.

“You invited them in?”

“Just into the yard. The younger one recognized my Stoke's asters. We talked about gardening.”

“Did they leave you a card, flyer or anything?”

“No. But they were from the church around the corner. You know, the one with the beautiful stained glass I'm always admiring.”

“I know the one.”

Anna talked on about the stained glass, the condition of her garden and the apple turnovers she was going to make the next day. Meanwhile, Freeman considered the probability that the men who had come to the house were also the private investigators he'd agreed to meet tomorrow. He wasn't intimidated by the call. Grant Three had already warned him about the snooping PIs from Detroit. But the most recent conversation had come with a veiled threat. “We think you may be hiding Joyce and we know why,” the man whose name was Rutkowski said, when he insisted on changing the day of their meeting.

“Anna, did the men ask about Joyce?”

“No, why should they?”

“No reason. Say, can I have another slice of pie?”

“Of course. I made it especially for you.”

Anna cut a thick slice, and the warm apples bubble up at the fresh seam. “Do you want vanilla ice cream?”

“Oh God, no. My waistline is already out of control. I need to find time to do more exercise.”

“You're still very fit for a man of your age.”

“I hate that phrase. A man only wants to be seen as a man. No matter their age, color or anything else.”

“My daddy used to say something like that,” Anna said wistfully.

“It must have been hard for him being in a wheelchair while he was still a young man,” Grant said.

“He pretended not to be bothered by it at all. He used to say President Roosevelt ran the whole country from a wheelchair. But as
he got older, he was always apologizing for not being able to do more work, so he could give us a better life.”

“My dad always felt guilty about your father's accident.”

“I know, and Daddy used it to his advantage.”

“How did he do that?”

“That's the main reason we couldn't get married. Daddy was dead set against it and he made your father promise not to give his consent. Daddy told me about it on his deathbed.”

This latest revelation washed over him. He was a ship tossed by a vast ocean of secrets in which he was simultaneously mariner and master. “Why haven't you ever told me this before?”

“What difference would it have made, Grant? Your father and mine left us the legacy of their own relationship. Forever pushing and pulling at each other.”

Anna had an unusual duality which had strained their decadeslong bond. She was both the loving daughter and shameless adulterer; a controlling mother and accepting parent. But she always had a knack for gathering her resolve when it came to protecting herself and her kids. Freeman had seen her do it many times, the first time just after high school graduation when she refused his proposal to elope. Then later, when Paul was born and she stopped him from divorcing Ruth, and again when she left him in Birmingham to move to Detroit.

“I'm going out to the garden,” Anna announced. The flash had returned to her eyes and she popped up from her chair, gathering pie plates and forks. “I could use some help turning over the flowerbed.” She looked hopeful.

Grant felt better himself after he'd pushed his boot down onto the garden spade a few times, churning mounds of dark earth. His phone rang and he leaned on the spade as he retrieved it from his trousers. The number was one he recognized.

“I've got to take this call,” he said to Anna as he moved to the porch and sat on the middle step.

“Hi Joyce.”

“Hello Grant. I assume Mother isn't within earshot?”

“No, she's weeding.”

Anna was looking at him, and he gave her a wave. She waved and returned to her work.

“Those investigators sent a message to me through Father Straughn.”

“What is it?”

“They said the FBI is now interested in Paul, and they know I was set up by Owen Owens. They want me to call. What do you think I should do?”

“I don't know. They've obviously figured some things out. They were here to see your mother this morning.”

“What? So it's the two guys who came to the house today? They're the ones you're meeting?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Shit.”

“And there's more. They called back to move up the meeting and let it drop that they think I'm hiding you.”

“What should we do, Grant?”

“What's the name on the card you have?”

“Don Rutkowski, Mack Private Investigations. I also have a number on the back for Charlene Mack.”

“Okay, well Rutkowski and Mack are the two that visited the funeral home. Grant Three doesn't trust them but Grace says the woman is nice.”

“Grace thinks everyone is nice.”

“You know that's not the case, Joyce. In fact, she has pretty good instincts about people.”

“Well, that's true.”

“Look, if these investigators have information that can help you with Abrams why not hear them out?”

“What if they're here to arrest me?”

“I don't think PIs can arrest anyone.”

“What if they're really working for Owens?”

“I hadn't considered that.” Freeman paused to think. “Let me see what I can find out. Why not call the office, talk to the Mack woman and feel her out? I'm meeting Rutkowski tomorrow afternoon at Miss Myra's.”

“What time?”

“I told him one o'clock. The lunch crowd will be thinning but still enough people around to make it safe.”

“That's a good idea.”

“Are you still at St. Agnes?”

“Yes, but I'm just leaving. I'm going to stop at the grocery store.”

“Okay, be careful. I'll be here a little while, but if I miss you, call me after you talk to Ms. Mack. Once we know what they know, we can decide what to do next.”

Freeman disconnected the call and looked across the yard. Anna was on her knees in the dirt. She loved the outdoors. Her light-blue pullover and the gray slacks that hugged her hips seemed an extension of the summer sky. Her silver hair was pulled back in a bun, but one wisp dangled onto her brown cheek and the sun danced on her skin. He had known Anna all his life, and he fell in love with her on an afternoon just like this. A smiling cheerleader with contagious energy and a bouncing ponytail, the sun glistening on her face.

Gil quickly shook off a twinge of envy as Don's laughter floated into the sitting area of his suite. The man was insensitive with adults—hard-nosed and arrogant, but he had a way with kids. When they looked at him, they somehow saw Ferdinand, the lovable bull from the children's stories. Gil saw it this afternoon with Jennifer Meadows' grandchildren and he heard it now as Don spoke on the phone with his son, Rudy.
I guess you force yourself to be optimistic when you have children, because you want the world to be a good place for them.
Gil expected to have kids someday along with the stability that goes with raising a family. His mother and father had been married thirty-odd years and were still going strong, but he wasn't ready yet to settle down nor willing to settle for less.

“I tell you that boy of mine is something else,” Don said stepping through their adjoining door. “You know what he said? He asked me if Birmingham was like the ham we have for breakfast? Get it?” Don laughed with affection.

“So, you ready to get down to work?” Gil asked, gathering his notebook, phone and the folder Judy made for him.

“Yep. Come on in.”

Don's room was an exact match of Gil's. The space was open and bright with a desk, two armchairs, a coffee table, and a couch across from a wall-mounted television. The suite's bedroom area was separated by a sliding door. Don sat at the desk and Gil took the nearest chair. Don stretched the cord of the hotel phone so it could rest on the coffee table, then punched the “1” button to place a long-distance call.

“Judy is going to have a fit when she sees the cost of this call,” Don said with a mischievous smile.

“Hello, Mack Investigations,” Judy answered.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Don said.

There was a long pause. Don and Gil knew Judy was considering the many comebacks she could sling at her nemesis. The phone clicked while they waited.

“Mr. Rutkowski, what can I do for you? Everything coming up roses?” Judy finally said.

Her reply took the wind out of Don's sail. She had purposely used a line from the musical
Gypsy
which would have further irritated him, but the reference went over his head. Gil smiled, thinking how clueless Don was to the fact that, with the exception of a physical brawl, Judy had the upper hand in every way.

“Is Mack in?” Don asked gruffly.

“Yep. Let me connect you.”

“Judy?” Gil raised his voice to be heard. “We have you on speaker so let's all get on the call.”

“Oh, hi Gil. Okay, let me move to her desk.”

Judy placed the call on hold. The clicks started up again and in a few moments Judy returned. “Okay, we're both here,” she announced.

“What the hell is wrong with the phones, Novak?” Don yelled.

“We've already called the phone company. They'll be here tomorrow,” Charlie answered. “How are things going there?”

“We're making headway. We sent a message to Joyce through Father Straughn. I left one of my cards with him,” Don reported.

“Now all you have to do is remember to keep your phone turned on,” Judy cracked.

Don cut a look at Gil and mouthed the word “traitor.” Gil shrugged.

“Charlie, I put your office extension on the back of the card so Joyce may call you. Oh, and I've moved up the meeting with Freeman to tomorrow afternoon. I had to bait the hook to get him to reschedule,” Don said.

“You baited the hook with what?”

“I suggested he was hiding Joyce and we knew why.”

“I don't think that was such a good idea.” Charlie sighed.

“Well, it got us the meeting, didn't it?”

“Don's ready to tie things up so we can get back to Detroit as soon as possible,” Gil said.

“I can't blame you for that, but you shouldn't underestimate Freeman. He may seem perfectly harmless, but my guess is he's been the one organizing things for Joyce since before she left Detroit, and that means he has resources and influence. He could be a problem.”

“How do you figure?” Don asked.

“Think about it. Joyce is on the run, she couldn't come out of hiding to buy a house in Forest Park or lease a car, or set up a power of attorney with a company like Haldeman. Someone with local business connections would have to do those deals. If we're right about Freeman, and he believes we know his secrets, he'll see us as a threat.”

“That's a fair point,” Don conceded.

“Where's the meeting?”

“A restaurant near the old neighborhood.”

“I think you should be direct with him,” Charlie advised. “Tell him we're investigating for Abrams. Tell him about everyone we've interviewed, and then tell him we think he's hiding Joyce because of his relationship with Anna Stringer. Then see how he reacts.”