Bury Me When I'm Dead (21 page)

Chapter 28

Owens nursed a gin and grapefruit juice while Kitty rattled on about the wardrobe she'd picked out for next month's trip to Vegas. He only half listened as he enjoyed the sunset from his balcony perch. This crib cost him three grand a month but included 24-hour security, cleaning and concierge service, free parking, meeting space and executive rentals. It was the perfect setup to monitor the restaurant and parking lot action, and to host the monthly business audits by the suits in Atlantic City. But the main reason he'd leased this luxury waterfront condo in downtown Detroit was its access to a Canada escape across the Detroit River. He knew the Feds were investigating him, but he had no intention of going back to prison. He'd drop out of sight before he let that happen. The phone rang and Owens gave Kitty a head wag to answer the call.

“Yes, he's expected. You can send him up.”

Kitty tightened the belt on her peach satin robe and stood to leave the balcony.

“Barnes is on his way up. I wish you wouldn't have him come here. He doesn't really fit into the ambience.”

“Ambience? What the hell do you know about ambience? I guess you forgot about that strip joint I found you in. Spilled drinks, cigar smoke, tits and hard-ons. Don't let
my
money go to your head.”

Owens' tone was angry. When he got like this, Kitty gave him a lot of space, but she was miffed. “Well, you can let your
associate
in yourself,” she said, pouting and closing the distance to the bedroom in five strides.

Owens thought about the call from the snooty concierge. He likely shared Kitty's opinion of Barnes and had no doubt added him to the
list of questionable people who visited apartment 702, and who met in the small conference room for four hours on the second Tuesday of every month. Owens fumed at the thought of the supercilious little man, who raised one eyebrow and adopted a patronizing tone every time they crossed paths. “Why hello Mr. Owens, I hope the day finds you well.”

“Little punk,” Owens said aloud.

He yanked open the door before Barnes had a chance to knock. Kitty was right, in this building Barnes stood out like a hyena in a flock of sheep.

“Who you calling a punk?” Barnes scowled.

“Not you. Come on in.”

Barnes stepped over the threshold and walked straight to the sliding door of the balcony to look outside. He wore a Kangol cap and a black sweat-suit with expensive black sneakers. He had a large diamond stud in each ear. He spun and walked to the kitchen, paused for moment to scan the room then looked into the formal dining room. He stared curiously at the closed bedroom door.

More like a big cat than a hyena,
Owens thought. “Do you realize every time you come here you walk from room to room?”

“Whatcha mean?”

“You pace around looking in every room.”

“No, I don't,” Barnes said.

Owens had known Walter Barnes a long time. In prison, he was given the nickname “Converse” because he was always sneaking around. He was observant—saw things other people didn't see, and Owens exploited him for that quality.

“I'm sitting outside. Let's talk there.”

Barnes peeked over the balcony rail holding on tightly.

“Man I couldn't live this high up,” he said stepping back from the railing and reaching for the chair behind him as if some unseen force might lift and propel him over the side.

“It's only seven floors. You should see it from the roof.”

“No thanks,” Barnes said, grasping the arm of his chair.

“What are you drinking?”

“I'll have some Hennessey.”

“Help yourself,” Owens said, pointing to the bottles under the glass cocktail table between them.

Barnes poured two fingers of cognac and before the liquor could resettle in the bottle he'd drank half. The crease between his eyebrows disappeared quickly and he lessened his death grip on the chair's arm.

“So how did you come up with the Belle Isle skating rink?” Owens asked.

“Well it's easy to see anybody coming in, and there are lots of places to hide. There's not a lot of room to conceal a car. So, I would probably park up the road and come in on foot or a bike.”

“That's not a bad idea.”

“How do we want to handle her? Do we need to find out what she knows, first?”

“Joyce already knows plenty. I know she approached some of the kitchen staff at two of my restaurants and asked how they got their jobs. It made them skittish and they reported it to our guys. A few days later Paul took off.”

“You think she knows the whole thing?”

“She knows enough to think what happened to Paul could happen to her,” Owens said sourly. “I think we just need to make sure she can't ever talk.”

“So, she shows up for a meeting with the old man, but instead of finding him, she finds me.”

“Something like that.”

“Who's bringing the old man, you?”

“I don't know. Charlene Mack will probably want to drive him out.”

“What about that Mack bitch? You think Stringer already gave her the rundown?”

“I don't think so,” Owens said shaking his head. “She doesn't seem suspicious.”

“You know I wouldn't mind taking care of her, too.”

Owens gave Barnes an icy stare. “Since you messed it up the first time?”

“She was bound and gagged.” Barnes took a defensive tone. “No way she could've gotten loose. She should be dead.”

“But she isn't.”

“Well then let me take care of her now.”

“You shouldn't have attacked her in the first place. We don't have time for your personal vendettas. Your mistake might have messed up the whole deal. What if you'd been arrested, and they connected you to me?”

Barnes shrugged. “That bitch had it coming.”

Owens considered the idea that Barnes might no longer be useful to him. Maybe he needed a right-hand man with a bit more finesse. Someone who could pass muster with the concierge.

“I think we don't worry about Ms. Mack. It might arouse more suspicion if both Joyce and the Mack woman are killed. And don't forget, Abrams will be there.” Owens took a long sip of scotch.

“I could make it look like a robbery and take care of all three of 'em,” Barnes said with a malicious glint in his eye.

Two women and an old man, that's just your speed.
Owens remembered his guy's account of taking care of Paul and his cousin. He said Barnes made him do all the heavy lifting until it came to pulling the trigger. Barnes volunteered to do that.

“You might be on to something, Barnes. If there's one thing I learned in prison it's not to leave loose ends,” Owens said.

Kitty came out of the bedroom when Barnes left. She was in her designer exercise clothes, her hair held back with a lime-green headband. Owens liked women who looked equally good in evening gowns, swimsuits and sweatpants. Kitty did each style proud with her dancer's body. She walked through the apartment as Barnes had done earlier.

“Making sure the artwork is still here?” Owens joked.

“That man gives me the creeps,” Kitty said, eyeing the empty glass on the table.

“You sure you're not being racist?”

“You know I'm not. I've known lots of Black men.”

“I'm sure you have,” Owens said sarcastically. He poured more gin. “You want one?”

“No, I'm going to the gym.”

“Really, Kitty. What is it you have against Barnes?”

“He's like some of the guys I met at the club. They always had an angle, always trying to play somebody. They get off on the power.”

“So he can't be trusted?”

“That's not exactly what I'm saying,” Kitty searched for the best analogy. “You can't trust a crackhead because he can't help what he does. Barnes knows exactly what he's doing. He's manipulative and likes to hurt people. When you're not around he's always flirting with me.”

“Guys are always looking at you. So why wouldn't he? I don't mind that.”

“Yeah, but he doesn't want me, he just wants to show me he's not afraid of you.”

Kitty left for the gym and Owens mulled over her analysis. The sun was a streak of pink along the horizon and the air on the balcony was turning cool. Owens downed the rest of his drink and took the two empty glasses to the kitchen sink where he rinsed both and put them in the dishwasher.
Not a hyena or a big cat. More like a snake.

Charlie had landed in Birmingham a half hour ago and her heart sank when she listened to Mandy's voicemail.
Oh, God, how does she know I was with Franklin?

“Everything okay, Mack?” Don asked as they were driving to the hotel.

“Yeah. Everything's fine.”

“Is your mother okay?” Don fished.

“She's fine, fine. So fill me in on what's happening.”

“Something's bothering you. You're agitated.”

“Let's drop it, Don.”

The Mack partners were gathered in Charlie's suite, each with a bottle from Charlie's minibar.

“So, Joyce is calling in the morning?” Don asked.

“That's what she said. And if things work out, I can meet her early and join you and Gil for the meeting with Freeman.”

“Shouldn't you call Owens before it gets too late?” Gil asked, using the tongs to pull more ice cubes from the bucket.

“I guess I shouldn't put it off any longer.” Charlie sighed.

“Hi Owen. It's Charlene Mack. You left a message for me to call?”

“Well hi there, Charlene.” Owens had the exaggerated pronunciation of someone who didn't want to sound like they'd had too much to drink. “Thanks for returning my call. How are you doing?”

“I'm doing fine. How are you?”

“Just hunky dory. I think I have the perfect place for a meeting between Mr. Abrams and Joyce.”

“Oh, great. What do you suggest?”

“Belle Isle. At the old skating pavilion.”

Charlie knew the Flynn skating pavilion well. One of her fondest childhood memories was of twirling and gliding in her brand new pink ice skates on a bright Christmas morning. Her mother and father would applaud her execution of a spin, and after skating she would warm her hands around a cup of hot chocolate.

“Hmm. That might work,” Charlie said.

“It's a public space, but not crowded and there's a parking lot,” Owens added.

And lots of room for an ambush,
Charlie recalled.

“Well, when I talk to Joyce I'll tell her that's the place and find out when she can meet. I expect to speak with her tomorrow, or the next day,” Charlie said, ending the call.

“I thought you were going to tell him the meeting was off?” Gil said.

“What did he say?” Don wanted to know.

“He's come up with the Belle Isle ice skating rink for the meeting with Joyce.”

“Belle Isle? That's a horrible idea,” Don said. “One way in, one way out, and lots of places to hide if you want to attack someone.”

“Well I agreed to it because it doesn't matter. The meeting's never going to happen. I'll call Abrams in a couple of days and tell him
Joyce backed out. Meanwhile, planning for an ambush at Belle Isle should keep Owens and Barnes in Detroit and out of our hair for a few days.”

“Okay. I see there's method to your madness. Well I'm going to bed,” Gil announced, abandoning his comfortable spot on the room's leather couch. “Should we meet downstairs for breakfast?”

“Yep. Good idea. Let's make it for eight-thirty. My back still isn't up to exercise.”

“You coming, Don?” Gil held the door open.

Don gave Charlie a lingering look. His hands were stuck deep into his pockets and his blue eyes clouded over with weariness. “You want another nightcap, Mack?”

Charlie shook her head, “no.” Don was a man who didn't like being away from home too long, and when he was, lost his determination.

“I'll see you guys in the morning.”