Bury Me When I'm Dead (25 page)

“I feel like we're all in this mess together now,” he began. “So, I want to show you something.”

The front areas of the building had been stripped of furniture and fixtures but the hardwood floors, paneled walls and cathedral ceiling hinted at its former use. Freeman unlocked a plastic-covered key switch near a metal door which opened to reveal an elevator. He entered and waited for the rest to join him, then pushed the single button on the door's jamb which closed the elevator's gate and sent it rumbling leisurely upwards. James, Goodman and Freeman stood like statues but Gil, Charlie and Don fidgeted nervously. When the door opened, the group stepped into what must have been a storage area. A half-dozen old metal desks and rolling desk chairs were piled in a corner. Natural light from narrow windows near the ceiling poured into the space, capturing the shimmer of dust and illuminating beautiful but dented hardwood floors. Freeman turned toward the rear of the building and like on the floor below, a series of doors opened into the center of the building from the hallway. At the third opening,
Freeman pulled out another key to unlock a plain wood door. As the group stepped into the room they saw a man standing in front of the windows, his body in silhouette. The man stepped forward and Freeman met him halfway, putting his arm across his shoulders.

“I want you to meet Paul Gillette Stringer,” Freeman said.

Chapter 31

Ernestine's excitement about her solo outing grew with each mile the taxi placed between her and the apartment building. She hated the term “assisted living,” knowing it was just one category above “old-folk's home.” She had been an independent girl in high school involved in many extracurricular activities including debating and writing for the student newspaper. As a young college student she'd regularly traveled with classmates up and down the East Coast and once, in a university-sanctioned trip to Grenada, Spain, she had participated as a delegate in a mock United Nations assembly. The two summers she'd spent working in Alabama as a volunteer with the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee had been her claim to a political ideology separate from her parents' traditional views. As a SNCCer she'd worked, eaten and lived with a diverse group of people who hailed from across the United States and Europe. During her second summer in Birmingham, although unofficially engaged to John Mack, she'd had a romantic fling with a young Jewish boy from Pittsburgh. Those had been heady days and the stream of fresh air seeping through the slightly opened taxi window gave her the same feeling of unlimited possibilities.

The cab pulled up to the bank of steel and glass at the entry to the Renaissance Center's shopping concourse. She paid the fare, tipping the driver two dollars, and entered the bustle of weekend shoppers and out-of-town visitors. Ernestine took her time looking in each store window, stopping into a few boutiques to look at silk scarves, belts and assorted costume jewelry. At one of the stores, she purchased a pair of clip-on earrings shaped like small clam shells
which she exchanged for her mismatched earrings. She paid with the credit card Charlie had given her for what she called “incidentals.”

By the time Ernestine had traversed the Renaissance Center's street level, an hour and a half had been used up and it was lunchtime. She was thinking about a nice sit-down meal and paused before the restaurant directory in front of the four sleek escalators noting the names of eating places at the RenCen. Without warning, the glass, concrete, steel and hubbub began to close in on her. She felt a bit of panic and longed for the exhilaration and fresh air she'd felt in the cab. She turned away from the escalators and walked briskly over the marble floors toward the exit. By the time she reached the carpeted entryway she was trotting and grateful for her black flats. Outside, she hailed one of the cabs in queue, settled into the backseat, and rolled down the windows. She looked up at the man-made symbol of Detroit's ambitions and sucked in air.

“Where to, ma'am?” the driver asked, making rear-view contact. On a whim, Ernestine asked the driver to take her to what had always been one of her favorite places.

“Eastern Market.”

The Market's open air stalls of flowers, food, artisans and antiques were in full, Saturday bloom. Ernestine wanted a meal before she mixed in with the shoppers, and opted for a soup-and-sandwich cafe where she could eat at the outdoor patio and people watch. The half corned-beef sandwich, complemented by a bowl of tomato soup and iced tea, was satisfying and the crowds made her feel she wasn't eating alone. She would spend a couple of hours at the Market and then take a cab back to her apartment. She was still having a very good day.

Chapter 32

The shock of coming face-to-face with someone they thought to be dead was slowly settling in with the PIs from Detroit. Now they were riveted by Paul's account of his cousin's last day of life.

The two men had left their jobs at the bottling plant on Friday evening in good spirits. They cashed their paychecks, then hopped into Andrew's eight-year-old Buick Electra for the trip to the Palisades Bar. They ordered cold beers and Andrew joined a neighborhood acquaintance, Carlos, for a game of pool. Paul had stepped outside for a phone call with Grace when Andrew and Carlos left Paul at the bar in search of a poker game. It was a hot night and Paul was walking home after speaking to Grace for over an hour. The streets were filled with celebrants getting a head start on the July fourth holiday. As Paul got closer to home, he noticed a lot of police activity and large groups of people bordering the railroad yard so he blended in with them. The crowd was held back by police barricades and Paul relied on the bits and pieces of information that wafted back from those close enough to see what was going on. The first news that traveled back from the onlookers was a car had been hijacked. A minute later, someone said the car belonged to Andrew Meadows. Paul fought the urge to vomit as he frantically pushed his way forward, and during the jostling he lost his cell phone. When he got to the line of sawhorses erected by police he could see the car a quarter mile ahead near the I-65 overpass, an old Buick with its doors open and windshield shattered. It was illuminated by the headlights and flashing blue strobes of a dozen police vehicles. A helicopter circled above, its spotlight bouncing along the ground, making wider arcs over the railroad tracks. Paul was near panic when he heard the
squawking of a walkie-talkie announce two gunshot victims. His instincts told him he should run.

Charlie was still stunned. Paul alive. It was another twist in this bizarre case of felony crimes, violence and deception. Paul hadn't returned to his aunt's house that night, instead hiding in the small garden of the Freeman Funeral Home. In the morning, he found a pay phone and called the number on a card he kept in his wallet to be used for emergencies. It was the private number of Grant Freeman, Jr.

“Does Joyce know you're alive, Paul?” Charlie asked.

Freeman answered. “No, she doesn't know, and neither does Anna.”

“Grace neither,” Paul said, his face filling with sadness.

“What people don't know can't hurt them,” Freeman said, matter-of-factly.

“Sorry. No. That's not true,” Charlie countered. “In this case, what they don't know hurts very much.”

The room filled with unspoken accusations. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed just enough to be noticeable and although there were several empty chairs in Paul's makeshift living space, everyone remained standing.

A small bed with a table and lamp were against the rear end of the large room. An area rug under the bed and heavy drapes at the high windows probably captured some of the cold air that seeped through the wood floors and seams in the walls. On the opposite side of the room, an eight-shelf bookcase had been fashioned into a small kitchen area that framed a microwave oven, a dorm-sized refrigerator and space for a few boxes with pots, pans, plates and glasses. There was no sink, so Paul probably used the washroom to clean his cooking and eating utensils. A couch and small television took up the center of the room atop another large area rug.

“So was Carlos the kid who died with Andrew?” Gil finally broke the silence.

“Yes,” James answered, and all heads shifted to him. “He didn't carry any ID, and when the fingerprints came back from the federal database, we intercepted them before they went to the local police.”

“Why?” Gil asked.

“It was better to have Owens think he had solved his problem,” James said.

“But didn't Joyce identify the body at the police morgue?” Charlie asked.

“Don't forget both men had been shot in the face and it was more than a week before Joyce identified the body with a quick glimpse of the remains and a set of photographs.” James paused and looked at Grant. “Mr. Freeman helped us to make the photographs convincing.”

That would be easy for a mortician to do.
Charlie caught Freeman's eye. He looked away.

“Mrs. Meadows had already made a positive identification of Andrew's body and since the two cousins were almost inseparable, and Paul was missing, everyone assumed the second body was his.”

“Even the Birmingham police,” Don said.

James nodded.

The room was quiet again. Charlie watched Paul as the others discussed him. He stood very still with his head tilted as if listening to a distant sound. He was a handsome man and, like Grace, appeared younger than his age. He was almost six feet tall, lean with a pecan complexion, and didn't bear any particular resemblance to Freeman although he did look a bit like Grant the Third. He wore a beard that was in need of a trim, and his hair was bushy.

James distributed a double-sided sheet of paper to the group with two columns: one of names, the other of numbers. Paul was to demonstrate the gift that Owens exploited in his illegal activities.

“Paul, what's the number for Peter J. Benjamin?” James asked.

“751328898,” Paul recited.

“What about Karen Manley?” James asked.

Paul recited a number, tilting his head just a bit as he scanned the computer hard drive that was his brain. He tapped his middle finger against his thigh with each digit he said. James prompted Paul with two more names, then switched to numbers which Paul linked to the correct names. Charlie followed his accuracy on the list she held.

“It's easy to understand why someone like Owens would try to use Paul,” she said.

“And it wasn't just social security numbers. Owens had Paul memorize phone numbers, addresses, pass codes, safe and lockbox combinations.”

“I imagine if you got Nate Sparks and Paul in the same room you'd have the equivalent of a supercomputer,” Gil added.

“You'd be right, and because of their talents, we have enough information about the syndicate to choke their cash pipeline.”

“I think it's cruel that you haven't told Joyce, Anna or Grace that Paul is alive.” Charlie blurted.

Her anger was an explosion. No one responded to the outburst, but Goodman shifted in his stance and James collected the number sheets. Freeman attempted to put his arm around his son's shoulder but Paul shrugged it off.

“You've been manipulating people for a long time with your double life and wheeling and dealing.” Charlie flung the words directly at Grant Freeman, Jr. “You've tried controlling everything and everyone, but you certainly will
not
control me.”

He was flustered by Charlie's attack, but tried to defend himself. “Well, I don't think that's fair, Ms. Mack,” he began.

Charlie cut him off. “There's very little that's fair in this damn case. We've all put a lot of people at risk. I'm not sure anymore that I
want
to cooperate with the FBI,” she said, turning to James. “And I certainly don't want to be a party to this man's cruel secrets.”

Don studied Charlie's posture. Her hands were clenched at her sides. He'd seen her this angry before when someone took advantage of innocents. The last time, she'd laid out a child molester so quickly the man didn't have a chance to even think about running. Don gave Gil a look that said,
be ready for anything.
But Paul made the first move, completely disarming everyone. He began to sob.

“Paul?” Freeman said, taking a step toward him. But Charlie motioned Freeman away, wrapped her arms around Paul and let him weep on her shoulder.

The silence in the van was uncomfortable. Goodman had donned his coveralls and cap, and James slumped in his seat. Charlie's arms were folded tightly, and Don and Gil stared out their respective windows. James said something to Goodman then turned to the backseat. “What you said has me concerned, Ms. Mack. It's understandable you'd be angry but we do need your cooperation with Owens.”

“Does that include continuing to lie to Joyce about Paul?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

“What I don't like is your callous disregard for the others affected by this case,” Charlie said in an even tone. “The people who love Paul deserve to know he's alive.”

“I need your word that you'll keep Paul's status confidential, Ms. Mack,” James said. “I'll need that promise from all of you.”

“As long as we have
your
promise to protect the others involved. And Joyce has to be given another chance to decide if she wants to be a guinea pig,” Charlie replied.

“I think she's already agreed to it, Mack,” Don said.

“She did seem to understand the risks involved,” Gil added.

“Well, okay we're back on track.” James sounded relieved.

Goodman pulled up to the entrance of an unremarkable, yellow-brick, low-rise building. He leaned out the window to punch numbers on a keypad and an iron gate parted, allowing the van's entry.

“Where are we?” Don asked.

“This is one of our field offices,” James said. “I know you're ready to head back to Detroit, but I think we better map out a plan before you leave. By the way, Ms. Mack, have you called Owens with the proposed date of the meeting?”

“You know I haven't, Agent Saleh. You're monitoring all my calls.” Charlie was still angry.

“It would be good to call him today. The sooner we lock in the date and time, the sooner I can get the resources we need put in place.” James was in bureaucrat mode.

The van passed through a small parking lot and entered a covered garage. Goodman remained with the van while James led the way down a concrete walkway and a flight of stairs to a door that opened onto a brightly lit office with two dozen cubicles. From the outside
one could not see through the windows of this room but from inside the occupants had an unencumbered view of the street and surrounding area.

The group gathered in a compact conference room that had already been equipped for their meeting with an interactive Smartboard, two Apple laptops and several easels with poster boards. The posters showed magnified views of Belle Isle including aerials of the half-mile access bridge, and various angles of the skating pavilion.

“I took the liberty of ordering some sandwiches, chips and coffee. I also can offer you bottled water and soft drinks from our vending machine,” James said.

Charlie and Gil settled into chairs but Don was standing at the Smartboard, mesmerized by the buttons and controls. The board had audio and video interactivity and a connection to a satellite downlink; the current view was a live picture of the conference room. Don had unconsciously picked up one of the electronic pens on the board's ledge, and appeared ready to use it, when James took the tool from his hand.

“Hey, Mack, we should get one of these things for our office.” Don's voice was urgent.

“I don't think so. It probably costs over a thousand dollars,” Charlie said.

“Actually a lot more than that. This particular board is not available to the general public. It's proprietary to the Bureau,” James said.

Don threw James a resentful look and moved to the seat next to Gil. Two female agents, nearly indistinguishable from each other, entered the room.

“These are agents Griggs and Berman,” James said by way of introductions. The five-foot-seven, brunette, brown-eyed agents nodded a “hello.” Both wore a white blouse, black slacks and a blue blazer. Griggs took up position in front of a laptop, Berman disappeared into a small, windowed control room. A cart with sandwiches and beverages was on a side wall and James modeled the expected behavior by retrieving a sandwich, chips, a package of cookies and a cola, then sat before the second laptop. He punched a few keys and an aerial view of the southwest quadrant of Belle Isle pushed forward from the
photo group on the Smartboard and then zoomed out to a full screen view. Don stopped in mid-bite of his turkey sandwich to admire the magical board, his eyes popping like a four-year-old on Christmas morning. He turned pleading eyes toward Charlie, but she pretended not to see.

“Is that the skating pavilion at the top of that photo?” Gil pointed.

“Yes. That's north from this perspective. It's called the Flynn Pavilion and that's Lake Tacoma below it which leads to a series of canals,” Agent Griggs said, controlling the first laptop. “About three hundred meters to the west—that's screen left—is the Casino which is accessible by a pedestrian bridge. On the right is an open area and beyond that is an elevated band shell which may be a good lookout point.”

“Let's get a live, satellite view,” James said to Griggs, who began tapping on the keyboard.

“Got it,” she said in fifteen seconds.

“Okay, put it up,” James said.

The photos on the board were replaced by a satellite view of Belle Isle. Griggs zoomed in to a half-moon parking lot above the pavilion building. The east end of the lot was filled with construction equipment and orange cones, on the other side were a few cars.