Freeze Frame (9 page)

Against the wall on my left, a long table
held a variety of artifacts, carvings of stone and wood. I picked
up what appeared to be a warrior chiseled out of stone.

"That's a Mayan chief," came a voice from
behind me. "It's at least a thousand years old. Please don't drop
it."

Surprised, I spun around, lucky I didn’t drop
the damn thing. C. J. Rathmore was about my height, five-feet-nine
or so, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and red and black
striped tie. He wore glasses with rimless, round lenses and had a
rather dark complexion for an Englishman; still, the accent was
unmistakably British.

I carefully set the figure back on the table.
Rathmore had caught me off guard. "I...I'm sorry," I managed to
stammer. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. Otherwise you wouldn't
have handled it."

So much for pleasant greetings.

"Please sit down." Rathmore motioned to one
of three dark leather chairs.

"That carving is a ritual figure," Rathmore
said, perhaps trying to make up for his initial harshness. "It's
from the island of Jaina, off the coast of Campeche, Mexico. The
Mayas used the island as a burial place for nobles between six and
nine hundred A. D."

"Interesting," I said, wishing he would get
to the point of this meeting.

"My mother was a descendant of the Mayas; my
father, a British archeologist. They met in Mexico City while he
was studying the Otomi paper makers of San Pablito, northeast of
the City. They moved to London shortly before my birth.”

"You seem to have inherited your father's
interest in archeology."

"It's merely a hobby with me, I'm afraid."
Rathmore paused. "I understand you have a hobby, too, Miss James.
An unfortunate one."

"What do you mean?"

"You seem to fancy yourself a detective. What
other reason would you have for trespassing into a secure
area?"

"If you mean the VanBuhler side of the sixth
floor, I had a good reason for being there. I was looking for a
stolen DVD. I found it in Mr. Bacalla's office."

"Mr. Bacalla says one of his people
discovered the disc on the lift."

"The lift?"

"The elevator."

"That was his story."

Rathmore threw up his hands. "I know very
little about your DVD or how it got to Mr. Bacalla, Miss James. But
I do know profit and loss statements. With the American Vehicle
business in jeopardy, the VanBuhler account is more vital to this
agency than ever. We cannot afford to lose it."

"Mr. Rathmore, I have no intention of
jeopardizing this company's standing with Niles VanBuhler's
people."

"Please see that you don't. I've seen your
personnel file, Miss James, it's very impressive. It would be a
pity to terminate someone with your talent over a matter like
this."

Rathmore stood. The meeting had ended.

30

8:42 p.m.

The lonely baritone of a freighter's horn
rolled through the fog, down the Detroit River. I heard it over the
echoing click of my heels on the pavement of A & B’s parking
lot.

Strolling toward my car, I replayed the day’s
achievements. In spite of my run-in with Rathmore, I felt good. The
Ampere commercial was on disc, layouts mounted on boards. Tomorrow
we would rehearse for Saturday’s presentation to Cunningham, Adams,
Rathmore and Higgins. Matt, Manny and the others had left earlier,
but I stayed to write the outline for our dog and pony show for A
& B management.

The Detroit River reminded me of a song I
loved to play on the piano: Old Man River from Showboat. Like the
Mississippi, this was a blue-collar river, its waters the blood
that carried nourishment to industrial facilities north and south.
Coal in the bellies of northbound freighters fueled power plants in
Marquette and Duluth. Southbound ships carried iron ore to steel
mills in Ohio and Pennsylvania.

The A & B parking lot ran along the
riverbank and I could hear waves licking the sea wall in the
darkness to my left, where the light of the parking lot ended
abruptly.

The lot was illuminated in circular patches
of yellow that streamed from lights atop two rows of tall
lampposts. Between the circles lay shadows of darkness. The
temperature was mild, but a sudden rush of cool air blowing off the
water sent a chill through me. My back to the building, I walked
from light into darkness and back to light again, toward my car at
the far end of the nearly empty lot.

The growl of an engine ripped through the
fabric of my thoughts, a presence somewhere behind me. Startled, I
whirled to see a car burst through the darkness, into a pool of
light nearly a hundred feet away. Its headlights were off and it
came at me fast.

I turned toward a light post fifteen feet to
my left. If I could get there, it would shield me from the car. I
ran, cursing the heels of my shoes. I lunged the last five feet,
the car virtually on top of me. Its roar was deafening and I felt a
rush of air as it sped by.

Tires squealed as the driver spun it around.
It stopped about seventy feet from me, ahead and to my right.

There it sat, a black, ominous shape, half
hidden in darkness. With the downtown lights in the background, I
made out the silhouette of the driver waiting for my move. I
wondered whether to stay behind the relative safety of the pole or
to make a run for it. A tiny flash of light and a loud pop came
from the direction of the car. I felt rather than heard something
fly past, just over my head.
A bullet.

I had to move. Another pole waited directly
ahead, the distance about forty feet, but reaching it would put me
closer to my car. I sensed the driver staring at me. I kicked off
my shoes pulled my short skirt up around my waist and ran.

I heard the tires squeal and knew the race to
the pole would be close. Maybe a photo finish. My heart beat
wildly, my lungs burned for air. The pole loomed closer, but so did
the car, a blur of motion to my right, its engine screaming. I made
it to the pole as the car raced by, the driver braking hard,
sliding almost to the riverbank.

I hugged the pole, breathing out of control,
my vehicle another thirty feet straight ahead.

No time to rest.

I went for it, and heard tires squealing and
an engine howling behind me.

I reached my car and fumbled for the key. The
phantom car sped closer, engine shrieking. I felt the key, jammed
it in the lock, opened the door and jumped inside. I pulled the
door shut as the vehicle raced by. In another second it would have
slammed into the door, crushing a leg or arm.

I stuffed the key into the ignition and
twisted. As the engine started, I looked up to see the taillights
of the phantom car race past the A & B Building, across Atwater
Street and onto the short road leading to Jefferson Avenue.

Why had the driver given up so easily? The
answer came from behind me as light flooded the interior of my car.
In the rearview mirror I saw the headlights and silhouette of a
security vehicle that had come into the A & B lot from the far
entrance. With the dual lights on its roof, the car gave the
appearance of a Detroit Police vehicle in the darkness. Police or
security staff, it didn’t matter.

I got out, waving at the vehicle. It rolled
to a stop behind me.

"Help you, Miss?"

I struggled to catch my breath. "That car,” I
pointed toward Jefferson Avenue, "It tried to kill me."

"Which car?" The security officer squinted
out toward the lights on Jefferson Avenue. By now whoever tried to
run me down would be a mile away.

31

The patrolman and his partner arrived within
five minutes of the security guard's call.

I had caught my breath, and calmed down
somewhat.

"What was the make of the vehicle?"

I didn’t have an answer. It was dark and
everything happened so quickly I hadn't gotten a good look at the
car or driver.

"Did you see the vehicle?" the second officer
asked the security guard.

"Afraid not. When I drove back here on my
round, the lot was deserted except for Ms. James. She got out of
her car and waved me down. I called you. That's it."

"He had a gun,” I said. "The man in the car
shot at me."

"Where was the vehicle at the time the driver
discharged his weapon?” the first cop asked.

I motioned to where the car had stopped.
"Over there. I saw a flash, and I could feel the bullet go past and
out there." I pointed at the river.

I walked the cops to the spot where the car
had stood. The officers ran flashlight beams over the pavement for
five minutes looking for a shell casing.

"Would there have to be one?" I asked.

"Not necessarily," the second cop said. "Not
if the man had a revolver."

"How many shots?" asked the first cop.

"Just one."

"If there was a shot," he said, looking at
his partner, "the bullet is at the bottom of the river."

"What do you mean, if? You think I’m making
this up?” In a city the size of Detroit, with shootings every day,
why was it so inconceivable that somebody might try to kill me?

"Are you sure it wasn't his car backfiring?"
the first policeman asked.

"You're damn right I'm sure. The man fired a
gun at me. What are you going to do about it?"

"Don't get excited, ma'am," the second
officer said. "We're going to file a report. But you do realize
that without a description of the driver or the vehicle, there's
not much to go on."

I sat in the police car and tried to hold my
temper as the cops asked more questions. With my life in danger,
all they intended was to file a report. Worse, the driver got away.
He missed this time, what about the next?

When the policemen figured they had enough
answers, they walked me back to my car. I drove home alone, feeling
a vulnerability brand new to me. I checked the rearview mirror
constantly, watching for a car that might race up beside me...or
one that might stay behind me too long.

The drive to Indian Village, just ten minutes
from Adams & Benson, seemed to take forever. I stopped halfway
up my driveway, directly opposite the side door of my house. I cut
the engine, turned off the headlights and looked in every
direction.

Was it possible that the man who tried to run
me down knew where I lived? Had he followed me? Was he watching me
now in the darkness, waiting to spring from behind my garage or one
of the trees just a few feet from my car?

I pulled the key from the ignition and
fumbled with the ring, finally locating the key to the side door.
In one continuous motion I unlocked and opened the car door, swung
out, jammed the key in the side door, opened it, slammed the car
door, ran into the house, pulled that door shut and turned the
bolt.

I left the interior lights off as I walked to
the rear of my kitchen and peered out into the backyard. Bathed in
moonlight, it looked empty. I double-checked the locks on front and
back doors, then ran upstairs. I considered calling my father, but
decided against it. I didn’t want to worry him, and needed time to
put tonight’s happenings into perspective.

Feeling sweaty and dirty from running, I
finally turned the bathroom light on, took a quick shower and went
to bed. I hoped to doze off quickly, but it was well after three
a.m. before I finally fell asleep.

32

Friday, Oct 15 9:27 a.m.

"What are the cops doing about last night?"
Manny Rodriguez asked.

He, Matt Carter and I were having coffee at
the table in my office.

I shrugged. "They filed a report. As far as I
know, that's it."

The easy-going attitude was an act. I still
hadn't gotten over last night, but I didn’t want to burden the
group with my anxiety and take their focus off the Ampere.

"Filed a report, huh? That's guaranteed to
strike fear into the guy who tried to run you down," Rodriguez
deadpanned.

"Too bad you didn't get the license number,"
Carter said. I shot him a look, and he realized how foolish his
remark sounded. "Sorry."

I hadn't planned on telling anyone about the
incident, but the night security guard told the man who relieved
him, and the story had spread through the agency. Even so, I kept
my suspicions about Bacalla, Roland and the Ampere campaign to
myself. That too would create a diversion the group didn't
need.

"What was the guy's motive?" Carter asked.
"Why would anyone want to run you down?"

"Who knows? Look, I appreciate your concern.
But for now, let the police worry about it."

"Doesn't sound like they're very worried,"
Rodriguez said.

"No, it doesn't. But let’s leave the
detective work to the cops and concentrate on creating advertising.
And hope Ken Cunningham's strategy works."

***

Cunningham had asked for a final run through
Saturday at three o'clock. I spent the rest of the day fine-tuning
the presentation. All we lacked was an overall theme line.

"That's like saying the only thing the
Titanic needed was an iceberg-proof hull," Bob Roy said. But by now
the team was dragging after four straight twelve to fifteen hour
days.

"I want all of you to go home and rest," I
told them. "Come in fresh at ten sharp for the final push. We'll
find a theme line that'll blow their socks off."

Rodriguez hung around after the others had
gone.

"Planning on camping here tonight,
Manny?"

"Nah. But I am going to stay awhile to work
on that theme line."

"Be my guest." I had my briefcase in my hand.
"Just turn out the lights when you leave."

"One more thing," Rodriguez said. "I borrowed
that Avion submaster from Carter. I plan to give it a look on my
Sony setup at home."

I gave him a thumbs up sign as I walked out
the door.

33

11:12 p.m.