1 Motor City Shakedown (19 page)

When Allen moved in the little clearing below, Malcolm only stared. The man’s flashlight went out, and Malcolm only stared.

Hours inched by, and for every minute that Allen Phelps didn’t move to grab his bag of cash and run back to his car, Malcolm’s blossoming sense of joy grew brighter.

During the drive up from Detroit, he had begun to formulate the briefest details of a new project. Now that his life’s statement was so much scattered ash, he knew in some primal corner of himself that he must either start over with a new project or risk decline and death. Everything was animated by purpose, and he was no exception.

Rooted in the foreign territory of the natural world, locked in a waiting game with a trained killer of men, Malcolm passed the time by solidifying the themes and objectives of his new project. It would sustain him, as his previous artistic efforts had sustained him. It would define him, and keep him from self-destruction.

And it would begin with Allen Phelps.

*

Morning breathed into the little clearing. The closet safe yawned open in the ground, its dark depths empty. No human remained in the clearing, or in the woods surrounding it. The prattling insects fell silent, and the local life settled back to slumber.

*

Darren sipped his third coffee and watched Issabella cut her omelet with the side of her fork.

“I can’t believe you aren’t going to eat anything,” she said for the second time since the two of them had found the little roadside restaurant and settled into a booth at the front window.

“I never really get hungry in the morning,” he said.

“Well, I do.”

“Good. I like to watch you eat.”

“Ugh,” she said. “Read a newspaper or something. You’re making me self-conscious.”

“That’s why it’s cute.”

“I’m going to stab you with my utensils.”

“I have an idea.”

She chewed her mouthful of omelet and took a sip of orange juice.

“Okay,” she said.

“You’re in charge.”

“That sounds nice. What does it mean?”

Darren settled back in the booth and looked out the window at the gravel parking lot and the woods on the other side of the two-lane highway. The Upper Peninsula, once you got past the bridge, was
all
woods. Towering trees seemed to choke every inch of the world like an invading army that had run out of territory to claim.

“I think you should call the shots from here on out,” he said. “You were the one who bothered to read the paperwork from Vernon’s office and find our future star-whistleblower. So when we get to Marquette, it’s the Issabella Bright show. You get to say how we approach this Two Leaf guy—I love that name, by the way, very ‘I am one with nature’ shaman kind of thing –and you get to, you know, point the way.”

“And you’re going to be doing what?”

“Moral support.”

“Right.”

“And sage counsel, of course.”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this,” she said, and the little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. She sipped her orange juice and studied his placid expression.

Their waitress appeared-- an elderly and pleasant woman who Issabella imagined was co-owner of the restaurant with the yawning old man working the grill. The lunch counter was covered in tourist knick-knacks and plastic domes containing what were advertised as “Authentic U.P. Fudge. Cheaper Than the Bridge”. Darren thanked her when she topped off his coffee.

“You guys doing a little getaway?” she said.

“Sort of like that,” Darren said. “We’re headed up to Marquette.”

“Nice town. Cousin of mine’s out there, just loves the place. You two enjoy yourselves.”

The waitress drifted away to other patrons, and Darren tested his fresh cup tentatively. Issabella dabbed her mouth and set the napkin down on her empty plate.

“You’re trying to do…
something
,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“You’re being nice. To help me build confidence or something. Right? That’s what this “You’re in charge” stuff is. You think this will help me not be panicky and annoying.”

“I’ve never seen you be panicky or annoying.
”

“Oh God,” she groaned. “Don’t treat me like some kid, Darren. If I needed some sort of pep talk, I’d—“

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Darren shrugged and set his cup down. He folded his hands in front of him and his smile broadened.

“Things are a little more complicated than we thought,” he said. “I woke up a couple hours before you. You’re adorable when you’re asleep, by the way. You kind of sprawl out all over the place and snore with real abandon.”

“I do not snore.”

“So I watched you for a little while,” he said. “But, as adorable as that was, I get bored easy. So I started playing on-line euchre on your laptop. And then I got bored with that and read some on-line news sites. Which is boring all by itself, so I—“

“You need to stop drinking coffee.”

“—ran Johnny Two-Leaf through the Michigan I-CHAT database.”

“Oh no.”

“Yep,” he said. “And wonder of wonders, our star-whistleblower, Vernon’s crony in the drug-smuggling and body burning business, has active bench warrants. Failure to report for probation and malicious destruction of property. Johnny Two-Leaf is a wanted man, Izzy Dear.”

Issabella laid her head down in her arms and groaned.

“So,” Darren continued, “we may have some thorny legal issues to work out while we’re vacationing in the Great White North. Like, how do we not become accessories to helping Johnny evade his legal responsibilities? Mind you, I’m not too worked up about it. I mean, there’s really little chance that our transporting Johnny down home is going to get us personally tangled up. But, stranger things have happened, right? And you’re probably not as, ah, unconcerned about that sort of blemish on your young lawyer’s reputation.”

Issabella made another groaning noise into her folded arms.

“So, I think some legal finesse is required,” he said. “Like, maybe we have him turn himself in on the warrants voluntarily, and make a motion for a P.R. bond so we can get him on the road as soon as possible.”

Issabella raised her head and looked at him with a flat expression.

“You mean
I
make the bond motion.”

“I mean that, yes.”

“And when that goes down in flames?”

“I have faith in you,” he said. “You’ll get our man sprung. I have no doubt.”

“You suck.”

“Now how is that any way for one equal partner to speak to another?”

“You
suck
.”

Darren laughed and finished his coffee.

*

Malcolm pulled into the parking lot of a Meijer’s shopping center just outside the town of Marquette. He wheeled his car around until it was pointed back out at the street. He shut the engine off and stared at the hotel across the street.

It was one of the old, mid-century highway motels consisting of two floors of rooms laid out in a row, with an exterior set of stairs and a balcony linking the bottom floor to the upper. There was an ice machine and pop dispenser nestled in a little cove on the ground floor. The office was a separate, one-story building with an attached restaurant.

As he looked on, Allen Phelps climbed out of his car in the motel’s parking lot. The TAC lieutenant stretched and looked around before walking in to the office. A few minutes later, Allen emerged and walked to a door on the first floor of the motel.

He produced a key, opened the room and disappeared inside.

Malcolm remained where he was and entertained himself with contemplations of color palette and recurring themes. His new Great Work was solidifying itself in his mind’s eye, taking on a life of its own. He was anxious to begin, to put the first mark upon a page that would herald his new statement about the world and the wretched truth that ran like a poison undercurrent beneath the river of human existence.

When Allen reappeared from the motel room, climbed in his car, and drove away, Malcolm did not follow. Instead, he walked across the Meijer’s parking lot, into the warehouse-sized store.

Once he found the aisle dedicated to art supplies, Malcolm grinned with deep satisfaction as he picked and selected among the assorted offerings.

SEVENTEEN

Darren was at the wheel of Issabella’s Buick when the curving stretch of road offered them their first glimpse of the city of Marquette. Issabella pointed out the windshield at a distant white dome that dominated its corner of the world.

“Yooper Dome!”

“Seriously?”

She fished in her purse and came out with her cell phone. She snapped pictures with it.

“Denise was talking about it,” she said. “That’s my lawyer-friend. She says it’s the largest man-made wooden dome in the world. The Superior Dome, but they call it the Yooper Dome. This is cool.”

“You’re kidding.”

Issabella snapped two more pictures and settled back in her seat. She gave him a disapproving frown.

“I like tourist spots,” she sniffed. “I’ll go anywhere if there’s a historic site to see.”

“I’m a ‘find the nearest pub and blend in with the locals’ kind of traveler.”

“Or just find the local pub, regardless, you mean.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”

Darren guided them down into Marquette, following the GPS as it instructed them on the proper route to the address they had for Johnny Two Leaf. The roads were wide, swept with elms, oak and evergreen. The buildings were rambling brick and stone, from before the time when construction materials were machined into uniform dimensions, with signs written in Old English script and big sidewalks encircling them. The streetlamps were cast-iron pillars ending in faux candle-boxes. As they passed through the downtown blocks, clumps of trees were ever-present, the entire town still interspersed with the wilds that had stood before it. They crested a rise and Lake Superior was a rolling crescent curving along the city’s edge, impossibly infinite, impossibly blue.

“Jesus,” Darren said. “This place is where someone thought up the phrase ‘quality of life’.”

“I could totally live here.”

He arched a skeptical brow and said, “Wait until the fall and this place is buried in snow. Then you’d be digging your way out to get to the quickest plane out of here.”

“Probably, yeah.”

They continued to turn and wind their way through the town until they were in the suburbs west of downtown. The GPS announced they had arrived, and Darren pulled the Buick to a stop beside the curb of a modest, single-story brick house. A big black SUV was parked in the drive.

“You lead, kiddo,” he said.

Issabella rang the doorbell and tried to settle on her approach. Just because Johnny Two Leaf was the sole employee of Vernon’s local crematorium didn’t mean he was definitely tangled up in the drug-dealing business. He might be blissfully unaware that his boss had been transporting improbably large quantities of heroin with the bodies he delivered up here. He might just be some innocent guy who was wondering why his phone calls down to Detroit weren’t being answered anymore.

If that was the case, Issabella didn’t know what she was going to do. She had settled on the idea that clearing Vernon’s name of being a
murderer and simultaneously bringing down the drug ring of Detroit cops who had killed him were important enough to keep at this case. The money aspect was gone, though. And the actual legal aspect had died with Vernon. If Johnny Two Leaf wasn’t the star whistle-blower she hoped he was, Issabella had decided it was time to get back to the reality of being a lawyer. She needed real cases, and she needed money.

“Are we going to be partners after this is over?” she said as the two of them stood together on the little cement porch.

“As lawyers?”

“Yes.”

“I hope so. I mean, I didn’t want to assume.”

She rang the doorbell again. From somewhere in the house, a dog whined.

“Stop being nervous about scaring me.”

“I want to be partners,” he said, and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the way he had done in the hotel when they were together. She felt a warm rush in her stomach.

She was going to say something more, but the door opened and a middle-aged Native American man in jeans and a green sweater stood there. His long, raven-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. At his heels, a Chihuahua skittered and whined and generally looked unpleasant.

“Johnny Two Leaf?” she said.

The man looked at her, frowned, and looked at Darren. His eyes narrowed with open suspicion and he made no move to open the screen door.

“You two don’t look like cops,” he said.

“No, we’re not police,” she said and tried a reassuring smile. It had no visible effect on the man, who just scowled and remained rooted where he was.

“We’re lawyers,” Darren offered. “Which, let’s face it, probably isn’t much of an improvement over the five-oh, is it? Historically speaking, I mean. What with the broken treaties and the—“

“You can stop now, Darren.”

“—general swindling and all that. But we’re not
those
lawyers.”

“Darren.”

“We’re the good ones.”

“Christ,” the man said. “You two with that dealership? Because I’ll tell you right now, Johnny hasn’t got a pot to piss in.”

They both stared with blank expressions.

“Not the dealership? Not about the broken windshields?”

Issabella shook her head.

“And not cops?”

“We’re here because we think Johnny’s in trouble,” Issabella said. “His boss, Vernon Pullins, was our client. Some people killed him, and we think Johnny needs our help now to stay out of the whole mess. Can we talk to him?”

The man seemed to be digesting the information, his scowl s
hifting into a look of concern.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and opened the screen door to them. “I’m Patrick. Johnny’s father. Johnny’s not here, but I think I know where he is. Let me just get my things and we’ll go together.”

They stepped in and Patrick Two Leaf disappeared into another room. The Chihuahua remained positioned in front of them, whining, sniffing and barking weakly at them both. Darren looked down at the dog and made a face.

“I hate these things,” he whispered.

*

They followed Patrick Two Leaf’s SUV up into the rural heights ringing the town, curving along on roads of hard-packed dirt. Marquette was eclipsed from view, swallowed up in the march of pine.

“Broken treaties and swindling?”

“I was bridging the cultural divide.”

“Of course. You two are like brothers now.”

Patrick Two Leaf’s SUV turned down into a narrow lane of gravel, and the two vehicles dipped down into a little wooded basin. Darren and Issabella could see a single, one-story cement building squatting in the center of the basin. An improbably tall brick smoke-stack rose out of its flat roof. Darren brought the Buick to a stop next to Patrick’s SUV and offered Issabella a wry grin.

“When we meet Johnny, you be good cop and I’ll be bad cop.”

“Good idea,” she said. “Or, even better, I’ll be sane person and you be quiet.”

“That’s crazy enough it just might work.”

“Let’s give it a try.”

*

The three of them stood in a little semi-circle and stared down at the pyramid of heroin on the office desk. Patrick Two Leaf was silent; regarding the neatly arranged monument of narcotic bricks like it was a dark premonition of the future, a sign-post on the way to his son’s inevitable incarceration.

Darren glanced around the office at the spoiled food and the crazy pattern of hammer holes in the walls. Issabella looked down to make certain she hadn’t accidently brushed up against anything.

Darren cleared his throat and put one hand on Patrick’s shoulder. He offered the horrified man an encouraging smile.

“It could be worse,” he said, and patted Patrick’s shoulder.

Patrick Two Leaf blinked, coming back to the here-and-now. He turned his head to regard Darren with half-lidded eyes.

“How, exactly?”

Darren thought for a second. He looked at Issabella, but she just shrugged.

“There’s not a pregnant girl involved?” Darren offered weakly.

“Oh sweet heaven,” Patrick moaned, and buried his face in his hands. He said something else, but it was muffled in his palms.

“What’s that?”

Patrick Two Leaf lowered his arms and looked straight ahead at the drooping, abused Union Jack pinned and stapled to the wall.

“My son is going to prison isn’t he?”

Darren’s expression became somber, and he straightened as he looked the
worried man in the eye. An earnest sort of dignity seemed to infuse him.

“Mr. Two Leaf, we’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen. We need to find him. If we can do that, we can help him. And I promise you that’s what we’re going to do. No matter how bad it is.”

Issabella watched as the panic that had been threatening to overcome Patrick Two Leaf receded under Darren’s clear-eyed assurance. The wrinkled, unshaven lawyer was gone, replaced with the man Issabella had glimpsed occasionally over the last week, the man who had been trembling with outrage over Vernon’s death. This was the Darren who had risked his license on a rash scheme to smoke out his client’s killer by targeting a sitting judge with a bogus lawsuit. This was the Darren who had challenged her on the terrace of his apartment, a fire in his eyes, moments before seizing her and taking her for himself.

Issabella blinked. Darren and Patrick Two Leaf were both looking at her with quizzical expressions. She felt herself blushing, so she turned away and rounded the desk, careful to watch where she stepped. The swivel chair behind the desk looked free of clutter or anything that might stain, so she sat down.

“Darren’s right,” she said. “We need to find your son, and fast. He’s got two warrants out, and we need to get those addressed as soon as possible.”

Patrick nodded and cro
ssed his arms across his chest.

“Johnny’s been in plenty of trouble,” he said. “Not the kind that this amount of drugs would get him. But he’s only twenty-two and the cops around here know him on a first name basis, so…”

Issabella pushed the button on the computer monitor and tapped some keys on the computer’s keyboard. The monitor flashed to life.

“Honestly, I thought Vernon and this crematorium thing was just what he needed,” Patrick continued. “He was in charge up here. Picking the bodies up at the county and the funeral homes. Doing the oven work. He’d even wear a suit when he was delivering the urns back. I thought maybe he was turning a corner.”

Darren cleared his throat.

“Vernon wasn’t th
e most, ah, conventional person,” he said. “These drugs are his, Mr. Two Leaf. I think Johnny was involved. But he didn’t dream all this up on his own. Vernon brought him into it.”

Issabella tapped keys and watched the screen. The web browser opened and she inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. There was internet access. She half-listened to the two men speaking while she focused on her on-line search.

“What are we going to do with these drugs?” Patrick said.

Darren leaned forward and started lifting the individual bricks in his hands, turning them over one-by-one. There were no evidence tags. He squinted at one of them, holding it closer. Like the heroin he had found in the Westland crematorium, these were a brown color-- but darker, obviously from a different batch or source.

“We’ll flush them,” he said.

“That’s a lot of material to flush down a toilet,” Patrick said, and the two of them nodded in agreement the way men do when they’ve agreed that there is a physical project at hand in need of a solution.

“I found him,” Issabella said, and both men looked at her. She leaned back in the swivel chair and sighed. “His probation officer picked him up. He’s in the county jail.”

“We’re too la
te?” Patrick Two Leaf whispered. He stared at the pile of heroin and his face drained of color. Seeing where the man’s mind was going, Issabella shook her head.

“Not the heroin,” she said. “If they’d found this stuff it would be in evidence. Johnny’s in for violating his probation conditions and for malicious destruction of property. Which was…smashing car windshields? Is that right?”

Patrick nodded his head vigorously, seeming to come back to life with the knowledge that his son’s peril wasn’t tied to the drugs spread out in front of him.

“Yeah,” he said. “He got soused about a m
onth ago with some of his friends. They threw some bricks through a few cars in a dealership lot. One of them got arrested a week ago on something else and told on everyone. I’ve been getting phone calls from the probation guy ever since then. He’s not a bad guy, really. Wanted to give Johnny a chance to come and turn himself in. I guess he got tired of waiting.”

Issabella closed out the browser and opened the word processor. There was a printer connected to the computer. She pushed its button and was relieved to see the power light glow to life.

“I have to prepare a bond motion,” she said, already typing. “You guys figure out how to get rid of the drugs and then we’ll head down to court. If we hurry, we’ll be in time to get in on a supplemental docket.”