Bury Me When I'm Dead (4 page)

“Okay. You want me to order you a sandwich?”

“That would be great,” Mandy said, handing him a twenty. “Chicken salad on an onion roll is fine. Thanks.”

Mandy pressed the elevator button for the fifth floor as she had a dozen times before and offered a smile to the security camera. Charlie opened the door with scotch glass in hand, wearing dark sweatpants and a red, sleeveless t-shirt.

“Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Charlie said accepting the kiss Mandy offered.

They shared Glenlivet on the tips of their tongues. Charlie's free hand reached around Mandy's waist brushing across her service revolver and pulling her in close. Mandy stepped back and cupped Charlie's cheek.

“I don't like that bruise on your face.”

“It'll be fine in a few days.”

“Do I need to visit the guy?”

“No. I took care of it.”

“I bet you did. You better put some ice on that.”

Charlie pulled a cube from her drink and held it to her chin.

“How much scotch?”

“One. But it was a double.”

“Has it been successful in relaxing you?”

“I was hoping you might have the time to help with that.”

“I have twenty minutes.”

Charlie laid her glass on the side table and slipped a finger behind
Mandy's belt buckle to lead her to the couch and draw her in for another deep kiss. After an exchange of touches, moans, and cavity exploration, Mandy tugged at Charlie's sweatpants until they were below her strong thighs. She wore no panties so Mandy paused to caress her lover's curves and playfully wedged her fingertips between her cheeks. With a nudge, Mandy prompted Charlie to lean back against the cushions and she completed the disrobing. She kneeled on the purple shag rug and parted brown knees. Charlie sighed fully with the first sensation of Mandy's breath and groaned when Mandy flicked the scarlet prize with her tongue. When Mandy was sure her saliva was no longer the main source of wetness, she applied more pressure.

“I don't want to come too fast,” Charlie whispered hoarsely.

“You don't have to.”

“Easy. For you. To say . . .”

Charlie lifted her hips. Mandy followed the movement with her head never breaking contact. Lips to lips. Hands clutching hips in a slow-motion roll. When Charlie's back arched high and finally lost tension with a series of shudders, Mandy still held on, her nose buried in the smoky scent. Moments later, Charlie let out a gasping laugh and Mandy joined her.

“I guess you're relaxed now.”

“You're very sure of yourself.”

“I thought you liked my confidence.”

“I like everything about you.”

The two looked at each other, not speaking, until it became uncomfortable. Mandy freed her hands and rose to her feet.

“Can't I reciprocate?”

Mandy's eyes registered a spark. “Wish you could, but my partner's waiting and I think I need to wash my face and hands.”

“Do you like him?” Charlie's voice followed Mandy to the bathroom.

“Yeah. He's sharp. A bit overzealous but that's always the case for first-years.”

Mandy ran wet fingers through her hair and picked up her cap from the floor. “He's downstairs, eating.”

Charlie smiled.

Mandy chuckled at the obvious comeback. “Please don't even say it. I'll call you tomorrow morning. Ice it. okay?”

“Yes, Officer Porter.”

Chapter 6

“Wow, this Barnes tried to lay one on you, Mack,” Don said, examining Charlie's bruised jaw.

“He was big. He had me in kind of close so I had to go for the jewels.”

Don and Gil instinctively dropped their hands in front of their pants. Charlie's theory was, men are cosmically connected through their balls. If one guy is kicked in the testicles every other man on earth feels sympathy pains.

“Don't worry, you guys are safe. For the moment.”

Don and Gil responded with halfhearted chuckles.

“So, what's in the bag?” Gil wanted to change the unpleasant subject.

After Mandy left, Charlie had made an icepack for her face, poured another scotch and examined Paul's backpack. She'd spread the contents from the bag onto her rug. There was a black sweatshirt, a pair of dirty sneakers, a deck of playing cards, a pack of stale cigarettes and a couple of pieces of mail. The mail provided another helpful piece of information.

She triumphantly waved a letter from the backpack at her partners. “It's from Paul's cousin, written in early May, telling him about a job at a bottling plant in Birmingham where the cousin works. Between this and the lead from Rona, there's no way we can skip a trip to Alabama.”

“I'll start checking flights and hotels,” Judy said.

“Good. I want to give Abrams an estimate of travel costs when we see him today,” Charlie replied.

“You might want to put a little makeup on your chin before you
go, Charlie. You shouldn't visit the client looking like that,” Judy said. “You want to ‘put on a happy face,'” she quoted from
Bye Bye Birdie.

Judy had little stomach for the violence which occasionally accompanied the agency's work. Her peaceful views were influenced by the time she'd spent with her grandfather, a survivor of the Nazi death camps. Despite the horrors he'd witnessed, he lived the rest of his life with optimism and good will as a musician in New York City. Judy's annual summer vacations with her ‘Poppa' had solidified her love of musical theatre, another affection, along with skillful lying, shared by Charlie. Judy had the wonderful and often irritating ability to apply a musical snippet from The Great White Way to any situation.

“Any luck on tracking the power of attorney record?” Charlie asked her.

The only thing Rona could recall about the document she'd notarized for Joyce was that the name on the letterhead was the same as one of President Nixon's Watergate cronies. It was just the kind of puzzle that intrigued Judy. She had spent most of yesterday evening with a Birmingham, Alabama directory to find the name that fit, Haldeman Mortgage and Title.

“I'm following up on that. I won't have any trouble getting a copy of the power of attorney if it was actually filed,” Gil said.

Two hours later, Don and Charlie sat in Leonard Abrams' massive office in Delray. The space took up half the top floor of the building and the windows on two sides provided a panoramic view of the Rouge River and the Zug Island smokestacks, which shot plumes of gray pollutants into the clear, blue sky. Other than the view, the office was unpretentious, an homage to working-class values. Abrams' desk was piled with supply catalogs and mail in thick rubber bands. There was also an old-fashioned metal thermos and a dozen yellow copies of customer orders. The dark, wood-paneled walls were throwbacks to the era when his father began the business. A display case next to the desk was filled with mementos of family events, decade-long client relationships and city celebrations. There were photos of fishing trips and bar mitzvahs, stubs from a 1968 Detroit Tigers World Series game, a trophy from a bowling tournament, and a bronzed child's shoe glued to a dark, wood frame.

Abrams was a prototype of the kindly shopkeeper on a 1950s television sitcom. His white shirt was rolled to the elbows, his tie loosened and he peered over wire-rimmed glasses. Don and Charlie exchanged amused looks when Abrams removed a yellow highlighter from his pocket protector and colored several sentences in the status report they'd prepared for him.

“So you believe Joyce is in Birmingham?”

“That's our best guess, Leonard. We think Paul is probably there, too.”

“Joyce tried so hard to protect Paul, she was like a second mother to him.” Abrams closed the cover on the report and stared out toward the river.

“I doubt she will be using her real name but Paul has been receiving a disability check so we're searching public records and such before we go,” Charlie said.

Abrams nodded and returned his attention to the view beyond the window. Don elbowed Charlie, encouraging her to wrap things up.

“Leonard, we might have a couple thousand dollars in expenses. If you approve the trip, we'll leave on Monday and come back Friday or Saturday.”

“Yes, yes, I approve the trip. What will you do if you find Joyce?”

Don took charge. “We'll notify the local authorities so they can arrest her and then start prepping the paperwork for her extradition to Michigan.”

Abrams gave Charlie a pained look. “Will you call me before you have her arrested? I want to know why she did this.”

Don was about to protest but Charlie stopped him short.

“We'll try to determine what was going on with her, Leonard. There may be special circumstances. But, she's committed a crime and you've reported it to the police, so she'll have to be taken into custody.”

“I know, I know.” Abrams removed his glasses and wiped at his eyes.

When they were back in the car, Don said what had been on his mind for the past ten minutes. “I don't understand it, Mack. This
woman has blemished Abrams' reputation and stolen a whole bunch of his money and he's worried about her being arrested? What's with him?”

“He has old-school values. He and his father worked this business when all they needed to close a deal was his word and a handshake. You saw all those photographs. His life is a collection of the people he's worked with over the years; I'm one of them. Customers, employees, suppliers, neighbors—they're all part of his community. When he looks out his window at the wastewater treatment plant, he thinks about a guy wearing a hard hat who toils at a job he'll keep all his life to support his wife and kids. At the end of that guy's shift he punches a time clock and heads home to a meatloaf dinner. The next day he does the same thing all over again.”

It was a sentiment that might have escaped Don had it not perfectly described his own father. He looked across the river at the plant, its smokestacks spewing God-only-knew-what. Don nodded and turned the key in the ignition.

The staff at Midvale knew Charlie well. She dropped in four or five times a week to see her mother, picking her up to shop or dropping off things she needed.

“I'm going to be out of town the rest of the week but you can reach me on my mobile anytime,” Charlie said to the assistant and placed a bag of bagels and cream cheese on the reception counter.

“Miss Charlene, you don't have to bring me goodies all the time,” Gloria said, peeking into the bag and pulling out a cinnamon raisin bagel. She was a cheerful woman from the Dominican Republic who worked ten-hour days, including holidays, at the front desk of the assisted living facility. Her goal was to become an American citizen and she found the pace of work and the usually quiet atmosphere conducive for studying. Gloria was short in stature with a full, round face and penetrating eyes which added to her cat-like demeanor. Charlie watched as she captured a raisin with her tongue and licked her lips.

“I picked up bagels for mom, so I just got a few extra. It was no big deal.”

“Thank you Miss Charlene,” Gloria purred. “We'll keep an extra eye on Miss Ernestine while you're gone.”

Ernestine Mack was in the early stages of Alzheimer's. She took medication that slowed the inevitable creep to forgetting but Charlie was frightened by the notion that a disease might steal the mind of this curious, vital woman who was her best friend. It had been her mother's idea to try assisted living rather than move in with her only daughter.

“Hi Mom, it's me,” Charlie shouted, letting herself into the apartment.

“Hi Charlene, I'm in the kitchen.”

Ernestine sat at the kitchen table typing away on her keyboard. Next to her were a bunch of newspaper clippings and a mug of coffee. Charlie did her usual scan for any signs of her mother's mental deterioration. “I see you're making good use of that new laptop.”

“Yes, I love it. It's so much faster than my other computer and I can even do research on that internet thing.”

Charlie peered over her mother's shoulder. She was writing a missive on the priority of public school funding. Ernestine had been a respected educator for three decades in the Detroit Public Schools and a principal the last ten years of her career. She still paid close attention to any news about education and regularly wrote opinion letters to the Detroit Free Press.

“Go get 'em Mom,” Charlie kissed her cheek. “I brought your favorite bagels.”

The sink contained only a few dishes and the coffee pot was unplugged but still warm. Charlie took a bagel and poured a cup of coffee. She opened the refrigerator for half and half and spotted the bright orange plastic container of laundry detergent on the middle shelf.

“Mom, there's Tide in the fridge,” Charlie said, brandishing the jug. She immediately regretted it when she saw her mother's embarrassment. “I'm putting it under the sink. It's no big deal.”

“Right. No big deal,” Ernestine said, returning to her keyboard.

Charlie sat across from her and took a sip of lukewarm coffee.

“Mom, I have to go out of town tomorrow. I'm going to Birmingham.”

Ernestine stopped her typing. “Birmingham, Alabama?”

Charlie nodded.

“So much tragedy there. When they killed those four young girls, I cried all day,” her mother said, remembering the tragic church bombing forty years before.

Ernestine's long-term memory was still intact. She had been active in the civil rights movement and as a college student had spent her summer breaks working on voter registration campaigns in both Alabama and Mississippi.

“What do you remember about Birmingham?”

“Charlene, what's that word for when you levy a tax specifically for education?”

Charlie assumed her mother hadn't heard the first question. “Property tax?” Charlie offered.

Her mother shook her head. “No, there's another word for it, it starts with an ‘m' I think.” Ernestine stared at her keyboard as if it would spell out the word. “Millage. That's it, millage.” She began typing again.

Charlie inconspicuously examined her mother. She was still a beautiful woman. She wore a turquoise turtleneck that complemented her newly styled, salt-and-pepper hair and pecan complexion. Her manicure was recent and her smile displayed white teeth that weren't dentures. There had been many suitors after Charlie's father died, when she was twelve years old, but none were around more than a few months. During junior year in high school Charlie asked her mother if she would ever remarry and received a very direct answer: “Charlene, I may marry again if I can find a man who loves me enough to let me put you first, my work second, and him third.” Charlie told anyone who asked, her mother had taught her more about the nature of people than her experiences in law school, business ownership and homeland security combined.

“It's hot and there was a lot of mistrust for outsiders.”

“What?” Charlie looked up.

“Birmingham. You asked me what I remember.”

“Oh, right. Thanks. I'm taking off now, Mom, unless you need me to do something for you.”

“No, I'm good. Thanks for the bagels.”

They walked arm in arm to the door and Charlie kissed her mother's cheek.

“You can call me if you need something. I always have my mobile phone with me.”

“Charlene, be careful. I know things have changed a lot in the South but it's still not like here. That city carries a lot of secrets.”

Ernestine was right. Charlie would later learn Birmingham had deeply held secrets.