Corktown (13 page)

Wilkinson and I had chatted all night about everything and anything. I remember there being a lot of silly laughing, and then suddenly his lips were on mine. I don’t recall the time or what sparked it, but I didn’t pull away. I kissed him back. He had very tender lips that caressed me just so, and he was mindful about not shoving his tongue down my throat right away, either. He worked his way up to it—earned it. When he ran his hand along my cheek and into my hair, I canceled my rule against dating coworkers. It was stupid.

We were like two kids on a date making out in his parent’s car. The windows fogged in no time, affording us the privacy we wanted. Soon after, Wilkinson’s hand found my breasts. I don’t know why, but I tried to play it cool. I didn’t want him to know I was already a pile of mush, and as far as my body was concerned, my heavy breaths meant,
Don’t stop. Hurry. Do everything. I want it all.

My body was an open house, each part waiting for its inspection. I was in desperate need of a good ravishing. When his fingers caressed my belly button, I remember letting out a premature moan.
Who lets out a moan over a belly button touch?
Anyway, it made my body shiver. I felt safe in his arms and wanted him even more.

He unbuttoned my blouse, and I went to work on his shirt. Undressing in the car wasn’t easy. It’s nothing like the movies, but it was worth it. It didn’t help that we were in a MINI. Thankfully, we had the larger four-door model, and I was tiny.
Hooray for short people.
Wilkinson lowered the parking break and shoved the stick shift into gear in order to climb over to my side. In one move, he had my seat fully reclined and pushed all the way back. Wilkinson lay against me. His naked pecs pressed against my perky breasts. I didn’t mind chest bumping with my partner. Hopefully he would high-five my butt. I pushed his head down and introduced his warm mouth to my tatas.
Lick it. Lick it good.

I was fully aware of what I was doing. I had given in to Wilkinson. He could do with me whatever he wished. We had crossed the line, and I loved the naughtiness of it.

It didn’t take long before the rest of our clothing lay strewn around us. Wilkinson sprung out of his pants against my thigh. I couldn’t see the animal, but I swear it felt like another hand having its way with me. He wasn’t the only excited one. Moist didn’t even come close to capturing what was happening between my legs.

Once again, I thanked the height gods for my shortness; it would have been weird to thank my mother right then. There’s no way two normal-sized adults could do what we were doing. He had both my legs pinned back so they rested on his shoulders. I didn’t know I had the athleticism in me to become a pretzel. I liked it. I felt exposed, with Wilkinson in complete control. I couldn’t stop him from penetrating me—not that I wanted to. From that point on, we were like that bumper sticker.
If this car’s a rockin’….

• • •

The next morning, we were running late for our meeting with White, so we didn’t have time to address what had happened the night before. It didn’t feel awkward, though. We were both in good moods.

As soon as we entered White’s office, I brought him up to speed on what we’d learned from Hardin, and what had happened to him.

“So your real lead came from your conversation with this reporter, not any of the old cases?”

Why is he making this an old case versus new case thing? “
Yes. That is, until he was found shot to death. He fed us the names of four RRs. Three of them are dead and we can’t get the other to talk, but we’ve got eyes on him. We plan to follow up on another lead from Hardin: Eddie Bass’ daughter.”

White conveyed his disapproval with a head shake and a tongue cluck.

“Look, Lieutenant, if Eddie talked to his sister about the RRs, he might have said something to his daughter.”

White leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “Let’s not get caught up in what happened in the past. Watch Becker, and our killer will eventually show himself—if what you said is true.”

“There are two other potential victims. They need to be warned.”

White gave us a halfhearted shrug. “It’s been on the news. I’m sure they’re aware of the situation. Sit on Becker. When our guy makes a move, we’ll grab him. Don’t go around looking into things you don’t need to. You’re not here for that, Agent Kane. Is that clear?”

My left eyebrow started to twitch.
He’s not the enemy. He’s just trying to retire with a pension.
I tempered my emotions as best I could. “With all due respect, Lieutenant White, I don’t work for the Detroit Metro Police. I’m a federal agent. I’ll investigate this case as I see fit.” I should have bitten my tongue, but I was tired of being told what I could and couldn’t do on this case. I was FBI. As far as I was concerned, I outranked every uniform there.

I stood. “I will catch this killer. And if there’s been a cover-up, I will get to the bottom it. You can be sure of that.” I spun around and exited White’s office without giving him an opportunity to respond. I didn’t care either. I had wasted enough time on this case.
Abby Kane is going rogue.

Wilkinson caught up with me a few steps outside of White’s office.

“You want to tell me what you’re doing?”

“We both know we’re here to catch the original killer. They never caught him. Garrison took the fall. Who knew how high the corruption in that town went?”

“We can’t go it alone.”

I stopped and faced him. “We can and we are. I can’t trust what we’re being told anymore.” I continued walking past our office. “You got the car keys?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. We’re going to Flint.”

40

White sat quietly in the back of the dimly lit bar. He held a glass of whiskey with both hands and watched the liquid swirl around. He didn’t know what to make of the meeting he’d had with Agent Kane earlier in the morning. She was out of control, and there was nothing he could do. He tried, but it was out of his hands.

But that wasn’t good enough for Stevie Roscoe.

“Run me through it one more time,” Stevie said.

“I’ve already told you everything that happened this morning.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he singsonged slowly. “Do you understand?”

Once more, White went over all the details of his meeting with Kane and Wilkinson.

“She knows there’s been a cover-up—that we never got the original guy.”

“Does she have proof?”

“Not yet, but she ain’t stupid. She’s going to figure it out.”

Stevie put a finger in White’s face. “That bitch ain’t figuring out shit.”

“I didn’t tell her anything,” White spit out. “I swear.”

Stevie relaxed and returned his hand to his side. He flashed the old cop his trademark smile. “Nobody said you did.”

White wasn’t buying it, though. Stevie was black rot and he didn’t trust him. “I just want to go on record; I did everything asked of me.”

Stevie placed a hand on White’s glass, stopping it from moving. “Then why the fuck does she think there’s a cover-up?”

White looked up from his glass and caught the glare of Stevie’s yellow-tinged, green eyes. It was like staring at the devil. White tried to avoid it whenever he could. It was impossible that day. Stevie liked having meetings in tight enclosures, never out in the open. He wanted the person to feel trapped, like there was no way out.

There wasn’t.

41

Flint was a little over an hour’s drive from downtown Detroit. Traffic was light, so we reached the city limits ten minutes faster. The GPS unit started yapping again when we neared the exit off the highway. Another ten minutes of maneuvering through the city and we found ourselves in a neighborhood where everyone’s front yard looked like a public dumping ground. Cars and kitchen appliances were the most popular for lawn decorations.

The small white house on Campbell Road had two cars in its front yard. Neither of them had tires or windows. The house had a tiny, screened-in front porch, overtaken by dead, potted plants and old electronics. I could hear the television before we made it to the porch steps. It sounded like a court case show.

Wilkinson had to knock twice before someone came to the door.

A white lady shoehorned into denim shorts and wearing layered tank tops opened the door. A cigarette hung from her mouth. “Yeah?” she said, adjusting her shirt.

“I’m Agent Kane. This is Agent Wilkinson. We’re with the FBI. May we ask you a few questions?”

She looked at us as if she had a choice, like there were options to consider. Eventually, she turned around and walked away, leaving the door open.

I entered the house first. I wished I hadn’t. The smell of cat urine nearly destroyed my nose. I didn’t bother to hide my reaction either. Wilkinson had a bit more self-control. By my count, there were eight furry felines either walking or lying on the furniture. Our host had already taken her seat in front of the television.

“Are you Lisa Bass?” I asked. She didn’t respond, so I picked up the remote and shut the television off.

“Hey, I was watching that.”

The strong stench of urine had fouled my mood and left me with little patience. I tried once again, with a little bitch sprinkled in the tone. “Are
you
Lisa Bass?”

“Hell, no,” she said, yanking her head back. I could count the chins.

“We were told she might be living here.”

“She ain’t lived here for over fifteen years. We used to be friends, but we haven’t talked since she moved. Why you looking for her?”

“Do you know where she is Ms.…?”

“You can call me Michelle, and no, I don’t know where she is. Shit, I ain’t seen Lisa since she left.”

A black and white cat swirled its body around my leg. I could feel the feline’s affection vibrating against my calf, but still the animal repulsed me.

Wilkinson spoke up. “It’s important we speak with her, Michelle. Any information you have about her whereabouts would be appreciated.”

She picked up a cat and scratched it behind the ears. “Well, when she left, she said she was going to school.”

“What school?”

Michelle looked at me. “Why do you guys need to talk to her? Is she in trouble?”

“No, she’s not. But we believe she has information that can help us with an investigation,” I said in a soothing tone, topped off with a smile. I realized nice might be the way to go with Michelle if we wanted any more information.
Suck it up, Abby.

“Well, she mentioned Oakland, but I don’t know if she finished.”

We still didn’t have a positive ID on Lisa. Claire Bass came up empty. I hoped Michelle wouldn’t. “Do you have a picture of Lisa?”

“I might. It’ll take some time for me to find it, though, if I do.”

I looked around the living room. Michelle was well on her way to being a candidate for the show
Hoarders
. I believed her when she said it might take some time.

“By the way, that ain’t her name no more. She changed it to Katherine.”

“Katherine Bass?”

“No. Katherine Carter.”

42

With a little more prodding and some smiling, I pried Katherine’s address from Michelle. Turns out the two talked, but not often. Michelle admitted they had grown apart over the years.

Katherine now lived in a small neighborhood near downtown Detroit. The welcome sign read, “Corktown, Detroit’s Oldest Neighborhood, 1834.”

“Hmm, I think this is the place Detective Solis was talking about that night,” Wilkinson said.

“Impressive,” I said as I looked around. The homes might have been built in the early 1800s, but they all looked renovated to their proper glory.

When we pulled up to the two-story, Federal style home with a Range Rover in front of the garage, I understood why Michelle and Katherine had lost touch. Her friend had moved into a higher financial bracket.

I rang the doorbell. We didn’t hear dogs yapping, nor did the smell of urine permeate the air. The front steps were peaceful and quiet. A second later, the door opened, and a beautiful woman stood pleasantly in front of us. She wore a white blouse, tucked neatly inside a knee-length black skirt with matching heels. Her hair shined, and her makeup appeared fresh.

“Katherine Carter?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

I held up my identification. “I’m Agent Abby Kane. This is Agent Trey Wilkinson. May we ask you a few questions?”

“Is something wrong?”

“We’re investigating a case and thought you might have information that could help us.”

We waited in the sitting room while Katherine went to the kitchen for some bottled water. The décor was vintage yet modern, with lots of warm neutral tones.
I wonder if she hired a designer or watches HGTV.
Pictures lined the mantel above the fireplace. I walked over for a closer look. Most of the pictures were of two little boys, but some included her. Where was the husband? Katherine had a ring on—a nice one, too, I might add.
Mental note: Schedule a family portrait.

I was still at the mantel when Katherine paraded back in with her back straight and her long slender neck holding her head at the perfect angle. “Are these your boys?” I asked.

She gently placed the bottles of water on ceramic coasters. “Yes, Lorenzo is eight, and Jackson is four. I’ve been trying for years to include my husband in our annual picture taking, but I haven’t succeeded yet.”

“You have beautiful children. My two are similar in age. Ryan is eight and Lucy is five.”

Katherine smiled and walked back to the sitting area without saying anything about my children.
Isn’t that parent etiquette?
I suddenly didn’t feel like drinking her water.

I then watched her sit across from Wilkinson. She crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to ride up high enough to catch Wilky’s eye. I immediately cleared my throat. “Are you Lisa Bass, daughter of Eddie Bass of Flint, Michigan?”

Katherine didn’t answer us right away. “I’m sorry. It’s been awhile since I’ve heard that name. I’ve always liked the name Katherine, and—”