Corktown (26 page)

My instinct was to head straight to White’s office, but then I remembered I had already tried that. I wrote a note for White to contact me and slipped it under his door.
Trust no one, Abby.

I left the precinct tired and confused. The sun had already started to rise, and it felt comforting against my skin. It was one of the few times I appreciated the temperature.

Not sure of what to do next, I settled on watching a homeless man shuffle along the sidewalk until he disappear into an alleyway.
What am I still doing here? My investigation is over. I should have been on a plane heading home yesterday. This was not my fight. Nor was it my problem.
I should’ve listened to myself that day. I made a lot of sense right then.

I’m sure whoever sent Stevie Roscoe after me knew he was dead and could possibly come after me again. That’s not usually something I would shy away from, except the situation at home was different. I had two kids and a mother-in-law counting on my return.

I flagged a passing taxi and jumped into the back seat. I had a decision to make. I could either get the hell out of town or head straight toward the beast.

90

The cab screeched to stop at 9240 Dwight Street. I handed the driver thirty bucks and stepped out. I followed the long oval driveway that led to a Spanish colonial-style mansion. I looked at my watch; it was nearing 7:00 a.m.
He should be home.

I had not personally met the mayor of Detroit, but I had seen his picture hanging in the precinct. He looked rather charismatic, if I were to judge him by his picture alone. But I knew that wasn’t the case. He had a tight grip on that city, and no one made a move with out him knowing about it. Time to find out if the mayor set Stevie Roscoe loose on me.

The house appeared quiet. I wondered about his family and whether he had kids. If he did, they would be up by now.

Instead of knocking on the large double oak doors, I stepped off to the side from the front entrance and peeked through a window. I wasn’t taking any chances.

If he had anything to do with sending Stevie after me, I could bet he hadn’t changed his mind. As far as I was concerned, I was on my own out here. It would be very easy to make me disappear.

No signs of life so far. I removed my weapon and chambered a round. So I was on edge. Who wouldn’t be?

I moved around to the left side of the house and peeked through the windows lining the mansion—still no movement inside. I listened for a moment. My phone beeped, causing me to suck a breath in.
Chill, Abby.

It was Ryan texting me.
Strange, it’s 4:30 in the morning at home.
He wanted permission for a sleepover. I noticed the time. The text was sent yesterday.
Shit!
Every now and then I got a text a day late. I could hear it now:
“You always answer Lucy’s texts and not mine.”
The one time he texts me while I’m away, my phone screws me. I flipped the phone to vibrate mode, pocketed it, and forged ahead.

A wrought-iron gate blocked the path. It wasn’t locked, so I proceeded until I reached the back of the property. There was a garden and more pathways leading to a pool. Beyond that was the Detroit River.

I stuck close to the walls of the mansion, doing my best to look invisible. It seemed odd that I had gotten that far on the mayor’s property without alerting anyone. There were no visual signs of guards, and I didn’t get the impression I had tripped any alarms, but my gut had started to churn, a sure sign things weren’t right.

I stopped just short of the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the outdoor patio. About twenty feet from me were French doors leading inside. I listened for a moment before taking a peek. Again, the house appeared empty. I was starting to think no one was home.

I stood up for a better look. That time, I planted my face against the window and used my hand to help diminish the glare on the glass. The patio led straight into a large open kitchen. I didn’t see signs that breakfast had been prepared or eaten.
Maybe he’s out of town? His alibi?
I found myself asking the same question again:
Do I stick around or do I get the hell out of here?

The hand that grabbed my hair and yanked me back gave me my answer.

91

The first thing I became aware of when I opened my eyes was that I hurt. My face, mostly. My left cheek throbbed, and my mouth tasted metallic. I tried to recall what had happened, but it all took place so fast. The second thing that grabbed my attention was a tightly wound rope cutting into my arms. I was tied to a wooden chair, and my shoes were missing.

I looked around as best I could. The structure was fairly small, maybe eight feet by twelve feet. Gardening tools hung along one wall, and lawn maintenance equipment lined the other side. There were bags stacked high behind me—fertilizer most likely. I figured I was in the shed I had seen earlier in the garden. The only source of light was a small window. It was filthy. I doubted anyone could see me inside while passing.

Time was not on my side. I knew I had to get out of there. Whoever tied me up had plans to come back. I worked to free my hands, but duct tape had them secured tightly behind the chair. A dull pain was noticeable in both of my shoulders. It felt like any sudden movement might pop them out of their sockets.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been unconscious, but gauging from the temperature in the shack, it couldn’t have been long. If the temperature outside had increased to triple digits, I would have literally baked alive inside that tin oven.
Maybe that’s the plan?

• • •

A slap to the face woke me up again. The heat reminded me of where I was. My tongue was sticky, and my throat was scratchy. Sweat seemed to be leaking from every pore on my body. My jeans and blouse both clung to me like thirsty sponges. I no longer had any feeling in my shoulders and part of my arm.

Another slap to the face got me to focus on the man sitting in front of me.

“It was you,” was all I could manage.

A smile grew across Leon Briggs’ face before he slapped me once more. He enjoyed slapping me. That last one had him giggling.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why? Bitch, you know why. You brought this upon yourself. Investigating shit you’re not supposed to be investigating. That’s your downfall. You think it’s what makes you good at what you do. Uh-huh.”

“I get it,” I said. I lifted my head so I could look at him. “I could have gone home after capturing the Carters, but I didn’t. I was told to forget about Blade Garrison, but I didn’t. I had numerous warnings, and I ignored them all. But that’s not my downfall. No, that’s exactly how I solve crimes. I investigate everything.”

Briggs leaned in. His eyes were dark and held steady on me. Sweat snaked its way along the sides of his face. “You must have been a nosy kid growing up, always in everyone’s business. I bet you weren’t liked much. Still aren’t, right? Yeah, I know the type.” He took a handkerchief out from his pocket and wiped his forehead, then folded it back up neatly. And then he slapped me again.

I couldn’t help but chuckle after that one.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I was going to say you slap like a bitch, but then it dawned on me that I know a bitch, and she slaps harder than you.”

I must have been hit really hard after that, because I don’t remember anything but him waking me up again. That time, I decided I would do the talking. “I know about the Carters. When you found out about them from the surveillance team, you opted to put them into your own version of a witness protection program. You used them, like they worked for you. That was the deal in exchange for their freedom, right? Then you set them loose on the street people.”

“Genius isn’t it?” Briggs said as he relaxed his posture a bit and let his ego show. “That’s what I call being creative with the situation. Now people love coming to downtown Detroit. It’s vibrant. Restaurants have reopened. It doesn’t smell like piss. What’s not to like?”

I spit to drain my mouth. “You didn’t cut a deal with them to clean up the city. That was a byproduct. You wanted them for something else, an ace in your back pocket.”

Even though he still had a grin on his face, I knew he had understood what I had said. And he wasn’t denying any of it.

“You used them to kill the RRs. That was your plan all along, wasn’t it? You realized Katherine wanted revenge for her father, but she really didn’t know who the RRs were, did she? You filled her in. You told her everything she needed to know. That’s why she didn’t try to go after them sooner.”

We stared at each other, neither saying a word. Briggs wasn’t about to confirm any of what I had just said.

“You have a wild imagination, Agent,” he finally said.

“Why did you suddenly want them dead?” I asked.

Briggs didn’t respond. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He only smiled.

Why?
I asked myself again. But then I realized it wasn’t about the why; it was about the how.

“I’m sorry. I just realized I’ve been asking you the wrong questions, Mr. Mayor.”

He shifted in his seat, but I’d like to think he squirmed.

“Only the right question can yield the right answer. You see, it’s not so much
why
would you kill them. It’s more about how—
how
did you
know
they
existed
?”

The politician continued to fidget like a little boy caught in a lie. I asked him once again, articulating each word. “How. Did. You. Know?”

For the first time, I watched his smile diminish in size. Hardin had been right all along.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

It was my turn to grin and chuckle. It all made perfect sense.

Briggs was the sixth RR.

92

“You’re one of the RRs.”

Briggs sat there unresponsive, so I continued.

“You were the silent one. Only Dennis Walters knew about you.”

Briggs swallowed. I had him feeling uncomfortable. The tiny rippling that appeared near the rear of his clenched jaw confirmed my suspicions. “What’s your connection to Walters? The group was tight, and they all worked at GM. Don’t take this personally, but you don’t seem like GM material.”

Finally, Briggs spoke. “I worked for the union.”

“Now it makes sense. You helped ease the closings on your side of the fence and in return… What did you get? Money? Favors you could call in down the line? The RRs all went on to be successful in the auto industry. It would be advantageous for the mayor to be friendly with them, right? That is, until one of them gets a conscience. Is that what happened? Did Dennis Walters start to feel guilty in his old age? Were you worried he might spill the beans, write a tell-all memoir? Huh? Should I speak slower?”

I knew mouthing off wasn’t helping me out of that situation, but it sure felt good. I wished I would have had a plan, but I hadn’t made much progress with loosening my hands.

“You’re a lot smarter than I thought, Agent,” Briggs said, surprisingly calm.

“Your plan all along was to get rid of the Carters once the RRs were out of the picture, wasn’t it? That’s why I was brought in. You knew I would catch them. But
why
did you get rid of all the files on the hostages? Why cover up that information?”

“If you had that knowledge, you would have caught them a lot sooner than I would have liked, Agent.”

“So you gave the Carters just enough room to do the job, but not too much that I wouldn’t catch them. That’s a tough formula to figure out.”

The mayor laughed. “Please, I had a contingency plan in place in the event you turned out to be too dumb. But I knew you would solve it.”

“And in the end, the Carters would either end up dead or end up in prison for life. The best-case scenario.”

“It’s the perfect plan, isn’t it?” Briggs’ smile got wider and his chuckling grew into contained laughter.

I couldn’t believe it. I was a pawn who, like everyone else, did the bidding of the mayor.
Now what? Was there more to his plan?

I wasn’t sure if I imagined it or not, but after a few more seconds, I recognized a siren, and it was getting closer. My luck had changed. The funny thing though—Briggs was still relishing in his success and hadn’t stopped patting himself on the back for a job well done.

“That siren isn’t for me, is it?” I asked.

“Oh no, no, no. You see, there’s been a breach at the property of the mayor’s residence. Some nut was seen walking around with a gun.” Briggs put on a pair of leather gloves that he removed from the front pocket of the jacket he had on. He then reached behind him and removed my weapon from the back of his pants. He placed it on the shelf next to him. He then removed a second handgun from his pants.

“I feared for my life,” he continued, “so I locked and loaded my personal firearm, allowed me by the Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States, for my protection.”

Briggs pulled the slide back on his Glock and chambered a round.

“I saw someone run into the shed. I was positive they had a gun.”

Briggs stood up and opened the door to the shed. He then picked up my gun and fired two rounds at the house before returning it to the shelf.

“I went outside to investigate. That’s when I saw the intruder in the shed firing at me.”

Briggs started walking backward.

“I feared for my life,” he said. “I had no choice. I had to defend myself.”

He raised his gun and took aim at me. A beat later, he fired.

93

I opened my eyes and saw Briggs lying face down on the lawn. Lieutenant White stood behind him, holding his gun with rigid arms. It took a few seconds for me to realize that Briggs had not fired his gun.

White had yet to move from his firing position. His eyes were locked onto Briggs, looking for any sort of movement. Neither one of us said anything. I drew a sharp breath, unaware of how long I had been holding it—enough to grab White’s attention as he looked at me. He slowly lowered his weapon. Seconds later, he untied my hands.