Freeze Frame (13 page)

“Like I told the police, and those two men
this afternoon, I never got involved in my husband’s business.
Rachel, cut that out." She struggled to hold the squirming
infant.

I knew she was stonewalling, but perhaps if I
could get her talking... "You mentioned two men, Mrs. Caponi."

"Said they were from Adams & Benson, just
like you. Asked about a disc Vince was supposed to have had. One
guy did the talking, the other stayed in the car."

"Can you describe the man, Mrs. Caponi?" I
asked.

"Dark, black hair. Looked Spanish, or Mexican
maybe. No accent, though. Nice dresser. Had one of those thin
mustaches."

Bacalla. The description fit the man like a
condom, but I found something curious about Gracie Caponi's tone.
She seemed nervous, maybe too nervous. If we could get inside and
question her a little further...I decided to try.

"May I use your bathroom, Mrs. Caponi?"

“Sure, I guess so." The door opened and we
stepped into a small living room. "Through that doorway, on the
left."

Walking down the narrow hallway, I noticed a
doorway that led into a small den. The room held a playpen along
with the standard couch, easy chair and a TV tuned into Hollywood
Squares. On the far wall hung a dozen or more framed photographs.
Perhaps they could shed some light on Vince Caponi.

Moving closer, I saw a mixture of family
snapshots and pictures of Vince Caponi with business associates:
Caponi and Cato in tuxedos standing next to EMMY Chairman Rod
Burton at the award presentation; Caponi along with Chris and Dave
Sarris at the Caddy Banquet, a local award ceremony; and Caponi and
Gracie with Matt Carter and a date, seated in a restaurant booth.
Their body language, arms intertwined, said they were close
business associates, if not friends.

"The lavatory is down the hall."

I turned to find Gracie Caponi in the
doorway, holding her daughter. Sean Higgins appeared behind her,
palms outstretched in a “Sorry, I couldn’t stop her” posture.

“Mrs. Caponi, you said you didn’t know Matt
Carter. But this picture... obviously you knew Matt well."

"I think you'd better leave."

"Mrs. Caponi...Gracie," I said. "Matt and
your husband were friends. We want to help.”

Gracie’s expression softened, so I went on.
"Federal Express records show that your husband sent a copy of that
disc to you. One of our friends almost died trying to keep another
copy from getting into the wrong hands. We want to make sure the
right people see it."

Gracie Caponi began to cry. She set her
daughter in the playpen and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her
sweatshirt.

"I didn't... didn't know what to do. Vince
called me that night to say he was FedExing a package here. He said
to hide it... not to show it to anyone."

"Where is it?" I asked.

"C’mon."

She led us through a small kitchen to a side
door and into a brick garage in back of the house.

"Here. Take it." Gracie seemed relieved.

"You're doing the right thing," I said.

"I told the cops I didn't have it. What will
they do?"

"Sergeant Kaminski is an old friend," I said.
"I think he'll understand."

Higgins and I said good-bye and started
walking.

"Darcy?"

I looked back. Standing alone under the
garage's single light bulb, Gracie Caponi appeared small and
fragile. "What could be in that package that someone would kill
Vince over?"

"I don't know, Gracie,” I said. “But I
promise we'll find out."

48

7:15 p.m.

Street lamps cut yellow streaks through the
darkness as Higgins and I walked down Gracie Caponi's wet driveway.
The aroma of freshly-watered grass hung in the air.

Higgins backed the Avatar out of the driveway
and we started down the street, Higgins still babying the car. A
few blocks from the house he turned to say something and noticed my
expression. “What is it?”

"A car...following us."

"You sure?" He searched the rear view
mirror.

"Don't you see it? A Dodge Viper."

"Yeah...there. You sure it’s following
us?"

“Turn here and see."

Higgins cut the wheel sharply at the next
street, nearly running onto a lawn. The Viper followed. Higgins
pressed tentatively on the accelerator pedal and the Avatar
responded with a quick jump from twenty-five to thirty-five miles
per hour.

The Viper saw the ten and raised five,
creeping closer.

"Turn again."

Higgins feathered the brake pedal, and guided
the Avatar cautiously into the turn.

"Still there.” I could have saved my breath;
Higgins’ eyes were fixed on the rear view mirror. He pressed the
accelerator again, coaxing the AVX to forty miles an hour.

Higgins turned my way. "What do they
want?"

"The DVD. What do you think they want?"

Higgins inched the accelerator toward the
floor, tacking on another ten miles an hour.

As the Viper drove under a street lamp, I saw
two men inside, one talking into a cell phone.

"I can't go faster on these side roads,"
Higgins said. "Let's get to a main street." He cut sharply at the
next intersection. The bright lights of Gratiot Avenue lay dead
ahead, the Viper followed close behind.

49

The traffic signal at Gratiot came up fast
and red. Higgins swung the Avatar around the corner without
stopping, and eased into traffic. A horn blared behind us.
Sprinting the same corner, the Viper had cut someone off.

With Higgins coddling the Avatar like a
delicate work of art, we’d never lose the Viper. Our attention
suddenly focused on three flashing blue lights behind us, a police
car coming fast. The Avatar’s digital speedometer read sixty miles
per hour. In the Avatar AVX, it felt like thirty-five. The police
car weaved its way through the maze of vehicles behind us. The
flashing lights passed the Viper. I never thought I’d be glad to
see a traffic cop, and I bet Higgins felt the same way. Guiding the
Avatar AVX over two lanes, he pulled into the parking lot of a
small strip mall.

The policeman leaped from his car and ran
toward us. "Everybody out. Hands against the car. You inside," he
yelled at me, "that means you."

The cop continued shouting. Higgins leaned
against the AVX, placing one hand on the extended gullwing door,
the other on the roof. The policeman patted him down.

"Okay, Miss, you too." The cop pushed me
against the vehicle. I put my hands on the car as he gingerly
patted me down.

"Officer, we were being chased."

"You're driving a stolen vehicle."

"Stolen?" Higgins took his hands off the
Avatar and stood facing the policeman.

The cop’s hand was on his holster as he
turned to Higgins. "Got the registration?"

"It's an experimental vehicle, a prototype,
owned by American Vehicle Corporation...loaned to Adams &
Benson, the advertising agency. I'm a vice president."

"It’s reported stolen," the cop replied.

"Stolen? That’s crazy."

The Viper pulled into the small parking area.
As driver and passenger emerged from the vehicle, I recognized
Bacalla and Roland.

"Bacalla," shouted Higgins. "Tell this man
who we are."

"Never mind that," said the policeman,
turning to the two, "who are you?"

"Bob Bacalla and J.R. Roland," Bacalla said.
"We're with Adams & Benson, AVC's advertising agency. We
spotted this Avatar AVX a few miles back, and we've been following.
It's an experimental model, very valuable."

"Let's see some I.D."

Both men produced driver's licenses. Bacalla
reached into the Viper and retrieved an attaché case. He produced
several documents with Adams & Benson letterheads, enough to
convince the policeman.

"You know these two?" he asked, motioning to
Higgins and me.

"I've seen them around the Adams & Benson
building."

"Are they authorized to drive this
vehicle?"

"As I said, it's very valuable. I can't
answer that. You'd have to ask someone on the AVC advertising
account."

"I run the AVC account, you ass," Higgins
roared. "Tell him who I am."

"Get away from the car," the cop shouted.
Roland was on the driver's side of the AVX, leaning across to the
glove compartment. He straightened up, holding the Avion DVD.

"Just getting this DVD,” Roland said. "It's
agency property." I noticed he slurred his words. There were sirens
in the distance, more cops on the way.

"It's also evidence," the policeman said. "It
stays with the car."

Bacalla started toward the patrolman.
"Officer, that DVD is needed in a high-level conference tomorrow
morning."

While the policeman concentrated on Bacalla,
I saw Roland pocket the disc, and pull another from his coat.

"Sean," I called, "Roland switched DVDs. The
submaster’s in his pocket."

As Higgins started for Roland, the cop
stepped in his way. Higgins avoided him, but Roland suddenly had a
pistol in his hand.

Higgins surprised me. I hadn’t figured him
for the hero type; it must have been a reflex instinctive to an
athlete. He took a step toward Roland, grabbed the big man's gun
hand and pushed it away from his body.

A flash of light followed and a pop as the
gun fired so close I caught the acrid smell of cordite in my
nostrils. The policeman dropped to one knee, clutching his right
side. Drawing his own gun, he pointed it unsteadily at Roland.

Higgins still held Roland's gun hand. He
shook it violently, and the weapon hit the ground. As they
struggled, Higgins appeared overmatched at first. Roland equaled
Higgins’ height, but was stockier and had moves straight from a
Jackie Chan film. But Roland seemed slow. Higgins said later he’d
caught the aroma of alcohol on the man’s breath. The fight ended
with Higgins wrestling Roland to the ground and tearing the DVD
from his coat pocket.

Bacalla, meanwhile, had drawn his own gun and
was yelling at the policeman, trying to convince him the shooting
hadn’t been Roland’s fault.

Realizing Bacalla would soon have that gun
pointed at us, I jumped into the driver's seat of the Avatar AVX
and waved for Higgins to follow. He hesitated, then leaped into the
passenger seat.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Driving," I shouted back, hitting the button
that lowered the gullwing doors. "You'd better buckle up."

A twist of my wrist sparked the engine to
life. I slammed the gearshift lever forward and wheels spit gravel.
Second gear came a split second later at sixty-five. In the mirror,
I saw the cop slump to the pavement, and two figures run for the
Viper.

Flashing lights in the distance grew
larger.

50

Monday, Oct. 18 2:23 a.m.

Dad. I know you’re sleeping and I’m actually
glad I’m speaking to your voice mail right now. What I have to say
isn’t easy, and I don’t have answers for a lot of the questions
you’re going to have. If you haven’t heard already, you’re going
to, about a policeman being killed. They think Sean Higgins and
I...had something to do with it. We did. I mean, we were there. But
it was an accident. Sean Higgins wasn’t even holding the gun. The
police are looking for us and we have to hide for a while. I know
we can prove we’re innocent...but I can’t go into that right now. I
hope to see you soon. Good-bye, Dad. I love you.

51

Now...or Never

Wednesday, Oct. 20 –- 1:23 p.m.

My visit to the Gaylord library had confirmed
my suspicion that the Avion DVD contained some sort of subliminal
message.

Fortunately, for once Higgins agreed.

We sat on the deck, a warm breeze blowing
through the trees nearby, mulling over the consequences of what I
had just learned.

"We need evidence,” Higgins said. “That DVD;
we’ve got to examine it like Rodriguez, and presumably Caponi, did:
frame by frame. If you’re right, we’ll find some sort of
message.”

A blue heron flew by out over the lake,
barely ten feet off the water. I turned back to Higgins. "We need
the right equipment."

"There's a television station in Traverse
City that would have the technology. If we go near it, though, it
could be the last TV station we visit for thirty years."

We sat in silence for a moment.

"Sean, shouldn't there be copies of that
commercial in Detroit? At the TV stations that ran it?"

"Yeah."

"Let's ask Matt Carter to visit Channel Four,
find their copy and run it on their equipment."

"Good idea; but I wonder how he’s handling
the fact that we're wanted by the police."

"Let’s get him on the phone and ask."

52

Carter’s voice mail message reported he was
on a video shoot. A call to his cell phone ended in another
recorded message.

"There’s nothing we can do until we talk to
Carter,” I said. “Let's take a walk and give our minds a rest.”

The sky was clear, temperature in the high
sixties with a warm breeze drifting out of the west. I wore shorts
and a sweatshirt, Higgins jeans and tee shirt with a red
windbreaker. We talked as we strolled along a sandy trail just wide
enough for two hikers. Higgins recognized each specie of tree, and
called them out by name: oak, northern white pine, poplar, cedar,
birch. Small white and brown birds darted from branch to branch,
punctuating their flights with high-pitched peeps. Rounding a
corner, we surprised a black squirrel, sending him scurrying up a
pitch-stained pine.

The bright sun and pleasant surroundings
helped push the crisis into the background. I found Sean easy to
talk to, almost charming, away from the agency.

"Look, up there." I pointed to a clearing in
the trees ahead. Blue water appeared through the branches as we got
closer.

"Hart Lake," Higgins said. "Uncle Frank and I
came here bluegill fishing twenty years ago. Those were some of the
best times of my life."