The Greeks of Beaubien Street (11 page)

He pulled off Interstate 94. The area was a no-man’s land of cracked concrete parking lots surrounding vacant factories and retail stores, burned out gas stations, and abandoned cars. It never recovered from the ‘67 riots. As he drove toward Dearborn City Limits, the terrain abruptly changed. Here the houses were well maintained, even spiffy. Mike Ahmed lived in a lovely brick three-story pre-war, with a landscaped front yard and perfectly manicured gardens. It may have been the manor house for the area before the housing boom of the 1920’s, shortly after Henry Ford rolled the first Model T off the assembly line. Now, hundred-year-old homes, mostly two story timber structures, lined up along the street with barely room for the average sized car to get between them. Albert pulled up in front of the house and radioed in to the precinct that he’d arrived. Within seconds, a Dearborn Police squad car pulled up behind him as a courtesy. The uniformed patrol officer, Aaron Barry wouldn’t go inside with Albert unless asked, but would be there in case he was needed. Albert didn’t mind the company and invited the young man to join him. Albert filled Officer Barry in with the details about the Gretchen Parker murder.

“We know all about it. Jacob Parker is retired from the Dearborn force,” Aaron explained. Albert jotted down yet another piece of surprising news.
So Jacob was an ex-cop.

“This is simple questioning today, to determine what he knows about the victim.”

Albert grabbed his recorder and notebook out of the back seat of his cruiser and followed the officer up the steps. He was completely comfortable deferring to Patrolman Barry. He even stayed slightly behind the young man, allowing him to knock on the door and take command. Albert was mulling over the latest information that Jacob Parker had been a Dearborn cop. He wondered why Jacob hadn’t been forthcoming about that. He got out his phone and sent a text to Jill. She already had it in her head that the father was somehow a key player in all of this, something he hadn’t picked up on. But he’d learned long ago to always,
always
follow her lead. Albert was ready to leave a business card when Mike Ahmed finally answered the door. He looked disheveled, having gotten up from bed just moments before. Trying to hide his surprise seeing the cop at his door, he grabbed a tissue from a box on a table behind him and started blowing his nose.

“What’s going on? What can I do for you?” he said. Then he saw Albert and anxiety washed over Mike’s face. Aaron Barry moved to the side to allow Albert to come forward. He took his badge out and pushed it toward the door as friendly and nonthreatening as possible.

“Mr. Ahmed? I’m Detective Wong from Detroit Homicide. This is Patrolman Barry from the Dearborn Police Department.” Mike Ahmed nodded at Patrolman Barry again. Albert thought there may have been recognition between them. “We’re here to see if you can provide any information about the murder of Gretchen Parker.” Albert gauged the reaction to that news and Mike Ahmed was definitely surprised. Although the media had broadcast that a body of young woman from Dearborn was found in the city, her name had yet to be released. Unless someone had called him like the Parkers, he couldn’t know she was dead unless he was involved in some way. “Can we come in?”

“Do I need a lawyer?” Mike Ahmed asked. Albert thought,
He didn’t just say that, did he?
The patrolman looked at Albert.

“No, no, not at all. We have a few questions to ask you about your knowledge of Miss Parker and your whereabouts since Friday.” He didn’t add,
let’s see
if we have reason to take you downtown.
Mike Ahmed reluctantly opened the door to the two policemen. He looked around his neighborhood to see if anyone was watching. He was sure he saw blinds move; curtains pushed aside just a touch. The neighborhood was filled with busybodies and tattletales. After Jacob Parker’s temper tantrum on his porch two days ago, there was a lot of interest in what was going on at Mike Ahmed’s house. It was possible that someone would say something to the wrong person and his mother and father would find out. He closed the door after the cops entered his house, his bowels rumbling. He prayed he wouldn’t have to excuse himself to go to the bathroom. The men stood in the middle of the living room waiting. Mike seemed unsure of what to do.

“Can we sit in there?” Albert asked, pointing to the dining room table. The house was neat but practically empty. There was a long, modern couch and a television in the living room and a huge dining table, ornately carved, with eight high backed chairs around it. There was a heavy lace tablecloth covered in plastic. It looked like Mike Ahmed used the dining table as a sort of office. There was mail in several stacks and a laptop computer on the surface at the far end. He shook his head
yes
to the request, pointing to the unused end of the table.

“I would have cleaned up if I knew company was coming,” Mike Ahmed said with sarcasm. “Isn’t it normal to notify someone of a visit?”

“We didn’t think you would be home,” Albert said. “Gretchen’s mother and father told us you were an engineer at Ford and I thought you would be at work. I was just going to leave my calling card. Are you ill? Or is this a regular day off for you?” Albert got out his notepad and turned the recorder on. “Do you mind if I record our talk?” he asked. Mike seemed confused for a moment, and then recognition crossed over his face; he’d been caught.

“No, I’m not ill and yes, you can record.” He was thinking fast and decided the best thing to do was come clean right away about his work situation; they would surely be checking up on him and it was best not to lie about stupid stuff. “I don’t work for Ford. It was a lie I told Gretchen.”
Stick to the facts,
he reminded himself.
Albert didn’t say anything, he was intently writing in his little notebook. He drew a picture of a dove first, and then a cat. He watched Mike Ahmed out of the corner of his eye, biding his time, giving him a chance to say something else. When he didn’t add anything more, Albert began his questioning.

“Where did you meet Gretchen?” He watched Mike carefully again, and could see he was fabricating his story as he went along. There was something about the way he told it, sing-songing almost, that didn’t read true.

“We met at Miller’s Bar. She was sitting with her friends, and I went up to her. She gave me her phone number. That is really all there is to it.”
Hardly
, Albert thought.

“Did she introduce you to her friends?” Albert asked. The wheels turning in Mike Ahmed’s head were almost visible. He was thinking
when did
she introduce me to Leah
?

“Not that night,” Mike said. “Later. A few weeks later her friend Leah met us at Dino’s. We ate and then went to a movie. The three of us did a lot together after that.” His stomachache got worse;
had Gretchen told Leah the truth about him following her home from Miller’s? And then showing up at her job?
He hoped not
.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” He stood and walked toward the back of the house. Albert and Aaron Barry sat in silence. Aaron leaned over and whispered to Albert, “He’s lying.”

“Did he recognize you from somewhere?” Albert asked.

“I’ve seen him at mosque,” Aaron said. Albert lifted his eyebrows to the young cop and cocked his head. Mike returned in a few minutes, pale and sweaty. Albert noted that fact; the man was reacting to the news of Gretchen’s death, unless it was a coincidental stomach virus.

“Are you okay to continue?” he asked. Mike shook his head
no
.

“Can we do this another time?” he responded. “I feel sick. I want to go lay down.” Albert and Aaron stood up together.

“You have my card, correct? When you feel better, give me a call,” Albert said. The two walked to the door and let themselves out. They didn’t speak until they got to the curb. Albert thought a prolonged conversation in front of his house with a uniform might increase Mike Ahmed’s fear.

“What do you think about making some passes tonight?” he asked Aaron. There was nothing more intimidating than being involved in a crime and having a cop car go by your house every half hour.

“I would be happy to. Anything else we can do let us know.” The two men shook hands. Albert had a list of people he needed to see: the friend Leah, Gretchen Parker’s co-workers, and anyone else those conversations would reveal.

But first, he wanted to go see his Nana.

Chapter 14

Alex Kazmerek kissed his girlfriend Jill goodbye as she left for work early Monday morning. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said. He made her coffee to go, the first of many cups she would drink during the day. It was the one thing he could do for her: make sure she had coffee and food before her day began. Everything else between them seemed to radiate from her. They were at her place most of the time because it was bigger than his apartment. She had the money, mainly her detective salary, but also wise investments from a loving father, which made her comfortable life one he was honored to share. He was an assistant in the morgue. His income was just enough to pay his room rent, buy a few groceries and clothes, and pay for beer.

They would never get married. He had too much baggage. They were in love with each other, but their history made no legal tie necessary to hold them together. Jill Zannos proved over and over again that she loved him unconditionally and that almost nothing he could do would drive her away. Almost.

Although they weren’t what you would call high school sweethearts, they were constant companions. Jill wasn’t the type to
go steady
. Even in high school, she was driven and independent. She rubbed off on the people around her: do your best, test yourself, set the bar higher and higher. One of the things that first drew her to Alex was his desire to practice medicine. However, not everyone had the same discipline that Jill did. Alex was a pre-med major in college; Jill studied criminal justice. But she loved science too and minored in biology. Having that background definitely later helped her in homicide investigations. Jill went on to get a Masters of Criminology, and Alex went to medical school. They saw each other every weekend. She was patient, helpful, and encouraging.

Alex graduated and started his residency in emergency medicine, but there was a problem: he hated to see people in pain. He couldn’t set up a boundary between sympathy and empathy and suffered right along with his patients. He began self-medicating. It got bad so fast they threw him out of the residency program with the promise that if he got help, they’d consider allowing him to reapply. Jill was devastated. Alex was relieved. He drank and drugged himself into a stupor for two years. When he pulled out of it and got some therapy, he knew he would never go back. He didn’t want to be a doctor. What he wanted to do was so obtuse that he didn’t share it with Jill for a long, long time: he wanted to paint.

He was a mediocre talent, but improved with art classes. He got a job, which provided minimal financial support, and painted when he had the free time. He saved a little money here and there and took the classes whenever he was able. Then Jill found out that the pathologist was looking for a science major to help with dissections in the morgue. She gave Sam a brief synopsis of Alex’s experience without outing him too much, and he was hired sight unseen. It turned out to be perfect for him. The job was a good fit; the patients were already dead so he didn’t have to see them suffer or worry about harming them further. He saved his imagination for his paintings which were becoming quite good.

Despite his newfound stability, Alex still struggled with substance abuse. Jill stuck by him because she loved him, but also because he tolerated her strange, mystical personality. He supported her spell casting and candle lighting, reminding her when the full moon was on its way so she could cleanse the crystals she used in her prayers. He never laughed at her. Her aunts were mortified when Gus let it slip that Jill did white spells even though she was taught by their mother, but he smoothed it over by saying what she was doing was really just prayers with props.

Jill prayed for Alex, too. He felt as though the pull to drink lessened when he was in her presence so he took advantage of it. Since she didn’t drink more than an occasional glass of wine, there wasn’t the temptation to drink at her apartment. They didn’t enjoy the bar scene except for one favorite place that had great pizza and wonderful music. They drank Coke when they went there. Rarely, when he was alone, he would tie one on. There was nothing Jill could do about it, so she ignored
it
.
It
was the
unsolvable
in the middle of their life together. Alex functioned, never missed work, didn’t see her if he was drunk, but this meant time apart. He would often lose a couple of days of creativity to a hangover and wouldn’t paint. During the school year when he had the money to take a class, he would go for months without drinking. And then something would happen. He’d see something that triggered a deep and unforgiving sadness he just couldn’t deal with. He’d hold out until Friday, then go to the corner packaged goods store and get a case of whatever was on sale. He’d call her first and say simply “I’ll be off the grid for a day or two,” and she would say, “Okay, I love you.” And that would be it until he called her when it was all over. The Greeks; her family, couldn’t condone public displays of drunkenness. But what was done in private was another matter.

When they were young, she would ask if she could help him in some way and he always allowed it. Jill bought special vitamins, lit candles, burned sage sticks around his apartment, anointed him with essential oils, gave him Reiki treatments, and fed him healthy food from her father’s deli counter. He did binge less but like a smoker, he couldn’t throw away that last cigarette. After ten or twelve years of interfering, Jill finally decided to leave Alex alone about his drinking. She rationalized that he only did it a couple of times a year and it didn’t hurt anyone but him.