August Snow Page 4

  I tried living the chivalrous life you wanted me to back when I was a Detroit cop. And we know how that turned out.

  Even so, I’d be lying if I said my cop curiosity hadn’t kicked in. As I neared the gate, I pulled to the side of the drive, parked and got out.

  “May I help you, sir?” the young security guard said, emerging from the gatehouse.

  “Ranger, right?” I said offering my hand. “Mountain Division?”

  He took my hand and shook it. His easygoing smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed at me. He repeated, “May I help you, sir?”

  “Marine,” I said of myself. “Sniper.”

  The guard quickly sized me up. “Hoo-ra,” he said. His name was Frank.

  Without going into details, I gave Frank a few inglorious highlights of my visit with Eleanor Paget. I told him that I used to be a cop and he said he knew who I was. I was curious about the estate’s security and if Paget had had any recent visitors who raised suspicions. Before I could say anything else, Frank casually rested his hand on the grip of his .32 and was on the phone to the main house.

  “Yessir, Mr. Gutierrez,” Frank said while keeping me locked in his eyes. “Frank on the perch. Just calling to make sure everything’s all right in the nest. I have Mr. August Snow here asking questions about our security matrix. Allow and inform or disallow and notify?” I’m sure Tomás was barely holding it together as he answered Frank. “Yessir. Thank you.”

  Frank moved his hand away from his .32.

  “You got fucked,” Frank said, referring to my DPD lawsuit and trial. “Pardon me for putting it that way, man—sir.”

  Then he gave me the lowdown.

  Any visitors who weren’t on the standard approved list got cursory background checks.

  Goddamn Google.

  Frank, who was maybe four years younger than me, told me every visitor to the estate was either automatically logged by a pre-approved keycard issued by Eleanor Paget or entered manually by himself or any other on-duty guard from Digital Defense Home Security. The guards—usually the same two—traded shifts, working Monday through Saturday. Sunday, only pre-approved keycards were allowed access. Any pre-approved keycard could be locked out by Paget at any time for any reason. Two clicks on a laptop and you were rendered persona non grata.

  “A chimp could do this fucking job,” Frank said. “At least I mostly get to sit inside and do school work. Six months more and I’ve got an associate business administration degree.”

  “What’s Digital Defense like?” I asked.

  Frank shrugged. “Corporate types. Bean counters mostly. Some of the guys—on-site guys like me—they’re really into it. Gung ho discharges looking for work. Something they can put their skills to. Other than that it’s just migrant work—no offense.”

  I smiled and said, “None taken.”

  While we talked, a black BMW edged up to the wrought iron gate. An arm fit with an expensive suit sleeve and monogrammed shirt cuff reached out, the hand waved a keycard at the discreetly positioned electronic reader and the gate cranked opened.

  Frank waved at the car as it drove by.

  “Aaron Spiegelman,” Frank said. “Chief financial officer and president of the board. Self-important, whiny little prick.”

  I asked Frank about security cameras on the property. Hesitantly he said there were eight. That jibed with what I’d seen on my way up to the house. The cameras recorded 24-7 to four hard discs located in the guard house. Simultaneously the video feeds were downloaded to servers located at Digital Defense’s offices in Birmingham, Michigan, fifteen miles away. The only downtime was every second Wednesday or Friday night—kept purposely random—when the recordings were reviewed at the main office and, pending any anomalies, wiped clean in preparation for the next week’s recording period.

  “Any surveillance in the house?” I asked.

  “Don’t have a clue. Never been up to the big house. Somehow I doubt it, knowing what an absolute hellhound the old bitch is about her privacy.” Frank took a moment to assess me again. Then, quietly reassured, he continued, “It’s a little fast and loose with the surveillance cameras. Old equipment. After two years of watching cars drive in and out, leaves falling, snow piling up, grass growing, the lawn getting cut and weeds getting whacked, nobody much cares about maintaining or upgrading the equipment. The guys who review the recordings at home office? Mostly baked. Basic training washouts or tech geek weenies working on their résumés. Black Tree didn’t put any money into the system after they bought Digital Defense. Word at HQ is Black Tree’s trying to dump the company.”

  Finally, I asked Frank if our conversation was currently under surveillance.

  “Yeah,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “But, I mean, unless you all of a sudden pull out your pecker and I have to shoot it off, this’ll get fast-forwarded and deleted at home office.”

  I told Frank I appreciated his time and his candor.

  “Stay vigilant,” I said. “Eleanor Paget may be mean as a snake, but like anybody else she deserves to feel safe.”

  “I do my job. A hundred percent,” Frank said. “But I gotta be honest—for minimum wage and healthcare that wouldn’t cover the cost of a Band-Aid, I got nothing invested here. I got Wi-Fi in the guard house and most days I just do class work. Six more months and I’m gone. Fuck it.”

  “Stay strong, Army,” I said.

  “Semper fi, Marine.”

  On the way back into Detroit proper I made a couple calls to people who were surprised to hear my voice. People I gambled might still be willing to talk to me. The first person I called was a former cop buddy who had since gone private.

  “Jesus, August,” my former friend said. “Guys find out I’m talkin’ to you and there go my contacts at the Fourteenth. Sorry, man, but that’s just the way it is.”

  Another former cop buddy said he’d be glad to look into things, but his doctor had advised against any stressful endeavors. In the time I had been out of the country, he had requested a transfer from his Major Crimes detective sergeant’s desk to heading the department’s motor pool.

  “Transfer saved my life, August,” he said. “And my marriage. Not as much money, but I’m down to just three meds a day.”

  The third told me to fuck off and never, ever call again or else my balls would be in a blender.

  Ex-girlfriends.

  What are you gonna do, right?

  By the time I found myself in the shadow of the GM Renaissance Center, I was hungry. I would try to get a hold of Skittles later. I’d worked with him on locating and recovering Eleanor Paget’s embezzled money two years earlier. I’d never met Skittles in person. And unless he called you, contact was nearly impossible. But I had my ways.

  I’ve been to Mexico.

  And I’ve been to Southern California and Texas.

  But unless you’ve taken the Bagley Avenue exit off of I-75 South to Detroit’s Mexicantown, you really haven’t had good Mexican food.

  I took the exit and hoped whoever was following me in the black Chevy Suburban was hungry, too.

  I parked behind one of my old haunts, Xochimilco, went in and was seated almost immediately at a small, round table near a faux stained-glass window portrait of Pancho Villa. A petite, full-figured brown-skinned girl with a smile that made me feel instantly buoyant took my order.

  Near the front entrance, the hostess held a large black flowerpot overflowing with bright marigolds. She was animated as she spoke to the restaurant’s slick-haired manager, who stood with his arms tightly folded across his chest. His dark eyebrows were furrowed and he nodded, his eyes keenly following the hostess’s pointing finger. I imagined they were discussing where to put the various pots of marigolds they’d ordered for the Día de los Muertos celebrations.

  While I waited for my food and whoever had followed me—presumably government types considering the vehicle and the strict adherence to speed limits and use of turning signals—I thought about Eleanor Paget.

  I
had been the lead investigator on the murder/suicide that took her husband’s life and the life of his sixteen-year-old prostitute. There was really little to investigate save for how much money he’d embezzled and where it had gone. Fifteen million could certainly buy a lot of booze, Viagra and Oxycodone, but I’d been doubtful those were the only expenditures.

  Eleanor Paget cared less about her husband and his perverse infidelity with a sixteen-year-old child. She cared infinitely more about where the embezzled money was, and about her reputation and that of the bank. In fact, she saw no distinction between those two reputations.

  For a short period, Paget thought she was running the investigation. She went as far as to tell the Grosse Pointe Police, Detroit’s former mayor, the Detroit Police commissioner and my captain that she was in charge. Which meant she’d click a stopwatch and we, like mostly black Keystone Cops, should run in any direction she pointed.

  It took a while and a few interesting closed-door meetings, but finally Eleanor Paget—at my insistence—backed down.

  Through a few legitimate and questionable contacts I’d cultivated, I found Paget’s money. At least, what her husband hadn’t pissed away on expensive getaways, suites at four-star hotels in Miami and Manhattan, jewelry and clothing for his teenage mistress. And, of course, booze, Viagra and Oxycodone.

  Finding the remains of Paget’s embezzled money made me a star in her steel-blue eyes. Aside from that, I suspected I was one of very few people who had in no uncertain terms told her to sit down and shut the fuck up. Begrudging respect is better than no respect.

  My steak burrito arrived well-seasoned and resplendent with gooey cheese. The aroma was enough to welcome me back to the ’hood.

  “Delicioso,” I told the waitress, spreading my hands appreciatively over the generous plate of hot food. I asked for another Negra Modelo. The waitress smiled and left in pursuit of my second beer.

  I was about a third of the way through my burrito and halfway through my second Negra Modelo when a short, athletically built blonde woman dressed in a nondescript two-piece blue wool pants suit with white blouse pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down.

  “Mind?” she said.

  I gave a welcoming motion to the seat she’d already laid claim to.

  The woman—maybe in her early-thirties, like me, and purposely plain, save for piercing blue eyes—tactfully showed me a badge and photo ID: FBI Special Agent Megan O’Donnell, Detroit Field Office.

  “Don’t remember you from my trial or the Fed’s investigation into the DPD,” I said. “New in town?”

  “Ten months,” FBI Special Agent Megan O’Donnell replied curtly. “Missed all the excitement. I assume everything went well since you’re cavalierly breaking speed limits?”

  I shrugged, cut a small bit of my burrito with the edge of my fork and stabbed it. I held it up for a moment and said, “You ever have the steak burritos here, Special Agent O’Donnell? They’re really quite good.”

  “I prefer Mexican Village. Or Armando’s.” Two other tremendous Mexican restaurants within a stone’s throw. “Something about their margaritas.”

  “How may I help the FBI today?” I took the small bit of burrito from my fork and tried to figure out why official types always seemed to interrupt my breakfasts, lunches and dinners.

  “You just met with Eleanor Paget at her home in Grosse Pointe Estates, 3652 Colfer Pines Drive,” Special Agent O’Donnell said. “Mind if I ask why?”

  “Mind if I ask why you’re asking why?” I took another bite of my burrito. Official types hate it when you continue eating in their presence. Makes them feel not quite as intimidating as they hoped they were. Frankly, they rarely ever are.

  “I’m sorry,” O’Donnell said with a forced laugh. “Maybe I was unclear. See, I’m FBI and you’re …”

  “The guy who pays your fucking salary, blondie, through a very unfair and Byzantine tax structure,” I replied.

  O’Donnell sighed. I found myself waiting to see small cracks form in her façade. There weren’t any. After a moment, she made a failed attempt at a smile and said, “Let me start over.”

  “Sure,” I said brightly. “Always ready to start over with a beautiful lady.”

  She seemed unfazed by my charm.

  “I would really like to know what you and Mrs. Paget talked about, Mr. Snow. I could, of course, compel you to tell me, but I’d rather we simply had a nice chat. Professional to professional.”

  “I have no idea what I’m ‘professional’ at these days,” I said. “Aside from drinking.” I finished my burrito and second beer at about the same time and sat back in my chair. “To begin with, Special Agent O’Donnell, I believe Eleanor Paget prefers ‘Ms.’ or ‘Miss’ or ‘Omnipotent Galactic Tsarina’ to ‘Mrs.’ We talked about her bank. She believes it’s being tampered with. She wanted to hire me to investigate the matter, but I informed her I was no longer a member of the Detroit Police Department and neither was I a licensed private investigator and as such any investigation on my part could possibly lead to local, state and federal violations. She graciously thanked me and we parted on mutually respectful terms.”

  O’Donnell’s steel-blue eyes bore into me for a few seconds, then she said, “Paget has never thanked a soul for anything in her life. And she probably ended the discussion by telling you to go fuck yourself.”

  “Language, Special Agent O’Donnell,” I said, feigning shock.

  “And the rent-a-cop?” she said. “Wha’d you gentlemen talk about?”

  “Our time in the service, him being army, me being a marine,” I said. O’Donnell’s softball interrogation wasn’t helping me push down any guilt I was feeling, courtesy of my father, for having walked away from someone in need. Like them or not. “You serve, O’Donnell? Or maybe you’re just some pink-ass Princeton Criminal Justice sorority chick who thinks the FBI is a nice first step to that cushy DOJ appointment.”

  “Marine,” O’Donnell said. “Turkey, Afghanistan and a one-off in Venezuela. Logistics, then Intelligence. First job was getting jarheads the equipment they needed to do their job. Second job was getting rifle-jockeys like you the information you needed to put the enemy in the cross hairs and pull the trigger.”

  “Anybody ever tell you how absolutely sexy you are when you talk like that?” Rattling O’Donnell’s cage for information as to why the FBI had an interest in Eleanor Paget was proving difficult.

  “Plenty of times,” she said, unamused. “And I’ve killed ’em all. Now, then. The security guard. What else did you brothers-in-arms discuss?”

  “Perimeter security. House security. Recent visitors. Who has gate access cards. And if he’d noticed anything unusual in the past month or so, to which the answer was no.” Then I said, “You should give him a holler. Seems the FBI type: Pure of heart, poster boy good looks, gung ho, not all that bright. Plus he could use the health insurance.”

  “I’ll send him an application,” O’Donnell said.

  I was pretty sure she wasn’t going to send him an application.

  “Your turn,” I said. “What’s your interest?”

  O’Donnell stood, smoothed out her wool jacket, flipped a business card on the table and said, “You have yourself a nice day, Mr. Snow. Next time, try the Pueblo Platter at Mexican Village. Or the margaritas at Armando’s. Muy delicioso.”

  “From anyone else’s lips,” I said, “the attempt at Spanish would have sounded hilariously patronizing. From yours—honey in the cup of my ear.”

  O’Donnell stared at me, shook her head and said, “Jesus.”

  Then she walked out.

  I settled the bill, leaving the round, angelic waitress stunned at the five hundred percent tip. I just hoped she wouldn’t Tweet, Instagram or Facebook about it.

  I sat at the table beneath the stained-glass likeness of Pancho Villa for another ten minutes, pissed at my curiosity and ego for having let the FBI follow me to dinner.

  Then again, losing O’Donnell on 275-South would
have resulted in my missing out on a really good steak burrito, a couple superior quality Mexican beers and an interesting, if softball, interrogation.

  Seven

  Less than a week back in Detroit and I was already on an FBI watch-list.

  Probably another reason people were reluctant to visit Detroit.

  On my way home, I thought about Oslo and Tatina. How beautiful she was. How wise she was for someone in her early thirties. Then again where she came from, wisdom was a twelve-year-old boy with an AK-47 knowing when to pull the trigger and when not to. Wisdom was an eight-year-old girl knowing how to evade gang rape in a land where rape was public policy. Wisdom was a German medical doctor knowing when to get his Somali wife and mixed children out of a country hell-bent on eating itself alive.

  By comparison having an impromptu Mexicantown dinner with a petite blonde FBI agent was a mid-summer stroll through Belle Isle’s botanical gardens.

  As much as I’d left Norway for fear of falling in love, I’d also come home because of the magnetic draw of Detroit. I missed my parents, good people who had given me all that I had. Who would visit their graves? Who was left to pray the rosary over them as they lay resolutely silent beneath the earth? And who would be there to raise chilled shot glasses of tequila to them when Mexicantown pulled out all the stops on November 2, Día de los Muertos?

  “We’re not defined by the laws we swear to uphold or the people we save in the performance of our duties,” my father told me at my graduation from the academy. “We’re defined by the people we lose. The ones we maybe could have helped but didn’t. In this job, that’s in your future, son. And when it comes, your mom and me’ll be there for you.”

  That future had come once too often and in ways that shattered my core.

  And my parents had been there for me.

  When I arrived back in my Mexicantown neighborhood, it was dark and a fall chill was in the air. The new streetlamps were shining brightly. Enough so that I could see two cars parked in the small space of shadows between the streetlamp cones of light. One car was facing east, the other west. A young black man dressed in baggy Adidas sweats and a PellePelle leather coat too big for him was leaning on the latter, talking to the driver.