There should be a Senate subcommittee investigation into why the FBI’s coffee always tastes like lukewarm ass.
After choking down two cups of brown sludge at the FBI’s Detroit office I had a signed agreement. It took considerable back-and-forth haggling, including a conference call between O’Donnell’s director in Detroit—a tall, slim guy named Phillips—and their bosses in D.C.
O’Donnell proved she could be quite persuasive. She was 110 pounds of C-4 plastic explosive with a strawberry-blonde ponytail. And nobody wanted to yank the ponytail.
“We’ve looked into this Snow guy,” one of her Washington bosses barked through the phone’s speaker. He knew I was in the room and spoke as if he gave a shit. “Ex-marine. Honorable discharge with citations. Good record as a cop—impetuous, but a good cop. Until he sued his department and walked off with twelve mil in city funds. I don’t like cops who sue their own. And a year pretty much off the grid? He sounds troubled, Megan. Conflicted. I don’t like troubled and conflicted people, especially when we have to rely on them.”
“Sir,” O’Donnell said, “I understand your concerns—and frankly I share some of them. But the fact of the matter is we rely on troubled, conflicted people all the time for information.” O’Donnell’s ice-blue eyes suddenly lifted from the speaker at the center of the conference table and burrowed into me. “Snow seems considerably less troubled and conflicted than a lot of people. And my gut tells me he’s solid.”
I grinned and gave her a thumbs up, which was ignored.
There was a long pause at the Washington, D.C. end of the line. Then the man said, “It won’t be your gut hangin’ out on this one, Megan. A lot’s riding on what you do in Detroit. You’d better be right about this guy.”
“He’ll deliver, sir.”
O’Donnell’s boss here in Detroit—Phillips—ended the conference call by assuring the honchos in D.C. that he’d keep a tight rein on me and the operation. After the call disconnected, Phillips said, “You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Snow. It’s Special Agent O’Donnell who should give you the heebie-jeebies.”
“She is pretty scary, isn’t she?” I said.
“You have no idea,” Phillips said, smiling. He nodded to O’Donnell, shook my hand and left the room.
When the agreement was emailed to O’Donnell an hour later, I wanted to puke.
But what else could I do?
Before I left O’Donnell’s office, she sighed heavily and said, “You’re in this now, Snow. Up to your eyebrows. If you don’t deliver—”
“The agreement’s null and void,” I said, tucking my copy into my coat pocket. “I know. Trust me.”
“I’m hoping I can.”
The drive home was long and uncomfortable.
I parked on the street and sat in the car for a minute thinking about what I’d done, then got out and walked to my house.
Carmela and Sylvia intercepted me on the sidewalk before I reached the house. In addition to their matching purple North Face bubble jackets, they were wearing ugly multi-colored knit hats, which I assumed they had knitted for each other.
“Afternoon, ladies,” I said with a slight bow.
“Ooo!” Sylvia cooed. “Mr. Snow!”
We talked about how cold the day was and the unavoidable imminence of yet another brutal Michigan winter. The few neighbors I had on Markham had carved pumpkins decorating their doorsteps. I doubted there would be many kids in costumes walking around giddy at the prospect of receiving free sugar from neighbors. Not even the Rodriguez boy. Halloween had changed a lot since I was a kid.
After a while Carmela and Sylvia said they were taking the day to visit the Detroit Institute of Arts. That visit would be followed by chili dogs at American Coney Island, an old haunt for Detroit Water & Sewage Department employees. We wished one another a nice day and Sylvia said she hoped I had a nice visit with my friends.
“Friends?” I said casually.
“The ones at your house,” Sylvia said. “Two gentlemen. Nicely dressed. One was a big fellow.”
“Oh,” I said. “You mean Coltrane and Stitt. We played football together at Wayne State.”
Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to know when to lie.
As the two ladies strolled away down the street I reached around to find comfort in touching the handle of my Glock.
A man was watching me through the sliver of front door windows.
I smiled at him and bounded up the steps.
The big, squarely built man who opened the door started to say something, but before he could I hit him in the throat with the butt of my gun. He grabbed his throat, made choking noises and stumbled backwards. I dropped him with a left cross to his jaw and a deep, hard punch to his solar plexus. Then I leveled my gun at the well-dressed man sitting casually on my sofa.
“Move and you’re dead,” I said.
The man on the sofa smiled at me, put his hands up. “We come in peace, Mr. Snow.”
While keeping my gun leveled on the man on my sofa, I gave his companion sprawled on the floor a one-hand pat down. He was carrying. I deprived him of his Sig Saur .9mm. He started to move.
“Stay down,” I said, giving him another left cross to his jaw.
He stayed down.
I closed the door, stepped over the big man on the floor and made my way to his boss.
The front door creaked open again and I heard, “Hey, Mr. Snow—”
It was Jimmy Radmon.
He froze mid-sentence after seeing the big man on the floor groaning and me holding my gun on the well-dressed man seated on my sofa.
“Not now, Jimmy,” I said.
“Cool,” Radmon said, quickly backing out and closing the door.
“Stand up, take your coat off,” I said to the man on my sofa. He complied. I had him do a slow 360. Nothing. “Lift your pant legs.” He did. Still nothing.
“My name is Leslie Brewster.” The man had a slight indeterminate accent. “I have no interest in violence, Mr. Snow. I have every interest in conducting business. Smart, mutually beneficial business.”
“And him?” I nodded to his gasping business associate on my floor. “He’s your accountant?”
The man smiled and said, “Personal protection. Detroit can be—how shall I say?—hazardous to one’s health.” The man calling himself Brewster gestured to his companion. “He’s harmless really.”
“He is now.”
“May I sit, Mr. Snow?” Brewster said.
I nodded to the sofa. He sat, crossed his legs and casually brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his well-tailored slacks.
“So what’s the play?” I said, lowering my weapon but keeping it aimed. Anything I didn’t like, Brewster would get a bullet center mass.
“You’ve been very busy looking into Ms. Paget’s unfortunate passing,” Brewster said, “which, as I understand it, has been determined by the authorities to be a suicide.”
“I have an innate distrust of authority,” I said.
“Ah, the vagaries of youth,” the man laughed. “Still, you’ve been talking to people at the bank. Chasing shadows. I might understand all this if you were still professionally associated with the police. Or even if you’d maintained a personal or professional relationship with Ms. Paget. But you hadn’t with either. So please help me understand your interest in all of this.”
“First of all, this is my home, fuck-nuts,” I said. “I don’t have to explain shit to you. You do, however, have to explain why the B and E. Which, by the way, I could shoot you dead in the crack of your ass for and not even get a ticket.”
Brewster assessed me for a moment. “I’m here to offer you a rather handsome incentive to stop all this silly investigative work of yours. Investigative work, I might add, that skirts the legal lines of intimidation, harassment and impersonation of a police authority.”
“What can I say,” I replied. “I’m a multitalented guy.”
Brewster kept his sleepy eyes and smug smile locked on me.
“Is this the same incentive you offered Eleanor Paget and Aaron Spiegelman?” I said.
“Miss Paget was a suicide.” Brewster accompanied his statement with a theatrically heavy sigh. “Mr. Spiegelman’s wife? Nothing more than an unfortunate accident.” Brewster paused and assessed me once again. “I have considerable personal interests in the bank. And your skulking around, poking a finger in the eye of people associated with the bank, is affecting those interests. All of the bank’s patrons are nervous, and on their behalf I’m offering you what we believe is quite fair.” He pointed to an expensive aluminum briefcase on the floor by his legs. “We are prepared to offer you a cash incentive to cease and desist with this silly investigation. We will, of course, require certain legal documents to be signed.”
Brewster’s bodyguard finally stood on wobbly legs, shook his head and glared at me. I pointed my gun at him and said, “Stay, Fido.” He glanced at his boss. Brewster held a palm up.
“As I said, Mr. Snow,” Brewster continued calmly. “This is a very generous offer. A half-million. We could, of course, pursue legal action. We’d prefer not to. The bank—its customers and employees—have already been through enough.”
“May I see the money?” I said.
Brewster grinned widely and brought the suitcase up to his lap. As he unlocked it I strongly suggested he turn it toward me and lift it open from the back. He did. It certainly looked like five hundred thousand dollars, all neatly stacked, wrapped and snuggly fit into the briefcase.
“This is the best option, Mr. Snow,” Brewster said with a grand gesture of his hands. “Everyone wins.”
He closed the briefcase.
“Of course, I—we—need papers signed and—”
“Take your money and get the fuck out of my house,” I said.
Brewster gave me a confused look. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, asswipe.” I brought my gun out to a fully extended firing position. “Get the fuck out of my house. And by the way. My front door? That’s genuine oak with original brass and leaded glass. If you fucked that up getting in here, I will either sue you or put a bullet through your eye. I’m kinda leaning toward the bullet.”
Slowly, Brewster stood, put on his suit coat, and picked up the briefcase. He gave me a look that suggested I’d made a big mistake and began walking toward the door.
“My gun,” his bodyguard said with a hoarse voice.
“Souvenir,” I said, showing him his gun and then laying it on the kitchen island behind me.
“You can’t—”
“I can do anything I want in my house, pork chop,” I said. “Including clipping your fucking raisins. Now get out.”
The bodyguard glared at me before opening the door for his boss. Brewster looked back at me and said, “This is, of course, a mistake, Mr. Snow. Your decision could hurt other patrons. People who don’t deserve such pain.” He smiled a humorless smile and added, “I wonder how Eleanor Paget’s daughter will invest her inheritance? Perhaps I should consult with her.”
“Go anywhere near Vivian Paget,” I said, taking a step closer to Brewster, “and I will finish you.”
I followed them out. They got into a black Cadillac Escalade with blacked out windows, which had been parked around the corner.
Brewster turned to me before climbing into the back seat of the vehicle. He held the briefcase up for me to see, smiled and said, “Last chance, Mr. Snow.”
“Keep driving until you smell the ocean, asshole,” I said.
I stood in the cold, shivering, and watched them drive off, committing the make and model of their vehicle and its license plate number to memory.
I wasn’t shivering from the cold.
Once I got back inside I wasted no time calling Vivian Paget at her home in Traverse City. I had hoped Colleen would answer since Colleen appeared to be the emotional rock.
“Hello?”
It was Vivian.
“Hi, Vivian,” I said brightly. “August Snow.”
“Yes,” she said with a light, welcoming voice. “I remember. Have you picked out a painting yet from my website? I’d still love to give you one.”
“I’ve been to your website twice,” I said. “You really make it hard to choose. You do incredible work.”
“You’re kind,” she said with a modesty that verged on heartbreaking.
I made up a story about just wanting to apologize for having alarmed her with my last call, which had not been my intention.
Then I asked if I could say hello to Colleen. Vivian said, “Oh, yes! I’m sure she’d be disappointed if I didn’t let her talk to you.” I heard her call out Colleen’s name.
After a second or two Colleen’s voice came on the line.
“August?” Colleen said. “Any more news on Viv’s mother?”
I asked if she could talk without Vivian hearing. She said, “Just a minute.” There was silence for a few seconds before Colleen said, “What’s up?”
I told her what was going on, no sugarcoating. I said my investigation into Vivian’s mother’s death had rattled some very sensitive and dangerous nerves. I recounted my visit from Brewster and his thick-necked bodyguard, which had resulted in a thinly veiled threat. Then I asked Colleen if she could handle herself with a firearm.
“I got no problem with guns,” Colleen said. “I was raised on a farm. Hogs and chickens. You didn’t kill, you didn’t eat. What’s this really all about, August?”
“Some people may want to contest a large part of Eleanor Paget’s will,” I said, choking down the urge to blurt out the full, bloody truth. “And that means maybe friendly, maybe not so friendly negotiations with Vivian.”
“And let me guess,” Colleen said. “You’re the kind of guy who’d rather err on the side of suspicion and paranoia instead of faith in humanity?”
“It ain’t paranoia if they really are out to get ya,” I said. “You set with guns?”
“Got a Remington Versa Max Tactical and a Browning Citori Lightning twelve gauge that belonged to my father,” she said. “I’m better at fishing, but I can shoot.”
“I’d suggest you put the rod and reel away for now,” I said.
Colleen also had a Remington 1911 R1 semiautomatic pistol. All of her guns were kept safely locked away. She knew the combination to the locker. Vivian didn’t. Vivian didn’t like guns, but she understood and respected Colleen’s Northern Michigan farming background and her familial association with weapons.
I told her if I got any more information I’d call. In the meantime she should consider herself on alert. Colleen said they had a good relationship with the local and state cops and that she would ask for extra patrols around the house, the adjacent five acres of their land and the woods across the road.
“I’m gonna talk to a friend of mine about coming up,” I said. “He’s a good guy and he knows how to handle himself.”
“You think we need a man to defend our honor?” Colleen laughed.
“I think you’re probably well-equipped on a number of levels,” I said. “But you have to admit: it’s hard to argue with having a fresh set of eyes just as a precaution.”
There was silence between us for a moment. Then Colleen said, “You’re not telling me everything.”
“Hard to trust somebody you don’t know,” I said. “But sometimes those are the only people you can trust. And if not me, then go with your instincts. What do your instincts tell you?”
There was a sigh at the other end of the line. “I’ll get a room ready for your guy. That and extra ammo.”
I ended the conversation by telling her that I’d call again with details, but it had to be on her phone. I suggested she do a security assessment of the house and their adjacent land as soon as we were off the phone. She said she would. I apologized again and she said once the air cleared, she and Vivian wanted me up for a visit that didn’t involve guns. “Just good food, a few laughs and a lot of homemade honey vodka.”
“Wow. Lesbians and moonshiners,” I said. “Life on the edge.”
I asked Colleen how Vivian had been lately in view of her mother’s recent death. Colleen said she’d been good. Almost relieved. Free, even.
I lied and said, “That’s good.”
We hung up.
Then I called Frank, the ex-security guard I’d met at Eleanor Paget’s estate.
“How’s the exciting world of bagging groceries?” I said.
“Fucking wonderful,” Frank said. “S’up, Mr. Snow?”
“August,” I said. “How would you like a working vacation?”
“What’s the catch?” he said. In the background I heard a muddled voice over a speaker announcing the arrival of fresh strawberries—with your Kroger Plus card, you could get two packages for a deeply discounted price.
I told Frank what the catch was.
“Jesus,” Frank said. “You got a talent for lighting fires, August.”
I asked him if he had any guns. He did. I asked him if he had any problems with lesbians. He didn’t—“Like there ain’t enough in this world drive a person batshit.” I asked him if he had any problems with any of this. “Only problem I got is my car, man. Fuckin’ oh-five PT Cruiser. Thing barely gets me here. I know it ain’t up for no trip to Traverse.” I told Frank not to worry. I’d have a car ready for him at Hertz.
“Could be something,” I said to Frank, “could be a lot of nothing. Just might turn out to be a nice two-week fall color tour for you.”
“Ain’t known you for too long, August, but I’m betting it’s something.”
I told him I’d give him a stipend. Frank asked what a stipend was. I told him and he said I’d already given him enough money. And this wasn’t about the money anyway.
“In the army,” Frank said, “I had real objectives. Clear goals. Actual targets. Easy to lose your way back in the world, man. And I think I been losing mine.” His voice moved away from the phone. “Hey, LaKisha? Listen, I just quit, okay? Tell Larry for me. Thanks, babe.”
After the call to Frank, I checked out my front door for damage: a few scratches around the brass keyhole. I’d have to look into a little more security.
There was a tentative knock at the kitchen back door. I had my Glock in my hand.
“Mr. Snow?”
Radmon again.
I opened the back door and his eyes scanned around me, looking for the men he’d seen earlier. I invited him in.
“Cable TV sales guys,” I explained. “When I say I don’t want Premium HD movie channels, I fucking mean it.”
I was sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs in Ray Danbury’s office at the 14th Precinct. He was feverishly flipping through reams of papers that had collected on his desk.
“What are you looking for?” I said.
“The memo that says I fucking work for you,” Danbury sarcastically replied.
I’d brought the gun I’d extracted from Brewster’s bodyguard to Danbury and asked him if he could run a trace on it. Simple request. Simple task.
“You still looking into this Paget thing?” Danbury finally said, sitting back in his chair. Draped across the back of his chair was a heather-green wool suit jacket. I imagined the jacket added to the sartorial splendor of his slate-grey monogrammed shirt, expensive-looking olive-green silk tie and heather-green pocketed vest. The only thing that didn’t go with the ensemble was Danbury’s gut spilling out at the bottom of the vest.
“It’s gotten a little more interesting,” I said.
I told Danbury everything, save for my current dealings with the FBI. As I talked, he nodded and thoughtfully rubbed a forefinger across his bottom lip.
I finished telling him what I knew and where I thought things were heading. When I was done he said, “Close the door.”
I did.
For a minute he stared at the gun in the plastic bag I’d brought him. “Sure you’ve told me everything, August?”
“I may have left out a few details,” I said.
“Like any shit involving the FBI?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Listen,” Danbury said, his voice low and serrated. “I really don’t care about you and your fed buddies so long as it doesn’t embarrass me or this department. Been through enough the past ten years. But you start giving me or this department the stink eye and you and I are done, amigo. I join the rest of the department in wanting to see you hamstrung and horsewhipped. You see what I’m sayin’?”
I nodded.
Danbury grabbed the plastic bag that held the bodyguard’s gun. “We’ll talk in a couple days. In the meantime, cool out in Mexicantown. Renovate some more houses. Get yourself a little half-black Latina with big titties. Anything but whatever you’re into. You feel me, August?”
I stood, reached across his desk and shook Danbury’s hand.
“Nice suit,” I said. “Next time you should see if they have it in your size.”