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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

September 16, 1996

Monday evening

T here used to be this thing called flophouses. At some point, corporate America decided that was a business they wanted to be in. Later that night I moved out of Motel 6 and moved into a hotel that was even cheaper and significantly more disgusting. This time, I registered as Charles Henderson and let him pay my bill.

It had taken until sunset to get to the 7-Eleven and call a cab to take me to the nearest car rental place. Hertz turned out to be around the corner, so to make it worthwhile for the cabbie I had him take me to their office in Livonia. I knew I wouldn’t be renting the car as Dom Reilly, but still it might be better if Charles Henderson wasn’t too close at hand. Just in case.

When I got to Hertz I asked for a Crown Vic—I might as well look like a cop—but they didn’t have any. The clerk threatened me with an Aspire, which was more like a go-cart than a car. I finally got him to offer me a black Escort. Four doors. Not ideal, but it would do.

Before I switched hotels I dropped in at a Kinkos. They had a FedEx desk. I bought a large envelope, slipped my driver’s license, phone card and credit cards inside, addressed it to myself in Long Beach and sent it overnight. I was temporarily Charles Henderson.

I checked out of Motel Six, then drove down the street to my new flophouse—er, motel. The new clerk didn’t even ask for my temporary license. Henderson’s credit card was enough to capture his interest. There were a couple of people in the lobby who looked like they were waiting for a ride to the methadone clinic. And as soon as I had that thought I realized it was probably offensive to drug addicts everywhere.

In the room, every single outlet was broken, the grout around the bathtub was crumbling, the sheets had been washed so many times the only thing holding them together was residual grime, the TV didn’t work, the fixtures in the bathroom were so dirty they needed to be replaced. But, hey, for the moment it was home.

It wasn’t a long moment. After I choked down the rest of my Tylenol with water from the bathroom sink, I decided to go back out. But not until I debated whether to leave the Macy’s bag full of credit cards, cash and a gun in the room. The only thing keeping me from being robbed was an electronic lock opened by a plastic card. I took the bag with me.

Driving around, I made a mental list. I needed something to eat. None of that Chinese food had come my way. I needed some bottled water—I’d probably already gotten dysentery from the pipes at the corporate flophouse. I found a place called Meijer, which was huge, an aircraft hangar for food. I bought a loaf of bread, some deli meat, a small bottle of mayonnaise, a six pack of root beer, some bottled water, a large bottle of Tylenol, and a package of plastic silverware. At the last minute I threw some bran muffins in the cart for breakfast. They had a men’s section, so I bought another pack of underwear—I’d gotten separated from the last pack, some socks, T-shirts and a shirt with a collar. I had the feeling I was going to need it.

I’d take a couple hundred out of the shoebox, which was now in the trunk of the Escort, and paid with that. I had no idea when Charles Henderson’s card would tap out and I didn’t want to find out the hard way. Of course, I had a half dozen more credit cards, but I didn’t feel great about using them. Yeah, the cash was also probably ill-gotten, but at least it didn’t come with names attached.

On the way home from Meijer I drove by the Top Dog Collection offices. The police cars were gone except for one beige Crown Vic, as was Joanne’s body. A flatbed truck was pulling the Eldorado onto it’s flatbed. There was yellow crime tape attached to sticks stuck into cement blocks surrounding the area. A White guy and a Black woman in suits were carefully walking the area with flashlights. That told me something I’d already guessed: Joanne had been shot. They were looking for bullet casings. I kept driving, doing my best not to look conspicuous.

The clock on the dashboard said it was ten after eleven. I decided to take a drive by Cass’s house. Was it Cass’s house now? I remember the mortgage was over two grand a month. It might not be his house for long. Not unless Joanne had life insurance and somehow I found that unlikely. Obviously, I’d be giving him back his mother’s cash and he’d find his way to the Top Dawg accounts. But I doubted at seventeen he’d be making wise financial decisions. Would he make it through a year there? Two?

When I turned onto their street, I immediately saw there were a lot of cars parked nearby. Ten maybe. I slowed to get a good look at them. The old Belvedere was in the driveway where I’d parked it. Squeezed behind it was a brown Plymouth Voyager with a Clinton/Gore bumper sticker; that had to be Suzie Reilly. She’d mentioned the Voyager when we met. Also on the street were two black Cadillacs, both Sedan DeVilles and a blue Corvette with a big white strip down the center. As I continued down the street, a Chevy Suburban with blacked out windows and a white van drove by me—the same two vehicles I’d seen sitting outside Luca’s office building. I slowed and watched as they continued past the house and down the street.

I was curious so I circled the block. After walking through the neighborhood I was familiar with the streets. The houses were all similar to Joanne’s. The lots weren’t especially large, with the houses themselves taking up most of the space. People here didn’t bother much with fences. I’d been able to walk through several yards on my way to the 7-Eleven.

And then, there was the Suburban and the van again. We passed each other. I kept my head turned in the other direction, as though I was looking for something. At the end of the block, I put the blinker on to go left and then switched to the right. I turned right and drove away. Hopefully, they bought me as simply being lost and not someone scoping out the same property they were looking at.

By the time I got back to the flophouse, I was sure I knew who was in the Suburban. Feds. Luca was being watched by some branch of the Federal government. Probably the FBI. Though it could also be ATF or DEA.

I doubted it was the state of Michigan, though. The white van had to hold the kind of microphones and recording equipment you can aim at a building and hear what people are saying inside. That was expensive and required some expertise. Honestly, I didn’t know much about that kind of work except that was illegal for private investigators and not a great idea without a warrant. But the Feds never seemed to have much trouble getting warrants.

Back at the corporate flophouse, I took a shower which didn’t make me feel clean. Then I got into the bed and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. I must have slept, because I woke up thinking about a man I’d loved, Bert Harker. The anniversary of his death was coming up. The twenty-eighth. It would be fourteen years. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t been murdered, if he hadn’t been dying of AIDS, if he hadn’t sacrificed himself. Would we have stayed together? Would we still be together? Would it have been easier to lose him if our relationship had died a natural death?

He wasn’t the first man I’d loved, or even the first I’d lost. But he was the hardest loss. I wondered for a moment if that was why I was fighting so hard to keep my life together. Because I knew what loss was. Then I had to laugh at myself. These were the kinds of things you should never think about early in the morning in a disgusting hotel. I got out of bed and began my day, knowing it was going to be a long one.

I drove back to Livonia and got breakfast in an old-style diner called Two Brothers. It hadn’t been redecorated in three decades, which suited me just fine. I sat at the counter, and a waitress—who looked like she’d been working there since the place opened—brought over a coffee pot, flipped over the thick mug in front of me, and filled it all without offering me a menu.

“You want the special?”

I had no idea what it was, but decided to go with it. “Yeah, sure.”

“How do you want your eggs?”

“Over easy.”

“Bacon or sausage?”

“Bacon.”

A TV sat on a giant microwave. The Today show was playing, though the reception was poor. It wasn’t busy, so I asked, “You mind turning that up a little?”

She obviously minded but did it anyway. Katie Couric was interviewing Bette Midler about a movie she had coming out, First Wives Club . Ronnie was excited about it. He loved Bette Midler. I liked her music, but I wasn’t always sure about her as an actress. Instead of talking about the movie, Katie was asking about Bette’s marriage to a German guy.

The coffee was bad in just the right way: too strong; which I liked. Breakfast came quickly. French toast, hash browns, the eggs and bacon. Also bad but greasy enough to make up for it. I was pouring syrup on the toast when the local news came on. It was almost seven-thirty.

The news anchor, in heavy makeup and hairspray, began: “A local woman was gunned down in what police are calling a failed carjacking. Joanne Di Stefano was killed outside her place of employ. At this time, there are no suspects. Our hearts go out to her family. In other news…”

‘A failed carjacking’? What did that mean? Did they have security footage from the building? And if so, what did it show? The door to the Eldorado was open when we drove by. That suggests she was shot while trying to get into the car. Was her purse stolen? And why do they think the killer didn’t take the car?

Right away, I doubted it was carjacking. Cass and I had been going around asking questions for three days about a thirteen-year-old disappearance/murder. We’d stirred something up. It just made sense. Of course, the police had no idea what I’d been up to. At least, not yet.

On the TV, Matt Lauer was talking about Bob Dole’s ideas about getting tough on crime. An always popular issue to run on, but not one that ever gets solved. Clinton got the backing of the biggest police officers union, as if to counter the first story. And a new study showed that most people on welfare were White, lived in rural areas, and stayed on the program for less than a year. I was surprised that even got reported. It wasn’t what people wanted to hear and my guess was it would be forgotten pretty quickly. I paid my check and left. The TV was turned down before I got to the door.

Then I drove back to Hertz. I was probably being paranoid, but the Feds had seen the Escort. It looked a bit too much like a rental to be inconspicuous. That was the irony of inconspicuous vehicles. If you knew what to look for, they weren’t inconspicuous at all. They had a dark blue Thunderbird so I took it. I’d appreciate the extra room, at least.

When I left Hertz, I went right to the K-Mart Cass had taken me to. I had a feeling they’d have what I wanted in sporting goods. I needed a kit to clean the gun Cass had given me and some ammo. It was a bad idea to clean the gun and buy ammo. But here’s the thing: Guns are always a bad idea until they’re not. And then, at least half the time, they’re still a bad idea. Sometimes, though, bad ideas are all you have.

While I was there I picked up a hunting jacket with big pockets—the puffer vest I’d purchased just three days before was still in Cass’s junk room with some unused underwear and an orange sweatshirt. That didn’t matter, though, its pockets weren’t big enough. The jacket I bought was military green with zippered ten-inch pockets. I’d have a way to carry my bad idea around with me.

I stood still in the middle of the store and tried to think if I needed anything else. This was the third time I’d been in one of these giant stores in as many days. That wasn’t great.

On the way out I picked up a bottle of cologne, Aramis. The possibility of my ending up dead on this trip had been increasing. I thought I’d like to smell good for my autopsy.