Catch Me When I'm Falling Read online

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About Bywater

  This book is dedicated to Aretha Franklin, the Queen of Soul (1942-2018).

  She belonged to the world, but mostly to Detroit.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my Bywater Books family:

  Marianne K. Martin, Salem West, Ann McMan, Kelly Smith, Nancy Squires, and to Fay Jacobs and Elizabeth Andersen for the heavy lifting.

  Gratitude to my beta readers: Veronica Flaggs, AJ Head, and Lynne Blinkenberg.

  Much appreciation to Avalon International Breads, for your commitment to Detroit's well-being.

  And thanks, always, to Detroit for my roots, tenacity and swagger.

  “If you feel like lovin’ me, if you got the notion.”

  I Second That Emotion

  Smokey Robinson & The Miracles

  Written by William “Smokey” Robinson and Al Cleveland

  Motown Records

  1967

  Cast of Characters

  Charlene “Charlie” Mack

  Mack Investigations Principal;

  Former Homeland Security Agent

  Don Rutkowski

  Mack Investigations Partner; Former Police Officer;

  Former Homeland Security Trainer

  Gil Acosta

  Mack Investigations Partner; Attorney;

  Former Homeland Security Agent

  Judy Novak

  Office Manager, Mack Investigations

  Mandy Porter

  Grosse Pointe Park Police Officer; Charlie’s Girlfriend

  Ernestine Mack

  Charlie’s Mother; Former High School Principal

  Reggie McCandless

  Homeless Man; Former Seminarian

  Jordon Parker

  Social Worker at Neighborhood Service Organization (NSO)

  Captain Travers

  Detroit Police Department

  Bettina Waller

  Sex Worker

  Monctezuma “Monty” Valenzuela

  Leader of the L2D gang

  Detective Alonzo Scott

  Detroit Police Gang Unit

  Detective William Anderson

  Detroit Police Drug Unit

  Prologue

  Detroit, April 2006

  April was a precarious month in Detroit, offering the promise of an impending spring or the surprise of an ice storm. Palm Sunday was mild, and Carla walked several blocks to the bus that brought her near Saint Gabriel’s Catholic Church. She sat on a stoop to marvel at the pretty dresses worn by the little girls, and the tiny suits that made boys look like the men they would become. The line of worshippers entering the front doors brought a brief wave of nostalgia for her own childhood, a faint memory of family and home. She picked up a small piece of palm dropped by one of the children. Cradling it in her fingers, she crossed herself, then shuffled back to the bus stop. She retrieved her belongings from the shelter, then ate a meal of flavorless chicken with plain white rice and broccoli.

  Later, she drifted to sleep on a bench with dreams of pink dresses, stained glass, and steaming bowls of arroz con pollo in her head.

  Carla shifted on the hard surface, tugging her outer coat’s collar tighter to cover her exposed neck. She’d heard a sound. A clink and a snap. Another clink, like metal on metal when sharpening a knife, then a tinny snap. Sensing someone nearby, she opened an eye. On the next clink, there was a scratching sound followed by the telltale smell of lighter fluid. It was not yet morning, and a figure stood in silhouette near the streetlight. She watched a flame gyrate against the black clothes of someone she already considered her assailant. She pushed against the wood bench with her elbow to sit upright, the other hand instinctively reaching for the bag near her feet.

  As the lighter snapped closed, the figure was again shrouded in shadows, and her heart registered an irregular beat. The strains of a Spanish ballad sung by a wounded male lover floated toward her, and her mind flashed for a second to a distant memory of lost love. She heard the clink and snap again. She rolled onto her thick hip to lift herself from the bench, but the pressure of a hand on her shoulder pushed her back onto the seat.

  “Where are you going?” The man’s voice was soft, melodious, as if his words were a lullaby.

  He squatted next to the bench, smelling of garlic and reefer. Another clink-scratch was followed by a wave of intense heat, and she flinched. The flame illuminated both their faces. His eyes were dark and feral. As his face contorted in fear, he flung himself backward, scampering like a sand crab.

  “Bruja,” he hissed. “You witch.”

  The man ran to a dark-colored car at the curb, its wheels trimmed in blue lights. He flung open the door, assailing the night with plaintive lyrics until he closed himself in. The car sped away, and the squeal of the tires matched Carla’s scream.

  “Diablo,” she shrieked, fleeing the wooden bench. The plastic bag she carried was heavy with her life, her retreat thwarted by the weight of the clothes she wore. After walking several blocks north, she leaned against a concrete berm and reached into her bag. The last two swallows of dark liquid returned her heart to a duller pace, and she threw the empty bottle onto the gravel behind her. “Diablo,” she muttered again as she shuffled into the receding darkness of the Corridor.

  Chapter 1

  Charlie awoke to a familiar sound outside her window and slipped out of bed to stand at the floor-to-ceiling glass, watching a shipping barge glide through the silver waters of the Detroit River. The peach-hued sunrise colored the façade of a dozen modern high-rises on the Canadian side of the river. She observed the enormous vessel for a while, imagining that it carried mounds of sculpted steel, rows of windshield glass, gigantic towers of treaded rubber, engine and plastic components, perhaps even the shiny new finished products. She got back into bed, pulling her knees and covers up to her chest.

  People told her she had everything. This high-end building along the city’s expanding riverfront was supposed to be her nesting place—a symbol of her success and freedom from the expectations of others. But that had been before she knew there could be no space for nesting without Mandy.

  In two weeks, they would wake up together in a new home. Mandy’s excitement at the prospect of their shared life was contagious, and Charlie had begun to think her personal fulfillment could, finally, match her professional accomplishments. But she was also aware of her own subtle resistance. It had been building with tiny complaints, minute flashes of doubts, and the recasting of priorities. She had sabotaged her happiness before and didn’t want to repeat the mistake, so she had stopped by her mother’s apartment for a chat about the upcoming move.

  “How’s the packing going?” Ernestine had asked as they sat with cups of tea at the dining table.

  “I hate it.”

  “Hate’s a strong word.”

  Charlie scrunched her face in defense. “Mandy has us on a schedule. We’re rotating between our two houses. So far, we’ve packed up both living rooms and my kitchen. I hadn’t realized I’d accumulate
d so much.”

  “We all have a lot of stuff. A major life event like moving gives you an opportunity to sort, and purge, and organize.”

  Ernestine had always been an optimist. Even in the darkest or most stressful situations, she found a way to put a good face on things.

  “I remember watching you pack up Daddy’s office. It was a whole year after he died, and you were sitting on the carpet in front of his desk, in the middle of the night, putting things in boxes and crying.”

  “I never knew you saw that.” Ernestine cupped her mug of tea, and sipped a few times, while Charlie used her finger to make a series of circles on a napkin. John Mack, invited by their vivid memories, momentarily took his place again at the head of the table.

  “Clearing the home office was an act of closure for me. I kept a big box of things that felt important to me at the time. But, I also gave a lot away—his papers to the University of Michigan law library, photographs to your uncle, and other things to charity.”

  “I’m glad you kept Daddy’s desk for me. I love using it.”

  “He would be so proud of you, Charlene.”

  “I’m not so sure. He never appreciated whining, and Mandy says lately I’ve been doing nothing but.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  Charlie tilted her head, imagining Post-it notes on a whiteboard. It was her technique for solving the puzzles that presented themselves in her work as a private investigator. The green notes were the facts: She loved Mandy. She’d never been happier. She’d put her condominium on the market, and Mandy had sold her apartment. They had a house closing in two weeks and a deposit paid with a moving company. She then lined up a row of imaginary red notes—the questions. Would she lose her independence? Could Mandy really love her and accept her flaws? What if this new lifestyle wouldn’t make her happy?

  “You’re right. I am afraid,” she’d finally admitted to her mother.

  That admission had been a week ago, and she was still holding onto doubts. She’d always shunned the labels—lesbian, bisexual—and hadn’t made a choice because the lines were never sharply drawn. But Mandy presented a bright, clear line.

  She could continue her present life, punctuated by an emptiness she couldn’t explain, or she could embrace the chance for a whole life. Charlie again slipped out of bed and moved to her river view. Now the sun splashed the Windsor skyline in brazen hopefulness. “What’s wrong with you?” she said to her reflection in the window. “This is a no-brainer.”

  # # #

  The hardwood kitchen floor was covered with dishes, and Charlie had a stack of Mandy’s fancy dinner plates between her legs and a box next to her. She hollered toward the door: “Will you please bring me more newspaper?”

  “Why are you sitting down there?” Mandy asked, stepping into the kitchen.

  “It’s easier this way. I wrap and pack the plates on the floor. That way I don’t have to lift the heavy box from the table.”

  “There’s a weird logic to that.”

  “You’ll find I’m an out-of-the-box thinker, my dear.”

  “Right now, I’m more interested in what you put in the box. Here’s your newspaper; keep going. We still have all the pots and pans to pack.”

  Charlie had agreed to Mandy’s packing schedule so they’d be ready in two weeks for their move into their forever home. The house search hadn’t taken long because their wish list had been practical. They needed three or four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a backyard for cookouts, a two-car garage, a full basement—which didn’t need to be finished—and they were both willing to do up-grades to a “fixer-upper.” The biggest discussion came around location. Charlie lived downtown, and Mandy’s apartment was close to Grosse Pointe Park where she served on the police force. They wanted a place that would be convenient to both their jobs. After a few weekends of showings with their agent they’d settled on a modest brick home in the Berry Subdivision off of East Jefferson. Their mortgage settlement was scheduled for next Wednesday, a week from today.

  “Where’d you get these nice Wedgwood dishes, anyway?” Charlie asked.

  “They were my grandmother’s. I think I’ve used them maybe twice in five years. I’m looking forward to having a basement where I can tuck these dishes and the other things I have in my storage unit.”

  “You have more things in storage? That’s not on the packing schedule.”

  “I’m not emptying the unit until after we move. It’s mostly things from my brother, a treadmill, a couple of bicycles, some athletic gear.”

  “I hate packing and I hate moving,” Charlie blurted.

  “The only way we can live together is to pack and move.”

  “But couldn’t we hire people to pack?”

  “I researched it. We’ll pay another eight hundred to a thousand dollars to have people pack up two houses.”

  “Okay, okay, that’s a lot of money. Mom would call it pound-foolish. By the way, she called today. She sends her love.”

  “How is Ernestine?”

  “She says she’s fine. Wants to talk to me about something, though, so I’m going over to her place in the morning. It sounds a bit mysterious.”

  “You need me to come along?”

  “No. I’ll just pop over before I go into the office. Things are slow right now.”

  “Didn’t you say Judy offered to help you pack?”

  “That’s not in her job description.”

  “She wouldn’t offer if she didn’t mean it, and if there’s not much going on at work . . .”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “If we were really smart we’d have put Judy in charge of the entire move.”

  Charlie laughed. “You’re right. Can you imagine her with the moving guys? There would be floor plans, inventory lists on the boxes, and she’d map out the most efficient route for the moving trucks to travel.”

  “And Don and Gil? How are they?”

  “The partners are good. Gil’s still dating the woman he met at his sister’s birthday party last summer. Don’s thinking about taking Rita and Rudy on a vacation. Oh, and everyone’s looking forward to our open house.”

  “Well, I’ll be happy to welcome them to our new home, but first we need to make it through the closing, finish packing, and survive moving day,” Mandy said, counting off the activities with three fingers.

  “Stop. You’re killing me.”

  “I’m opening a bottle of Malbec to mellow you out.”

  “I love you, you know.”

  “Enough to keep packing?”

  “Point taken.”

  # # #

  Ernestine Mack had used her college summers to register voters in the deep South, and had made Charlie’s father wait a year—while she completed her education degree—before becoming engaged. After college and marriage she’d worked many years as a teacher and served thirty years as a respected high school principal. But a few years ago, a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer’s had challenged her cherished individuality, and she’d made the decision to move into an independent-living complex. The arrangement gave her a modicum of self-sufficiency, with the benefit of a support network. This morning, sitting across the dining-room table from her only child, she arranged books, file folders and a stack of newspapers.

  “I’m getting another cup of coffee,” Charlie said. “You want one?”

  “I still have half a cup, but you can bring me another biscotti, please.”

  The two settled again, and Ernestine opened one of the folders. “I want to show you something.” She placed three newspaper clippings in front of Charlie. “Read these.”

  Ernestine dipped a chocolate biscotti into her coffee, bit off a chunk and watched her daughter read. The five minutes of silence ended with Charlie wearing a puzzled look.

  Ernestine stared back with anticipation. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. The Detroit Free Press and the Michigan Chronicle have reported three bodies were found in the Cass Corridor.” />
  “It’s actually just two bodies. See the date on the Chronicle story. That’s another story about the second body the police found.”

  Charlie looked at the clippings again and nodded. “I see it now. Two weeks ago. Both bodies were burned.”

  “The second man was Eddie.”

  “Who?”

  “Eddie Rodriguez. Remember, he took care of me when I was lost downtown? He gave me his coat to wear.”

  “Oh, right. Eddie. And who was the other guy who helped you? Uh, Reggie something.”

  “Reginald McCandless. I took them both to dinner a couple of times after that.”

  Charlie still felt guilty about that night. A case in Birmingham, Alabama, had kept her from the outing she and her mother had planned. When Ernestine had ventured out alone, she was accosted by two robbers who stole her purse and credit cards, drove her to a desolate part of town, and put her out on the streets. Two homeless men had kept her mother safe that night.

  “How do you know one of the dead men is Eddie?”

  “Reggie told me. He called last week.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mom. I remember Eddie now. You quoted him in that opinion piece you wrote for the Free Press about the homeless population.”

  “Reggie said more people have been burned to death down in that area.”

  “Really?”

  “I did some research, and those news articles were the only things I could find, but Reggie swears there have been more street people killed. So I want to ask a favor.”

  “What’s that?” Charlie took a bite of biscotti and a sip of coffee.

  “Would you investigate these murders to see if he’s right?”

  Chapter 2