Warn Me When It's Time Read online

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  Charlie Mack Mysteries

  Copyright

  About Bywater

  In you I put

  All my faith and trust

  Right before my eyes

  My world has turned to dust.

  “Reflections”

  Written by Eddie Holland, Lamont Dozier, Brian Holland

  Performed by Diana Ross & the Supremes, 1967

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my Bywater Books family: Marianne K. Martin, Salem West, Ann McMan, Kelly Smith, Nancy Squires, Stefani Deoul—and to editors Fay Jacobs and Elizabeth Andersen for all the heavy lifting. Elizabeth, thanks for keeping me on the queer and narrow. Fay, thanks for all the good questions about character emotions and pacing.

  Gratitude to my beta readers: AJ Head, Lynne Blinkenberg, Teresa Rankin and Veronica Flaggs; and to The Writers Writing Group.

  Thanks to Teresa Scott Rankin for love, support, and encouragement. Also, ear rubs to Abby and Frisby Rankin for being part of a writer’s life.

  Continuous thanks to Detroit for my roots, tenacity, and swagger.

  Thank you to E.A. Kafkalas and her dog, Allie, who won the 2020 “What does Hamm Look Like” contest. Allie won out of forty competitors, and is the inspiration for Hamm (short for M.C. Hammer), Charlie and Mandy’s dog. I love Allie’s face, and could see it as I wrote.

  See it here: www.cherylhead.com/blog/canine-contest-winners/

  Cast of Characters

  Charlene “Charlie” Mack

  Mack Investigations Principal; former Homeland Security Agent

  Don Rutkowski

  Mack Investigations Partner; former police officer and Homeland Security Trainer

  Judy Novak

  Mack Investigations Associate Partner

  Mandy Porter

  Grosse Pointe Park police officer; Charlie’s girlfriend

  Ernestine Mack

  Charlie’s mother

  James Hasani Saleh

  Agent, FBI Detroit Field Office

  Gabriel Constantine

  Ernestine’s new boyfriend

  Pashia Family

  Hassan Pashia, Kamal Pashia, Amina Akhbar Pashia, Jawaria Pashia

  The Turks

  Robert Barrett, Frank Wyatt, Walthrop Croft, Chuck C., Tom Cortez

  Hate Crimes Task Force:

  Commander Yvonne Coleman (DPD)

  Lt. Barry Kerner, Dearborn Police

  John Rappon, Oakland County Police Chief

  FBI Agents

  Agent Kapinski (K)

  Agent Riley

  Agent Elizabeth Garrow

  Prologue

  Dearborn, Michigan

  2009

  “Shit,” Robbie said, stumbling on the stairs. “Can’t we turn on the goddamn lights?”

  “Of course not, you idiot. You want somebody to see us?”

  “There’s nobody here. The old man left. I told you that.”

  “Let’s just do the job and get the hell out of here. Give me the wire and the detonator.”

  Frank hated working with the young guys. They asked too many questions, made too much noise, and required too many atta boys at the end of the job.

  “You do the paint in that room over there,” Frank said, pointing. “That’s where they pray.”

  “You sure you know what the hell you’re doing with that stuff, Frank?”

  “Are we gonna talk about this again? I’m not a newbie like you. I’ve done this before.”

  Robbie watched Frank lift the spool of wire in one hand and a canvas bag in the other and trudge up the hall breathing heavily. He could smell Frank’s body odor. What he disliked most about this group was they all acted like cowboys. They called themselves “White Turks” but they were mostly a bunch of soft, middle-aged guys with bones to pick about keeping their guns and their stupid flags. They need more young guys like me who know technology. That’s where the real work is, and it’s the key to recruitment. Like those European guys are doing.

  Twenty minutes later, the two exited the mosque from the side door, hugging the shadows of the building until they reached the front entrance and stopped. They listened for shouts, alarms, or barking dogs and then split up as planned. Frank headed to his van in the strip mall a block away, and Robbie moved to the bus shelter where his bike was locked to the signpost.

  Riding a bike kept him in shape. It was also his opinion that a guy on a bike drew little or no attention. As he pedaled past the mosque he glanced back at the square facade.

  A lot of the homes in this community were owned by Asians and even a few Mexicans who made their money working housing construction. Recently, Muslims had overrun the neighborhood. He wondered how the white residents could stand those loudspeakers blaring each day. Shit. Why can’t these towel heads just use bells, and pray on Sunday like everybody else?

  Last week, Robbie had posted in his private online group how happy he was with this initiation assignment. “If we put a scare into these people, maybe they’ll think twice before coming to our country to take our jobs. I’m tired of competing with all these browns and blacks just to get an entry-level position. If you come to this country, try and be an American. And if you can’t do that, get the hell out.”

  He’d gotten over a hundred “likes” for that post.

  Robbie laughed out loud thinking about tonight’s tagging job. I gave them some good old English words to stare at while they’re down on their knees. Fuck them, and their weird-looking language.

  He steered his bike onto Ford Road, staying in the curb lane for his forty-minute ride home. It would be a decent workout—especially if he did some sprints. When he got home, he’d do some online study. Those soft guys just drink beer and do a whole lot of talking. They don’t study. How you gonna beat back the tide of illegals and mongrels if you don’t put in the work?

  # # #

  Hassan Pashia had just reached his freeway exit when the security monitoring company called to report a silent alarm. It was the third time this month.

  I bet I forgot to close the inner door again.

  It took him thirty-five minutes to get back to the mosque, and he pulled his car up to the side door and left the car running. It’ll only take a moment to secure the double doors and reset the alarm.

  He stopped short at the sight of the side door standing ajar. He stepped inside, flipped on the light, and paused. He heard no noise. He moved along the marble floor, passing the office and several classrooms, including the one he’d been teaching in only ninety minutes ago. He’d noticed a dim glow in the office, but there was a brilliant light coming from the prayer room. The illumination cre
ated a triangle on the floor at the end of the hallway. Something’s wrong. He pulled out his mobile phone and pushed the number that connected him to the alarm company.

  “This is Mr. Pashia. I’ve returned to the building. It looks like maybe there’s been a break-in.”

  “Are you okay?” the female voice at the call center asked.

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Has anything been taken? Is there any damage?” she asked.

  “Hold on a minute. I’ll see.”

  “Uh, Mr. Pashia. Do you want to wait until the police arrive?”

  “No. I’ll be okay. Everything’s quiet. I want to take a look.”

  Hassan stood in the center of the prayer room. Whoever had applied the thick black paint on the walls and mihrab wasn’t a great speller and may, in fact, have been dyslexic. He had seen this kind of vulgar language painted on the exterior walls, and once on a couple of cars in the lot. This was the first time someone had dared to defile the interior of the masjid.

  “Yes, there is damage. Please call the police. We’ve had extensive damage, I’m afraid.”

  While he waited for the police to arrive, Hassan checked the other common areas of the mosque. The ablution area was untouched, but the carpet was streaked with the same shiny black paint defacing the walls. He remembered the light in the office and retraced his steps. He peered through the window of the closed door. The glow seemed to come from a washroom in the rear. He knew the police would prefer the room remain undisturbed, but the office was where the mosque’s audiovisual equipment was stored. If anything was missing, Hassan wanted to know before calling the imam.

  He touched the doorknob, and it turned in his hand. He moved only a single step before he was overwhelmed by a tremendous roar. The force of the explosion propelled Hassan into the hallway. His head smashing against the marble wall was abrupt—only momentarily painful. He saw a flash of white light; then everything went black.

  Chapter 1

  “Ms. Mack, you have a call holding on line one,” Tamela said, sticking her head in the conference room.

  Charlie signaled to Judy they’d take a break from compiling the report for the executive office of the governor. She answered the call using the speakerphone.

  “This is Charlene Mack. May I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Mack. I don’t know if you’ll remember me. This is Kamal Pashia. I met you when you were a teacher at the ACCESS center.”

  Charlie hesitated. It had been six years since she spent time in Dearborn’s Arab Community Center for Economic and Social Services. First as a volunteer, and later as an undercover agent with the Department of Homeland Security. She didn’t remember Kamal but that wasn’t unusual. She’d taught three self-defense classes each week for almost six months, which meant eighty to a hundred kids.

  “I was the short kid who always wore the green Converse sneakers.”

  “Sure. How are you doing now, Kamal?”

  “Not so good really, Ms. Mack. I have my sister on the phone and we want to hire you as a private investigator.”

  “Oh?” Charlie gestured for Judy to take notes. “What kind of investigation do you need?”

  Muffled voices came through the speakerphone. The rapid exchange sounded like a disagreement. There was an insistent voice followed by the noise of the phone being shuffled. Charlie and Judy glanced at each other, then stared at the phone. They waited.

  “Uh, this is Amina Pashia Akbar. I’m Kamal’s older sister,” the clear voice said. “Did you read about the bombing of the Central Mosque last month?”

  Charlie paused to remember. There had been a half-dozen newspaper reports of church, temple, and mosque vandalism in the Detroit metropolitan area in the last three months. A series of crimes that had strained the resources of law enforcement and prompted the formation of a multi-jurisdictional task force. Most of the incidents had caused property damage, but one event, a fire inside a mosque, had resulted in a man’s death.

  “Yes. If I remember correctly, a man was killed,” Charlie said. “A teacher.”

  “That was our father.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Charlie said looking at Judy. “My condolences.”

  “Thank you. As my brother said, we need your help. We want you to find my father’s murderer.”

  “The police are already focusing on that, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but there’s been no progress in almost a month. That’s why we’re calling you.”

  # # #

  “You’re taking the case?” Mandy asked, standing at the ironing board. She wore her uniform trousers and a turquoise bra. Under the admiring eye of Charlie, she pressed the wrinkles out of the collar of her khaki shirt.

  “I don’t know yet. We’re going out to Farmington Hills to meet the family this morning. I’m taking Judy and Don.”

  “You’re taking Don?” Mandy asked, with raised eyebrows.

  Charlie chuckled. “He’ll be okay. Did I ever tell you about Don’s change of heart regarding Arab-Americans?”

  Mandy squinted. “Something about a young Muslim guy helping Rudy?”

  “That’s right. I did tell you. Well, he’s come a long way since our days at DHS. He’s still suspicious. He’s suspicious of everyone, but he’s not so . . .”

  “Racist?” Mandy asked.

  Charlie flinched. “I was going to say not so reactionary anymore.”

  Charlie and Don were good friends and confidantes, and she spent a lot of time defending him to others. His Archie Bunker tendencies had been softened by his wife, Rita, and son, Rudy, but he was still evolving on issues of diversity and tolerance.

  Charlie and Mandy were in the upstairs laundry room they’d added to their east-side home. It hadn’t initially been a planned upgrade to the house, but daily routine had made it a priority. Mandy was a police officer and paid to have her uniform slacks laundered, but she preferred to wash and iron her own shirts, and Charlie’s daily workouts meant a wash load of exercise togs every few days. Then there was Hamm. Neither of them had imagined how much laundry comes with having a long-haired pooch. His three doggy beds, assorted towels, and dozen chew ropes always needed laundering. Hamm was sprawled on the floor between the ironing board and Charlie’s seat. He looked up as if he could read her mind. She reached down to rub his ears.

  “I’m also going to visit Mom this afternoon for a couple of hours,” Charlie said.

  “Oh? When’d you decide that?”

  “I got a text from Gloria while you were in the shower. She looked in on Mom this morning, and had some concerns about the state of her apartment. She said clothes and newspapers were piled up on the floor, and she’s never seen it so disorderly.”

  Mandy stopped ironing and turned to Charlie. “That doesn’t sound at all like Ernestine. We were just there two weeks ago, and things were in good order.”

  “I know,” Charlie said, fighting off a twinge of guilt. “I’ll go see her after the meeting with the Pashia family.

  Mandy wanted to reach out and hold Charlie. She wanted to insist on going with her to visit Ernestine, but decided not to suggest it. During the first few years of their relationship, the topic of Charlie’s mom’s care had provided ongoing tension. Ernestine was a proud and independent woman, a retired school principal, with a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer’s. She wanted to be in charge of her life for as long as she could, and had refused Charlie’s offers of help. Mandy had, up to now, sided with Ernestine. This morning’s call from Ernestine’s independent-living facility might mean it was time to reassess her living arrangements. It would be a hard decision that Charlie and her mom would make together.

  “You know there are a lot more of these hate crimes than the papers are reporting,” Mandy said, changing the difficult subject. “In the past month our department has investigated three different reports of vandalism at places of worship—graffiti on two African-American churches, and someone breaking windows at a synagogue.”

  “These c
razy incidents seem to be happening more often. It’s almost like the backlash we saw after 9/11,” Charlie said.

  “I think it’s exactly like that, but these new hate groups go way beyond a focus on Muslims. They’re angry about a lot of things: immigrants, minorities, liberals. And you know the key thing that’s triggered the rise of these groups?” Mandy asked.

  Charlie did know.

  In January, a Black president had moved into the White House, giving every hidden bigot a reason to rise up from underground. Charlie prided herself on her ability to understand human nature—including its darker side. But this resurgence of race and ethnic hatred saddened her. As a Black woman it was extremely frightening. She rubbed Hamm’s head again, and he stood for more attention.

  “You think we’ll ever be a post-racial society?” Mandy asked.

  “No. At least not any time soon. Mr. Pashia’s daughter told me she doesn’t think the police are doing enough to solve her father’s murder because they’re Muslim.”

  “I hope she’s not right,” Mandy said, finishing the crease on her shirt and holding it up for inspection.

  “James Saleh is on the hate crimes task force,” Charlie said. “He called a few weeks ago to discuss who from Homeland Security would be a good representative. You remember James?”

  “Of course I do. I make it my business to remember anybody who has ever tried to protect you. I take it he’s still with the FBI?”

  “Yes, and he’s been promoted.”

  “Good for him.”

  “The people on this task force know what they’re doing. I know a few of them. So, we’ll go meet with the family and hear their concerns. I think we’ll probably just end up assuring them that the police are doing everything they can.”

  “That sounds right,” Mandy said, donning her shirt.

  “But there is one interesting element in this case,” Charlie said. “The news reports said Mr. Pashia died in a fire, but the fire was actually the result of an explosion.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize that,” Mandy said. “That’s a big step up from graffiti.”