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  “This is a high-profile case, as you know. Our goal is to work cooperatively with you and Mr. Rutkowski. We have the same interest. We just want to locate Rogers.”

  “I want that too. I don’t know why he ran, but whatever his reason I know he didn’t commit this crime. That’s where our interests diverge.”

  “We understand,” Travers said. “But Fairchild’s father has strong political connections in Detroit. I’ve heard from the chief, and he’s heard from the mayor and the governor. We’re following the evidence. If you bring us new leads, we’ll investigate them. Isn’t that correct, Wallace?”

  “Yes sir,” Wallace said dutifully.

  They departed police headquarters after Charlie promised to call if she heard from Franklin.

  # # #

  Charlie and Judy sat for a moment in the deep circular driveway of the home of Pamela Fairchild Rogers. Or, rather, small brick mansion. There had been snow earlier in the week, but there was no sign of it on the landscaping. The lawn was dormant but still well maintained, and the house was surrounded by mature trees. Judy identified them as evergreens, flowering trees, plus maple and oak. Charlie counted six large windows across the front divided by a massive space for what might be a two-level fireplace. Unlike other homes on the block, the Fairchilds’ entrance was behind a wrought-iron fence leading to the side of the residence. Charlie rang the bell. A buzzer sounded, and the gate disengaged from the lock.

  “Nice place,” Judy whispered as they walked a cobbled path to an eight-foot portico.

  A gray-haired butler opened the door. Standing next to him was a thin blonde with a worried face. She looked about thirty. Maybe younger. She wore turquoise lounging pants under a matching silk tunic. She would not have been out of place in Vogue. Charlie’s three-hundred-dollar business suit suddenly felt like an outfit for grocery shopping.

  “You must be Charlie,” Pamela said with a half-smile and an extension of her hand. Her flawless makeup couldn’t cover her stress or the redness in her eyes. Charlie shook Pamela’s hand and introduced Judy.

  The butler took their coats. He was old. The weight of their outer garments made him slouch more than he already did. Pamela led them into a sitting room at the front of the house where the six draped windows—three on each side—flanked the fireplace Charlie had noticed from outside. Pamela pointed to a sofa, then took a seat in a modern cushioned chair with a tall back. “Would you like a fire? This room can get very cold.”

  “That would be nice,” Charlie said, scanning the room. “You have a beautiful place.”

  “Thank you. I grew up in this house,” Pamela said, aiming a remote at the fireplace, which with a flick of a button set the hearth ablaze.

  She noticed Charlie’s puzzled look and explained. “I had the fireplaces converted to gas before Franklin and I moved in.” Remembering her situation, a shadow touched her face.

  “I’m very sorry we have to meet under these circumstances,” Charlie said. “First of all, have you heard from Franklin?”

  “No, I haven’t. He always checks in with me. Always. I’m so worried.”

  Judy took out a notebook. “I hope you don’t mind my taking notes.”

  Pamela’s quizzical look at Judy was the kind she might give a maître d’ who was taking too long to escort her to a table. “You’re Charlie’s assistant?”

  “Actually, she’s a new partner in my firm,” Charlie intercepted.

  Both Pamela and Judy looked at Charlie with surprised faces.

  The ancient butler entered the room, struggling to balance a tray of tea. Pamela gave a disapproving scowl when, without permission, Judy pounced from the couch to help him pour and serve the tea. Charlie used the opportunity to take a long look around the parlor, and was aware of Pamela eyeing her.

  The wallpaper, oak wainscoting, and leaded windows were blue blood, but the room had been updated with other modern touches besides the gas fireplace. Recessed lights nestled in the ceiling, the rugs sported contemporary designs, and the furnishings had clean lines. It was a bright, cheery room. Charlie could see Franklin’s touches in the artwork and plants.

  “Is there anything else, ma’am?” the butler asked.

  “No, thank you, Case. You can go,” Pamela answered without looking up at the man.

  Charlie glanced at Judy who stared at Pamela with a grimace and wide-eyed judgment. Charlie dropped a cube of sugar into her tea and stirred. Judy finally followed suit.

  “The tea is delicious,” Charlie said, meaning it, but ready to get back to the work. “Pamela, please take me through Wednesday. Tell me everything that happened.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Start with the morning. How was Franklin when he got up?”

  Pamela looked confused, which quickly changed to annoyed. “How will knowing that help you find Franklin?”

  Charlie gently placed her teacup into the saucer and took a deep breath. She tried to remember Pamela was grieving and probably in shock.

  “Sometimes there are small details, things that don’t seem important at all that can help. The police will probably ask you the same questions at some point. Have they asked to meet with you yet?”

  “They called this morning.”

  Pamela sighed, and began to talk. Wednesday had been an average day. Franklin had gone to work early. She had a hair appointment, and then a meeting with the executives of one of the charities she sponsored. Franklin had come home at five and changed clothes before going out an hour later to meet Peter. She’d invited a couple of college roommates in for a dinner of salads and wine and gossip. Her friends left about nine o’clock. When she hadn’t heard from Franklin by ten, she’d called his mobile phone. When he didn’t answer she called her brother. She’d asked the attendant at the front desk to check Peter’s apartment, and he’d discovered the murder scene and called police.

  “The police say a witness saw Franklin leave the apartment. Is that the front-desk security guard?” Judy asked.

  “I believe so,” Pamela responded.

  “Did Franklin and Peter normally go out for drinks?”

  “No. They didn’t. Franklin called me here around 3 p.m. to say Peter wanted to meet him to discuss a business opportunity. I guess Peter knew better than to call me again with one of his fast-talking schemes.”

  “Oh?” Charlie raised an eyebrow.

  “You might as well know my brother was . . . he was never able to make anything of himself. He had all the opportunities one could have,” Pamela made a slight gesture to take in their surroundings, “but he failed at everything—school, a job abroad Daddy got for him, the business he started, even his marriage. My parents were always bailing him out of trouble. Since they moved to Florida, it’s been me dealing with his never-ending problems.”

  Pamela ended the condemning speech out of breath and red-faced. She reached for her tea with a shaking hand and took a sip. Charlie glanced at Judy, who was scribbling rapidly.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that Peter’s been such a disappointment. The family’s black sheep.”

  Judy stopped writing. Charlie took another sip of tea to signal a white flag for Judy. It didn’t occur to Pamela that her words might be inappropriate. In fact, Charlie realized that with Pamela’s sheep, and her own flag reference, a lot of black-and-white metaphor was at play in this elegant sitting room. Keeping it going, she made a mental note that she didn’t really care for Franklin’s new, white, wife.

  “Would you describe your relationship with your brother as strained?” Charlie asked.

  “He was two years older than me, but I was the one who looked after him. He always had a lot of questionable people around him. People he’d meet God knows where,” Pamela said, disgusted.

  “So, let’s go back to Wednesday. The day he died. How did you find out? Did the security guard call you?”

  “No.” Pamela described the visit she’d received from the police late Wednesday evening. They had informed her of her br
other’s death and announced they were looking for Franklin. They had searched the house. They asked about Franklin’s gun, and she showed them the safe in the den where it was kept. The safe, door open, contained papers and ammunition. They had taken Franklin’s laptop and his extra set of car keys.

  “Did the police have a search warrant?” Charlie asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Pamela said. “I was so distraught I just answered their questions. I gave them permission to take Franklin’s things. It wasn’t until the police were about to leave that I realized they thought Franklin had killed Peter.”

  “That’s exactly what they think,” Charlie said. “My other partner and I met with them this afternoon.” Charlie looked at her notes. “Was Franklin in the habit of carrying his gun?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. He said it was to protect the house. I never really looked inside his safe.”

  “When was the last time you saw the gun?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a few months ago. Franklin showed it to a guy from our insurance company. They were assessing our security measures. We have a lot of valuable pieces in the house.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Charlie said. “May I see where the gun is kept?”

  Pamela bypassed the grand staircase across from the entrance and took them up a narrow flight of steps off the corridor between the large formal dining room and the kitchen. Charlie decided that in the home’s heyday the stairs might have led to the servants’ quarters.

  The vibe and style of the den was all Franklin. Charlie recognized a few of his favorite paintings, including, on the desk, a framed picture of him on a fishing trip with his father. His fishing rod was mounted on one wall, and the heavy bronze iguana Franklin had insisted on buying during their Mexican honeymoon was atop a pile of folders on the corner table.

  “The safe is here,” Pamela said, shoving aside a tapestry hanging from a pole. “That’s where he always kept the gun. Our bedroom is just through there,” she said, pointing to an adjoining door.

  “Do you have the combination?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes. I do.”

  Pamela opened a wood box on the desk and lifted a small card. She stared at the card for a few seconds, then turned to the wall to manipulate the dial. She opened the safe and stepped aside. The safe contained a few papers, a brown banker’s folder, a small metal box, and an opened box of ammunition for a nine-millimeter pistol.

  “Did the police take anything else from the safe?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Does anyone else have the combination?” Judy thought to ask.

  “This safe has been here since the house was built and has never been changed out. We never really used this room. It was for our . . . uh, the nanny. I guess my parents and brother might know the combination.”

  They returned to the parlor but didn’t sit. The tea service had been removed. Pamela’s parents were returning to Detroit on Saturday to complete the arrangements for the funeral, which would be held in a week. Charlie asked for, and received, a recent photo of Peter, then arranged for Judy to return to the house to ask questions of Pamela’s parents.

  “I’m sure my father would prefer to meet with you, Charlie,” Pamela said. “No offense, Ms. Novak. It’s just that Daddy’s used to dealing with the person at the top.”

  “I’ll be sure to come by on Monday,” Charlie said, “to give you and your parents a report on our activity. Until then it’s a better use of my time to be in the field looking for Franklin and gathering the evidence that proves his innocence.”

  “Of course. That makes sense,” Pamela said. She was now sniffing and wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief that matched the color of her outfit.

  “Has Franklin called you?” Pamela asked, staring at Charlie.

  “No. But I called his cell phone this morning. It went directly to voicemail. I left a message.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you soon,” Judy said sympathetically.

  Pamela acknowledged the good wish with a nod. “I hope Franklin won’t be angry that I got you involved.”

  “We can’t worry about that now,” Charlie said. “What’s important is that we find him.”

  Pamela dabbed at more tears. Charlie didn’t think it was a good time to share her worst fear about Franklin’s incommunicado status.

  # # #

  Don walked into the Lenore in Greektown at 4:30 p.m. Two patrons were at the bar, nursing drinks and watching a PGA tournament. Phil Mickelson was on top of the leaderboard. A back room was being used for a training of some sort. Don sat on the stool farthest away from the TV. He removed his trench coat and pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket, laying it on the counter.

  The bartender wiped glasses, but had kept an eye on Don from the moment he stepped into the dim sports bar. “Get something for you?” she asked, discarding her polishing rag and moving to Don’s end of the bar. Don saw her eyes click to the notebook for a second before settling on his face.

  “A beer and some information,” Don said with a smile.

  “Draft?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Light?”

  “Hell no.”

  The bartender, with a nametag reading Marti, returned with the cold glass, placed a coaster under the beer, then waited. Don took a sip of beer, swiped at the foam on his lip, then retrieved the photo of Peter that Charlie had brought back to the office. He pushed it toward Marti with the tips of his fingers.

  “Did you see this guy yesterday?”

  “Yep. I already told the police what I know.”

  “I’m not the police,” Don said.

  “Are you a reporter?” Marti asked, looking at the notebook.

  “No. A private investigator. The man’s family hired me to help the police find his murderer.”

  “The police told me the guy he was with, the brother-in-law, is the murderer. That’s what the papers say too,” Marti said, crossing her arms.

  “The family doesn’t think so.”

  “Good. Neither do I.”

  “Why do you say that?” Don flipped the notebook open to a clean page.

  “That Peter guy is in here all the time, and always causing trouble. Pissing off some jealous boyfriend, or claiming the server brought the wrong order, or spilling his drink on somebody. There’s been at least three times I’ve cut off his drinks because he was smashed.”

  “What about the other guy, the brother-in-law? Was he drunk Wednesday night?”

  “No. He had a mixed drink and then a beer. The Peter guy had four mixed drinks, one right after another.” Marti looked at the photograph again. “After that guy began shoving somebody who bumped into him, the brother-in-law, what’s his name, Rogers? He stepped in to break it up. Paid for the tab and told me he was driving the drunkard home.”

  Don picked up the photo and laid a five on the bar. “Okay. Thanks.” Don gathered his coat from the seat next to him.

  “I hate to hear of anyone dying, but this guy was asking for it, one way or the other,” Marti said, giving Don a bartender-wisdom head shake. She grabbed a cloth from below the bar and began polishing the hell out of a tumbler.

  Don’s next stop was Peter’s apartment. It was in a downtown industrial building converted into lofts, only a short drive from Greektown. Don parked on Gratiot across the street from the Crowley Lofts and leaned against his car. He watched a few drivers use a fob to open the sliding gate for entry to the parking lot. There was a small camera on the corner of the building pointed at the driveway, and two more mounted cameras aimed at the parking lot. Next to the vehicle gate was a pedestrian outstation with a button and an intercom. Don scanned the area, noting the trash-strewn street, the makeshift homeless squats, and the nearby boarded-up storefronts. He double-pumped the car alarm and walked across the street. His push on the entry button was followed by a grumpy male voice: “Help you?”

  “I’m here to see the Fairchild apa
rtment. Detective Wallace said he would add my name to the list,” Don said, leaning into the speaker.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rutkowski.”

  “How you spell that?” This time Don noticed an accent.

  “R-U-T-K—,” Don didn’t get any further before the buzzer sounded and he stepped through the gate.

  The security guy wore a wrinkled white shirt and a stained black tie. His jacket, with his name tag, was slung on the back of the chair. He was probably in his late thirties. Now that Don was standing across from the guard, the man’s accent was even more pronounced. Maybe Jamaican, or African, or something like that, Don thought. He was no style guru, and he certainly didn’t begrudge a man having a second job, but he always judged a place by its front desk. Don graded this building a D-minus.

  “Do you have the video for the security cameras?” Don asked the guard.

  “The manager gave it to the police,” the grouchy guard replied. “Here’s the key. The unit is on the second floor.”

  “What’s the number?”

  “There’s only one unit on that floor.”

  Don lifted his notebook from his inside jacket pocket. “Could you spell your name for me?”

  The man squinted at Don. Don stared back unblinking. The man spelled his name, and Don wrote it in the notebook.

  “Thank you. Second floor. Which way is the elevator?”

  The man pointed with his thumb beyond the brick wall behind him.

  There were two elevators, but the floor lights were illuminated on only one. Don noted seven floors. A door marked with the stairs icon was on the opposite wall. The elevator opened revealing an oversized space that could also be used for freight. Don pushed the button marked 2, and waited as the doors closed very slowly, and the ascent started with a jerk. It stopped and opened onto a shallow foyer and a formidable door. A fluorescent light flickered in the foyer. Don saw a small security camera mounted high on the wall. He inserted the key into the door’s lock and pushed it open, scanning the areas he could see from where he stood and listening for any noise before he stepped in. Dusk had taken hold. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows shone twinkling streetlights, apartments, and offices. In the southeast corner was a view of the RenCen.