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Authors: Cheryl A Head

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Chapter 10

The suburban house owned by Joyce Stringer was southeast of Birmingham's central city in a community called Forest Park. The area was impressive, economic leaps and bounds from North Birmingham. The streets and sidewalks were wide, mature trees near the curbs added shade to the neighborhood and houses of all styles and sizes had expansive, well-kept lawns and deep driveways. There were few pedestrians, but a couple of women pushed baby strollers and the mail carrier was making his rounds.

“Nice houses,” Don said.

“The one we're looking for should be on the left side of the street toward the end of the block. The number is 719. There it is.” Charlie pointed.

The house was a white bungalow with pale blue shutters and a matching front door. A burgundy Acura was in the driveway. Don slowed, but did not stop. At the end of the block, he made a three-point turn and passed the house again. Charlie took a couple of photographs with the phone Judy had bought for her. The postman noticed their slow driving and the U-turn and paused to look at the pair. Don continued down the block to connect to the 31 highway.

“You get a picture?”

“I think so. I've only used the camera one time when Judy tutored me. I'll have to call her so she can walk me through how to transfer the photo to my laptop.”

“Uh-oh. We've got company,” Don said, looking in his rearview mirror.

Charlie turned to see a blue flashing light and Don pulled over to the curb. Two uniformed officers exited the patrol car and approached
the Chrysler, one on each side. The officer on the passenger side remained at the rear of the car, while the other tapped on the driver window, which Don rolled down.

“Do you live in this neighborhood?” the policeman asked. He wore dark glasses and kept both hands on his belt.

“No. There's an address we were trying to find,” Don answered.

“What address?”

Charlie looked down at her notebook. “719 Poplar Alley.”

“That's in the next block,” the officer said angling to get a better look into the vehicle. This here a rental car?”

“Yes. We're from out of town. On an investigation,” Don decided to reveal more information.

“Investigation?”

“Yes, we're private. From Detroit. Looking for a missing person.” Don spoke with the terse cadence of Sgt. Joe Friday from
Dragnet.

Don flipped open his wallet and held it up to reveal his PI license on one side and driver's license on the other. The officer took the wallet and studied it.

“I spoke to Lieutenant Walker in Central City about our case yesterday,” Don said, to form a connection.

The officer's expression and demeanor remained unchanged.

“You carrying a weapon?”

“Yes,” Don said. “My concealed weapon permit is the next card over.”

The officer nodded to his partner, who moved up to the passenger window. While the first cop perused Don's wallet, the other, his hand on the butt of his gun, perused Charlie.

“You were on the job.” The man used the familiarity of a fellow police officer.

“Yes.”

“She an investigator, too?”

“Yes,” Don said.

“Are you carrying a weapon, ma'am?”

“No,” Charlie said, making sure to keep her hands visible on her lap.

“Someone reported a suspicious car in the area,” the patrolman
stated. “There were a couple of break-ins last month and the residents here don't take kindly to people casing their houses.”

There was a bit of a Southern enunciation on the words “residents,” “kindly” and “casing.”

“We're here only because we got a lead that our missing person could be associated with that address, officer,” Charlie offered.

She saw her image reflected squarely in the man's dark glasses but he said nothing. He returned Don's wallet and nodded to his partner, who turned away from the passenger window.

“Will you be coming back?”

“Only if our lead pans out,” Don answered.

The partners drove in silence for a few blocks, Charlie thinking about the reputation of the Jim Crow South not that long ago and the dangers Birmingham's black citizens faced from white police officers during that time, especially in places where they didn't belong.

“Things are different now, Mack,” Don said reading her mind.

“Then why are my hands still shaking, partner?”

A horn sound startled them both. Charlie fumbled through her pockets looking for her mobile phone. Judy was calling. She had assigned each of them special ring tones and Judy's was the cavalry bugle charge which blared through the car.

“Darn it, where's the phone? I had it to take the picture.”

“Is it under the seat?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot, I'm sitting on it.” Charlie flipped open the phone as the cavalry sounded its final charge.

“Damn, I missed her.”

“I should have had the bugle ring,” Don complained.

“Not that again, Don. You already lost that fight.”

The song “Kung Fu Fighting” was Charlie's ring. Gil's calls sounded a mariachi band and Don's calls played “The Beer Barrel Polka.” Nothing subtle about Judy. She answered the phone on the second ring and Charlie touched the speaker button.

“What's shaking in Alabama?”

“Not much. We just had a little run-in with the Birmingham police but nothing to worry about,” Charlie said, sharing a look with Don. “You called?”

“I wanted to make sure you got the telephone logs I faxed this morning.”

“Yes. I got them. Thanks. Anything else?”

“Well, I found out Paul also had a cell phone. I got a few pages of those records too, but it's basically calls to the same numbers. One of the incoming numbers was a mobile in the name of Joyce Stringer but that number and Paul's are both disconnected.”

“Okay. Judy, I can't remember how to get the picture on my phone onto my laptop. Can you walk me through it when I get back to the motel?”

“Sure. You got anything else for me?”

“Yes.
My
phone should ring the bugle charge, not yours, Novak,” Don hollered.

In the silence that followed, Charlie imagined Judy thinking of a dozen ways to slam dunk in reply. Before Judy approached the basket, she blocked the shot.

“I have another assignment for you,” Charlie said, referring to her notebook. “Can you check out the ownership for a 2004 Acura? Burgundy. Alabama plates 02G133B.”

“Let me read that back,” Judy said. Zero, two, G as in Gotcha, one, three, three, B as in Bugle. I'll call you back as soon as I have something.”

Judy disconnected before Don could say a word.

Chapter 11

Charlie spent the rest of the afternoon writing on three-inch, color Post-it notes. For each track of the investigation there were two sets of notes, red notes with questions and green with facts, data and assumptions. Charlie let out a deep sigh, realizing she had more notes for Paul Stringer than for Joyce. Somehow he'd become a central figure in this case and she had an inkling that answering the questions about Paul would lead her to Joyce.

Charlie randomly laid Paul's lime-green notes on the motel coffee table. Not focusing on chronology or any other kind of sequencing sometimes revealed a new insight and almost always more questions. The first note read: “Paul might have been autistic.” Nothing. “Paul left his job at the MotorCity Casino abruptly.” “Paul received beneficiary checks from his grandfather.” Charlie grabbed a red post-it and wrote: “Does Paul have a bank account?” If Paul was receiving benefit checks and also had a job at the bottling plant, it might be useful to know how he spent his money. Charlie placed another green note on the table. “Paul was thirty-five years old; born in Birmingham.” Then one with a question: “Why did Anna Springer move Paul and Joyce to Detroit?” Charlie yawned.
I need a way to fill in some of this personal information.
She'd been thinking about a nap since that heavy lunch, and she stretched out on the couch. It was six o'clock and Don was probably ordering his second happy hour drink. She pointed the remote at the TV where Judge Judy was in the midst of dressing down some hapless soul who had lied to her. She muted the volume and yawned again.

The banging on the door wasn't a dream. Charlie pulled back the blind to see Don grinning like a fool and waving a piece of paper. She threw open the door and Don lumbered in, handed her a document and headed for the refrigerator.

“Wash your hands please,” Charlie ordered, then examined the paper. “You got the power of attorney.”

“You bet I did,” Don said, drying his hands on the front of his jacket then retrieving the Styrofoam container with his dinner from the fridge. “You want your food?”

“No, I'll get mine in a minute, go ahead and zap yours. It says here that Joyce gave Haldeman full power of attorney for everything. Real estate, life insurance, a trust for Paul.”

“That's right. And look at the paragraph at the bottom. She owns four properties, not three.”

Charlie studied the document again, while Don admired his plate of steaming food.

“You want me to put your dinner in the microwave now?”

“Okay, okay. Sure.”

“It doesn't say there, but I have information on the fourth property,” Don slid his fork deep into a slice of turkey covered with stuffing. He was baiting Charlie, waiting for her to ask the question. She put her hands on her hips.

“Well, are you going to tell me or play games?”

Don smiled. He chewed his first bite thoroughly, then made a show of reaching for a napkin and dabbing at his mouth. The stage properly set, he was ready to astound his audience. “It's Freeman Funeral.”

As if on cue, the microwave bell sounded. Charlie's salmon patties and rice were ready to eat, but this missing person case was a long way from done.

The plan was to return to the Freeman Funeral Home for an after-hours visit. If Joyce owned the building, maybe that's where she was hiding. The neighborhood party store was just ahead and Charlie signaled for Don to pull the car over. The building was garish at night.
Christmas lights were strung around the perimeter of the window and a row of white marquee bulbs circled the handmade metal sign that read “Olive Tree.”

“I'll just be a minute. I need batteries for my flashlight. You want anything?”

“I could use chewing gum.”

The store had only two customers. The clerk Charlie had seen earlier that day, Yusef was the name on his tag, was behind the counter.

“Back again, I see.”

“Yes, I need two D batteries and I'll take a couple of packs of gum.” Charlie pointed through the glass counter.

Yusef stood behind a barricade Charlie hadn't noticed during her daytime visit. The thick wall of Plexiglas had a twelve-inch door with a lazy Susan, allowing cash in and merchandise out. Yusef noticed Charlie's quizzical look.

“This is a dangerous neighborhood,” he said through a circle of small perforations that allowed communication.

“I don't doubt that.”

“That will be nine dollars.”

They stared at each other for a moment, each adamant in their perspective of the fairness of the price. Finally, Charlie opened her side of the Plexiglas door and placed a ten-dollar bill onto the lazy Susan. When she closed the door, Yusef opened his side and pulled the peg that turned the tray toward him.

“You need a bag?”

Charlie shook her head “no” and the tray rotated back to her with her purchases and change. “I'm looking for someone, maybe you've seen her?” Charlie held a photo of Joyce Stringer up to the wall.

Yusef looked at the picture. “No.”

“What about this guy?” She held up the police photo of Paul's cousin, Andrew. Yusef's eyes grew large.

“Are you police?” he asked.

“No,” Charlie said and made sure to confirm that with a shake of her head because the customers glanced her way upon hearing the word “police.”

Charlie moved closer to the barrier and lowered her voice.

“I'm an investigator,” she said, placing her business card onto the tray. “Do you know the guy?”

Yusef took a while to study the card and stared at Charlie so hard that she hoped her facial waxing hadn't worn off.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

“Does he have any relatives?” Charlie was almost whispering.

“He lived with his mother but he's not there anymore,” Yusef said in a hoarse whisper. “He's dead.”

Charlie nodded. “I know.”

“We used to talk about Detroit, he had a cousin there, too.” Yusef looked for a reaction from Charlie, then continued when her face didn't change. “His mother's a real nice lady; lives down the street.”

Charlie stepped aside when two young men in baggy jeans, Timberlands, and oversized t-shirts lined up behind her with three forty-ounce bottles of beer. They placed their brews onto the tray. Yusef spun it to retrieve the beers, then spun it back to them for six dollars. Apparently, beer was cheaper than batteries at the Olive Tree. Yusef packed the bottles into individual paper bags and then into one of the smiley-face plastic totes that were strewn around the neighborhood. The two customers moved to the door and automatically paused while Yusef buzzed them out.

“Take it easy, Sef,” one of the men said.

“You take it easy yourself, Keith,” Yusef replied. “A private investigator?” he asked, returning his attention to Charlie.

“Yep.”

Charlie waited for the barrage of curious questions, but there were none. She moved to the pastry display.

“Can I help you with anything else?”

Charlie splurged and bought two coffees and a couple of sweet buns. The smell filled the car as soon as she opened the door, and Don made quick work of unwrapping his pastry. He had just taken a huge bite of bun when he was startled by a knock on the driver side window. A guy's face was pressed to the glass, hollering to have the window rolled down while Don tried to figure out how to get to his gun without dropping his coffee and bun. For a moment, Charlie thought the man might be an aggressive panhandler and was about
to advise Don to roll down the window, when a second guy appeared at her window.

“Oh shit,” Charlie said.

She guessed they had maybe five seconds before one or both of the men showed a weapon. Then out of nowhere, Yusef appeared at the front of the Chrysler brandishing a sawed-off shotgun.

“How many times have I told you not to interfere with my paying customers?” Yusef said, angling the shotgun from one guy to the other.

“Man, we ain't messin' with your damn customers. We saw them cruisin' around here this mornin' and now they're back. We wanna know what's up.” The man at Don's window spoke up.

“This lady is trying to help Drew's mother,” Yusef said, assuming Charlie's good intentions. “She's from Detroit.”

The two guys shared a silent communication and the man who spoke shuffled over to the sidewalk to join his friend. The hands of both were deep in the pockets of their chinos.

“Well, why didn't you say so?” the other guy said.

Yusef lowered his shotgun. Charlie saw an opening and lowered the window.

“We just want to come by the house to speak to Andrew's mother but we weren't sure which house was hers.”

“Come on, we'll take you there. Just leave the car here. It'll be okay,” the shorter of the two men said.

Charlie glanced at Don, who was protectively gripping the steering wheel.

“Go ahead,” Yusef said. “I'll keep an eye on your car from the store.”

Charlie examined her watch, it was nine o'clock. Don began to unbuckle his seatbelt and Charlie exited the car, giving Yusef a grateful nod.

“I close up at eleven. Be back before then,” he said with the directness of a man with a shotgun.

Sixty-year-old Jennifer Meadows was Anna Stringer's younger sister. The house on 31st Street was the family home, purchased by their father five decades before, and in the ensuing years no fewer than three generations of the Stringer clan had lived simultaneously under its roof. The house's infrastructure matched the neighborhood's
deterioration. The porch squeaked loudly with the pressure of each footstep and the banister leaned precariously. Paint shards stood out from the house frame like cat claws and there was a broad hole in the porch awning. Plywood was nailed across the front windows and an iron gate protected the front door.

The interior was clean but crammed with furniture and the temperature must have been eighty degrees adding to the feeling of claustrophobia. Charlie and Don were offered seats in the dining room where two glass hutches, one an ornate French provincial style, the other modern with black faux wood and chrome drawer pulls, overpowered the room. The black cabinet contained family photos where a large picture of Andrew was prominently placed. A television on a rolling stand separated the hutches and was tuned to a cable channel devoted to crime dramatizations. The TV was muted but twice during the conversation everyone in the room, including Mrs. Meadows' two young grandchildren, grew quiet to stare, first at a bloody corpse and again when a woman was being brutally beaten.

The grandson was a sturdy seven-year-old with a close-shaved haircut and wide-set eyes. The little girl, who had an amazing display of colorful barrettes on her pigtails, made a point of telling Don she was four and a half. Charlie wanted to shoo the children from the room, sparing them the media violence, but they were much more fascinated by the white man at their dining room table than the TV. Don was enjoying the spotlight.

“Who did you say you worked for?” Jennifer Meadows tapped the business card on the table, shifting her glance between Charlie and Don.

“We're assisting Dixie Beverages' life insurance company in the investigation of Andrew's death,” Charlie fabricated without missing a beat.

“Oh.” Mrs. Meadows cried a bit every time Andrew's name was mentioned, and she wiped at a tear. “I guess they don't want to pay us anything, huh?”

“That's not the case Mrs. Meadows,” Don said, picking up the ruse. “But since the circumstances were so unusual they'd like to get to the bottom of it.”

“Somebody kill Unca Andrew,” the granddaughter announced. She stood at Don's side. He patted the tiny hand she'd planted on his knee while she stared up at him in awe.

Mrs. Meadows confirmed that Joyce was the legal owner of the house because Anna Stringer trusted her daughter with all the family affairs. The house had no mortgage and Joyce made sure the taxes were paid while Jennifer paid the monthly utility bills. She usually saw Anna only once a year during their annual family visit but she and her sister kept regular phone contact.

BOOK: Bury Me When I'm Dead
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