Dead Bang (26 page)

A jumble of wooden bungalows and red-brick ranches shared narrow lots along both sides of Stuart Avenue in Southfield, Michigan. We rolled by Mayada's residence just before nine in the morning and found the curtains clenched tight and the blinds down. The front lawn of her red-brick ranch had gone rampant with grass so long that it hung over the walks. Her Lincoln Navigator was not in the drive.

“Looks lived in,” I said.

“If we'd been here earlier, we could have followed her out,” said Wendy, letting down her window.

I pulled up to the curb, got out, and banged on the storm door—the doorbell didn't work. The porch harbored no circulars or newspapers. No dog barked. No radio or TV could be heard. No one came to the door.

Back in the car I said, “Nobody home. Seems like somebody'd be around if they had Karen in there.”

“Doesn't mean she isn't,” said Wendy. “Let's do a neighborhood canvass.”

We followed the map to the Southfield Public Library in the Southfield Municipal Complex off of Evergreen Road. We found a brand-new three-story red-brick building with what looked like a UFO perched on the roof above the door. The apparition, trapped in place by a three-story, blue-glass cone, turned out to be a third-floor conference room.

The first floor featured a coffee shop. All floors provided computers for public use. The third floor had the reference texts. Wendy got the Bresser's book. I went after the Polk Cross Index.

A city index organizes information into several lists. Using the alphabetical list of names, you can locate an address and are sometimes rewarded with a smidgen of information about the resident's employment or the name of a spouse. Streets are listed by address. By looking up the address, you can learn the name of the resident, the telephone number, and whether or not the resident is the property owner. Telephone numbers are listed numerically by exchange and can be used to locate a name and address for a telephone number.

Resident information is stronger in the Polk. Bresser has the better telephone information. Both books are at the mercy of residents who refuse to reply to inquiries or knowingly provide misinformation.

The Polk index listed “No Response” as resident information for Mayada Jidah's address. Following the address back through the previous three years of Polk books, I found that the last listed owner for the property was a Carol Sullivan. The book listed her as retired. I also assembled a short list of longtime neighbors adjacent to the Jidah residence.

From the Bresser's book, Wendy assembled a similar list, which included the telephone numbers. She also turned up a telephone number for the Jidah residence. The telephone had been listed to Rashid Erekat.

“I don't think names are going to mean much,” I said, and rifled my pocket for change. “Let's try the number.”

“Pay phone's in the lobby,” said Wendy. “I have one more thing to look up.”

“What are we selling today?”

“Home improvements,” said Wendy. “That way you can ask them if they own the property. If they're renting, they might tell you the name of the landlord.” Wendy stayed in the reference section. I took the elevator to the lobby.

The telephone rang a dozen times, and I finally got an answering machine. The message had been left by a woman in a language I did not understand.

Wendy strolled up and rubbed my shoulder as I hung up the telephone. “All set,” she said, a smile on her face I could not read. “Let's go.”

“What have you got?”

“Nothing new,” said Wendy. “Let's get the canvass done.”

Back on Stuart Street, the neighborhood had begun to stir. A thin fellow wearing a grizzled beard and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap wrestled a lawn mower around Mayada Jidah's front lawn. The lawn mower had a rod-knock death rattle and spewed blue oil smoke. The man, clad in a battered T-shirt and paint-stained jeans, seemed unconcerned or unaware, fading in and out of the smoke cloud, depending on the direction of the wind.

I parked half a dozen houses south of the Jidah residence. “What pretext do you want to use?” I asked. “I was thinking maybe Consolidated Health Plans.”

“You have pretext cards?” asked Wendy.

“I don't leave cards anymore. I got tired of defense lawyers waving them at me in court.”

“I'll take the far side of the street,” said Wendy. “I've got a couple of long-term neighbors jotted down. You can have the guy with the lawn mower.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The first house north of the Jidah address, the Jackson residence, had a car in the drive, and the front door stood open, allowing the sun through the storm door. A large orange tabby cat sunned itself on an oval rug inside the door. I knocked.

A man in his mid-seventies, heavyset and with his thinning gray hair neatly arranged, came to the door. He nudged the rug with his foot and said, “Beat it, Lambchop.”

“Mr. Jackson?” I asked and tried for a big smile.

The cat slinked off in slow, sullen steps. Inside the house, an elderly woman's voice scolded, “Don't you be mean to that cat, Henry Jackson.”

“Yeah, what do you want?” asked Henry through the door.

I offered my hand and waited for Henry to open the door to take it for a quick shake. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Jackson. My name is Ben
Wright, and I'm here to speak to you on behalf of Consolidated Health Plans.”

“I don't want to buy anything,” said Henry as he took his hand back.

“I'm not a salesman, Mr. Jackson. I hope you have a moment to speak to me about your neighbor, Mayada Jidah.”

“That her name?”

“Yes, sir. She's been a resident here for about two or three years?”

“What's this about?” asked Henry.

“Your neighbor has applied for a rather large life insurance plan, and we need to, you know, just get a sense of things.”

“You said health plans.”

“We canvass for insurance companies,” I said. “We don't sell things.”

“She give you my name?” asked Henry.

“No,” I said. “And that's kind of the point. Here you are a neighbor, right next door, and she didn't mention you.”

“Well, I ain't surprised,” Henry said and folded his arms.

“So how long has she been a neighbor?”

“Couple years,” said Henry. “She bought the place when Carol died.”

“So she owns the home?”

“I suppose. If she was renting, someone would have said.”

“I was here earlier,” I said.

“Yeah, I saw ya.”

“She wasn't home. Does she have a job? What would be a good time to catch her at home?”

“She's gone most days, leaves around seven. Sometimes she ain't home till late.”

“You know where she works?”

“I don't talk to her.”

“She married?”

“She has a son in college. So maybe she was. I don't think she is now.”

“It's just the beneficiary of her policy is someone named”—I fished the notepad out of my breast pocket and flipped it open—“Rashid Erekat.” I snapped the pad closed. “Not the same last name as hers, so you see the concern.”

“He don't live there. Son's name is Amaal. He's a useless piece o' shit. Don't do nothing around the house. She has to pay Mickey there to mow her lawn.”

“Mickey doesn't live there?”

“Neighborhood handyman. Mows lawns. Shovels snow. Paints pretty good and does some carpentry. Drinks too much, though.”

“Henry, who is that?” asked a woman's voice from inside the house.

“Never mind, Helen,” said Henry. “Just watch your soaps.”

“So, no idea who this Rashid guy could be?” I asked.

“They get a lot of visitors,” he said. “A lot of Ontario license plates. Sometimes they stay a couple days, and you never see 'em again. They don't speak English, so I really don't know about 'em. Her son's only around now and then and usually has his school friends with him. Little bastard has a brand-new car.”

“You don't like him?”

“Has a smug, smart-ass mean look about him,” said Henry. “His mother works day and night to put him through school, gives him a brand-new car, and the little bastard is too sorry to mow the lawn.”

I offered my hand again. Henry took it. “I really appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. Is it all right if I telephone you, you know, just to flesh things out?”

“You got a card?”

I patted my pockets. “No, I'm sorry,” I said. “I use a lot of cards. Hard to get them replaced.”

“Why don't you just show me your badge?” asked Henry, a hint of the fox making his features sly.

“Oh, I'm not a policeman,” I said.

Henry gave me a wink. “I called the FBI about these people,” he said. “Wondered how long it'd be before someone came around.”

“I can't tell you I'm with the authorities.”

“Call me anytime,” he said.

I waved through the door and walked off the porch. Mickey had finished mowing and was down to sweeping the clippings back onto the lawn from the sidewalk. Black foam buttons plugged his ears and trailed wire down to a radio that rode in his hip pocket. I touched him on the shoulder.

Startled, he turned around. “Yeah?” he asked, beer on his breath. He took the headphones off and let them hang around his neck.

“Ben Wright,” I said and offered my hand. “I hoped you had a minute to talk to me.”

Mickey gave my hand a quick, calloused shake and looked at his watch. “You got three minutes,” he said. “Rush is on.”

“Limbaugh?”

“Yeah. You listen?”

“Wouldn't miss. I'm a ‘dittohead,'” I said.

“Cool. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to talk to the lady who owns this house.”

“She's at work,” said Mickey. “I just mow the lawn and put out the trash.”

“Maybe I can talk to her at work?” I asked.

“American Patriot Coney Island up on Southfield Road.”

“She own it?”

“Waitress,” he said.

“What do these houses go for around here?”

“Hundred fifty, hundred sixty thousand. Depends on if they have a basement or dormer.”

“She owns a house like this, drives a Lincoln Navigator, and works as a waitress?”

“I don't know or care about that,” said Mickey. “She leaves the money. I mow the lawn and carry the trash to the curb.”

“She ever mention someone by the name of Rashid Erekat?”

“They come and go here,” said Mickey. “She gets mail for about a zillion people. Sometimes the mailman has to put it inside the storm door because it's too much for the mailbox.”

“What time will she be back?”

“Beats me,” said Mickey. “You got a cigarette?”

I offered him one of my cigars.

“Nah,” he said and wrinkled his nose. He looked at his watch, put his headphones back in his ears, and went back to sweeping.

Wendy beat me back to the car. I climbed in and said, “American Patriot Coney Island up on Southfield Road.”

“And American Budget Gas on Woodward,” said Wendy.

“Fantastic,” I said. “I haven't had a good Detroit Coney dog since Moses parted the water, and we're bound to need gas.”

We found the American Patriot Coney Island just north of Twelve Mile Road. A painted-on American flag decorated the window in grand style—it took up half the glass area. The black Lincoln Navigator lurked in the parking lot.

• • •

Once upon a time in America, cheap and plentiful gasoline made itself hard to avoid. At any major intersection, gas stations loomed over all four corners. A couple of generations of young men began their working lives asking, “Check your oil?” instead of “You want fries with that?”

The bell that rang twice as you ran over the air hose still decorated the outside wall of the American Patriot Coney Island. The lift and grease rack had given way to battered booths and a counter attended by chrome
pedestal stools, but the restrooms were still “outside and around the back, sir.”

The woman I recognized from our traffic encounter in Grand Rapids, the one who drove the Lincoln Navigator registered to Mayada Jidah, wore a name tag that identified her as “Hanan.” Without the head scarf, she had raven hair and eyes so dark they seemed to devour the world like little black holes.

“Two Coney dogs,” I said, “hold the onions, order of fries, and a cup of coffee.”

“Hot tea,” said Wendy. “And I'll have the fish.”

Hanan, Mayada, whatever her name was, smiled, made marks on a pad of green guest checks, and called the order out in throaty Arabic as she walked back to the counter for our drinks.

“Can't believe you passed up a chance for a Coney dog.”

“It's just a chili dog,” said Wendy.

“Not even close,” I said. “A Detroit Coney dog is an experience.”

“Seems the same all over town, to me.”

“Maybe,” I said. “We should go down to Greek Town while we're here. We could get a Coney at the Lafayette and then one at the National. We could have our own taste test.”

Wendy sighed.

“I've got a case in Hamtramck,” I said. “We can go to Buddy's for pizza.”

“Did you come here for Karen or a movable feast?”

“Jeeze, hon, we gotta eat.”

“What's this about Hamtramck?”

“The John Vincenti case. His daughter hired us. Sooner or later, I have to come down here to work the case, but if we do it now, we can offset the expenses of looking for Karen.”

Wendy accused me of being crass by tilting her head and making narrow eyes.

“Business, doll,” I said. “This could get expensive.”

“Just remember, it was your idea,” said Wendy. “And don't add it to your ‘Wendy is so cheap' routine.”