The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1) (24 page)

Canzoneri had hotly denied all of this, and federal authorities, unable to come up with anything solid, said they simply had no evidence of any wrong doing in the Wayne County Prosecutor’s office.

As for the question of why Prentis Gant had retired after a little over a year on the job, investigators, again with information from Peoples, looked into the possibility that Gant had been blackmailed because his wife reportedly had several relatives in the country illegally, with some of them involved in unlawful activities. The newspaper reported that several of Delores Gant’s relatives, including a brother, sister and two cousins—reputedly all illegal aliens—had in fact spent time in the city over the past decade, though often moving back for periods of time to their hometown on the Mexican border. At least twice over the years family members had been picked up in the city, once for marijuana possession and once for dealing in cheap Mexican knock-offs of high-priced prescription drugs, though both times charges had eventually been dropped.

With Gant’s resignation most of his wife’s clan had scattered and left the city. With Gant’s death, Delores, who had become a U.S. citizen when she married Gant back in 1981, put the family home up for sale and moved with her children to California. When contacted there by federal authorities, she had denied that any of her relatives had ever been in the county illegally and said that she had no evidence that her husband had died by anyone’s hand but his own.

As for the car bombing, it had to this point gone unsolved. Of course, there had been strong suspicions that it had been directly connected with the bribery case, and Kenneth Miles’ history with the Department’s bomb squad had certainly pointed a finger at him. But an exhaustive canvassing of that westside neighborhood had failed to turn up a single witness who had seen anyone in the vicinity of the car parked in front of the Peoples’ home prior to the explosion. And no evidence of any kind had been uncovered that would even begin to make a case against any of the principals in the case.

Predictably, defense attorneys had managed to float at least one report that Anthony Peoples had been secretly connected with a drug operation competing with his cousin “Pretty Rick,” and that the bomb had simply been pay back.

Along with a photo of Anthony snapped by a Free Press photographer on one of his several days of testimony during the trial, the paper had included a brief and, to Frank, less-than-satisfying interview with the man whose family’s tragedy was at the center of the story.

“
Contacted at his sister Vanessa’s home in Cleveland late yesterday, after the verdicts were announced, Mr. Peoples said he was ‘satisfied’ with the trial’s outcome. Asked if he thought justice had been served, he said simply, ‘No.’ After a pause, he added, ‘Not for my Nita and my babies.’

“
Later Mr. Peoples went on to say that he would not be returning to Detroit. ‘There is nothing for me there now,’ he said, ‘except bad memories.’”

At his desk a month later, going through a stack of mail, Frank opened a note from his New York agent. As he expected, it offered news of another rejection of
Buffalos in the City.

He had started this process with some reasonable facimile of hope. The agent had said some nice things about the manuscript and thought she could place it. By now every time he saw her distinctive pink stationery, the first thing he thought of was yet another reject. Maybe it was time to try it himself with the Wayne State University Press editor he’d met in that Cass Corridor bar.

A discreet rap on his door was followed by the usual pause. He knew who was out there.

“
Enter.”

Francine stuck her pretty red head in the office. “Anything I can do for you, boss?” With Fay on a well-earned Florida vacation, she was filling in for the week.

“
Ah, the remarkable young woman who saved my sorry, hopeless, degenerate life.”

“
Frank, would you please, please stop saying that!”

“
Why? It’s true.”

“
It’s embarrassing.”

“
So you admit it’s true.”

“
What part?”

They both seemed to love this stupid little game they had been playing off and on for months. He said, “The ‘sorry, hopeless, degenerate’ part.”

“
Yes, that part is true.”

“
Frankie, I’ve got nothing for you. Go find some real work.”

She gave him her light-up-the-world smile and left. And then all those vibrant curls got him thinking about redheads. Letty Pell had called the other day.

“
Just wanted to say I miss you.”

“
Well, Letty, I seriously doubt that, but I’ve wondered for a long time if my old friend Billy, now of the Lewisburg Federal Pen, really put you up to coming on to me. How about telling me the truth?”

“
The truth, Frank? The truth is I’ve always found you enormously attractive.”

“
That isn’t what I was asking, Ms. Pell, but let’s just leave it at that.”

Would he call Letty?

Unlikely.

Even he could learn a lesson occasionally.

###

Murder in the Synagogue

Squelched: The Suppression of Murder in the Synagogue

Novels
:

The Obsession

The Disappearance

Admission of Guilt

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New spring leaves, already withering, scratched and whispered in the few Dutch Elms still standing on this dark, working-class street. Birds chirped and chattered on the pre-dawn breeze, and a worn-out Plymouth whined slowly to a stop in front of one of these decrepit wood-framed flats. A smallish figure slipped out, ran to the big front porch, then darted back to the street.

As the Plymouth’s door opened, the yellow dome light limned the black, care-lined, 38-year-old face of Joe Martino. Thirteen-year-old Lissa slid onto the front bench next to him and shut the door. In darkness again he moved the car forward.

“
Your turn, Pappy.” The girl reached to the backseat for a rolled-up paper in a thin rubber band.

“
Pappy?” Martino’s glance raised an eyebrow and made a face. “Where’d you get that? Pappy.”

She shrugged, then smiled.

He said, “Okay, how about something that rhymes with table.”

Her guess was quick: “A place to keep horses.”

“
No, it’s not a stable.”

Martino brought the car to a stop again, and Lissa opened the door. “How about the name of Mama’s funky old aunt?”

He grinned. “No, it’s not Aunt Mable.”

Out of the car once more, the girl slammed the door, just the way he’d told her not to. He watched as she sprinted toward another porch. In the dome light her thin face and dancing eyes had so mimed her mother that he suddenly found it hard to swallow.

Tossing the paper up on the porch, Lissa ran back to the Plymouth, and Martino again sent it forward. This time she grabbed two papers from behind. “Is it the kind of fur coat that Mama always wanted?”

“
No, it’s not a sable. But that’s pretty good for a kid.” When he stopped the car, Lissa opened the door and eyed her father. He reminded her: “Don’t slam it.”

“
Right. For a kid? How about the kind of story that Aesop wrote?”

He laughed. “Yeah, it’s a fable.”

“
Oh, Pappy, that was a good one!” In the darkness she moved quickly away, carrying the two papers. Her lean teen hips in the jeans he bought the other day were hinting at the future.

At the front steps of the first house, Lissa flipped one paper onto the rubber mat and ran quickly past the next two houses, glancing at the old Plymouth whining again slowly up the street and staying just behind her. They both knew every stop without thinking.

One more to run past. But as she moved through the overgrown yard in front of a low, crumbling porch, a loud, percussive crack seemed to explode right next to her ear. Terror bolted through her body. A sharp sting seared her right arm, and the rolled up paper fell from her hand. In a panic, she froze, then spun, unable to find the street.

Another explosive crack and with a high-pitched scream she ran, finally glimpsing the Plymouth. Veering toward the street where the old car’s door was swinging open, she screamed, “Daddy!” Another crack and, almost to the Plymouth, her legs stopped working properly. She saw her father screaming at her but couldn’t hear him, the cracks now coming quickly one after another. Stumbling badly she threw herself at the car and somehow got her head to the seat and her left hand far enough in for her father to grab.

As Martino shoved the accelerator to the floor, there were more cracks and a side window exploded. The car lunged and squealed away, and, covered with shards and fragments and feeling his right arm go numb, he lost his grip on Lissa’s hand.

The car careened weirdly across the street, jumped the curb and crashed into a front porch. The impact echoed for a moment, then faded into the whispers of the dying trees.

Back on the cracked pavement in the middle of the street Lissa was sprawled face down.

###

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