Worth Killing For Read online

  Julia looked out at the Detroit River as she looped past the Coast Guard Station and took in the Canadian shoreline in the far distance. Belle Isle was the city’s largest public park, and at 983 acres, it was even bigger than Central Park in New York. While the city of Detroit underwent the decline of the automobile industry, a painful bankruptcy, and a scourge of blight as homes and entire neighborhoods on its outskirts were abandoned, leaving many areas of the city looking like a postapocalyptic urban jungle, Belle Isle Park somehow remained untouched. It was far enough away from the city, its only physical point of connection to Detroit being the Douglas MacArthur Bridge, and provided Julia the comfort of anonymity. That was exactly what Julia wanted, a place large enough so that when she met up with her running partner, it would be unlikely that she’d bump into anyone else she knew.

  Julia slowed at the meet-up spot, the James Scott Memorial Fountain, and downed half the water from her bottle, shifting her weight from foot to foot in a light jog. As a self-imposed rule, Julia had to keep moving. Always. Dr. Alex Bruegger, the psychiatrist she’d seen for the past seven months, and who seemed to have an endless supply of tweed coats, had finally promised he’d stop asking Julia, “How did that make you feel?” Their agreement was made during her second visit after Julia warned the shrink she’d never return otherwise. In one of their early sessions, Dr. Bruegger had asked Julia if her relentless running regimen, up to ten miles a day, six days a week, was a form of punishment for not being able to remember what had happened to her brother, Ben, the night he was abducted, despite the fact that Julia was in the same room when it happened. Julia had discovered Dr. Bruegger routinely circled back to the same theme, and in this case, his belief that much of Julia’s residual pain from her childhood tragedy was self-inflicted. Julia denied the doctor’s theory, which she really wanted to tell him was bullshit, but kept the real reason to herself. Deep down, in the dark folds of long-ago memories that had never let her go, Julia felt like if she could run fast enough, she could catch the monster that had snatched her nine-year-old brother when they were children. Some thirty years later, Ben’s case remained cold but never forgotten, by Julia at least. So being sedentary was never an option that Julia had ever once entertained.

  “Wow.”

  Julia turned around at the familiar voice and grinned widely at her running partner, Detroit police detective Raymond Navarro, who wore loose-fitting black shorts and a sleeveless bright blue compression shirt. The Under Armour tight-fitting top showcased Navarro’s barbed wire tattoo on his left bicep and the rest of his well-developed muscles from years of lifting weights in the gym until a bullet to his shoulder recently forced him to put his disciplined workout routine on temporary hiatus until he healed.

  Navarro’s index finger slowly descended down the length of Julia’s throat to her collarbone and wiped away a trickle of sweat before it slid any farther. “You started without me, I see.”

  “I got here early. Did you know the guy, James Scott, who this fountain is named after, was actually a philandering jerk?”

  “Ah, so that’s why you wanted to meet here, because it reminded you of another philandering jerk. If you try and vandalize the fountain as payback, you know I’m going to have to arrest you, no matter how much I like you.”

  “Another Sigmund Freud, just what I need. And for the record, I wasn’t thinking about David. Really,” Julia answered, and tried to block out an image of her once-estranged husband, David, and the dregs of all that was left of their broken marriage before he was killed.

  “I’m not a jealous man, Julia. You know that. But your jogging outfit almost made me hit a tree when I pulled up.”

  “It’s almost ninety-five degrees already. A running bra and shorts is all I can handle.”

  “You run with me, I don’t care what you wear. I just don’t want you to get hassled when you’re jogging alone.”

  The Beemer twins, with their matching manicures and hairless chests, turned the corner and spied Julia, prompting one of them to lean into his friend and say something that likely wasn’t the Lord’s Prayer. The friend donned a knowing smirk and started to laugh, but his laughter abruptly stopped as Navarro, all six feet three inches and 220 pounds of him, shot off a glance in their direction.

  “Have a nice damn day, boys,” Julia called out as the two passed.

  “You know them?” Navarro asked.

  “Just fellow joggers. We’re a friendly lot.”

  “Right,” Navarro answered, knowing Julia was feeding him a line of bull.

  The Beemer boys picked up their pace as they turned the corner. Navarro then looked over his shoulder to be sure he and Julia were alone. Satisfied, he wrapped one arm around Julia’s waist, pulled her body tightly against his, and gave her a deep kiss. Julia felt his hand begin to move down her bare waist and she made herself pull away.

  “Hey, we’re in public,” Julia protested.

  “I need to take advantage of the few times when I can get you alone. You know, we did a stakeout here a couple years ago. We busted a drug ring that was doing business at the other end of the park. There’s a building by the lighthouse where we did the surveillance. There’s not a lot of room in there, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “You can’t fool around before you run. You lose your edge,” she said.

  “My edge, huh? Tell you what, I’m not too worried about my edge right now. You’re going to kick my ass out here on these jogging trails anyway. So I’m willing to trade off one performance for another, if you’re following my train of thought here.”

  “We’re purely platonic in public. That’s the deal we made.”

  “No one is going to be looking at us going at it inside a building that’s supposed to be closed off to the public. Tell you what? If anyone looks in, I’ll shoot them.”

  “Very funny,” Julia answered. “I just want to be sure we keep a low profile, right now anyway.”

  “Come on, Gooden. I was just playing with you,” Navarro said. He released Julia from their close embrace, but still hung on to her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ve been thinking, the Woodward Dream Cruise is coming up in a couple of weeks. I bet Logan and Will would love to go. I could take them or we could all go together. What do you say? Thousands of cool cars all cruising down Woodward Avenue. Automotive heaven, Detroit style. Your boys would have a blast.”

  “I know they would. But let me think about it. I need to make sure I’m not rushing things for them. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course. It’s got to be tough for them, losing their dad.”

  “It’s harder on Logan because he’s older, and he knows what his dad did. I’m sorry if you feel like I’m shutting you out, but I need to be sure they’re okay before I let them know we’re together.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. There’s no time frame here. You tell your boys about us when you’re ready. I waited eleven years to get you back, so I can wait as long as you need. But if I had my way, I’d take out a billboard on 1-75 and announce it to the whole world.”

  “Ray Navarro, the tough cop. If people only knew your soft side, you’d lose that cool macho rep in a heartbeat,” Julia said, and brushed her fingers playfully through Navarro’s thick shock of dark hair. “Are we running or what?”

  “Just be kind. When the shoulder heals, I’ll show you up in the gym.”

  “Sure you will.”

  Julia began to toss her water bottle back in her waist pack when her cell phone buzzed. “Let me check this. Logan is at camp, and Helen was going to take Will to the zoo, but I want to be sure they’re okay.”

  “Maybe it’s your Realtor calling with an offer on your house. That penthouse is still for sale in my building. Just two stories above me and it’s got a killer view,” Navarro said, and gave Julia a wink. “I so love to bust your chops, Gooden. You should have seen the look on your face just now.”

  Julia shook her head over Navarro’s taunt and reached for her cell phone, just as Nava
rro’s phone and pager sounded in unison.

  “It’s the chief. I’ve got to take this,” Navarro said. Julia looked down at her phone screen as her city editor’s name, Virginia Remi, popped up. Navarro raised his finger for Julia to give him a minute, and she watched as Navarro jogged over to the other side of the fountain, so reporter and cop would be out of earshot from their respected bosses.

  “Where are you?” Virginia snapped.

  “Taking a run before work.”

  “You’re going to have a heart attack running in this heat. Listen, before you get to the newsroom, can you swing by Gilbo Avenue? Hold on. Let me check my notes. The exact location is Gilbo and Lyford.”

  “What am I looking for? A residence?”

  “A dead body. Sounds like a young guy, possibly Hispanic, male.”

  “Do you have anything more than that? Could be a drug overdose. There are a lot of abandoned lots down that way. You have a better marker for me?”

  “Look for the cop cars. It just came over the scanner. The dead guy could be a druggy or drunk who got rolled, which isn’t a story, but from the chatter on the scanner, I think it could be more than that, so check it out. Tom Spiegel is working a story about how the mayor is touting some new report that claims violent crimes are down in the city. Maybe we can tie this in as an example of how Mayor Anderson’s new statistics division is manipulating data to come up with yet another bullshit report to try and make him look good.”

  “Always the cynic.”

  “That’s my job. Call me if it turns out to be anything good.”

  Julia watched as Navarro rounded the fountain in her direction and hoped she’d never reach the point in her journalism career where she’d wonder if a man’s death could hopefully turn into something good.

  “Sorry, Gooden, but I have to bail on our run.”

  “What you got?”

  “Dead male, twenty years old. Two neighborhood kids found his body dumped over on Gilbo Avenue. Between us, the vic’s name is Angel Perez.”

  “My editor just called me with the same tip, minus the name. Did he OD?”

  “It looks like he was murdered. Blunt force trauma to his head, but the cause of death, depending on what the coroner comes back with, was most likely caused by an injury to his chest.”

  “A stabbing?”

  “The guys at the scene don’t think so. Whatever killed Angel Perez was small and precise and went in deep.”

  “Do we know anything about Angel?”

  “College kid. I’ve got to go down to the scene now, but I’ll try and keep the other members of the press away until you get there,” Navarro said, and tossed Julia the key to his apartment. “Grab a quick shower at my place and head down to Gilbo Avenue as fast as you can.”

  “Thanks, I’ll take you up on your offer. I have my work clothes in my car. I get the feeling you know more about this guy than you’re letting on.”

  Navarro leaned in and gave Julia a quick kiss on her forehead. “Got to go, beautiful.”

  “Come on, Navarro. Who is he?”

  “Between us. Angel Perez is the nephew of Edgar Sanchez.”

  “The city councilman?”

  “The one and only,” Navarro answered. “Sanchez is apparently losing his mind. He’s holding a press conference in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay. Thanks for this. I mean it.”

  “Keep it under wraps, but this could turn out to be a bigger story than you think. Whoever killed Angel Perez likely did it with a bow and arrow.”

  “Are you serious? That’s got to be a first.”

  “Not according to the chief. Linderman just told me there have been other victims killed the same way.”

  “If it’s a serial killer, how come I haven’t heard anything about it?”

  “Linderman just told me the last body was found a long time ago, so the cops figured the killer had died or moved away.”

  Julia felt a cool shiver run through her. “So the killer is out of hibernation and ready to hunt again.”

  “Maybe, but why would this guy take such a long break? Doesn’t fit the normal profile.”

  Julia stared vacantly through the swollen sail of a boat that was skimming across the water and felt the familiar grip of desperation and loss squeeze her tight.

  “The past is never really over for any of us. I’m betting not even for a killer.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Kirk Fleming slid a cool hundred into the valet’s palm as he picked up his car at the Atheneum Hotel.

  Fleming would have preferred the presidential suite at the MGM Grand Detroit, the city’s most luxurious hotel, but he knew he had to lay low during this trip. The valet, whom Fleming pegged for maybe twenty-five tops, obviously had never received this big of a tip in his entire young life, since he stared down at the bill in his hand as if he took his eyes off it for even a second, it would disappear.

  Fleming was dying for one grand showboat move, but unfortunately, being the big tipper at the not even five-star-hotel was going to have to be it. Now that he was back in Michigan, Fleming was savvy enough to realize he’d have to hover way below the radar or he’d be killed. Two shots to the back of his head from a gun with a silencer, execution style. No question, baby.

  The people he was up against in Detroit were far different than the garden-variety criminals he had gotten used to since he left Michigan. Fleming prided himself on being exceptional at the razzle-dazzle and separating people from their cash. But Fleming was now back on his old home turf, and he’d have to stay two steps ahead of the big dogs if he was going to live and cash in on the prize of his life.

  “Thank you so much, sir!” the valet said, and pumped Fleming’s hand up and down until Fleming started to wonder if the kid was ever going to give it up. The hotel employee opened the driver-side door of Fleming’s rental car, a black Ford Explorer, the only SUV in the Detroit airport rent-a-car lot Fleming could find with tinted windows. Fleming had wanted to treat himself to the BMW convertible or the jet-blue Maserati he had looked at wistfully in the luxury car section of Enterprise. That would have been his reward for making it through customs, having charmed a female agent in a putty-colored polyester suit that wasn’t doing her any favors. But Fleming had begrudgingly opted for the Explorer, since it was pedestrian enough that he’d blend right in.

  The rental car smelled like cinnamon-scented air freshener as he got in. Fleming blasted the air conditioner to combat the heat and to try and get the cloying smell out as he carefully drove the Explorer just below the speed limit for the entirety of three city blocks. He then took a hard right into an alleyway, pulled out a new license plate from his briefcase, and did a quick presto chango with the rental car company’s original plate. Fleming couldn’t afford to be traced. He had paid for his lowly standard queen-sized room in cash and stole the new license plate from a Prius in the long-term airport parking lot the evening prior. He had covered his tracks and replaced the Prius’s plate with another stolen one so when the car’s owner returned from God knows where, they likely wouldn’t notice.

  The Explorer cruised onto M-10 and passed the Joe Louis Arena. Fleming self-consciously tugged at the cuff of his soft pink Italian-made long-sleeved shirt as he drove. Late July in Detroit and here he was with every part of his body covered, except his hands, neck, and face. Fleming owned no Polo shirts, no T-shirts, and, God forbid, one of those flimsy tank tops that looked like it came straight from the Walmart rack. If he didn’t still have the damn scars from the fire that scorched his arms above the wrist, he wouldn’t need to always cover up.

  Fleming snapped open a briefcase on the passenger-side floor that held his designer dark glasses inside. He placed them on the bridge of his nose and eased his Smith & Wesson out of his case, placing it on the console next to him. His eye caught the leather binder that held his cache of passports, each with a different name: Brock Valentine, Stanley Sterling, and George Le Troc. He wedged the binder deeper into his three-thousand-dollar l
eather briefcase. When the passports were safely out of sight, including the one with his latest alias, Kirk Fleming, he closed the case with a quick, one-handed zip.

  The I-75 on-ramp sign appeared in the distance just as a series of beeps sounded from the SUV’s console.

  “Son of a gun,” Fleming said. The tank had been full when he got the car from the lot, but now the low fuel light was on. Fleming had been bone-weary when he picked up the car last night after three consecutive flights, starting from Punta Cana International Airport in the Dominican Republic, to JFK, and then back home to good old Detroit, a place he hadn’t seen in years. But no amount of fatigue could keep Fleming from making the trek north even if it was just to pass by what he’d been fixated on for the past three decades.

  The plan to return to Detroit was quickly set in motion just a week prior, when Fleming had called his old colleague Chip Haskell, to whom he’d paid five grand a year for the past thirty years to store Fleming’s property. But even more so, the money was paid every fifth of the month, always on time, to ensure Haskell kept his mouth shut.

  Back in the Dominican Republic, Fleming had gotten word that he might have a narrow window to return and make a quick grab, in and out, for what was rightfully his. Fleming didn’t need to think twice about the opportunity. He wasn’t a man who cooled his heels and waited for someone else to call the shots, but Haskell had insisted they wait until this morning to meet, and then they’d go to Haskell’s hiding place to do the exchange. Fleming wasn’t excited he had to wait an extra day to claim his property, or the fact that he had dropped a total of $150,000 to Haskell through the years, but in the scheme of things, the money was chump change.