Wolfs clothing, p.23
Wolf's Clothing, page 23
“Pearly Sue.”
“We could use her. Assign her to the United Kingdom Embassy and she’d ferret out the spies before breakfast.”
“She would, too. But she’s all mine. I need her instincts.”
“So, if I can’t have her, what can I do for you?”
“Recall your lecture about—”
“Lecture? Do I lecture? I had hoped I was entertaining, at least, to you.”
“The hand gestures that go along with your lectures make it entertaining.”
“I don’t know that my students find it entertaining.”
“Try and get them to look up from their smart phones or notebooks long enough to see who’s doing the talking.”
“Easier to say than do. So—now tell me—”
“I need to know how far along you are in cataloging faces on social media, like Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest?”
“Ah, you’ve got a face for me?”
“I do.
“What’s the quality?”
“It’s not the quality so much as the angle of the face. The man was wearing a hat and looking up for a second to see the video at a mall entrance.”
“This a case of yours?”
I wanted to say no, I’m just putting you through your paces because you are so very pompous. Although he wasn’t. “It is, and I recall you saying you have the best facial recognition technology in the world.”
“Your chief of police and Lieutenant Lake didn’t think so.”
“You’re a fed and cops will take on Washington any and every day they can.”
“To answer your question. Yes, we are collecting faces, and not just static face shots. We’ve got quite a collection now.”
“Isn’t there a privacy issue?”
“You’d better, for your case’s sake, hope not. But no, people put themselves out there, without using the blocking software, and they’re ours for the database. You heard my lecture. Facial recognition relies on the fact the person’s image has to be in a database first—like fingerprints or DNA or eye irises. We getting where we can database posture and sweat.”
“Sweat?”
“Actually it’s secretions. People leave things behind that don’t always have cells for DNA testing.”
“Smelly job you have.”
My cell phone rang. I raised it from my desk and looked at the panel. Lake. I would call him back.
“It’s all about stem cells,” I heard Gary say. “The strategy is to molecularly characterize the different kinds of stem cells in general populations that make up the sweat glands of the skin. With this information in hand, we study diverse populations and how they differ. We’ll get a picture of the race, ethnicity, etcetera of the person we’re seeking.”
“We don’t need to dive into that database,” I said.
“Is that a way of saying I’ve lectured astray?”
“Um-hum. I’m quoting you here. You said you use numerical algorithms to distill the image and compress it to reduce deviation in a unique geometric technique, which looks at individual features of the face.”
“You remember, I’m impressed.”
I imagined his hand palm down. I said, “People on the move are hard to pin down facially. Our man in the bucket hat is on the move and we’re looking at him from overhead.”
“Send the video and I’ll take a look, or have the lab do it. They’re doing wonders with new three-D techniques, too. We’ve captured a lot from Google and Facebook to experiment on. You think you’re bucket hat man has a Facebook or Google page?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Send it along, Miss Dru, and I’ll get on it. Any need me coming to Atlanta to help you out?”
“While we’re talking, let me run this by you.”
“Shoot.”
“You said a small percentage of special agents are members of the State Department’s civil service and focus on criminal work within the United States.”
“True. We do.”
“Our case touches on that of a San Francisco undercover cop who got into trouble sniffing and snorting the goods he was supposed to take off the streets. This goes back some twenty-five years ago. He was a hero cop and so the department helped him with a new identity to protect him from people he put in prison, some of them the meanest of the mean. Then, it seems those bad guys he put away caught up with him and a house was torched, apparently with him in it. I say apparently because we seem to have run up against him in a murder case that happened about ten years ago. Can you find out the truth about this man?”
“I’m intrigued. I’ll need more data.”
“As Carter Donahue, he was a member of the San Francisco Police Department’s Organized Crime Bureau. I assume this is his birth name. He’d been with SFPD for years and had a stellar record. Commendations for bravery, etcetera. Gets hooked, must leave the force and disappears into some security program. We don’t this for sure, but probably.
“Then as Casper Doyle, he was undercover with the New Orleans Police Department. Someone found out who he really was, and he and two friends were wiped out in a revenge killing. From what we found, Caspar Doyle was maybe back in the witsec program. In a major prison release because of overcrowding, one or some of the former inmates blew up the house where he stayed. They never could pin the deed on anyone of the releasees. Now as Colin Dempsey—”
“Like it,” he said with enthusiasm. “Really like it. Has substance. The guy uses his initials.”
“Yep. As Colin Dempsey he moved to Atlanta, became a minister of music and lives in a swanky city neighborhood. Once we questioned him about our case, he disappeared. His wife’s name is Carletta.”
“What’s your case about?”
“An abducted APD canine.”
Obviously I couldn’t see his reaction, but he was quiet for a brief time. “I see. From a Saudi prince to a police dog. I like a girl that’s flexible. I’m on your cases. Get me the video and stills. What’s the dog’s name?”
“Buddy. And I miss him.”
“Good luck. I’ll do all I can for you and Buddy.”
“Thanks Special Agent Scheel.”
“Gary, please.”
***
I picked up the phone to call Lake; then hesitated.
No hesitation, girl, remember the time you walked into our favorite steakhouse with a good-looking man you’d brought back from Denver? And then made lame excuses once you’d arrived at the restaurant. The man was a major player in the case, but you had ignored Lake’s cell call. He wanted to know when your plane would land and to tell you that he was free to pick you up. Instead you rented a car and drove the man to the restaurant. Major embarrassment all around. You should have called Lake and warned him you were bringing the man from Denver with you.
So, don’t dither. You made your decision. Live with it.
After I’d explained the quintessentials of my conversation with Gary Scheel, Lake said nothing.
After an awkward wait, I said, “I thought because you’re bogged down in murder, you’d appreciate the help.”
“He’s a fed.” Flatly stated, and true.
“That doesn’t mean he can’t help us.”
“We can help ourselves.”
“There are feds you’ve liked and worked with.”
“I choose them.”
“So, I’ve chosen Gary Scheel. He’s a decent guy and willing to help identify the man at Phipps Plaza if he happens to be on social network and they’ve captured his face with the software.” Silence. “That’s all. We need all the help we can get. Buddy is still missing.”
“Haskell’s not going to like this.”
“Has anyone there tried facial recognition on bucket hat?”
He sighed. “No, Dru. We haven’t. Like you said, we’re bogged down in murder and last night three thugs shot up a house on the south side, killing a pregnant fifteen-year-old girl.” He paused and sighed again. “Good thinking. Really, I mean it. I like that the fed has a long reach and with the Dempseys in the wind— Good work.”
“You’re not mad?” How simple did that sound?
“Not unless he comes into town and takes over my cases and my girl. Second thought, he can have my cases.”
“Can you get away this evening?”
“You’re asking me for a date?”
“It’ll be a threesome.”
“Dru—”
“Not funny?”
“No.”
“With Mary Erin Edwards.”
“The errant Erin?”
“Hawaii Erin is flying in this evening, landing at four-thirty. I’d say give her a couple of hours to collect herself before we take her to dinner. Child Trace will pay.”
“Eight o’clock is good for me.”
“Meet you at the Georgian at eight. I’ll tell you about Daniel Garian’s missing years then.”
“Cannot wait.”
I laid down the cell.
He’s pissed. And I’ll pay. Gladly, if Scheel can deliver for me.
22
Web came into my office and reported that he’d caught up with Sal and Paco after their ball practice. He took them to The Varsity, Atlanta’s famous and delicious grease pit. He tossed a receipt for thirty-two dollars on my desk. “Those two can eat!”
“Don’t I know it. Any help for my bucks?”
“Iffy. None fit the video photo of the man in the bucket hat.”
“Didn’t think they would.”
“Why are you interested in him?”
“He was there. On scene. He had to witness what was going on. Jed was barking like crazy. A truck with a canine ambulance sign on it isn’t an everyday occurrence. If he read or watched the news, I was hoping he had the brains to put it together.”
He laid out the photos he’d taken on my desk, a row of men, and a row of women in the case:
The men: Warner, Liam, Parker, Colin, Ray Kent, Bart Lawson, Daniel Garian, Brad Sanders, Joe Subic, Perry Erskine. Web even dug up a ten-year-old photo of Jon Garian walking down the courthouse steps with his lawyer.
The women: Carletta Arenas (photo taken of her in church), Nita Zhebrenski, Cathilee Grady, Darla Erskine, Erin Edwards Erskine.
“Paco’s the sharp one,” Web said. “I asked them to look at the older guys to see if anyone resembled the man with the lab coat. Paco said the photo of the short, fat man was definitely not one of the men who stole Buddy. That would be the late Daniel Garian. I threw his photo in as a ringer. They lingered on Ray Kent’s face and said, maybe. They didn’t like Jon, Warner, Colin or Bart for the older, lab-coated man.”
I remarked that Bart was a very thin man.
Web said, “For the young guy, Sal liked Brad Sanders, but he didn’t remember the abductor wearing gold loop earrings. But we know he was in Shanty County at the time of the napping. Neither liked Joe Subic for the young guy. As you can see, Subic’s a tall man, medium build, olive skin and black short hair.”
“That leaves the fair-haired Perry Erskine.”
“Paco couldn’t be dead sure. The photograph here shows him straight-faced, and Paco said the young guy had a mean look.”
I thought a minute. “Well, if it’s not Perry Erskine, it’s someone resembles him.”
“Better alert Pearly Sue,” he said, looking at his watch. “Her plane’s about ready to go wheels up.”
“Will do. One thing though. He drives a Jeep Cherokee, not an Audi. And at the paint store, according to APD’s interviews, the girl thought the older man could have been Colin and the younger man could have been Perry Erskine. Erskine is thin, but looks to have upper-body strength, and, in both instances, the witnesses seem to be going more by hair color and body build than face.”
“Faces are hard to describe,” Web said, and I agreed.
“Now for the women.” I pointed to Nita’s photo. “There’s more that she isn’t telling us. There’s a lot that happened that night that we don’t know about. She was there.”
“She won’t change what she said in court. She’s scared of going to jail,” Web said.
“Or being deported, more likely.”
“She married an American.”
The phone rang in Web’s office and he zipped away to answer it. Ten minutes later he was back. “The Athens cop I spoke to says Darla Erskine was on the road with the soccer team for the relevant time.”
“Atlanta?”
“Two matches here, the day before and the day of.”
***
I made a decision. When I closed my office door, I took a deep breath and headed for the cop shop to meet Lake there.
“Got lucky,” Lake said when I sat in front of him.
“Luck is always welcome.”
“Demetrios Hammer bragged he got a kill job from a white guy he met up with in Forest Park a couple of days before Amos was hit. No name, no description. Just a white guy.”
“A white guy. We have several of those.”
“Hammer was flush with cash and bought a shit load of meth to resell.”
“Who did he brag to?”
“I already told you.”
***
Lake valeted his own car, not the squad car this time, and we walked up the steps of the Georgian Terrace and into another time, another place. This hotel had always been a special place in my memories and in this, the now.
I inhaled the elegance of its floor-to-ceiling windows, crystal chandeliers and white marble columns, which was just the kind of glamour needed to host the premiere gala of Gone with the Wind two generations ago.
GWTW: Atlanta’s movie; Atlanta’s anthem.
The Georgian Terrace on Peachtree Street in Midtown Atlanta is a part of the Fox Theatre Historic District. A plaque on display said it was designed by architect William Lee Stoddart in the Beaux-Arts style. That architectural style brought Paris to the South, so they said. Built in 1911, the hotel’s guest list included presidents, famous authors and movie stars. I saw members of the Fleetwood Mac band here when I was sixteen. My grandmother saw Enrico Caruso in person when he was performing with the Metropolitan Opera in Atlanta. My mother travelled by streetcar to see Walt Disney and his movie, Song of the South, at the Fox then stayed the night here.
I was about to say something about the ambience when Lake said, “Dru stop gawking at the background and look for our target.”
I spotted the woman who had described herself as: “Tanned, red-hair (not my original color, but close), wearing a blue ankle-length dress with a white bolero jacket, sandals, and carrying a white handbag.”
She was definitely a pretty woman, the kind of petit woman that makes me feel like an Amazon, although I am not wide of shoulder and hip, just tall. Lake turned away from her glance, and said, “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Fits the description.”
“Who’s the dude?”
The dude was a tall blond-haired man more than ten years younger than Erin. “Don’t know.”
Erin advanced, having recognized me by my description. She extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Erin Edwards. This is my partner, Avery Thomas.” Her green eyes danced in her small face as if knowing we were surprised at her companion.
Thomas said how do you do; and Lake and I introduced ourselves.
“Let’s get to our table and we can sort each other out,” Erin said. She made a fine real estate lady.
The maitre d’ led us through the high-ceiling room past life-size photographs of famous people who had graced the rooms—Clark Gable, Calvin Coolidge, Walt Disney, F. Scott Fitzgerald. It made me wish we were going to a movie across the street at the fabulous Fox. Sad to say, I wouldn’t know any of the stars.
After arranging ourselves on high back wooden chairs inlaid with leather, Erin took the lead, “I love this place.”
“So do I,” I said.
She went on as if I hadn’t interrupted. “Mama was from Madison, Georgia. Eons ago, when her mother brought her to Atlanta to Rich’s to shop, they stayed here. Then when I was a little girl we lived in Alpharetta and my mama would book us a room where we’d go to the Fox in the evening and shop downtown all day. We’d have a wonderful ladies’ lunch at Rich’s or we would have Southern food at Mary Mac’s. Oh for those days.” She paused as if she’d return to the past in a heartbeat.
Avery was looking over her shoulder at something that had caught his attention. I thought it was a blond young woman two tables over.
Erin bucked up. “Any time I’m in Atlanta to stay overnight, this is where I stay. I’m happy to see its renaissance. For a long time it was just residence hotel.”
Lake said, “It closed for a while in the eighties. There was even talk of tearing it down.”
Erin laughed. “The Historical Society stepped in and got the Fox Historical District declared on the National Register of Historic Places, and so the city had to rethink its demise. I had to come back to Atlanta for business a couple of years ago and was happy to see that it had been returned to a hotel. That’s when I discovered this restaurant. It’s modern, but still glamorous.”
The waiter came, introduced himself and took our drink orders. I called for gin and tonic, and so did Erin. Avery and Lake ordered martinis. When the waiter left, there was that awkward vacuum that signified a topic change—the reason for this meeting and Erin’s return to a past just ten years ago. “Well,” she said. “So here we are; time to speak of dreadful events.”
“It’s something that has to be,” I said, not real sure of my words.
She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I moved to Hawaii to get away from the horrible mess that invaded my life. I come from a comfortable background. My parents are lovely Southerners who live in an old antebellum home. My father owned an insurance brokerage firm and is retired now. Mama was schooled as a nurse back in the day when women only taught school or worked in a hospital. She stopped nursing when my brother and I were born. I graduated from the University of Georgia with a degree in history. I always wanted to be a historian. Not just to teach history, but to study it. But, here I am, a saleswoman having to make my own living.”
Avery reached over and put his hand over hers. “You are a successful career woman, Erin. And don’t forget your work with the Hawaiian Historical Society.” He looked at us like he was her proud daddy. “Erin is the newsletter editor, too. She brings such delightful, informative articles to the paper.”
