Bury Me When I'm Dead Read Online Free Page A

well-deserved bragging rights on both sides. Natives always told you if they grew up on the west side or the east side of the city. Charlie was an east-sider.
    â€œYeah, we just left there, that’s the family home but they’ve moved. What about the last place of employment?”
    â€œProleus Enterprises, Inc.,” Judy said, then spelled the name. “They own a couple dozen parking lots in the city and also have valet parking contracts.”
    â€œWe heard today the brother might be working at one of the casinos. Maybe he’s parking cars there. Track it down for me, Judy, will you?”
    â€œI’m on it. Hey, can Don hear me?”
    â€œI hear you, Novak,” Don said.
    â€œI sent a picture to your mobile phone, check it out when you have time.”
    â€œDon’t you have some real work to do, Novak?”
    Charlie interceded. “We’re headed to talk to the bookkeeper, Judy, we’ll call in on our way back.”
    Don eased the Pontiac forward in the customs line. Every day 40,000 commuters made the round trip between Windsor and down-town Detroit via the tunnel or bridge, and since 9/11, the crossing was more difficult. There were passport checks, more customs and immigration personnel on hand, and random vehicle searches. Don expected a delay because he had a gun to declare—he never left the office without one of his firearms. Charlie preferred to keep her gun locked in the office safe unless it was absolutely needed. Today they were in luck, the uniformed border guard was someone they knew.
    â€œSo what’s shaking Nelson?” Don asked.
    It took Jack Nelson a moment to recognize Don.
    â€œWell, I’ll be damned, if it ain’t Rutkowski,” he squinted through the driver side window. “And Mack,” he grinned.
    â€œHow’re you doing, Jack?” Charlie smiled back.
    Nelson had lasted less than a year as a recruit at Homeland Security. In addition to classes in profiling, basic forensics, ballistics and negotiations, new DHS agents were expected to qualify in marksmanship and pass monthly physical fitness tests. Jack failed in all the above.
    â€œSo, I hear you two formed your own agency. How’s business?”
    â€œBusiness is pretty good,” Don said. We manage to stay busy. Most of it is routine stuff, though.”
    â€œYou remember Gil Acosta, don’t you?” Charlie asked.
    â€œYeah, I remember him. Mexican guy, snappy dresser, right?”
    Charlie nodded. “That’s him. He’s the third partner in our agency. In fact, we’re working now.” Charlie wanted to get their business done in Canada so they wouldn’t get caught in the afternoon rush hour.
    â€œSo what are you up to today?” Jack asked.
    â€œWe’re doing an interview with a former employee of our client, she lives in North Windsor,” Charlie said.
    â€œLook Nelson, I need to declare my weapon.” Don handed over the customs form and his concealed weapon permit.
    The guard looked at the form. “Still carrying that Ruger, huh? I can recall the time you pulled it on Mack. Rutkowski, you were almost fired.” Jack laughed, remembering.
    â€œThat’s all water under the bridge.” Charlie said quickly. “And speaking of bridges, we figured the tunnel might be faster than the bridge crossing today. You think that’s right?”
    Jack stamped Don’s customs form and returned it along with a brochure on the protocols on Canadian gun laws.
    â€œYeah, I always think the tunnel moves faster this time of day. But when rush hour begins that changes, so you might consider coming back over the bridge. Don’t forget to keep that form with you while you’re here.”
    They thanked Jack, promising to call him for a beer in the not too-distant future. Don pulled into the two-lane stream of traffic into the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel, which was seventy-five feet under the river. Charlie