Black Lace Read online

  Drake also knew how much Burt enjoyed being the mayor’s official driver, so it pained him to say, “I’m going to have to let you go, Uncle Burt.”

  Burt turned and stared at his nephew. “What? Why!”

  Drake gave him an incredulous look. “Why? This is your third accident in the last year.”

  “Firing me’s not right,” Burt grumbled.

  “Neither is running a woman into the ditch,” Billy Cruise tossed out from behind the steering wheel.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “I know that, Unc, but you’re endangering everybody on the road, including yourself, driving so fast all the time.”

  “Can’t help it. Race driving’s in my blood.”

  “I know that too, but as much as I hate to say this, your reactions aren’t what they used to be.”

  “You saying I’m old?”

  “Yes.”

  The seventy-two-year-old Burt sat up angrily. “Boy, I was driving hot rods before you were born.”

  “Bingo!”

  Bested, Burt slumped against his seat and groused, “You always were smarter than I could stand.”

  Drake smiled. “Thanks. And you are the best uncle in the world hands down, but your driving days with me are over. Sorry.”

  Drake glanced at his uncle’s sullen face. “Look at it this way—not driving for me leaves you free to drive those hot little church widows around on their errands.”

  “All those crows want is my pension.”

  Drake chuckled. “You may need one of those crows one day.”

  “Maybe, but it’ll only be at night.”

  The men’s laughter filled the car.

  As they entered the heart of downtown, Drake looked out at his city. On the left was the Detroit River shining blue in the cold sunshine, and on its far bank the Canadian city of Windsor, Ontario. Visitors to the area were often amazed by the city’s close proximity to its international neighbor, and those with an interest in the fabled underground railroad could see why the abolitionists in Detroit were able to ferry thousands of escaped slaves to freedom; Canada was just a short boat ride away.

  The limo passed the huge, green marble sculpture of the man known as the Spirit of Detroit. Whenever any of the local teams made the playoffs, the Spirit was always dressed in a matching jersey to show his support. Red for the NFL Red Wings and blue for the NBA Pistons. Thinking about how cool the Spirit looked decked out in a Piston jersey during the team’s last championship run made Drake smile. In spite of the city’s negative reputation, Drake, like the nearly one million citizens within its borders, loved the city for its vibrancy, spirit, and tenacity. Many of the suburban naysayers spent their lifetimes telling anyone who’d listen their take on why the city was the way it was, but Drake didn’t care. The city was coming back. His administration was adamant about restoring the neighborhoods, fixing the schools, and giving the taxpayers a city that worked.

  Cruise pulled into the city garage. After parking, he got out and gave the keys to the attendant, Malcolm Ford, a former boxer who worked the garage by day and studied to be a lawyer at night. Drake liked the man a lot.

  “Hey, Mayor Randolph. Looks like you had an accident.”

  Drake checked out the damaged bumper and busted headlight. “Hey, Malcolm. Yeah, we did. Old Speedy Gonzales here strikes again.”

  Malcolm smiled over at the stony-faced Burton and said, “You okay?”

  “Yeah, but His Honor’s firing me.”

  Everyone could hear the anger and the hurt in his voice.

  Malcolm, trying to act as peacemaker, said, “Well, Mr. Randolph, what if you crash and really hurt somebody one of these times?”

  Burton looked his nephew in the face and said, “I suppose.” Then added, “I’m going to file my report and clean out my desk.”

  He walked away.

  Drake felt bad, but the decision was a necessary one. “I had to let him go.”

  “I know you did,” Lane said. “Everybody around here wanted to know why you didn’t do that the last time. We all like Unc, but not behind the wheel.”

  The last ticket Burton had received came courtesy of a trooper with the Michigan State Police. He’d clocked the limo at 95 mph on one of the city freeways. Burton blamed the excessive speed on blowing the carbon out of the cylinders in order to keep the engine in tip-top shape. The trooper hadn’t believed a word of it. Burton was given a huge fine, and some points on his license for good measure.

  Malcolm asked, “So, Mayor Randolph, who’s going to be your driver now?”

  Drake shrugged, “Oh, I don’t know. How’s your driving record?”

  Malcolm stared, then said, “It’s great. Excellent. I, uh, even have a valid chauffeur’s license from when I drove for the limo people at the airport last year.”

  “Think you can come up to my office later so we can talk about pay, duties, etcetera?”

  Malcolm nodded like a horse. “Yeah, yeah. Who else you considering?”

  “No one.”

  Malcolm stood speechless.

  Drake smiled and said, “I like to help a man who’s getting his life together.” He patted the amazed-looking Malcolm on his back. “See ya later.”

  Drake and his body guards were halfway across the garage and on their way to the elevator before Malcolm found his voice and yelled, “Thank you, Mayor Randolph! Thank you!”

  It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon when Drake stepped off the elevator onto the mayor’s floor of the building. His hopes of finding the corridor outside of his office empty were dashed by the line of people awaiting his arrival. Today was Friday, and Fridays were Talk to the Mayor Day. Most times the citizens were lined up like they were at one of the neighborhood clinics, coming to complain about everything from bus service to the time the libraries closed in the evenings. Every now and then someone would show up and say, “Good job,” but those people were rare.

  Today’s snow must have kept the citizenry at home. In line instead were a few department heads, a representative from the Chamber of Commerce, and two administrative assistants who worked for members of the City Council. He didn’t recognize the other seven or eight people. He gave them a nod but didn’t stop moving; he knew better.

  He entered and waved to the bevy of secretaries. Out of one of the side offices stepped his chief assistant, Rhonda Curry. She had a body by Fischer and a brain by MIT, her alma mater. Today she had on a hot red suit guaranteed to singe a man, but Rhonda was lesbian and proud. “Lots of calls about the snow. Parents are mad that the schools weren’t officially closed, and Councilwoman Draper and her buddy Councilman Parker want you to call them.”

  Drake had no intentions of putting either one at the top of the list. All they wanted to do was argue. “What’re they pissed off about now?”

  Rhonda followed him into his main office. He tossed his coat on the couch and went behind his desk to look at the stack of messages waiting for him to read. He glanced up at her.

  “They want to know if you’re really rehiring Dr. Shaw.”

  Drake stared. “Do they have my office bugged? How’d they find out?” Dr. Denise Shaw was his pick for the new school superintendent job. She’d had the job with the last administration but was fired for shaking things up too much. Drake wanted her back because she was the kind of superintendent he thought the city schools needed.

  Rhonda shrugged her red-suited shoulders. “No idea.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That the mayor hasn’t made a decision yet.”

  “Thank you. What else is burning on the stove?”

  Rhonda looked down at her yellow legal pad and read off a list that started with a broken water main flooding a street on the west side, a call from the governor concerning a conference she wanted Drake to attend next week, and finished with notes about a story in the morning paper concerning a city bus driver who not only had no valid operator’s license, but had been involved in fourteen accidents in t
he last two years.

  Drake shook his head hearing that one.

  Rhonda added, “I’ve handled most of them. The water department has been on the break since late this morning, and I called the bus garage and told them to put that driver on suspension.”

  “Good job.” Drake had no idea where he’d be without Rhonda’s unflappable assistance. “And the mob outside?”

  “They all have appointments but shouldn’t take long.”

  “You always say that.”

  She gave him a smile. “Makes you feel better.”

  “Yeah right,” he cracked. “Let me change out of these wet shoes and then send in the first one.” Before she could leave, he said, “Oh, and call Triple A. Find out if they’ve towed the car we hit this morning, and where they took it.”

  “How’s the victim?”

  “Hurt her ankle. She should be up and around in a few days.” Lacy’s dark face hovered in his memory while he shuffled through the messages and sorted them into piles according to importance. He put the one from his mother on top. “Name’s Lacy Green. Works downstairs in the Environmental Office, I think. Do you know her?”

  “Nope. Is she going to sue?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, we’ll keep a good thought. I’ll find out about her car.”

  “Thanks, Rhon.”

  “You bet. I’ll send in the Chamber brother first.”

  “Fine.”

  And so Drake’s day began.

  It was after nine when Cruise pulled up to the circular drive of the east side mansion that served as the mayor’s official residence and let Drake out. A few feet away sat the unmarked police car holding the two police officers who made up the night shift. As mayor, Drake had 24/7 protection. He thought it unnecessary. His police chief didn’t agree, and because she carried a gun and Drake didn’t, the bodyguards stayed. He gave them a wave and went inside.

  The dark silence of the house’s interior washed over him as he hung up his coat in the foyer closet. He turned on a lamp with a bulb that glowed just enough to beat back the shadows. The place was large and elegantly furnished. The huge windows that ran the length of the house offered a spectacular view of the river and the lights of the Windsor skyline. On the mansion’s professionally painted walls hung framed art from his personal collection and a few pieces on loan from the city’s largest museum, the Detroit Institute of Arts. The residence was one of the city’s jewels, but for all the joy it gave Drake he may as well be living in a cave.

  For him, the mansion was just another reminder of his responsibilities as Detroit’s CEO. In a perfect world, he’d have someplace to go where he could be off the clock. If only for a little while. In this mythical someplace he would ditch the bodyguards, the pager, the chauffeurs and the press, and just be Drake. Plain old Dr. Drake Randolph.

  He clicked on the lights in the state-of-the-art kitchen and walked past the gleaming, brushed metal appliances and over to the fridge. He pulled out the food his mother had sent over before he left for San Antonio and wondered if it was safe to microwave and then eat seven-day-old macaroni and cheese? He set it on the counter nearby and pulled out the remains of the turkey. Pulling back the foil showed a dried and shriveled carcass that looked as questionable as the macaroni. He deposited it all into the trash, closed the fridge door and sighed. Pizza again. He toyed with the idea of jumping into his car and making the ten minute drive down Jefferson to his brother Mykal’s house. Myk’s wife, Sarita, would feed him until he couldn’t move, but Drake nixed the idea. Myk and Sarita were married a little over a year ago, and he’d eaten there at least four days a week when he was in town. Neither minded his company, but lately, with Sarita’s baby on the way, he was beginning to feel like a third wheel, and was trying to keep his visits to a minimum.

  With that in mind, he pulled out his phone, called the policemen outside to alert them to the pending delivery and to ask if they wanted anything. He then punched up the pizza place and placed his order. Done with that, he headed for his bedroom and the relief he knew would come from a long hot shower.

  Somewhere in Lacy’s dream the phone was ringing. Determined to ignore it, she burrowed deeper under the blankets, but the insistent sound wouldn’t go away. When she opened her eyes and realized it wasn’t a dream, she groaned and reached for the handset on the nightstand. “Yeah?” she said groggily.

  “Girl, why didn’t you tell me it was the mayor who hit you?”

  Ida.

  “Ida, I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Well, wake up, because you’re on the eleven o’clock news.”

  Lacy closed her eyes, cursed silently, then said, “Call me tomorrow.” And hung up.

  The next morning, Lacy awakened with aches and pains in places that had never had aches and pains before. The backs of her shoulders, the edges of her thighs. She guessed it came from being tossed around in the car during the accident. Every inch of her body radiated soreness. Especially her neck. She moved it gingerly and the tenderness made her wince. Figuring a hot shower might do her some good, she struggled to sit up. The voice in her mind asked how she planned to shower on crutches and with a wrapped-up foot. Since she had no answer, she settled on washing her face and brushing her teeth.

  With her feet up and a bowl of microwave oatmeal in her hand, Lacy turned on the morning news. It was a little after 8:00 A.M. and usually by now most of the local news programs had come and gone, but Channel 2 ran news until nine. She dreaded the idea of seeing herself on the tube, but needed to see what everyone else in the city had seen. After a commercial for vinyl windows, one for a local casino, and a preview of the Montel Williams show, the female anchor came back on, saying, “Now, here’s a look at our mayor at Henry Ford Hospital yesterday. According to sources, the woman in the wheelchair was struck by the mayor’s limo during yesterday’s storm and forced off of I-94…”

  Seeing herself hiding behind her tote like a mafia don while the mayor pushed her to his limo made Lacy lower her spoon and shake her head. The camera showed the press yapping like a pack of excited terriers. The mayor looked grim. While the footage ran, the anchor added, “So far, the woman remains unidentified, but an unnamed source at the hospital said the victim may be a city employee. No reports on whether the mystery woman will sue the city. In other news….”

  Lacy clicked off the remote. At least they didn’t have her name. Yet. She had the sinking feeling that the outing of her identity would only be a matter of time. Not pleased, she went back to her bowl of oatmeal.

  Later, a call to the tow company only added to her mood. She was told by a gum-chewing young woman on the other end of the line that the Escort had been towed to four different body shops, but due to the totality of the damage and the advanced age of the vehicle, no one wanted to waste the time running down the ancient parts, let alone fix it. A grim Lacy thanked her, then punched in the number of her insurance agent, who said right off the bat that because so many cars had been in storm-related accidents, it was going to be Thursday at the earliest before they could even send an adjuster out to look at the car. Not happy, Lacy related to the agent what she’d been told by the body shops.

  The woman replied, “Then we may have to go ahead and total your Escort out, Ms. Green.”

  Lacy liked the sound of that. “If you do, when can I expect a check?”

  “Six to eight weeks.”

  Lacy was appalled. “What am I supposed to drive in the meantime?”

  “Well? Oh, sorry, I have a call on another line. I’ll get back to you.”

  And she hung up.

  Lacy was so outdone, all she could do was stare at the phone and promise to find a new insurance company as soon as this mess was resolved. “Six to eight weeks my ass,” she said out loud, and tossed the phone onto the bed beside her.

  Following Dr. Carson’s advice, she did her best to play Cleopatra, but the phone kept ringing. By mid-afternoon she’d talked to her mother, then her father, who was on lunch break,
Ida—twice—and now she was talking to the building manager, who’d called to let her know she had a package waiting downstairs. “I’m on crutches, Wanda. Can you have somebody bring it up?”

  “Sure can.”

  When Lacy heard the knock, she grabbed the crutches and crossed the bare floors to the door. Once she got it open, the sight of Drake Randolph standing there holding a huge vase of roses almost made her fall over. She knew she was staring like an idiot, but…“Hi,” she finally managed to say. “What are you doing here?”

  “Was on my way to a luncheon. Thought I’d check on you and bring you these.”

  He held the vase out, but Lacy raised a crutch. “My hands are full, come on in.”

  He entered behind her, asking, “Where do you want them?”

  She nodded at one of the windowsills. “Over there is fine. Thanks.”

  The pale yellow roses were tipped with a blush of pink. They were gorgeous.

  He checked her out from across the room. “Didn’t know if you liked flowers or not.”

  “I do.” Lacy then asked, “Do you always bring flowers to your victims?”

  He smiled. “You make me sound like a vampire or something, but the answer is no.” Then he said directly into her eyes, “I’ve never wanted to take any of them to dinner either.”

  The soft words were powerful. Lacy drew in a steadying breath and swore the room was getting warm, but even as she reacted physically, the logical parts of herself were a bit skeptical. She’d heard all the gossip. The man’s game was legendary, so was he setting her up to be his next conquest? Did he think taking her to dinner and charming her would keep her from suing the city? Because she knew next to nothing about him, she couldn’t answer either.

  He asked her then, “Yes? No?”

  Lacy tried to put him down as gently as possible. “I think, no. The flowers are more than enough. Thanks.” The offer was flattering but she didn’t know him from the man in the moon.