Dead Wood Part 10

"Dinner at the Rattlesnake Club," he said. "With drinks, appetizers and dessert."

"Oh, come on, that'll cost more than I'll make on this whole case," I protested.

"Okay," he said, putting on his best bartering voice. "I'll limit dessert strictly to sherbet."

"Nuh-uh. Instead of dinner, how about lunch at the Rattlesnake Club? One drink. No appetizers. No dessert."

"Dinner," he said. "One bottle of medium-priced wine, one appetizer, one entree and no dessert."

"Lunch," I said. "One gla.s.s of wine, one appetizer we split, one entree each and no dessert."

I heard him sigh, then say, "Fine. Shoot."

I gave him the number. He accessed a mysterious software program he had on his computer then came back on the line.

"1114 Sheffield. In the village of Grosse Pointe."

"What's the name?" I said, scratching the address down on the back of a receipt from La s.h.i.+sh restaurant. I think that had been with Nate too. I believed he'd devoured an entire plate of hummus and pita bread before our waitress had returned with our drinks.

"It's registered to a Melissa Stark," he said.

The name meant nothing to me.

"Anything interesting going on, John?" he said. Despite all the shenanigans, Nate was still a reporter and he actually did work from time to time.

"I'll let you know."

1114 Sheffield turned out to be a small apartment building two blocks from the village of Grosse Pointe. It was one of the few low-income areas of Grosse Pointe. Most people here were renters. A 'transitional neighborhood' is how realtors and city councilmen would most likely describe it. There weren't many apartment buildings in the village as it tended to conflict with the image Grosse Pointers try to project. Quaint houses are more the order of the day. But a few apartments managed to infiltrate the market and the mysterious Randy had apparently set up shop at one.

I parked the Taurus and went to the main door which had a little grid with four b.u.t.tons and four plexigla.s.sed s.p.a.ces on which three names were written. The fourth was blank.

I pressed the first b.u.t.ton on the list. There was no answer. I tried the second b.u.t.ton. According to the nametag, it belonged to an A. Tanikas. A moment later, a voice rattled through the tin speaker.

"Yeah?" A man's voice. Older.

"I'm lookin' for my buddy Randy."

"So?"

"Yeah, he lives here but there's no answer and his nametag is gone. Don't tell me he moved out he owes me ten bucks."

"Talk to the manager."

"Where?"

"See that blue house across the street?"

I turned. Sure enough, there was a little blue bungalow crammed between two apartment buildings.

"Thanks," I said to the speaker, but Mr. Tanikas had already returned to his present activities. I pictured a retired guy doing a crossword puzzle. But who knew, he could have been a senior engineer at Ford, working on a top-secret engine that would revolutionize the auto industry. You had to be careful with a.s.sumptions.

I crossed the street and knocked on the blue bungalow's front door. Nice spot if you're a manager of an apartment building. You don't have to live in the building and listen to the constant squabbles. But you're close enough to keep an eye on things.

The door opened and I came face to face with the man who possibly held the answers to my questions. He was a small, fine-featured older man wearing khakis and a cardigan. Imagine Ward Cleaver in his early seventies.

I said, "I'm looking for my buddy Randy he used to live in one of those apartments over there." I jerked my head toward his apartment building.

"Randy Watkins?" the old man said and I nearly hugged him. I finally had a last name.

"Yep, that's him," I said.

"Whaddaya mean he doesn't live there anymore? He owes me a month's rent!"

"Well," I said. "I just a.s.sumed, what with his nametag gone."

"Aw, f.u.c.k," he said and there went my Ward Cleaver image. "He never wanted his name there. Said he never got any mail anyway. I put one up once, but the stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d just took it down. Waste of ink and paper from my Label Maker."

Mr. Cleaver narrowed his eyes at me. "Thought you said you were friends."

"Well, he owes me some money-"

I saw the Friendly Cardigan Man's eyes slide off my face and look over my shoulder.

I turned around.

A black Nova.

I got a quick look at the driver and he got a quick look at me, and then he slammed the car into gear and roared around the corner.

Mr. Cleaver said something I couldn't make out and then I was running for the Taurus. I fired it up, slammed it into gear and took off after the Nova.

Twenty-one.

He had a head start, but it was a small one. Plus, I'm no expert on cars, but the old Novas weren't necessarily the fastest cars on the road. And the Taurus, despite its rep as a cla.s.sically boring middle-of-the-road suburban white guy car, had a V-6 with 230 horsepower. Which I was confident could outgun the old Nova in a test of brute strength.

I gambled that he would head toward Detroit. It made sense. There's a tangible sense of lawlessness in the city. Not enough cops, really, really bad criminals all over the place. If you're in a car chase, and if you're a criminal yourself, the best place to go is Detroit. There's much less chance you'll ever be found than if you hightail it out to the suburbs.

So I took a chance and headed straight from the village toward I-94, right up Cadieux. I caught up to my friend in the Nova on the entrance ramp. I got on his b.u.mper and I could make out his head and shoulders. He was a big guy, and judging from the quick glimpse I'd gotten at the apartment building, I was pretty sure I'd never seen him before.

We played cat-and-mouse on the freeway. Randy Watkins had apparently seen every Sylvester Stallone movie ever made because he tried every trick on the book. Using a semi-truck as camouflage. Speeding up, braking down hard. Veering toward an exit ramp, then veering back at the last minute. I tried to get up and get a better look at him, but he always swung back or got behind me. Nevertheless, I did get a few more glimpses, enough to put together my own little 'artist's rendering' in my mind. His hair was light brown, almost blonde. Thick features. A strong jaw. Kind of a pug nose. Big hands on the Nova's steering wheel.

We dodged each other for a few more minutes until finally, Randy made his big move and jumped the shoulder onto an exit ramp. I'd antic.i.p.ated his move and was already in the exit ramp. So after his poor man's Evel Knievel routine, he ended up right in front of me.

Randy led the way into Detroit proper. I soon found myself in not-so-pleasant neighborhoods. Streets with the requisite cars up on blocks, garbage lying around the street. Lots of Detroit citizens standing around on the sidewalks, hands in their oversized shorts. Looking around, waiting for something to happen. Anything to happen.

I started to worry about what Mr. Watkins's plans might be. It was certainly easier to kill someone in Detroit than it was in Grosse Pointe. And if his behavior was telling me anything, it was telling me that Randy had played a part in the murder of Nevada Hornsby and his deckhand. This was not good news. He may have killed before, which meant he may kill again. And here I was cornering him like a rat in a cage.

As if reading my thoughts, the Nova pinwheeled into a narrow alley, yours truly a second or two behind him. I flew down the narrow pa.s.sageway. I could see a big truck maneuvering a garbage dumpster into place.

But no Nova.

I started to brake just as I pa.s.sed a small opening on my left. I quickly realized I'd made a bad tactical mistake as the rear end of the Nova shot out of the narrow alley I'd just pa.s.sed. The Nova clipped my rear end and the Taurus careened into the brick wall. All I heard was screeching metal and the sound of gla.s.s breaking. The car rocked to a stop and I tried to get my bearings. The Taurus had slid around and I was now facing the way I'd come.

And there, in the middle of the road, was Randy Watkins. Lifting a gun and pointing it at the most obvious direction possible.

I dove for the floor just as the sound of shots ripped through the alley. The shots came fast, one right after another. More gla.s.s broke. I heard a ricochet that sounded exactly like it does in the movies. I scrambled along the floor, trying to get to the pa.s.senger door. If Randy was coming, I didn't want to get trapped in the car. I found the pa.s.senger side door handle and pulled, but nothing happened. I reached up but it was unlocked. I pulled the release and threw my weight against the door. Nothing. It wouldn't budge. I panicked, hurling myself against it, over and over again, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder, my mind screaming at the idea of any moment seeing the pug face of Randy at my window shooting me like a fish in a barrel. I kept pounding uselessly at the door, felt it give and then I tumbled out onto the pavement.

At the same time, I heard the most beautiful sound of all. Tires squealed and I nearly wept with joy. I saw the Nova roar out the end of the alley and around the corner.

My heart was racing and I suddenly wanted to be sick. I staggered around the car, my legs weak, my shoulder sagging as if I'd knocked it out of alignment.

Steam poured out from underneath the Taurus's hood and the engine made a bunch of strange popping sounds that could only be the automotive equivalent of a death rattle.

Lights had come on in the alley and only after a moment or two did I realize they were colored lights. Blue and red. A Detroit cop car nosed its way into the mouth of the alley.

Now I knew why Randy had taken off instead of staying around to finish the job. He'd been able to hear sirens. I hadn't.

I couldn't stand anymore. My legs kind of gave out and I sat down on the pavement. Another Detroit cop car slid to a stop behind the first one. The driver's door of the first squad car opened and a big guy got out. He held his gun up and pointed at me. Boy, that was the second gun pointed at me in a matter of minutes and I sure didn't like it.

He slowly walked up to me. Not worried, but not entirely casual, either. I imagined he could see the bullet holes in the rear window.

He waited a long moment, almost studying me with a bemused expression. I figured he would tell me to put my hands up, or to get on my stomach on the ground while he frisked me or took a whack at me with a nightstick.

He did neither.

Instead, he spoke to me. And when he did, his voice sounded beyond casual. He sounded bored.

"License and registration," he said.

Twenty-two.

"It wasn't a bullet," I said.

"Oh don't give me that s.h.i.+t," Anna said. I'd gone through the expected ordeal; a statement at the police department in Detroit, several informational interrogations, paperwork up the yin yang, a stop at the emergency room for two st.i.tches on my arm and now, several hours later, I'd finally come home.

"I'd tell you if I'd been shot," I said. "They taught us that in marriage cla.s.s. Always tell your partner about gunshot wounds."

"What is it then?" she said, ignoring me. Her tone was high cynical and severely p.i.s.sed off.

"A chunk of metal from the car," I said. The truth was, the doctor hadn't been entirely sure. It could have been a fragment from the bullet. A fragment from the winds.h.i.+eld. Or, much less likely, a sc.r.a.pe from the car. In all likelihood, I had been shot. I just couldn't admit it to myself. And I sure as h.e.l.l wasn't about to say it to my wife.

"Shrapnel from the bullet?"

"No, I think it was from the car cras.h.i.+ng into the wall," I said. "I always hated that Taurus."

"Good John, keep making jokes. This is all very funny," Anna said. I was about to respond when the doorbell rang. Anna answered the door and I heard Ellen's voice. I groaned inwardly.

"Well if it isn't the Terminator," Ellen said, waltzing into the kitchen. She went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.

"What the f.u.c.k is going on here, Ellen?" Anna said. Ellen just shook her head, took a pull from her beer and looked at me. Anna stopped looking at Ellen and turned to me. With both of them staring at me, I felt like a rotisserie chicken. Skewered and about to be thoroughly roasted.

My wife and my sister. Talk about the proverbial rock and a hard place.

"He was always a terrible driver," Ellen finally said. "In Driver's Ed in high school, I remember when he was out on a country road and the instructor told him to turn, he drove into the cornfield." She started laughing. "And then the teacher, Mr. Darnell, said, 'I meant turn at the intersection up ahead.'" Now Ellen really went off. The good thing was that she was obviously trying to lighten the situation for Anna, not for me. The worst part was that the stupid-a.s.s story was true.

Anna looked like she still wanted to strangle both of us. My sister and I don't have much in common, but dry sarcasm at inopportune times is about the only genetic strain we share.

"What were you thinking chasing this guy around on your own?" Anna said.

"I couldn't call Ellen. I didn't know anything about the guy," I said. "Hornsby had made an offhand comment about his worker, a guy named Randy, calling in sick. I thought I should follow up, even though I figured it was a waste of time. And if it was a waste of time for me, it sure as h.e.l.l would have been for her."

"Spoken like a true Grosse Pointe taxpayer," Ellen said. "Very considerate of you, John."

"How was I supposed to know that this Randy guy turned out to be such an a.s.shole?"

"Had you even considered it?" Anna said.

"Well I think everyone's a potential a.s.shole," I said.

Ellen sort of laughed at that. Anna's heat dial went up a notch.

"Well it wasn't a total waste of time," Ellen said. "The guy is obviously bad news. Why do you suppose he took such exception with you, John? Other than the obvious."

I looked at her, then wondered why the h.e.l.l I didn't have a beer. Jeez, a guy gets in a gunfight and n.o.body offers him a beer. I puffed up my chest like a prized rooster and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Before I could twist off the top, Anna s.n.a.t.c.hed the bottle from my hand.

"Doctor's orders," she said. Then she twisted off the cap and took a long drink. A regular Florence Nightingale.

"Why'd he try to kill you, John?" Ellen asked again. As tough as my wife was, when my sister got that tone in her voice, it seemed like even the air in the room started looking for a way out.

"Driving a piece of s.h.i.+t Nova would make me feel pretty murderous, too," I said.