Dead Wood Part 14

"Then..."

"Who else would you be? A roadie?"

Again, a lightly self-mocking laugh. He held out his hands and gave a little clap. Like I was a seal who'd just jumped through a hoop at Sea World. "Good point. I'm Teddy Armbruster."

"John Rockne," I said.

He folded his arms and watched me for a moment. I sensed it was going to be one of those little power struggle games. Make the uninitiated feel uncomfortable.

"Well, if that's all you wanted," I said and turned back toward the door.

"John," he said.

I turned back. "Look, Teddy, I've really got to get going. Can you cut the dramatic power bulls.h.i.+t and tell me what you want?"

A few of the bloodsuckers lifted their heads up. It seems challenging Mr. Armbruster wasn't the typical modus operandi.

"You're direct," he said. "I like that."

He fixed those baby blues on me and said, "Did you get all of your questions answered? With Shannon?"

"For now," I said.

"See, that's why I wanted to talk to you," he said. He set the cane on the desk behind him and folded his arms across his chest. It was quite a feat. Both his arms and his chest were pretty thick. I bet he had a Bowflex on his private plane.

Teddy said, "Shannon has to concentrate on the concert, which is only a week away. It's a big deal, back home in front of all her friends. That's a lot of pressure."

"She's used to it by now, isn't she?" I said.

"As well as a million other things," he continued, ignoring my question. "I thought it would be good for you to get these questions in, but from here on out, maybe you should run them by Molly who'll run them by me first and then at the appropriate time, I'll talk to Shannon."

He was a college football coach, I thought. He just diagrammed a perfect case of running interference. Or the famous end-around.

"I know it's your job to make your client's life easier," I said. "But I have a client, too. And it's my job to find out who bashed his daughter's head in. So I'll take your request into consideration, but let's not forget where it falls in terms of priority, okay?"

By now, all the hangers-on were looking at me. I looked over and watched them back. One in particular, a woman in a white silk blouse and red velvet pants, walked over to me.

"Why don't you stay and have a drink," she said.

"Memphis," Teddy said, a stern warning. "I'm sure Mr. Rockne has better things to do."

The woman held out her hand. "Memphis Bornais. I'm Shannon's songwriter."

I took her hand. "John Rockne, private investigator."

"Come along, Mr. Rockne," I heard a voice say behind me. Molly had reappeared.

"Thanks again, Mr. Rockne," Teddy said. "I've enjoyed your directness." Teddy smiled, nodded his head like he'd enjoyed the f.u.c.k out of my company. "You don't hesitate, either. I really like that."

Without hesitation I said, "Plenty more where that came from."

I went back to the office and worked the phones. Oddly enough, my mind wasn't on the case, despite the unsettling meetings with Shannon Sparrow and her slimeball manager.

I decided to call Clarence Barre. He wasn't home, but I left a message telling him I wanted to ask him a few questions about how well he knew, and how well Jesse knew, Shannon Sparrow.

My last call went to Nate. I wanted to ask him what he knew about Shannon Sparrow and her entourage. Nate had an encyclopedic knowledge of local history. He knew anyone and everyone that ever had a significant connection with Detroit.

And on the unlikely occasion in which he didn't know the answer or answers, he could almost always point me in the direction of someone who did.

But I'd be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if I was going to commit to another meal. At this point, I could be labeled an 'enabler' by a psychologist. I felt like Nate was a drunk and as long as he kept helping me, I kept buying him shopping carts full of Budweiser. I'd have to figure something else out.

I punched in his number on my phone.

"I was just about to call you," he said. I could hear background voices, maybe even a siren.

"What, were you going to d.i.c.ker with me over whether or not an aperitif could technically be considered dessert?"

"No," he said. "And it obviously isn't a dessert as it's consumed before a meal. Jesus, haven't you learned anything?"

"Yeah, I now know the difference between pate and a patty melt."

He ignored me and said, "Where the h.e.l.l have you been?" This time, I definitely heard a siren.

"Data entry. It's a part-time job I had to take in order to pay for your restaurant expenses," I said. "I get three cents a word."

"Good, don't be afraid to work extra hours."

"Thanks for the advice. Where are you, by the way?"

"Hey, have you talked to your sister lately?" he said.

"Define lately."

"Like...today?"

"No," I said, wis.h.i.+ng he'd get to the point. "Nate, where are you? What's going on?"

He laughed, a low, deep chuckle, obviously relis.h.i.+ng the news. What reporter doesn't love breaking a story?

"Once again she's proven why she's Chief of Police," he said.

"How so?"

"She found him."

"Who?"

"The guy."

"What guy, Nate?" I was already on my feet, grabbing my car keys and heading for the door when he gave me the news.

"Ellen found the guy who killed Jesse Barre."

Twenty-eight.

It was about as bad as Grosse Pointe gets: a third floor walk-up facing Alter, the street that divides my fair city and the urban decay that is Detroit proper. I don't say that with any degree of sn.o.bbishness, that's just the way it is. In fact, the average Grosse Pointer would love nothing more than to have a thriving, vibrant city next to it. But it ain't happening any time soon. For now, it's duck pate on one side, duck for cover on the other.

The building itself was an ugly structure that probably hadn't met a housing code since Nixon took office. You certainly wouldn't find it on any of the brochures at the Grosse Pointe hospitality center.

The coroner's van was already outside.

I parked the lovely white Sunbird right out on the street. I sort of hoped someone would steal it, that way I could share the embarra.s.sment a little bit.

I climbed the steps and walked inside where I saw my sister standing in the doorway. She had her hand on the b.u.t.t of her gun, and was watching the coroner and crime scene technicians doing their thing. She turned to me as I got to the top of the rickety steps.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" she said. No place was sacred when it came to my sister giving me c.r.a.p.

"Your buddy Nate call you?" she said. Ellen lifted her chin and I saw him outside, talking on a cell phone. He was eating what looked to be a corn dog. I looked around to identify the possible source of the corn dog, maybe a diner or something. Nothing. You had to admit, the guy was pretty impressive.

"My instincts brought me here," I told her.

"Your instincts are about as sharp as the vic's," she said, and gestured toward the inside of the house. She walked off in that direction and I followed. She hadn't invited me to tag along but she wasn't telling me to take a hike, either. I wasn't sure why she put up with me. On good days I believed she liked having me around to watch her back. On bad days I was certain she did it for me out of pity. The successful sister, Chief of Police, pitying her disgraced, deadbeat P.I. brother. The duty of the sister just as important as the duty of the law. Maybe there was a little bit of both in her reasoning to let me hang out. I doubted I would ever know. I sure as h.e.l.l knew Ellen wouldn't tell.

I followed her deeper into the apartment. I wouldn't have imagined it possible for the inside of this place to look worse than the outside, but that was the case. The smell was bad, of course. My sense of smell, always reasonably astute, told me that the death hadn't happened terribly recently. Maybe not long after Jesse Barre had been killed.

We got to the doorway to the living room and I said to Ellen, "Who is the vic, by the way?"

She stopped outside the room where crime scene technicians were finis.h.i.+ng up. Flashbulbs were still popping, I saw fingerprint dust spread all around and the coroner was in the process of removing the body.

"His name was Rufus Coltraine," she said.

"Never heard of him."

"Released from Jackson a few months ago." Jackson, that is, as in Jackson State Prison.

"What had he been in for?" I said.

"Armed robbery. a.s.sault. Attempted murder."

"Nice guy."

"See what's over in the corner?" she said. I stepped past her. There, propped up against the wall, was an astonis.h.i.+ngly beautiful guitar.

A Jesse Barre special. I knew it instantly. The incredible grain of the wood. The styling of the frets, the craftsmans.h.i.+p that was so apparent in every wormholed inch of the thing.

"How'd he die?" I said.

"n.o.body taught him portion control."

Ellen didn't have to give me her version of what had happened, it was obvious. The recently released Mr. Coltraine, like so many convicts unable to adjust to life outside, instantly reverts to his criminal past and goes on the prowl. He spots a lone woman working late at night and he breaks in and gives her a little bit of what he learned in prison. So he kills Jesse Barre. A crime of opportunity. Mr. Coltrane s.n.a.t.c.hes a couple of guitars, buys some crack or heroin or whatever he was into to celebrate, and has just a little too much of a celebratory toot.

End of story.

I looked over the scene before me in the living room. It was a dump in every sense of the word. Stains on the floor, holes punched in the drywall.

Apparently Mr. Coltraine had fallen off the rickety, gutted couch onto the living room floor. Truly a party gone bad. Plastic baggies, spoons and other paraphernalia were carefully marked on the floor.

And a couple feet away was a guitar. My sister walked over to it, stepping carefully. I followed suit until we both stood over it, looking down.

It was a beauty, all right. The wood had a grain I'd never seen before. Almost like a sixties rock concert poster, full of weird vibes and deep patterns you could almost fall into. It was beautiful. A work of art.

"Can you say, 'Case closed?'" Ellen said.

I looked at the guitar again, this time more closely. I had learned a little bit on my studies when I took the case. I recognized the incredible grain of the wood, naturally. I recognized the grain and styling of the neck as well. The bridge. The pick guard. And I knew what the fancy stuff was.

However, there was one giant flaw in the guitar.

I didn't see Shannon Sparrow's name on it.

I remembered what Clarence Barre had told me about the guitar Jesse was building for Shannon Sparrow. He had said that Jesse put a little bra.s.s piece of metal somewhere near the top that bore Shannon Sparrow's name. Like the one on B.B. King's guitar that says 'Lucille.' I saw no such mark.

I looked at my sister.

"Something's not right," I said.

The other people in the room, the crime scene technicians and a few fellow officers, didn't really stop, but it seemed to me that things got a bit quieter.

"What did you say?" Ellen asked me.

"My client told me that Jesse had built a guitar for Shannon Sparrow," I said. "It was her masterpiece. She was making it for Shannon to play at the free concert she's putting on here in Grosse Pointe. With Clarence Barre's help, I've looked for it everywhere. It's gone. It had to have been stolen during the robbery. And this guitar isn't it. Her father described it to me-"

"How did he know?" Ellen interrupted me. "Did he see it?"

"I don't know. She might have told him about it."

"So he didn't actually see the guitar himself."

I turned to her. "Look, Ellen. I don't know what he saw or didn't see. All I'm telling you-"