Easy Prey

by Dan Ames

It took me a quick ten minutes to get there and I knew I was in the right place by the fleet of cop cars and bystanders milling around, some taking pictures with their phones.

  It was another mostly abandoned part of Detroit, which seemed redundant but the city had been experiencing a resurgence recently. Still, there were huge tracts of land, largely vacant except for drug dealers and stray pit bulls.

  The area bordered Grosse Pointe on the south and west.

  A side street two blocks from the scene was a good place to stash my car. I parked there and walked toward the first cluster of cops I saw. Ellen was standing in the middle.

  They all looked at me and the two cops on either side of my sister walked away. I had been a Grosse Pointe cop once, a long time ago. It hadn’t ended well and I was still not a welcome sight for most of the squad. Playing a major role in disgracing the police department tended to not make you very popular.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I asked.

  “It’s not good, John,” she said.

  My sister Ellen was about my height, but thinner and tougher. She had the fine Rockne features, but with brown eyes and dark brown hair, unlike my blue-green eyes and slightly lighter hair color. People said they could instantly tell we were brother and sister, but I figured that was because we were so clearly opposites. In that, I was nice, and Ellen was mean.

  “Yeah, I assumed it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk when you told me my friend was dead.” I looked around at the cops, the cars.

  “This was no car accident,” I pointed out.

  “No, we’re not exactly sure what it is,” she said. “But it wasn’t a car accident.”

  “Shit. Where is he?”

  “On his way to the morgue.”

  Goddamnit. Dave was married. He had four kids. One girl, living in New York. One boy at the University of Michigan. Two girls in high school.

  Holy hell.

  “What do you know?”

  “Not much, and I hate to speculate,” she said.

  “Come on Ellen, it’s me.”

  She looked at me. Even without makeup she was a looker. She’d always been beautiful, but once she became a cop she constantly downplayed her looks, for all of the obvious reasons.

  “First guess would be strangulation,” she said, ignoring her comment about speculating. “He had a rope around his neck.”

  “A rope?”

  She grimaced. “Afraid so.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “A fucking rope. What the hell? Was he tied up? Arms and feet?”

  “I don’t believe so,” she said.

  I thought about that. “Auto eroticism?” I asked. I was reminded of the actor David Carradine, found hung to death in his hotel room. They claimed it was auto eroticism, which as I understand it, was the act of masturbating while severely limiting your oxygen intake. It was supposed to intensify an orgasm dramatically. If you didn’t die, that is.

  Ellen made a face like she’d bitten into something sour. “That would be odd,” she said. “Drive out here? Pull into an alley? Put a rope around your neck and whack off?”

  “Shit,” I said. “Someone killed him. Drove him out here and dumped him.”

  My sister kept her face neutral, but I knew that was the basic conclusion she’d arrived at, too.

  Suddenly, it dawned on me why Ellen had called.

  “You want me to tell Christine, don’t you?” I said. My sister was a lot of things. But sweet and sentimental and thoughtful didn’t apply.

  She nodded. “Yeah. I have to go and tell her, but I figured you could do a lot of the hand-holding stuff since you know them a lot better than I do.”

  Ellen was my big sister, and hadn’t known Dave as well as I had. Still, practically everyone in Grosse Pointe knew everyone else, to a certain extent. But she was right, I did know Christine fairly well and it would probably help if I was there when she found out.

  “At least show me what you have,” I said.

  “Okay,” Ellen responded. “Not much to show you really.”

  She led me over to the dirt and grass-covered alley between the two dilapidated buildings. I recognized Dave’s Buick SUV immediately. It was the only one I knew that sported both a Yale window cling and a DYC sticker for Detroit Yacht Club. Even though Dave could have afforded a top-of-the-line import, he had always chosen to drive a Buick, supporting the idea of buying American.

  “What the hell was he doing out here?” I said to Ellen.

  “Nothing good, that’s for sure,” she said. “A Grosse Pointer out here isn’t looking to be a community volunteer.”

  “Unless he was carjacked, forced to drive out here.”

  “We’re looking into that possibility,” she said. “This is as close as you can come,” she said.

  There were other cops, as well as a detective hovering nearby, writing in their notepads and working their phones. It wouldn’t do for Ellen to allow a civilian too close to the crime scene. If she was accused of contaminating the scene, it would be bad news for her.

  “Any broken windows?”

  “No.”

  Car thieves loved to knock out rear windows which were less noticeable than the main front windows, especially driver’s side. They usually knocked out all of the glass to make it even harder to tell if the window was just down, as opposed to smashed.

  “Any calls from him about his car being stolen? 911?”

  Ellen shook her head. “Nothing so far.”

  I looked around the crime scene. The tape went all the way around the Buick, but there was nothing but long grass and mud. Across the alley in one of the abandoned lots I saw some garbage. Maybe a plastic bag and a beer can or two. There were a few kids on bikes, slowly cruising around, checking out the cops.

  “Who found him?”

  “Young girl on a bike. She peeked inside and saw him. Probably have nightmares for a few weeks.”

  I didn’t bother to ask if I could talk to her, I knew that wouldn’t be allowed.

  “We’ll be done here in about a half hour,” Ellen said. “If you’ve got time, I’d like you to come with me to talk to Dave’s wife.”

  Dread filled my insides.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll wait in my car.”

  Chapter Four

  It was Ellen’s job, so even though I knew Christine much better, professionally we had to have Ellen break the news. We pulled up one after the other in front of the Ingells’ house, a sprawling Tudor on Devonshire Road, in the section between Jefferson Avenue and St. Paul, where the lots were the largest and spread out the most.

  Point of entry for the typical house in these neighborhoods was around a million bucks or so, unless you could find a house owned by a little old lady who hadn’t done any updates in thirty years. Then you could “steal” it for three-quarters of a million, if you were lucky.

  Ellen parked her squad car and got out. I instantly knew the neighbors would all be peering out their windows and soon, it would be like a bomb went off once news of Dave’s death started to circulate around Grosse Pointe. It was a tight community and word would travel like wildfire.

  We didn’t say anything as we made our way up the winding sidewalk. It was a cool evening and the chill in the air hinted at much colder weather on the way. Dave’s yard was immaculate, with a neat boxwood hedge and matching topiary plants on either side of the front porch. Bluestone tile covered the cement porch, and a massive, curved wooden door greeted our arrival. Ellen pushed the lighted doorbell and we waited.

  A cool wind picked up and rattled chimes in a neighbor’s back yard and the faint sound was carried to us, a melodic jumble that perfectly captured the chaos of what was to come.

  The sound of heels on tiles reached us and then the clacking sound of the lock being undone. The big door swung inward and Christine Ingells looked out at us.

  Her family had come from South America a generation or two back and she was a dark beauty. Long black hair, slightly curled, an open face with gorgeous dark eyes. F
ull lips, perfect teeth and a casual elegance. It was easy to see why Dave had fallen so hard for her many years back.

  When she saw me, she started to smile, but then a look of confusion came into her eyes as she registered Ellen’s presence. Instantly, fear and anxiety took over.

  “John, Ellen,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s about Dave,” Ellen said.

  Christine sagged and I stepped in to catch her, but she put a hand out to the door frame and caught herself.

  “What?”

  I could tell Ellen wanted to come inside but she had to answer.

  “I’m afraid he passed away, Christine,” Ellen said.

  Christine lost her balance and this time I caught her as she erupted in hysterical sobbing. I heard footsteps as someone came running down the stairs. I recognized the Ingells daughters, Valentina and Angie.

  “Mom!”

  They were dark-haired beauties like their mother, Valentina a little lighter than Angie. Now, their eyes were wide as I helped Christine to her feet.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Rockne?”

  “Oh my God,” Angie said. “Is it Dad?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen said. “There’s been an accident. Your father passed away.”

  Now, the foyer was filled with tears and sobbing wails. Somehow, Ellen and I maneuvered the three into the living room on the big, soft couch and got them seated together. Christine was sobbing and trying to call someone on her phone. I figured she was calling her sister, who I knew lived only a few blocks away. Ellen went into the kitchen to put some water on the stove for tea.

  Dave was a very successful doctor and his house reflected it. The rooms were enormous, the furnishings top of the line. The art on the walls reflected Christine’s love of Mexico.

  I held Christine after she finished sobbing into the phone to her sister. Somehow the girls seemed to be pulling themselves together, although they looked very much in shock. I knew they were in for a long process full of dark times and their lives had gone from carefree to a day-by-day existence that would never be the same.

  On a side table to the left of the couch was a collection of photos from a recent trip the family had taken. They were all sporting snorkeling gear and sitting on the edge of a boat, clear blue Caribbean water behind them. It was hard to look at. I’d lost a friend, but they’d lost a husband and father.

  Ellen came in with a tray of tea, looking totally out of place in her uniform and gunbelt. The sight of her started the girls crying all over again and Ellen gave me a look of helpless guilt.

  Suddenly, the front door banged open and Christine’s sister, Angela, raced into the living room. She threw herself at Christine and the girls and soon the four of them were hugging. Angela’s husband, Todd, came in and closed the front door.

  He was a physician as well and I was reminded of his always calm demeanor. It didn’t fail here as he came directly to Ellen and myself.

  “We’ve got more family on the way,” he said. I knew that Christine had a large, extended family in the area, in addition to her sister. It seemed that the Ingells house was always full of food, fun and laughter.

  I hoped that one day, it would be that way again.

  Ellen and I both nodded, but I didn’t envy what had to happen next. This was most likely a murder investigation and Ellen would need to ask Christine some questions. I saw her glance at me and decided to get it over with.

  I walked to the couch. “Christine, do you think we could chat with you briefly in the kitchen? We just need to ask you a couple of really quick questions.”

  Christine nodded, and Angela helped her to her feet. I guided her by the elbow into the kitchen and sat her at the island on a tall chair. Ellen positioned herself next to her and I went around to the other side of the island.

  “First, tell me what happened,” she said, her voice a choking sob.

  “We aren’t sure, he was found in his car in a bad neighborhood in Detroit,” Ellen said. Christine began to weep again. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

  Angela came and hovered behind Christine.

  “Is this really necessary?” she asked, her voice had a sharp edge. “I mean, come on John,” she said, looking at me. “Can’t you do this later?”

  “I’ll keep this as quick as possible,” Ellen said, before I could answer.

  Christine nodded, wringing her hands. Angela glared at me.

  “Had anything happened recently with Dave? Any reason someone would want to hurt him?”

  The realization of what Ellen was asking hit Christine like a ton of bricks and she folded in on herself.

  Her face was blurred with tears but finally she looked back up at myself and Ellen.

  And then slowly, she nodded, yes.

  Chapter Five

  “It’s not that there was someone who would want to hurt him,” Christine said. “It’s not like that.”

  Both Ellen and I waited while she sobbed some more. Her nose had really started going too and I wondered how much Kleenex they had in the house. I hoped they bought it at Costco, because then they would have enough to last several years.

  Todd had now arrived and he stood next to Angela, both of them giving me the evil eye. Todd’s was a bit more effective because he was one of those lean guys with muscles that made his veins pop out. He had a big one going on now, from his temple back into his hairline and it was throbbing. I felt its accusatory menace.

  “It’s just that there was an issue at the practice. With one of the docs,” Christine said.

  Ellen had her notepad and pen out. “What was the name of the doctor with whom there may have been a problem?”

  It seemed like Christine had a hard time spitting out the name, but after some obvious internal struggle, she softly said, “Barry Kemp.” It was barely a whisper, but I was sure I heard it right.

  I knew Barry Kemp. In addition to being in the same medical practice as Dave, they’d also been fairly good friends outside of work. I seemed to recall several parties where Barry had been invited and attended. The image came to mind of a short, but muscular man with close-cropped gray hair.

  “And what was the nature of the problem?” Ellen asked.

  This time, there was no internal struggle at all.

  Christine shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Dave didn’t tell me.”

  The urge to glance at Ellen consumed me, but I fought it. I wanted to see if she knew that Christine was lying, because I sure did. The answer had come too quickly and too easily, even in her aggrieved state.

  Which begged the question, why would she lie? And why now? Perhaps more importantly, how was she able to lie now? Having just found out her husband was dead. It made me reassess a few things I thought I knew about Christine Ingells.

  Or was she really in a state of mind that allowed her to lie? Maybe I was just imagining things. She couldn’t have been lying, and suddenly I felt like a big jerk for thinking so.

  “I really think that’s enough,” Todd said. He was a good-looking guy, short blond hair just starting to go silver at the edges. He had a deep voice, with plenty of command.

  And he was trying to use it now to get me to end the interview. But I knew I couldn’t stop Ellen until she was done.

  “Only another minute,” I said. “I know it’s hard but it’s necessary.”

  A flood of reasons washed over me, but I knew it was pointless to try to judge their merit at this point.

  “Even though you don’t know the exact nature of the problem, do you know what Dave did about it?” Ellen asked. “Or do you know how big the problem was?”

  If Ellen figured Christine was lying, she didn’t show it.

  Christine let out a deep, ragged sigh. Every time Ellen said her now-deceased husband’s name, she visibly flinched.

  Christine’s face showed a moment of annoyance, as if she hated talking shop. “It wasn’t a huge deal,” she said, “but I know Dave had an issue with Barry and that it was import
ant enough that they discussed Barry leaving the practice, which he eventually did.”

  “When you say eventually, do you mean it was a long, protracted process?” Ellen asked. “Were lawyers involved?”

  “After,” Christine said. “Once the decision had been made, Barry was gone and the lawyers got involved. Nothing went to court, but that’s because Dave’s lawyer is second-to-none. He protected Dave from Barry.”

  This brought Ellen’s attention to the forefront.

  “So Dave needed protecting from Barry?”

  This time, Christine looked exasperated.

  “Of course he did,” she said. “Barry threatened to kill him.”

  Chapter Six

  In moments of rare lucidity, he knew it was the wine, not the mental illness. The question of which came first, the query his family members used to debate behind his back and then eventually right in front of him, had never been clear to him either. But that was because of rationalization.

  In a movie he couldn’t remember the name of, someone compared sex to rationalizing by saying it was much harder to go a full day without rationalizing.

  Angelo Flores had done his fair share of making excuses. A bad day. A bad court case. A bad partner meeting. Eventually, they had grown to include a bad career, a bad marriage and eventually, a bad divorce.

  So, he too had wondered what had come first.

  Mental illness?

  He’d always had a problem with depression, that was true. But a very mild, garden-variety.

  But then the booze came along in the form of wine.

  He had made the mistake of telling himself he was going to be a great wine connoisseur. It had always impressed him when men he knew could provide such detailed analysis of a wine they drank. The bouquet. The body. The different flavors. The origin of the grapes. It had all fascinated him. And, if he was being honest, it made him a little jealous. He’d felt a little stupid, even inept, when they spoke so authoritatively about wine.

  So he’d begun to do his research.

  Mostly by drinking.