by Dani Amore
I wondered again about the location. For the thousandth time I wondered the same thing.
Why here?
Why had the call come in from here? Why had Benjamin been running around in the cold? Why had the contract killer been here?
A quick look around the houses showed me nothing I hadn’t already known. Big estates, most of them five or six-plus bedrooms with probably the same amount of bathrooms. Three-car garages usually tucked discretely around the back. Wide, perfectly landscaped lawns.
It wasn’t unheard of to see a vintage American car in some of the driveways. Sixties-era Corvettes for example, seemed to be a hit with this crowd.
Still, it had always bothered me. In general, homicide in Grosse Pointe was very rare. But this particular location had always seemed so unlikely to me. And now that I figured the murder had been a hit, it seemed even more bizarre.
There was really no point in coming here. I still did it occasionally when I was struggling with my past. But honestly, I wasn’t looking for fresh insights. I’d already been over this area so many times I practically could navigate it in my sleep.
Lots of doctors and lawyers and auto executives here. Even some players from the Detroit Lions, supposedly.
Something niggled at my brain. The Detroit Lions. Where I had just heard something about them?
I wasn’t really much of a football fan-
Tripp Collins.
I suddenly sat up straighter.
Tripp Collins. What was it he’d said?
I searched my memory.
A scroll through our conversation led me to the moment when he was talking about his clients.
It finally came to me. He’d rattled off some of his types of clients. Mining magnates, auto czars and NFL players.
Was it possible that one of Tripp Collins’ clients had a place here?
And if so, what did it mean? Was it just a huge coincidence? A young man is murdered in the same neighborhood where one of his uncle’s clients lived?
When I put it into words in mind, it seemed like no big deal. Grosse Pointe was a small community. People lived side-by-side with their doctors, their attorneys, their teachers.
Then again, it could mean something.
That was enough for me. I put the Taurus in gear and dug out my cell phone.
The call went straight to voicemail. Tripp Collins must have either turned his phone off or he was on the line. Another possibility was that he’d seen my number and chosen to ignore it. That was okay. I had a pretty good backup plan.
The husband of one of Anna’s friends worked for the Lions and he was a helpful kind of guy. And he owed me a favor because I’d helped him unload about three tons of landscaping stones while our wives supervised with margaritas in their hands.
So point one, he owed me a favor.
And point two, I had his cell phone number.
I called and left a message asking if he could look up home addresses and tell me if any players had homes in the area I’d just visited.
A geography note here: Grosse Pointe is divided into four sections. Starting at the southernmost end and going north along the lake, the communities in order are Grosse Pointe Park, Grosse Pointe, Grosse Pointe Farms and Grosse Pointe Shores. The homes I was interested in would be in Grosse Pointe Shores.
I figured my buddy could narrow that down pretty quickly.
It might not turn out to be anything.
But I was moving forward and that was the important thing.
Chapter Fourteen
The man he met with wasn’t The Man.
The Spook knew that. It was simple tradecraft and common sense.
No, with the short crew-cut of steel-gray hair and weathered, lined face, the man looked more like a security guard than a wealthy individual who frequently employed specialists like him.
He knew the man as Mr. Ricks. Head of corporate security. The man everyone in the company whispered about when having drinks after work. As in, you don’t ever want to be invited to a meeting with Mr. Ricks. You’ll never come back.
With a view of the Detroit River, the bar they had chosen as their meeting place was a relic of the Motor City’s better days. It was mostly empty, save for a few diehards nursing their drinks. It was too early for happy hour, too late for lunch.
It was a drinker’s bar, with a brass rail and tiered shelves of liquor bottles. A jukebox sat at one end, a seating area with doors to a patio on the other. The doors were closed and the patio was empty.
Too cold to sit outside and the view wasn’t worth the effort.
Mr. Ricks had chosen a booth along the far wall facing the bar. A well-chosen spot with good views of both sets of doors. The Spook liked his style.
“I was worried about you,” Mr. Ricks said. He smiled. The kind of half-grin that has nothing to do with humor.
“You shouldn’t worry, it ages you,” the Spook said. “And you can’t afford that.”
Mr. Ricks had a glass of whiskey, and the Spook ordered a beer.
Mr. Ricks took a sip of his drink. “If anyone looks like a few miles of bad road, I would argue it’s you,” he said. “I heard you had a little bit of a sailing mishap.”
A waitress put a mug of beer in front of the Spook. He waited until she left, and then he raised the glass and took a drink.
“The wind can change direction quite fast out there,” he finally answered. “The important thing is getting back to shore.”
“I hope you got a refund on your ticket,” Mr. Ricks said. “I know my company offers money back guarantees when customers aren’t satisfied.”
The Spook smiled. He wasn’t surprised at the content of the message Mr. Ricks was delivering. And he wasn’t even disappointed. He’d been around the business far too long for any of that.
“Refund is such a dirty word,” he said.
“I agree,” Mr. Ricks offered. “There’s a different word I like a lot better. Extension.”
“What do you like about it?”
“Well, it’s so flexible,” Mr. Ricks said. “Refund is quite abrupt. I say if a job isn’t completed to everyone’s satisfaction, the service provider should be given an extension to finish the job right. Everyone wins.”
The Spook let that thought hang in the air for a moment.
“That only makes sense if the original task wasn’t completed,” he finally said.
A man and woman walked in and went straight to the bar where the bartender greeted them by name.
Mr. Ricks nodded. The Spook waited while the man across the table from him weighed his words carefully.
“The situation is ongoing,” Mr. Ricks said. “It has not been completed.”
“I would point out that the original contract has been permanently completed. A parallel development has arisen. That is the only situation that is ongoing. And if a service provider is tasked with an ongoing project, the funding should be ongoing as well.”
The Spook could spew this kind of corporate bullshit all day long. The CIA had nearly bored him to death with it. His beer was empty and he had no desire for a second.
“I certainly understand your position,” Mr. Ricks said. He rattled the ice cubes in his glass. “However, I don’t necessarily agree with it.”
The great thing about being a freelancer, the Spook thought, was freedom. The liberty to walk out of a meeting whenever you wanted to. When you worked for a company you didn’t have that option. But now, he could see that this discussion was over. That the matter had been decided.
“It was a pleasure discussing sound business practices with you Mr. Ricks,” he said. “Please give me a call if you need any more clarification.”
The Spook slid from the booth and walked outside. There was a blues bar a few blocks over he’d gone to many times but it was closed now. Its windows were boarded up and all of its signs taken down. Weeds grew over the sidewalk in front.
He walked toward it, then circled around and approached the parking lot to his right. It was e
asy to spot the Cadillac Escalade backed into the space next to the exit, the engine idling.
The Spook waited a moment, figuring Mr. Ricks was paying the bill inside. A seagull flew overhead, away from the river. Probably heading into the city. Plenty of garbage to pick through.
It only took a few minutes for Mr. Ricks to appear. He approached the big SUV on the passenger side, opened the door and climbed inside. The driver, who was no doubt there to provide security for Mr. Ricks, turned his head to say something to his boss. The Spook left his vantage point, walked to the driver’s side of the SUV and drew his automatic with the silencer attached. He shot the driver in the head. Mr. Ricks struggled in his seat, already having drawn his seat belt across his chest, and attempted to draw his weapon. The Spook shot him in the head, too. Twice. One round went directly into his left eye, the other just above it.
“No refunds,” the Spook said.
He left them in their Cadillac, walked a block over to his car, got in and drove away.
Chapter Fifteen
I was about to pull out of my driveway when a police cruiser pulled in behind me and blocked my way. I shifted the Taurus into Park and shut it off. Ellen was staring at me from behind the wheel of the cruiser, so I pocketed my keys, walked over and got in the front seat.
“Good morning, Officer, is there a problem?” I said.
She was looking at her cell phone and didn’t answer.
“Do you hunt pheasant with this?” I asked, pointing at the shotgun between us.
Ellen lifted a coffee out of the cup holder and set her cell phone in the empty space. She pulled the plastic cap off the coffee and blew on it. The smell of it filled the car.
“Are you always so obnoxious in the morning?” she said. “Never mind. I remember now. You are.”
She took a drink of coffee.
“I’ve got some news,” she said.
“You’re going with a new hair color?”
“A man in Windsor was murdered in his living room,” she said. “His throat was slit. A few hours later, judging by the time the coroner provided, the dead man drove his Buick up to the tunnel, showed his passport, and crossed into the United States. Pretty impressive feat for a dead guy.”
He was still alive.
The man who had killed Benjamin Collins hadn’t died that night on the boat.
“Don’t they photograph everybody that–”
Before I could finish my question, she slid a couple sheets of paper across the seat. I picked them up. The first was a driver’s license photograph of Irv Klapper. The second was a shot of Irv Klapper in a car. I could tell he was waiting in line to go through Customs. It looked like an old, overweight man with thick glasses. At first glance, it looked just like the photo of Mr. Klapper. But after staring at it a little longer, it started not to look like him. But that could have been my imagination. And the first glance was all that was important. The man would have known that.
“Not bad,” I said. I felt a little sick inside. But I had feared all along that the hit man wasn’t dead. They hadn’t found his body. I’d hoped he was dead, certainly. Sort of prayed for it. But over the years, my relationship with hope had gotten a little strained. It was better to plan for the worst.
And this was the worst.
“Supposedly there was a trailer on Mr. Klapper’s property that had been broken into,” Ellen continued. “They found some bloody sheets inside. The house hadn’t shown signs of forced entry but the dead man was killed with one of the knives from the kitchen. And the bathroom showed a lot of use.”
“Cosmetics? Make-up stuff?”
Ellen nodded.
“Detroit PD found the car an hour ago,” she said. “Up on blocks, stripped. Nothing inside.”
“Of course,” I said. “You realize this is the guy, right?”
She shook her head. “You don’t know that.”
“Of course I know it,” I said. My voice more forceful than intended. “He didn’t die on the boat. He washed up on the Canadian side, found shelter, then killed a guy and stole his car. Now he’s back.” I couldn’t help it, my voice had gotten a little loud. I wasn’t shouting, but still. Ellen was armed, after all.
“Easy, John. Don’t get your panties in an uproar. We’ve got the sketch out there. He’s not going to make a move now. If it’s even him.”
Ellen was referencing the drawing that had come from a sketch artist I’d worked with. It wasn’t the greatest, but at least it would provide something.
“It’s him. I’m telling you.”
Ellen sighed.
“Maybe yes, maybe no.”
“Come on Ellen, you wouldn’t have stopped by and told me all this if you didn’t thin it was him, too. I know how you think.”
She shifted the cup of coffee to her other hand and keyed the ignition on the cruiser.
“You can get out of my car now.”
I complied with her request, watched her drive away.
The sky was streaked with slashes of red. The morning air had a chill that worked its way through my shirt as I walked back to my car.
Chapter Sixteen
United Asset Management, or UAM as the gold-plated letters on the office directory proclaimed, was located on the first floor of the Prudential building in Southfield. It was easy to spot because it was directly off of the freeway and it had those fancy gold windows that seemed better off in Vegas than in the suburb just north of the city of Detroit.
I used one of the thirty-minute visitor parking spots near the front doors. I figured it wouldn’t take me that long.
The lobby was impressive with all of its marble floors and sleek, modern seating fitted with black leather over stainless steel frames. There was no shortage of security guards with one stationed at a welcome desk, another at the doors leading into the building and a third by the elevators.
African art was the theme of the lobby area. Mostly paintings but a few abstract sculptures as well.
I decided not to check in with the front desk. Besides, it looked more like an information booth and I didn’t have an appointment. Curiosity had gotten the best of me and since Tripp Collins hadn’t returned my call and I still hadn’t heard back from my friend who worked for the Detroit Lions. I figured I might just see if I could catch Tripp at his office.
Bypassing the guard at the little front desk, I strode purposefully toward the elevators when a voice called out.
“John?”
I turned toward a separate hallway to my right.
Elizabeth Pierce stood with a purse over her shoulder and a leather folio tucked underneath her arm.
In some ways she had changed since I’d seen her last, which was going on several years now. Her hair was shorter, her face more etched. She’d lost some of the youthful vigor I remembered and it was now replaced with a mature elegance. Back when we’d been engaged, I had always known that Elizabeth would only get more beautiful as she aged. That’s why they call it classic beauty. It gets better with age.
“Hi Elizabeth,” I said.
She had a choice and I could see her weighing her options. Walk toward me and continue the conversation, or turn to her left, walk through the doors and leave without a second thought.
It was hard for me to believe that I had ever made love to this woman. It was such a strange thought, but it was true. Some of the scenarios I had re-lived during long stretches of a stakeout had taken place with someone else. This woman in front of me was a stranger.
In a move that shocked me more than I could have imagined, she bypassed the doors and came directly to me. She stopped and for a moment I thought she was going to hug me.
But she didn’t.
“How are you?” she asked. Physically, she had changed. But her voice remained exactly the same. It took me back and had a far greater effect than I would have imagined.
I quickly shook it off. I couldn’t help but feel the situation was totally ridiculous. I’d imagined bumping into her, thought about what I woul
d say, but nothing came to mind.
“Fine,” I said. “You?”
I glanced down at the leather folio in her hand.
“Busy but good,” she said. “You’re a private investigator now, right?”
She smiled at me, and it was a dazzler. No kidding. It reminded me of a Christmas tree perfectly decorated and totally artificial.
“I am.”
“Is business good?”
“It keeps me busy,” I answered. “What are you up to these days?”
It seemed like a stupid question. She was probably the wealthiest person I knew. I assumed she sat around all day….being rich.
“I run the Foundation now and it’s practically a full-time job.” She was talking about the Pierce Foundation, the giving arm of Pierce Industries that gave away tens of millions of dollars every year.
She glanced at her Cartier watch.
“Speaking of which, I have to get going for a meeting.” She smiled at me again. This one carried less wattage but perhaps just a speck of authenticity.
“You look good, John. Take care.”
This time, she did hug me.
I hugged her back. Smelled her perfume. And honestly, I felt a little weak at the knees.
She left through the doors and I went around the corner, found one of those black leather chairs and sank into it.
I wasn’t sure what had rattled me more.
The sight of Elizabeth.
Or the logo emblazoned across the front of her leather folio.
UAM.
Chapter Seventeen
He chose an upscale chain hotel in downtown Detroit. His theory being that it would have everything he needed, including high-speed Wi-Fi, without the abundance of cameras that were stationed everywhere inside the luxurious but heavily monitored casino hotels.
The Spook checked in using the Dave Mather identity and credit card. The bill went to an email account that was connected to an online bank. The bill would be paid automatically from the fairly substantial balance.
His suite was on the top floor with the bedroom separate from the living area. A porter brought up his bags, which now included a brand-new suitcase full of clothes from a department store at a nearby mall. Also among his belongings was a brand-new laptop still in its box, and a Fender guitar and amp. The laptop had been purchased at the Apple store in the mall, and the guitar had come from his favorite guitar store in Detroit.
