by Dan Ames
“Nick was the oldest and he could be a bully but when one of us was in trouble, he was always there for us,” Anna said. “I used to have this bike I called ‘Pinky’ and one day, a neighborhood tough guy punched me in the stomach and took it. The next day, Nick came up the driveway wheeling Pinky and he had blood on his hands and shirt. It wasn’t his own.”
Anna barely got the last words out before she crumpled against me and began to sob. I stroked her beautiful hair and kissed the tears on her cheeks.
“Just give it time,” I whispered. “Ellen will figure out what happened. She’s the smart one in the family.”
“You are too,” Anna said. Her dark eyes were full of rage and hurt. “You need to figure out what happened, too.”
Truth be told I was already planning on looking into it, but judging from Anna’s intensity simply checking in on the official investigation wasn’t going to be enough. I would have to tread carefully but I wanted to catch whoever was responsible for this just as much as Anna did.
“Your sister is great, and the police force is great, but they don’t do many murders,” she said. She visibly winced at the word, and then burst into tears.
I hugged my wife, and the girls came down the stairs. Anna wiped her face and hugged Isabel and then Nina. They were still sleepy so they didn’t seem to notice anything. Telling them wasn’t going to be easy. Anna had let me know she wanted to think about it before she told them.
My cell buzzed and I checked the screen. It was Ellen telling me to meet her at the lake and she gave me the cross streets, one of them being Lake Shore Drive which, not surprisingly, ran along the western edge of Lake St. Clair.
“That was Ellen, she wants me to meet her at a spot where she thinks the person may have been,” I said, choosing my words carefully both for Anna’s sake and the girls’.
“Okay,” she said. “Will you be back soon? I have to meet everyone and go over arrangements.”
“I should be back in an hour or two.”
“Okay, that will work,” she said, her voice soft and distant.
It absolutely ripped my heart apart to see the emotional state of my wife.
It also made me want to rip the heart out of the person who shot Nick Giordano.
Chapter Five
It wouldn’t be much of a surprise to know that most of the homes in Grosse Pointe on Lakeshore Drive are of the mansion variety. Generally speaking, the smallest and least impressive home would still be worth several million dollars. The most expensive would probably clock in with an eight-figure price tag.
There are some giant, behemoth castles from which you might expect to see Prince William and Kate emerge skipping along with their kids and some finger sandwiches.
But there is variety. There are some new construction McMansions, some funky-looking homes from the fifties and sixties, and the occasional vacant lot.
When I say vacant lot, I’m not talking a weed-choked parcel where the local kids throw their garbage. I’m talking about a lot facing Lake St. Clair that would probably be worth about a million bucks all by itself.
Some of them even have landscaping.
The one that had a group of police cars parked in front of it was one of those.
I turned off of Lakeshore and parked just up the street, away from the police cars. I had no desire to be accused of interfering. At least, not yet.
Ellen stood near the thickest part of the landscaping, a hedge that ran the entire width of the lot except for an opening off of Lakeshore. That’s where if someone bought the lot and built a brand new mansion, they would put the entrance.
It occurred to me that the hedge was extremely thick and that the property bordering the lot in back was heavily wooded. If a shooter had positioned himself or herself in the thick bushes, there was a chance no one would have spotted him. Especially if the suspect had truly fashioned himself as a military type, he would have taken up his location earlier that day in the dark of morning and waited all day for the shot.
But it seemed absolutely ridiculous. Right here? On a busy street surrounded by multimillion-dollar homes? Not to mention, the sidewalk that ran along the road was a favorite of walkers, joggers and dog lovers. There was always traffic here, both vehicular and ambulatory.
What had the shooter done afterward?
As I approached the group, I saw Stocker turn and look at me and then make an exaggerated eye roll. He was a weird little guy. Short, slightly bow-legged, with hair that was just a little too long.
But he had bright, intelligent eyes. Blue. And I’d heard that he was a smart bastard.
His partner, Radcliffe, was a guy with prematurely gray hair and a black mustache. He nodded at me.
“Who called the B-team?” Stocker mumbled and then shot a glance at Ellen to see if she’d heard. She had, but you never would have guessed it.
“Do another canvass, see if they’re home yet,” Ellen said to Radcliffe and she gestured at the property behind the vacant lot.
She left Stocker standing there and walked toward me and then past me. I followed.
We walked to her squad car and she stopped to let a jogger run by.
“This is a strange one,” she said.
“The shooter was here?” I said, glancing around the very definition of Grosse Pointe.
“Too early to tell, but someone was in there recently. We should be able to get a partial footprint. No shell casings.”
She pointed out toward the lake. “But that’s right about where your brother-in-law was shot.” She made a gesture from the spot on the lake following a direct line to the hedge behind us. “The forensic guys did their best, based on the boat’s GPS to get a fix on exactly where they were in the water. And then based on the statements from the two guys on the boat, he was at the helm, looking straight ahead.”
Running the logic through my mind I had a million questions.
“I know you’ve got a ton of questions but that’s all I’m giving you,” Ellen said. “And you know that this is just a theory. A guess, right now. But since I know Anna I want to help.” A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Unfortunately that means helping you a little bit, too.”
Before I could answer, Ellen walked to her car.
“Why don’t you go work on Stocker,” she said. “He clearly hasn’t bought into your charm yet.”
She slammed the door and pulled out onto Lakeshore.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Stocker had a legal pad in one hand and his cell phone in the other.
There was no point in approaching him.
Besides, Anna needed me back home.
Chapter Six
The next two days were a whirlwind. The hardest part was sitting down with Nina and Isabel to tell them that Uncle Nick had gone to a better place. It was difficult for Anna who did her best not to shock the girls with an onslaught of tears.
At the visitation, the first person I saw was Nick’s wife, Katie. She was a short woman, verging on chunky, who had thinning hair and chalky skin.
I did my best to set aside any past issues between us and I went to hug her. She stepped back and offered her hand for me to shake, which I did.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. She gave me a highly perfunctory smile and moved immediately to the girls and Anna.
Nick’s sons, Paul and Frederick were there as well. I offered my condolences and was shocked at how much older they seemed.
Paul, the eldest, was a mirror image of his father. He had a powerful build, brown eyes, and the olive skin so many of the Giordano family had, including Anna.
Frederick was Paul’s complete opposite: tall and thin with blonde hair and blue eyes.
The rest of Anna’s siblings were all there, too. She had two sisters and two brothers, all who lived out of state, and her parents had flown in from Florida.
I did my best to keep an eye on Anna, to make sure I was there for her if she needed a break, and to also be in charge of Nina a
nd Isabel.
The day bled into the next and that one into the next as the proceedings came to an end and Anna’s siblings and parents all flew back to their respective cities.
Finally, a full week after Nick’s murder, Anna and I were back at home. The girls were upstairs in bed, and it was a Sunday night. Which meant tomorrow everything would go back to normal, understanding that nothing would ever be normal again for Anna.
But the Monday routine would come back and I hoped that in some sense that would provide a relief to Anna. I understood the entire process was meant to aid in grieving, but I was glad that she would now be able to spend less time thinking about what had happened to her brother.
Of course, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“What else are you working on?” Anna asked me. We were sitting at the kitchen table. She had a grocery list in front of her, as well as a list of other things she needed to do this week.
“I wrapped up the workers comp case and invoiced my client, so that check should be coming in,” I said. “I’ve got a guy who jumped bail but I know where he is, I just have to lead my client to him who will do the rest.”
When I looked up, I could see Anna was not happy with my answer.
As quickly as I could, I added, “And I asked Ellen to swing by my office so we could chat about Nick’s case without prying eyes. You know, a police station is like a junior high school when it comes to gossip.”
The look of anger passed from Anna’s eyes and she nodded.
“I want you to find out who killed Nick,” she said. “I want that bastard to fry.”
Chapter Seven
The police tape was still there, but it was easy to duck under. Still, I had no intention of being spotted by Stocker and then accused of disturbing an active crime scene, so I tread carefully around the ground.
If this was where the shooter had been, it was a good spot, I had to grudgingly admit. The landscaping was deep enough that he could have completely hidden his body and certainly his rifle would have been concealed as well. I thought of the footage I’d seen of American snipers in Iraq and how they would set up on a rooftop, shooting through a hole in the wall.
Could this shooter have done that? Did he target Nick specifically or was he just looking to shoot someone on a boat and my brother-in-law had sailed directly into his sights.
I made a mental note to track down someone who would know more about guns than I did, not a challenging feat to be honest.
But it made me wonder if the rifle was fixed wouldn’t that mean he had somewhat limited movement? So he couldn’t have turned forty-five degrees to the left or right to shoot. It would have have been pretty much a straight shot.
And how had the shooter chosen this spot? Was he a local Grosse Pointer? Had he jogged past this parcel? Driven past it? Did he own a house nearby?
If he owned a house nearby he had vast financial means, that was certain.
My cell phone buzzed and I saw it was my best friend and intrepid reporter, Nate Becker. I’d known Nate my whole life and for years he’d been a reporter for the local paper before taking a job at the Free Press downtown.
He’d already called to offer myself and Anna condolences, but this time it was all business.
“Any progress?” he asked.
“None yet,” I said. “How about you? Any scuttlebutt?”
It may have seemed like a strange question, but the fact was murders in Grosse Pointe were rare. Unlike its next-door neighbor Detroit, which usually finished in the top three for highest murder rates of American cities, my community was much more used to petty crimes. Outright murder in Grosse Pointe wasn’t all that common.
So the killing of a fairly well-known Grosse Pointe doctor, most likely shot with a long-range rifle while racing on his sailboat was making the rounds of Detroit as well. It had even made some national news sites.
“Nothing much,” he said. “I’ve got all my sources keeping an ear out, though. You’ll be the first call I make if I learn anything new.”
We agreed to meet for a drink later in the week and I was about to put my phone away when I got a text from Ellen.
It simply said: Good news, bad news. Found bullet. A .223.
And that was it.
I knew enough about guns to realize why she said the fact that the bullet was a .223 caliber was bad news. It was one of the most common rifle cartridges used. It was a common round for the military as well as Average Joe deer hunters and kids going out to the woods to blast squirrels.
There was nothing special about a .223.
Slipping the phone into my pocket, I got back into my car and drove around the block, which was a bit of a misnomer. The blocks here were huge and not square. So in order to get to the houses surrounding the parcel, I had to make several twists and turns. In short, I learned nothing, other than there were even more big, beautiful houses in this area than I had dreamed.
With a sigh, I realized what I had to do. Whenever a married person is murdered, the first suspicion cast is always on the spouse. And although Katie Giordano was not my favorite person in the world, I needed to talk to her. For two reasons. One, to get a feel for the possibility that something had been going on with Nick that only a wife would know. And two, try to help her. She was still family, after all.
But I had a feeling the meeting would not go well.
Chapter Eight
As befitting a successful doctor in Grosse Pointe, Nick Giordano owned a beautiful, expansive Tudor a half a block from Lake St. Clair.
It was a stunningly beautiful house with a slate roof, thick wooden beams and gorgeous windows with thick, leaded glass.
I parked on the street, went to the front door and rang the bell. After a few moments, the door opened and I came face to face with Katie Giordano.
“Oh,” she said, and looked over my shoulder, probably hoping to get a glimpse of Anna or the girls.
But it was just me.
Her expression reflected her obvious disappointment.
“Hi Katie, I’m wondering if I could come in and chat with you for a few minutes.” I tried to keep my voice as even as possible. The woman’s husband had been murdered, after all. Knowing how relieved I felt that Anna had at least put the funeral behind her and was beginning, perhaps, to move on to the next stage of grief, I felt a pang of guilt about having to talk to Katie.
But my loyalties were to my wife, and talking to Nick’s widow was essential to figuring out who may have wanted to hurt him.
She stepped aside and I walked past her, catching a strong whiff of alcohol. Probably wine. Nick had supposedly sent Katie off to Napa Valley for some kind of wine tour that had turned into something more. The family grapevine, no pun intended, had suggested that Katie may have developed a bit of a problem with wine.
Some people in the family figured Nick had encouraged the trip to Napa as a way for him to avoid her, or it was a way for her to indulge in her apparently increasing love of alcohol.
“Something to drink?” she said, her voice utterly devoid of enthusiasm. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
“No thank you,” I said.
She walked through a hallway that reminded me of a European grotto, whatever that was. The floor was hardwood, but the walls seemed to be a textured marble of some sort and the short hallway opened out onto a great room with the kitchen to the left and a huge living area to the right.
Katie went to the kitchen’s island where there was a glass of red wine the size of a fish bowl.
I looked back at the living space.
“Are you moving?” I asked, looking at the stacks and stacks of boxes that pretty much filled the area. There were small walkways to a large leather couch, a television and a bookshelf.
“No, why do you ask?”
I looked again at the boxes and saw they were unopened packages from stores. Nordstrom. Pottery Barn. Crate & Barrel.
Holy shit.
There had been rumors that Nick was havin
g a problem with Katie’s spending, that she was ordering stuff from catalogs night and day.
It looked to me like those rumors were true.
Before I could answer, she cut me off.
“What did you want to talk about?” she asked, sounding like she was asking a dentist how long the root canal was going to take. She took a long drink from her wineglass and smacked her lips afterward.
“Well, I want to help find out who is responsible for what happened.”
“But you’re not a cop anymore,” she snapped at me. “And when you were a cop…”
She purposely let the comment hang and I, of course, understood what she was getting at. I had made a horrible mistake, one that resulted in an innocent young man being murdered. It was why I had been kicked off the force.
“Right, but I do a fair amount of investigating–“
“Like cheating spouses and insurance scams, right?” she said. Another long drink of wine. She glanced over at the kitchen table where there were more catalogs. I got the feeling I was keeping her from her shopping.
It irked me that her tone had taken on an even greater sound of extreme condescension. She took yet another long drink from her wineglass and peered at me over its rim.
“Among other things,” I said. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt Nick?”
“Look, I’ve been through this with the real cops,” she answered. “I certainly don’t feel like talking about it now. With you.”
Katie opened up a catalog, this one from a jewelry store and began flipping through the pages. I could see pages of diamond rings and necklaces.
“Okay, well, if I learn anything of use I’ll let you know,” I said. “And if you think of anything and need me to look into it, just let me know, I’d like to help in any way I can.”
Her phone rang and she picked it up. Before she answered, she looked at me and gave me a nod toward the door.
