by Dan Ames
“Perfectly understood, Officer,” the man said. He shook my hand heartily. “Again, I’m so sorry. He’s a beautiful, beautiful person, but when he drinks, sometimes . . .”
He put his arm around the boy and began walking away, practically carrying the younger man. The wind had picked up and was now packing a ferocious wallop.
“Want a lift?” I asked.
“That’s quite all right, Officer.” The man’s voice was nearly lost in the wind. “We’re right around the corner.”
I watched them turn the corner, then got back in the car and wiped the snow from my face. I called in my position.
In my mind, I had done my final good deed of the year. In my mind, I had finished out the New Year the best way possible, doing something nice for someone, and now it was time to see a beautiful girl about a glass of champagne.
•
The call came at five twenty-one in the morning. About an hour past mine and Elizabeth’s final lovemaking session of the night.
I untangled my body from Elizabeth’s and listened to the voice of Chief Michalski telling me to get down to the Yacht Club immediately.
Fifteen minutes later, I watched as Benjamin Collins’ body was loaded into the coroner’s van. They’d found his ID on the frozen pier just twenty feet or so from where his nude, mutilated body had been seen bobbing in the small patch of water heated by the Yacht Club’s boiler runoff.
I stood there in the cold, as numb and unfeeling as I’d ever been in my entire life. They let me look at the body. It was a sight I would never forget.
By the end of the day, I’d given my version of the events of the night before well over a dozen times. To the chief. To internal investigators. I desperately wanted to join in the search for the man to whom I’d turned over Benjamin Collins, but I was kept away from the investigation. Left to sit in a room and think about what I’d done.
No one had chewed me out. No one blamed me for fucking up, but it was there just the same.
Finally, the chief called me in and asked for my gun and badge. It was administrative leave. Until things were sorted out and the killer was caught. Until then, I was gone. The department might be liable should Collins’ relatives seek litigation. I left his office, taking one last look at my gun and badge before he swept them off his desk and into his drawer.
I never got them back.
2
Six Years Later
The gloved fist smashed through the glass of the shop’s back door. The impact as well as the sound of shards tinkling to the floor went unnoticed by the workshop’s sole occupant. The woman at the large workbench heard only the high-pitched buzz of the random orbit sander.
Nor did she hear the sound of the deadbolt thrown back, the doorknob turning, and the heavy door swinging open.
The only noise to reach her ears was that of the sander as its 220-grit sandpaper gently bit into the five-hundred-year-old wood. She moved the sander along the wood’s surface with confident precision. Her honey-colored hair was tied back in a ponytail. Thick shop glasses distorted the Lake Michigan blue of her eyes as the powdery sawdust flying from the sander coated her hands and covered her hair like a thin veil.
The woman leaned back from the workbench and flicked off the sander. As the whine of the motor instantly began to descend, she brushed the layer of dust from the wood. Even through the gauze of the powder, the beauty of the grain was apparent. This had been a special batch: ancient elm, filled with grain patterns and whorls that would be breathtaking after a light stain and varnish were applied.
She leaned back and studied the beginning stage of the guitar. It was to be a semi-acoustic twelve-string, made from centuries-old elm salvaged from the bottom of Lake Michigan. It was for a rocker in California, who had paid her the first half of the price tag: five thousand dollars. She was taking her time with this one, especially after the monumental task she’d just accomplished.
She glanced over at the finished guitar in question. A jumbo acoustic, her most ambitious and most expensive guitar yet. Made from the rarest, most expensive woods of all: virgin tiger maple, hickory, ash, and ebony. All of it salvaged from the bottom of Lake Michigan. All of it priceless. All of it breathtakingly, stunningly beautiful. And she had used all of her skills, all of her powers to turn those woods into a guitar. A guitar with a sound so rich and so pure you almost forgot how beautiful it looked.
And it already had a buyer.
Jesse brushed her hands off on her jeans and went to the guitar. She picked it up and felt the perfect weight of it.
She sat back on her stool and strummed the strings, the full beauty of the sound echoing in the shop’s interior. Her fingers naturally picked out a melancholy melody, and she played quietly, confidently.
Her mind ran free, loosened by the change from the one-note orbit sander to this instrument of the gods.
As she played, she thought about how she enjoyed every aspect of building guitars. From the beginning design stages, to selecting the raw materials, to the painstaking construction, and all the way through the finishing touches. Each instrument was a unique endeavor, with its own moments of sheer beauty.
At the thought of her craft, a sense of sadness rose within her. The guitar on her table would be the last one she would build for quite some time.
A new chapter was beginning, one that in the deepest, most secret part of her heart, she’d dreamed would one day come true.
Her fingers finished playing the tune with a strong downstroke, and the chord reverberated, its beautiful sound echoing through the shop.
And then she heard the gentle sound of a foot scraping the ground behind her. She turned, peering into the darkness.
The man charged at her with astonishing speed. She got no more than a quick glimpse of his face—a face she may have seen before. His hands were raised over his head. She had just enough time to recognize the heavy hammer she sometimes used to tap a chisel along the rough edges of a plank of wood. It was in his hands, raised high, coming toward her.
She ducked her head, and then, in the final act of her life, she put her arms around the guitar and leaned over it, trying to protect it.
Jesse Barre never felt the crushing blow that caved in her skull and drove her from her stool onto the floor.
Her blood pooled on the concrete, the flakes of sawdust soaking up the crimson liquid.
The guitar remained safe, still cradled in her arms.
3
“So here’s the hook,” Nate said.
We were in a booth at the Village Grill, a little Greek diner smack dab in the middle of Grosse Pointe proper. It had big, overstuffed booths, low lighting conditions, and a bar with a brass rail and a big-screen TV. The perfect lunch spot for two guys who thought arugula was an island somewhere near the Caribbean.
Nate Becker was the only full-time reporter for the Grosse Pointe Times and a friend from way back. We’d known each other since he was a chubby little kid who got picked on all the time and I was his defender. Unless the wind happened to be blowing the other way and I was one of the kids picking on him. You know how kids are. We were no different.
Now we were both grownups, sort of, and he was doing a piece on me, John Rockne, Grosse Pointe’s very own private investigator. It was part of a monthly feature on local businesses. Last week it was the lady caterer whose van was decorated like a giant swordfish.
Prestigious company indeed.
I hadn’t really done anything to deserve the attention, but the business district of Grosse Pointe isn’t very big—sooner or later, it’s just your turn.
“Hook?” I said.
“Yeah, you know, the angle of the story. The unique approach that intrigues the reader.”
“What was your hook for the swordfish lady?”
“I didn’t need one for her. She was interesting.”
“Thanks,” I said. “So let’s hear it.”
Nate spread his hands like he was serving me a platter of caviar. “You’re the P
I who doesn’t just fight crime, you fight clichés,” he said.
I rolled my eyes and signaled the waitress. She came over, a cute girl in her twenties wearing the unfortunate decision of a pierced tongue. I made a mental note to floss after lunch. I ordered two Cokes. Diet for me, regular for Nate.
“What?” he said. “It’s a perfect hook.”
I recognized the look in Nate’s eye. It meant he had just gotten in a fresh load of bullshit, and he needed to spew.
“Cliché fighter?” I said.
He nodded as the waitress set our Cokes down on the table. “You’re not some shady bum with a checkered past,” he said. “A half-criminal who has more in common with the thugs he chases than he does with the rest of us on the right side of the law.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re full of it,” I said.
“Work with me, dumb ass,” he said. “You went to college, got a degree in criminology . . .”
“. . . and a minor in psychology. . .”
“. . . worked as a cop to learn the ropes, then worked for a big PI firm before getting your own license.”
I actually appreciated Nate’s effort. Most of it was true. The problem was he had conveniently edited out a certain bad spot in my career. For Nate, the problem was twofold. One, I was his friend, and he didn’t want to dredge up bad memories. And two, the story had been told already. Many, many times.
So Nate would skip it altogether. I guess that’s the beauty of editing.
“You don’t carry a gun,” he said. He was on a roll, and I didn’t want to stop him.
“Just a Nikon.”
“You’re definitely not a tall, dark, and handsome, Mickey Spillane-type ladies man.”
I just shook my head at that one. “You’ve got a real nose for the truth,” I said.
“What?” he said. “You didn’t get your hands on a pair of tits until the dairy farm field trip our senior year of high school.”
He had a point there, the bastard.
“The fact that you’re married is less about you and more about the unceasing generosity of women.”
“Glad you’re not pulling any punches,” I said. “I think I’ll go back to my office and hang myself.”
Our food arrived. A turkey on rye for me. A Double Boss Burger with an extra large order of fries for Nate. Food was his way to deal with stress. Three years ago, his first child, a boy, had been born without a pulmonary artery. A small oversight on the ultrasound technician’s part. After many operations, the little guy was doing fine, but there was still a certain amount of concern about him. Nate, at five feet eight inches, had always been a little chunky. Now he weighed nearly three hundred fifty pounds.
“Plus, you’re not some lone wolf, like PIs are supposed to be,” he continued. “You know, the guy haunted by some lost love, or grieving over the unfortunate death of his young wife. You’re a family man with two young girls.” Nate doused his fries with salt and took a huge bite from his Boss Burger.
“And don’t forget,” I said. “No one’s firebombed my house or framed me as a presidential assassin.”
Nate nodded. He knew everything there was to know about me. This interview was really just an excuse to get together for lunch, which we do every week anyway, but because of the story, it was being paid for by the paper.
“Here’s a thought,” I said. “This may sound kind of crazy—but do you think you can actually work in a few positive things—you know, stuff that might actually be good for business?”
“Won’t that be false advertising?” he said through a mouth full of fries.
“Good point,” I said. “Stick with your ‘ugly and dull’ angle. Customers will be beating down my door.”
“The truth shall set you free,” he said.
“Okay, I like the whole ‘Average Joe’ approach,” I said. “As long as you don’t make me sound like I’m light in the loafers.”
“So you want me to lie.”
“I’m just a normal guy trying to do a good job for his customers. I’m fair, honest, and reliable.”
“Fucking boring as a box of rocks,” Nate said.
I was going to give him a shot back, but he’d already tucked into the Boss Burger. I knew that he was so into his meal there was no doubt about whether or not he was listening. It didn’t matter. He’d do a good story on me.
And since the paper was buying, I ordered another Diet Coke.
Cliché fighter, my ass.
4
He stood outside my office door, a tall, broad-shouldered figure in faded blue jeans, a colorful shirt, black leather vest, and shiny, black cowboy boots. His powder-white hair was thick and combed straight back. The eyes beneath the white brows were blazing blue and unclouded, twin shafts of cool set on a lined, weathered face. But there was more than just age on his face. More than fatigue as well. It was something I’d seen only a few times in my life—but once you see it, you remember.
“Can I help you?” I asked, the keys to my office in hand. I felt tired and full from lunch. I don’t know if it was because of Nate’s eating problem or what, but I always ate more when I was with him. Or at least that was my excuse and I was sticking with it.
“Are you John Rockne?” Marshal Dillon asked. His voice had a deep gravel to it—whiskey and cigarettes and two a.m. closing calls.
“Guilty as charged,” I said, stifling a belch. I unlocked the door and let him into my office. “How can I help you?”
He took a brief look around and then turned and faced me. He held out his hand and I took it. “Clarence Barre,” he said. “You’re the private investigator?”
I gestured toward the door, which read Grosse Pointe Investigations. “Like the sign says . . .”
An uneasy smile crossed his face. Most clients had the same look. It was part shame, part anger, part fear. Going to see a PI wasn’t much different than going to a shrink for most people. It was all about letting a complete stranger into their personal lives. And in most cases, the deepest, ugliest part of their personal lives. Not an easy thing to do, for anyone.
My office was on the second floor of a small brick building built in 1927. The ground floor was a jewelry store that I went into once a few years back, thinking I might buy my wife a necklace. I soon realized that asking her to sign the paperwork for a second and third mortgage would spoil the surprise. I haven’t been back since.
My office consisted of a small waiting room, complete with two chairs and a table. The chairs are from the fifties, the table the seventies, and the carpeting’s genealogy is too hard to trace. I’d say it was coming off the textile rolls right around the time Jackie was scrambling off the back of the big Lincoln in Dallas.
There were a few framed paintings of sailboats on the walls, even though I’m not a big fan of the water, as I already mentioned. A lot of clients seem to expect pictures of sailboats from a Grosse Pointe PI. Sometimes people are reassured by the cliché, and I don’t like to disappoint prospective clients.
The place reeked of coffee. To me, it was a great smell, especially on a cold winter day. I always had a pot brewing. Nate would probably not put that into the article, because it is a bit of a cliché. But hey, I fucking liked coffee . . . damn them if a bunch of other PIs did too.
On the table were magazines. Police Times, Small Firearms Journal, S.W.A.T. Illustrated. I wanted my clients to feel confident in my ability. Somehow, six months worth of Martha Stewart Living might make them think twice about hiring me.
I went around behind my desk, a small oak number that weighed about five hundred pounds. A laptop computer, a phone, and a stack of files sat on top.
“Have we met?” I asked. “You seem familiar.”
He just looked at me and then from deep within him came a baritone hum. It changed pitch and soon a short melody became apparent.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I said. I knew that tune, and I knew that voice.
“Mississippi Honey?”
He nodded. “That’s right. Claren
ce Barre, country singer/songwriter.”
I loved that song. Actually, it was a bit of a source of embarrassment. I’d finally gotten a girl into the backseat of my car in high school. “Mississippi Honey” was in the tape deck, playing along as I’d gotten Tracy Woeburg’s pants down and then had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do next.
In the middle of my reverie, I realized my potential client was staring at me. I caught myself, felt kind of foolish about what he may have seen play across my face.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “That happens all the time. I consider it a compliment. That my song evokes . . . memories.”
He smiled then. A sad, weary gesture. And suddenly, it came to me where else I remembered the name. I knew Clarence Barre because he had been a relatively well-known musician for a brief period in the seventies. He was from Detroit, and after his career, he’d moved back to Grosse Pointe.
So I knew the name Barre. Had heard it recently.
But not a man. Not Clarence. The recognition must have shown on my face because the small smile that had lingered on his face now vanished.
Whatever stupid thing I was going to say got stuck in my mouth. Clarence rushed to fill the pause.
“I’m here about my daughter,” he said. “Jesse.” Suddenly, all of the color in his face seemed to vanish, draw back in on itself and pool in his eyes. They smoldered, two pools of blazing blue.
Now it was my turn to nod. The killing had been big news in Grosse Pointe. Probably for two reasons: one, there weren’t a lot of murders in Grosse Pointe. And two, Jesse Barre had been a very beautiful young woman. A guitar maker, I remembered.
“She was killed during a robbery, as I recall,” I answered.
“You’re half right,” he said.
The look on my face was a question.
“She was killed. But it wasn’t a robbery. Someone wanted her dead.”
