Grosse Pointe Pulp

by Dan Ames

  The drive back gave me a chance to go over the brief chat I’d had with Elizabeth but I quickly realized there wasn’t much worth reflecting on. A brief conversation between former lovers who hadn’t seen each other in years. Awkward. Superficial. Pointless, even.

  To tell Anna or not to tell? That was the question. The answer, of course, was to tell her. Secrets were bad for a marriage. They were like the little metal wedges you used when splitting logs. You just drive it in a little bit, whack it with an axe and the whole thing breaks apart.

  Anna really wouldn’t care anyway. She wasn’t the jealous type. Although the fact that Anna had just seen Elizabeth too would probably raise her suspicions that I had somehow tracked her down. But she knew me better than that. Plus, Anna would tell you she was too busy with the kids and life to worry about my little shenanigans.

  I exited at Vernier Road off I-94 and drove along Lake Shore Drive. I passed the yacht club; saw the lake churning under a pretty stiff wind. A freighter was out in the shipping lane, heading toward Detroit. Lake St. Clair was actually a pretty shallow lake, considering how big it was. It only averaged a depth of eleven feet or so but at some point they’d dredged the shipping channel. That ran closer to thirty feet deep. From one end of the lake to the other.

  The first name and address on my list belonged to Greg Jenkins. As I pulled up to the house, I was surprised by the lack of a gate. But then I realized that there weren’t any gates on most of these properties. Must have been some kind of code that prohibited it. The few that had gates must have put them in before the rules were put into place. Grandfathered.

  The lack of a gate was great for me. One less obstacle to talking with people who probably had very little desire to speak with a private investigator.

  I parked in front of the house and walked up the long drive to the main door and rang the doorbell.

  A black Ferrari sat just beyond the door and I studied it. It was incredible how low to the ground it was. That was why I had never bought one. I didn’t think it would be very comfortable for me.

  The door opened and a man wearing a track suit and with sunglasses perched on top of his head looked out at me.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking for Greg Jenkins.”

  “What do you want with him?” He looked me up and down. Probably wary of autograph seekers.

  “Just a couple of quick questions,” I said. “It won’t take long.”

  “I don’t think so, bro’,” he said and started to shut the door.

  “Okay, wait,” I said. I had a few options. I could make up some crazy-ass story to get Jenkins out of the house to talk with me. The fact was, I loved improvising. But for some reason I went with the truth. “Can you please just ask him if he works with a financial consultant named Tripp Collins with UAM?” Then I decided to throw in a little fiction. “I’m with the Players Union and we’re investigating them for possibly embezzling former players.”

  The man looked me over like I was something clinging to the bottom of his three hundred dollar sneakers. He shut the door.

  I waited. Looked at the Ferrari some more. Yep, not my style. The Taurus, however, was all me.

  The door opened a crack. Same guy.

  “Nope. Don’t know the dude.”

  The door shut again.

  Okay, then.

  I crossed the street on foot and walked to the second house. This was Eddie Starks’s place. It still seemed odd to me that all three players lived so close together. But if all three were friends it made a kind of sense. A house pops up for sale next door, you’ve got a friend who just moved to town and is looking for a place, you tell him, right?

  And real estate in Grosse Pointe changed hands more often than most people would think.

  It turned out that Eddie Starks wasn’t home but I was able to leave my cell phone number with his assistant, along with the same story I’d given Greg Jenkins.

  When I got to the third house, the door was answered by an older black man. He had on a Nike dri-fit shirt with the initials NFLPA. Oops. I’d called it the Players Union to the other guys. It appeared to be the Players Association. Oh, well.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m here because I wanted to ask if Desmond has any association with a company called United Asset Management, or UAM. I work for the Players Association and we’re investigating the company for possible fraud.”

  The man squinted his eyes at me.

  I stuck out my hand. “My name’s John Rockne, by the way.”

  He shook my hand. His fingers enveloped my entire hand like it belonged to a baby. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts.

  “Melvin Jamison,” he said. “I’ll ask him, but I’m pretty sure we’ve never dealt with them.”

  The old guy was pretty sharp. I could tell he wasn’t totally buying my story.

  But I gave him my card anyway and thanked him. I went back to my car, got inside and fired it up. Did a U-turn and drove down until I hit Lake Shore again. I paused at the stop sign facing the lake.

  I checked my watch.

  It was time to go to the office and do some work on the computer.

  Something wasn’t sitting quite right with me. I was pretty good at spotting people who weren’t being truthful. I had felt that Tripp Collins, while more than fitting the bill in terms of being an abrasive drunk, had at least seemed like he wasn’t hiding anything. If any of these guys turned out to be his clients, it could mean that he simply wasn’t aware of exactly where they lived. That it was literally on the same street where his nephew had been murdered.

  The possibility was very real that he wasn’t lying. That maybe he was just missing something.

  Or maybe I was missing something, too.

  19

  Note to self: invest in an air freshener.

  My office smelled like a rec room at an old folks home. Maybe some senior citizens had broken in and staged a Greco-Roman wrestling tournament.

  I cracked a window, let in some fresh air and then fired up my computer. I walked over to a built-in closet by the little fridge and looked for something to munch on. There was a bag of sweet potato chips. Those count as vegetables, by the way. Five servings a day, right?

  I grabbed the bag and carried it back to my desk. Plopped into my chair.

  Where to begin?

  I leaned back, put my feet up on the desk, and cracked open the bag of chips. Started munching. And thinking.

  The chips made me think of how nice it would be to have a sandwich, too. But the chips were good. Who knew vegetables could be so tasty?

  The computer screen popped to life and I reached forward, clicked on my Internet browser and launched it. Then stared at it for awhile.

  I wasn’t so much engaged in brainstorming as brainwandering.

  And then my cell phone rang.

  It was a woman claiming to be Eddie Starks’s assistant. She informed me that her employer had no connection with United Asset Management. While I tried to think of anything else to ask her, she hung up.

  Okay. Two down, one to go.

  A funny thing how the mind works. When you start running out of ideas, the vacant room is quickly filled with doubt. I had a sinking feeling that my hunch about a connection to Tripp Collins was wrong. How many guys are on an NFL team? Fifty? A hundred? And how many cycle in and out every year? Over the last ten years what was that, maybe a couple thousand players? If you’re a local wealth management company, you’re bound to get one or two of them, right? It’s a statistical probability, not a hot lead in a murder investigation.

  My phone rang again.

  “John Rockne,” I said.

  “Hi, this is Melvin Jamison. You stopped by asking about some company, right?”

  “I sure did.”

  “Yeah, I talked to Desmond and we never heard of them. Our investment guy is in Chicago, where we’re from.”

  I wasn’t surprised.

  “When we came here a few years back, we made a point of sticking w
ith our roots, you know?” Melvin continued. “Why are you asking, by the way? Are you really with the Players Association or you got something to sell?”

  The idea hit me that Melvin Jamison was bored. He was no doubt a part of his son’s management team but maybe he probably didn’t have a lot to do. He also seemed like a pretty sharp guy.

  “No, nothing to sell. Like I said, I’m just following up on an issue related to this financial management company. I personally don’t have an issue with them but there is the distinct possibility others do.” It sounded pretty good, I thought. I’d pulled back a little on the accusatory tone of my original pitch. No sense in word getting back to Tripp Collins that I was slandering his company. Grosse Pointe Investigations didn’t have a very robust legal plan. In fact, it didn’t have one at all.

  “Well hell, there’s more of those people around here than anything else,” Melvin said. “All this money floating around Grosse Pointe, everyone wants a piece, right?”

  “That’s for sure,” I said. This was going nowhere, but I was short on ideas.

  “How did all three Lions players come to live in that little area?” I asked.

  “We like to joke it’s so we can keep tabs on when the other guys are getting home, but it just happened,” he said. “We all knew each other and so when a house came up for sale, we’d tell the others. It’s a good location, a quick drive down to the field.”

  Melvin Jamison was a straight shooter. I was about to ask him if had ever played but then something occurred to me.

  Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  I literally threw the bag of chips down on the desk, swung my feet down and grabbed a pen and paper.

  It was a struggle to keep my voice even, but I did.

  “So you said you bought the house a few years back, right?” I asked. “So were you the first to buy in the area?”

  “Yep, we sure did,” Melvin answered. “Both Greg and Eddie just bought their places last year. The same realtor had both properties listed so it was a no-brainer.”

  The next question was the big one.

  “And about when did you buy your place?” I asked, my voice as even and as casual as I could make it.

  “Hmm, now, let me think.”

  I waited.

  Looked at the computer. Felt a gust of fresh air breathe into my office.

  Finally, Melvin Jamison told me the exact date.

  I wrote it down, but my head was spinning.

  The date was a week after Benjamin Collins had been murdered.

  20

  Unfortunately, the seller didn’t have a name.

  “It was a company,” Melvin said.

  “Okay, is there any chance you could call me back with the name?” I asked. “I know it’s asking a lot, but it would really help.”

  He hesitated. “I could, I guess. But what does this have to do with that company you were asking me about?”

  I was tempted to level with him, but I was on a roll. “There may be some linkage with mortgage fraud,” I said. “Not with your property, of course. You’ve already said you didn’t work with them. I just want to make sure there’s no connection at all.”

  He told me he would see what he could find. There was a hesitation in his voice, though, that hadn’t been there earlier. I think he had started to doubt my veracity.

  We disconnected and I thought about what I’d learned. It wasn’t uncommon for real estate to sell under a company name as opposed to an individual’s.

  It made sense, in fact. Anonymity was big in Grosse Pointe.

  I put in a call to Nate and gave him the address to see if he had a quick way to find out who sold the property to Desmond Jamison, just in case Melvin didn’t want to help me out anymore. Nate had a bunch of contacts within the real estate community in Grosse Pointe. Realtors were great for gossip. The first to hear, often times, about a marriage falling apart and a house going up for sale.

  My phone rang again before I was even able to put it down. If this was Nate, he was going to be setting some kind of record for quick information.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was Amanda Collins.

  “I have an emergency,” she said. “Can I see you? Like, right now?”

  I checked my watch.

  “I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  It was a good thing there weren’t any cops on the freeway because I flew past cars like they were standing still. The drawback was Woodward, which is full of lights and people who are seemingly confused about what the speed limit is. It didn’t matter to me because I ignored all traffic laws and made it to Amanda Collins’ house in exactly thirty-one minutes.

  Well, I didn’t actually make it to the house because it was surrounded by police cars and fire trucks.

  Even from a block away I could see what was happening.

  Her house was on fire.

  I dialed her number from my call history and it rang seven times before she finally answered.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I just left the hospital, but I’m fine,” she said. I could hear that her voice was hoarse. Like she’d smoked an entire carton of cigarettes. “Just a little smoke inhalation.”

  “What happened?” I said. “Can you talk?”

  “Yeah, I’m just waiting for a friend to pick me up.”

  She was putting on a brave front but I got the sense she was a little rattled. I felt bad for her. That house was beautiful. A work of art. And with all of that wood it must have burned fast.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” she said. “I put a dish in the oven to bake and then went upstairs to change. It seemed like about ten minutes later smoke was everywhere. I managed to grab a few things before I ran out. Luckily, the fire department arrived pretty fast so I hope it’s not totally ruined.”

  “Where did the fire start?” I asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it was the kitchen,” she said. “That seemed to be where the fire was raging the most. But I wasn’t cooking with grease or anything. It was a simple chicken dish baking. I don’t know how a fire could have started, unless it was electrical.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?” I asked. “Do you need anything?”

  “No, I have a place to stay. I’ll be fine. And luckily I hadn’t moved everything from my storage unit to the house so I didn’t lose everything.”

  I heard her voice catch.

  My next question was about why she called me, but I wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. She saved me the trouble.

  “But the fire isn’t why I called you.”

  “It’s not?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, I thought of something else I meant to tell you.” She lowered her voice and spoke to someone else.

  “Sorry, my ride is here, I told her to hold on a second.”

  I had parked and was ready for whatever she had in store for me.

  “During that time of my life, I was in a little bit of disarray. I had left home quite young, my parents were gone and I didn’t know what I was doing. I had met someone and gone to New York City. Don’t get me wrong. I was having a lot of fun and doing a lot of partying. Which is why some of my memories with regard to those online exchanges with Benjamin are so hazy.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “But what did come to me was something else he had told me. Do you remember how I said that he was suddenly changing his mind about Grosse Pointe? That he had met someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he told me one more thing. That he was starting a new job. One that would pay him really well.”

  “Did he say where?”

  “This is where it gets really hazy. I remember that it had something to do with the auto industry.”

  Great. That narrowed it down to a few thousand companies.

  Instead of being negative, I said, “Okay. That’s a start.”

  “I’m pretty sure it had the word Auto in the name
. And I think Time. Like Auto Time or something like that. That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”

  “No, this is great.” It sort of was, and it sort of wasn’t. That’s what pieces of a puzzle are. They only have value when put into the right place.

  “Look, I have to run now,” she said, followed with a small cough. “Call me if you want to or I’ll call you if I can remember the name better.”

  She hung up, and I did, too.

  The drive back to Grosse Pointe took twice as long as the trip out. But it didn’t bother me.

  Something was really digging at me. Like an itch that needed scratching. Problem was, I couldn’t quite reach it.

  21

  The Grosse Pointe Times office is located on Kercheval, around the corner from Kroger. Not a bad spot actually. It’s virtually impossible to go to the village Kroger and not bump into people you know. You see everyone, get up to speed with the latest happenings. Who knows, maybe reporters station themselves by the produce and then zip back to the office and bang out a hot story.

  Nate has an office with a door, which is rare for the company. Most of the space is open and full of cubicles. I seem to recall Nate claiming to have made the argument he needed privacy to speak with sources. It worked.

  There was no need for me to check in with anyone since I was now considered practically a regular at the office, so I just walked straight to Nate’s corner of the world.

  The door was open and I stood there. He didn’t even glance up from his keyboard.

  “I’m working, dear,” he said to me.

  I took a seat in the chair across from him. He was punching away at the keys of his computer like they were bugs that needed to be squashed.

  “When will you be home?” I said. “I need to time dinner.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t have time for this, John.”

  “You have to make time for the important people in your life, Nate. That would be me.”

  He pushed a slip of paper across the desk to me. It was a name handwritten in his crazy scrawl.