by Dan Ames
“You mean physically?” I asked.
Arnella shook her head. “No, no. Never. The fights just got ugly. Real ugly.”
When she took a drink of her tea I asked, “So what you’re saying is that you think nothing bad happened to her. You think Kierra just ran away because of the fights with Marvin. That she needed some space. That she’s not really missing.”
I was guessing, of course, but that could only be the logical path Arnella was taking.
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s what happened,” she confirmed.
“But don’t you want John to make sure that extra one percent isn’t something to worry about?” my wife added. “And I’m not asking because he needs work, it’s just that as a mother and I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you.”
Anna is an Italian beauty, not sure if I mentioned that before. But in the light of the kitchen, with those big brown eyes so full of compassion, she looked spectacularly beautiful. Man, I was lucky.
“Actually, I could use the work,” I joked.
Wrong thing to say. Anna’s eyes went from caring to pit viper-ish in a nanosecond.
“Just kidding,” I added.
“I came here to release you from the case,” Arnella said. “I think Kierra will be home soon and I don’t want Marvin stressing out about it anymore.”
“Well, I do appreciate you coming here,” I said. “But Marvin is my client and only Marvin can terminate my services.”
Now it was Arnella’s face that changed.
“You’re telling me my husband is the only one–”
“Yes, unfortunately,” I persisted. “But if you just want to have him call me…”
She stood up abruptly and looked at me.
“He and I don’t agree with this so he won’t call you. And if I don’t have any say in the matter I might as well go.” She looked at Anna. “I appreciate the tea and the conversation.”
“My pleasure,” Anna said.
We both watched her walk out the door.
My wife turned to me.
“Let’s talk about your client service skills, John.”
17
It could be that with the kids off at school, Anna and I may have fooled around a bit after Arnella Cotton left.
Or, more accurately, it could be that my better half just made me take out the trash and bring the laundry baskets up from the basement. I’ll let your imagination run with those two scenarios.
A quick check of Grandmaster D told me that he was a rap musician (with slight funk overtones according to one article) and owner of Destroy Records in downtown Detroit.
I decided the best bet would be to just drive down there and check this guy out. Especially after I found a phone number and the call just rang without even going to a voicemail.
One of the perks of living in Grosse Pointe is being able to zip down to Detroit without having to get on the freeway. Jefferson Avenue is one of my favorite streets in Detroit as it winds along Lake St. Clair and then the Detroit River, passing by Belle Isle and some fascinating parts of the city.
Without much traffic to deal with I made it downtown in ten minutes or so, and found a parking spot near the building that supposedly housed Destroy Records. One great thing about Detroit, especially compared to other cities, is the plethora of parking options. The city is actually on the way up, in my opinion, and parking isn’t as abundant as it once was. But compared to places like Chicago or Boston? Not even close.
The building matching the address on my phone was vintage Detroit. Probably built in the ‘20s or ‘30s, and had most likely been abandoned at some point. The structure was about six stories high and the upper floors bore hallmarks of classic Art Deco design.
The street level had obviously seen several incarnations but it looked like someone had tried to strip away some of the façade and find the original face of the building, without much success.
A giant door made of brushed metal represented the entrance, and its surface featured a raised D in the style of the Detroit Tigers logo.
There was an intercom on the right with a white button so I pushed it.
Nothing happened.
I pushed it again.
Nothing happened.
I grabbed the big metal door’s handle and pulled.
It opened.
It made me a little nervous to just walk into a building in Detroit without being invited. I didn’t have my gun. Just my cell phone and a pack of Wintergreen gum.
At least I would die with fresh breath.
“Hello?” I called out as I stepped inside.
It was dark, and got even darker as the door swung shut behind me. The floor was wood, stained black, and the lobby, if you wanted to call it that, was completely empty. There were two hallways, one on each side of the open space with no indication as to what those would lead to.
I heard footsteps and from the hallway on the left a Rottweiler appeared with a huge silver chain around its neck.
A soft but incredibly deep growl emanated from its chest. That growl corresponded with a stab of fear in my belly. Ordinarily I love dogs, but when one that big growls, well, it scares the crap out of me.
From behind the beast of Satan, a woman appeared. She had on a tight black dress that failed entirely to contain her curves. A dozen rolls of duct tape would probably fail at that job, too.
“Can I help you?” she said. Her voice was filled with honey. “Stop it, Boss,” she said to the dog.
Boss bowed his enormous head and retreated silently into the hallway, giving me one more glance over his shoulder. If he could talk, he was saying, “I’ve got my eye on you, white boy.”
“I was hoping to meet with Grandmaster D,” I said, the name sounding strangely formal. “I have some questions for him about a case I’m investigating.”
“You’re not a cop,” she pointed out. “Sure as hell don’t look like one.”
“Nope, private investigator.”
An expression briefly flitted across her face that told me she considered my job title to be on par with that of a porta-potty attendant.
She gave me a withering expression, then followed the path the dog had taken into the hallway and a few minutes later a man appeared. He was tall, at least a couple inches over six feet, and lean. But the lean part of him was all muscle.
“Can I help you?” he said. He approached and stopped right in front of me. He made no move to shake my hand. I was about to offer mine but thought better of it. Up close, his face was angular and shaped by dark edges.
“Yes, I’m John Rockne, a private investigator. I’d like to ask Grandmaster some questions about a case I’m working on.”
“And what is the nature of the case?” When he spoke, I caught a glimpse of perfect white teeth. He folded his arms across his chest and I could see the ropy muscles in his forearms.
Suddenly, the dog seemed like a friendlier acquaintance.
“It’s about a missing girl. Her name is Kierra Cotton but some people call her Jade.”
His flat black eyes didn’t change one bit. Either he didn’t know the name, or a blank death stare was his natural mode of expression.
“Grandmaster D isn’t here but I’m happy to take a message for you.”
It was my turn to smile. He could have told me Grandmaster wasn’t here before he asked me about the case. So why did he want to know?
“Sure, I can leave a message,” I said. “And what is your name?”
He smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that warmed your cockles, whatever cockles are.
“Nix,” he said.
I handed him one of my business cards.
“I’d like to talk with him if he ever has an opening in his schedule.”
“He’s an extremely busy man,” Nix said.
If there was a wastebasket in the place, I had a feeling my business card was about to find it very soon.
“It would be great if he could find some time,” I said, then decide
d to push it. “He and Kierra seemed very close, at least according to her Instagram account.”
Nix looked like he was going to ask me something and then stopped. My guess is that he knew who I was talking about, which made me very interested.
“He takes lots of picture with lots of people,” Nix said.
“I have a feeling he would remember her,” I countered.
The dog appeared behind Nix and started growling.
Or it might have been Nix himself, which wouldn’t have surprised me.
“I’ll see he gets the message,” Nix said.
He used the kind of tone of voice that told me he hoped I was getting his message, too. Which I was.
Loud and clear.
18
Knives were an important part of Clay’s family history. The blade was nearly as important as a hatred for law, a disdain for authority and willingness to take what rightfully wasn’t yours.
The Arkansas Toothpick, the Bowie, the switchblade. Throwing knives, skinning knives, survival knives. They had all at one point or another passed through Clay’s hands.
Now, with his captive fully awake and aware of the situation he was in, Clay went to the small cooler near the back door, opened it, and pulled out a can of Pabst. The bottle of Early Times was gone, and besides, something cold was better for this kind of work.
Cutting always made him thirsty.
He popped the tab and walked over to where AJ slumped.
Clay took a drink of his beer.
“You might not think it, but you do have some options,” he said.
AJ slowly raised his head and looked at Clay.
“You can tell me what I want to know now and I’ll let you go,” Clay said. “Or you can tell me what I want to know later, after I’ve used this on you.”
He held up the knife in front of AJ’s face.
“This is called a gut-hook skinning knife,” Clay said. “See how the blade has a slight curve? That’s for the skinning.”
AJ looked down at the floor drain.
“See that little notch there at the end?” Clay asked. He smiled and took a drink from his Pabst.
“That’s the gut hook. It’s fucking razor-sharp, man.”
Clay flicked his wrist, and cut a two-inch long gash in AJ’s forearm.
“Fuck!” AJ yelled out.
“See what I mean?” Clay laughed. “Look at how that bitch cut right through and I didn’t even apply any pressure. Shit! This is a damn good knife, boy.”
“I’ll tell you whatever the fuck you want to know,” AJ said. “But I have to tell you I don’t know who the hell you are or why you have me here. I don’t know anything about anyone. I’m just a guy who sells some weed once in awhile and who likes to party. That’s it, nothing more.”
Clay set the can of Pabst on the floor and stepped closer to AJ.
“I think you’re a lying piece of shit,” Clay said. “And I don’t believe a word you just said. But it doesn’t matter. All I want to know is where the girl is. Jade. Where is she?”
“Oh, no,” AJ said. He started weeping.
“What’s wrong, crybaby?”
AJ swung his head from side to side. “I don’t know where she is,” he said, in between sobs. “She disappeared. I’ve been looking for her, too.”
“I’m so happy you chose option two,” Clay said.
Moments later, AJ’s screams filled the room as his blood poured down the floor drain.
19
Nate called me back and I reluctantly agreed to meet him for dinner. I had a fancy new corporate card, though, so it would be easier to keep track of my receipts for the tax man. Since most of what we discussed would be work-related, all of my meals with Nate would be legitimate business expenses. It was the only way I could survive these outings without an ulcer or two.
A new burger place had opened on Kercheval and luckily Nate had agreed to it. Which was great for me because even though my friend’s appetite was extreme, you could only do so much damage at a burger joint. Financially speaking, of course. Medically speaking, well, that was a whole different story.
I found Nate sitting in the back booth and slid in across from him.
“Check this out,” he said, pointing at the menu. “The Blue Note – it’s new.” I took a glance, saw it was a double decker burger with blue cheese.
“Cool,” I said. “Better name than say, the Blueger, which sounds kind of gross.”
Nate was a heavyset guy with a thick beard and even thicker glasses. He was married with one daughter, a girl who had been born without a pulmonary artery, which had been a fairly major surprise at the time. Since then, and several operations later, she was doing fine. The medical bills were still there, even though Nate had been chipping away at them for years now.
The waiter came by and took our drink orders. Coke for Nate, unsweetened ice tea for me.
“So what’s new?” I asked him.
“Same old stuff, John,” my friend said wearily. “University of Michigan football team is front-page news, murders and widespread government corruption barely get a mention.”
“If the football team was corrupt, then you’ve got a story,” I offered.
“All big-time college sports are corrupt,” he pointed out. “Most of the guys graduate barely being able to read and write.”
There was no point arguing with him, he was right, for the most part.
“What’s new with you?” he asked.
“I wrapped up a divorce case. This guy who had a couple of patents for injection molding thought his wife was cheating on him and she was. I documented her dalliances and it ended up being a pretty fair divorce all around.”
“He keep his patents?”
“Yep. She found some other guy’s injections more interesting,” I guess.
Nate groaned.
“I know, too easy,” I admitted. “Anyway, I’m working right now on a missing persons case, a young woman. Kierra Cotton.”
Nate shook his head to indicate he didn’t recognize the name. Grosse Pointe was a very small community but you couldn’t possibly know everyone.
“I’m going to try the Blue Note and the Western,” he said.
I nodded in response. Nate was overweight and I had made the mistake once of trying to help. Bad idea. Apparently he got enough of that at home and extra scrutinizing from his oldest friend wasn’t welcome.
So I kept my mouth shut regarding the issue.
Which, for me, was an accomplishment.
The waiter arrived on cue and Nate told him what he wanted and I added my regular – a cheeseburger with fried onions and sweet potato fries. That was my new thing. Sweet potato fries. Another thing I had convinced myself was way healthier than the regular deal.
“Ever heard of a local rapper named Grandmaster D?” I asked.
“Sure,” Nate answered. “He’s a fairly well-respected musician and producer. I think he’s known more for his producing. Probably making more money that way, too.”
“I went to talk to him today but his security guy cut me off at the pass. Quite thoroughly I might add. He said his name was Nix. Ever heard of him?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. But I don’t think this is the kind of guy you just show up and talk to,” Nate said. “I’m sure he’s got plenty of people around him. Does he have something to do with the missing girl?”
“I think so. She apparently talked a lot about him with a stripper friend and there are a lot of pictures of him on her Instagram.”
“Stripper?” He raised an eyebrow. “How old is this missing girl?”
“Just out of high school.”
He shook his head. “Everything is getting worse and the victims are getting younger and younger.” He looked at me. “Was she hooking, too?”
“No way,” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Lace. She hadn’t said anything about prostitution.
“Are you sure about that, John?” he asked me.
“Why?”
&nbs
p; He shrugged his shoulders. “What club was she stripping at?”
“Bush Gardens.”
Nate’s mouth turned up at the corner. “She was hooking, then.”
The waiter came and put down our food. I realized I was going to be sharing Nate’s attention with the two massive burgers now sitting in front of him.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“Because Bush Gardens is a fucking brothel, John. Everyone knows that,” my friend said as he tore into his first burger. After a few chews to get the first piece down, he continued. “Practically every club on 8 Mile is. The dancing is just a pretense. The real business goes on in back in those booths. Blow jobs, straight fucking, anything you want. And most girls are there to lure customers in, and then they start meeting them outside the club, at hotels, even though the club’s owner probably doesn’t like that, but it’s a cost of doing business.”
I’d heard those rumors, but I’d always been a little skeptical. I could see Lace doing some things in that room we’d been in if the price was right, but Kierra? Even when she was Jade? I had my doubts.
And then I wondered if the reason Lace had gotten so pissed off at me at the end of our conversation was because I hadn’t ordered any “extras.” Suddenly, I felt embarrassed and slightly offended.
“She might have been with a service, too,” Nate added, after he’d already devoured the Blue Note.
I wondered if it was Nate’s training as a reporter that always made him think the worst.
“So in addition to stripping, possibly turning tricks in some slimy booth at a strip club, meeting customers for sex, she might have been working at an escort service?” I asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Nate nodded instead of answering. His jaws were busy destroying the Western burger.
I thought of Marvin Cotton and Arnella. And suddenly, I lost whatever appetite I’d had.
20
We chatted for awhile longer and Nate agreed to see if he could find out anything more about Grandmaster D, then we said our goodbyes. I sent Anna a quick text to let her know I’d had dinner with Nate and was going to the office for a couple of hours.
