Grosse Pointe Pulp

by Dan Ames

I walked back and found the main entrance, but it was locked.

  There was no doorbell and no speaker.

  A quick look around showed a couple of vacant lots, some bits of broken glass on the street and in the background, the Renaissance Center and the skyline of Detroit. The RenCen as it was called was home to General Motors headquarters.

  It made me a little nervous to do it, but I reached up and pounded on the door and then I waited.

  After fifteen minutes of waiting, I texted Derek’s cell phone and told him I was outside.

  I waited another thirty minutes and pounded on the door again.

  It occurred to me that maybe it was a wild goose chase. Bring pesky guy down and then make him stand outside until he gives up. I was less than ten minutes from home, I could drive back and have dinner with the family.

  But someone was here.

  These hundred thousand dollar cars didn’t drive themselves down here. Then again, maybe they did. They probably talked about it at the automotive technology expo in Traverse City.

  The door opened behind me.

  A huge, hulking guy looked down at me. He was bald, with a thick beard, and massive arms covered in tattoos.

  He appraised me like I was a sprawling patch of crabgrass invading his lawn.

  “No need to pound on the door, man.” He raised his chin and for the first time I noticed the small camera pointed down at the door.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I was hoping to talk to Grandmaster D.”

  “He’ll be out in a few minutes,” the giant said. “Why don’t you do some push ups while you wait for him.”

  “Um–”

  “Like, why don’t you give me twenty.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

  Was I really just being told to drop and give him twenty?

  I started looking around for a patch of clear grass or pavement.

  “I’m just fucking with you, man,” he said. He smiled, and his teeth were covered with gold caps.

  He stepped aside and Derek walked out, a cloud of marijuana smoke following him. The door slammed shut behind him.

  “Hey, I’ve only got a minute or so,” he said.

  “What can you tell me about Nix?” I said.

  Derek’s eyes were a little bloodshot and I could smell booze on him.

  “What about him?”

  “Well, does he work for you?”

  Derek smiled. “Nix works for Nix, man.”

  “Oh, I was under the impression–”

  “Does this really have something to do with Jade?” he asked. Derek was higher than a drone flown by a neighborhood Dad.

  “Yes,” I answered. “I think Nix was at the auto convention where Jade was working.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the picture of Jade, and then the picture of Nix that I had cropped and sent to Nate.

  Derek shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know anything about that, man.”

  I sensed the same reluctance I’d heard before when I asked about the second big score Kierra had mentioned.

  “Are you scared of him?” I said. “Of Nix?”

  It sort of slipped out, and I worried it was the wrong thing to say, but Derek just laughed. “If you’ve got any kind of sense, you’re scared of Nix. The man plays for keeps, do you know what I mean?”

  “So he doesn’t work for you,” I said. “Does he work for the mayor?”

  The door cracked open, and Hulk said, “They’re ready for you.”

  The door shut again.

  Derek looked at me. “Look, I really wanted to help you, because I think Jade, or Kierra, is a good kid. But I don’t know what happened to her. And if you start rattling Nix’s cage, you better be careful.”

  He took a step away from me.

  “Here’s what I’m going to tell you and then I’m not going to answer any more of your calls or have any more conversations about this,” he said.

  He took a deep breath and I was glad he was a little high, because I don’t think I would have gotten this out of him sober.

  “Nix is like a freelance security guy,” he said. “Mostly unofficial. But he’s been keeping a pretty low profile since that big party they had a couple weeks ago.”

  “Party?”

  Derek smiled. “Man, don’t you read the papers? That big party at the Mansion?”

  A big party? I frowned trying to remember if I’d heard anything. Maybe I had.

  “That’s all I got,” Derek said. “Don’t bother me anymore. We square?”

  I started to answer but then the door opened, Derek nodded at me, and he disappeared inside. The Hulk stood looking at me for a minute, and then I walked away.

  I heard the door slam shut behind me.

  30

  The restaurant was called The Crepe Escape and it was a new addition to the part of Grosse Pointe at the end of Kercheval where it hit Alter Road. The village had gotten into trouble because at some point someone had the idea to just shut the road off right there, so they dragged some big pots and shit across it.

  Naturally, this didn’t sit well with the Detroiters across the street, so Grosse Pointe business owners opened Kercheval back up and made a nice little circular drive.

  Nate and I got there at the same time and since it was an order-at-the-counter kind of place, I went first to give the big man time to study the menu.

  He didn’t like to be rushed.

  I ordered a Nutella crepe because when I looked at the menu, the name Nutella jumped out at me. I love Nutella. I want to find Nutella headquarters and apply for a job there so I can get free Nutella.

  Nate finally made up his mind and ordered three crepes, all of them having nothing to do with breakfast, which is what I thought a crepe was meant for. His had meat in them. And not breakfast meat like bacon. Chicken, beef and something else.

  We sat down and I got a coffee. Nate ordered a Coke.

  He slid a piece of paper across the table.

  “That’s the info I could find on Platinum Escorts,” he said. “I talked to a buddy who knows a buddy who works Vice in Detroit. Apparently this group is on their radar. But since it’s strictly high-end and they’re supposedly not into the really bad stuff like kidnapping, they’re pretty much left alone. For now.”

  I glanced at the name and the address.

  “You’re kidding me,” I said. “Birmingham?”

  Birmingham was a fancy little suburb north of Detroit at Woodward and Maple Road. A lot of wealthy people lived in Birmingham, along with its neighbor Bloomfield Hills. I’d just had a case take me to Birmingham not too long ago.

  “There’s no such thing as cheap rent in Birmingham,” Nate said. “So either they own the building, or they’re making a lot of money and can afford the rent.”

  “Who is Argyle?” I asked. That was the only name on the paper, next to the address.

  “No idea, John,” Nate said.

  He looked tired. No one would ever accuse him of being a snazzy dresser and currently his shirt was wrinkled and untucked, his jeans looked like they hadn’t seen a washing machine for awhile and his hair was sticking like he’d been electrocuted.

  I folded up the piece of paper and put it in my pocket as our food came.

  The freaking Nutella was delicious. For once, I finished my meal faster than Nate.

  While he ate, I told him about Nix, my meeting with Derek and my request to talk to Mayor Bill Mahorn.

  “Horny Mahorn?” he said. “Mayor Mahorny?”

  I hadn’t heard those nicknames. “I have to get out more,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s what they really call him?”

  Nate raised an eyebrow. “Some do. His enemies, probably.”

  “Well, that makes sense if there was some crazy party a few weeks back,” I said. “Did you hear anything about that?”

  “Sure. At the mayor’s mansion. It got out of hand, a couple of fights broke out, the cops had to come and stop it. Not a good public relations move.”

  “Sinc
e they call him Mayor Mahorny, I’m guessing there were a lot of women at this party,” I pointed out. “Maybe even a few paid to be there?”

  “Of course,” Nate said, spearing a huge chunk of crepe that was dripping with spinach and melted mozzarella. “The mayor throws a big party, invites some of his big fundraisers, you’re damn right he’s got women there. Probably assigned to certain big contributors to the mayor’s war chest.”

  I drained the rest of my coffee.

  “I know one of the cops who worked the party that night,” Nate said. He dug out his cell phone, worked the screen for a bit and then I saw a contact in my text messages.

  “Give him a call, he’s a young guy, son of the sports editor. He’ll be able to tell you more. I don’t know anything else about it.”

  He looked at me. “Are you thinking your missing girl was at the party?”

  “It’s just a guess but the timeline fits.”

  A thought occurred to me. “So every mayor has his own legal team, right?”

  “Well, private attorneys, sure,” Nate said after considering the question. “Whether or not they’ve got some on the public payroll, I’m not sure.”

  “You said you thought the guy with the silver hair might have been an attorney, right?”

  “Yeah, but it was just a guess. I can’t tell anything from the back of the guy’s head.”

  It was a glimmer of an idea but I had nothing to back it up. There were a million attorneys in the city. But Nix had been at the auto convention. Jade had been there, too.

  What I really needed to do was figure out if Jade had been at the mayor’s party, and if the guy with the silver hair had been there, too.

  Maybe the answer was in Birmingham.

  31

  The drive to Birmingham from Grosse Pointe is a pretty simple shot straight north, especially if you connect to Woodward. Traffic was light and there was enough time for me to think about what I’d learned so far.

  I’ve never been a big believer in instinct as I usually ignore the little whispers my subconscious gives me. But I had a definite feeling something was a little bit off. I couldn’t tell if it was the case, that maybe it was heading in a different direction than I had intended, or if it was something else entirely.

  In any event, I found the address of Platinum Escorts and it threw me for a loop. It was one of the biggest buildings in the little downtown of Birmingham, and I knew it was a group of million-dollar condominiums. The place was simply called Rothwell, after the street upon which the lavishly constructed structure had been built.

  The only available parking was in a public structure a block away so I left the car there and walked back over to Rothwell where a doorman let me in.

  The lobby was spacious with a black marble floor, a few plants, and fresh flowers in funky pottery vases. A bank of elevators sat off to my left. There was a concierge or finely dressed security guard sitting behind a desk on the right.

  Now I had a dilemma.

  How the hell was I going to ask for Platinum Escorts? There was no way they went by that name. Argyle? Was there really a guy named Argyle? Or gal?

  I crossed the lobby to the slim black desk behind which a thin man with a pencil mustache sat.

  “Hi, I’m here to see the Argyles,” I said. I figured since I didn’t know the gender, referring to the name as a couple would hit both possibilities.

  “Would you like me to ring them?” he asked, obviously wondering why I wasn’t calling them myself. But I didn’t have an apartment number and even if I wanted to take a chance and get on the elevator, I figured they required a key.

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  “May I tell them who is calling?”

  I took a gamble and said, “Mr. Nix.”

  The little, wispy guy spoke into the phone and then stood up and led me to the elevator. He had on a cologne that smelled like someone had stuck a stalk of vanilla bean into a jar of formaldehyde.

  I stepped inside the elevator and he used his key and then pressed the button for the third floor. He started to step out.

  “You know, I’ve got a bit of dyslexia,” I said. “I can’t remember are they in three–”

  “Three twenty-five,” he said. His voice was high and crisp with a tone that sounded like he wasn’t buying my bullshit but didn’t really care.

  The elevator shut and even though I didn’t feel it move, a moment later it deposited me on the third floor. It was a dark hallway, with purple carpet and silvery walls.

  I went down to three twenty-five and used the silver knocker to announce my presence. The door opened and I saw a woman with thick black glasses and a short, black bob haircut.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Hi, Nix sent me,” I said simply. The only way to play this one out was to go with the flow.

  She didn’t bat an eye. “Jordy!” she called out.

  From a room off of the main living area a young man emerged. He had on jeans, was barefoot, and a black T-shirt with holes in it.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Jesus, the kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. In fact, if I had to guess I would say he was still in high school. Maybe a junior or something.

  Taking a closer look, though, I saw the resemblance to the woman.

  “Um, can we talk privately?” I asked.

  “Is everything okay, Jordy?” the woman asked. She had seemed totally casual before but now seeing her son’s reaction she sensed something might be wrong. A mother’s instinct and all that.

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s fine,” he said, looking at me a bit dismissively. As in, what the hell could this guy possibly do to me?

  She turned and now reassured, smiled at me. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “Let’s go,” Jordy said before I could answer and I followed him into the next room where he shut the door behind us.

  It was set up like an office even though I suspected it was a spare bedroom. There was a desk, with two computer screens, a black leather couch and a television with a gaming console.

  “This is Platinum Escorts?” I asked. I figured there was no other way to put it.

  “Yep, this is it,” Jordy said.

  I shook my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He looked at me with mild curiosity. “Did Nix really send you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then who the hell are you?”

  “A potential customer. With a lot of money to spend,” I said. “But first I want to know more about your operation before I invest.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said. “It’s really just an exchange server, like a virtual check out register. And I just take a small percentage off the top.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I think you’re full of shit, by the way. And I know you’re not a cop. Who are you and why did you say Nix sent you?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I mean, I don’t know why I said that. I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Kierra Cotton. You probably knew her as Jade.”

  The kid pulled out a can of Red Bull and took a drink. “Huh, I didn’t know she was missing.”

  “Do you know anything about where she went?” I asked.

  “I just said I didn’t know she was missing,” he said, like he was talking to someone with learning disabilities.

  “But can you look at her…transactions?” I ventured.

  “No, listen, you don’t know how this works. I’m basically running an encrypted server. The reason the cops don’t bother me, and the reason I am talking to you so freely is that I’m not really doing anything illegal,” he said. This kid was smart. I wondered if he would ever put his intellect to use for something other than exploiting young women for money. “There are other parts of this that are highly illegal, but I’m not involved in those.”

  “I see,” I said, even though I really didn’t.

  “I only know Jade from her name and the images on the site, which I check o
ut occasionally,” he said, and he sneaked a glance over my shoulder to make sure his Mom wasn’t listening.

  But I was eighteen once and I figured he might have gotten to know some of the girls on a personal level, if he had the chance.

  “So you can’t tell me anything about who she might have been seeing? Who her clients were?”

  He shook his head. “Think of it like a department store. You know how they hire people to make up those fancy displays in the front of the store? The window displays?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s all I do, really. I don’t know anything else,” he said. “From what I hear, though, asking a lot of questions about the other stuff is dangerous business. That’s why I don’t do it. You kind of look like a dumbass, though.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “Thank you for that keen observation,” I said. But I knew this was going nowhere.

  I stood up and was about to say goodbye.

  “I kind of figured you would be into T-girls,” he said knowingly and then laughed.

  “Tea girls? What’ s a tea girl?” I said.

  He laughed again, even harder.

  “What?” I said. “Is that like slang for an Asian? Like a Geisha girl? A tea girl?”

  He laughed again, drained the rest of his Red Bull.

  “Get the fuck outta here,” he said.

  32

  If there was one thing Clay could say about this snotty little town they called Birmingham, it would have to be that it represented everything he hated about people. A bunch of flaming idiots disguised as men wearing bright colored shirts and walking around in sandals. He wanted to beat the shit out of everyone he saw, women and children included.

  But he couldn’t.

  Being in stakeout mode wasn’t easy in this place. He realized he stuck out like a whore in the church choir.

  The big old truck, his tattoos. Not the kind of thing you saw in this dumb ass place.

  But this is where the Rockne guy, the private investigator, decided to drive so he, Clay, had to follow. Clay had no idea why the dude was coming to Birmingham.

  The girl, Jade, was a fucking hooker. Unless she turned tricks here or something. Some of these old, rich guys probably hired chicks all the time. Only way they could get pussy, probably. They had to pay for it and they probably paid top dollar. Of course, as the old saying went, one way or another you always ended up paying for it.