by Dan Ames
I started to tell him that, but he cut me off.
“I just want you to keep an open mind about it and check it out. I’ll pay whatever your rates are and your expenses. If you honestly find out Hornsby had nothing to do with it, and can give me some kind of proof, we’ll shake hands and go our separate ways.”
He pushed back a little and folded his arms across his chest.
I write on my notepad: no. No way. Nuh-uh.
I said, “I’ll think about it.”
* * *
•
* * *
When I was younger, I used to be very impatient. My dad tried to teach me how to make model airplanes, but I would race through, gluing all the parts together without waiting for them to dry. I would crack open the new box after breakfast and be done before lunch. My plane would always end up shoddily built with a sloppy paint job, and the little decals were always crooked. It might have been a few weeks later, or sometimes even a few months later, when my Dad would finish his. And naturally, it was the picture of perfection. It took quite a while, and quite a few botched P-47s, for me to realize the problem.
Now I sometimes had become the opposite, perhaps in reaction to what my impatient youth had taught me. I tended to wait and think things over. Maybe even over think them a bit. It was probably because I had children of my own, and if there’s one thing a parent needs, it’s patience.
So despite the fact that I had no intention of taking on the case, I decided to think it over. It seemed to me that Clarence Barre was dealing with the death of his daughter the only way he knew how. In his case, it happened to be blaming a man who was most likely innocent. Not something of which I really wanted to be a part. Even if it meant turning down a paycheck.
I also had to admit that I liked the earnest honesty of Clarence Barre. Maybe it was the way he looked me in the eye, or the obvious pain that hung on his weathered face.
Or maybe it was that damn Kenny Rogers hair.
Chapter Six
After Mr. Barre left my office, I logged onto the Internet and searched for newspaper accounts of Jesse Barre’s murder. I found nothing in the local paper, but that didn’t surprise me. The Grosse Pointe newspaper was legendary for not publicizing any stories of crime. Why? Because on the scale of priorities, Grosse Pointe residents placed property values on the same level as breathing. Perhaps even a nudge higher. A weekly report of all the petty crimes that occurred mostly on the direct border with Detroit, more frequently than most would like to admit, might make people think twice about plopping down a half million dollars on that picturesque Tudor with three fireplaces and an annual tax that could make a grown man choke on his bacon-wrapped filet mignon.
Anyway, I found what I was looking for on the Detroit Free Press website. The article there gave me the basic facts: the murder took place at Jessica Barre’s studio on Kercheval, just a few blocks from the Detroit border. It was an abandoned shoe repair shop that she’d converted to a guitar-making studio. The murder took place at approximately eleven p.m. Forced entry. Blunt force trauma. DOA. The article said it appeared to be a robbery but didn’t elaborate. The murder weapon, a heavy hammer that belonged to the victim, was left next to her body.
It was all very straightforward to me. Although Grosse Pointe was by and large a very safe community, when you spent that much time right on the border with Detroit, sometimes bad things could happen. On the Alter Road border, it was pretty common for bicycles and children’s toys to be snatched from the yard. Patio furniture was even known to sometimes get up in the middle of the night and walk across the border into Detroit, never to be heard from again. Same goes for grills and portable basketball hoops.
The other street that bordered Detroit, Mack Avenue, was legendary for carjackings, purse snatchings, and even the occasional bank robbery.
Hey, when your neighbor was one of the most dangerous cities in the country, you had to expect it. Over the years, Grosse Pointe residents had become naturally inured to the bullshit, although on the few occasions something really bad happened, it often gave pause to consider a move to the northern suburbs where McMansions and golf courses rule the land.
I skimmed the Free Press article once again. It all seemed pretty clear cut to me. Someone had probably seen the guitars, a woman working alone, probably late at night. They broke in, killed her, and grabbed what they could. Leaving the murder weapon and wiping it free of prints indicated a certain sophistication, I had to admit, but for the most part, it was probably what it seemed: a robbery that had gotten rough. Innocent people in robberies were killed all the time. Fast-food workers killed execution-style in the walk-in freezer. Why? Because some cold, sadistic psycho didn’t want any witnesses left alive. Or maybe a punk with a gun wanted to feel the ultimate power. Who knew?
There was only one thing that seemed to stick in the back of my brain as I re-read the article. It seemed odd to me that a thief, even taking into account the fact that not all thieves are terribly clever, would choose to knock over a guitar studio. It’s not a cash business. It wasn’t sexually motivated; at least there was no mention of an assault in the papers. And guitars would not be a terribly hot item on the market. From what I’d read and from the impression Clarence Barre had given me, the guitars Jesse Barre made were unique. I wasn’t exactly an expert on robbery and the fencing of stolen goods, but it seemed that trying to sell a Jesse Barre guitar locally would likely present problems. It also held that most guitar stores would not only recognize one of Jesse’s guitars, but would also have heard of the murder. My guess was that the cops had already called all the guitar stores and told them to be on the lookout for the kind of guitars she made. They would urge the shops to get a description and, if possible, a license plate of anyone trying to sell a Jesse Barre guitar. Pretty standard procedure.
I took a deep breath and thought some more. What if Clarence was right? What if this Hornsby had killed Jesse Barre and made it look like a robbery? That too was a trick as old as the hills. I suspected the cops had looked into it, Clarence said Hornsby had an alibi, but alibis can be manufactured. Good ones take a lot of time and effort and planning. Would this Hornsby, the ex-con, be able to do it?
I saved the article to my computer’s desktop and pushed away from the desk, propping my feet on the low bookcase next to the wastebasket. I put my hands behind my head and thought about Clarence Barre. I knew that I liked him. And my wife has told me time and time again that I put a filter on my brain when it comes to people I like. That I see too much of the positive in people, sometimes even create it when it’s not there. Maybe so. There was the off chance that I was looking for something that would justify my case for taking on Clarence Barre as a client.
But objectivity is a bastard. The fact was I knew the criminal mind was not a bastion of logic. Throw some booze and drugs into the mix and you’ve got a human being reduced to his or her most base instincts. A desperate person walks by a studio that may or may not be some kind of cash business, it’s night, a woman is working alone on loud woodworking machines—the perfect opportunity for a smash-and-grab. Maybe the woman tries to defend herself or her products, and things get out of hand. It happens.
In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I thought Clarence Barre was most likely off base and wrapped up in the emotions of a grieving father, and that I had somehow fallen victim to his genuine earnestness.
My first impression of Clarence Barre was that he was a good man. Had probably been a good father. And he was a man who loved and cherished his daughter above all else, including logic. He was a good man, but he was probably wrong.
It seemed like there was really one right decision here.
But you know, I’d made so many fucking mistakes in my lifetime that one more couldn’t hurt.
I would take the case.
Chapter Seven
London
* * *
The Spook was disappointed.
The investment banker’s apartment was extremely
luxurious. Marble floors. Turkish rugs. Original artwork worthy, in some cases, of museums.
All of which didn’t surprise the Spook. After all, the banker had been skimming profits, stealing from the bank’s partners for years. From the dossier that had been given to him, the Spook learned the investment banker had pilfered nearly twenty million dollars. The man’s partners, some of whom had ties to various illegal activities themselves, were not happy. Undue attention in their business could prove to be lethal.
None of that disappointed or even interested the Spook. What upset him was the quality of the guitars. Surrounded by trappings of extreme wealth, the guitars were a joke. A run-of-the-mill Yamaha acoustic, a new Fender, and that was about it. Even worse, the guitars were dusty and out of tune. The strings hadn’t been changed in ages. A disgrace.
The Spook was a guitar player. Although he loved his work, loved to get paid to kill people, he lived for music. The piercing wail of a bent third string, the soul-shaking shudder of a bluesy vibrato . . . it moved him in ways nothing else could. He looked at the guitars and shook his head.
This man deserved to die.
The Spook checked his watch. The banker’s name was Gordon Springs, and the Spook knew from countless hours of surveillance that he was due home in ten minutes. A routine that the man never failed to repeat, day after day, month after month. The human need for structure made the Spook’s job all that much easier.
He went to the nearest guitar, the Yamaha acoustic, and picked it up from its holder. Finding a pick and a slide—one couldn’t very well perform intricate finger work wearing surgeon’s gloves—he tuned the guitar to an open G and played a few notes. It didn’t sound that great. The strings were very old, and there was a rattle near the bridge. To the Spook, it was how a social worker must feel to hold a neglected baby.
He made some adjustments then played the opening to “You Got the Silver” from Beggars Banquet. One of his idol’s masterpieces of subtlety. No one could make a guitar do things the way Keith Richards could. Keith was more than just the famous guitarist of the infamous Rolling Stones, he was the Spook’s god. The Spook felt that what he was to the profession of assassins, Keith was to the profession of rock and roll.
He finished off the song and set the guitar back in its stand. The guitar pissed off the Spook. To be here, in London, Keith Richards’ home stomping grounds, and to see an apartment filled with expensive shit but mistreated guitars . . . well, it went against everything he believed in.
He checked his watch. Any minute now.
He went back to the guitar and turned the third string’s tuning key until the string itself began to sag and hang away from the body of the guitar. The Spook continued unwinding until he could pull the string through the tuning key’s hole, and then he popped the plastic peg that held the string in place at the center of the guitar’s body. When it was free, he took two kitchen towels, placed them in the palm of his hand, and then wound an end of the string around each hand.
Moments later, he heard the key in the lock, and he disappeared into the darkness of the apartment. He heard the door swing open, a pause, and then the door clicked shut. He heard Mr. Springs sigh. Relief at living another day without falling off the tightrope that is the criminal life. The Spook knew Mr. Springs had a mistress, a drinking problem, and a severe lack of self-control, but he didn’t care. Mr. Springs wasn’t a person—he was simply an assignment.
The Spook listened as footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. Then the footsteps stopped. The Spook knew exactly what the banker was doing.
He emerged from the shadows.
The banker stood in the kitchen, his back to the living room. The Spook had rented a flat directly across the street with a perfect view of Mr. Springs’ apartment. Because of this, the Spook knew that Mr. Springs’ answering machine was on the kitchen counter and that the first thing Mr. Springs did when he got home every evening was put his briefcase on the kitchen’s island and then turn his full attention to the answering machine.
The Spook stood behind the British investment banker for just a moment, then reached up and looped the guitar string, cross-handed, over the man’s head. Springs heaved back, but the Spook easily pivoted and brought him down, then kneeled on the man’s back. He worked the thin metal cord back and forth like a saw until it had thoroughly cut through the soft flesh of the banker’s neck. The Spook heard a scream reduced to soft gurgles. Springs thrashed for several seconds before his nerves received their final instructions.
And then Springs was dead.
His contract with the bank’s partners fulfilled, the Spook stood, wiped the blood off the string with one of the kitchen towels, then went back to the guitar. He threaded the string back through the tuning key, tapped the peg back in place, and wound the string tight, tuning by ear.
The Spook picked up the glass slide and confidently eased into the opening licks of “Moonlight Mile.”
He only had time for one or two songs.
The guitar sucked, sure. But his hero had played on worse.
This one definitely went out for Keith.
Chapter Eight
The address Clarence Barre had given me was on a street called Rivenoak, along the small strip of homes east of Jefferson. It was a valuable stretch of property, bordered on one side by Lake St. Clair. On the other side of Jefferson was the bulk of Grosse Pointe, acting as a thick layer of insulation from the depravity of Detroit proper.
The neighborhoods here were very upscale. Big lots, big houses, big money. The royalties from Clarence’s backlist must have been both large and frequent.
The house itself was a statuesque colonial. It was between two larger Tudors and just a few houses in from Lake St. Clair. A small cul-de-sac with benches and wildflowers was at the end of the street. Clarence could stroll down here after dinner, smoke a cigar, and watch the boats pass by and the gulls doing their thing. He probably would have done something like that before his daughter’s death. Now, my guess was that if he did come down and look out over the water, he’d think the kind of thoughts no parents should have to entertain. Someone once said the most painful thing in the world is to outlive your children. Seemed to me to be a pretty safe bet.
I parked my car, a utilitarian gray Taurus, in the stamped concrete driveway. I went to the door and used the brass knocker, trying to tap out the bass line to Clarence’s “Mississippi Honey.”
He answered the door wearing the same kind of outfit he’d worn to my office: jeans, a colorful shirt, and a black leather vest. Shiny, pointed-toe cowboy boots as well. They looked to be of the same kind of leather as the bolo tie around his neck.
We shook hands, and then he showed me in to his living room. It was like the man himself—warm, rugged, and comfortable. Leather furniture, dark Persian rugs, some gold records on the wall as well as some pictures of a younger Clarence Barre with some minor and not-so-minor celebrities.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Rockne?” he asked.
“Please, call me John. No thanks, I’m fine.” We each took a leather club chair, and he looked at me questioningly.
“So . . .”
“What can you tell me about Nevada Hornsby?”
An almost imperceptible smile crossed Clarence’s face. He knew I was taking the case. In fact, he’d probably known before I had.
“He runs a salvage operation out of St. Clair Shores,” Clarence said.
“Salvage, like sunken ships?”
“Wood. Old lumber that sunk hundreds of years ago. It’s valuable stuff. Jesse used it to make her guitars.”
“So that’s how they met,” I said.
He nodded. “Ironically, in my mind, when she started using that salvaged lumber was when her career really took off. She’d tried different stuff, built a pretty big following with exotic woods. But when she started using the stuff from Hornsby, everything changed. For the better.”
“Even her personal life,” I added.
He didn’t like that. �
�That’s how she saw it, I’m sure. But I never liked the guy from day one. Real quiet. Standoffish. Like he had something to hide.”
“Such as . . .”
“Who knows?”
I looked at my notes. “He’s got an alibi.”
“The alibi is bullshit,” he said. “Probably bought and paid for.”
Clarence’s face had turned slightly reddish in color. I had a feeling pissing him off wouldn’t be a good idea.
“What is the alibi? Do you know?”
Clarence shook his head. “The cops wouldn’t tell me. Said it was an official matter. Official, my ass.”
“If you don’t know what the alibi is, how can you be so convinced it isn’t valid?” I asked.
“Because of what Jesse said,” he said. His voice was full of exasperation. I felt like the dumb kid in class and no matter how hard the teacher tried, I just couldn’t grasp the concept at hand.
“That he was possessive,” Clarence said. “Jealous. Christ, the guy’s practically a hermit. Just him, his ship, and dragging dead wood out of the lake. No wonder he latched on to Jesse.”
A silence hung in the air for a few moments.
“Are you going to help me?” he asked.
“Here’s what I think,” I said, leaning forward. “My advice is if you are determined to have the outcome of this investigation be the uncovering of a complex murder plot involving your daughter, don’t hire me.”
He looked at me, almost a glint in his eye. It reminded me of Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven.
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure that if I do further investigation,” I continued, “I’m going to find that it was, in fact, a burglary gone wrong. Maybe you’ll get mad and won’t want to pay me or maybe you’ll just try to beat the shit out of me. Whatever. If, however, you truly are interested in uncovering the truth—even if that truth isn’t something you agree with—then we can talk. So you tell me what you want out of this, and we’ll see what we can work out.”
