Hard Rock (A Hardboiled Private Investigator Mystery Series): John Rockne Mysteries 2 (2 page)

Chapter Four

The address in the file led me to an interesting house on a steep hill near one of the many little parks near downtown Birmingham. 

For years, Birmingham has been the epicenter of greater Detroit’s wealthy suburbanites.  It has a downtown of ultra high-end shops and restaurants.  Just down the road from Birmingham is Somerset Mall, the fanciest and most expensive mall in the area.  It’s also near Cranbrook, a private school with annual tuition in the thirty thousand dollar range.

I don’t get to Birmingham much.  Despite its snobbish reputation, it’s a happening little place.  When I had a couple hundred bucks to drop on lunch for Anna and the girls, maybe I’d bring them out.  Then again, maybe not.

The address I had for Amanda Collins led me to a neighborhood a few blocks north of the downtown.  There was a stream nearby with a wooden bridge and some walking trails, even though you were about as far from nature as you could possibly get.  My guess was that most of the trails spilled you out in front of a manicure/pedicure shop or a gourmet grocery store featuring fifty different kinds of olive oil.

I parked the Taurus in front of the house and studied its architecture.  The house was made of dark wood and had a wood-shingled steeply pitched roof.  In parts of northern Michigan there are houses called A-frames and this sort of looked like one, but the roof didn’t go all the way to the ground like the cabins up north.  That was one thing about Birmingham, the architecture was pretty varied.  In Grosse Pointe, you usually see colonials and Tudors, along with the occasional train wreck of modern architecture in which some homeowner gives a designer free rein and an unlimited budget.  In Grosse Pointe, variety was never the focus.  But in Birmingham, they did it right.  A lot more to look at. 

Okay, enough stalling.

I got out of the car, locked it, and went up to the front door.  I’m not going to lie; I had a sick feeling in my stomach.  A big part of me, the coward part to be frank, wanted nothing more than to turn around, go back to my car and get the hell out of there.

Even though I would never forgive myself for what I’d done, and I was fairly sure Amanda Collins would never forgive me either, I had attempted to move on.  Who knew, maybe Benjamin’s sister had moved on too.  Dredging it back up was what I was about to do.  I didn’t expect to like the results and I sure as hell figured she wouldn’t like them, either.

But I would not rest until I found out what happened to Benjamin.  And why.

So I sucked it up and pushed the doorbell.

I heard a soft bell ringing inside and then a few moments later, the door opened and I came face to face with Amanda Collins.

Over the years, I had pictured Benjamin often.  Usually in nightmares.  In fact, sometimes at odd moments his face would flash before me as if he was a ghost.  Eventually, those visions went away.

But now, seeing Amanda Collins, the similarity was striking.  She was fair, with pale skin, light brown hair, and hazel eyes.  A very beautiful woman.

She must have recognized me, too, because her face went from a generally welcoming expression tinged by curiosity, to a fixed mask of dread.  Truth be told, I was shocked that she recognized me.  It had been years, after all.

“Are you Amanda?” I asked.  Stupid question, but it was all I could come up with.

She hesitated and I plowed ahead.  “You probably recognize me but my name is John Rockne.”

“I know who you are,” she said, her voice flat and deeper than I had imagined.  She made no move to open the door.

“Would you be willing to answer a few questions?” I said.  “I was involved in a case recently that may be related in some ways to what happened to your brother.”

Amanda Collins visibly stiffened at the sound of me saying the word ‘brother.’  Again, I couldn’t blame her.

She looked at me, her mouth slightly parted like she was about to say something.  And then no words came out.  It was as if she changed her mind two or three times before she finally made a decision.  Her shoulders relaxed slightly, she stepped back, and let the door swing all the way inward.

“Come in,” she said.

I walked past her into the open room.  I was struck by how unusual the interior was.  It had a soaring ceiling with great log beams lashed together with rope, exposed woodwork and beautiful hardwood floors.  The windows were small and high up.  Their frames were made of a dark wood that was almost black.

“What a beautiful house,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said with an even tone.  “It’s a minka house. Japanese.”

She led me to a sitting area with a fireplace that had logs and kindling ready to go, just waiting for someone to put a match to the right spot.

I knew the feeling.

“First off, I just want to apologize–”

“Please,” she said. “We’ve all moved on. That was a long time ago.  I don’t hate you, but I also don’t feel a great need to talk to you, either. If you have any information that can help solve Benjamin’s murder, I’m willing to listen. Otherwise…”

She nodded toward the front door.  Her voice was firm and in control.  I got the impression she was a formidable woman.

“I understand,” I said.

I took a deep breath.  “I now work as a private investigator. On my last case, a contract killer tried to murder me.”

Her face remained neutral, but I realized that I might sound like a lunatic.

“You might have read about the story in the newspapers,” I added, trying to let her know that I wasn’t making it all up.  That the story could be verified if she chose to do some research.

“This was that murder having to do with Shannon Sparrow and the guitar builder?” she asked.

I nodded.  Whew.  “Yes. That contract killer was the same man who was with Benjamin the night he was killed.”

There was an opening a mile wide for her right then, if she wanted to take it.  All she had to do was say,
you mean the murderer you turned my brother over to even though you were a cop supposedly there to protect him?

If the thought occurred to her, she passed on the opportunity.

“So what does that mean?” she asked.

“It means that Benjamin’s murder wasn’t arbitrary.”

It still wasn’t getting through to her, so I added one more thought.

“It means someone other than just his killer wanted him dead.”

Chapter Five

The silence woke him up.

The rain had stopped, the wind was now barely a whisper, and his entire body hurt.  He twisted in his cocoon of stale sheets and struggled to get to his feet.  He unwound himself and let the bedding fall to the floor of the trailer.

He needed a mirror.

The Spook stepped into the tiny hallway between the living area and the eating nook.  A closet smaller than a phone booth held a toilet, a stainless steel sink, and a mirror.

Dear Jesus.

Even his idol, the great Keith Richards, had never looked this bad.

His thin dark hair was plastered to one side of his head, streaks of dried blood crisscrossed his face, and his clothes were in tatters. 

With a great degree of difficulty, he stripped off what remained of his shirt and found that one corner was still wet.  He used that portion to wipe the blood from his face.  When he finished that task, he was able to clearly look at himself and see what had become of his upper body.  It wasn’t pretty.  His chest was bare and the gash that had scraped across his torso stood out in all of its gruesome clarity.

Higher up, there was an ugly little puncture wound still seeping blood.  It looked minor compared to the gash, but most of the pain he was experiencing emanated from that tiny gouge.

The majority of the laceration wasn’t too deep so it had clotted and he saw no signs of fresh blood.  Its biggest problem was the sheer size and ugliness of the wound.

John Rockne
, he thought.  He shook his head.  Rockne was an amateur.  How had he let this happen?  They’d been rammed on the boat, that’s how.  In the middle of the storm someone had crashed into them and that had thrown his plan out the window, and him into the water. 

Well, Rockne wouldn’t get lucky again.

The Spook judged himself in the mirror.  This just wouldn’t do.  He had to clean himself up, get some medicine and hopefully something to take the edge off the pain.

He wasn’t terribly familiar with Windsor, the community just across the river from Detroit.  He knew there was a big casino and about 99% less crime than its neighbor.  It was also home to a plethora of strip clubs.  Local Detroiters referred to the trade as the Windsor Ballet.

But the Spook knew enough to realize that walking down the street bare-chested with a great bloody gash across his body was not going to fly.  Even in a small community like Windsor.  People tended to call the police when they saw someone walking around visibly bleeding.

He left the bathroom, went to the front of the trailer and looked out the window.  It was already evening which meant he had slept far longer than he would have thought possible.  He remembered getting hit in the neck and head by something as well during the boat crash, and wondered if he had a concussion.  Probably.

The sleep had done him well, though.  He wasn’t shivering anymore and although he felt weak, he felt a lot better.  His stomach rumbled and he realize how hungry he was.  That was a good sign.

He slipped out of the trailer, careful to stay in its shadow and peeked around the corner toward the house.  There was an older car, a Buick, in the driveway.  The yard was well-cared for but there were no toys, no basketball hoop and no clear sign of any occupants other than the car’s owner or owners.

It was now dark enough to conceal his movement, so he crept to the side of the house, moved along its foundation until he got to a window.

The Spook took a quick look inside before ducking back.

The image was clear in his mind. A recliner with the ottoman raised, a television displaying a twenty-four hour news channel, and the top of a head crowned with gray hair facing the television.

There were two options.  He could risk it, and try to find a pay phone somewhere, make a collect call to his contact and ask for an extraction.  Or he could keep his condition and location to himself.  Inside this house would be money, a phone, and keys to a car.

He hated depending on others.  As a young man, he had learned the hard way that usually you couldn’t depend on others.  That most of the time, they weren’t as committed.  Weren’t willing to truly do what needed to be done.  In other words, most people were very much unlike him.

Decision made.

He slipped back around to the rear of the house and paused. The driveway opened directly onto the road so when he was at the back door he would be fully exposed to anyone who happened to pull in or drive by slowly.

It was a chance he would have to take.

The Spook moved silently to the backdoor, gently twisted the doorknob, knowing it would be locked. If they locked the trailer, they would certainly lock the door to the house.  He reached for the doorbell and stopped.  A single flowerpot sat off to the side, near a downspout.  It was a small clay pot with a single flower.  He walked over, tipped it to the side, and picked up the key sitting underneath.

The key slid into the lock and the door opened without a sound.  He stood in the kitchen, briefly overwhelmed by the combined scents of cooked sausage and old people.  A block sat next to the stove with five knife handles jutting out.  He selected the one with the longest, thinnest blade and went into the room with the television.

As he approached the man in the chair, he smiled at the thought of how sometimes the strangest opportunities arose in the middle of completely unexpected situations.  Because right now, he was sort of happy.

He had killed all kinds of people.  Innocent. Guilty. White. Black. Poor. Rich. Thin. Fat.  But unless he was mistaken, this was going to be his first official Canadian.

Exciting!

Chapter Six

“That’s impossible.”

Amanda Collins looked at me.  She didn’t blink.

“There is no way anyone would have wanted Benjamin killed.  He was just a kid.”

For the first time, emotion crept into her eyes and with them, a flash of anger.

“Just a dumb, innocent kid,” she repeated.  “With his whole life ahead of him.”

The accusation was there, unsaid. 

“Can you tell me anything?” I said.  “Anything at all?  Maybe Benjamin was friends with the wrong crowd.  Maybe–”

“That’s just it, I can’t tell you anything, because I wasn’t there.”

The house had become silent.  Deep shadows filled the living space.

“I wasn’t there,” she repeated.

Her lower lip trembled and I knew our conversation was about to end.  Sure enough, she quickly stood.

“I can’t do this,” she said.  “Not now. Not with you.”

I hesitated, surprised by the suddenness of her emotions.  Finally, I stood and handed her one of my business cards.   “Okay. My cell phone’s on there, and my email.  Maybe if you think of something you can call me.  I do want you to know that I’m going to find out what happened.”  This time, the emotion came up on me suddenly, too.

Without waiting for a reply, I left, closing the door behind me.  I got in my car, and pulled away, speeding through downtown Birmingham until I caught a light on Woodward.  I slapped the steering wheel with my hands.

Why was I putting myself through this? Let it go.

That was the thing.  I had to let it go. But I couldn’t now.  I had to find out who this killer was.  Or more importantly, who had hired him.  My hope had been during the fallout from my last case that someone would manage to ferret out the killer’s role in the murder of the guitar builder.  But no one had.  Despite intense pressure from prosecutors.

So it was back to me.

The light changed and I gunned the Taurus.  There was only light traffic on the freeway, and I made it back to Grosse Pointe quickly.  I parked in the space behind my building, went in the back door and took the stairs to my office.  The building was constructed in the 1920s and the first floor is a jewelry store.  If I ever wanted to spend my daughters’ college funds, I could go in there and buy my wife a pair of earrings.

I unlocked the door that bore the name
Grosse Pointe Investigations
and went through the reception area to my office.  

The file Ellen had copied and given to me was the official file on the Benjamin Collins case.  I’d already been over it dozens of times and to say that it was slim reading was an understatement.  But now, I went to my file cabinet and pulled out all of my files on the case.  I hadn’t looked at some of them in years but now that I had a new, albeit very small, piece of the puzzle to work with I might see something new in the material that I had studied for years.

I made a pot of coffee using the last of my Peet’s blend. I used to have it shipped to me from the West Coast, but the chain had expanded and now there was one just down the block from me.

I waited until the coffee was done, poured myself a cup, and dug into the files.  Most of the information contained in the documents was already committed to my memory.  And stating that wasn’t a sign of my ego run wild.  Because I was never a great student.  It had more to do with the combination of two facts.  One, I had read everything dozens of times front to back.  And two, there wasn’t a whole lot of information to go on.

The parents of Benjamin Collins had both died in a plane crash in the Bahamas, approximately five years before his murder. The father had been an engineer, the mother a school teacher.  Amanda was his only sibling.

After the plane crash, the kids had moved in with their only living relative.  He was the father’s brother, a divorced stockbroker with a drinking problem.  When Amanda was sixteen, she left home.  Benjamin had stayed with the uncle, but was known as a loner at school.  He hadn’t played sports, didn’t belong to any clubs and had virtually no friends to speak of.

A thorough investigation into the uncle had revealed nothing.  The man worked all day as a financial consultant and drank himself to sleep while watching old movies.  For Benjamin, he had been both useless and harmless. 

I stayed at it until most of the coffee was gone and what was left had turned ice cold.  A glance at the clock told me it was time to go home.

Instead, I called my best friend.  His name was Nate Becker and he was a reporter for the Grosse Pointe Times.

“Lunch tomorrow?” I asked, after he finally picked up.

“Where?”

The thing about Nate is that he should have been a restaurant reviewer, because all he thought about was food.  If you were having lunch with him, halfway into the meal he would make a comment about what he was doing for dinner.  It was almost like the minute he realized a meal was in his grasp, he started planning for the next one.  So instead of saying hello to me and asking how I was, he asked first about the restaurant.  It was kind of a half-joke.  Okay, it was maybe one-percent joke, ninety-nine percent serious.

“I don’t know,” I said. “How about that new Thai place?”

“Are you writing it off?”

I sighed.

Reporters didn’t make much, especially small town reporters like Nate. Plus, he had a kid with special medical needs.  If my lunch request had something to do with a case I was working on and I was getting information from Nate during the meal then it was tax-deductible.  Or so the theory went.

“Yes.  But it’s only lunch.  Let’s be reasonable.”

“Reasonable is not an option. I ate there yesterday. It’s really good food.”

Which was high praise from Nate. Usually, he was a pretty big food snob.

Suddenly, my company credit card and I both became very nervous.

“Okay, meet you there at noon, straight-up,” I said.

We disconnected, I locked up the office and headed home.

The Collins file was tucked underneath my arm.