Hard Rock (A Hardboiled Private Investigator Mystery Series): John Rockne Mysteries 2 (3 page)

Chapter Seven

If there is a better smell than my wife’s hazelnut pesto it has yet to be discovered. To walk in the door and be greeted with the smell of basil and garlic, the warmth of a welcoming kitchen, the sight of my gorgeous wife and the sound of my daughters’ voices never failed to remind me that fate has been far too kind to me.

“As usual, your timing never fails to impress,” my wife, Anna, said to me as I walked into the kitchen.  She stood, leaning against the counter with a glass of red wine in her hand.  Everything great about Italy is represented in my wife.  Dark hair, beautiful, expressive brown eyes, and a body more beautiful than the hills of Tuscany.  And probably just as bountiful.

Of course, the cliché of the Italian temper actually applied in Anna’s case.  When Vesuvius blew, you had better run for cover.

I went over, kissed her, spied the bottle of wine and poured myself a glass.

“It’s a sixth sense,” I said, referring to my wife’s conviction that I somehow instinctively know when dinner is ready because I have a knack for arriving just as she’s about to put the food on the table.

“Girls!” Anna called out.

I heard the footsteps racing down the hallway upstairs, and then Isabel and Nina came rushing down the stairs and into the kitchen.  Isabel, the first born, came and gave me a hug.  Nina, as befitting the baby of the family, ignored me and went straight to the food.

Both girls had inherited my wife’s fine Italian features, all dark hair and big brown eyes.

I forced a hug on Nina and we sat down together.  The pasta was delicious and I heard all about the girls’ activities at school, including a spill for Isabel on the playground and a ‘mean’ comment from one of Nina’s teachers.

Afterward, the girls went back upstairs to finish their homework and I cleaned the kitchen while Anna watched me.  She glanced over at the stack of files I had dumped on the counter near the kitchen doorway.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asked.

I finished loading the dishwasher, started it, and refilled our wine glasses.  We moved into the living room. Anna took the couch; I took one of the chairs that formed a semi circle around the fireplace.

“It is,” I admitted.  “I met with Benjamin’s sister Amanda today.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “I thought she lived overseas or something.”

“She did.  She just moved back.”

“How’d that go?”

“As you’d expect.  I didn’t learn anything, but I gave her my card.  Maybe she’ll think of something.”

She tapped the side of her glass with a fingernail.

“And how are
you
doing?” she asked.

“Fine.”

We sat in silence for a few moments.

“I saw Barbie today,” Anna said, her voice flat.

Barbie is how she referred to Elizabeth Pierce, the woman I had been engaged to until Benjamin Collins’ murder.  Needless to say, the relationship ended that night, along with everything else.  I quickly realized that it’s pretty difficult to marry someone who won’t speak to you or return your calls. 

“Where?” I asked.

The Pierce family was one of the wealthiest families in Grosse Pointe.  Elizabeth’s father, Charles, had something to do with the auto industry.  Her brother Edward had long since left Michigan.  The family, I believed, still owned one of the monster mansions on Lake Shore Drive. Elizabeth, as far as I knew, had never married, and I knew she had bought a place in Grosse Pointe Farms, but I didn’t know if she actually lived there.  Everyone knew that the Pierce family had homes all around the world, including spots in Aspen, Paris and Monaco, to name a few.

It was rare to see any of them in public.

“The village.”

I nodded. The little town of Grosse Pointe had a main street lined with the usual stuff; a Kroger, Trader Joe’s, coffee places, bagel shops and some clothing stores.

“Sort of near your office,” she said.

I caught the tone in her comment and smirked.  “Well, she didn’t pay me a visit if that’s what you were wondering.”

“Are you sure she didn’t hire you to investigate her panties?”

A note here: my wife has a sense of humor that ranges from sarcastic to bawdy and back again.

It’s one of the reasons I love her.

“I don’t take on cold cases,” I answered.

Anna laughed.

“Speaking of cold cases,” she said. “Tell me about the files.”

I knew what she was asking.  Ever since the conclusion of my last case, she knew I was going to be digging back into Benjamin’s murder.

“Just going back through the files again, looking at them in a new light,” I said.  “The fact that someone had to hire this guy has a lot of ramifications.”

“Unless someone didn’t hire him,” Anna pointed out. “You’re making a bit of an assumption.  Contract killers are probably psychos by nature.  You don’t know that he doesn’t kill people for a living and also kill people for fun, as a hobby.  Maybe even as practice.”

“True. But not likely.”

“So you’re going to follow the money,” Anna said.  She took a sip of wine. 

I hadn’t yet articulated that thought, but it was in the back of my mind.

Follow the money.

Up until my last case, I had looked at all kinds of scenarios.  I’d investigated criminals who had been on the streets at the time of the murder, even thoroughly researched sex offenders in the area.  But I hadn’t really looked at murder-for-hire.

“Yes, I’m going to follow the money.  I wonder how much contract killers go for these days.”

“I’m sure like everything else they’ve gone up quite a bit in price,” she said.

“I’m taking Nate out to lunch tomorrow,” I said.  “I’m going to ask him to help me on that direction.  He’s great at sniffing out financial stuff.”

“You know, it would probably be cheaper for you just to buy a restaurant than to keep buying him meals.”

“I don’t know, it would be tough to maintain inventory.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to help?”

“I think so,” I said.  “I’ve covered one end of the case front to back.  But he can help with the other.”

“Following the money,” Anna said.

I nodded.

Chapter Eight

Judging by the small but complete line of cosmetics in the man’s bathroom the Spook figured the old guy was either a working transvestite, or a widower. 

He was going with the latter.

The bathroom was small and mostly clean.  It had a white tile floor and plaster walls with a sink, a shower, and a toilet that had one of those shag seat covers.

The Spook guessed that the wife’s death had to have been within the last year or two.  Long enough for the man, now dead, to have gotten rid of most of his deceased wife’s belongings, but a few things here and there still remained.

Which was perfect.

First, the Spook cleaned his wounds with hot water and soap, then dabbed at them with hydrogen peroxide.  The bleeding had stopped, and the puncture wound was nearly closed.  The gash looked a lot better now that it was clean.  There would probably be a pretty gruesome scar, but he didn’t mind that.

He smeared some anti-infection ointment on the cuts and popped a handful of Tylenol.

In addition to locating a trove of makeup at the back of the bathroom closet, the Spook had ventured into the dead man’s bedroom.  On the top shelf of the closet, he had found a tin box, unlocked, that contained the man’s passport along with a .32 revolver that looked like it was about fifty years old.  But the barrel was clean, and there was one box of twenty-five rounds.  He could make do with that.

The name on the passport read Irvin G. Klapper.

The Spook propped the passport open to reveal Irv’s picture.  The white hair wouldn’t be a problem, and he now had the man’s glasses, of course.  He’d had to clean the blood off the lenses, of course, and bend the frames slightly to adjust to his narrower head.

When it came to disguises, he was really quite good.  They had an entire course at Langley that would put cosmetology schools to shame.  He had done quite well.  The Spook wasn’t worried about pulling it off.  He even bet that somewhere in Mr. Klapper’s closet was the same shirt he had worn for his passport photo.  That would be the perfect touch.

The biggest challenge was the weight.

The Spook was a slim man, wiry, with the kind of fast-twitch muscles that he had honed in order to speed his already legendary reflexes.

Irv Klapper had been a slow-twitch kind of guy, with a slightly doughy face.

No problem.

First, some cotton balls went in his cheeks, and then a layer of concealer with a bit of blush to try to capture Mr. Klapper’s clear case of rosacea.  Next, he combined talcum powder with lemon juice and water, mixed it together in a bowl, and borrowed one of Irv’s combs to streak it through his hair.  On went the old man’s glasses, and the Spook felt pretty good about his appearance.

In the bedroom, he found a plaid shirt that closely resembled the one Klapper wore for his passport photo.  Apparently, the dead man had very little need for cash because the only money the Spook could find was the sixty-three dollars in Irv’s wallet.  He grabbed an extra shirt that he would tie around his midsection to give the appearance of a flabby gut.

All in all, he looked a lot like Irv.

He helped himself to a turkey and Swiss sandwich on rye bread, washed it down with a tall glass of water and decided it was time to go.  He put the wallet in his pants pocket, grabbed the keys to the Buick and carried the passport and the gun out to the car.  He popped the trunk and stashed the gun and ammunition in the spare tire well underneath the floor.

The Spook got behind the wheel, took one last look at the Klapper residence and pulled out onto the street.  He immediately turned right, knowing that the tunnel to the U.S. was less than a mile away.

He saw several signs directing him to the border crossing and wondered if anyone drove anywhere else on this road because those were the only signs he saw.

This was not good.  The Spook knew that.  This was not how he liked to operate.  He was a professional.  Trying to cross the border with a homemade disguise was downright foolish.  However, despite that knowledge, he liked his chances.

The line was short and soon he was handing over Irv Klapper’s passport to the customs officer.  A woman with short brown hair and stubby fingers.

“Reason for visiting the United States?” the woman asked.

“I’m spending the weekend with my brother,” the Spook answered. “He’s in assisted living and hates it.  He could use some cheering up.”

It was the voice that would make the difference.  He had been practicing while waiting in line.  He had to get the sound of an older man’s voice just right.  He’d never heard the real Irv Klapper speak, he’d only heard the man gurgle once he’d slit his throat. The Spook made a mental note: the next time you kill someone who you are going to impersonate, let them speak first.

“Have a nice day,” the woman said, and handed the passport back to the Spook.  He put the Buick in gear and proceeded to enter the United States.

Chapter Nine

The restaurant was called The Thai Flower and it was located in a section of Grosse Pointe called ‘The Hill,” which was a second set of shops, restaurants and small businesses just up from the main village of Grosse Pointe.  The restaurant was tiny, with ten tables placed in front of a counter behind which a window provided a glimpse into the kitchen.

The air was pungent with the smell of spices, tea and hot oil.

Nate had already gotten a table along the far wall.  He had seated himself so no one was behind him and he had a clear view of the door and front windows. Maybe it was just because he was a reporter, but I always got the feeling that Nate didn’t like surprises.  Especially when he was eating.

I sat down across from him and thought my oldest friend looked tired.

Nate Becker was a short, overweight man with a giant head and a thick beard. He was extremely intelligent and although he had a good poker face, I suspected he was an emotional guy.  Nate’s wife was a petite woman and their daughter, a lively girl the same age as Isabel, was a fun-loving kid with a quick sense of humor.  When she was born, she was missing a pulmonary artery.  Yeah, somehow all of the ultrasounds had missed that one.  So immediately upon birth, emergency surgery was needed to save her life.  The operation had been a success but it was just the beginning.  A long trail of medical procedures had followed which ultimately left the young girl healthy and her parents drowning in debt.

They had made some progress, but I knew they were still pretty deep in the hole.

“What looks good today?” I said. 

“The right side of the menu,” he answered.

Our server, a tiny older woman, came and Nate ordered a bunch of dishes that made no sense to me.  I asked for water.  There was no sense in ordering something for myself.  Nate’s meals usually took up the whole table and I just picked at the dishes I would soon be surrounded with. 

After some polite checkups on each other’s families, we got down to business.

“So what entitles me to a working lunch?” he asked.

“There is no doubt in my mind that the man who killed Benjamin Collins was the same contract killer involved in the Shannon Sparrow case.”

Nate sighed.  “Are you sure you’re not seeing what you want to believe?” he said.  “Happens all the time to reporters.  They want so badly for a story to go a certain way that they see the evidence through a prism.  It never works out.”

“I believe what I saw,” I said.  “I’m the only person who saw him both times.  I was there.  It was him.  No delusions.”

A different server brought the first set of plates that contained stacks of meat on skewers and two cups of soup.

“Okay, let’s go with that,” Nate said, as he slid said meat from the skewer into his mouth. 

“If we’re starting with that premise, then the question becomes, who hired him to kill the Collins kid and why,” I said.

“A conspiracy?” Nate asked.  A trace of skepticism, but not much.

“Not out of the question,” I replied.  “But you don’t start there. You begin with who would have had the means to hire this guy in the first place.  You know the case; you know the backgrounds of the people involved.”

Nate slurped from his soup.  I tried mine.  Egg something.  It was good.

“The only money guy involved was the uncle.” Nate looked at the ceiling for a moment.  “And he wasn’t really involved.”

“Tripp,” I said. “Tripp Collins.”

Nate nodded.  “That’s the guy.”

“Stockbroker,” I added.  “And a drunk.”

“Great with money, terrible with booze, if I recall.”

Our empty dishes were cleared and the tiny woman who first took our orders brought a big bowl of rice and two platters.  One had chicken with peppers in an orange-ish sauce, the other had beef and vegetables and was green.  Shows you how much I know about Thai food.

“His alibi was airtight and he had nothing to gain,” Nate pointed out.

“Maybe he didn’t have anything to gain financially, because he didn’t need it.  Maybe he benefited in some other way.”

“I doubt it,” Nate said.  “But you can always ask.”

I speared a piece of chicken from the orange platter.  It was good but spicy and it tasted like coconut.

“Anything you can give me on him?” I said.  “Any way to make him talk?”

Nate always had an infinite amount of dirt on anyone involved with Grosse Pointe.  It was just one mark of his genius.  “His firm got into some trouble during the mortgage crisis,” he said.  “A lot of really shady mortgages not just in Detroit, but nationally.  I think they had to pay a pretty hefty fine but that was about it.  No one’s really exposed how much Tripp Collins’ firm was involved.  I’m sure Tripp would like to keep it that way.”

“Look, if he’s the only guy right now that had the means to hire someone, can you help me look into his business a little?  Keep your ear out about anything shady?”

Nate looked at me.  “I know a guy who covers economic stuff.  I can put out a feeler but no guarantees.”

“No guarantees required,” I said.  Nate usually underplayed his hand.  I suspected he would do more than just put out a feeler and call it a day.  He loved to sniff things out.

Nate devoured a couple more plates of food and we talked about the kids, school and the wives until there was only one platter left.  It was about half full of shrimp, noodles and some miniature corn that looked like it was green.  I expected Nate to polish that one off, too.  Instead, he pushed the plate away, which shocked me.  Nate leaving food on the table was like a rock star leaving a hotel room without trashing it.

“You don’t like it?” I said, feeling a little foolish, after all he’d eaten two appetizers and the better part of two entrees.

“I’m trying to cut back a little,” he said with a sheepish expression on his face.

I signaled for the check.

“I’m going to pay before you change your mind.”