Dead_Wood

Dead Wood - By Dani Amore



One

It was New Year’s Eve and I was living my dream. I was a cop. The youngest guy on the force, pulling the worst of the shifts but I couldn’t have been happier.

I’d wanted to be a cop all my life.

It was a brutally cold New Year’s Eve in Grosse Pointe, especially along the lake. A nasty Canadian wind was howling down and blasting Detroit with the kind of cold that ignores your clothes and tears directly into your skin.

I’d been a cop for six months. Just long enough to be taken off probation. Not long enough to be considered anything but a green rookie. I was in my squad car, driving down Lake Shore thinking about the New Years’ Eve party ahead, about how my girlfriend and I were going to celebrate.

Elizabeth Pierce was actually more than my girlfriend, she was my fiancé and a true Grosse Pointe blue blood. I was definitely marrying up.

I headed down Lake Shore Drive toward the Detroit border. I passed a house with three ten-foot angels on the roof. Thousands of Christmas lights lit up the house and yard turning the quarter acre lot into a Las Vegas outpost. Across the street, the surprisingly vast, dark waters of Lake St. Clair stood in stark contrast to the hundred thousand watts supplied by the Detroit Energy Company.

I turned right on Oxford, away from the lake, just as my radio broke the monotony of the wind’s fury. I glanced at the dashboard clock. It read 11:18 P.M. It was listed as a 10-107. Possible intoxicated person. I jotted down the address and pressed the accelerator.

It would be my last call for the night. By the time I got back to the office, turned in the car and did the paperwork, it would already be past midnight, probably closer to one a.m.

An image of Elizabeth floated through my mind. She would have her blonde hair tied back tonight, her diamond earrings sparkling, a glass of champagne ready for me. She might even be a little drunk. We’d hang out, go to a couple of parties, then retire back to my place and ring in the New Year the best way of all.

I cruised up Oxford Street and flashed the spotlight on the street numbers until I came to 1370. I called in to dispatch, got out of the cruiser and walked to the front door. The wind wasn’t letting up farther from the lake. The sweat from my hand momentarily froze on the brass knocker and stung when I broke my hand free. I banged the knocker against the oak a few times, noticing the small, worn indentations where the metal had been knocked raw. An elderly woman in a glittery blouse with a cigarette between her fingers opened the door.

“He was staggering down the street,” she said, gesturing with a shaking hand toward the other end of the street. The cigarette’s red, glowing end bobbed in the dark with each tremor of her hand.

I could smell her breath, a strong dose of stale smoke. She was ancient, probably between eighty or ninety with saggy skin and deep creases everywhere.

“How long ago?” I said.

“Just a few minutes. The poor boy was going to freeze to death. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, even. These kids.” She shook her head. “Sometimes they act like animals!” Her voice was raspy and thick. She ran her tongue over her lips.

“Can you describe him?”

“Thin. Pale. Young.” She squinted at me through the cigarette smoke. “Younger than you.”

“Which way did he go?”

She nodded with her head. “He’s probably still staggering around. Look under a shrub or two, you’ll find him.” Her little laugh sounded like a cat coughing up a hairball.

“Thanks for the advice, ma’am. Have a good New Year.”

I turned before I could hear her response. Back in the squad car, I called in again to dispatch again and put the car in gear, then prowled slowly up the block. The homes were alive with lights and colors, glimpses of holiday sweaters, hands clutching egg nog cups or champagne glasses. The twinkle of trees decorated with Christmas lights sparkled through the big picture windows.

On the second block down, I saw him.

A smear of white skin in the night. I pulled the squad car up next to the kid, radioed in to dispatch then parked and got out.

“How you doin’ tonight?” I said, and pointed the flashlight in the kid’s face. Young. Maybe around eighteen, I figured. Big brown eyes, his hair wild, his shirt gone, in jeans and barefoot. I didn’t see any signs of frostbite, but he couldn’t be out in this cold much longer. His skin was nearly purple.

The kid looked at me, but recognition was dim. He mumbled something but it was incoherent. Not a single identifiable word escaped his lips. I could smell the booze, though. Strong. Almost fruity. Like peach schnapps or something.

“Sending the year out in style, are we?” I asked. “There must be a helluva party somewhere.”

The kid mumbled something and tried to walk away. I grabbed his arm and he sagged. I knew what I had to do. Put him in the back of the squad car, book him for public drunkenness, and let him dry out in jail. Shitty way to kick off the New Year.

I helped him to his feet, planned to take him to the car and on into the station when the man appeared from around the corner.

“Ah, Officer!” he called. I turned. The man was bundled up in a thick winter jacket and he had a wool fedora, the kind with the built-in ear flaps, pulled down. At first, I thought he was a woman from the way he ran. His hips moved with a swishing motion. His thick black glasses were nearly steamed up with the melted snow glistening on the lenses. He was a little older than the kid, probably in his mid to late twenties. But it was hard to tell.

“Oh my God Benjamin,” the man said, and produced a leather coat which he helped onto the boy. His voice was high and wavering with a thick lisp. “This is my responsibility, Officer, not Ben’s. This should never have happened.” He shook his head like a disappointed mother. “He had an office Christmas party today and then he was hitting the cocktails when I left to get thyme for the chicken and when I came back, he was gone. I’ve been going crazy trying to find him.”

“Could I see some identification, sir?” I said.

The man, wearing gloves, gently withdrew a wallet from his back pocket. I looked at the address on the license as the man put the coat on the boy. The address was just a few blocks over. I glanced at the picture and the name on the license. The picture matched.

I handed the license back to the man and studied the kid once more. “Benjamin, what’s your last name?” I shone the flashlight in the kid’s eyes. He didn’t wince or look away.

“Collins, Officer,” the man said. “His name is Benjamin Collins. I’m so sorry about this, sir,” the man continued, his voice high and nervous. I stepped back to the cruiser, called dispatch, and had them run Benjamin Collins through the system. The name came back clean. I had dispatch run the man through, too. He came back without any hits.

I thought about it. The kid was in bad shape. By the time he was booked, printed and in an actual jail cell, he’d be even worse. I thought about one time in high school when a cop pulled me over. I had a beer between my legs and a twelve-pack in the trunk. He made me dump everything out and go home, rather than taking me in, calling my parents and basically ruining my life. That act of kindness was a better lesson than being thrown into a holding cell with a bunch of lowlifes.

Well, I thought, now’s my chance to return the favor. Besides, it was New Year’s Eve. Who wanted to start the year off in jail?

I walked back to find the man slipping winter boots onto the kid’s feet. “Okay,” I said. “Get him home. I’ll give him a warning this time, but if I ever see his name come up again…”

“Perfectly understood, Officer,” the man said. He shook my hand heartily. “Again, I’m so sorry. He’s a beautiful, beautiful person, but when he drinks, sometimes….”

The man put his arm around the boy and began walking away, practically carrying the younger man. The wind had picked up and was now packing a ferocious wallop.

“Want a lift?” I asked.

“That’s quite all right, Officer.” The man’s voice was nearly lost in the wind. “We’re right around the corner.”

I watched them turn the corner, then got back in the car and wiped the snow from my face and called in my position.

In my mind, I had done my final good deed of the year. I had finished out the New Year the best way possible, doing something nice for someone, and now it was time to see a beautiful girl about a glass of champagne.

• • •



The call came at five twenty-one in the morning. About an hour past mine and Elizabeth’s final lovemaking session of the night.

I untangled my body from Elizabeth’s and listened to the voice of Chief Michalski telling me to get down to the Yacht Club immediately.

Fifteen minutes later, I watched as Benjamin Collins’ body was loaded into the coroner’s van. They’d found his i.d. on the frozen pier just twenty feet or so from where his nude, mutilated body had been seen bobbing in the small patch of water heated by the Yacht Club’s boiler runoff.

I stood there in the cold, as numb and unfeeling as I’d ever been in my entire life. They let me look at the body. It was a sight I would never forget.

By the end of the day, I’d given my version of the events of the night before well over a dozen times. To the Chief. To internal investigators. I desperately wanted to join in the search for the man to whom I’d turned over Benjamin Collins, but I was kept away from the investigation. Left to sit in a room and think about what I’d done.

No one had chewed me out. No one blamed me for f*cking up, but it was there just the same.

Finally, the Chief called me in and asked for my gun and badge. It was administrative leave. Until things were sorted out and the killer was caught. Until then, I was gone. The department might be liable should Collins’ relatives seek litigation. I left his office, taking one last look at my gun and badge before he swept them off his desk and into his drawer.

I never got them back.





Six Years Later

The gloved fist smashed through the glass of the shop’s back door. The impact as well as the sound of shards tinkling to the floor went unnoticed by the workshop’s sole occupant. The woman at the large workbench heard only the high-pitched buzz of the random orbit sander.

Nor did she hear the sound of the deadbolt thrown back, the doorknob turning and the heavy door swinging open.

The only noise to reach her ears was that of the sander as its 220-grit sandpaper gently bit into the five hundred-year-old wood. She moved the sander along the wood’s surface with confident precision. Her honey-colored hair was tied back in a ponytail. Thick shop glasses distorted the Lake Michigan blue of her eyes as the powdery sawdust flying from the sander coated her hands and covered her hair like a thin veil.

The woman leaned back from the workbench and flicked off the sander. As the whine of the motor instantly began to descend, she brushed the layer of dust from the wood. Even through the gauze of the powder, the beauty of the grain was apparent. This had been a special batch; ancient Elm, filled with grain patterns and whorls that would be breathtaking after a light stain and varnish were applied.

She leaned back and studied the beginning stage of the guitar. It was to be a semi-acoustic twelve string, made from 400-year old Elm salvaged from the bottom of Lake Michigan. It was for a rocker in California who had paid her the first half of the price tag; five thousand dollars. She was taking her time with this one, especially after the monumental task she’d just accomplished.

She glanced over at the finished guitar in question. A jumbo acoustic, her most ambitious, and most expensive guitar yet. Made from the rarest, most expensive woods of all. Virgin tiger maple, hickory, ash and ebony. All of it salvaged from the bottom of Lake Michigan. All of it priceless. All of it breathtakingly, stunningly beautiful. And she had used all of her skills, all of her powers to turn it into a guitar. A guitar with a sound so rich and so pure you almost forgot how beautiful it looked.

And it already had a buyer.

Jesse brushed her hands off on her jeans and went to the guitar. She picked it up and felt the perfect weight of it.

She sat back on her stool and strummed the strings, the full beauty of the sound echoing in the shop’s interior. Her fingers naturally picked out a melancholy melody and she played quietly, confidently.

Her mind ran free, loosened by the change from the one-note orbit sander to this instrument of the gods.

As she played, she thought about how she enjoyed every aspect of building guitars. From the beginning design stages, to selecting the raw materials, to the painstaking construction and all the way through the finishing touches. Each instrument was a unique endeavor, with its own moments of sheer beauty.

At the thought of her craft, a sense of sadness rose within her. The guitar on her table would be the last one she would build for quite some time.

A new chapter was beginning, one that in the deepest, most secret part of her heart, she’d dreamed would one day come true.

Her fingers finished playing the tune with a strong downstroke and the chord reverberated, its beautiful sound echoing through the shop.

And then she heard the gentle sound of a foot scraping the ground behind her. She turned, peering into the darkness behind her.

The man charged at her with astonishing speed. She got no more than a quick glimpse of the face of a man. A man she may have seen before. His hands were raised over his head. She had just enough time to recognize the heavy hammer she sometimes used to tap a chisel along the rough edges of a plank of five hundred year old wood. It was in his hands, raised high, coming toward her.

She ducked her head, and then, in the final act of her life, she put her arms around the guitar and leaned over it, trying to protect it.

Jesse Barre never felt the crushing blow that caved in her skull and drove her from her stool onto the floor.

Her blood pooled on the concrete, the flakes of sawdust soaking up the crimson liquid.

The guitar remained safe, still cradled in her arms.





Three

“So here’s the hook,” Nate said.

We were in a booth at the Village Grill, a little Greek diner smack dab in the middle of Grosse Pointe proper. It had big, overstuffed booths, low lighting conditions, and a bar with a brass rail and a big-screen t.v. The perfect lunch spot for two guys who thought arugula was an island somewhere near the Caribbean.

Nate Becker was the only full-time reporter for the Grosse Pointe Times and a friend from way back. We’d known each other since he was a chubby little kid who got picked on all the time and I was his defender. Unless the wind happened to be blowing the other way and I was one of the kids picking on him. You know how kids are. We were no different.

Now we were both grownups, sort of, and he was doing a piece on me, John Rockne, Grosse Pointe’s very own private investigator. It was part of a monthly feature on local businesses. Last week it was the lady caterer whose van was decorated like a giant swordfish.

Prestigious company, indeed.

I hadn’t really done anything to deserve the attention, but the business district of Grosse Pointe isn’t very big – sooner or later, it’s just your turn.

“Hook?” I said.

“Yeah, you know, the angle of the story. The unique approach that intrigues the reader.”

“What was your hook for the swordfish lady?”

“I didn’t need one for her. She was interesting.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So let’s hear it.”

Nate spread his hands like he was serving me a platter of caviar. “You’re the P.I. who doesn’t just fight crime, you fight clichés,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and signaled the waitress. She came over, a cute girl in her twenties wearing the unfortunate decision of a pierced tongue. I made a mental note to floss after lunch. I ordered two Cokes. Diet for me, regular for Nate.

“What?” he said. “It’s a perfect hook.”

I’d known Nate since high school and I recognized the look in his eye. It meant he had just gotten in a fresh load of bullshit and he needed to spew.

“Cliché fighter?” I said.

He nodded as the waitress set our Cokes down on the table. “You’re not some shady bum with a checkered past,” he said. “A half-criminal who has more in common with the thugs he chases than he does with the rest of us on the right side of the law.”

“Jesus Christ you’re full of it,” I said.

“Work with me, dumb ass,” he said. “You went to college, got a degree in criminology—”

“—and a minor in psychology—”

“—worked as a cop to learn the ropes, then worked for a big P.I. firm before getting your own license.”

I actually appreciated Nate’s effort. Most of it was true. The problem was, he was conveniently editing out a certain bad spot in my career. For Nate, the problem was twofold. One, I was his friend, and he didn’t want to dredge up bad memories. And two, the story had been told already. Many, many times.

So Nate would skip it altogether. I guess that’s the beauty of editing.

“You don’t carry a gun,” he said. He was on a roll and I didn’t want to stop him.

“Just a Nikon.”

“You’re definitely not a tall, dark and handsome, Mickey Spillane type ladies man.”

I just shook my head at that one. “You’ve got a real nose for the truth,” I said.

“What,” he said. “You didn’t get your hands on a pair of tits until the dairy farm field trip our senior year of high school.”

He had a point there, the bastard.

“The fact that you’re married is less about you and more about the unceasing generosity of women.”

“Glad you’re not pulling any punches,” I said. “I think I’ll go back to my office and hang myself.”

Our food arrived. A turkey on rye for me. A double Boss Burger with an extra large order of fries for Nate. Food was his way to deal with stress. Three years ago, his first child, a boy, had been born without a pulmonary artery. A small oversight on the ultrasound technician’s part. After many operations, the little guy was doing fine, but there was still a certain amount of concern about him. Nate, at 5’8”, had always been a little chunky. Now, he weighed nearly 350 pounds.

“Plus, you’re not some lone wolf, like P.I.s are supposed to be,” he continued. “You know, the guy haunted by some lost love, or grieving over the unfortunate death of his young wife. You’re a family man with two young girls.” Nate doused his fries with salt and took a huge bite from his Boss Burger.

“And don’t forget,” I said. “No one’s firebombed my house or framed me as a Presidential assassin.”

Nate nodded. He knew everything there was to know about me. This interview was really just an excuse to get together for lunch, which we do every week anyway, but because of the story it was being paid for by the paper.

“Here’s a thought,” I said. “This may sound kind of crazy – but do you think you can actually work in a few positive things – you know – stuff that might actually be good for business?”

“Won’t that be false advertising?” he said through a mouth full of fries.

“Good point,” I said. “Stick with your ‘ugly and dull’ angle. Customers will be beating down my door.”

“The truth shall set you free,” he said.

“Okay, I like the whole ‘Average Joe’ approach,” I said. “As long as you don’t make me sound like I’m light in the loafers.”

“So you want me to lie.”

“I’m just a normal guy trying to do a good job for his customers. I’m fair, honest and reliable.”

“F*cking boring as a box of rocks,” Nate said.

I was going to give him a shot back but he’d already tucked into the Boss Burger. I knew that he was so into his meal there was no doubt about whether or not he was listening. It didn’t matter. He’d do a good story on me.

And since the paper was buying, I ordered another Diet Coke.

Cliché fighter, my ass.





Four

He stood outside my office door, a tall, broad-shouldered figure in faded blue jeans, a colorful shirt, black leather vest and shiny black cowboy boots. His powder white hair was thick and combed straight back. The eyes beneath the white brows were blazing blue and unclouded, twin shafts of cool set among a lined, weathered face. But there was more than just age on his face. More than fatigue, as well. It was something I’d seen only a few times in my life, but once you see it, you remember.

“Can I help you?” I asked, the keys to my office in hand. I felt tired and full from lunch. I don’t know if it was because of Nate’s eating problem or what, but I always ate more when I was with him. Or at least that was my excuse and I was sticking with it.

“Are you John Rockne?” Marshal Dillon asked. His voice had a deep gravel to it, whiskey and cigarettes and two a.m. closing calls.

“Guilty as charged,” I said, stifling a belch. I unlocked the door and let him into my office. “How can I help you?”

He took a brief look around and then turned and faced me. He held out his hand and I took it. “Clarence Barre,” he said. “You’re the private investigator?”

I gestured toward the door, which read Grosse Pointe Investigations. “Like the sign says…”

An uneasy smile crossed his face, most clients had the same look. It was part shame, part anger, part fear. Going to see a P.I. wasn’t much different than going to a shrink for most people. It was all about letting a complete stranger into your personal life. And in most cases, the deepest, ugliest part of their personal lives. Not an easy thing to do, for anyone.

My office is on the second floor of a small brick building built in 1927. The ground floor is a jewelry store that I went into once a few years back, thinking I might buy my wife a necklace. I soon realized that asking her to sign the paperwork for a second and third mortgage would spoil the surprise. I haven’t been back since.

My office consists of a small waiting room complete with two chairs and a table. The chairs are from the fifties, the table the seventies, and the carpeting’s genealogy is too hard to trace. I’d say it was coming off the textile rolls right around the time Jackie was scrambling off the back of the big Lincoln in Dallas.

There were a few framed paintings of sailboats on the walls, even though I’m not a big fan of the water, as I already mentioned. A lot of clients seem to expect pictures of sailboats from a Grosse Pointe P.I. Sometimes, people are reassured by the cliché, and I don’t like to disappoint prospective clients.

The place reeks of coffee. To me, it’s a great smell, especially on a cold winter day. I always have a pot brewing. Nate would probably not put that into the article, because it is a bit of a cliché. But, hey, I f*cking like coffee, damn them if a bunch of other P.I.s do, too.

On the table are magazines. Police Times, Small Firearms Journal, S.W.A.T. Illustrated. I want my clients to feel confident in my ability. Somehow, six months worth of Martha Stewart Living might make them think twice about hiring me.

I went around behind my desk, a small oak number that weighed about five hundred pounds. A laptop computer, a phone and a stack of files sat on top.

“Have we met?” I asked. “You seem familiar.”

He just looked at me and then from deep within him came a baritone hum. It changed pitch and soon a short melody became apparent.

“Get the f*ck out of here,” I said. I knew that tune and I knew that voice.

“Mississippi Honey?” I said.

He nodded.

“That’s right. Clarence Barre, country singer/songwriter. I loved that song.” Actually, it was a bit of a source of embarrassment. I’d finally gotten a girl into the back seat of my car in high school. Mississippi Honey was in the tape deck, playing along as I’d gotten Tracy Woeburg’s pants down and then had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do next.

In the middle of my reverie, I realized my potential client was staring at me. I caught myself, felt kind of foolish about what he may have seen play across my face.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “That happens all the time. I consider it a compliment. That my song evokes…memories.”

He smiled, then. A sad, weary gesture. And suddenly, it came to me where else I remembered the name. I knew Clarence Barre because he had been a relatively well-known musician for a brief period in the seventies. He was from Detroit and after his career, he’d moved back to Grosse Pointe.

So I knew the name Barre. Had heard it recently.

But not a man. Not Clarence. The recognition must have shown on my face because the small smile that had lingered on his face now vanished.

Whatever stupid thing I was going to say got stuck in my mouth. Clarence rushed to fill the pause.

“I’m here about my daughter,” he said. “Jesse.” Suddenly, all of the color in his face seemed to vanish, draw back in on itself and pool in his eyes. They smoldered, two pools of blazing blue.

Now it was my turn to nod. The killing had been big news in Grosse Pointe. Probably for two reasons: one, there aren’t a lot of murders in Grosse Pointe. And two, Jesse Barre had been a very beautiful young woman. A guitar-maker, I remembered.

“She was killed during a robbery as I recall,” I answered.

“You’re half-right,” he said.

The look on my face was a question.

“She was killed. But it wasn’t a robbery. Someone wanted her dead.”

Oh, boy, I thought.

“Is that what the police think?” I said.

He shook his head. “It’s what I know.”

“You want me to find out who killed her?” I said.

“Nope,” he said. “I already know who did it.”

My face was again an open question.

“I just want you to help me prove it.”





Five

“His name is Nevada Hornsby,” Clarence Barre said. He spoke slowly and softly. Enunciating carefully. Not out of respect, but because his emotions were running so strong it took every effort not to insert an expletive.

I had a million questions: did the police know? If not, why wasn’t he talking to them? How did he know Hornsby killed her?

As much as I wanted to ask, I decided to wait Mr. Barre out. He’d just lost his daughter. I thought he deserved a chance to explain himself.

“I told Jesse time and time again not to get involved with him,” he said. “She wouldn’t listen. In fact, she told me to back off. So I did. And look where it got us.”

He paused again.

Just when I was about to start the questions, he said, “The cops don’t think he did it. They say he has an alibi. Well, of course he does! Who the f*ck couldn’t come up with an alibi? Only the stupidest of criminals can’t come up with a friggin’ alibi for God’s sake. So they’re believing his bullshit, but see, they don’t know him. I do.”

His voice had grown in intensity. And this was a man who had used his voice to great effect for many years. It didn’t fail him now.

“Okay,” I said.

He fixed his eyes on me, willing me to understand. I leaned in toward him, hoping to give him the nudge he needed to tell me just what the hell he was getting at.

“He’s an ex-con.”

“Okay,” I said. I got out a notepad and pen.

“Do you know what he was in for?” I asked.

“I’m sure it was something bad. Assault. I remember Jesse saying something about a fight. She claimed he hadn’t started it. Christ, he had her hook, line and sinker.”

“Do you have a reason to doubt his alibi?”

“I met him,” he said.

I wrote the word ‘NO’ down on my notepad and underlined it.

“I know all about men like that. They don’t value life. Prison teaches them to look at everything differently. Jesse didn’t realize that. She was overly sympathetic. That’s how I would put it. Wanting to prove that she respected people for who they are, not who they’ve been.”

He ran a hand through the thick white hair. It reminded me of Kenny Roger’s hair. I wrote down ‘Kenny Rogers’ on my notepad. Goofy, I know, but it was amazing sometimes the things that jogged the memory. Who knew, maybe a year from now I’d be looking at my notes on the Barre case, see the Kenny Rogers reference and have some brilliant flash of insight.

I looked at Clarence Barre. Goddamn, I found myself liking him. He had a great face, wide open and honest. I could sense the goodness in him. The pain of losing a loved one.

But I wasn’t going to take a case just because a father was having difficulty dealing with the loss of a child. He probably hated this Hornsby guy and made him into a convenient target for his anger and loss. If the police had checked out the alibi and crossed him off the list, he was probably innocent.

I wasn’t going to take the case. No way. To take Mr. Barre’s money would be another crime.

He must have seen the look on my face because he said, “I know how this must look. A guy just pointing a finger and saying ‘he did it.’”

That’s exactly how it looked to me.

“How long had your daughter and this Hornsby been seeing each other?” I said.

“Way too long.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Years.”

“Had there been any sign of physical abuse? Any problems? Fights?”

“No, but Jesse and I hadn’t seen each other on a regular basis,” he said. And now I could hear even more, deeper pain in his voice. The loss of a loved one you’d fallen out with over petty differences. No getting them back now.

“But as far as you knew…”

“She didn’t say anything and no, I never saw any bruises or anything on her. But Jesse was very private. Believe me, if she’d wanted to hide something, it would stay hidden until she wanted you to find it.”

“Did the police say if they have any other suspects?”

“I don’t know. They aren’t saying.”

This was about as bogus as it got. Mr. Barre wanted me to make him feel better. He wanted me to make him feel like he was doing something for the daughter he’d grown apart from. Now, when it was too late, he was trying to make things right. I had no intention of taking his money.

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 be 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 awhile, 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.