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

by Dani Amore

It was Amanda Collins.

  “I have an emergency,” she said. “Can I see you? Like, right now?”

  I checked my watch.

  “I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  It was a good thing there weren’t any cops on the freeway because I flew past cars like they were standing still. The drawback was Woodward, which is full of lights and people who are seemingly confused about what the speed limit is. It didn’t matter to me because I ignored all traffic laws and made it to Amanda Collins’ house in exactly thirty-one minutes.

  Well, I didn’t actually make it to the house because it was surrounded by police cars and fire trucks.

  Even from a block away I could see what was happening.

  Her house was on fire.

  I dialed her number from my call history and it rang seven times before she finally answered.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I just left the hospital, but I’m fine,” she said. I could hear that her voice was hoarse. Like she’d smoked an entire carton of cigarettes. “Just a little smoke inhalation.”

  “What happened?” I said. “Can you talk?”

  “Yeah, I’m just waiting for a friend to pick me up.”

  She was putting on a brave front but I got the sense she was a little rattled. I felt bad for her. That house was beautiful. A work of art. And with all of that wood it must have burned fast.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” she said. “I put a dish in the oven to bake and then went upstairs to change. It seemed like about ten minutes later smoke was everywhere. I managed to grab a few things before I ran out. Luckily, the fire department arrived pretty fast so I hope it’s not totally ruined.”

  “Where did the fire start?” I asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it was the kitchen,” she said. “That seemed to be where the fire was raging the most. But I wasn’t cooking with grease or anything. It was a simple chicken dish baking. I don’t know how a fire could have started, unless it was electrical.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?” I asked. “Do you need anything?”

  “No, I have a place to stay. I’ll be fine. And luckily I hadn’t moved everything from my storage unit to the house so I didn’t lose everything.”

  I heard her voice catch.

  My next question was about why she called me, but I wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. She saved me the trouble.

  “But the fire isn’t why I called you.”

  “It’s not?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, I thought of something else I meant to tell you.” She lowered her voice and spoke to someone else.

  “Sorry, my ride is here, I told her to hold on a second.”

  I had parked and was ready for whatever she had in store for me.

  “During that time of my life, I was in a little bit of disarray. I had left home quite young, my parents were gone and I didn’t know what I was doing. I had met someone and gone to New York City. Don’t get me wrong. I was having a lot of fun and doing a lot of partying. Which is why some of my memories with regard to those online exchanges with Benjamin are so hazy.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “But what did come to me was something else he had told me. Do you remember how I said that he was suddenly changing his mind about Grosse Pointe? That he had met someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he told me one more thing. That he was starting a new job. One that would pay him really well.”

  “Did he say where?”

  “This is where it gets really hazy. I remember that it had something to do with the auto industry.”

  Great. That narrowed it down to a few thousand companies.

  Instead of being negative, I said, “Okay. That’s a start.”

  “I’m pretty sure it had the word Auto in the name. And I think Time. Like Auto Time or something like that. That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”

  “No, this is great.” It sort of was, and it sort of wasn’t. That’s what pieces of a puzzle are. The only have value when put into the right place.

  “Look, I have to run now,” she said, followed with a small cough. “Call me if you want to or I’ll call you if I can remember the name better.”

  She hung up, and I did, too.

  The drive back to Grosse Pointe took twice as long as the trip out. But it didn’t bother me.

  Something was really digging at me. Like an itch that needed scratching. Problem was, I couldn’t quite reach it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Grosse Pointe Times office is located on Kercheval, around the corner from Kroger. Not a bad spot actually. It’s virtually impossible to go to the village Kroger and not bump into people you know. You see everyone, get up to speed with the latest happenings. Who knows, maybe reporters station themselves by the produce and then zip back to the office and bang out a hot story.

  Nate has an office with a door, which is rare for the company. Most of the space is open and full of cubicles. I seem to recall Nate claiming to have made the argument he needed privacy to speak with sources. It worked.

  There was no need for me to check in with anyone since I was now considered practically a regular at the office, so I just walked straight to Nate’s corner of the world.

  The door was open and I stood there. He didn’t even glance up from his keyboard.

  “I’m working, dear,” he said to me.

  I took a seat in the chair across from him. He was punching away at the keys of his computer like they were bugs that needed to be squashed.

  “When will you be home?” I said. “I need to time dinner.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t have time for this, John.”

  “You have to make time for the important people in your life, Nate. That would be me.”

  He pushed a slip of paper across the desk to me. It was a name handwritten in his crazy scrawl.

  “How can you be so dexterous with a fork and so ape-like with a pen?” I said, after I’d picked up the paper and looked at what he’d written. Or more accurately, tried to decipher what he’d written. “Jeez, I’ve seen better handwriting at the zoo’s gorilla exhibit.”

  “Very funny,” he said. “Now goodbye John, I’m on a deadline.”

  I looked at the note.

  Bluestone Limited.

  The name meant nothing to me.

  “What the hell is Bluestone Limited?” I asked Nate.

  “No idea.”

  “That’s a terrible answer for a reporter.”

  That finally got him to look at me.

  “You know, I’ve been doing pretty well on the new eating program,” he said. He folded his hands across his ample midsection. “The great thing is, I get a free day. Every Friday. Eat whatever I want. How about you treat me to burgers at Paul’s?”

  I shuddered at the thought of how many burgers Nate could destroy on his “free” night.

  It sure as hell wouldn’t be free for me.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. I’ll tell you what I know about Bluestone then.”

  He lifted his head toward the door.

  “Close it on your way out.”

  I did as he said, but was disappointed in his office etiquette. Not professional at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The first thing I thought of on the way back to my office was that I should take a quick look at my checking account. I was going to need a fair mount of cash on hand to fund Nate Becker’s “diet free night” at Paul’s. Even if Paul’s was just a burger joint, you could chew through some serious cash. ‘Chewing’ being the operative word there.

  My office smelled a little better than last time thanks to the efforts I made airing out the place. A little crisp fall air never hurt anyone.

  I sat down at the desk and figured my strategy now was to divide and conquer. Let Nate worry about Bluestone Limited and I would throw myself onto Auto Time or whatever it might turn out to be. Auto T
ime sounded like a really strange name. My guess is it was a television show or a used car dealership. Which made it a really odd choice as Benjamin Collins’s place of employment. I braced myself for a slog getting to the bottom of this one.

  The first thing I did was to Google “Auto Time” and I added “Michigan” after a moment. Sure enough, a car dealership on Eight Mile Road was the first hit. After that, there were no businesses listed.

  Had Benjamin Collins gotten a job at a used car dealership on Eight Mile? Doubtful. Eight Mile was the road that marked the border of Detroit. It was infamous for a lot of reasons, including a movie about a rapper. But it was just as well known for crime and open prostitution. Most businesses had razor wire and iron bars across the doors. Eight Mile was no place for a young kid from Grosse Pointe to find steady employment.

  Still, I had to check.

  There was a number for AutoTime so I called. A woman whose voice sounded like a trash compactor answered. I asked if they had ever had an employee about six years ago by the name of Benjamin Collins. She laughed at me. It sounded like an internal combustion engine running out of gas. And then she said they weren’t even in business until about a year ago when she won the place in a card game. It was called 8 Mile Autos up until then.

  I thanked her and hung up as I scrolled through more search results for Auto Time. There was a magazine that looked like it was out of print, but it was based in Pennsylvania.

  My next attempt was to search Auto Time Grosse Pointe, which resulted in no results at all.

  In the storage closet near my printer were stacks of old phone books. I didn’t throw them away because you never knew when they might come in handy. Like now.

  Starting with the books from a year before the murder, I searched the Yellow Pages for a company named Auto Time. There were a lot of businesses, as you can imagine, that started with the word Auto. But no Auto Time. Same for the following two years of phone books.

  I stopped with the last one, and looked again at the businesses. There was one called Auto Prime. It appeared to be some kind of money lending business. But it was located in Wyandotte, which was nowhere near Grosse Pointe.

  Having lived in Grosse Pointe for most of my life, I knew most of the businesses here. I racked my memory but couldn’t come up with any memories of a business called Auto Time. Even all of the car washes on Mack Avenue didn’t go by that name. Had there been any named that six years ago? I didn’t know.

  There was also the very real possibility that the name was wrong. Amanda hadn’t been sure of Auto Time. What if it was Out of Time?

  Back to Google. There were a couple of movies called Out of Time, and some songs. In the Detroit area there were several housekeeping services called Out of Time. Had Benjamin Collins gone into the cleaning business? Again, not a very plausible scenario.

  A few more Internet searches turned up sports stories about the University of Michigan football team running out of time.

  This was going nowhere.

  I put the phone books back in the closet and shut down the computer. Sat there in silence for a few minutes.

  Thought about calling Anna.

  Instead, I looked at my watch. It was close enough to five o’clock to merit a cocktail. I grabbed a cold beer from the little fridge. Twisted off the cap and held it up. “First of the day,” I said to my office. It was a phrase one of my uncles always used to say when he cracked a beer.

  The beer tasted great, and I mused on the name Auto Time. Other possible variations. All the Time. Otter Time. Maybe there was a business that let people play with otters. Like how you could swim with dolphins.

  When my mind wandered it tended to head straight into the realm of lunacy. It really was a gift.

  Little did I know that I was about to be handed the biggest break in the case yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There were about two fingers worth of beer left in the bottle when the door to my office opened.

  “Rockne?” a voice called out.

  Caught off-guard and cursing myself for not locking the door, I didn’t even think to open the desk drawer that contained my gun. Instead I just stood up and started toward the lobby but Tripp Collins appeared in my doorway before I could take another step.

  “What is your problem, asshole?” he barked at me.

  “Can you be more specific?” Humor was a great way to defuse a situation. It never worked in my home life, but it was always my first place of refuge. Or maybe it was the beer talking. I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.

  “Go to hell,” he said.

  I suddenly realized that I didn’t have a very high regard for Tripp Collins, despite our intertwined histories.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Collins?”

  “Why is my office getting called about a private investigator asking if they’re my clients?”

  “There are a lot of private investigators in Detroit,” I answered. Which was the truth.

  “Oh, that’s bullshit. Why are you harassing me?”

  “I’m not,” I said.

  “Yeah? Then why were you in my lobby accosting your ex-girlfriend?”

  Accosting? I didn’t recall any accosting. And how had he known about my brief conversation with Elizabeth?

  “Again, I’m not harassing you. And I didn’t accost anyone.” Both were completely true statements.

  His face turned an even darker shade of red. He was clearly drunk. Drunker than he’d been at his house. His entire demeanor was in disarray. His hair was messy, his tie loose, shirt untucked, even a stain on his pants. Plus, he couldn’t stop looking at my beer.

  “Want a beer?” I said.

  He pulled a flask out of his pocket.

  “No, I don’t want a beer,” he snarled at me. “I want you to get your shit together and get out of my business, literally and figuratively.”

  He took a long pull from the flask.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I said. “There’s a lot of new information coming in regarding Benjamin’s murder. A lot of stuff is happening.”

  “Like what?” he said, his voice thick with skepticism.

  “I’m afraid I can’t share anything right now.”

  We stood there, looking at each other. He was holding the flask; I was holding my nearly empty beer bottle.

  Finally, he took another long drink from the flask, tilting it all the way up at the end. Empty.

  “Listen. You’re a screwup in the grandest sense of the word,” he said. He looked around my lobby like it was a dirty diaper. “I know you’re desperately trying to make yourself feel better, but keep me out of your pathetic little self-esteem improvement campaign, okay?” he sneered. “Get a life. Anger, regret, jealousy, you need to let it all go. It’s not too late to make something of yourself. Well, it probably is. But you should at least try. Stop being a loser, is what I’m saying.”

  I nodded. Sage advice. Following his lead, I drank the rest of my beer and was about to show him out when something he’d said caught my attention.

  Anger. Regret. Jealousy.

  “Jealousy?” I asked him. “Who am I jealous of?”

  He laughed out loud and looked at me like I was joking.

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You’re going to need a drink after I tell you this,” he said, shaking his head. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly back and forth. “You know your old girlfriend, your ex-fiancée Elizabeth Pierce?”

  “Yeah? What about her?” My voice was calm but I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

  He lowered his head and looked directly into my eyes. His face was filled with sheer delight.

  “Benjamin was fucking her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Two guys who preferred not use each other’s real names. The Spook laughed. His whole life had been nothing but smoke and mirrors. He idly wondered how many of the people he’d dealt with throughout his life ha
d gone by their real names. Probably less than twenty percent, he guessed.

  Now, he sat in a conference room. The space perfectly matched his mental image of a room in an insane asylum. White walls. Burnished steel table. White leather chairs. The only thing missing was a straitjacket.

  The man sitting across from him had a physician-like appearance, as well. A sleek silver suit. Pale blue tie. Perfectly manicured. Expertly coiffed. His white hair and tanned face only brought out the blue in his eyes and made him look much younger than his real age, which the Spook guessed to be at least eighty years.

  The Spook knew the man’s real name, but never used it. In fact, they never used names at all. The Spook simply referred to him as the Director. It was a title that fit the man.

  “I appreciate you meeting with me personally,” the Director said. “Ordinarily Mr. Ricks would handle this, but…”

  He spread his thin, bony hands out in a helpless gesture.

  “What happened to Mr. Ricks?” the Spook asked.

  The Director smiled and nodded his head. As if the question had been highly amusing.

  “Only the murderer who shot him in the head can answer that.”

  “That’s the funny thing about bullets,” The Spook said. “They aren’t refundable.”

  The Director’s face betrayed a tiny twitch that most people would never have noticed. But The Spook had been trained to notice these things.

  “It seems that your previous assignment has resulted in renewed attention to the incident in Grosse Pointe from a few years back,” the Director continued.

  “Some things you can bury only so deep,” the Spook said. “A flash flood. A new building project. An earthquake. Anything can happen and usually does. In our business, there are no guarantees. You know that.”

  “No guarantees,” the older man agreed. “And no refunds.”

  “Exactly.”

  The old man sighed. “Well, I don’t like surprises. And I want this thing buried deep, once and for all.”

  “I can make that happen,” the Spook said.

  The old man swiveled in his chair and looked at the blank wall.