Grosse Pointe Pulp

by Dan Ames

  All those abandoned car factories were everywhere in Detroit, especially downriver, where Clay had cut his teeth becoming a career criminal. What most people didn’t realize, though, was that all of the businesses that had supported the auto industry collapsed, too.

  Companies that built the little door hinges, or sheet metal or any of the little millions of pieces that went into manufacturing a car had all gone belly up, too. And all of those places had their own warehouses and storage sheds that were now vacant, and guarded only by a fence with maybe a single strand of barbed wire. Hell, the bank owned all of that shit and they didn’t have time for actual security.

  Clay’s base of operations was an abandoned property a couple miles from the airport in Romulus. He had discovered it when he was trying to get rid of a body and the sign, Universal Tool & Die had appealed to his sense of humor.

  He’d made his own little entrance through a disguised section of chain-link fence that was completely obstructed. The time and energy was well spent because he’d found an in-ground cistern full of waste chemicals that now had four bodies in various stages of decomposition.

  Soon to be five, Clay thought.

  He got out of the Ram, unlocked his makeshift garage door, and pulled the truck through. He went back, shut the chain-link door, and rolled a mini-dumpster in front of the opening, locking the wheels in place.

  There were at least five abandoned structures on the property, but the best one was in the back. Clay drove the Ram around the back of the building and parked between the back wall and a stack of pallets he’d piled in order to block any views if someone happened to traipse through the field of weeds and scrub brush that went on for nearly a quarter mile to a farmer’s tree line.

  The back door to the building had been locked, naturally, but Clay had broken in and then jerry-rigged his own lock, which he now unfastened with a key from his keychain. He opened the door, stepped inside, took a quick look to make sure no homeless people had found a way in – that would be their very, very bad luck – then went back to the Ram and dragged the black kid inside. He closed the door behind him, and locked it from the inside.

  Clay grabbed the kid by an ankle and dragged him to the center of the room where he had some heavy chain draped over a steel ceiling truss, a chair, and a pair of handcuffs. He fastened the handcuffs around the kid, then ran the chain through them in a loop, which he secured with a padlock. Clay kicked the chair away so it would be well out of reach of his captive, who was now slumped on his side with his arms above him.

  A bucket held some dirty water and Clay splashed it into the kid’s face. His eyes opened, and Clay clobbered him with the empty metal pail.

  The kid’s eyes opened all the way.

  “Look down at your feet,” Clay said.

  The black asshole looked down. The water from the bucket was swirling down a drain that was built into the floor.

  Around the drain were streaks of black.

  “That’s dried blood,” Clay said. He pulled the pint of Early Times from his back pocket and took a long drink.

  And then he laughed.

  14

  On the way home from Bush Gardens I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Marvin Cotton. I told him I had interviewed an acquaintance of Kierra’s, leaving out the fact that she was a co-worker at a strip club on 8 Mile, and told him that said person had indicated Kierra had been extremely close with her grandfather.

  “Sorry, but that’s bullshit,” Marvin Cotton said. “My old man saw Kierra once in awhile but not much. He isn’t exactly the warm-and-feely kind of guy.”

  It was the first confirmation of what I’d expected would probably be a pattern; that Lace’s information was going to be mostly inaccurate. A drugged-out stripper didn’t always make the best source. I was trying not to be judgmental, but drugs and the truth tended not to last long as roommates.

  “I mean, the old man lives in Lansing,” Marvin continued. The way he said it made it sound like Lansing was halfway to Pluto.

  “There’s no way she’s been making side trips to Lansing without any of us knowing about it.”

  My silence told him I didn’t agree.

  “I mean, you can go talk to him if you want,” Marvin said. “He doesn’t have a phone or a cell phone, so that’s really the only way. Face-to-face. But I guarantee it’ll be a waste of gas.”

  “That’s okay, mileage is tax-deductible,” I said. Ever since I’d spent the money on a new accountant, I was determined to get my money’s worth.

  Marvin gave me the address for his father in Lansing, I thanked him, and we disconnected.

  I went home and took a long, hot shower. From just the few minutes Lace had been sitting on my lap, I reeked of perfume.

  It was a listless night’s sleep, tossing and turning so much that at one point Anna gave me an elbow in the ribs.

  The next morning, I was up but not rested. The sun was already up by the time I got to my office and the Kroger just a few doors down was busy with people going in and out of the store. A tired-looking high school kid was rounding up stray shopping carts with an understandable lack of enthusiasm.

  My reserved parking space was one of only three behind my building. The other two belonged to a couple of stockbrokers from the tiny Merrill Lynch office next door. One drove a Porsche Panamera – that was the sedan. Which made no sense to me. Who wants to drive a Porsche that looks like a boring family car? The other car next to mine was a white Range Rover.

  To be honest, the best-looking car, though, was my seven-year-old Honda minivan. It was sleek, a total chick magnet, and it was paid for. I’m joking about the first two, but the last one is the reason I love it. Plus, a minivan is awesome for surveillance because no one notices it and if it’s an especially long stakeout, you can fold all the seats down and stretch out.

  So I fired her up and headed out toward Lansing. An easy drive by just hopping on I-96 and heading west.

  Lansing was the state capitol and a small city I really liked. It was home to Michigan State University and the countryside surrounding was mostly agricultural with the occasional horse ranch thrown in.

  The address Marvin had given me went into my phone’s navigation app, and I followed it without deviation until a little more than an hour later I pulled up in front of a small bungalow on a quiet street a few blocks over from the main square in Lansing.

  I parked in front of the house, locked it, and walked up to the front door.

  After I rang the bell, it took a few minutes before the door opened. Marvin Cotton, with the addition of about forty years, looked back at me.

  “Mr. Cotton? My name is John Rockne and your son hired me to look into the disappearance of his daughter,” I said in my friendliest voice. The kind of voice that made people want to invite me in, as opposed to having to invite me in. “Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions?”

  He looked at me with eyes that were rimmed with red from age, as opposed to smoking controlled substances. Finally, he seemed to come to a judgment of sorts and opened the door for me.

  “Come on in,” he said. “Want some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  The house smelled like cigar smoke and old men. Which made sense because there were three old men sitting around a card table and one of them had a cigar going.

  They all looked at me.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” I said.

  One or two of them may have grumbled a hello but they all turned back to the card game.

  “George you gonna finish the hand or what?” one of them barked at Marvin Cotton’s Dad. I knew this not because I knew Grandpa Cotton’s first name, but because the other old man was glaring right at him.

  “Hell no,” George said. “I’ve taken enough of your damn money. You’ll be eating that beagle of yours back home if I keep whuppin’ your ass.”

  George Cotton waved me back toward what appeared to be the kitchen.

  “Come in here,” he said. “What�
�d you say your name was?”

  “John.”

  I followed him through a small kitchen to a back door that led out to a tiny patio with two chairs.

  George Cotton sat in one, slowly and painfully, and pointed to the other.

  “Figured you wouldn’t want to breathe all that smoke,” he said. “You look like a dandy.”

  That made me laugh. That would have made Anna laugh even harder. I bought my clothes at JCPenney. A frickin’ dandy?

  Ha.

  “I appreciate that.”

  The backyard was the size of a postage stamp but neat, with a charcoal smoker off to one side and a metal pail just beyond. For cigar butts, I figured.

  “So did you know Kierra was missing?” I said.

  “No. I only talk to Marvin once in awhile. He’s still mad at me for being too tough on him.” The old man’s face sort of crinkled when he said it and I couldn’t tell if the expression was from disgust or the fact that he found some humor in the words.

  “When was the last time you saw Kierra?” I asked.

  “How long has she been missing?”

  Nothing bugs a private investigator more than someone who answers questions with a question. But I love old people, so I gave him a break.

  “A few weeks.”

  He nodded. “She’s about that age, I suppose.”

  “What age would that be?”

  “Where they can’t take being at home anymore. Like caged animals. Her Dad was like that. Oh, yes sir,” he said. “He stormed on out of the house, told me to kiss his black ass. Then about six months later he was begging to come home.”

  The old man laughed. He was a tough old guy, I could tell.

  “So when was the last time you saw Kierra?” I asked again.

  A bird flew overhead and landed in a tree in the neighbor’s yard. George Cotton’s eyes followed its flight and squinted at it, as if he was daring it to land in his yard.

  “Three, four years ago, I guess,” he finally said. “Marvin had a big barbecue to celebrate their new house. He overcooked the ribs. Too tough. The meat should always fall off the bone.”

  I rolled my eyes. Marvin had been right. This was a waste of time.

  “Did you keep in touch with her other ways? Phone? Email?”

  He actually let out what could only be described as a guffaw. “Son, you drove out here probably because my son told you I don’t have a phone. If I don’t have a phone, then you know I don’t have a computer or whatever they use for those electric mail things, am I right?”

  “You’re right,” I admitted. For a brief moment, I thought he might tell me what a crummy private investigator I was. Right up there with Marvin’s ability to grill meat.

  “George! Get your sorry ass back in here,” one of the guys inside the house called out. “Quit hiding from me.”

  “Chester just leave your money on the table, you know I’m going to take it from you, anyway. Just like I done with your woman.”

  One of the old guys let out a howl and George winked at me.

  I stood up and shook his hand.

  “Thank you for chatting with me, Mr. Cotton,” I said, giving him my card. “Call me if you do hear from Kierra. Maybe you can borrow a phone from one of your buddies.”

  He waved the idea away like it was a troublesome fly. “She’ll probably come home in a few weeks,” he said. “They always do.”

  15

  On the way out of Lansing, I realized I hadn’t eaten breakfast so I stopped at a Starbucks and grabbed a coffee and a blueberry scone. Blueberry because I knew I could count the scone as one serving of fruit. Very healthy, in other words.

  Back on the freeway headed for Detroit, I called up my reporter friend Nate but it was sent straight to voicemail and decided not to leave a message. I had known Nate my whole life. He was a journalist, having worked as a reporter for the Grosse Pointe newspaper for most of his career. He had since moved onto the Detroit Free Press.

  The great thing about Nate was that he had an incredible memory for names and faces which was not only great for his career, and probably part of the reason he went into reporting, but it was also great for me. Selfish, I know. But Nate Becker was a great help to me and a resource I utilized frequently.

  By not leaving a message Nate would know that I was calling because I wanted some help from him, but I was happy to be able to convey the request without having to get roped into buying him lunch just to pose the question. Nate was a big guy and he loved his food so my payments to him for his help were meals. Big meals. Really, really big meals.

  As I passed fields of corn and vast swatches of green I kept my eye out for deer. Not so much in case they jumped a fence and volunteered to become a hood ornament, but because I loved spotting them. “Deer!” I would shout out to the empty car. I’m very easily entertained.

  No sign of anything interesting on the drive back, which paired nicely with the fact that I hadn’t found anything of interest at George Cotton’s place. Well, most of the time in my business it was wrong to think of information as a “lead” because it rarely led you anywhere worthwhile.

  Still, it was kind of a weird thing for Lace to have made up. Why would she have told me that Kierra had a close relationship with her grandfather if it hadn’t been true? I knew Lace wouldn’t be a reliable source, but it seemed like such an odd thing for her to lie about. I knew she was on drugs, probably drank a lot, and was out of it half the time. But typically that resulted in misinformation more in the sense of just being wrong, or mistaken. Not fabricating stories for no reason. Unless she had a reason for sending me off in a false direction? Or had she just been pissed off I hadn’t wanted a “dance.”

  Still, I couldn’t stop noodling it around. Had she meant something else, or someone else? Had Kierra known a different “George” and Lace assumed it was her friend’s grandfather? Would Kierra have told Lace her grandfather’s first name? Highly unlikely. And certainly more unlikely that Lace would have remembered it.

  Suddenly, I found myself thinking back to Kierra’s social media accounts. A nudge, or a wiggle or whatever you want to call it. A brain passing-of-gas, perhaps.

  But had I seen something there?

  Without any real reason why, I made it back to my office in record time, parked the van next to the Porsche and hurried up to my desk. I roused the computer from sleep, launched the web browser and promptly logged into Kierra’s Instagram account.

  I grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and sipped as I scanned the pictures, not even sure what I was looking for. I had already looked at all of the pictures several times. Mostly shots of Kierra with people at clubs, or friends sticking their tongues out at the camera. Why do young people do that? What is it about a camera that makes them want to hang their tongues out of their mouths like camels?

  If Anna was with me, she’d tell me I was acting like an old man again. Oh, well.

  Right then, a picture on her Instagram made me stop. It was a photo of Kierra with a guy who had on a black baseball cap, a chain around his neck with a D emblem representing Detroit, and making a peace sign toward the camera.

  I glanced at the caption Kierra had added to the photo. And smiled. Why did I ever doubt myself?

  The caption read simply: “Clubbin’ out with my man, Grandmaster D!”

  16

  The driveway was home to my wife’s car and another vehicle I didn’t recognize. I ended up parking on the street and letting myself in the side door.

  A woman sat at our kitchen table with Anna, each clutching oversized coffee cups. I knew my wife wouldn’t be drinking coffee in the afternoon and sure enough, the smell of green tea tinged with honey reached my finely honed senses.

  “John, this is Arnella Cotton,” Anna said. She smiled at me, but I could tell the smile wasn’t the usual look of sheer joy she usually wore when she saw me. Kidding, of course.

  “Hi Arnella,” I said, shaking hands with her. Her hand was warm and sweaty either from the tea or ner
ves.

  “Hello, Mr. Rockne,” she said.

  “Please. Call me John.”

  “Ok, call me Arnella.”

  Arnella Cotton was a short, plump woman with a breathtakingly beautiful face. I knew where Kierra had gotten her good looks, that was for sure.

  “A tea party? And I wasn’t invited?” I said to my wife. I gave Anna a peck on the cheek.

  “There’s plenty of water left,” my wife said, nodding at the teapot still on the stove. I went over to the coffeemaker, saw there was a little left in the bottom and poured myself a cup, then popped it into the microwave.

  “Thanks, but I need some real caffeine,” I said. “How are you holding up, Arnella?”

  The woman glanced up at me and shrugged her shoulders. “About as well as I could be expected to, I guess.” She had a voice that was deeper than expected and a bit of an edge to her tone. “The hardest thing for a mother is not knowing where your child is and what has happened, or is happening, to her.”

  Anna reached over and put her hand on Arnella’s. “John will find her, Mrs. Cotton, I know he will.” She glanced over at me and gave me that look that said, you better not make a liar out of me.

  Luckily, the microwave dinged and I turned around, took out the cup, had a test sip and pulled up a chair next to the ladies.

  “Is that why you’re here?” I asked.

  “Yes and no,” Arnella said. “Yes, I am worried, but no, I don’t want you to look for her anymore.”

  This was a shock to me.

  “You don’t want me to?” I asked.

  “Look, my husband is a good man,” Arnella said. “But he’s got a temper. Especially when it comes to his daughter. Marvin was raised in a very strict family and he wanted to do the same with his.”

  I thought back to George Cotton and I understood what she was getting at.

  “Marvin and Kierra clashed. A lot. And…” she paused as she searched for the right word. “Severely,” she finished. “They clashed severely.”