by Dan Ames
Chapter Twenty-One
He had a head start, but it was a small one. Plus, I was no expert on cars, but the old Novas weren’t necessarily the fastest cars on the road. And the Taurus, despite its rep as a classically boring, middle-of-the-road, suburban-white-guy car, had a V6 with 230 horsepower. Which I was confident could outgun the old Nova in a test of brute strength.
I gambled that he would head toward Detroit. It made sense. There’s a tangible sense of lawlessness in the city. Not enough cops, and really, really bad criminals all over the place. If you’re in a car chase, and if you’re a criminal yourself, the best place to go is Detroit. There’s much less chance you’ll ever be found than if you hightail it out to the suburbs.
So I took a chance and headed straight from the village toward I-94, right up Cadieux. I caught up to my friend in the Nova on the entrance ramp. I got on his bumper, and I could make out his head and shoulders. He was a big guy, and judging from the quick glimpse I’d gotten at the apartment building, I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before.
We played cat-and-mouse on the freeway. Randy Watkins had apparently seen every Sylvester Stallone movie ever made because he tried every trick in the book. Using a semi-truck as camouflage. Speeding up, braking down hard. Veering toward an exit ramp, then veering back at the last minute. I tried to get up and get a better look at him, but he always swung back or got behind me. Nevertheless, I did get a few more glimpses, enough to put together my own little “artist’s rendering” in my mind. His hair was light brown, almost blond. Thick features. A strong jaw. Kind of a pug nose. Big hands on the Nova’s steering wheel.
We dodged each other for a few more minutes until finally Randy made his big move and jumped the shoulder onto an exit ramp. I’d anticipated his move and was already on the exit ramp. So after his poor man’s Evel Knievel routine, he ended up right in front of me.
Randy led the way into Detroit proper. I soon found myself in not-so-pleasant neighborhoods. Streets with the requisite cars up on blocks, garbage lying around the street. Lots of Detroit citizens standing around on the sidewalks, hands in their oversized shorts. Looking around, waiting for something to happen. Anything to happen.
I started to worry about what Mr. Watkins’ plans might be. It was certainly easier to kill someone in Detroit than it was in Grosse Pointe. And if his behavior was telling me anything, it was telling me that Randy had played a part in the murder of Nevada Hornsby and his deckhand. This was not good news. He may have killed before, which meant he may kill again. And here I was cornering him like a rat in a cage.
As if reading my thoughts, the Nova pin-wheeled into a narrow alley, yours truly a second or two behind him. I flew down the narrow passageway. I could see a big truck maneuvering a garbage dumpster into place.
But no Nova.
I started to brake just as I passed a small opening on my left. I quickly realized I’d made a bad tactical mistake as the rear end of the Nova shot out of the narrow alley I’d just passed. The Nova clipped my rear end, and the Taurus careened into the brick wall. All I heard was screeching metal and the sound of glass breaking. The car rocked to a stop, and I tried to get my bearings. The Taurus had slid around, and I was now facing the way I’d come.
And there, in the middle of the road, was Randy Watkins. Lifting a gun and pointing it at the most obvious direction possible.
I dove for the floor just as the sound of shots ripped through the alley. The shots came fast, one right after another. More glass broke. I heard a ricochet that sounded exactly like it does in the movies. I scrambled along the floor, trying to get to the passenger door. If Randy was coming, I didn’t want to get trapped in the car. I found the passenger-side door handle and pulled, but nothing happened. I reached up but it was already unlocked. I pulled the release and threw my weight against the door. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge. I panicked, hurling myself against it, over and over again, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder, my mind screaming at the idea of any moment seeing the pug face of Randy at my window, shooting at me like a fish in a barrel. I kept pounding at the door, finally felt it give, and then I tumbled out onto the pavement.
At the same time, I heard the most beautiful sound of all. Tires squealed, and I nearly wept with joy. I saw the Nova roar out of the end of the alley and around the corner.
My heart was racing, and I suddenly wanted to be sick. I staggered around the car, my legs weak, my shoulder sagging as if I’d knocked it out of alignment.
Steam poured out from underneath the Taurus’ hood, and the engine made a bunch of strange popping sounds that could only be the automotive equivalent of a death rattle.
Lights had come on in the alley, and only after a moment or two did I realize they were colored lights. Blue and red. A Detroit cop car nosed its way into the mouth of the alley.
Now I knew why Randy had taken off instead of staying around to finish the job. He’d been able to hear sirens. I hadn’t.
I couldn’t stand anymore. My legs kind of gave out, and I sat down on the pavement. Another Detroit cop car slid to a stop behind the first one. The driver’s door of the first squad car opened and a big guy got out. He held his gun up and pointed at me. Boy, that was the second gun pointed at me in a matter of minutes, and I sure didn’t like it.
He slowly walked up to me. Not worried, but not entirely casual either. I imagined he could see the bullet holes in the rear window.
He waited a long moment, almost studying me with a bemused expression. I figured he would tell me to put my hands up, or to get on my stomach on the ground while he frisked me or took a whack at me with a nightstick.
He did neither.
Instead, he spoke to me. And when he did, his voice sounded beyond casual. He sounded bored.
“License and registration,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“It wasn’t a bullet,” I said.
“Oh, don’t give me that shit,” Anna said. I’d gone through the expected ordeal: a statement at the police department in Detroit, several informational interrogations, paperwork up the yin yang, a stop at the emergency room for two stitches on my arm, and now, several hours later, I’d finally come home.
“I’d tell you if I’d been shot,” I said. “They taught us that in marriage class. Always tell your partner about gunshot wounds.”
“What is it then?” she said, ignoring me. Her tone was high, cynical, and severely pissed off.
“A chunk of metal from the car,” I said. The truth was the doctor hadn’t been entirely sure. It could have been a fragment from the bullet. A fragment from the windshield. Or, much less likely, a scrape from the car. In all likelihood, I had been shot. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to say it to my wife.
“Shrapnel from the bullet?”
“No, I think it was from the car crashing into the wall,” I said. “I always hated that Taurus.”
“Good, John, keep making jokes. This is all very funny,” Anna said. I was about to respond when the doorbell rang. Anna answered the door, and I heard Ellen’s voice. I groaned inwardly.
“Well, if it isn’t the Terminator,” Ellen said, waltzing into the kitchen. She went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.
“What the fuck is going on here, Ellen?” Anna said. Ellen just shook her head, took a pull from her beer, and looked at me. Anna stopped looking at Ellen and turned to me. With both of them staring at me, I felt like a rotisserie chicken. Skewered and about to be thoroughly roasted.
My wife and my sister. Talk about the proverbial rock and a hard place.
“He was always a terrible driver,” Ellen finally said. “In Driver’s Ed in high school, I remember when he was out on a country road and the instructor told him to turn, he drove into the cornfield.” She started laughing. “And then the teacher, Mr. Darnell, said, ‘I meant turn at the intersection up ahead.’” Now Ellen really went off. The good thing was that she was obviously trying to lighten the situation for A
nna, not for me. The worst part was that the stupid-ass story was true.
Anna looked like she still wanted to strangle both of us. My sister and I don’t have much in common, but dry sarcasm at inopportune times is about the only genetic strain we share.
“What were you thinking, chasing this guy around on your own?” Anna said.
“I couldn’t call Ellen. I didn’t know anything about the guy,” I said. “Hornsby had made an offhand comment about his worker, a guy named Randy, calling in sick. I thought I should follow up, even though I figured it was a waste of time. And if it was a waste of time for me, it sure as hell would have been for her.”
“Spoken like a true Grosse Pointe taxpayer,” Ellen said. “Very considerate of you, John.”
“How was I supposed to know that this Randy guy turned out to be such an asshole?”
“Had you even considered it?” Anna said.
“Well, I think everyone’s a potential asshole,” I said.
Ellen sort of laughed at that. Anna’s heat dial went up a notch.
“Well, it wasn’t a total waste of time,” Ellen said. “The guy is obviously bad news. Why do you suppose he took such exception with you, John? Other than the obvious.”
I looked at her then wondered why the hell I didn’t have a beer. Jeez, a guy gets in a gunfight and nobody offers him a beer. I puffed up my chest like a prized rooster and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Before I could twist off the top, Anna snatched the bottle from my hand.
“Doctor’s orders,” she said. Then she twisted off the cap and took a long drink. A regular Florence Nightingale.
“Why’d he try to kill you, John?” Ellen asked again. As tough as my wife was, when my sister got that tone in her voice, it seemed like even the air in the room started looking for a way out.
“Driving a piece of shit Nova would make me feel pretty murderous too,” I said.
Anna slammed her hand down on the counter. Some of her beer sloshed onto the table. “This is not funny!”
“Did you find out anything about Randy Watkins?” I asked Ellen. Right after the Detroit cop had called an ambulance and given me back my license and registration, I’d called her and told her what I knew.
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t share information with a loose cannon such as yourself,” she said. “But I suppose I can make an exception this time.”
“Don’t do him any favors,” Anna said.
“The Randy Watkins identity is entirely fictitious,” Ellen said. “He was renting that apartment month-to-month, and the information he’d provided to the landlord was all bogus. And he always paid his rent in cash.”
“The car?”
“We’re still checking.”
“You should be able to pull the slugs from my car,” I said. “Might get something useful.”
“Thanks for the tip, Perry Mason.” Ellen said. “It is, in fact, on its way to the crime lab.”
“So the car’s totaled,” Anna said.
I nodded.
“Does that mean you’ll have to use the minivan?” she said. This was good; we were back to practical matters. Much safer ground.
I shook my head. “As fine and sporty-looking a vehicle as it is, I’ll be renting a car. My insurance covers it.”
Ellen drained the rest of her beer and set it on the counter by the back door.
“Thanks for the beer,” she said. “Anna, when he gets sick or even the tiniest scratch, he turns into the world’s biggest baby.”
“I know,” my dear wife said.
“Just ignore him.”
“I will.”
Ellen walked by me and punched me on the arm. Yes, that arm.
I gave a little yelp.
“See what I mean?” Ellen said.
I glanced over at Anna who took a drink from her beer. I could have been wrong, but it looked like she was laughing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” I said.
The Enterprise car rental customer representative, a Bill Gates look-alike circa seventeen years old, sort of smirked and looked out at the waiting room. It was totally empty.
“Sorry, man,” he said, a hint of camaraderie in his voice. “I feel for you.”
Just outside, another Enterprise employee had just pulled up my rental car.
A Pontiac Sunbird.
White.
And a two-door.
“I can’t drive that,” I said to the guy. I looked at his nametag: Buddy. “We’re getting three more cars this afternoon,” he said. “If you can wait—”
“I can’t wait, Buddy.”
Anna had already dropped me off and left. I’d have to call her and tell her to come back and get me. Jesus Christ. Was I going to tail someone in a white Sunbird?
“Sorry, man, there’s nothing I can do,” Buddy said. “The last Aztek went out fifteen minutes ago. All I’ve got left are these white Sunbirds. I’ve got twelve of them.”
“Big surprise,” I said.
Buddy handed me the keys, and I had no choice but to take them. He slid a piece of paper across the counter, and I signed away what little pride I had left.
“Take it easy on the ladies,” Buddy said, laughing. Everyone’s a smartass.
* * *
•
* * *
Considering everything that had happened—Hornsby’s murder, my running and gunning with Randy, etc.— I decided it was time to touch base with my client.
I drove over to Clarence’s place and rang the bell. When he opened the door and after we exchanged hellos, he looked over my shoulder at the Sunbird in his driveway.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be there long enough to affect your property values,” I said.
“Is that a Sunbird?” he said.
“I can think of a few other names for it,” I said.
“Doesn’t seem like your style,” he said.
“I drove a Taurus,” I said. “Taurus drivers by definition have no style.”
He nodded again, silently agreeing that I had no style.
“What happened to the Taurus?” he said.
“That’s partially why I came to talk to you,” I said.
“Come in, come in,” he said. “You want something to drink?”
“Coffee would be great.”
I followed Clarence into the kitchen while he poured me a cup. He stood behind the kitchen’s island, and I pulled up a stool.
“Have you heard about Nevada Hornsby?” I said.
He sighed. “I just read about it in the paper.”
I waited him out.
“I’m not going to lie,” he said. “I never liked him, never trusted him, never thought he was right for my daughter. But I’m not happy he’s dead. He didn’t deserve that.” He paused for a second then said, “Were you there?”
“I was.”
“Were you—”
“Not bad. Just a little shaken up, I guess.” I had a sudden thought that wasn’t very pleasant. But a part of me was intrigued by the triangle between Hornsby, Jesse, and Clarence. I waited a beat then said, “Do you mind if I ask where you were when it happened?”
His shoulders slumped a bit, either from disappointment that I was going in this direction, or that overall the chain of events had led to this. “I was at a guitar store in Clinton Township.”
“Witnesses?”
He nodded. “I was there pretty much all day, jamming, checking out guitars, giving a few lessons. An old buddy of mine owns the store.”
“Okay,” I said. I then filled my client in on everything that had happened, from the explosion on Hornsby’s boat to my car chase with mysterious Mr. Randy. When I finished, Clarence had gone a bit pale. Imagine Kenny Rogers under the weather.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry for getting you involved in this. I want you to stop working on it. Clearly, I was wrong, and the last thing I want, the last thing Jesse would have wanted, is for anyone else to get hurt.”
“But—”
> “But nothing,” he said, now pacing around the kitchen. “Let me cut you a check, and we’ll be done with it all,” he said. He started rummaging through a drawer by the cookie jar that must have held his checkbook.
“Look, you can cut me a check, because frankly, I always love it when people cut me checks,” I said. “In fact, cut me two if you want to. But I’m not giving up. Someone tried to kill me. Twice, to be accurate. And it’s the same person or people who killed Nevada Hornsby and probably killed your daughter. It’s personal now. Besides, I legally need to have an employer to do some of the things I’m going to do on this case.”
“No.” He said it with conviction, but I could tell he was mulling it over.
“I’m going to do them anyway,” I said. “I’m going to find out who killed your daughter, whether you pay me to or not. Consider me Pandora, and you opened the damn box a few weeks ago.”
“I just don’t get it,” he said.
“Don’t get what?”
“Why someone would do this,” he said. “What are they after? What are they trying to do?”
“As the saying goes, when I know why, I’ll know who,” I said. “Or maybe the other way around. Actually, both would work . . . I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Clarence shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Wranglers, I saw. Definitely country and western. “I thought of something else,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Jesse was building a guitar. A special guitar.”
“I thought all of her guitars were special,” I said.
“This one was really special.”
“Meaning. . .”
“She told me it was for Shannon Sparrow.”
“Ah.” That certainly explained it. Shannon Sparrow was one of the hottest singers in the country. Technically, she was country, but had achieved that “crossover" status that record executives loved. Her last CD had sold something like seven gazillion copies.
Best of all, she was a hometown gal. Born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. Actually, if I remembered correctly, she’d been born in Detroit then fled to the suburbs in the ’70s with the rest of the scared white people.