Body Blow

by Dan Ames

  I looked at her. “You sound like you’re seriously considering it. I told Anna there’d be no way in hell you’d come up here. You’re too much of a city girl.”

  “Who the hell knows?”

  Her phone buzzed and she looked down at it.

  “Hmm. It’s Beau Gordon. You remember him?” she asked me. “He’s the one who recommended me for the job.”

  “Sure, I remember him,” I said.

  Ellen stood up and walked away as she answered the phone. There was a table nearby and I guessed she preferred talking to Beau in private.

  The beer tasted really sweet, and I was debating about joining my family in the pool. I saw on one end there was a diving board and I knew how much my girls loved my famous John Rockne belly flop. They howled every time I performed it, which was pretty much every time I was in a swimming pool.

  Suddenly, a shadow fell over me and I glanced up to see Ellen standing behind me. She had her cell phone in her hand, extended toward me.

  “What?” I asked. “I thought you were talking to Beau Gordon.”

  “I was,” she replied. “But he wants to talk to you.

  Chapter Seven

  “What?”

  Anna stood before me, dripping wet, her hair plastered back over her head like a skull cap. The girls were still swimming in the pool, I could hear their shrieks and yelps as they took turns tipping one another over from their floaty rings.

  “I have a meeting,” I said.

  Ellen and Anna both stood looking at me.

  “What do you mean, a meeting?” Anna asked me. “You don’t know a soul up here.”

  “Do you remember Beau Gordon?” I asked. “From Grosse Pointe?”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “He just called. He’s the guy who recommended Ellen for the job up here.”

  “What does he want with you?” Anna asked.

  I could see why she was a little miffed. It was supposed to be a weekend family getaway and here I was mixing business with pleasure, about to leave her alone with the kids.

  “I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “He said he knew Ellen was having us up here, and that something came up he needs to discuss with me immediately. It sounds like maybe a case.”

  “You can’t work a case up here,” Anna said. “You don’t live here.”

  Ellen walked away from us, not wanting to get into the middle of any marital situation. I wished I could’ve done the same.

  I glanced over to make sure Ellen was out of earshot range. She was.

  “Look, if this guy is friends with the city council, and Ellen is interested in the job, I would have to be a real asshole to blow this guy off. What if he called up the city council and said he changed his mind about Ellen? Because her brother is such a dick that he wasn’t willing to drive across a small town to meet with him?”

  Anna worked her towel vigorously, wiping down her long, lean legs. She looked incredibly sexy.

  She caught me looking at her.

  “Focus, John,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.

  “Okay, look,” I said. “He’s five minutes away. I’ll pop over there, it probably won’t take more than an hour, and then I’ll be right back. You know, I am a businessman and maybe there’s some money here.”

  It was an obvious ploy, but also the truth.

  “Take some chewing gum,” she said, instantly becoming practical once the decision had been made. “Showing up with beer breath probably isn’t the smartest idea.”

  I gave her a quick kiss, tasted the chlorine from the pool and then Ellen and I went out to the minivan. Beau had invited her as well.

  “What do you think this is all about?” I asked. “Do you think he’s inviting us over to tell you that you got the job?”

  Ellen shook her head. “No, the meeting where they’re deciding on who to offer the job is tomorrow, supposedly. And I highly doubt he would have invited you if that’s why he called. No, this is about something else.”

  I plugged the address Beau had given me into my phone and used the navigation app to show me the route to his house.

  We left the resort area, turned left from the main street of Good Isle, and drove down to a narrow two-way road that hugged the shore of the lake. The houses here were monsters, every bit as big and grand as the mansions in Grosse Pointe along Lake Shore Road.

  They were different, though.

  Instead of a lot of dark brick and Tudor-style homes, these all had a beach feel, albeit on an extremely luxurious scale. There was a lot of painted white trim, cedar shake, and wide, expansive porches with bench swings. I knew from past trips these houses went for millions upon millions of dollars.

  Partly because the area was a beacon for three sets of people with money.

  You had the wealthy folks from the Greater Detroit area, who shot straight up I-75 and could be in their beachfront mansion within four hours, less if you drove above the speed limit, which most of them did.

  The next group was from Chicago. They could head east out of the city, hug the bottom of Lake Michigan, and make their way up along the coast in a little over five hours. In fact, communities along that whole stretch of western Michigan had summer residents from Chicago.

  And lastly, the smallest group was from the small city of Grand Rapids, for whom the trip was very short.

  “I thought you said you wanted a change from Grosse Pointe,” I said to Ellen.

  “The difference is Grosse Pointe is between a lake and Detroit. Good Isle is between a lake and a bunch of corn fields.”

  She had me there.

  We finally pulled up into one of the biggest and grandest homes along this stretch of Good Isle’s shores.

  It was cedar shake painted beige, with white trim and two towering chimneys made with natural rock that bookended the property. We entered from the rear of the estate, but could see out past the structure to the lake. Which meant they had a huge stretch of beachfront property.

  I let out a low whistle.

  “Beau has done mighty well for himself.”

  We parked next to a Mercedes G-Wagon and walked to the back porch, which was huge and looked like you could dine on its immaculate wooden boards. Everything in Good Isle was just so damned clean.

  I rang the doorbell and looked down. I realized I was still wearing my swimming suit. Ellen caught me glancing at myself.

  “Nice attire,” she said. “Did you think we were going to meet in the lake?”

  The door opened, saving me from a quick-witted reply that I didn’t have, and a matronly woman looked out at us.

  “Hi, I’m here to meet with Beau. John Rockne. This is my sister, Ellen.”

  She smiled, greeted us warmly and welcomed us inside.

  It was a spectacular space with a towering center hall, huge wooden doors on each side, and a grand staircase that wound its way upstairs.

  We followed the woman to the door on the left. She cracked it open, said something quietly, and then opened the door for us.

  With a gesture, I let Ellen go in first.

  We stepped into a huge library and the door thudded shut behind us.

  8.

  “There they are!” Beau Gordon stood up from a brown leather couch that was in front of a huge fireplace. There were leather club chairs on each side of the couch, and in one of them was a petite blonde woman with small, dark eyes. She too, stood.

  “Hi Beau,” Ellen said. She crossed to him and I followed.

  “Ellen, good to see you again,” Beau said. They hugged, and I stuck out my hand.

  “John, good to see you, too,” he said. Beau was a little older than I remembered him, a little heavier, but overall still the same. He looked exactly like what he was, a retired high-powered Grosse Pointe attorney who had done very well and was used to the status and prestige he’d earned over the years.

  “Let me introduce you to Lindsey Nordegren,” Beau said. The woman shook hands with us and I noticed how slight her build was. Her hand wa
s small, and her bones seemed very delicate. But I also sensed an intensity in her dark eyes and there had been no shortage of strength in her grip.

  “Lindsey is my wife’s youngest sister,” Beau explained. “Can I get you something to drink?” He gestured toward a serving table off to the side that held a decanter, probably filled with cognac or expensive scotch, as well as a carafe that most likely contained coffee.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “I’m fine, but thank you,” Ellen added.

  “Okay then, please, have a seat, I’d like to discuss a matter with you.”

  Beau went back to his spot on the couch, and Lindsey eased back into the club chair. Ellen took the other club chair and I joined Beau on the couch.

  The room was impressive. There were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on each side, filled with law books but I also saw some literary classics as well as popular non-fiction. The wall behind Beau’s massive wooden desk held framed law degrees and photos of Beau with mostly Detroit-area celebrities.

  “This is a highly confidential discussion so I hope you will treat it as such,” Beau stated, in his most lawyerly voice.

  “Of course,” I replied.

  He glanced over at Lindsey.

  “Linds, why don’t I start, and then I’ll turn it over to you?” he asked.

  “That’s fine,” she answered.

  “My sister-in-law, as you can see, is a very beautiful woman. She’s also kind, funny and very intelligent. She’s also married. To a well-known financier who makes Good Isle his part-time home. Lindsey is committed to the marriage, which is why we wanted to discuss this matter in private.”

  I noticed that Beau had said Lindsey was committed to the marriage, as opposed to saying she was in love and committed to her husband. Big difference.

  Beau turned to Lindsey and inclined his head to indicate that it was now time for her to take over.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Yes, I am committed to my marriage. However, I’m often here, in Good Isle, alone. My husband travels constantly and sometimes I get very lonely.”

  Suddenly, I realized where this was going.

  “I met a man who also has a place here, part-time. We became…involved.”

  Beau shifted in his seat and I realized the conversation had just crossed some kind of invisible line of comfort for him.

  “That man has now disappeared,” Lindsay said. “And I don’t think he went voluntarily.”

  She took a deep breath and Beau was about step in, but she beat him to it.

  “I want you to find him,” she said, her voice firm. “I can’t go to the police because of the sensitivity of the issue and this is a small town.”

  There was a pause and I was about to ask my first question but Beau cut me off.

  “Lindsey came to me, not knowing what to do,” he explained. He turned to Ellen. “And you and I had just met for coffee, during which you’d mentioned John was arriving today.”

  Ellen nodded.

  “And since I know John is a private investigator, it seemed serendipitous.”

  Another pause, and this time I knew my questions were welcome.

  “I guess the first question I have is how do you know your friend didn’t leave Good Isle of his own volition?” I asked.

  Lindsey took another deep breath.

  “Several things,” she said. “Number one, we were supposed to meet last night, and he’s extremely good about communication. It seems he was raised to be punctual, almost to a fault.” Her face broke into a smile and everything about her changed. Suddenly, she looked extremely beautiful, charismatic even.

  I came to the sudden and definite conclusion that her husband was a dunderheaded fool to leave her alone all the time.

  “So, you didn’t hear from him?” Ellen asked.

  “No. Not a phone call. A text. Nothing.”

  “What else?”

  Lindsey rubbed her tiny, pale hands on her thighs. “I have a key to his place and I went over there this morning after I hadn’t heard from him. He had taken some chicken out of the freezer to thaw for dinner tonight. He had some shirts that I know he was planning to drop off today. In short, nothing looked like a man who was about to take off.”

  It didn’t add up for me. Maybe he’d zipped down to Detroit for something and was planning on being back this afternoon. It seemed way too early to panic.

  “Is there something else?” I asked. “A reason for the sense of urgency?”

  “Yes,” Lindsey answered. “He drives an old Ford Bronco SUV. Silver. It’s one of his prized possessions. It’s vintage and he babies it like it’s a human being.”

  She turned her head and looked into the fireplace.

  “He loves to fish and he always fishes in the same spot, and parks in the same place near the pier,” she said. “A friend of mine saw his Bronco driving away from the pier yesterday, but he wasn’t driving. Someone else was.”

  I waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “The driver was a hillbilly-looking guy,” Lindsay said. “Greasy baseball cap. Beard. There’s just no way in hell he should have been driving that car.”

  “Maybe it was a mechanic,” Ellen said.

  “Or someone taking it for a test drive. Maybe your friend was selling it.”

  “No way anyone else would touch that Bronco,” Lindsay said, adamant. “No way on God’s green Earth.”

  “Did your friend have any enemies? Do you know of someone who would have wanted to do him harm?” Ellen asked.

  We all knew the answer to that.

  The husband, that’s who.

  If he knew about the affair, that was. Which it definitely sounded like he didn’t.

  But Lindsey surprised us.

  “He had a lot of enemies,” she said. “That’s just the thing.”

  Finally, I got to the point.

  “I guess the question needs to be asked. Who is your friend?”

  Lindsey closed her eyes.

  “Billy Dawkins.”

  I felt my breath catch in my throat.

  “Dynamite Dawkins?” I said, my voice almost a whisper.

  “Yes,” Lindsey said.

  Chapter Eight

  At least they hadn't knocked him out this time.

  He was guessing, but Dawkins assumed they didn't want the hassle of trying to haul his carcass to their vehicle, which was probably a junky-ass pickup truck. That would be too much work. These two shitheads would take the easy way out every time.

  Of that, he was sure.

  Dawkins wasn’t surprised when they put a gun in his ribs and told him to walk out to the truck. A lot less work for them and he didn't mind. They could've stuck a needle in his shoulder but he had always hated drugs. Booze had been a different story, but powder and pills were never his thing.

  Plus, he’d learned over the years that it was always better to be conscious than unconscious. That way, you at least knew what was happening, even if you didn’t like it.

  "Let's go, boy," the man with the cowboy hat said.

  Dawkins walked forward, out of the cabin.

  "What's your name?" he asked. He got tired of thinking of him as the man in the cowboy hat.

  "Let's go with Boss," the man said. “Yeah, I like that. Why don't you call me Boss?"

  Troy snickered softly behind him, and jabbed the muzzle of the gun deeper into Dawkins’s ribs.

  He didn’t move, or answer.

  The man in the cowboy hat laughed. “You don't like that much, do you?"

  "Well I was just gonna call you Pecker Head," Dawkins said. "I actually think that fits you better."

  An easy smile crossed Dawkins’s face after he delivered the insult. He looked around and there was absolutely nothing he could see other than trees. Nothing but pines and two pickup trucks.

  Finally, his gaze settled back on the guy in the cowboy hat who clearly hadn’t liked being called a pecker head.

  Well tough shit, Dawkins thought.


  "What did you two geniuses do with my Bronco?" he asked.

  He felt himself starting to get pissed off. They had fucked with him, and for that they would pay, and pay dearly. But nobody fucked with his Bronco.

  "Oh, it's in a safe place," Boss said. “Don’t you worry your big ugly head over it.”

  Dawkins looked over and saw a garage with fresh tire tracks in the dirt path leading up to it. That's where his Bronco was, he was sure of it. That’s why these two hillbillies–

  Lights exploded along his eyes and his head snapped to the left as something crashed into his jaw. He stayed on his feet, and his head instantly cleared. He crouched, ready to fight, but then remembered his hands were still cuffed.

  He looked back at Boss who was standing there grinning and shaking his fist. “Boy, you sure can take a punch,” he said.

  Dawkins's eyes narrowed. He could take a punch, that was certain. He’d always been known for his iron jaw.

  “Careful there, Darnell,” Troy said. “This boy’s a mean sumbitch.”

  The man formerly known as Boss rolled his eyes. “Troy, you dumb shit, you just told him my name,” he said.

  “It don’t matter,” Troy said.

  Dawkins wondered what exactly he meant by that.

  Darnell and Troy.

  Two fucking redneck hillbillies, he thought to himself

  Troy jammed the rifle into Dawkins's side and forced his way forward to the pickup truck that was second in line in the driveway. They opened the upper door of the camper top and then opened the tailgate.

  Darnell reached into the bed of the truck and pulled out a chain.

  “Hold your hands out in front of you, Dynamite,” he said, his voice full of sarcasm. “Bet they don’t call you that anymore. Your fuse done run out a long time ago.”

  Troy giggled behind them.

  Dawkins did as instructed and Darnell locked the chain onto the handcuffs.

  "Now get in," Darnell said.

  Dawkins climbed over the tailgate and slid along the floor of the truck into the back. Behind him, his captors hoisted the tailgate back up and put the camper’s hinged door down. Something clicked and Dawkins knew he was locked inside.