Part 1 (2/2)

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 gla.s.s 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.u.c.king 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 gla.s.s 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 doork.n.o.b 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 gla.s.ses 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 G.o.ds.

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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 sc.r.a.ping the ground behind her. She turned, peering into the darkness behind her.

The man charged at her with astonis.h.i.+ng 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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 bra.s.s 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 cliches,” he said.

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