Part 2 (1/2)

I wasn't going to take the case. No way. To take Mr. Barre's money would be another crime.

He must have seen the look on my face because he said, ”I know how this must look. A guy just pointing a finger and saying 'he did it.'”

That's exactly how it looked to me.

”How long had your daughter and this Hornsby been seeing each other?” I said.

”Way too long.”

”Can you be more specific?”

”Years.”

”Had there been any sign of physical abuse? Any problems? Fights?”

”No, but Jesse and I hadn't seen each other on a regular basis,” he said. And now I could hear even more, deeper pain in his voice. The loss of a loved one you'd fallen out with over petty differences. No getting them back now.

”But as far as you knew...”

”She didn't say anything and no, I never saw any bruises or anything on her. But Jesse was very private. Believe me, if she'd wanted to hide something, it would stay hidden until she wanted you to find it.”

”Did the police say if they have any other suspects?”

”I don't know. They aren't saying.”

This was about as bogus as it got. Mr. Barre wanted me to make him feel better. He wanted me to make him feel like he was doing something for the daughter he'd grown apart from. Now, when it was too late, he was trying to make things right. I had no intention of taking his money.

I started to tell him that, but he cut me off.

”I just want you to keep an open mind about it and check it out. I'll pay whatever your rates are and your expenses. If you honestly find out Hornsby had nothing to do with it, and can give me some kind of proof, we'll shake hands and go our separate ways.”

He pushed back a little and folded his arms across his chest.

I write on my notepad: no. No way. Nuh-uh.

I said, ”I'll think about it.”

When I was younger, I used to be very impatient. My Dad tried to teach me how to make model airplanes but I would race through, gluing all the parts together without waiting for them to dry. I would crack open the new box after breakfast and be done before lunch. My plane would always end up shoddily built with a sloppy paint job and the little decals were always crooked. It might be a few weeks later, or sometimes even a few months later when my Dad would finish his. And naturally, it was the picture of perfection. It took quite awhile, and quite a few botched P-47s for me to realize the problem.

Now I sometimes had become the opposite, perhaps in reaction to what my impatient youth had taught me. I tended to wait, and think things over. Maybe even over think them a bit. It was probably because I had children of my own and if there's one thing a parent needs, it's patience.

So despite the fact that I had no intention of taking on the case, I decided to think it over. It seemed to me that Clarence Barre was dealing with the death of his daughter the only way he knew how. In his case, it happened to be blaming a man who was most likely innocent. Not something of which I really wanted to be a part. Even if it meant turning down a paycheck.

I also had to admit that I liked the earnest honesty of Clarence Barre. Maybe it was the way he looked me in the eye, or the obvious pain that hung on his weathered face.

Or maybe it was that d.a.m.n Kenny Rogers hair.

Six.

After Mr. Barre left my office, I logged onto the Internet and searched for newspaper accounts of Jesse Barre's murder. I found nothing in the local paper, but that didn't surprise me. The Grosse Pointe newspaper was legendary for not publicizing any stories of crime. Why? Because on the scale of priorities, Grosse Pointe residents placed property values on the same level as breathing. Perhaps even a nudge higher. A weekly report of all the petty crimes that occurred mostly on the direct border with Detroit, more frequently that most would like to admit, might make people think twice about plopping down a half-million dollars on that picturesque Tudor with three fireplaces and an annual tax that could make a grown man choke on his bacon-wrapped filet mignon.

Anyway, I found what I was looking for on the Detroit Free Press website. The articles there gave me the basic facts: the murder took place at Jessica Barre's studio on Kercheval, just a few blocks from the border with Detroit. It was an abandoned shoe repair shop that she'd converted to a guitar-making studio. The murder took place at approximately 11 P.M. Forced entry. Blunt force trauma. DOA. The article said it appeared to be a robbery but didn't elaborate. The murder weapon a heavy hammer that belonged to the victim, was left next to her body.

It was all very straightforward to me. Although Grosse Pointe was by and large a very safe community, when you spent that much time right on the border with Detroit, sometimes bad things could happen. On the Alter border, it was pretty common for bicycles and children's toys to be s.n.a.t.c.hed from the yard. Patio furniture was even known to sometimes get up in the middle of the night and walk across the border into Detroit never to be heard from again. Same goes for grills and portable basketball hoops.

The other street that bordered Detroit, Mack Avenue, was legendary for carjackings, purse s.n.a.t.c.hings and even the occasional bank robbery.

Hey, your neighbor is one of the most dangerous cities in the country, you have to expect it. Grosse Pointe residents had become over the years naturally inured to the bulls.h.i.+t, although on the few occasions something really bad happened it often gave pause to consider a move to the northern suburbs where McMansions and golf courses rule the land.

I skimmed the Free Press article once again. It all seemed pretty clear cut to me. Someone had probably seen the guitars, a woman working alone, late at night. They broke in, killed her and grabbed what they could. Leaving the murder weapon and wiping it free of prints indicated a certain sophistication, I had to admit, but for the most part, it was probably what it seemed: a robbery that had gotten rough. Innocent people in robberies were killed all the time. Fast food workers killed execution style in the walk-in freezer. Why? Because some cold, s.a.d.i.s.tic psycho didn't want any witnesses left alive. Or maybe a punk with a gun wanted to feel the ultimate power. Who knew?

There was only one thing that seemed to stick in the back of my brain as I re-read the article. It seemed odd to me that a thief, even taking into account the fact that not all thieves are terribly clever, would choose to knock over a guitar studio. It's not a cash business. It wasn't s.e.xually motivated, at least there was no mention of an a.s.sault in the papers. And guitars would not be a terribly hot item on the market. From what I'd read and from the impression Clarence Barre had given me, the guitars Jesse Barre made were unique. I wasn't exactly an expert on robbery and the fencing of stolen goods, but it seemed like trying to sell a Jesse Barre guitar locally would likely present problems. It also held that most guitar stores would not only recognize one of Jesse's guitars, but would also have heard of the murder. My guess was that the cops had already called all the guitar stores and told them to be on the lookout for the kind of guitars she made. They would urge the shops to get a description and if possible, a license plate, of anyone trying to sell a Jesse Barre guitar. Pretty standard procedure.

I took a deep breath and thought some more. What if Clarence was right? What if this Hornsby had killed Jesse Barre and made it look like a robbery? That too was a trick as old as the hills. I suspected the cops had looked into it, Clarence said Hornsby had an alibi, but alibis can be manufactured. Good ones take a lot of time and effort and planning. Would this Hornsby, the ex-con, be able to do it?

I saved the article to my computer's desktop and pushed away from the desk, propping my feet on the low bookcase next to the wastebasket. I put my hands behind my head and thought about Clarence Barre. I knew that I liked him. And my wife has told me time and time again that I put a filter on my brain when it comes to people I like. That I see too much of the positive in people, sometimes even create it when it's not there. Maybe so. There was the off chance that I was looking for something that would justify my case for taking on Clarence Barre as a client.

But objectivity is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The fact was, I knew that the criminal mind is not a bastion of logic. Throw some booze and drugs into the mix and you've got a human being reduced to his or her most base instincts. A desperate person walks by a studio that may or may not be some kind of cash business, it's night, a woman is working alone on loud woodworking machines; the perfect opportunity for a smash and grab. Maybe the woman tries to defend herself or her products, and things get out of hand. It happens.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I thought Clarence Barre was most likely off-base and wrapped up in the emotions of a grieving father and that I had somehow fallen victim to his genuine earnestness.

My first impression of Clarence Barre was that he was a good man. Had probably been a good father. And he was a man who loved and cherished his daughter above all else, including logic. He was a good man, but he was probably wrong.

It seemed like there was really one right decision here.

But you know, I've made so many f.u.c.king mistakes in my lifetime that one more wouldn't hurt.

I would take the case.

Seven.

London The Spook was disappointed.

The investment banker's apartment was extremely luxurious. Marble floors. Turkish rugs. Original artwork worthy, in some cases, of museums.

All of which didn't surprise the Spook. After all, the banker had been skimming profits, stealing from the bank's partners for years. From the dossier that had been given to him, the Spook learned the investment banker had pilfered nearly twenty million dollars. The man's partners, some of whom had ties to various illegal activities themselves, were not happy. Undue attention in their business could prove to be lethal.