Part 2 (2/2)

None of that disappointed or even interested the Spook. What upset him was the quality of the guitars. Surrounded by trappings of extreme wealth, the guitars were a joke. A run-of-the-mill Yamaha acoustic, a new Fender and that was about it. Even worse, the guitars were dusty and out of tune. The strings hadn't been changed in ages. A disgrace.

The Spook was a guitar player. Although he loved his work, loved to get paid to kill people, he lived for music. The piercing wail of a bent third string, the soul shaking shudder of a bluesy vibrato, it moved him in ways nothing else could. He looked at the guitars and shook his head.

This man deserved to die.

The Spook checked his watch. The banker's name was Gordon Springs and the Spook knew from countless hours of surveillance that he was due home in ten minutes. A routine that the man never failed to repeat, day after day, month after month. The human need for structure made the Spook's job all that much easier.

He went to the nearest guitar, the Yamaha acoustic and picked it up from its holder. Finding a pick and a slide one couldn't very well perform intricate fingerwork wearing surgeon's gloves he tuned the guitar to an open G and played a few notes. It didn't sound that great. The strings were very old and there was a rattle near the bridge. To the Spook, it was how a social worker must feel to hold a neglected baby.

He made some adjustments, then played the opening to ”You Got The Silver” from Let It Bleed. One of his idol's masterpieces of subtlety. No one could make a guitar do things the way Keith Richards could. Keith was more than just the famous guitarist of the infamous Rolling Stones, he was the Spook's G.o.d. The Spook felt that what he was to the profession of a.s.sa.s.sins, Keith was to the profession of rock and roll.

He finished off the song and set the guitar back in its stand. The guitar p.i.s.sed off the Spook. To be here, in London, Keith Richards' home stomping grounds, and to see an apartment filled with expensive s.h.i.+t but mistreated guitars...well, it went against everything he believed in.

He checked his watch. Any minute now.

He went back to the guitar and turned the third string's tuning key until the string itself began to sag and hang away from the body of the guitar. The Spook continued unwinding until he could pull the string through the tuning key's hole, and then he popped the plastic peg that held the string in place at the center of the guitar's body. When it was free, he took two kitchen towels, placed them in the palm of his hand, then wound an end of the string around each hand.

Moments later, he heard the key in the lock and he disappeared into the darkness of the apartment. He heard the door swing open, a pause, and then the door clicked shut. He heard Mr. Springs sigh. Relief at living another day without falling off the tightrope that is the criminal life. The Spook knew Mr. Springs had a mistress, a drinking problem and a severe lack of self-control, but he didn't care. Mr. Springs wasn't a person, he was simply an a.s.signment.

The Spook listened as footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. Then the footsteps stopped. The Spook knew exactly what the banker was doing.

He emerged from the shadows.

The banker stood in the kitchen, his back to the living room. The Spook had rented a flat directly across the street with a perfect view of Mr. Springs' apartment. Because of this, the Spook knew that Mr. Springs' answering machine was on the kitchen counter and that every evening the first thing Mr. Springs did when he got home was put his briefcase on the kitchen's island, then turn his full attention to the answering machine.

The Spook stood behind the British investment banker for just a moment, then reached up and looped the guitar string, cross-handed, over the man's head. Springs heaved back but the Spook easily pivoted and brought him down, then kneeled on the man's back. He worked the thin metal cord back and forth like saw until it had thoroughly cut through the soft flesh of the banker's neck. The Spook heard a scream reduced to soft gurgles and Springs thrashed for several seconds before his nerves received their final instructions.

And then Springs was dead.

His contract with the bank's partners fulfilled, the Spook stood, wiped the blood off the string with one of the kitchen towels, then went back to the guitar. He threaded the string back through the tuning key, tapped the peg back in place and wound the string tight, tuning by ear.

The Spook picked up the gla.s.s slide and confidently eased into the opening licks of ”Moonlight Mile.”

He only had time for one or two songs.

The guitar sucked, sure. But his hero had played on worse.

This one definitely went out for Keith.

Eight.

The address Clarence Barre had given me was on a street called Rivenoak, along the small strip of homes east of Jefferson. It was a valuable stretch of property, bordered on one side by Lake St. Clair. On the other side of Jefferson was the bulk of Grosse Pointe, acting as a thick layer of insulation from the depravity of Detroit proper.

The neighborhoods here were very upscale. Big lots, big houses, big money. The royalties from Clarence's backlist must have been both large and frequent.

The house itself was a statuesque Colonial. It was between two larger Tudors and just a few houses in from Lake St. Clair. A small cul-de-sac with benches and wildflowers was at the end of the street. Clarence could stroll down here after dinner, smoke a cigar, and watch the boats pa.s.s by and the gulls doing their thing. He probably would have done something like that before his daughter's death. Now, my guess was that if he did come down and look out over the water, he'd think the kind of thoughts no parents should have to entertain. Someone once said the most painful thing in the world is to outlive your children. Seemed to me to be a pretty safe bet.

I parked my car, a utilitarian gray Taurus, in the stamped concrete driveway. I went to the door and used the bra.s.s knocker, trying to tap out the ba.s.s line to Clarence's ”Mississippi Honey.”

He answered the door wearing the kind of outfit he'd worn to my office; jeans, a colorful s.h.i.+rt and a black leather vest. s.h.i.+ny, pointed toe cowboy boots as well. They looked to be of the same kind of leather as the bolo tie around his neck.

We shook hands and then he showed me in to his living room. It was like the man himself; warm, rugged and comfortable. Leather furniture, dark Persian rugs, some gold records on the wall as well as some pictures of a younger Clarence Barre with some minor and not-so-minor celebrities.

”Can I get you anything, Mr. Rockne?” he asked.

”Please, call me John. No thanks, I'm fine.” We each took a leather club chair and he looked at me questioningly.

”So...”

”What can you tell me about Nevada Hornsby?”

An almost imperceptible smile crossed Clarence's face. He knew I was taking the case. In fact, he'd probably known before I had.

”He runs a salvage operation out of St. Clair Sh.o.r.es,” Clarence said.

”Salvage like sunken s.h.i.+ps?”

”Wood. Old lumber that sunk hundreds of years ago. It's valuable stuff. Jesse used it to make her guitars.”

”So that's how they met,” I said.

He nodded. ”Ironically, in my mind, when she started using that salvaged lumber was when her career really took off. She'd tried different stuff, built a pretty big following with exotic woods. But when she started using the stuff from Hornsby, everything changed. For the better.”

”Even her personal life,” I added.

He didn't like that. ”That's how she saw it, I'm sure. But I never liked the guy from day one. Real quiet. Standoffish. Like he had something to hide.”

”Such as...”

”Who knows?”

I looked at my notes. ”He's got an alibi.”

”The alibi is bulls.h.i.+t,” he said. ”Probably bought and paid for.” Clarence's face had turned slightly reddish in color. I had a feeling p.i.s.sing him off wouldn't be a good idea.

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