Part 12 (2/2)

I thumbed the disconnect b.u.t.ton and set the cell phone on the seat next to me.

The village was pretty much deserted, save for the few souls frequenting the Kroger supermarket, Borders bookstore, and Blockbuster. There had been a nice Jacobson's department store anchoring the village, but it went out of business. They were putting in a giant drug store there. Nothing says 'distinguished, well-to-do community' like a giant f.u.c.king drug store. When it's done, Grosse Pointe will have the highest citizen-to-hemorrhoid cream ratio in the country.

A moment later, my phone rang.

Nate rattled off a phone number, which I scrawled on the back of the La s.h.i.+sh receipt. Christ, I really needed a little notepad or something. One of those goofy, pretentious-as-h.e.l.l deals with a suction cup that sticks on the dashboard. It's like a giant sign that says 'I'm so full of ideas I need a pad on my dashboard to write them all down!'

”That's her publicist,” Nate said, interrupting my Andy Rooney-esque soliloquy. ”She arranges all interviews with the media, and any interaction with John Q. Publics such as yourself. She's probably nasty as h.e.l.l, a guard dog to attack the rabble. Like you.”

”She's not going to know what hit her.”

”So Rattlesnake Club on Thursday and Sweet Lorraine's on-”

I hung up on him.

It wasn't that I would welch on him, but agreeing to the bribe was a whole lot different than scheduling payment of the bribe. It seemed like the more time I could put between the two, the better business deal it became.

While I drove toward my office, I dialed the number. If what I'd heard about stars and their ”people” was true, the woman whose number Nate gave me would be on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

She answered right away.

I introduced myself, explained I was a private investigator looking into the murder of Jesse Barre and that I would like to ask Ms. Sparrow a few questions, preferably face-to-face.

”Hmm,” she said. ”She's so busy now that she's home. Is this a police matter?”

”No, like I said, I'm a private investigator.”

”I really don't think there's a possibility with her schedule...”

”It has to do with the guitar that Jesse Barre was building for her,” I said. ”I have to ask her some very important questions. Questions that unless I get the chance to ask, will most likely merit a call to the police so they can ask them. Do you understand?”

The woman at least pretended to give it a moment's thought. I could practically hear the tumblers fall into place just before the safe popped open.

”Is there a number where I can reach you?” she said.

It was a start.

In the time I waited for a call back from Shannon Sparrow's 'people' I got back to my office and checked messages. There was one from Anna reminding me she had book club tonight. They were reading The Good Earth by Pearl Buck. I'd read it in college for some comparative literature cla.s.s. All I remember was a brutal scene where a Chinese peasant woman gave birth alone in a room, cleaned herself up, then made her husband dinner. I could picture the fun I'd have giving the book club my view on that scene. I'd never make it out of there alive.

I opened some mail, leafed through a Bow Hunter magazine that the post office kept delivering for the tenant who'd left this s.p.a.ce years ago.

Just as I was really getting into an article debating the merits of compound bows reinforced with t.i.tanium, my cell phone rang.

”Yeah?” I asked, seeing the number and not recognizing it.

”This is Molly Lehring, returning your call.” Shannon Sparrow's a.s.sistant had a voice that was the epitome of crisp, cool professionalism. She gave off as much warmth as a meat freezer.

”Uh-huh,” I said.

”Shannon can meet with you in exactly one half-hour. She has about a twenty minute window in her schedule.”

”What a coincidence,” I said. ”I, too, have a twenty minute window in my schedule. Let's do it!

There was dead silence as the woman on the other end let me know that there was no time for levity in Shannon Sparrow's busy world.

I started to give a more official acceptance of the offer, but then realized that this woman wasn't seeking it.

”Where are you currently located?” I said, sounding like the very textbook definition of professionalism.

”840 Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive. Grosse Pointe Sh.o.r.es.”

”I'll be-”

She interrupted me with a quick disconnection. Now that didn't seem professional to me. Apparently, Molly Lehring skipped the cla.s.s on public relations.

I checked the number on my cell phone, then programmed it into my phone's memory. I figured if I ever got bored, I'd use it to bug the living s.h.i.+t out of Ms. Lehring.

Twenty-six.

I pulled into the driveway of a monstrous Grosse Pointe, Lakesh.o.r.e Drive mansion. It looked like a medieval fort with at least three or four turrets and ma.s.sively thick beams. Brick, slate roof, a couple sets of guest cottages. Easily worth seven figures, probably eight.

There was no doubt in my mind that the house had not seen many white Pontiac Sunfires coming up the drive. I parked the car with no small amount of pride and rang the quaint little doorbell, at the same time noticing the high-tech security cameras trained on me. They were recessed tastefully, but they were there.

The man who answered the door was actually a woman, once I looked more closely. She had a crewcut, a short-sleeved polo s.h.i.+rt exposing extremely impressive biceps and forearms, at the end of which dangled two meaty, veiny hands. Picture Ernest Borgnine after a gender rea.s.signment that never really took.

”John Rockne,” I said.

”Ah, yes, I was told you'd be arriving shortly.” Her voice was worthy of a barbershop quartet. She'd have the baritone's part.

Even though she'd been expecting me, she produced a clipboard, scanned down, then nodded her ham hock head to let me know all the requisite paperwork was in order.

”My name's Freda,” she said.

”Lovely,” I said.

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