Part 15 (1/2)

”You're not telling me anything. And you know why? Because you don't know anything. Come back and talk to me when you do.”

That's thing about my sister. She's as stubborn and pigheaded as anyone. She had put together what happened, she was going to clear the case, and wasn't ready to look at a different viewpoint. Which was fine. It was that single-minded, tenacious approach to things that had made her a success. But maybe once she'd had a chance to settle down she'd be more receptive to alternate theories. Doubtful, but I am a highly positive man. The Norman Vincent f.u.c.king Peale of Private Investigators. That would look great on my business card. Note to self.

She turned back to me. ”Look, even if it isn't the guitar, who cares? So Rufus here stole two guitars, sold one, took the money and got high. He kept the other one for a rainy day. Unfortunately, the drugs were too good and he never got around to selling his nest egg.”

I nodded. ”Sure,” I said. Here was where I should tuck tail. Pick it up again later. Of course, I never follow my own good advice.

”You have to admit, though, ol' Rufus might have had a little trouble selling a highly recognizable guitar like a Jesse Barre Special to anyone.”

”Yeah, fences are usually pretty picky,” she said.

”It was, after all, stolen,” I said. ”If a fence got caught with it, he'd lose his investment. So not anyone would be willing to take it.”

”Yes, people dealing with stolen goods are highly risk-averse,” she said.

”But let's say he found a fence.”

”Which he probably did, if in fact, he had this Shannon Sparrow guitar. Maybe he never took it. You can't prove he did.”

”It doesn't matter,” I said. ”If Rufus Coltraine had stolen two guitars that link him directly to a homicide, and he finds a fence who'll buy them, would he really decide 'oh, what the heck, I'll keep one?' Even if it means life in prison? For a rainy day?”

”Why are you so sure he sold anything?” she said.

”How the h.e.l.l else did he get money for that much heroin? The guy was just out of prison.”

”Jesus Christ, John, who knows how much money Jesse Barre had on her when she died.”

”No way did she have enough to buy that much heroin.”

”That's beside the point! You're not making any sense.”

”The h.e.l.l I'm not.”

”You're telling me that criminals aren't that stupid?” my sister said. ”You're saying that they're too smart to leave evidence lying around? Who are you kidding? There are murderers in prison now because they left their driver's license at the scene of the crime! Armed robbers who kept the video from the surveillance camera so they could watch themselves and show it off to their friends. Prisons are full of guilty criminals who are some of the stupidest f.u.c.king people on Earth. Don't build a case by turning Rufus G.o.dd.a.m.ned Coltraine here into a Rhodes Scholar.”

Now, not only was it quiet in the room, it was pretty much empty. n.o.body wanted to caught in the crossfire. Or catch my sister's verbal shrapnel.

”Ellen-”

”I've got a dead ex-con with a history of breaking and entering as well as a.s.sault, with evidence that puts him at the Jesse Barre crime scene. If you want to make up some bulls.h.i.+t to keep the gravy train rolling with Mr. Barre, that's up to you.”

It was a low blow, but I let it go. I was used to them from Ellen now. Besides, I knew how she worked. Right now, she was running the scenarios through her mind, trying to figure out any angle. She had to act like that, she had to show everyone that she was in charge and that she was doing her job. In her own way, she'd actually encouraged me to continue on.

I turned and went back down the stairs.

Twenty-nine.

I knew a guy in college who was planning on going into law enforcement, too. He was a beast of a guy, 6' 6”, nearly 400 pounds. His name was Nick Henderson but his terribly original nickname was ”House.” He ended up not being a cop, which had been his plan. In fact, he never finished college, never even got his degree because he beat the s.h.i.+t out of some frat boy. The Delta Chi ended up with a fractured skull and House ended up having all kinds of legal problems. Anyway, he's now a guard at Jackson State Prison, located appropriately in Jackson, Michigan, an hour or so west of Detroit. Probably the better place for him than on the suburban streets of America. His brand of justice was perfect for a maximum security prison.

After a few minutes of searching for the number, calling the prison and getting transferred a couple times, I finally got a hold of him.

”House,” I said. ”It's John Rockne.”

There was a brief moment while I could practically hear him searching his mental Rolodex. It sounded a little rusty. Finally, he said, ”Hey, man, how ya' doin'?”

His tone was warm enough even though we'd never been really good friends. Still, a guy that size, you never want to make an enemy.

”Good, good. How are you?” I said.

”Drinkin' beer and crackin' skulls, my friend.”

”Good times,” I said. Good Lord.

He laughed and said, ”What's up? You need a job?”

He'd obviously heard about the end of my career a few years back. Apparently he thought my failures had continued. Maybe that was his impression of me from way back then.

”No, I actually wondered if you ever knew an inmate named Rufus Coltraine,” I said. ”He just turned up dead and may have something to do with a case I'm working on.”

”What do you mean you're working on it?” he said.

”I'm a P.I.”

”Oh.” In the background I could hear some shouting and the occasional slam of a metal door. It was beyond me how someone could choose to work at prison. It was a dirty job, but I guess someone had to do it. And I guess no one was better suited for it than House.

”I can't say I know anything about him, John,” he said. ”I think he was in Cell Block D and I spend most of my time down on A and B.”

”Do you know anyone who works on D?” I said. ”Someone who might talk to me?”

”Hmm. You could try Joe Puhy. He's the guy on D and could probably tell you all about Coltraine. I don't know how much he'll cooperate, but offer to buy him a couple beers. That might do the trick.”

”Okay,” I said. ”How can I get a hold of him?”

”I can transfer you if you want.”

”All right,” I said. ”Thanks a bunch, House.”

”Sure. Good luck, man. Keep in touch.”

”I will,” I said and then I heard a beeping and slight static. After twenty seconds or so a tired, slightly grizzled voice said, ”Puhy.”

I introduced myself, told him that House had transferred me to him, told him about the premature ending to Rufus Coltraine's life, and then asked if he knew anything about his former inmate.

”What do you want to know?” he said. With a voice that wasn't exactly Welcome Wagon caliber.