Part 15 (2/2)

”Did he seem like the kind of guy who would run out and OD as soon as he got out?” I said.

”Who f.u.c.king knows what they'll do once they get out?” he said. ”Some of the most normal, well-adjusted guys go out and commit a murder just to get back in. Quite a few even kill themselves.”

I could see Puhy was a real student of human behavior.

”If you had to guess, Mr. Puhy,” I said. ”Would overdosing on heroin seem like behavior consistent with Coltraine?”

”Nah, I guess not,” Puhy said. ”He was into music and that kind of s.h.i.+t. But you never know. They get a taste of freedom, they want to taste a few other things, too. I've seen so many guys who'd changed their lives inside and then a few months later, they're back after going on some kind of drug or violence spree.”

”Did anyone ever come and visit him?” I said.

”Not that I know of. He didn't have any pictures of family in his cell,” he said. ”I think they were in Tennessee or something. I thought that he would go down there when he got out. But I don't think he got any letters that I can recall.”

”Anything interesting about the people he hung around with?”

”No, but he was a pretty social guy.”

”What kind of music did he play?”

”A mixture. Blues. Rock. Some jazz. He was pretty good.”

”Did he play the guitar?”

”How'd you know that?”

”Just a hunch.” So Rufus Coltraine was a musician, gets out of prison, kills a woman who makes special guitars, maybe sells one, buys drugs and overdoses. On the surface, it made a certain kind of sense.

”Yeah, he was pretty serious about the music,” Puhy said, warming up slightly to the subject. ”I think he had something going on. Like he could do something with it once he got out. But I don't know if that was just a pipe dream or what.”

Maybe Rufus felt like he needed a special guitar or two to make his big break. What had Clarence said to me, about how well Jesse's guitars recorded?

”Look, I gotta get back to work,” Puhy said.

”If I have any more questions can I call you back?” I said to Mr. Puhy.

Puhy hesitated.

”Maybe we could meet and I'll buy you a few beers,” I said.

”No problem,” Puhy said. ”I'll be around.”

I started to say goodbye but all I heard was the sound of a metal door slamming and then a dial tone.

It's rare that a case of mine will collide with a case of my sister's. I'm usually involved before crimes happen. The husband's cheating on the wife. The guy who's getting disability pay is going for the bocce champions.h.i.+p in Windsor. You get the idea. My sister, on the other hand, shows up after the cheating husband is run over by the cuckolded wife. Or after the guy on disability takes a potshot at the insurance investigator.

But when our cases do run together, there are a few benefits. I get to use Ellen's resources, chief among them. Computer databases. Addresses. Phone numbers. Unofficial police approval to bend a few rules. I've gotten help with parking tickets as well. Free coffee and the occasional donut, too.

I parked the white Sunbird in the farthest corner of the police department's parking lot and went inside. Ellen was in one of the briefing rooms so I waited in her office. She had told me that she missed being on patrol, that it was getting harder and harder to keep in shape considering how much time her a.s.s was planted in the chair. The price of being in upper management, I guess.

There was a police magazine on her desk and I started reading about the latest weapons. By the time Ellen came in ten minutes later, I was ready to buy an automatic pistol that held seventeen rounds and came with a laser guide and a night scope.

”What do you want,” she said, with all the enthusiasm of a middle-aged man submitting to a prostate exam.

”Big meeting?”

”Big laughs,” she said, smirking.

I waited for the punchline.

”That conference room looks out on the parking lot. We saw this middle-aged loser pull up in a white Sunbird. Trying to park as far away as possible to avoid the humiliation. It didn't work.”

”It's a rental.”

”All this schmuck needed was a bald spot and a gold chain and we've got a mid-life crisis in full alert.”

”If that was a meeting about Rufus Coltraine I'm mad I wasn't invited,” I said, ignoring her delight at my ride. Actually, the more she made fun of me, usually the better her mood. Sometimes, though, it was just the opposite. I wondered if she'd found something out, and more importantly, if she planned on sharing.

”It was and your invite must've gotten lost in the mail.” Her expression resembled newly dried concrete. Flat, emotionless and no sign of cracks.

”What'd you find out?” I said.

”None of your f.u.c.king business, Mr. Sunbird.”

I waited a moment then said in my most caring, parent voice possible, ”Mom and Dad were very clear on the importance of sharing.”

She sat down and rubbed her hand over the top of her head. In Ellen's repertoire of tells, this meant she was frustrated.

”All the music stores and p.a.w.n shops turned up squat,” she said. ”No Rufus Coltraine. No Jesse Barre guitar. We even sent emissaries down to f.u.c.king Toledo. No dice. If he hawked a guitar, it most likely wasn't around here.”

”And if he didn't hawk it,” I said, ”How'd he get the dope and why was a valuable guitar sitting in his apartment?”

”Twenty bucks buys enough dope for what he had in him,” she said. ”You don't need a guitar for that.”

I didn't rise to the bait. Instead I said, ”How'd you get the call on him?”

”Landlord. Neighbor said they saw someone in that apartment doing drugs.”

”Which neighbor?”

”Landlord didn't know.”

I nodded. ”Ever hear that one about the big pink elephant in the room?”

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