Part 16 (2/2)

”All those kids in school, all I see are upper respiratory viruses, colds, sinus infections and the occasional strep throat,” she said. ”Our house is a petri dish with a leaky roof.”

”Cupboards full of amoxicillin?”

She nodded as she typed.

I watched the screen, anxious, then sensed movement behind me and saw Ellen watching too.

”Turn around,” she said, cuffing me not so gently on the back of the head. I was never fast enough to duck those.

Becky laughed and I said, ”That's a quick glimpse of my entire childhood.”

”The childhood that never ended,” Ellen said. We would have kept going but the computer screen blossomed into a black-and-white mug shot of Mr. Laurence Gra.s.so. He was a sandy haired, slightly buck-toothed guy with high cheekbones and eyes that looked bored but that would clearly entertain ideas of violence. I compared it to the face I had seen behind the wheel of the black Nova.

”f.u.c.kin-A,” I said.

”Spit it out,” Ellen said.

”h.e.l.lo Randy.”

Of course, we had no fixed address for Mr. Gra.s.so. I suppose his nickname growing up was a.s.shole Gra.s.so, which considering my experiences with him, would have been entirely appropriate. Anyway, his last place of residence was vacated. There were no known family members in the area.

The initial search was best left in the hands of the capable police, namely my sister, and her counterparts at the St. Clair Sh.o.r.es police department who were leading the Nevada Hornsby investigation.

They would use all their resources to find Gra.s.so and they would be able to do it faster than I could. On the other hand, if they didn't have luck right away, I would have to see what I could do.

Thirty-two.

I am by no means a cyber sleuth. I do use the Internet for business, but mostly just e-mail. Lots of e-mail. I scrolled through my mailbox and saw one e-mail whose subject line asked me if I wanted to see hot, h.o.r.n.y housewives in action. I deleted it without opening it.

I cursed myself once again for ordering a s.e.xy outfit for Anna from an adult catalogue because now I was on their e-mail list. Their latest offering was a product called the Fleshlight. It was a masturbatory device for men that looked like a flashlight, but one end was actually...well, you get the idea. Clever, but no thanks.

There were several messages on my answering machine from potential customers. I returned their calls, left two messages and on the third call I set up a meeting to talk to a woman who had some ”concerns” about her husband. This usually meant she was concerned that his knockwurst was making the rounds. And, usually, it was the right call.

That done, I put my feet up on the desk and clasped my hands behind my head. No word from my sister yet, so I let my mind wander to thoughts of Shannon Sparrow's ex-husband Laurence Gra.s.so. Probably Larry to his friends, though I doubted he had any.

So ol' Mr. Gra.s.so had found the beautiful, young, talented, driven Shannon Sparrow, seduced her, probably controlled her, then married her. Once she got a little older and a lot smarter, she dumped his genetically shortchanged a.s.s. Free from the steadying influence of someone with half a brain, Larry was free to slide into the life of crime for which he was destined. Not too much later, he wound up at the big house.

Where Rufus Coltraine sat, ten years into his twenty-year sentence for armed robbery and second-degree murder. Rufus was probably playing his guitar in his cell.

I also wondered what their first meeting had been like. Maybe Gra.s.so had tried to shank him. Or Coltraine had saved Gra.s.so from being raped by the brothers. Who knew? The house of detention can apparently make very strange bedfellows.

I picked up the phone, scanned my notes, and called my favorite Jackson State prison guard, Joe Puhy. I wasn't sure if he would talk to me because I'd never come through on the beers I owed him. After several transfers and sitting on hold, he came to the phone. I re-introduced myself and he remembered who I was. He didn't seem p.i.s.sed. After my apologies and rea.s.surances that I would take him out for some refreshments, I got to the point.

”Tell me about Laurence Gra.s.so,” I said.

There was a soft chuckle, then a low whistle.

”Stay away from that one,” he said.

”What do you know about him, other than the fact that I should keep my distance?”

”He's a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Nasty. Mean. Crazy.”

”Did he know Rufus Coltraine?” I said.

”He sure did. I always wondered about them. They never seemed to fit.”

”How so?”

”Rufus was easygoing, laid back, he had his music. Larry was the opposite. A tried-and-true Detroit boy with a chip on his shoulder, something to prove, always looking for trouble,” Puhy said. ”And he was a sneak, too. Any little way to bend a rule, or even just plain old break it, Larry was the guy.”

”So were the two of them buddies or something?” I said.

He thought about it for a moment. I could almost hear him scratching the stubble on his jaw. ”I wouldn't say they were buddies, exactly,” he said. ”More like guys who maybe had something in common in here, but outside, would never hang out.”

”Was Gra.s.so into music? Did he play?”

”Not that I know of,” Puhy said. This was a mild surprise to me. ”He seemed to like Coltraine's music, but he didn't play anything himself. 'Cept probably the skin flute.”

Prison humor it gets me every time.

”So what the h.e.l.l were they doing together?”

”Talking mostly. Sometimes, just sitting and listening to Coltraine's music.”

How quaint, I thought.

”I don't know,” Puhy said. ”I wish I could tell you more. Maybe I could ask around, see if anyone knows anything. Be like a consultant for you.”

Like a bonefish on the flats, I heard the sound of bait hitting the water.

”Would you?” I said. ”That would be great maybe I could come up with a finder's fee or something.”

”Don't worry about it,” Puhy said in a tone of voice that indicated I should very, very much worry about it.

<script>