Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,3

gods.

As she played, she thought about how she enjoyed every aspect of building guitars. From the beginning design stages, to selecting the raw materials, to the painstaking construction and all the way through the finishing touches. Each instrument was a unique endeavor, with its own moments of sheer beauty.

At the thought of her craft, a sense of sadness rose within her. The guitar on her table would be the last one she would build for quite some time.

A new chapter was beginning, one that in the deepest, most secret part of her heart, she’d dreamed would one day come true.

Her fingers finished playing the tune with a strong downstroke and the chord reverberated, its beautiful sound echoing through the shop.

And then she heard the gentle sound of a foot scraping the ground behind her. She turned, peering into the darkness behind her.

The man charged at her with astonishing speed. She got no more than a quick glimpse of the face of a man. A man she may have seen before. His hands were raised over his head. She had just enough time to recognize the heavy hammer she sometimes used to tap a chisel along the rough edges of a plank of five hundred year old wood. It was in his hands, raised high, coming toward her.

She ducked her head, and then, in the final act of her life, she put her arms around the guitar and leaned over it, trying to protect it.

Jesse Barre never felt the crushing blow that caved in her skull and drove her from her stool onto the floor.

Her blood pooled on the concrete, the flakes of sawdust soaking up the crimson liquid.

The guitar remained safe, still cradled in her arms.

Three

“So here’s the hook,” Nate said.

We were in a booth at the Village Grill, a little Greek diner smack dab in the middle of Grosse Pointe proper. It had big, overstuffed booths, low lighting conditions, and a bar with a brass rail and a big-screen t.v. The perfect lunch spot for two guys who thought arugula was an island somewhere near the Caribbean.

Nate Becker was the only full-time reporter for the Grosse Pointe Times and a friend from way back. We’d known each other since he was a chubby little kid who got picked on all the time and I was his defender. Unless the wind happened to be blowing the other way and I was one of the kids picking on him. You know how kids are. We were no different.

Now we were both grownups, sort of, and he was doing a piece on me, John Rockne, Grosse Pointe’s very own private investigator. It was part of a monthly feature on local businesses. Last week it was the lady caterer whose van was decorated like a giant swordfish.

Prestigious company, indeed.

I hadn’t really done anything to deserve the attention, but the business district of Grosse Pointe isn’t very big – sooner or later, it’s just your turn.

“Hook?” I said.

“Yeah, you know, the angle of the story. The unique approach that intrigues the reader.”

“What was your hook for the swordfish lady?”

“I didn’t need one for her. She was interesting.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So let’s hear it.”

Nate spread his hands like he was serving me a platter of caviar. “You’re the P.I. who doesn’t just fight crime, you fight clichés,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and signaled the waitress. She came over, a cute girl in her twenties wearing the unfortunate decision of a pierced tongue. I made a mental note to floss after lunch. I ordered two Cokes. Diet for me, regular for Nate.

“What?” he said. “It’s a perfect hook.”

I’d known Nate since high school and I recognized the look in his eye. It meant he had just gotten in a fresh load of bullshit and he needed to spew.

“Cliché fighter?” I said.

He nodded as the waitress set our Cokes down on the table. “You’re not some shady bum with a checkered past,” he said. “A half-criminal who has more in common with the thugs he chases than he does with the rest of us on the right side of the law.”

“Jesus Christ you’re full of it,” I said.

“Work with me, dumb ass,” he said. “You went to college, got a degree in criminology—”

“—and a minor in psychology—”

“—worked as a cop to learn the ropes, then worked for a big P.I. firm before getting your own license.”

I actually appreciated Nate’s effort. Most of it was true. The problem was, he was conveniently editing out a certain bad