Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,49

couple of guitars, buys some crack or heroin or whatever he was into to celebrate, and has just a little too much of a celebratory toot.

End of story.

I looked over the scene before me in the living room. It was a dump in every sense of the word. Stains on the floor, holes punched in the drywall.

Apparently Mr. Coltraine had fallen off the rickety, gutted couch onto the living room floor. Truly a party gone bad. Plastic baggies, spoons and other paraphernalia were carefully marked on the floor.

And a couple feet away was a guitar. My sister walked over to it, stepping carefully. I followed suit until we both stood over it, looking down.

It was a beauty, all right. The wood had a grain I’d never seen before. Almost like a sixties rock concert poster, full of weird vibes and deep patterns you could almost fall into. It was beautiful. A work of art.

“Can you say, ‘Case closed?’” Ellen said.

I looked at the guitar again, this time more closely. I had learned a little bit on my studies when I took the case. I recognized the incredible grain of the wood, naturally. I recognized the grain and styling of the neck as well. The bridge. The pick guard. And I knew what the fancy stuff was.

However, there was one giant flaw in the guitar.

I didn’t see Shannon Sparrow’s name on it.

I remembered what Clarence Barre had told me about the guitar Jesse was building for Shannon Sparrow. He had said that Jesse put a little brass piece of metal somewhere near the top that bore Shannon Sparrow’s name. Like the one on B.B. King’s guitar that says ‘Lucille.’ I saw no such mark.

I looked at my sister.

“Something’s not right,” I said.

The other people in the room, the crime scene technicians and a few fellow officers, didn’t really stop, but it seemed to me that things got a bit quieter.

“What did you say?” Ellen asked me.

“My client told me that Jesse had built a guitar for Shannon Sparrow,” I said. “It was her masterpiece. She was making it for Shannon to play at the free concert she’s putting on here in Grosse Pointe. With Clarence Barre’s help, I’ve looked for it everywhere. It’s gone. It had to have been stolen during the robbery. And this guitar isn’t it. Her father described it to me—”

“How did he know?” Ellen interrupted me. “Did he see it?”

“I don’t know. She might have told him about it.”

“So he didn’t actually see the guitar himself.”

I turned to her. “Look, Ellen. I don’t know what he saw or didn’t see. All I’m telling you—”

“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 Fucking 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