Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,5

took it. “Clarence Barre,” he said. “You’re the private investigator?”

I gestured toward the door, which read Grosse Pointe Investigations. “Like the sign says…”

An uneasy smile crossed his face, most clients had the same look. It was part shame, part anger, part fear. Going to see a P.I. wasn’t much different than going to a shrink for most people. It was all about letting a complete stranger into your personal life. And in most cases, the deepest, ugliest part of their personal lives. Not an easy thing to do, for anyone.

My office is on the second floor of a small brick building built in 1927. The ground floor is a jewelry store that I went into once a few years back, thinking I might buy my wife a necklace. I soon realized that asking her to sign the paperwork for a second and third mortgage would spoil the surprise. I haven’t been back since.

My office consists of a small waiting room complete with two chairs and a table. The chairs are from the fifties, the table the seventies, and the carpeting’s genealogy is too hard to trace. I’d say it was coming off the textile rolls right around the time Jackie was scrambling off the back of the big Lincoln in Dallas.

There were a few framed paintings of sailboats on the walls, even though I’m not a big fan of the water, as I already mentioned. A lot of clients seem to expect pictures of sailboats from a Grosse Pointe P.I. Sometimes, people are reassured by the cliché, and I don’t like to disappoint prospective clients.

The place reeks of coffee. To me, it’s a great smell, especially on a cold winter day. I always have a pot brewing. Nate would probably not put that into the article, because it is a bit of a cliché. But, hey, I fucking like coffee, damn them if a bunch of other P.I.s do, too.

On the table are magazines. Police Times, Small Firearms Journal, S.W.A.T. Illustrated. I want my clients to feel confident in my ability. Somehow, six months worth of Martha Stewart Living might make them think twice about hiring me.

I went around behind my desk, a small oak number that weighed about five hundred pounds. A laptop computer, a phone and a stack of files sat on top.

“Have we met?” I asked. “You seem familiar.”

He just looked at me and then from deep within him came a baritone hum. It changed pitch and soon a short melody became apparent.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I said. I knew that tune and I knew that voice.

“Mississippi Honey?” I said.

He nodded.

“That’s right. Clarence Barre, country singer/songwriter. I loved that song.” Actually, it was a bit of a source of embarrassment. I’d finally gotten a girl into the back seat of my car in high school. Mississippi Honey was in the tape deck, playing along as I’d gotten Tracy Woeburg’s pants down and then had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do next.

In the middle of my reverie, I realized my potential client was staring at me. I caught myself, felt kind of foolish about what he may have seen play across my face.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “That happens all the time. I consider it a compliment. That my song evokes…memories.”

He smiled, then. A sad, weary gesture. And suddenly, it came to me where else I remembered the name. I knew Clarence Barre because he had been a relatively well-known musician for a brief period in the seventies. He was from Detroit and after his career, he’d moved back to Grosse Pointe.

So I knew the name Barre. Had heard it recently.

But not a man. Not Clarence. The recognition must have shown on my face because the small smile that had lingered on his face now vanished.

Whatever stupid thing I was going to say got stuck in my mouth. Clarence rushed to fill the pause.

“I’m here about my daughter,” he said. “Jesse.” Suddenly, all of the color in his face seemed to vanish, draw back in on itself and pool in his eyes. They smoldered, two pools of blazing blue.

Now it was my turn to nod. The killing had been big news in Grosse Pointe. Probably for two reasons: one, there aren’t a lot of murders in Grosse Pointe. And two, Jesse Barre had been a very beautiful young woman. A guitar-maker, I remembered.

“She was killed during a robbery as I recall,” I answered.

“You’re half-right,” he said.

The look on my face was a question.

“She was