Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,50

them, would he really decide ‘oh, what the heck, I’ll keep one?’ Even if it means life in prison? For a rainy day?”

“Why are you so sure he sold anything?” she said.

“How the hell else did he get money for that much heroin? The guy was just out of prison.”

“Jesus Christ, John, who knows how much money Jesse Barre had on her when she died.”

“No way did she have enough to buy that much heroin.”

“That’s beside the point! You’re not making any sense.”

“The hell I’m not.”

“You’re telling me that criminals aren’t that stupid?” my sister said. “You’re saying that they’re too smart to leave evidence lying around? Who are you kidding? There are murderers in prison now because they left their driver’s license at the scene of the crime! Armed robbers who kept the video from the surveillance camera so they could watch themselves and show it off to their friends. Prisons are full of guilty criminals who are some of the stupidest fucking people on Earth. Don’t build a case by turning Rufus goddamned Coltraine here into a Rhodes Scholar.”

Now, not only was it quiet in the room, it was pretty much empty. Nobody wanted to caught in the crossfire. Or catch my sister’s verbal shrapnel.

“Ellen—”

“I’ve got a dead ex-con with a history of breaking and entering as well as assault, with evidence that puts him at the Jesse Barre crime scene. If you want to make up some bullshit to keep the gravy train rolling with Mr. Barre, that’s up to you.”

It was a low blow, but I let it go. I was used to them from Ellen now. Besides, I knew how she worked. Right now, she was running the scenarios through her mind, trying to figure out any angle. She had to act like that, she had to show everyone that she was in charge and that she was doing her job. In her own way, she’d actually encouraged me to continue on.

I turned and went back down the stairs.

Twenty-nine

I knew a guy in college who was planning on going into law enforcement, too. He was a beast of a guy, 6’ 6”, nearly 400 pounds. His name was Nick Henderson but his terribly original nickname was “House.” He ended up not being a cop, which had been his plan. In fact, he never finished college, never even got his degree because he beat the shit out of some frat boy. The Delta Chi ended up with a fractured skull and House ended up having all kinds of legal problems. Anyway, he’s now a guard at Jackson State Prison, located appropriately in Jackson, Michigan, an hour or so west of Detroit. Probably the better place for him than on the suburban streets of America. His brand of justice was perfect for a maximum security prison.

After a few minutes of searching for the number, calling the prison and getting transferred a couple times, I finally got a hold of him.

“House,” I said. “It’s John Rockne.”

There was a brief moment while I could practically hear him searching his mental Rolodex. It sounded a little rusty. Finally, he said, “Hey, man, how ya’ doin’?”

His tone was warm enough even though we’d never been really good friends. Still, a guy that size, you never want to make an enemy.

“Good, good. How are you?” I said.

“Drinkin’ beer and crackin’ skulls, my friend.”

“Good times,” I said. Good Lord.

He laughed and said, “What’s up? You need a job?”

He’d obviously heard about the end of my career a few years back. Apparently he thought my failures had continued. Maybe that was his impression of me from way back then.

“No, I actually wondered if you ever knew an inmate named Rufus Coltraine,” I said. “He just turned up dead and may have something to do with a case I’m working on.”

“What do you mean you’re working on it?” he said.

“I’m a P.I.”

“Oh.” In the background I could hear some shouting and the occasional slam of a metal door. It was beyond me how someone could choose to work at prison. It was a dirty job, but I guess someone had to do it. And I guess no one was better suited for it than House.

“I can’t say I know anything about him, John,” he said. “I think he was in Cell Block D and I spend most of my time down on A and B.”

“Do you know anyone who works on D?” I said. “Someone who might talk to me?”

“Hmm. You could try Joe Puhy.