Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,62

really distant. “It’s also the sound of your private investigator’s license failing to be renewed for lack of cooperat—”

“Hold it!” I shouted into the receiver.

Her voice came back on, this time at normal volume.

“Yes?” she said, her voice thick with innocence.

“You fight dirty,” I said.

“I fight to win, my friend.”

I grabbed a pencil.

“Spill it,” I said.

• • •

Expecting a rat trap, I wasn’t disappointed. The deceased Mr. Grasso had on his person at the time of his death several forms of false identification portraying him to be Phillip Carmichael. Through the efficient work of the Grosse Pointe police department, an address belonging to the pseudo Mr. Carmichael was discovered. It was over the border from Grosse Pointe into Detroit proper. A fabulous piece of real estate comprised of two abandoned buildings, three abandoned lots, and a whole lot of garbage.

When I arrived, I could see why Grasso had chosen to spend his free time at the stripper’s house with a fridge on the porch. At least there was a fridge. This place, a single-story sagging house, was certainly on the condemned list along with a few ten thousand other properties the absentee Detroit government hadn’t gotten around to clearing.

Ellen was already inside, another cop waited just outside the front door. I found her in the main room of the house, which held one duct-taped sofa, a couple dead rats and two worn out boxes. My sister stood over the boxes.

She pointed at the rats. “Couple of your P.I. colleagues?”

“Very cute,” I said.

Ellen nudged a box with her toe. “Check it out.”

I bent down and leafed through the papers inside. There were newspaper articles, letters, pictures and a few pieces of cheap jewelry.

“Notice what they all have in common?”

I had. They were all about Shannon Sparrow. Pictures of her concerts. Articles about her. Notes from fans. I assumed the necklace and bracelet had once been hers. Even though it was all in a couple of flimsy boxes, they were very organized and you could tell they’d been labored over. Someone had spent a lot of time studying these things. Obsessing over them, in fact.

“Her number one fan, apparently,” she said. “The flame never died out.”

I knew where Ellen was going with this.

“So you’ve got everything you need,” I said.

“He was still in love with her. Obsessed with her. Had to have her.”

I thought I’d help her along. “He dreamed about her in prison,” I said. “Read about the wonderful Jesse Barre guitars and how much Shannon loved them, decided to kill Jesse, frame his old prison mate and present the guitar along with himself to Shannon.”

Ellen nodded. “In the context of a sociopath, it works.”

“Except for the mystery woman,” I said.

“Could have been anyone,” she said. “A girlfriend. A junkie friend. A neighbor. An innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I shook my head. “You didn’t hear the authority in her voice when she told Grasso to just kill me. She’s no innocent. There’s more to it than Grasso, Ellen.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You may be right. But he’s dead. And for now, the case is eventually going to be closed.”

“So why bring me here?”

She gave me a look of exasperation, like I was a kid who didn’t appreciate a birthday gift. “I thought your client might like to know about this. And on the off chance that Grasso wasn’t working alone, and that there might be future violent episodes, you should know about this.”

I looked at her. What a load of bullshit. She had stopped doing me favors a long time ago. Unless I was in real physical danger, but even then she would still think about it.

“You want me to keep digging, don’t you?” I said. “Not in an official capacity, but you think there’s more to it, don’t you?”

She raised her eyebrows and placed a hand across her heart. “Moi?”

Thirty-six

The star innocently shaving her pubic hair was gone. I found Shannon Sparrow seated at a wrought iron patio table, holding a long-stemmed wine glass with her gently tapered fingers.

I’d tracked her down through Molly, the ambitious personal assistant who’d told me that Shannon was at a “friend’s” house. I coaxed the address out of her by telling her that I had information I’d rather tell Shannon than my best friend, the reporter. Personal assistants apparently have a huge phobia regarding the press.

The house was another giant fucking monster along the lake. Made of stone, huge picture windows and a yard worthy of a pair of goal