Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,66

coming from the world’s most efficiently curt assistant.

I had taken a peek at the note. It was a phone number. Probably a cell. I debated calling it immediately but thought better of it. She’d be at that party for a couple more hours and I had a feeling that the conversation she wanted to have, that I hoped she wanted to have, would be better done in private. Like when she was on her way home from the boss’s party.

I looked out at the dark green water. I’d had too much to drink at the party because I now saw the pale lifeless eyes of Benjamin Collins. Saw his puffy flesh hanging from his bones in shreds from being in the water, lacerated by the man who’d killed him. The man who’d had the boy turned over to him by me.

What a fuckup I was. Usually, I let the feeling pass. Told myself that everyone makes mistakes. Some more egregious than others. But not tonight. Booze sometimes did that to me. Opened up the old wounds and dumped in the salt. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I just throw the kid in the back of the squad car and let him sleep it off in his own private cell?

There was no right answer, at least not one I wanted to face.

Thirty-eight

The only thing worse than having a hangover, in my opinion, is being hungover and middle-aged. Waking up in a dorm room feeling like shit because of the kegger in Rastelli’s room is one thing. Waking up with a hangover and facing your daughters, your mortgage payment, your middle-aged life, is really fucking awful.

“What’s wrong?” Anna asked as she shuffled into the kitchen, her bare feet whisking across the wood floor. She had on a pink terry cloth robe and her hair was piled on top of her head like a standard poodle that’s treed a squirrel.

“Too much wine. I hate the fucking French,” I said.

“Wine? You don’t drink wine.”

“Tell that to my liver.”

• • •

An hour later I rolled into my office and enjoyed the peace and quiet for a moment. I’d taken three Tylenol and an extra cup of coffee to help push the headache away. I sat in my chair for a moment and absorbed the silence. I let my conversations with Shannon and Teddy roll around in my mind. Shannon had issues, I was sure of that. Teddy was just an arrogant prick.

I checked my mail and tossed it all then sat down and fired up the computer. I did a quick Internet search using the name Teddy Armbruster.

All the expected bullshit. Articles about Shannon, mostly. The quote from the manager, telling the world what a talented, special, lovely person Shannon was. Extolling her virtues as a songwriter. Her dreams. Her hopes. And of course, her work with charitable causes, namely helping the children.

Blah blah blah.

Of course, with Shannon’s name, the search returned only about thirteen thousand items. I closed the search window and picked up the phone.

“Nate,” I said. “It’s me, John”

“I’m busy,” he said.

“So am I.”

“Yeah, but the problem is, your calling me is going to make you less busy and me more busy.”

I sighed. “There’s a new Chinese place over on Jefferson.”

I heard the pause.

“Orchid Gardens?” he said through a mouthful of rapidly rising saliva.

“That’s the one.”

I pulled the review I’d set aside on my desk from Metro Times. Just for this occasion.

“Ginger chicken with a raspberry sauce,” I read. “Saffron soup with steamed clams. Rated five out of five stars by the Metro Times. Have you been there?”

“I want the buffet,” he said.

“The whole thing?”

“The buffet, John.”

“Oh mother of mercy,” I said.

“Goodbye,” he said.

I sighed. With the buffet, the ordeal would turn into a four-hour meal.

“Fine. You got the buffet,” I said.

“Okay, what do you want?”

“Teddy Armbruster.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s Shannon Sparrow’s manager,” I said. “I want to know where he’s from, what he did pre-Shannon. I think he’s evil.”

“Oh, really.”

“Just a hunch.”

“An Orchid Garden buffet and we’ll know,” he said.

“I already said yes.”

“I’ll call you this afternoon,” he said.

“Deal.”

We hung up and I was pleased to note that my headache was gone. Maybe the thought of Chinese food alone was some kind of Eastern cure.

I’d delayed calling the number Molly’d given me because I’d hoped to learn a little more about Teddy before we talked. But now that it looked like I wouldn’t get any dirt for at least a few hours, it was time to make