Of course, I shouldn’t have rushed to judgment. Maybe it was a high-powered business meeting. In fact, that thought led me to the man who appeared to be in charge.

He was seated in front of, rather than behind, a massive desk. He had a shaved head, a nice tan, and blue eyes. He reminded me of a college football coach. This, I assumed, was Teddy. And, listening to my private investigator’s hunch, I had a pretty good idea he would turn out to be Shannon’s agent or manager: PI talks to big star, manager wants to know why.

The suit he had on looked expensive. Fifteen percent of whatever Shannon Sparrow grossed was probably a pretty respectable annual take. Maybe five or ten million?

He held a black cane over his knee. He smiled at me. His teeth were straight and a brilliant white. Behold the power of bleach.

I turned, expecting Molly to do the instructions, but she’d already left. I admired her footwork. Doug Henning couldn’t have made her disappear any faster.

“The PI,” he said. His voice was as smooth as his bald dome. If anyone noticed my arrival, they all hid it carefully. It seemed a safe bet that the stuff they were drinking and smoking held a lot more interest than I did.

“The manager,” I said.

He smiled. “Molly told you.”

“No.”

“Then . . .”

“Who else would you be? A roadie?”

Again, a light, self-mocking laugh. He held out his hands and gave a little clap. Like I was a seal who’d just jumped through a hoop at Sea World. “Good point. I’m Teddy Armbruster.”

“John Rockne,” I said.

He folded his arms and watched me for a moment. I sensed it was going to be one of those little power-struggle games. Make the uninitiated feel uncomfortable.

“Well, if that’s all you wanted,” I said and turned back toward the door.

“John,” he said.

I turned back. “Look, Teddy, I’ve really got to get going. Can you cut the dramatic power bullshit and tell me what you want?”

A few of the bloodsuckers lifted their heads up. It seemed that challenging Mr. Armbruster wasn’t the typical modus operandi.

“You’re direct,” he said. “I like that.”

He fixed those baby blues on me and said, “Did you get all of your questions answered? With Shannon?”

“For now,” I said.

“See, that’s why I wanted to talk to you,” he said. He set the cane on the desk behind him and folded his arms across his chest. It was quite a feat. Both his arms and his chest were pretty thick. I bet he had a Bowflex on his private plane.

Teddy said, “Shannon has to concentrate on the concert, which is only a week away. It’s a big deal, back home in front of all her friends. That’s a lot of pressure.”

“She’s used to it by now, isn’t she?” I said.

“As well as a million other things,” he continued, ignoring my question. “I thought it would be good for you to get these questions in, but from here on out, maybe you should run them by Molly who’ll run them by me first, and then at the appropriate time, I’ll talk to Shannon.”

He was a college football coach, I thought. He’d just diagrammed a perfect case of running interference. Or the famous end-around.

“I know it’s your job to make your client’s life easier,” I said. “But I have a client too. And it’s my job to find out who bashed his daughter’s head in. So I’ll take your request into consideration, but let’s not forget where it falls in terms of priority, okay?”

By now, all the hangers-on were looking at me. I watched them back. One in particular, a woman in a white silk blouse and red velvet pants, walked over to me.

“Why don’t you stay and have a drink?” she said.

“Memphis,” Teddy said, a stern warning. “I’m sure Mr. Rockne has better things to do.”

The woman held out her hand. “Memphis Bornais. I’m Shannon’s songwriter.”

I took her hand. “John Rockne, private investigator.”

“Come along, Mr. Rockne,” I heard a voice say behind me. Molly had reappeared.

“Thanks again, Mr. Rockne,” Teddy said. “I’ve enjoyed your directness.” Teddy smiled, nodded his head like he’d enjoyed the fuck out of my company. “You don’t hesitate either. I really like that.”

Without hesitation, I said, “Plenty more where that came from.”

•

I went back to the office and worked the phones. Oddly enough, my mind wasn’t on the case, despite the unsettling meetings with Shannon Sparrow and her slimeball manager.

I decided to call Clarence Barre. He wasn’t home, but I left a message telling him I wanted to ask him a few questions about how well he knew, and how well Jesse knew, Shannon Sparrow.

My last call went to Nate. I wanted to ask him what he knew about Shannon Sparrow and her entourage. Nate had an encyclopedic knowledge of local history. He knew anyone and everyone that ever had a significant connection with Detroit.

And on the unlikely occasion in which he didn’t know the answer or answers, he could almost always point me in the direction of someone who did.

But I’d be goddamned if I was going to commit to another meal. At this point, I could be labeled an “enabler” by a psychologist. I felt like Nate was a drunk, and as long as he kept helping me, I kept buying him shopping carts full of Budweiser. I’d have to figure something else out.

I punched in his number on my phone.

“I was just about to call you,” he said. I could hear background voices, maybe even a siren.

“What, were you going to dicker with me over whether or not an apéritif could technically be considered dessert?”

“No,” he said. “And it obviously isn’t a dessert as it’s consumed before a meal. Jesus, haven’t you learned anything?”

“Yeah, I now know the difference between pâté and a patty melt.”

He ignored me and said, “Where the hell have you been?” This time, I definitely heard a siren.

“Data entry. It’s a part-time job I had to take in order to pay for your restaurant expenses,” I said. “I get three cents a word.”

“Good, don’t be afraid to work extra hours.”

“Thanks for the advice. Where are you, by the way?”

“Hey, have you talked to your sister lately?” he said.

“Define lately.”

“Like . . . today?”

“No,” I said, wishing he’d get to the point. “Nate, where are you? What’s going on?”

He laughed, a low, deep chuckle, obviously relishing the news. What reporter doesn’t love breaking a story?

“Once again, she’s proven why she’s chief of police,” he said.

“How so?”

“She found him.”

“Who?”

“The guy.”

“What guy, Nate?” I was already on my feet, grabbing my car keys and heading for the door when he gave me the news.

“Ellen found the guy who killed Jesse Barre.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It was about as bad as Grosse Pointe gets: a third floor walk-up facing Alter, the street that divides my fair city and the urban decay that is Detroit proper. I don’t say that with any degree of snobbishness; that’s just the way it is. In fact, the average Grosse Pointer would love nothing more than to have a thriving, vibrant city next to its borders. But that wouldn’t be happening any time soon. For now, it was duck pâté on one side, duck-for-cover on the other.

The building itself was an ugly structure that probably hadn’t met a housing code since Nixon took office. You certainly wouldn’t find it on any of the brochures at the Grosse Pointe Hospitality Center.

The coroner’s van was already outside.

I parked the lovely white Sunbird right out on the street. I sort of hoped someone would steal it—that way I could share the embarrassment a little bit.

I climbed the steps and walked inside, where I saw my sister standing in the doorway. She had her hand on the butt of her gun and was watching the coroner and crime scene technicians doing their thing. She turned to me as I got to the top of the rickety steps.