Now, not only was it quiet in the room, it was pretty much empty. Nobody wanted to get 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, 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.

I turned and went back down the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I knew a guy in college who’d been planning on going into law enforcement too. He was a beast of a guy, six feet six inches, nearly 400 pounds. His name was Nick Henderson, and his terribly original nickname was “House.” He ended up not being a cop. 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 Federal 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 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 PI.”

“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 a 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. He’s the guy on D and could probably tell you all about Coltraine. I don’t know how much he’ll cooperate, but offer to buy him a couple beers. That might do the trick.”

“Okay,” I said. “How can I get hold of him?”

“I can transfer you if you want.”

“All right,” I said. “Thanks a bunch, House.”

“Sure. Good luck, man. Keep in touch.”

“I will,” I said, and then I heard a beeping and slight static. After twenty seconds or so, a tired, slightly grizzled voice said, “Puhy.”

I introduced myself, told him that House had transferred me to him, told him about the premature ending to Rufus Coltraine’s life, and then asked if he knew anything about his former inmate.

“What do you want to know?” he said. With a voice that wasn’t exactly Welcome Wagon caliber.

“Did he seem like the kind of guy who would run out and OD as soon as he got out?” I said.

“Who fucking knows what they’ll do once they get out?” he said. “Some of the most normal, well-adjusted guys go out and commit a murder just to get back in. Quite a few even kill themselves.”

I could see Puhy was a real student of human behavior.

“If you had to guess, Mr. Puhy,” I said. “Would overdosing on heroin seem like behavior consistent with Coltraine?”

“Nah, I guess not,” Puhy said. “He was into music and that kind of shit. But you never know. They get a taste of freedom, they want to taste a few other things too. I’ve seen so many guys who’d changed their lives inside, and then a few months later, they’re back after going on some kind of drug or violence spree.”

“Did anyone ever come and visit him?” I said.

“Not that I know of. He didn’t have any pictures of family in his cell,” he said. “I think they were in Tennessee or something. I thought that he would go down there when he got out. But I don’t think he got any letters that I can recall.”

“Anything interesting about the people he hung around with?”

“No, but he was a pretty social guy.”

“What kind of music did he play?”

“A mixture. Blues. Rock. Some jazz. He was pretty good.”

“Did he play the guitar?”

“How’d you know that?”

“Just a hunch.” So Rufus Coltraine was a musician, gets out of prison, kills a woman who makes special guitars, maybe sells one, buys drugs, and overdoses. On the surface, it made a certain kind of sense.

“Yeah, he was pretty serious about the music,” Puhy said, warming up slightly to the subject. “I think he had something going on. Like he could do something with it once he got out. But I don’t know if that was just a pipe dream or what.”

Maybe Rufus felt like he needed a special guitar or two to make his big break. What had Shannon Sparrow said to me, about how well Jesse’s guitars recorded?

“Look, I gotta get back to work,” Puhy said.

“Do you mind, if I have any more questions, if I call you back?” I said to Mr. Puhy.

Puhy hesitated.

“Maybe we could meet and I’ll buy you a few beers,” I said.

“No problem,” Puhy said. “I’ll be around.”

I started to say goodbye, but all I heard was the sound of a metal door slamming and then a dial tone.

•

It was rare that a case of mine collided with a case of my sister’s. I was usually involved before crimes happened. The husband cheating on the wife. The guy getting disability, going for the bocce championship in Windsor. You get the idea. My sister, on the other hand, showed up after the cheating husband was run over by the cuckolded wife. Or after the guy on disability took a potshot at the insurance investigator.

But when our cases ran together, there were a few benefits. I got to use Ellen’s resources, chief among them: computer databases, addresses, phone numbers, and unofficial police approval to bend a few rules. I’d gotten help with parking tickets as well. Free coffee and the occasional donut too.

I parked the white Sunbird in the farthest corner of the police department’s parking lot and went inside. Ellen was in one of the briefing rooms, so I waited in her office. She’d told me recently that she missed being on patrol, that it was getting harder and harder to keep in shape considering how much time her ass was planted in the chair. The price of being in upper management, I guess.

There was a police magazine on her desk, and I started reading about the latest weapons. By the time Ellen came in ten minutes later, I was ready to buy an automatic pistol that held seventeen rounds and came with a laser guide and a night scope.

“What do you want?” she said, with all the enthusiasm of a middle-aged man submitting to a prostate exam.