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

Chapter 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 posts.

After being shown in, I was whisked to the rear of the house by a courteous manservant where I found Shannon and her entourage. Even among the group, she stood out. Whether it was her beauty, or the unconscious positioning of the other people around the person of power, I didn’t know. But she was clearly the epicenter of the crowd, even if everyone went out of their way to act as if she wasn’t.

I looked at Shannon. She seemed more pale than the last time I’d seen her. Her wineglass was huge. A fucking fish bowl set on top of a tiny pencil of glass. It was a dark red, heavy with sediment.

Before I could even get a hello in, Molly arrived with a gray-haired gentlemen in a tasteful, charcoal-colored Armani suit.

“Ah, Mr. Rockne,” the man said, extending a tanned hand. I shook it.

“Paul Kerner,” he said. “Ms. Sparrow’s attorney.”

“One of many, I assume,” I said.

He laughed. What a polite man. “I’m afraid Ms. Sparrow has nothing to say today.”

“Under your orders?”

“The decision was mutual,” he said.

Over his shoulder, I saw Shannon catch my eye and then look away. She took a sip of wine. Or was it more of a gulp?

I turned to Mr. Kerner. I have a confession to make. I never really had a problem with attorneys. In fact, I got a lot of clients from their referrals. Sometimes, though, you can spot a pinhead a mile away.

“Don’t you think it would be in your client’s best interest to shed some light on what’s happened?” I said. “It will only help her both in the short- and long-term.”

Mr. Kerner pretended to debate the idea.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

I sensed the twin hulking shadows of the East German weightlifters. I turned and looked into the ham-like countenances of Erma and Freda.

“Mr. Rockne, I believe our business is concluded,” Mr. Kerner said.

The entourage was watching. Shannon wasn’t. She was now looking into the empty cavern of her wineglass.

“I’ve got some information about her ex-husband she might be interested in,” I said.

This brought Shannon’s head up, and an audible gasp from the hangers-on.

The shadows moved in closer.

“Business is concluded,” Mr. Kerner said.

“It is time for you to go,” said Erma or Freda. I turned to them, surprised that they actually spoke.

“Piss off,” I said, sounding like a little kid on the playground who was about to get his ass kicked.

Both bodyguards stepped back from me, always a bad sign. I can’t resist putting on a little show for a crowd, but I didn’t want to get bitch slapped in front of this many people. There’s something to be said for private beatings. They’re usually more painful, but much less humiliating. I especially didn’t want to take a public thrashing administered by two women, if that was actually their gender.

Erma, or was it Freda, lolled her head to the side, and I heard a bone crunch. I had a feeling the next one to go would be mine.

“Hold it, hold it,” a voice said from the back.

I looked over, and Shannon was pouring wine into a glass next to hers.

“Come over here and sit down,” she said to me. “You guys leave him alone.”

Kerner had already left. I smiled at Erma and Freda. They were clearly not happy.

“We’ll hook up later,” I said, figuring it just might happen.

•

It was my first pop star party, and to be honest, I was enjoying it. Before long, the place was crowded with people, music played from invisible speakers, and my wine glass was empty, then full, then empty, then full. You get the idea.

And through it all, I talked with Shannon Sparrow.

“Thanks for saving me back there,” I said.

“You seem like an honest guy,” she said. “Besides, Erma and Freda . . .” She just shook her head.

“How come you stepped in as soon as I mentioned your ex-husband?” The words came out of my mouth a little clumsily. Not only was the wine thick with sediment, it was strong.

“When I think of . . . him . . .” she said, meaning Grasso. “I want to fucking puke. And I don’t mean a gentle upchuck. I mean I want to hurl from the depths of my bowels. I want to just gag and gag and gag . . .”

“I get the idea, Shannon,” I said.

“He was scum. Pure scum. I was just too young to know it.”

“We all make mistakes,” I said.

“That was a doozy.”

“Most mistakes are,” I said. “When did you hear that he’d been killed?”

She just kind of shrugged her shoulders—obviously she never felt like she had to answer questions if she didn’t want to.

“He was shot, right?” she said.

“Couple times.”

“Were you there?” she said.

“Yep.”

Shannon slugged down the rest of her wine, her hand shaking a little as she held the glass. She set the glass down and pulled out a joint from her front pocket. She tilted it toward me, and I shook my head.

I was a regular Boy Scout.

Shannon looked for a light in her pockets but came up empty. A woman appeared next to her—in her hand was a Bic with a substantial flame sprouting from the end.

“Are you the PI?” the woman with the lighter said.

“John Rockne,” I said, holding out my hand.

She took it and said, “Memphis Bornais.”

“I think we’ve met before,” I said. “That’s an interesting name. A little American South combined with a little, what, French?”

Yeah, I sounded a little stupid, but I never did hold my booze very well.

“Memphis is my songwriter,” Shannon said. I nodded, studying her. Memphis had on red velvet pants and a chocolate-brown lace top. The pants were bellbottoms and the sleeves had giant openings. Her age was hard to tell, could have been anywhere from late twenties to early forties. She had shoulder-length brown hair, fine features, and full lips. Kind of like a nicely aged Jennifer Love Hewitt with a little more meat to her.

“Do you write all of Shannon’s songs?” I asked her.

“Most,” Shannon said. “All the ones I didn’t write.”

“So what exactly do you do?” Memphis asked and sat down in the chair between Shannon and me. As if on cue, Shannon got up with her empty wine glass.

“I gotta piss,” she said by way of explanation. I wondered if the switch had been planned. Was it something I said?

“Investigate,” I said to Memphis.

“Investigate what?”

“Whatever someone pays me to do. As long as it isn’t illegal or immoral.”

“A man with ethics,” she said.

“A few. Not all.”

She took a hit from a joint.

When she exhaled, she said, “God, the lake is beautiful tonight.”

Something about a grown woman sounding like a stoner made me laugh.

“I wish I could see my lighthouse,” she said.

“You have a lighthouse?”

“I can see it from my farm on Harsen’s,” she said, referring to an upscale island a half hour drive from Grosse Pointe. “It’s not a bad view, but not as inspiring as this.”

“Speaking of inspiration,” I said. “Where do you get your ideas for songs? Isn’t that what everyone asks?”