•
Lakeshore Drive was deserted as always. The lake was choppy, stirred up no doubt by the constant plopping of Teddy Armbruster’s Titleist Pro Vs. What an arrogant prick. A guy used to having the world at his feet. A guy living off the natural talent of Shannon Sparrow. A wheeler and a dealer and a fifteen-percent cut of, what, fifteen or twenty million a year? Not bad.
Something told me that Teddy was the kind of guy who could burn a few million bucks a year without batting an eye.
The piece of paper Molly had shoved into my hand now sat on the passenger seat. Subterfuge was surprising 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. All because of my colossal mistake.
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.
Chapter 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, and 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 terrycloth 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, you’re 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 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 the call.
I punched in the numbers on the slip of paper. Immediately, I heard some gentle static and knew that it was a cell phone.
A voice answered. “Yes?”
“Molly, it’s me. John Rockne.”
“I’ll call you right back,” she said, a hint of panic in her voice. The connection was rudely cut. I wondered how she knew where to call me. But then I remembered she could just check her call log.
The phone rang and I picked it up. That was quick, I thought.
“John Rockne?” the voice asked.
It wasn’t Molly, but I thought I recognized the voice.
“Yes,” I said.
“It’s Shannon.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Well, uh, I was expecting another call—”
“I enjoyed talking to you at the party,” she said. I heard her take a deep inhale. Cigarette or pot?
“You did?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” she said on her exhale. Probably a joint.
“Well, if you ask me, no, not at all. Talk to my friends though . . .”
“I just wondered if we could meet somewhere and talk,” she said. “Do you have somewhere private we could get together?”
“Like, how private?” I said. Boy, this was weird. Shannon Sparrow wanting to meet me somewhere privately? After she says she enjoyed conversing with me?
“What do you think?” she said.
“How about my office?”
Her silence told me that wasn’t what she had in mind.
Oh boy. I ran through a few options, one of which included saying no. I dismissed it though.
“I have a sailboat at Windmill Pointe,” I said. It was a piece of shit fixer-upper that I’d been meaning to work on for years. Anna and I just kept it to keep the boat slip. There’s about a ten-year waiting period for those slips.
“Private marina?” she said.
“Even better,” I said, “It’s public and totally empty this time of year. No guard to see your car, no attendants to recognize you. Just park in the parking lot and walk to my slip. No one will know you’re there.”
“Perfect,” she said.
I gave Shannon directions then said, “I’m in slip forty-eight. Air Fare is the name of the boat.”
“Air Fare?”
“I bought it from a pilot,” I said. “I know, stupid name.”
“I can be there tonight.”
“So around ten?” I said.
“Okay.”
We hung up without saying goodbye. Before I could even contemplate just how weird this was getting, the phone rang again.