Long Shot: A John Rockne Mystery (John Rockne Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  Long Shot

  A John Rockne Mystery

  Dan Ames

  Contents

  LONG SHOT

  Copyright

  Foreword

  PRAISE FOR THE JOHN ROCKNE MYSTERY SERIES

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  LONG SHOT

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Also By Dan Ames

  Afterword

  About the Author

  LONG SHOT

  A John Rockne Mystery

  by

  Dan Ames

  Copyright © 2015 by Dan Ames

  LONG SHOT is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Foreword

  Do you want more killer crime fiction, along with the chance to win free books? Then sign up for the DAN AMES NEWSLETTER:

  For special offers and new releases, sign up here

  PRAISE FOR THE JOHN ROCKNE MYSTERY SERIES

  “From its opening lines, Daniel S. Ames and his private eye novel DEAD WOOD recall early James Ellroy: a fresh attitude and voice and the heady rush of boundless yearning and ambition. Ames delivers a vivid evocation of time and place in a way that few debut authors achieve, nailing the essence of his chosen corner of high-tone Michigan. He also deftly dodges the pitfalls that make so much contemporary private detective fiction a mixed bag and nostalgia-freighted misfire. Ames’ detective has family; he’s steady. He’s not another burned-out, booze-hound hanging on teeth and toenails to the world and smugly wallowing in his own ennui. This is the first new private eye novel in a long time that just swept me along for the ride. Ames is definitely one to watch.”

  -Craig McDonald, Edgar-nominated author

  “Dead Wood is a fast-paced, unpredictable mystery with an engaging narrator and a rich cast of original supporting characters.”

  -New York Times bestselling author Thomas Perry

  “In DEAD WOOD, Dan Ames pulls off a very difficult thing: he re-imagines what a hardboiled mystery can be, and does it with style, thrills and humor. This is the kind of book mystery readers are clamoring for, a fast-paced story with great heart and not a cliché to be found. DEAD WOOD is a hell of a book.”

  –Amazon.com

  Dan Ames' writing reminds me of the great thriller writers -- lean, mean, no nonsense prose that gets straight to the point and keeps you turning those pages.”

  –author Robert Gregory Browne

  "As gritty as the Detroit streets where it's set, DEAD WOOD grabs you early on and doesn't let go. As fine a a debut as you'll come across this year, maybe any year."

  -author Tom Schreck

  “Dan Ames is a sensation among readers who love fast-paced thrillers.”

  –Mystery Tribune

  “A smart detective story stuffed with sharp prose and snappy one liners.”

  –Indie Reader

  "Packed to the gills with hard-hitting action and a non-stop plot."

  -Jacksonville News

  "Cuts like a knife."

  -Savannah Morning News

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  DEAD WOOD (John Rockne Mystery #1)

  HARD ROCK (John Rockne Mystery #2)

  COLD JADE (John Rockne Mystery #3)

  LONG SHOT

  A John Rockne Mystery

  by

  Dan Ames

  “The only real power comes out of a long rifle.”

  -Joseph Stalin

  Chapter One

  Nick Giordano had no idea what he was doing.

  The sailboat had been a bit of an impulse purchase, he realized. It had belonged to another doctor who was leaving Michigan for a new gig in Colorado and since the boat hadn’t been out of its slip in three years, he figured it would make more sense to sell it than to try to find a way to haul it out west.

  So Nick had bought it cheap. Five grand. Which seemed like a good idea but then again he didn’t really know anything about boats. He’d been on a few powerboats, failed miserably at water skiing and even gone fishing a few times. But he’d never really driven any of the boats. And while his sons both took sailing lessons at the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club, Nick had never taken any. Which made the purchase seem totally foolhardy.

  An even worse idea was to take part in the weekly sailboat races at Windmill Pointe Park. Sure, it was a casual affair, mostly for fun. But here he was with a couple of buddies, trying to figure out which sails to use all while steering and drinking beer.

  “No, the other way!” Nick’s friend, a primary care physician named Doug Wendt, yelled. “You’ve got to go toward that buoy over there.”

  Nick spun the wheel, but the wind seemed to be pushing them out toward the center of Lake St. Clair into the shipping channel, which was never a good idea. At least there weren’t any freighters around. That would be very, very bad.

  “Reg, what the hell are you doing?” Nick yelled at his other friend, Claude Rieghels. Claude was Nick’s partner in the medical practice and a renowned neurologist in his own right. When it came to sailing, however, he was usually put in charge of mixing martinis.

  “I’m trying to trim this sail, Captain Ahab,” Rieghels called back cheerfully. He knocked his bottle of beer over but caught it before it rolled off the deck into the water.

  “Well, do it faster, Gilligan,” Nick answered.

  He looked ahead and saw the other sailboats way ahead of him and he was fairly confident they wouldn’t even finish the course, let alone be a factor in the race. Now, they were all alone, several hundred yards away from the other boats.

  It was one thing to be the head of neurology at a prestigious hospital like St. John’s in Detroit, but it was quite another to be in the middle of Lake St. Clair with no idea how to get your sailboat going in the right direction.

  But right then, Nick decided that he loved it. The fresh air. The sight of Canada on the other side of the lake. The spirit of friendly competition.

  This was what it was all about. Not just having a sailboat, but getting out of the medical world for once, pausing in the endless race to make more money to buy more things. Just being out on the water, fresh air, and laughing with friends. He vowed then and there to do more of it, as often as he could.

  Nick pictured his sons out here with him showing him the ropes. Frederick was a fantastic sailor, Paul not so much. But Paul probably needed it more t
han his younger brother.

  But for now, Nick was content to just enjoy being with his buddies, getting their collective ass kicked by more experienced boaters.

  “Okay, I think I got it!” Rieghels called out. The sail caught the wind and the boat swung around, putting them parallel with the shoreline and in the same general direction as the other boats.

  “All right!” Nick called out, shocked that his buddy had actually managed to do something right.

  Nick stepped behind the wheel and never saw the bullet coming.

  It entered his left temple and exited on the right, taking a good chunk of the neurologist’s brain with it.

  The force of the shot knocked him sideways and he fell to the deck, rolled off the boat into the water, leaving a smear of blood behind him.

  Chapter Two

  There’s bad acting, and then there’s bad acting. Mitch Grovener had to be the worst actor I had ever seen in my life.

  He had been collecting worker’s compensation from his boss for nearly a year. The problem was, his boss was my client. And my client wasn’t happy. He’d suspected the “accident” at the metal fabrication plant had been exaggerated to begin with. But when he started to hear rumors that his injured employee was telling friends about how much fish he was catching on Lake St. Clair, well, that had been the last straw.

  Now, as I sat at my desk in my office looking over the surveillance photos of the “injured” worker, I had to laugh. The guy kept forgetting to put on his neck brace. And even when he did, he seemed to forget that he was supposed to be injured. Here he was with his neck brace, pushing his fishing boat into the water. Hey, here he is leaping off the boat onto the dock. Worst of all, here he is hauling a cooler full of beer back up to the house.

  I opened up my official John Rockne Investigations email account, attached the worst of the photos and fired them off to my client.

  It would be up to him whether or not he wanted me to handle the confrontation, or his lawyers. The best bet would be for him to use his lawyers but if he asked me to, I would be happy to comply.

  Nothing wrong with adding more billings.

  I shut the computer down, locked up the office and headed home.

  It was fall in Grosse Pointe and I always had the internal debate over whether my hometown was more beautiful in fall than spring. The towering trees, the beautiful homes, the spacious lawns, everything always looked great in fall.

  But to be honest, I probably had to pick spring. Spring was all about the hope and joy of warmer temperatures. Of rebirth. Fall was all about getting ready for winter. And despite the fact that I’d spent all of my life in the Midwest, I’d never really become a big fan of winter.

  Probably because the only thing I really liked about winter was watching football.

  Fall wasn’t bad, though, as long as I was able to ignore its meaning that winter was right around the corner.

  Mentally blocking unpleasant realities was a talent of mine. They say that pessimists have a more accurate view of reality than optimists but with that comes a whole lot of unnecessary unpleasantness.

  It only took me a few minutes to get from the village to my house. Home was a brick colonial with a nice yard and a seemingly endless parade of small jobs that only an old house could provide. Built in 1928, the house had great bones but required constant medical attention, if you get what I mean.

  The good thing was, I could be very handy around the house. And by handy I mean I am very good at dialing my cell phone to hire people who can fix stuff.

  Because I sure can’t.

  My skill is reprogramming the television’s cable channel if the power ever goes out.

  End of talent list.

  I pulled up to the drive and saw a Grosse Pointe police car in front of my house. Ordinarily, that would set off alarm bells for most people. But the Chief of Police and I were very close.

  As in, she’s my sister.

  The only thing that made me a little nervous was that my cell phone had died and I’d left both my regular charger and my car charger at home. Nothing pissed off my wife Anna more than when I did that, especially since she paid the household bills and hated how big the monthly cell phone had become. And then when she couldn’t get ahold of me, the question of why we spent so much on cell phones typically came up. Not surprisingly.

  I parked behind the squad car and entered the side door that opened onto a mud room and then a short flight of three steps into the kitchen.

  The first thing I saw was my sister’s gun, and then my wife, Anna, was standing in front of me, her face wet with tears.

  My sister turned to me as well, giving me a look of dissatisfaction, probably because she’d tried to reach me on my cell, for whatever news I was about to receive.

  “Someone shot Nick,” Anna said, as she folded herself into my arms. I hugged her tight. Nick Giordano was her brother. I looked at Ellen, my sister. She nodded to me.

  “He’s dead, John,” Anna said. “Someone killed him.”

  Chapter Three

  There was nothing to do but hold my wife, kiss away her tears and try to do everything I could to console her. Once she briefly stopped crying and went to the restroom, I ducked upstairs to check on the girls. They were doing their homework and I told them to keep at it. They didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on downstairs.

  When I came back down, Anna was on the phone.

  I cracked open a bottle of wine and poured three glasses. I motioned to Anna that a glass was hers, and I took the other two into the living room where I found my sister sitting in a chair, scrolling through her cell phone.

  “So tell me what the hell happened,” I said and handed her a glass of wine.

  I took a chair opposite her.

  Ellen spoke softly. “He was on his boat with a couple of buddies doing the race at the park. They heard a shot, turned around, and he was gone. Went right over the side of the boat into the water. They fished him out, but he was dead.

  “What the hell?” I asked. “Someone shot him from another boat?”

  Ellen shook her head. “Don’t think so. They were behind everyone else and from the angle he went overboard, he was shot by somebody from shore.”

  “You mean, with a rifle?”

  “Had to have been. Would have been an impossible shot with a pistol. They were pretty far out.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “Are you sure it wasn’t the guys on the boat?”

  Ellen shook her head. “Obviously we haven’t ruled anything out, but it doesn’t seem likely. We tested both guys for gunshot residue and they were clean.”

  “That can be fooled,” I said. Somewhere I thought I’d read you could beat the gunshot residue test with bleach.

  “Thanks for the tip, Sherlock,” Ellen said. She raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t necessarily the best time for humor, but the Rockne clan had survived for many years on occasionally inappropriate behavior.

  “Who’s working the case?” I asked.

  “Stocker and Radcliffe.”

  “Ugh,” I said and rolled my eyes. Stocker was a little prick. The few times I’d been around him he always seemed to find a way to bring up my past and the incident that had gotten me kicked off the force.

  “I met Nick once, didn’t I?” Ellen asked me.

  I searched my memory. “Yeah, I think you did. That one Christmas party we had a few years back. He was the tall guy with the glasses.”

  Ellen nodded.

  Naturally, I knew Nick quite well. He was a great guy. Friendly, very welcoming when Anna married me and I got to know the Giordanos. As had been all of Anna’s siblings.

  “Anything else?” I asked, knowing it was a bit of a silly question.

  “Nothing yet, John,” she said, holding back from giving me another smart-ass reply.

  “Man, this is bad,” I said. One of the many reasons I had fallen in love with Anna Giordano was her love and commitment to family. She was a fierce defender of her family, as I had lea
rned the hard way after making an innocent observation or two.

  “Know anything about his wife and kids?” Ellen asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking of his wife. Not exactly one of my favorite people in the world. “Katie. Two sons. Paul and Frederick. Paul is living in Chicago. Frederick lives downtown in a loft.”

  Ellen nodded. She didn’t bother writing any of it down as her officers were sure to get the same information.

  “Can you let me know what your team finds out?” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” she said. Cops didn’t have a huge interest to fill in local private investigators on active cases and Ellen was no different.

  Anna appeared in the doorway, her cell phone in her hand, held down against her leg. She had a look of confusion on her face as if she didn’t know what to do.

  She looked at me.

  “We’re going to need more wine,” she said.

  Chapter Four

  They say that grief and anger are very close cousins and the next morning, Anna was a case in point. We had stayed up the night before and Anna had consumed more wine than I’d ever seen her drink before. In the morning, she was in pain both from the news of her brother, and the after effects.

  But the grief I had seen so clearly was now being replaced with rage.

  “Why the hell would anyone want to kill Nick?” she said. “He was a great doctor, good husband and father, and a smart businessman. His biggest vice was the occasional cigar.”

  I really wanted to be able to tell her something. Anything. But I had no information so I did what you were supposed to do; simply comfort her as best I could.