Ray stopped, watched Dom approach, Dom reaching out to grab him. Ray took his hand and using the momentum of his body, threw him through the plate-glass window, the big guy landing on the concrete walkway outside the building.
Anthony charged him now. When he got close, Ray grabbed the front of his shirt, turned sideways and threw him over his hip. Anthony went airborne, landing hard on the tile floor. Ray walked out and got in his car. Saw Dom on a bed of glass, trying to get on his feet as he drove out of the lot.
He had Joey's address on Lake Shore Drive. He took Sixteen Mile Road/Metro Parkway to the east side and got on I94 for a mile and a half and got off at exit 273, North River Road, went left toward Harrison Township. He passed Selfridge Air Force Base on his left, a military installation. He could see runways and military buildings in the distance, set back a couple hundred yards behind a fence topped with razor wire. He'd read somewhere — in the event of war — Selfridge had missiles with long-range nuclear capabilities.
He could see the Clinton River on his right now, boats cruising along, houses close together, lining the water on both sides. It was a strange contrast of styles — old dilapidated single-story cottages next to huge new over-the-top, two-story brick colonials with three and four-car garages, rich and poor living side by side. He passed the Captain's Quarters Condos and a subdivision called Brigantine Estates and the Crews' Inn Restaurant, Marley Marine and Sundog's Marina: Bait, Gas and Cold Drinks. He turned on South River Road and took it to Lake Shore and caught glimpses of Lake St Clair between the houses that were big and new. Joey's was the last one on a dead-end street, bordering the lake on the north side and a Clinton River tributary to the east. His house was built in the middle of two lots, a five-thousand-square-foot colonial with a four-car garage.
Ray parked in the cul de sac just past the house. He watched a cigarette boat rumble past him on the river and then gun it as it hit the open water of Lake St Clair, two girls in jeans and sweatshirts standing on the rear seat with cans of beer in their hands. He sat there for twenty minutes, watching Joey's house, the front windows of his Jeep down, a breeze coming in off the lake. A dozen more boats came down the river heading for open water, a non-stop armada of partiers, drinking, listening to music, and having fun.
He could see the side of Joey's house, his backyard extending to the lake. He could see the dock and a boat on a hoist in a custom boathouse. He waited for an hour. He didn't see anyone come out of the house or go in. He got out of the car and walked to the front door and rang the bell. The garage was on the west side of the house, four varnished wood doors facing east. He rang the bell again and looked through a small round window into the foyer, didn't see anyone.
He went around to the back. Saw sailboats with trim white sails out on the lake and motorboats zigzagging, kicking up white spray. There was a patio made out of decorative pavers, a two-tone color scheme: rose and plum. There was a table with a closed umbrella through the center of it and four chairs. The back of the house had French doors that opened to the patio.
He picked the lock and went into a big room with a cathedral ceiling and big windows that looked out on the water. There was a furniture grouping, two couches and a coffee table and four leather armchairs in the middle of the room. There was a fieldstone fireplace against one wall, and in the corner, a sixty-inch Sony flatscreen on a custom stand. The room was spotless, everything neat and tidy. There were no newspapers or magazines, nothing out of place. It reminded him of a model home, furnished and decorated but nobody lived there.
He moved through the room down a hallway to the kitchen. There was a Krups coffee maker on the counter and a toaster, but nothing else. He opened the refrigerator. It was empty, cleaned out. He moved past the dining room to an office. He looked in. There was an antique desk. He went in and sat behind it and checked the drawers, opened each one. They were all empty. There was a glossy picture book on a table across the room that showed a little girl posing with her hand over her mouth and a title that said A Day in the Life of Italy.
He went upstairs and checked the bedrooms, four suites that had big attached bathrooms with Jacuzzi tubs. Two had spectacular views of the lake. Like the downstairs everything was perfect, beds made, carpet spotless. No clothes in the closets. No toothbrushes or combs or shaving cream or mouthwash in any of the bathrooms.
He went back downstairs through the kitchen into the four-car garage. The enormous space empty except for half a dozen moving boxes sealed with clear packaging tape. Whoever had cleaned the place out didn't have time to finish the job. He squatted and pulled tape off one of the boxes and opened it. There were framed photographs wrapped in newspaper. He unwrapped one. It was a shot of a dark-haired guy in a bathing suit, had to be Joey, posing on his boat. He unwrapped another one and saw the same guy in a golf outfit, grinning with three other guys, big white clubhouse in the background, looked like Oakland Hills. And in the third one, Joey wearing a Softball uniform, same colors as the Oakland As, posing with the team.
He found Visa and American Express credit-card receipts in a manila envelope. He found the title to a 2009 Cadillac STS-V, a 2008 Corvette and a thirty-two-foot Century pleasure craft — everything in the name Joseph S. Palermo, Jr. on Lake Shore Drive.
He dug deeper and saw an Apple PowerBook. He brought it out and put it on top of a wardrobe box. He opened it and pushed the power button and waited till it booted up.
He checked the document file, mailbox and address book. Everything was empty, cleaned out like the refrigerator and the closets. He stared at the icons lined up on the bottom of the screen. He moved the cursor with his left index finger and clicked on Microsoft Entourage. It brought up Mail and he clicked on "Send amp; Receive." Nothing there. He checked Deleted Items. Nothing. Clicked on Sent Items. Everything was erased. He stared at the screen. Scanned the icons again. It didn't look like there was anything in the trash but he clicked on it and opened it, and under Name, he saw: Re- "I'm yours." He clicked on it and took it out of the trash and put it on the desktop and opened it. The message said, "I'll be a little late, but I can spend the night so we can take our time. Love, S." It was from Sharon34@hotmail. com, dated October 2nd 2008. Ray felt sick to his stomach.
He walked out to the boathouse. There were ropes and dock lines on the wood plank floor. He turned a lever on the hoist and lowered the boat into the water. He stepped down on the bow and walked back to the cabin and went below into the galley. He opened drawers and cabinets. Checked the refrigerator. Like the house, it was cleaned out, spotless.
He went forward, looked in the bathroom, tiny closet-size room with a shower and a toilet and sink. He moved into the bedroom or stateroom, whatever it was called. It was dark. He found the switch on the wall, flipped it and half a dozen recessed ceiling lights came on. There was a queen-size bed, comforter tucked neat and tight over it. He sat on the bed, glanced up at a Mitsubishi flatscreen on the wall, then looked through a porthole into the boathouse. He got up, looked at a framed painting of a sunset over the bed. He turned to go and the glint of something caught his eye. He got on his knees. It was stuck in the corner between the carpeting and baseboard. He picked it up and looked at it, a diamond earring. It looked like one he'd given to Sharon, remembered buying it at Astrein's in Birmingham for their tenth anniversary. Sharon couldn't believe he'd actually gone into a store and picked something out for her. He didn't tell her two attractive salesgirls helped and advised him. The earrings had even more significance because he'd missed their ninth anniversary, completely forgot it.