Chapter 8

Brad’s private number, we found, wasn’t available in any of the three phone books that cover Warner Pier. Joe also couldn’t find it online, even though we both knew where the Davis family compound was located. It wasn’t more than a mile from us, in a more upscale area along Lake Shore Drive.

“We know where he lives,” I said. “I suppose we could go to the gate and raise a ruckus.”

“And have the security system alarm bells going off? I guess I’ll wait until morning and try his office.”

We both avoided any conversation about Spud Dirk for the rest of the evening. But I knew Joe hadn’t forgotten. I could tell by the way he didn’t mention words such as “flip,” “loan,” “mortgage,” or “property.” Their absence was significant.

Joe wasn’t one to dodge a problem for very long. When I brought the coffeepot to the table at seven thirty the next morning, he was already looking up the number of the VanHorn-Davis Foundation.

“It’s pretty early to be calling a business office,” I said. “I was going to wait until nine o’clock before I called to ask about getting a set of guidelines on how to apply for a grant from the VHD.”

“I can always leave a message,” Joe said. “But I want to reach Brad as soon as he’s available.”

He had to leave a message, but he left it with a person, not a machine. And Bradley Davis replied before Joe left for his office in Holland.

Their greetings weren’t as complicated as the greeting with Tad had been. Since Joe and Brad lived in the same town, the “What are you up to these days?” question didn’t arise. But this was a touchier situation. I waited to see how Joe would approach it.

Naturally, he tackled it head-on. “Brad, had you seen much of Spud Dirk recently?”

There was a brief silence before Brad answered. Then he laughed. “I saw as little of him as possible,” he said.

“So you weren’t part of the Spud Dirk fan club?”

“We didn’t quarrel in public . . .”

“You mean like he and I did.”

“The way I heard it at the coffee shop, Spud didn’t give you much of an out when it came to quarrelling. But how can I help you?”

“Have you heard what happened to Spud?”

“I heard he’d been killed. But I don’t quite believe all the supposed details that are flying around town. Do you have the real story?”

“As much as is known, I guess.”

I was relieved when Joe managed not to mention the pistol Digger and I found. Since Spud hadn’t been shot, I was assuring myself that his demise had nothing to do with that.

No, Joe’s story ended with our meeting with Star in the Dock Street Pizza Place.

“Star’s claim leaves me highly curious,” Joe said. “Did Spud leave a legal document that could cause Hogan and me trouble with the purchase of the Bailey house? Or was Star simply blowing off steam?”

“I’ve got a question, too, Joe. Why are you asking me?”

“Because Tad told us he thought other Sharks might know something about the way Spud ran his business.”

“I certainly don’t know anything about Spud’s dealings. None of them were with the Foundation. I think Spud had only one connection to the Foundation, and that was that he got a scholarship from us nearly twenty years ago. We are not interested in real estate development.”

“Yes,” Joe said. “I think most people around here know the foundation only handles charitable and community development grants.”

The comments were interesting. Somehow Brad pronounced the word “foundation” so that it started with a capital letter. When Joe said the word, it came out as a more generic term. I expected Brad to tell Joe he was saying it wrong. But all Brad said was, “Correct.”

Joe went on. “Of course, I understand that you have a certain number of personal investments.”

“True, Joe. But I limit those to publicly traded stocks and bonds. I don’t do anything local. You can understand why.”

“Sure. You don’t want any conflict-of-interest problems with the foundation. I think you’re wise. So that’s why I was surprised by Star’s claim that members of the old Sharks club . . .”

Brad laughed. “Not ‘club,’ Joe. ‘Gang.’ For some crazy reason I don’t remember, we prided ourselves on being a ‘gang.’”

Joe laughed, too. “We’re all crazy when we’re teenagers, Brad. Which leads me to another question. What broke up the old gang?”

“Broke it up?”

“Yes. I talked to Tad last night, and his reaction surprised me.”

“Why was that?”

“He refused to talk about Spud at all. Nothing good. Nothing bad. He just refused to say anything. He didn’t even say as much as ‘Sorry to hear about Spud.’”

“Interesting.”

“So, I thought I might as well try talking to you and Sharpy to find out if your reactions were the same.”

This time Brad chuckled. “It does seem weird, Joe. And I have to tell you I don’t have anything much to say about Spud either.”

“So you’re not going to reveal why guys who were supposedly Spud’s high school friends seem to be down on him?”

“If there was a reason—well, I guess we finally caught on to what a jerk he was.”

“What kind of a jerk was he?”

“Highly personable. You knew him. Outgoing. Always telling jokes. But we began to realize they were usually cruel jokes. The rest of us, we may have been dumb teenagers, but we weren’t usually cruel.”

I felt surprised. After all, Brad had been the butt of the cruelest joke of all, the fake holdup. But Joe didn’t point that out.

“Was there one joke that, well, broke the camel’s back?”

“No, the breaking point came as you’d expect it to with guys that age. Over a girl.”

“Oh? Anybody I know?”

“I doubt it. This girl was from Allegan.”

“Star?”

“Oh no. Not her. I’m not even sure I can remember this girl’s name. But both Tad and Chip liked her, and she was playing them against each other. But they were friendly about it. Then Spud got in the act. Swept her off her feet some way and beat out both Tad and Chip.”

“Hmm. That surprises me.”

“I recall being surprised myself. At the time. But the result was that Chip and Tad were furious with Spud. Neither of them wanted to pal around with him anymore. Basically, it ended the Sharks.”

“Ended them?”

“I’m afraid so, Joe. Listen, I’ve got a call on another line, and it’s one I’d better take. If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to call back. But I don’t know anything about Spud and his business dealings.”

Brad hung up.

Joe was still frowning at the phone. He reached slowly across and tapped the disconnect button on the cell phone. Then he spoke.

“Liar,” he said.