“I’m going to keep working,” I said. She nodded. Anna now knew the details of the case, was caught up in it nearly as much as I was, and she probably didn’t want me to stop.

“I just want you to be more careful. Call Ellen if you think you’re going to be in any kind of danger, all right?”

“All right.”

“Because you know, you’re not a tough guy. You’re no Russell Crowe.”

I took that one in stride. “Very true. Very true.”

All in all, I thought it had gone pretty well. Anna didn’t seem too unhappy. I was safe. I would be more careful. I would get to the bottom of all this, and it would be a good case to solve.

Things were going to be okay.

Chapter Seventeen

Muddy’s Saloon is a blues bar just a stone’s throw from the Detroit River. All of the greats have played there, leaving behind them the wail of a blues shout and a framed, signed picture.

The Spook stood in the lobby and looked at the pictures. John Lee Hooker, young and handsome with a sharp-looking felt hat and thick, black sunglasses. Elmore James with his lean face and hawk nose. B.B. King and Lucille. Howlin’ Wolf. And Muddy himself.

The Spook walked through the doorway to the right of the bar to the small room in back with the stage. It had a small wooden platform with a dozen tables scattered around in front. Thick cigarette smoke filled the air, and the wood floor breathed with the smell of thirty years worth of spilled beer.

The stage itself was only up a step or two, and it had a piano in one corner, a big mahogany upright that probably weighed a ton or two. There were two microphones at the front, and an old wooden stool sat in the middle.

The Spook had been to Detroit before. Quite a few times, in fact. After leaving the Agency and going freelance, some of his first jobs had been right here. There always seemed to be a lot of open contracts in Detroit.

In fact, it was on one of his first jobs that he’d heard about open mic night at Muddy’s Saloon. Back then, though, he’d been too busy to attend. Tonight was different. His job hadn’t officially started yet, which gave him a rare night off. He’d brought his guitar and was ready to play.

Half of the tables were occupied, mostly by other players, although the Spook noticed one table with a man and a woman sharing a pitcher of Heineken.

A man was on stage playing a serviceable Taj Mahal tune. His accompaniment was simple, his voice good if a bit tentative. The Spook took a seat and ordered a beer. He would hardly touch it.

Two songs later, the man on stage hit the last note of a Howlin’ Wolf song and quietly put away his guitar and left the stage. The Master of Ceremonies, a big, pudgy white guy with a fedora and black shirt, asked the audience who would like to play next.

The Spook immediately stood and headed for the stage.

“All right! We got an eager one!” the MC said.

The Spook slid the Martin guitar from its case and tuned by ear. He slid into the “Midnight Rambler” shuffle, and everything felt good. Felt tight.

“Have you heard about the Midnight Rambler?” he sang. His voice wasn’t great. He had more of a growl than a true singing voice, but it was his playing that he was most proud of anyway. He played, his rhythm line aggressive and precise.

His intense concentration was broken slightly by something on the periphery of his awareness. He heard the man at the table with the woman snicker softly.

The Spook ignored him, turned back into himself and sang, “The one you never seen before.” His foot tapped the oak floor, and the Martin bounced on his thigh. He rocked through the song, feeling strong and confident. When he finished muted applause broke out.

And then the man at the table spoke. Not real loud, but loud enough for most of the people in the room to hear. “Pick a key and stick with it, man!” A little bit of soft laughter broke out.

The Spook ignored him, and did two more numbers: “The Spider and the Fly,” and “Love in Vain.”

When he stepped down from the stage, the man at the table who’d heckled him earlier clapped especially loud.

The Spook sat back down at his table. He quietly put the Martin back into its case and wrapped his fingers around his beer, but didn’t take a drink.

He watched as an obese woman with a jumbo acoustic played a haunting version of a Son House song. Her guitar playing was basic, but her voice was beautiful. The man at the table who’d heckled the Spook was ignoring her, concentrating on the woman at the table with him. The Spook studied the man. He had on a white shirt and tie, slicked back hair, and glasses. He looked like an accountant. Something shifted inside the Spook’s stomach. For the first time, he took a sip of beer.

The heckler ordered another pitcher of beer from the waitress and then excused himself from the table. The Spook waited while the man passed by the table and out the door to the bathroom.

After a moment, the Spook picked up his guitar case and followed. He leaned his case against the jukebox just outside the door to the bar and went to the men’s room. He stepped inside, shut the door, and stood with his back against it as he slid the Ruger automatic out of his jacket’s inside pocket. He lifted the silencer from the other jacket pocket and quickly screwed it onto the end of the pistol. There was only one stall in the bathroom and no urinal. The Spook listened to the man finish up. The stall door swung open, and the accountant appeared. He looked up at the Spook, then away, then back again. An O formed on his mouth as he saw the gun. He started to raise his hands.

The Spook shot him twice in the face.

The man fell back into the stall. The Spook stepped in, placed the barrel of the gun against the man’s skull, and fired once more. He then slipped the gun back into his pocket, hoisted the dead man onto the toilet, and shut the stall door.

From the doorway, it looked like just another guy taking a crap.

The Spook walked back to the door, picked up his guitar case, and stepped outside. As the door swung shut, he heard the faint voice of the obese woman singing, “Nobody knows you when you’re down and out . . .”

Ain’t that the truth, he thought.

Chapter Eighteen

I attended a seminar once. It was hosted by a private investigator, and believe me, I know a write-off when I see it. Anyway, the seminar was put on by a woman from Los Angeles who claimed to work for celebrities and had, at least according to herself, been involved with some extremely big, high-profile cases. I suppose when an actress insures her left ass cheek for five million dollars, they probably hire a lot of security personnel.

I ponied up the three hundred bucks for an afternoon of learning the tricks of the trade from one of the self-proclaimed experts in my field. Personally, I thought the woman was worthy of investigation herself, but I could be rather skeptical. And as a con, wouldn’t it be a hoot to pull the wool over the eyes of a room full of wannabe private investigators? Reference check, anyone?

Anyway, I remembered laughing out loud at one of her points. She had quizzed the audience about what abilities we felt were the most important for a PI to possess. The crowd threw out self-delusional concepts such as courage, tenacity, and perceptiveness.

It turned out the correct answer was the ability to listen.

I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. It just sounded so New Age to me. I mean, I understood her point and all, but I just pictured myself in my office, acting like Bob Newhart. A client tells me his wife is cheating on him and I say, “Go with that. How does that make you feel? I’m listening, friend.”