Her mind ran free, loosened by the change from the one-note orbit sander to this instrument of the gods.

As she played, she thought about how she enjoyed every aspect of building guitars. From the beginning design stages, to selecting the raw materials, to the painstaking construction, and all the way through the finishing touches. Each instrument was a unique endeavor, with its own moments of sheer beauty.

At the thought of her craft, a sense of sadness rose within her. The guitar on her table would be the last one she would build for quite some time.

A new chapter was beginning, one that in the deepest, most secret part of her heart, she’d dreamed would one day come true.

Her fingers finished playing the tune with a strong downstroke, and the chord reverberated, its beautiful sound echoing through the shop.

And then she heard the gentle sound of a foot scraping the ground behind her. She turned, peering into the darkness.

The man charged at her with astonishing speed. She got no more than a quick glimpse of his face—a face she may have seen before. His hands were raised over his head. She had just enough time to recognize the heavy hammer she sometimes used to tap a chisel along the rough edges of a plank of wood. It was in his hands, raised high, coming toward her.

She ducked her head, and then, in the final act of her life, she put her arms around the guitar and leaned over it, trying to protect it.

Jesse Barre never felt the crushing blow that caved in her skull and drove her from her stool onto the floor.

Her blood pooled on the concrete, the flakes of sawdust soaking up the crimson liquid.

The guitar remained safe, still cradled in her arms.

Chapter Three

“So here’s the hook,” Nate said.

We were in a booth at the Village Grill, a little Greek diner smack dab in the middle of Grosse Pointe proper. It had big, overstuffed booths, low lighting conditions, and a bar with a brass rail and a big-screen TV. The perfect lunch spot for two guys who thought arugula was an island somewhere near the Caribbean.

Nate Becker was the only full-time reporter for the Grosse Pointe Times and a friend from way back. We’d known each other since he was a chubby little kid who got picked on all the time and I was his defender. Unless the wind happened to be blowing the other way and I was one of the kids picking on him. You know how kids are. We were no different.

Now we were both grownups, sort of, and he was doing a piece on me, John Rockne, Grosse Pointe’s very own private investigator. It was part of a monthly feature on local businesses. Last week it was the lady caterer whose van was decorated like a giant swordfish.

Prestigious company indeed.

I hadn’t really done anything to deserve the attention, but the business district of Grosse Pointe isn’t very big—sooner or later, it’s just your turn.

“Hook?” I said.

“Yeah, you know, the angle of the story. The unique approach that intrigues the reader.”

“What was your hook for the swordfish lady?”

“I didn’t need one for her. She was interesting.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So let’s hear it.”

Nate spread his hands like he was serving me a platter of caviar. “You’re the PI who doesn’t just fight crime, you fight clichés,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and signaled the waitress. She came over, a cute girl in her twenties wearing the unfortunate decision of a pierced tongue. I made a mental note to floss after lunch. I ordered two Cokes. Diet for me, regular for Nate.

“What?” he said. “It’s a perfect hook.”

I recognized the look in Nate’s eye. It meant he had just gotten in a fresh load of bullshit, and he needed to spew.

“Cliché fighter?” I said.

He nodded as the waitress set our Cokes down on the table. “You’re not some shady bum with a checkered past,” he said. “A half-criminal who has more in common with the thugs he chases than he does with the rest of us on the right side of the law.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re full of it,” I said.

“Work with me, dumb ass,” he said. “You went to college, got a degree in criminology . . .”

“. . . and a minor in psychology. . .”

“. . . worked as a cop to learn the ropes, then worked for a big PI firm before getting your own license.”

I actually appreciated Nate’s effort. Most of it was true. The problem was he had conveniently edited out a certain bad spot in my career. For Nate, the problem was twofold. One, I was his friend, and he didn’t want to dredge up bad memories. And two, the story had been told already. Many, many times.

So Nate would skip it altogether. I guess that’s the beauty of editing.

“You don’t carry a gun,” he said. He was on a roll, and I didn’t want to stop him.

“Just a Nikon.”

“You’re definitely not a tall, dark, and handsome, Mickey Spillane-type ladies man.”

I just shook my head at that one. “You’ve got a real nose for the truth,” I said.

“What?” he said. “You didn’t get your hands on a pair of tits until the dairy farm field trip our senior year of high school.”

He had a point there, the bastard.

“The fact that you’re married is less about you and more about the unceasing generosity of women.”

“Glad you’re not pulling any punches,” I said. “I think I’ll go back to my office and hang myself.”

Our food arrived. A turkey on rye for me. A Double Boss Burger with an extra large order of fries for Nate. Food was his way to deal with stress. Three years ago, his first child, a boy, had been born without a pulmonary artery. A small oversight on the ultrasound technician’s part. After many operations, the little guy was doing fine, but there was still a certain amount of concern about him. Nate, at five feet eight inches, had always been a little chunky. Now he weighed nearly three hundred fifty pounds.

“Plus, you’re not some lone wolf, like PIs are supposed to be,” he continued. “You know, the guy haunted by some lost love, or grieving over the unfortunate death of his young wife. You’re a family man with two young girls.” Nate doused his fries with salt and took a huge bite from his Boss Burger.

“And don’t forget,” I said. “No one’s firebombed my house or framed me as a presidential assassin.”

Nate nodded. He knew everything there was to know about me. This interview was really just an excuse to get together for lunch, which we do every week anyway, but because of the story, it was being paid for by the paper.

“Here’s a thought,” I said. “This may sound kind of crazy—but do you think you can actually work in a few positive things—you know, stuff that might actually be good for business?”

“Won’t that be false advertising?” he said through a mouth full of fries.

“Good point,” I said. “Stick with your ‘ugly and dull’ angle. Customers will be beating down my door.”

“The truth shall set you free,” he said.

“Okay, I like the whole ‘Average Joe’ approach,” I said. “As long as you don’t make me sound like I’m light in the loafers.”

“So you want me to lie.”

“I’m just a normal guy trying to do a good job for his customers. I’m fair, honest, and reliable.”

“Fucking boring as a box of rocks,” Nate said.

I was going to give him a shot back, but he’d already tucked into the Boss Burger. I knew that he was so into his meal there was no doubt about whether or not he was listening. It didn’t matter. He’d do a good story on me.

And since the paper was buying, I ordered another Diet Coke.

Cliché fighter, my ass.