.

right, Ron,” Dom added, using the shortened form of our pianist’s name, fully aware how much it irritated him.

      “So what are we supposed to do now?” the pianist asked stupidly.

      Getting to my feet, I swallowed my second drink in one gulp.“We get up on the stage, say that Miss Olivia is indisposed and get on with it. Whether she’s here or not, we still have to play three sets, unless everyone leaves, which is more than likely once they find out she isn’t singing.”

      I was right about the audience making a beeline for the exit. The early spring weather outside promised to become pretty beastly, with wet snow forecast for later in the night. By the time our second set finished, there were about a dozen customers left, most of them pretty drunk.

      “This is just swell,” Dom said glumly as he took a miniscule sip of his next beer. “This puts us right back where we started.”

      Ronald looked at our bassist with disgust. “What are you moaning about? There are other chick singers out there – if we decide to go that route again. They’re all more trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me.”

      “Come off it!” I said angrily. “None of us has ever worked with someone of Olivia’s calibre. Talent like hers doesn’t wander in here every night.”

      “What makes you think she isn’t coming back?” Dom asked, guiding the discussion into less contentious waters.

      It was a fair question. Neither Olivia nor the two guys who carted her off had given any indication what was going on, but it was her behaviour that had really spooked me. My swollen eye throbbed a reminder as I frowned.

      “I should go to the cops,” I said.

      “For the roughing up you got? Good luck if you didn’t have any witnesses.” Dom took a bigger swig of his beer. “As for Olivia, did she say she didn’t want to go with them? Did she struggle?”

      “Well, no.”

      “Then the cops won’t be interested. She’s not a child.”

      “She acts like a child often enough,” Ronald grumbled.

      “So what can I do?” I asked, ignoring him.

      Dom looked up. “You actually serious?”

      “Sure. Olivia may be in some kind of trouble. The way those two guys behaved didn’t exactly fill me with confidence, even if she didn’t protest at all.”

      Dom nodded. “Remember when I got divorced a few years back? Well, I didn’t feel like saying much at the time, but I caught my wife cheating. Actually, I hired a private investigator to find that out for me. He was loud and a little bit cocky, but seemed pretty competent. I could put you in touch with him if you are serious.”

      Suddenly, I realized I was. “Can you give me his phone number?”

      “I don’t think I have it any more, but I can tell you how to find him.”

      I took out the small black gig book I carry. “Okay, shoot.”

      “Know that instrument rental outfit north of the city off Woodbine Avenue?”

      “Quinn? Sure.”

      “This investigator’s got an office at the opposite end of the same building. That’s how I found him. I was renting some equipment for an out of town gig and stopped in to see him on the spur of the moment. I’d had some suspicions about my wife for a few months. It didn’t take this guy long to come up with everything I needed: names, videos, the whole sordid shooting match.”

      Dom had steadfastly refused to talk about his failed marriage for the past two years, and now I couldn’t shut him up long enough to get the information I needed. “Dom! The guy’s name?”

      “O’Brien. Rob O’Brien. Good guy. I think the company is called O’Brien Investigates.”

      For the first time in many months, Dom ordered a second beer before we went on for our last set. Old wounds, when reopened before they’ve completely healed, often need painkillers of one kind or another.

      At least that’s been my experience.

      ***

      Sleet arrived sometime in the middle of the night, lashing the windows of Shannon O’Brien’s room in the old farmhouse with enough noise to wake her.

      After a half hour of fruitless effort, she decided that sleep would not be returning and switched on the light above her side of the bed. Disgustedly grabbing the pillows, she propped them up behind herself and leaned back to check the alignment. Once comfortable, she picked up the book she was currently reading.

      Five minutes later, she hadn’t read a single word.

      Later that morning, Shannon had to make a decision about taking on a new operative. That normally wasn’t a difficult decision, but this time the mix was different. The loss of one of her longtime employees had thrown a monkey wrench the size of Winnipeg into the normally smooth-running machinery of O’Brien Investigates.

      Several things in the submitted documentation and subsequent follow-up on the prospective employee had raised red flags, tiny ones, true, but it was the little things in her line of work that bit you in the ass. Normally, she’d just wait for the next resumé, but at the moment the firm really needed another person.

      The dismissed employee had also been a big blow to Shannon’s pride. Warren Duke, experienced and likeable, had been with her since the beginning. He had probably been padding his expenses that long, too, as she’d discovered the previous week. What hurt even more was that she’d only discovered his duplicity by accident.

      Shannon did not like failing, but she detested being made a fool of, and Warren had done that in spades.

      “I’m getting to old for this shit,” she told herself as she dropped the book to the floor, rearranged the pillows and snapped off the light.

      Lying on her side, her left arm flopped out to where Michael should be. If he were here now, she’d pull herself against his warmth, and they’d hunker down together against the storm outside. She always felt so safe with him.

      As four turned to five, Shannon eventually dozed off, but her dreams were troubled and uneasy.

      ***

      After a long night of gigging, I found myself travelling up Highway 404 that miserable Wednesday in driving rain. It was far too early to be up.

      April can be a pretty grey month in Southern Ontario, but Toronto always looks extra grimy at the end of a long winter, especially when the highway spray kicks up a four-month accumulation of dirt and salt onto your windshield.

      The day reflected my mood perfectly as the traffic crawled along south of Finch Avenue.

      As I exited at Steeles, everything halted because of a collision in the intersection. By the time the traffic got moving, I seriously considered turning around and going back home. But my swollen eye was still throbbing, and that hardened my resolve to find out what the hell was going on – and possibly pay back the guy who’d popped me one.

      As expected, I hadn’t heard a thing from Olivia. I’d toyed with trying to get in touch with her friend Maggie to find out if she knew anything, but considering the bad blood between us, I wasn’t sure what good it would do. She’d just blame me for what had happened.

      With all these thoughts running through my head, I pulled into the small industrial mall where this O’Brien character had his office. It felt odd to be looking for a private investigator. Other than Dom – and that had certainly been news to me – the only people I knew who consulted private eyes were on TV or lived between the pages of books.

      The previous evening’s events had so unnerved me, I had just driven up without calling first. Pretty stupid thing to do, if you think about it. What if they’d moved or gone