Somewhere in the night a trio played jazz music that echoed through the streets. A Clarinetist, a banjo, and keys. Of course that was any street in this neighborhood, that and the crime, which is a peripheral of my life. You don’t work as a PI and not make friends in the underbelly of the city,
I’d been hired for an easy enough job, a wondering husband. It was fairly routine. He had hit all the ...