The only thing worse than having a hangover, in my opinion, is being hungover and middle-aged. Waking up in a dorm room feeling like s.h.i.t because of the kegger in Rastelli's room is one thing. Waking up with a hangover and facing your daughters, your mortgage payment, your middle-aged life, is really f.u.c.king awful.

"What's wrong?" Anna asked as she shuffled into the kitchen, her bare feet whisking across the wood floor. She had on a pink terry cloth robe and her hair was piled on top of her head like a standard poodle that's treed a squirrel.

"Too much wine. I hate the f.u.c.king French," I said.

"Wine? You don't drink wine."

"Tell that to my liver."

An hour later I rolled into my office and enjoyed the peace and quiet for a moment. I'd taken three Tylenol and an extra cup of coffee to help push the headache away. I sat in my chair for a moment and absorbed the silence. I let my conversations with Shannon and Teddy roll around in my mind. Shannon had issues, I was sure of that. Teddy was just an arrogant p.r.i.c.k.

I checked my mail and tossed it all then sat down and fired up the computer. I did a quick Internet search using the name Teddy Armbruster.

All the expected bulls.h.i.t. Articles about Shannon, mostly. The quote from the manager, telling the world what a talented, special, lovely person Shannon was. Extolling her virtues as a songwriter. Her dreams. Her hopes. And of course, her work with charitable causes, namely helping the children.

Blah blah blah.

Of course, with Shannon's name, the search returned only about thirteen thousand items. I closed the search window and picked up the phone.

"Nate," I said. "It's me, John"

"I'm busy," he said.

"So am I."

"Yeah, but the problem is, your calling me is going to make you less busy and me more busy."

I sighed. "There's a new Chinese place over on Jefferson."

I heard the pause.

"Orchid Gardens?" he said through a mouthful of rapidly rising saliva.

"That's the one."

I pulled the review I'd set aside on my desk from Metro Times. Just for this occasion.

"Ginger chicken with a raspberry sauce," I read. "Saffron soup with steamed clams. Rated five out of five stars by the Metro Times. Have you been there?"

"I want the buffet," he said.

"The whole thing?"

"The buffet, John."

"Oh mother of mercy," I said.

"Goodbye," he said.

I sighed. With the buffet, the ordeal would turn into a four-hour meal.

"Fine. You got the buffet," I said.

"Okay, what do you want?"

"Teddy Armbruster."

"Never heard of him."

"He's Shannon Sparrow's manager," I said. "I want to know where he's from, what he did pre-Shannon. I think he's evil."

"Oh, really."

"Just a hunch."

"An Orchid Garden buffet and we'll know," he said.

"I already said yes."

"I'll call you this afternoon," he said.

"Deal."

We hung up and I was pleased to note that my headache was gone. Maybe the thought of Chinese food alone was some kind of Eastern cure.

I'd delayed calling the number Molly'd given me because I'd hoped to learn a little more about Teddy before we talked. But now that it looked like I wouldn't get any dirt for at least a few hours, it was time to make the call.

I punched in the numbers on the slip of paper. Immediately, I heard some gentle static and knew that it was a cell phone.

A voice answered. "Yes?"

"Molly, it's me. John Rockne."

"I'll call you right back," she said, a hint of panic in her voice. The connection was rudely cut. I wondered how she knew where to call me. But then I remembered she could just check her call log.

The phone rang and I picked it up. That was quick, I thought.

"John Rockne?" the voice asked.

It wasn't Molly, but I thought I recognized the voice.

"Yes," I said.

"It's Shannon."

"Oh. Hi."

"Is this a bad time?"

"Well, uh, I was expecting another call-"

"I enjoyed talking to you at the party," she said. I heard her take a deep inhale. Cigarette or pot?

"You did?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" she said on her exhale. Probably a joint.

"Well, if you ask me, no, not at all. Talk to my friends though..."

"I just wondered if we could meet somewhere and talk," she said. "Do you have somewhere private we could get together?"

"Like, how private?" I said. Boy, this was weird. Shannon Sparrow wanting to meet me somewhere privately? After she says she enjoyed conversing with me?

"What do you think?" she said.

"How about my office?"

Her silence told me that wasn't what she had in mind.

Oh boy. I ran through a few options, one of which included saying no. I dismissed it, though.

"I have a sailboat at Windmill Pointe," I said. It was a piece of s.h.i.t fixer-upper that I'd been meaning to work on for years. Anna and I just kept it to keep the boat slip. There's about a ten-year waiting period for those slips.

"Private marina?" she said.

"Even better," I said, "It's public and totally empty this time of year. No guard to see your car, no attendants to recognize you. Just park in the parking lot, and walk to my slip. No one will know you're there."

"Perfect," she said.

I gave Shannon directions then said, "I'm in slip 48. Air Fare is the name of the boat."

"Air Fare?"

"I bought it from a pilot," I said. "I know, stupid name."

"I can be there tonight."

"So around ten?" I said.

"Okay."

We hung up without saying goodbye. Before I could even contemplate just how weird this was getting, the phone rang again.

"It's me."

I recognized the voice as Molly's. Were she and Shannon trading phones? Handing it back and forth, laughing at how easy it was to trick me?

"I wanted to warn you," she said. It sounded like she was walking somewhere, probably outside.

"Warn me about what?"

"You've asked a lot of questions and there are people who don't want you to get the answers," she said.

"Like who?"

"Look, don't make this difficult-"

"Too late," I said. "People have died. It's already difficult."

"Don't make it more difficult, then. Enough people have been hurt."

I had a hunch and played it. "Is that the real reason you called? Just to warn me? Or do you know something I could use? Something that could help?"

She paused just a second and I knew I was right. "I know it's all about Jesse Barre," she said.

"Yeah, but-"

I heard another voice, in the background. It sounded like a man's and I thought I heard him say Molly's name. Immediately, her voice took on a different tone.

"Look, just make sure the invoices are sent with the proper postage," Molly barked at me. I waited, wondering who had interrupted her. "Okay, okay," she said, this time the panic in her voice was clear. "Right, I'll put it in the mail to you, okay? I'll send it to your office. Right?"

"Send it via a courier, today," I said, understanding.

"Fine. Just don't let this mistake happen again!" she said and then hung up.

Message received, I thought. Did Shannon Sparrow get a lot of invoices? I wondered. Well, creativity wouldn't be at the top of my list for attributes Molly would have. She seemed like a law and order, by the book kind of gal. But the important thing was, she said she'd send whatever it was to my office. I felt like a linebacker who'd broken through the line and was in the backfield, ready to knock the quarterback on his a.s.s.

Okay, I thought. Shannon at ten o'clock tonight.

Nate would call me this afternoon.

That left me a few hours.

Just enough time to chat with my client.

Thirty-nine.