Diamond's sat on Woodward Avenue in a restored building that had probably been something important a hundred years ago.

  The facade was original brick with tall windows, but everything else had been renovated into modern elegance. Soft lighting, a brass-trimmed entrance, a discreet sign that glowed white against the brick.

  August pulled the Raptor into a parking spot across the street. It was eight o'clock on a Friday night, early enough that the real crowd hadn't arrived yet. A few people walked past the entrance, a couple went inside.

  No line, no velvet ropes, no bouncer checking IDs.

  He crossed the street and went in.

  The interior was upscale without trying too hard. Exposed brick walls, dark hardwood floors, Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling on brass fixtures. The bar ran along the left side, made of reclaimed wood with a marble top. Booths lined the opposite wall, leather and well-spaced for privacy. A small stage sat in the back corner where a jazz trio would probably play later.

  The crowd was thin. A few couples in booths, some business types at high-top tables near the windows. Well-dressed, professional, the kind of place where a drink cost twenty dollars and nobody complained.

  August walked to the bar and sat on a stool that creaked under his weight. The bartender was a man in his early thirties, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a black vest. He had a carefully groomed beard and the efficient movements of someone who knew his craft.

  He set a coaster down in front of August. "What can I get you?"

  "Boilermaker."

  The bartender nodded, no judgment. "What whiskey?"

  "Whatever's good."

  "Bourbon or rye?"

  "Bourbon."

  The bartender turned, selected a bottle from the middle shelf, poured two fingers into a rocks glass. Then he pulled a local beer from the cooler, some Detroit brewery August had never heard of, popped the cap, and set both on the bar.

  "Eighteen dollars."

  August pulled two twenties from his wallet, told him to keep it. The bartender nodded thanks and moved down the bar to help someone else.

  August drank the bourbon first. It was smooth, probably too smooth for what he usually drank. Then he sipped the beer, watched the room, got a feel for the place.

  This was the kind of establishment that attracted a certain crowd. Money, but not excessive. Style, but not pretentious. Carlos Mendoza would have fit right in here. A rising star athlete, well-dressed, confident.

  The kind of guy who made other men envious and women interested.

  The music playing over the speakers was jazz, instrumental, volume low enough to allow conversation. A few more people came in, took seats at the bar or booths. The bartender worked steadily, mixing drinks with practiced precision.

  August finished his beer and the bartender appeared immediately. "Another round?"

  "Yeah."

  This time the bartender poured from a different bottle, something with a more expensive label. He set down a fresh beer alongside it. August paid again, tipped well.

  "Been here long?" August asked.

  "Three years. Since they opened."

  "Good spot."

  "Best cocktails in Detroit, if you ask the owner." The bartender smiled slightly. "Though I notice you're sticking with the basics."

  "What’s that saying about the simple things?"

  "Very true." The bartender started to move away.

  "You work Thursday nights?" August asked.

  The bartender stopped, turned back. His expression shifted slightly. "Sometimes. Why?"

  August pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, folded it once, set it on the bar. "I need to talk to your manager. About Thursday night."

  The bartender looked at the money, then at August.

  “You know, the cops already came by. We gave them everything.”

  "I'm not a cop."

  "I can see that." The bartender picked up the money, held it for a moment, making a decision. Then he pocketed it. "Wait here."

  He disappeared through a door marked 'Private' behind the bar. August sipped his bourbon, watched the room. Nobody was paying attention to him. A couple at a nearby booth were deep in conversation. Three men at a high-top were talking about a business deal, their voices low but animated.

  Five minutes later, a man emerged from the back. Late forties, salt-and-pepper hair styled carefully, wearing an expensive suit without a tie. He had the look of someone who'd succeeded in business, who'd seen enough of the world to know how it worked. He walked to where August sat and extended his hand.

  "Donny DeLisle. I own Diamond's."

  August shook his hand. "August High."

  "My bartender says you want to talk about Thursday night."

  "That's right."

  DeLisle gestured to a booth in the far corner, away from the other patrons. "Let's talk somewhere more private."

  They crossed the room and sat. DeLisle settled into his side of the booth with the ease of someone who spent a lot of time there. August barely fit, his knees hitting the underside of the table.

  "You're investigating the murdered driver," DeLisle said. It wasn't a question.

  "More or less."

  "The police already took our security footage. Interviewed everyone who was here Thursday night."

  "I know. I’d like to hear what you told them and see that footage, too."

  "That's not how this usually works."

  August pulled out his wallet, counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, set them on the table. DeLisle looked at the money without touching it.

  "I don't need money, Mr. High. Diamond's does very well."

  "Everyone needs money."

  "What I need is for this not to become a problem. A murdered customer is bad for business. Police attention is bad for business. Private investigators asking questions is bad for business." DeLisle leaned forward slightly. "What I need is for this to go away quietly."

  "Then help me solve it. The faster I find who killed Mendoza, the faster the attention goes away."

  DeLisle considered this. His fingers drummed once on the table, a brief staccato. Then he picked up the money, folded it, slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  "Follow me."

  They went through the door behind the bar, down a hallway with framed photographs of Detroit landmarks, and into an office. It was small but well-appointed. A desk with a computer, filing cabinets, a leather chair. DeLisle sat behind the desk, woke up the computer, typed a password.

  "Thursday night, Carlos Mendoza arrived around ten-thirty. He was alone. Had three drinks at the bar, talked to a few people. Around eleven-forty-five, a woman approached him." DeLisle clicked through files, found what he was looking for. "The police took copies of all our security footage. But I made extras. Just in case."

  He turned the monitor so August could see. Black-and-white footage, high quality, multiple camera angles stitched together. Carlos at the bar, laughing, his expensive watch catching the light. Then a woman appearing beside him. Blonde hair, tight dress, heels. They talked. She laughed at something he said. He bought her a drink.

  "He left with her around midnight," DeLisle said. "They walked out together. That's the last time anyone here saw him alive."

  "Can you print some stills from this? The best shots of the woman's face."

  DeLisle worked the mouse, clicked through frames. "Police asked for the same thing. I've got copies." He opened a drawer, pulled out a folder, handed it to August. "Four different angles. Best resolution I could get."

  August opened the folder. Four photographs, eight-by-ten glossy prints. The woman from different angles, different moments. Her face was clear in two of them. Blonde hair past her shoulders, attractive in a way that seemed calculated. High cheekbones, full lips, the kind of beauty that turned heads and opened doors.

  And August had seen her before.

  He stared at the photo, his mind working. Where? Not at The Twelve. Not at his loft. Somewhere today. Somewhere at the track.

  It nagged at him, just out of reach. A face in a crowd, a figure in the background. She'd been at the Grand Prix. He was sure of it. But where exactly?

  "You recognize her?" DeLisle asked.

  "No."

  "The police are trying to identify her. So far, no luck. She paid cash for her drinks, didn't give a name. None of my staff had seen her before Thursday."

  August looked at the other photos. Different angles, same woman. In one shot, she was looking directly at the camera, her expression neutral. Professional. Like she knew where the cameras were and didn't care.

  "Can I keep these?" August asked.

  "They're yours. Like I said, I made extras."

  August closed the folder, stood. The office felt cramped with his size. "You remember anything else about that night? Anything unusual?"

  "No."

  August thanked him and made his way back through the bar. The crowd had grown, the music slightly louder. He pushed through the door onto Woodward Avenue, the folder tucked under his arm.

  The night air was warm and heavy. Traffic moved past, people walking between bars and restaurants. Detroit on a Friday night, alive with movement and noise.

  August crossed to his truck, climbed in, turned on the interior light. He opened the folder again, studied each photo. The woman's face stared back at him. Attractive, cold, calculating.

  He'd seen her today. He was certain. But the track had been crowded with people. Team owners, sponsors, journalists, mechanics. Hundreds of faces, dozens of corporate suites. Finding her again meant going through all of it, systematically, until something clicked.

  The track would be closed now. Practice sessions over, teams packing up for the night. He'd have to wait until tomorrow morning, go back, start looking.

  August started the engine and pulled into traffic. He drove through downtown, heading toward his loft.

  Twenty minutes later, he parked in the lot outside his building. It was an old warehouse converted to lofts, industrial and bare bones. He took the exterior metal stairs up to the top floor, unlocked the heavy door, and stepped inside.

  The loft was exactly as he'd left it. Open space, exposed brick, polished concrete floors. Minimal furniture—a leather couch, a glass coffee table, a bed in the far corner. The home gym took up one section, free weights and a heavy bag. An armory room behind a locked door held his weapons collection.

  August dropped the folder on the coffee table, went to the kitchen area, poured three fingers of whiskey into a glass. He didn't bother with ice. Just drank it neat, standing at the window overlooking the Detroit River.

  The city spread out below him, lights reflecting off the water. In the distance, he could see Windsor across the river in Canada. The Grand Prix barriers and grandstands were dark now, waiting for tomorrow.

  He thought about Isabella Ortiz. The way she'd looked at him in that hotel suite, direct and unflinching. Most people were intimidated by his size, his scars, his presence.

  She hadn't been.

  August finished his whiskey, poured another. He didn't usually let himself think about women like Isabella. They existed in a different world, a world of private jets and presidential suites. He was a Detroit PI who lived in a converted warehouse and solved problems with his fists as often as his brain.

  But still. She'd looked at him like he was exactly what she needed.

  He set down the empty glass, turned off the lights, and lay down on his bed.

  He was what Isabella needed.

  Maybe he needed her, too.

  SATURDAY

  Part Three

  THE FIX

  9

  August woke at six, his internal clock more reliable than any alarm.

  The loft was quiet, morning light filtering through the industrial windows. He lay still for a moment, his mind already working through the day ahead.

  He got up, showered, dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Made coffee in the small kitchen, drank it black while looking out at the river. The city was waking up. Traffic building on the streets below, the sun climbing over Windsor.

  By six-thirty he was in the Raptor, driving toward the east side. Pops' gym opened early, always had. The old man kept boxers’ hours, up before dawn, believed in earning the day before it started.

  The gym sat along the Detroit River in a neighborhood that had seen better days.

  A low brick building with bars on the windows and a faded sign that just said "Walker's." August had grown up here, learned to fight here, learned what it meant to take a punch and keep standing.

  He parked in the small lot, walked to the door. It was unlocked. Inside, the gym smelled the way it always had. Sweat, leather, the ghost of thousands of training sessions. The heavy bags hung from chains, the ring sat in the center under fluorescent lights, speed bags waited on their platforms.

  Pops was in his office, a small room off the main floor with a desk, a filing cabinet, and photographs covering every inch of wall space. Boxers from fifty years ago, fighters who'd trained here, a few who'd made it to the professional ranks. Pops himself in his prime, a flyweight with a punch that had torn apart the retina in his left eye and ended his career.

  He looked up when August filled the doorway. "You're up early."

  "I’m always up early."

  "I don’t know about that,” Pops said. He leaned back in his chair. He looked ancient, his hair white, his face weathered. But his eyes were still sharp.

  "You eating?"

  "At some point."

  "That's what I thought." Pops stood, moved past August into the gym. He was small, maybe five-six, but he moved with the economy of someone who'd spent his life in the ring. "Come here."

  August followed him to the heavy bag. Pops held it steady.

  "Hit it."

  "I'm good."

  "Humor an old man."

  August threw a jab. The bag barely moved.

  "Again. Harder this time."

  August hit it again, putting some weight behind it. The bag swung slightly on its chain.

  "You're holding back," Pops said.

  August threw a combination. Jab, cross, hook. The bag shuddered under the impacts. He threw another, then another, his body falling into the rhythm. Left, right, left. His knuckles connected with the worn leather, the chain creaked overhead.

  "That's better," Pops said.

  August stopped, breathing slightly harder. His hands felt warm, the tension in his shoulders loosened.

  "Something bothering you?" Pops asked.

  "Just an old man who asks too many questions."

  Pops smiled. "You got a look in your eye. Same look you used to get when you were younger and some girl caught your attention. Who is she?"

  "Nobody."

  "Okay.” Pops let go of the bag, stepped back.

  They stood there for a moment in the quiet gym, morning light slanting through the high windows.

  "You need anything?" August asked.

  "I woke up this morning, what more could I ask for?"

  August nodded, left the gym and drove back toward downtown. The track wouldn't be fully operational until nine or ten, but he could get there early, start working the corporate suites before the crowds arrived. Show the photographs around, see if anyone recognized the woman despite the disguise.

  His phone rang. Gretchen Mercer's name on the screen.

  August answered. "Yeah."

  "August, where are you?"

  "Heading to the track. Why?"

  "Did you hear the news?"

  “About what?”

  “Someone found a woman murdered. She was in a stolen Maserati. They found her about an hour ago. I just heard it over the police scanner."

  "Where?"

  "Abandoned lot off Rosa Parks Boulevard." Gretchen paused. "They're saying the car was stolen. Reported missing Thursday night."

  "I'm on my way," August said.

  "I'll text you the exact address? And you owe me one."

  August ended the call, made a U-turn at the next light. His phone buzzed with a text from Gretchen. An address on the east side, not far from where he'd just been at Pops' gym.

  He drove fast, the Raptor's engine growling as he pushed through traffic.

  August turned onto Rosa Parks Boulevard, watching for the address. He passed industrial buildings, empty lots, a few houses that looked like they'd been abandoned years ago.

  Then he saw the police cars.

  Three of them, light bars flashing, parked around a vacant lot surrounded by chain-link fence.

  He pulled to the curb half a block away, got out, and walked toward the scene.

  10

  The lot was cordoned off with yellow police tape strung between metal posts.

  Three patrol cars sat at angles, their light bars still flashing red and blue. An ambulance idled nearby, the paramedics standing idle because there was no one to save.

  August walked to the tape. A uniformed officer saw him coming and moved to intercept.

  "Crime scene. Stay back."

  "I'm working the Carlos Mendoza case. The guy who owned that car."

  The officer looked August up and down, taking in his size, his scars, his general appearance. "You a cop?"

  "Private investigator."

  The officer's expression went cold. "Then you need to leave. This is an active crime scene."

  "I just need to see⁠—"

  "Sir, I'm not asking. Back up. Now."

  August stopped at the tape but didn't move back. Beyond the officer, he could see the Maserati sitting in the center of the lot. Black, sleek, expensive.

  Crime scene techs had set up portable screens around the driver's side, blocking the view. A white sheet covered something in the front seat.

  Two detectives in suits were standing near the car, talking to each other. A crime scene tech was taking photographs from different angles.

  "I need you to move," the officer said again. His hand had drifted toward his belt, toward the radio clipped there.

  August took a step back but stayed close enough to see. The officer watched him for a moment, then returned to his position by the tape.

 

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