Read Online Hard Rock (A Hardboiled Private Investigator Mystery Series): John Rockne Mysteries 2 by Dani Amore - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dani Amore
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too.
He plugged the jack into the amp and turned it on.
Then he set the guitar down and went back the computer. It only took him a few minutes to connect to the Internet, download the necessary software from a website set up specifically for him by one of his contractors, and then check his email messages.
There were several, the most notable being a lucrative contract in Minneapolis. He would have to turn that down because it was a rush job. He hated rush jobs even though the pay was usually triple.
He had some things to take care of here in Detroit first. Once and for all.
Unbeknownst to the now deceased Mr. Ricks, the Spook not only knew who Mr. Ricks’ employer was, but he’d communicated directly with him in the past. Men like Mr. Ricks never figured their boss might circumvent them occasionally. It was called having an inflated sense of one’s importance to an organization. Having worked within many groups of people that frequently included alpha males, the Spook had seen this kind of thing all the time.
It never paid to fall into that trap.
Everyone was expendable.
Everyone.
The Spook typed out a short note to Mr. Ricks’s employer and then sent it along.
He closed the laptop and went over to the guitar.
The riffs came unbidden from somewhere deep within himself. He always played the same way. By starting with Keith’s stuff and then segueing into his own. But essentially, hard rock was his thing. With a lot of blues thrown in. But those rock riffs were what it was all about. The kind that shook your soul. Made you forget what you were doing and focus on what you were hearing. Right now.
It had always been that way for him with The Rolling Stones. The first time he heard Satisfaction he knew he would never be the same. And he had been right. It was like a birth, or perhaps a re-birth.
Maybe he had sensed a soul mate in Keith Richards. A mutual hatred of authority. Which is why the few people who knew him back in those days were so surprised when he joined the CIA. Yet somehow, even though it took him quite awhile to find his place in the system, he knew the Agency was the perfect place to be the architect of his very own form of chaos. And he had been so, so good at it.
In some ways, his freelance life was much more structured than the incredibly thrilling days of those darkest times working for the government.
But it was still all about improvising. About stumbling upon a great lick and turning it into a living, breathing, smoking creation.
He always came up with his best, most ruthlessly brilliant ideas with a guitar in his hands.
Eventually, when it was time to go operational, he would replace the guitar in his hands with a gun.
But right now, he let the music free his thoughts.
And they returned to the problem of John Rockne.
Chapter Eighteen
On the wall across from me, an African tribal mask looked at me. Watched me struggle with the strange emotions sparked by seeing my ex-fiancé. The eyes of the mask appeared white, as they were hollow and showed the wall behind them.
A blank stare.
I know the feeling, buddy.
My cell phone rang in my pocket and I dug it out. Thankful for the interruption.
“I’ve got three names for you.”
It was my pal from the Detroit Lions. He had come through, like I knew he would. After men bond through suburban landscaping efforts, the connection is unbreakable.
“Let me have ‘em,” I said.
“Greg Jenkins, Eddie Starks and Desmond Jamison.”
I hustled over to the information desk, grabbed a pen and wrote down the names and addresses. The security guard didn’t even look up at me. I kept the phone pressed against my ear and walked toward the lobby doors.
“All three of them live in that neighborhood?” I asked. It wasn’t a very big geographic area I had asked him to look into. Really more of an intersection. I was surprised that there were three
He plugged the jack into the amp and turned it on.
Then he set the guitar down and went back the computer. It only took him a few minutes to connect to the Internet, download the necessary software from a website set up specifically for him by one of his contractors, and then check his email messages.
There were several, the most notable being a lucrative contract in Minneapolis. He would have to turn that down because it was a rush job. He hated rush jobs even though the pay was usually triple.
He had some things to take care of here in Detroit first. Once and for all.
Unbeknownst to the now deceased Mr. Ricks, the Spook not only knew who Mr. Ricks’ employer was, but he’d communicated directly with him in the past. Men like Mr. Ricks never figured their boss might circumvent them occasionally. It was called having an inflated sense of one’s importance to an organization. Having worked within many groups of people that frequently included alpha males, the Spook had seen this kind of thing all the time.
It never paid to fall into that trap.
Everyone was expendable.
Everyone.
The Spook typed out a short note to Mr. Ricks’s employer and then sent it along.
He closed the laptop and went over to the guitar.
The riffs came unbidden from somewhere deep within himself. He always played the same way. By starting with Keith’s stuff and then segueing into his own. But essentially, hard rock was his thing. With a lot of blues thrown in. But those rock riffs were what it was all about. The kind that shook your soul. Made you forget what you were doing and focus on what you were hearing. Right now.
It had always been that way for him with The Rolling Stones. The first time he heard Satisfaction he knew he would never be the same. And he had been right. It was like a birth, or perhaps a re-birth.
Maybe he had sensed a soul mate in Keith Richards. A mutual hatred of authority. Which is why the few people who knew him back in those days were so surprised when he joined the CIA. Yet somehow, even though it took him quite awhile to find his place in the system, he knew the Agency was the perfect place to be the architect of his very own form of chaos. And he had been so, so good at it.
In some ways, his freelance life was much more structured than the incredibly thrilling days of those darkest times working for the government.
But it was still all about improvising. About stumbling upon a great lick and turning it into a living, breathing, smoking creation.
He always came up with his best, most ruthlessly brilliant ideas with a guitar in his hands.
Eventually, when it was time to go operational, he would replace the guitar in his hands with a gun.
But right now, he let the music free his thoughts.
And they returned to the problem of John Rockne.
Chapter Eighteen
On the wall across from me, an African tribal mask looked at me. Watched me struggle with the strange emotions sparked by seeing my ex-fiancé. The eyes of the mask appeared white, as they were hollow and showed the wall behind them.
A blank stare.
I know the feeling, buddy.
My cell phone rang in my pocket and I dug it out. Thankful for the interruption.
“I’ve got three names for you.”
It was my pal from the Detroit Lions. He had come through, like I knew he would. After men bond through suburban landscaping efforts, the connection is unbreakable.
“Let me have ‘em,” I said.
“Greg Jenkins, Eddie Starks and Desmond Jamison.”
I hustled over to the information desk, grabbed a pen and wrote down the names and addresses. The security guard didn’t even look up at me. I kept the phone pressed against my ear and walked toward the lobby doors.
“All three of them live in that neighborhood?” I asked. It wasn’t a very big geographic area I had asked him to look into. Really more of an intersection. I was surprised that there were three
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