The Twelve was in a dingy part of Detroit. Make your own joke about the whole city being dingy. Its name came from the musical pattern of the blues called the twelve bar blues.
The place was a familiar watering hole for Detroiters, but not exactly popular. Its exterior was unassuming, with a weathered sign glowing in neon blue, flickering occasionally as if to remind passersby of its age and character. The brick facade, worn smooth by decades of Michigan weather, bore witness to countless nights of music and revelry. A small chalkboard propped against the wall announced the evening's entertainment: "Live Blues - 9 PM."
I paused for a moment before entering, taking in the muffled sounds of a harmonica drifting through the thick wooden door. A couple of patrons huddled near the entrance, sharing a cigarette and hushed conversation, their words lost in the cool evening air.
Inside, the bar’s walls were lined with deep mahogany panels, their rich hue deepened by years of exposure to smoke and spirits. Framed blues memorabilia adorned every available space, telling the stories of legendary musicians who had graced stages across the country. Faded concert posters, autographed guitars, and black-and-white photographs created a visual timeline of blues history.
The air was thick with the rich aroma of bourbon and cigarettes, punctuated by the steady hum of blues music from the sound system that was shut off when live acts were in house, which was quite often. Currently, "Sweet Home Chicago," filled the room with its melancholic tones.
The lighting was low and warm, provided by a combination of vintage-style Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling and small table lamps scattered throughout the room. The soft glow created an intimate atmosphere, with shadows dancing on the walls as patrons moved about.
To my right, a long bar stretched the length of the room. Its surface, polished to a high shine, reflected the warm lights above, creating a golden glow that seemed to invite weary souls to rest their elbows and forget about their cheating wives, no-good husbands and horrible bosses. Behind the bar were the antidotes: rows of whiskeys, bourbons, and other spirits that gave peace to the tormented soul.
Jazz was behind the bar, her presence a central part of the bar's charm. Her real name was Jasmine Park, as I had told Detective Monroe. In her late thirties, Jazz was a stunner. Her dad was a white auto executive, her mother a Japanese engineer. The result was a happy marriage and a beautiful daughter. Jazz had on a black tank top and jeans that emphasized her petite but curvy body. Her short hair, a mix of dark brown and premature subtle gray streaks, framed her almond face and ruby lips.
Her hands moved with practiced efficiency as she mixed drinks, her fingers adorned with several silver rings that clinked softly against the glasses.
As I approached the bar, I noticed the usual crowd of regulars scattered about. In a corner booth, an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair nursed a glass of scotch, his eyes closed as he swayed slightly to the music. At a small table near the corner, a young couple leaned in close, their conversation punctuated by soft laughter and the occasional clink of their beer bottles.
"August," Jazz greeted me with a genuine smile, her voice carrying easily over the ambient noise. "Figured I’d see you sooner than later." Her eyes were a deep brown that invited me to a place I hoped one day I would go. But not now.
"Yeah," I replied, as I slid onto a barstool and placed my hands on the bar, feeling the coolness of the polished wood against my palms.
Jazz reached for a bottle of whiskey without asking. The amber liquid caught the light as she poured, creating a small cascade of gold in the glass. She set it down with practiced ease, the heavy-bottomed tumbler making a satisfying thud against the bar top.
“Thanks,” I said. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Did she call you?” Jazz had an open expression. She hadn’t heard, obviously.
I took a sip of the whiskey. The flavor was rich and complex, with wood and fire that made love on the tongue.
“Yeah,” I said. “But I was too late.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
There was no good way to say it. “Did you hear about the murder at the artists’ place? The abandoned warehouse?”
“Oh no,” Jazz said. She brought her hands to her face. “That’s terrible! She seemed so nice!”
“How did you know her?” I asked.
Jazz went and poured a drink for another customer and came back.
“I didn’t,” she said. “She came in and looked totally lost, so I gave her a drink on the house and asked what brought her in. She said she was scared but wouldn’t elaborate. I told her to go to the cops but she said she couldn’t. So I gave her your number.”
It was exactly as I had expected. Jazz and I went way back. I trusted her, which is no small feat.
“Anything else? Anything at all?”
Jazz shook her head, her brow furrowing in concentration. Her short hair swayed slightly with the motion, catching the warm light from above. "Not much," she admitted, her fingers drumming lightly on the bar top. "She was pretty vague. Just said she was scared and needed someone reliable. Mentioned something about her art and keeping it safe, but didn't give any more details. She said something about not even feeling safe in Ferndale, but it was loud and I didn’t really hear her.”
"Ferndale," I repeated, mentally noting it down. The suburb, known for its artsy vibe and eclectic community, seemed a fitting place for an artist's studio.
"Can I use the office for a bit?" I asked, draining the last of my whiskey. The glass made a hollow sound as I set it back down on the bar.
Jazz nodded, her expression softening slightly. "Sure thing. You know where it is."
I thanked her and slid off the barstool, and navigated around tables and patrons, the floorboards creaking softly under my feet.
The office was tucked away at the back of the bar, a small sanctuary away from the bustle of the main room. I opened the door, the old hinges protesting slightly, and stepped inside. This space was our shared refuge, a practical workspace amidst the bar's clutter. The office was filled with stacks of paperwork and bar-related items, but it served its purpose well enough.
The room was small, barely large enough for a desk, a filing cabinet, and a couple of chairs. The walls were a faded beige, adorned with a mismatched collection of framed photos, old concert posters, and a large cork board covered in various notes and reminders. A single window, its blinds perpetually closed, filtered in a thin stream of streetlight, creating long shadows across the cluttered space.
I dug out a new folder from the bottom drawer of the desk and wrote on the tab, Holla.
The next thirty minutes was spent writing down everything I had learned on sheets of paper from a yellow legal pad. When I was done, I went to the middle drawer of the file cabinet on the left and opened it. All of my case notes were alphabetized. For some reason, it always felt safer to me than keeping in my loft. Maybe one day I would get my own office. For now, it gave me a reason to come to The Twelve, have a few drinks and talk to Jazz.
That task completed, I left the office. The transition from the quiet, enclosed space back to the lively bar was jarring. The music seemed louder now, the conversations more animated. Jazz was busy behind the bar, her focus on the rapidly burgeoning crowd.
Outside the night air was warm and slightly humid, not as bad as earlier in the day. The street was quieter now, with only the occasional car passing by. The neon sign of The Twelve bar cast a soft blue glow over the sidewalk.
I made my way to the Maverick, parked a short distance down the street, but not too far from the streetlights, which provided about the only security in the area.
Firing up the big engine, I drove away from the bar, with a single destination in mind.
Ferndale.