That was when I noticed that the padlock wasn’t fastened.

My heartbeat quickened. I gestured for Jolie.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered, from a few feet away. Evidently, she’d noticed the open padlock, too. I briefly considered taking her on as a partner in Sheepshanks, Sheepshanks and Sheepshanks, then decided the fact that I couldn’t pay her a salary would probably get in the way.

Russell let out a yelp and stood on his hind legs, scrabbling at the door with his forepaws.

I put my hand on the knob.

“Mojo!” Jolie rasped.

I turned the knob.

Russell, the canine ramrod, forced the door open with his body weight and galloped in. The whole matter was decided, I figured, since I couldn’t let the dog face whoever was inside all by himself.

One green-shaded lamp was lit, over the pool tables.

The bar had been tipped over.

The jukebox was smashed.

Russell darted under the pool table, where I’d found Bert, and sniffed frantically.

“It’s okay, boy,” I said nervously, looking from side to side. “Anybody here?” I felt Jolie hovering behind me.

“I’m calling 911,” she said. I heard the corresponding beep-beep-beep as she dialed.

Russell came back to me, wagging his tail, then darted away again, heading for the storage closet.

The pool cues were scattered like pickup-sticks on the sawdust floor. I armed myself with one and followed.

“Who’s there?” I asked, sounding a shitload braver than I felt.

I heard a muffled, moaning sound. Russell did his door-scratching number again.

I got him by the collar and gently pulled him back.

“Mojo,” Jolie called, probably from the doorway, “don’t open that door. The police are on their way!”

I drew a deep breath, tightened my sweaty grasp on the pool cue, turned the handle on the door and pulled.

Sheila was inside, lying on her side on the floor. There was duct tape around her mouth and also binding her wrists and ankles together. Her eyes were blackened, and the front of her T-shirt was soaked with blood.

Russell went wild.

I dropped the pool cue. “Jolie, hold the dog!” I called.

She used both hands to grip Russell’s collar, but it was still all she could do to restrain him.

“It’s okay, Sheila,” I said. “It’s me, Mojo. Nobody’s going to hurt you—”

Sheila tried to wriggle away, disappear into the back wall of the storage closet.

Sirens shrieked in the distance.

I ran behind the bar, found a pair of scissors and rushed back to Sheila. Russell yelped hysterically, still fighting Jolie, who hung on grimly, her eyes huge.

“It’s me,” I told Sheila, bending to cut away the tape between her ankles and her hands. “It’s Mojo.”