She shrugged. “Your loss.”

Barb glanced around the tiny courtyard, the look on her face lovingly proprietary, as though she were the keeper of everything she laid her eyes on. “It looks a lot smaller than I remember it, but I’m feeling good about my decision. This is where it all started. This is my spiritual home.”

“Spiritual home” sparked a recollection. “Of course. Swami Rain.” I could have kicked myself for forgetting it. “I think I know where Jung is.”

“Back up,” Barb said. “I’m still on Swami Rain.”

“Jung’s yogi. I was afraid maybe Darby had taken Jung, but Darby’s dead. He’s got to be hiding at the yogi’s.”

“You don’t look too happy about it.”

“Oh, I’m happy. I’m very happy, but if Jung is there, he won’t be for long.”

Chapter 34

Chapter 34

I leaned hard on the bell at the sad-looking yoga center tucked into a converted brownstone a block from the U of C. The door was locked, the blinds drawn, but I could see light shining through between the slats. When the bell didn’t bring anyone to the door, I started pounding on it, which sent the wind chimes dangling from the top of the door frame into hyperdrive. When a brown eye finally peeked warily through the blinds, I smacked my PI’s license against the glass and waited for the door to open. When it did, a short white man, who looked an awful lot like Bill Maher, stood facing me. He was dressed in cotton yoga pajamas, and his long sandy hair, flecked with gray, was neatly pulled back from a receding hairline into a paltry ponytail.

“Swami Rain?”

He smiled serenely. “When I’m working.” He held out a hand for me to shake. “Jeff Wilbourne, otherwise, and you are Jung’s detective. He’s been expecting you.”

He slowly stepped aside and led me into a large airy room with yoga mats on the floor and posters of waterfalls and rain forests on the walls. The room was empty except for little Bill Maher and me. I should have felt relieved, but despite all the tranquility and smiles, all I could think about was the time I’d wasted looking for Jung. I’d begun to think he might be dead, that somebody might mail me his head. Then I’d begun to think he was a cold-blooded murderer playing me for a fool. I couldn’t kill him, could I? No, of course not, but what if I did? What jury would convict me after I’d explained what I’d had to deal with?