Howard bent over, securing his reading glasses on his face. This collection wasn’t thirteen-to-a-dozen rings and bracelets. This was beautiful work. Multi-carat diamonds. Rubies and emeralds that glowed as if the inside of the stone were on fire. Gold that belonged on the bare neck of a perfect young starlet.

‘People really pawn this kind of stuff?’ Howard asked. ‘Why?’

‘You’re in the museum of lost dreams, Howie.’

Lost dreams or hot property, Howard thought. He took his time examining the pieces, because each was beautiful and distinctive, with a story behind it that he wished he knew. Divorce? Inheritance? Mistress? He wanted to pick the stones up in his hands, but he restrained himself.

Even so, there was nothing and nothing and—

Howard stopped. He stared at the fourth velvet row, where engagement rings nuzzled with bejeweled pinky rings. He stared, stopped, and stared again. His mouth went dry. His heart took off, beat beat beat beat.

There it was. After all these years, there it was.

Black pearl ring. The setting – two thick white gold bands intertwined to form a wreath. The stone as dark and ominous as the sea, swallowing all light. That was one of six pieces of jewelry missing since a winter’s night, January 28, almost nine years ago.

That was Janine’s ring.

45

45

The bartender directed Serena to a dirt lot behind the Grizzly Bear, where she found Fred Sissel. The bar owner sat on a picnic bench with his long legs stretched out and his dress shoes coated with dust. A cigarette perched between his lips, and his tie was slung over his shoulder to avoid ash. He sat uncomfortably close to Anna Glick, who texted on her smartphone. Sissel had his hand on the young woman’s thigh, and his face sported the kind of grin that men use when they’re being cocky and cool. Anna didn’t remove Fred’s hand, but the way she held her body didn’t offer encouragement.

Serena had done her research on Sissel. He was fifty-three years old. He’d lived his whole life in Duluth. He’d worked in sales and marketing for a small advertising agency until he lost his job in the recession. At that point, he’d scraped together enough savings and debt to buy the bar on Raleigh Street. He had more debt than savings, and the revenues had gotten worse, not better, in the six years he’d owned the bar. He was unmarried. The smile, the slick hair, the stained ties, were all lines on the business card of the perennial bachelor. His colleagues said he thought of himself as a ladies’ man, but that was mostly in his head. He had a paper-thin ego that could be blown away by the mildest breeze.

‘You said you had information for me?’ Serena called to Sissel. She’d received a text message from the bar owner an hour earlier.