The conspiratorial way she’d uttered it actually caused butterflies to start fluttering in Frankel’s stomach.

But when she climbed in the car at the agreed rendezvous, Frankel didn’t need his first-grade detective classification to see that her mood had changed.

He immediately asked what was wrong.

“Just some stuff with me and my father.” She tried to make light of it by shrugging it off, but Frankel noticed her eyes drift back toward her building.

“Want to talk about it?” he’d asked.

“Not particularly.”

Frankel told her if she didn’t want to go, he would completely understand. “Maybe you want to go back up and hash it around with the commander.”

“That will definitely not be happening.” She’d managed a smile and gave him a small nudge. “C’mon, I’m looking forward to this. You can tell me more about this Stone Horse you’re taking me to.”

“Stone Pony.”

“Right. That one.”

A few minutes later, they were headed east on the George Washington Bridge into Jersey and Frankel was giving her a brief history of the Stone Pony, the club in Asbury Park that had been his father’s musical touchstone back in the ’70s.

The emergence of Bruce Springsteen, then other local acts like Bon Jovi and Southside Johnny, had given a voice to men like his dad (who’d spent their entire lives in shipyards and factories) by transforming the Jersey Shore into a force the music scene needed to reckon with. He’d inherited his father’s musical taste, and then his record collection after he’d passed away (including a mint pressing of Springsteen’s Greetings from Asbury Park). The albums were the one thing he wouldn’t let Julia near before she fled for sunnier skies with Pablo the super.

On this night, Frankel had been lucky enough to snag a couple of tickets to the Pony’s annual Christmas show, with Southside and his Jukes as the headliner. Each year, the club played host to a number of local bands doing their renditions of yuletide classics, raising funds for charity, with gospel singers from neighborhood churches who would do Aretha and Mavis Staples proud.

And there was always the possibility that Springsteen might sneak in during an encore and treat his rabid fan base to a few rockin’ carols and some of their favorite hits.

The show had been in full swing when Frankel and Rachel got their hands stamped by the bouncer at the door. They’d ended up in the back of the small club, but it didn’t matter as Southside and a six-piece horn section were blowing the lid off the joint with a rendition of “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).”

By that time, whatever had been troubling Rachel was left back in Manhattan. For the next two hours there was no talk of commandments, serial killers, or suspects—just pure rock and roll, and they liked it.