{"product_id":"the-last-songbird-isbn-9781685890308","title":"The Last Songbird","description":"\u003cb\u003e\"Weizmann’s  music bona fides inform the novel’s tone and purpose, but it’s equally  clear how steeped he is in the styles of detective fiction past and  present...This is a story of murder, but also of vivid life.\"\u003ci\u003e -- The New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“A confident, polished storyteller who honors his influences and while weaving his amateur detective through a complex mystery that will keep you turning the pages until you’ve reached the haunting finale. A sharp, memorable debut.” -- Alex Segura, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSecret Identity\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eA gritty, fast-paced neo-noir that explores the consumptive nature of fame, celebrity, and motherhood through the lens of a driver lost in the gig economy.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA struggling songwriter and Lyft driver, Adam Zantz’s life changes when he accepts a ride request in Malibu and 1970s music icon Annie Linden enters his dented VW Jetta. Bonding during that initial ride, the two quickly go off app— over the next three years, Adam becomes her exclusive driver and Annie listens to his music, encouraging Adam even as he finds himself driving more often than songwriting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, Annie disappears, and her body washes up under a pier. Left with a final, cryptic text— ‘\u003ci\u003ecome to my arms\u003c\/i\u003e’— a grieving Adam plays amateur detective, only to be charged as accomplice-after-the-fact. Desperate to clear his name and discover who killed the one person who believed in his music when no one else in his life did, Adam digs deep into Annie’s past, turning up an old guitar teacher, sworn enemies and lovers, and a long-held secret that spills into the dark world of a shocking underground Men’s Rights movement. As he drives the outskirts of Los Angeles in California, Adam comes to question how well he, or anyone else, knew Annie— if at all. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e is a poignant novel about love, obsession, the price of fame and the burden of broken dreams, with a shifting, twisting plot that's full of unexpected turns.\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eCrimeReads\u003c\/i\u003e Best of 2023 Notable Selection\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eSunday Times of London\u003c\/i\u003e Best Mystery of 2023\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eOpen Letters Review\u003c\/i\u003e Best Mystery Books of 2023\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003c\/b\u003eWeizmann’s music bona fides inform the novel’s tone and purpose, but it’s equally clear how steeped he is in the styles of detective fiction past and present...This is a story of murder, but also of vivid life.\"\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e -- The New York Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A moving neonoir cruise through Los Angeles…In hard-boiled language with an added layer of humor and psychological  insight, Weizmann tells a tale reliant on the thrill, and pathos, of  popular music... At turns thrilling and poignant, this is fine, thoughtful entertainment.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- Kirkus, STARRED review \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Failed dreams, unfulfilled ambition and past glory swirl through the character-driven \u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e...Weizmann adds an intriguing look at the music industry and the personalities it attracts, showing both its past and current vibe...Readers will want to buckle up their seatbelts for Addy Zantz’s next drive on the Pacific Coast Highway.\" \u003cb\u003e--Oline Cogdill, \u003ci\u003eSouth Florida Sun-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Weizmann seamlessly weaves vibrant L.A. music industry personalities  into the suspenseful plot. This tense whodunit deserves a sequel.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- Publishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"\u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird \u003c\/i\u003eis an enthralling and often deeply amusing  read; it’s a novel that puts a 2020s spin on LA noir in the same way  that Robert Altman’s \u003ci\u003eThe Long Goodbye\u003c\/i\u003e gave Raymond Chandler a sun-drenched ‘70s twist.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e--The Forward\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\"The Last Song­bird \u003c\/i\u003etakes the read­er on a car ride through the   dark and lone­ly streets of Los Angeles as the dri­ver tries to find   the mur­der­er of a pop icon and dis­cov­er who she real­ly was...   Thanks to [Weizmann's] incred­i­ble knowl­edge of pop music, he has   writ­ten a ter­rif­ic debut mys­tery nov­el that looks like the   begin­ning of a series.\" \u003cb\u003e--The Jewish Book Council \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Even if you’re not clued into the lore of South Bay punk, \u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e is a ripping-good story that is also a humorous but heartfelt  rumination on what it means to make art the world doesn’t value. The  set-up ensures that the story is always moving, the characters always  going places. \u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e is everything you want from a contemporary mystery and the novel even bears an affinity to Thomas Pynchon’s \u003ci\u003eInherent Vice\u003c\/i\u003e.\" \u003cb\u003e--Jim Ruland for \u003ci\u003eRazorcake \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"a story of broken, damaged families and long-held secrets that’s straight out of a Ross Macdonald novel. THE LAST SONGBIRD is also an incisive examination of toxic masculinity...\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Bookreporter\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \"Props to Daniel Weizmann for respecting  older women as artists and for his clear dedication to writing about  music in an evocative and intelligent manner.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- CrimeReads \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\"The Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e is the kind of novel that sneaks up on you.  Before you know it, what began as an ordinary run-out written in a  pedestrian style soon starts to show flashes of street-level lyricism  and incisiveness...one of the most entertaining crime novels I’ve read for some time.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e--On the Seawall \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e \"This debut mystery has a good storyline... worth the read.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- Library Journal \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The novel ends on a more positive note than the common clenched-tooth  stoicism of traditional noir. The two sexes are not left in a state of  wary antagonism...This Songbird may be  the last but one can certainly hope it is not the end of Adam.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Reviewing the Evidence \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Weizmann’s updated L.A. noir storytelling is pitch perfect, so  this quirky investigator stands in for each of us, committing in a  fumbling fashion to doing what’s right even though we’re not equipped  for the journey.\" \u003ci\u003e—\u003cb\u003eNew York Journal of Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A moody, L.A. noir that carries the city's twilight even during the light of day.\" - \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Hard Word \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e is my  favorite kind of neo-noir - blending the bright lights of celebrity and  fame with the primal urges and darkness that come with any good noir  novel. Weizmann is a confident, polished storyteller who honors his  influences while weaving his amateur detective through a complex  mystery that will keep you turning the pages until you’ve reached the  haunting finale. A sharp, memorable debut.” \u003cb\u003e-- Alex Segura, author of \u003ci\u003eSecret Identity\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"\u003ci\u003eThe  Last Songbird \u003c\/i\u003eis rock noir at its best.  It sneaks up on you like a  hook line, and when it's over, you can't get it out of your head. Hapless hero\/songwriter Addy Zantz is witty, gritty and determined to  solve the murder of his idol and muse, the legendary rock star, Annie  Linden. Daniel Weizmann's L.A. is half Warren Zevon and half Raymond  Chandler. Bravo.” \u003cb\u003e-- T. Jefferson Parker, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Weizmann skillfully crafts a gritty, unstoppable detective thriller rife with sleaze and sea foam and broken dreams set against a crumbling LA backdrop. It’s \u003ci\u003eSunset Boulevard\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003ci\u003eOnce Upon A Time in Hollywood\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e --Katie Tallo, author of\u003ci\u003e Dark August\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Weizmann’s fiction is informed by his past as a highly influential and precocious young veteran of the punk scene, as well as by his lifelong passion for music, his career in journalism and his love of noir and Los Angeles. This book is funny, poetic, gripping, and beautifully tackles themes of creativity, fame and family.” \u003cb\u003e--Francesca Lia Block, au\u003ci\u003ethor of Dangerous Angels: the Weetzie Bat Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A terrific ride through the troubled, tangled lives surrounding a murdered LA music legend, told with the energy of the Germs, the urgency of X, with a captivating narrator who drives headlong in crime-fueled pursuit.”\u003cb\u003e --Gregory Galloway, author of \u003ci\u003eJust Thieves\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Propulsive and pitch perfect, \u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e is a smart, fast-paced read about the costs of fame to both the spectacularly gifted and those left dazzled and dazed in their wake. In crackling prose, Daniel Weizmann masterfully takes the reader through the midnight precincts of LA to tell a gripping story of human fallibility – of triumph and failure, generosity and greed, love and disappointment – and the drive, against all odds, to set things right. A stunning debut.” \u003cb\u003e--Joan Leegant, author of \u003ci\u003eAn Hour in Paradise\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Daniel Weizmann’s \u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e is a gripping, fast-paced, neo-noir mystery whose intriguing characters populate the streets of Los Angeles.  When a ‘70’s music icon suddenly disappears, her driver and friend, begins a frantic search that leads him in pursuit of the truth.  In turn, he will discover just as much about himself.  Weizmann has written a smart, unforgettable, page-turner of the best kind.\" -- \u003cb\u003eGail Tsukiyama, author of The Color of Air\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Take  everything you know about the noir detective and chuck it out the  window of a moving car on the Pacific Coast Highway. Weizmann's Adam  Zantz is a uniquely relatable amateur sleuth. His flaws and, more  importantly, his empathy make him a Lew Archer for the millennial age.  Fortunately, \u003ci\u003eThe Last Songbird\u003c\/i\u003e only feels like the beginning.\" -- \u003cb\u003eKyle Decker, author of \u003ci\u003eThis Rancid Mill\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eDaniel Weizmann\u003c\/b\u003e is a writer and editor whose work has appeared in the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBillboard\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eGuardian\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eAP Newswire\u003c\/i\u003e, and more. Under the nom de plume, Shredder, Weizmann also wrote for the long running \u003ci\u003eFlipside\u003c\/i\u003e fanzine, as well as \u003ci\u003eLA Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, which once called him “an incomparable punk stylist.” Most recently, Weizmann co-authored \u003ci\u003eGame Changer\u003c\/i\u003e by Michael Solomon and Rishon Blumberg (Harper Leadership, 2020). He lives in Los Angeles, California.1: here it comes here comes the night\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The night Annie Linden disappeared, my world spun out with double-time speed. \u003cbr\u003e I was thirty-seven, she was seventy-three. I was a Lyft driver and she was a pop icon—once. She was my pickup and I was running late.\u003cbr\u003e I had already failed as a songwriter.\u003cbr\u003e As a song plugger, a pop critic, a recording engineer. \u003cbr\u003e No way could I afford to flop out as a Lyft driver. \u003cbr\u003e Pacific Coast Highway opened up and I shot through the gap, gunned it for the last stretch of Zuma trying to make up for lost minutes. One lone cop car idled about a hundred yards from Annie’s estate—I thought nothing of it. Then I pulled the silver ’16 Jetta with the rear dent onto the gravel loop and saw the whirling red-and-blue lights. The gate was wide open—two more cop cars idled. Potted purple catmint wavered in their hot white beams.\u003cbr\u003e A policeman got out of one of the black-and-whites, approaching with the look of a man ready for violence. Big guy but short, built like a brick oven.\u003cbr\u003e “Name?” \u003cbr\u003e “Adam Zantz.” \u003cbr\u003e “Who you here to see, Mr. Zantz.”\u003cbr\u003e I pointed at my light-up Lyft Amp. “Ms. Linden—she’s my regular. She just called for an eight o’clock pickup.”\u003cbr\u003e  “Called?”\u003cbr\u003e “About an hour ago—we’re . . . off-app.”\u003cbr\u003e “How’s that work?”\u003cbr\u003e “I—she has my number, she wouldn’t use the app after our first ride.”\u003cbr\u003e He grumbled. “You don’t look like a Lyft driver.” I wasn’t sure what a Lyft driver was supposed to look like. Me, I was a five-foot-eight skinny Jew with a big schnoz and eyes that telegraphed every damn thing I was feeling—present worry included. I zipped up my black hoodie as his Motorola rang. He turned his back to me. “I’m here at beachfront—the Linden residence.  . . . Yeah, her. There’s a 187 on the premises—beach adjacent, maybe more.” My heart thumped, gooseflesh. The cop went on. “I got two guys inside, so send another two units. . . . Huh? . . . No, surveillance went down forty minutes ago.” He signed off, then gave me the glare. “You know the place?”\u003cbr\u003e “Pretty well, yeah. There’s a security man named Troy by the main gate.” Troy’s booth was a Tudor octagon of one-way mirrors that made it look like one of those zoetrope whirligigs. Too small for anyone—way too small for Troy. \u003cbr\u003e  “This where you planned to pick up Ms. Linden, right here?”\u003cbr\u003e “No. She stays down in the beach house. There’s actually four properties here. Pool house, guest house, beach house. And the main house she doesn’t visit too much.”\u003cbr\u003e “Whyzat?” He seemed jumpy. \u003cbr\u003e “She likes the beach house?” I said. “It’s small, manageable, \u003ci\u003econducive to the creative process?\u003c\/i\u003e Listen, you going to tell me what the heck is going on here?”\u003cbr\u003e “Why don’t you get creative and call her. Now, on your phone.”\u003cbr\u003e I tried—no answer. I didn’t leave a message. I looked up at the cop, held back worst-case scenarios. I had gotten her text at 7:24—\u003ci\u003eAZ beach house 8pm come to my arms.\u003c\/i\u003e Classic Annie corniness—she sent lyrics in texts: \u003ci\u003e“let’s chase the moonlight,” “we sell seashells,” “when the jungle shadows fall.”\u003c\/i\u003e But tonight was different. Only days before, she had said, “I’m almost ready for that thing we talked about.” I thought \u003ci\u003ecome to my arms\u003c\/i\u003e was maybe code for \u003ci\u003elet’s go look into those people I wanted you to find. \u003c\/i\u003eThen again it just as easily could’ve been\u003ci\u003e get over here, let’s cruise, I’m restless\u003c\/i\u003e. Vaguery, typical Annie—but my pulse was racing.\u003cbr\u003e “Let me try her PA—\u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e mostly stays in the main house.” I left out that Bix Gelden had been recently fired since he’d been fired and rehired so many times. For all I knew, he \u003ci\u003ewas\u003c\/i\u003e in the main house. But his line just rang and rang too. This time, I left a message. “Bix, it’s Adam—can you let Annie know I’m out in the loop?” I shot the cop a questioning look and he nodded, so I went on. “Also, there are some police out front here—looks like there’s been some trouble, so . . . get back to me A-SAP, alright?” I hung up, shrugged.\u003cbr\u003e “How come you’re so sure the PA’s on the premises?”\u003cbr\u003e “He pretty much lives here.”\u003cbr\u003e Two more police cars screeched into the loop. Now we were a fleet, five vehicles strong. \u003cbr\u003e  “Take a ride down the hill,” the cop said. “Show us where you planned to pick up Ms. Linden.”\u003cbr\u003e “You got it.” For his compadres, he waved a finger to the sky and moved back to his car. I put the Jetta in drive. We caravanned down the long, sloping private road to the beach house gate, also already open. The ocean roared and crashed its looping rhythm—white sand and gray-black Pacific horizon came into view. The lights were out in her place, no candles. That was not unusual though, since she wrote songs in the pitch dark. Outside, the lonely hemp hammock hung between sloping palms, empty and jiggling in the cool night breeze.\u003cbr\u003e I stopped the car. A different cop came out and said, “Hang back,” and they entered, hands on gun belts. From my vantage point, I could see their shadows casing the place in the dark. My mind was trying to outrace my pulse: \u003ci\u003eNo Annie, no Gelden, 187, what the—\u003c\/i\u003e. The deck chairs were moist from fog, the heat lamps off. Annie’s estate was one of about two dozen mansions along the point that lined up in front of the mighty Pacific like giant beasts stopped in their tracks. Other homes had long, jutting staircases down to the beach. That wouldn’t do for a seventy-three-year-old chain smoker. I was about one minute from panic with my hand on the inside door handle when I heard and then saw an ambulance coming down the hill behind us. Two people in some kind of red uniforms I didn’t recognize got out—a guy and a girl, with a stretcher.\u003cbr\u003e “Oh fuck,” I whispered to the ocean, in full dread now. Anyone who worked for a senior had the kind of thoughts I was having—I didn’t burst into tears. But I did say: \u003ci\u003eBe prepared to mourn—later. \u003c\/i\u003eI dialed Troy, the security man—my third no answer. In one hectic move, I got out of the car, slammed the car door, and made for the beach house and its searching cops. The automatic lights didn’t go on—that was odd but not supernatural, since they were faulty when there were too many headlights nearby. A strong salt breeze held me in place. I cursed myself a second time for being late. \u003cbr\u003e Now I stood in the dizzying red-blue crosshatch of police lights coming through the hedges that flanked Annie’s beach bungalow driveway. The cop blocking the door made a flat hand gesture—as in, get back into your car, but I didn’t. My heart was not yet completely pounding. I stood alongside the Jetta for about three minutes, which felt like ten. A new cop exited the beach house, a tall African American with a boyish, handsome face. \u003cbr\u003e I approached and said, “Excuse me, sir? I’m Ms. Linden’s driver. She was expecting me about fifteen minutes ago.” \u003cbr\u003e He went incredulous. “Annie Linden uses Lyft?”\u003cbr\u003e “Is she—”\u003cbr\u003e “Sir, I’m going to need you to stay by your car until we’re ready to question you.” \u003cbr\u003e Two more cops came out of the beach house, expressionless. One asked a question I didn’t hear. The other said, “No, she’s missing.”\u003cbr\u003e  “And \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e was found where?” \u003cbr\u003e “On the periphery, they’ve got some storage units up there on the highway side.”\u003cbr\u003e The units were garages. Annie had a six-car garage and one beat-up Cortina she never drove. And who was “he”? \u003ci\u003eHe\u003c\/i\u003e could be Baxter “Bix” Gelden. Bix could have OD’d. Bix could have I-don’t-know-what. Bix was an accidental fatality waiting to happen. But then one of the cops said, “Now who is it I’m supposed to call?” and soon the crew in red came down the path with a stretcher carrying a body wrapped in a white sheet and I knew it was Troy because nobody was that long and lean. His black and yellow steel-toe Skechers poked out at the edge like two big orioles standing at attention. I got off the hood and stepped to the battalion. \u003cbr\u003e “Can somebody tell me what the hell is going on here? Ms. Linden is a client of mine, I’m basically staff here—”\u003cbr\u003e With a single, solemn nod, he broke out a notepad. “So you were planning on taking Ms. Linden where exactly?”\u003cbr\u003e “I’m not sure, she usually tells me when I get here. If that. Sometimes she just wants to drive the coast. She intimated she might just want to ride. Who is that in the sheet?” I was hoping against hope.\u003cbr\u003e “Intimated how?’\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t know. She said to get her at eight, but that’s it.”\u003cbr\u003e A fifth cop car screeched up and an older man in a Patagonia windrunner got out of the passenger seat with the administrative stride of a non-listener. \u003cbr\u003e “Can we rope this off already?” he announced. “You got a slowdown on PCH, eyeballs everywhere.”\u003cbr\u003e “Chief, this guy’s from Uber. He says Annie Linden called him for a ride.”\u003cbr\u003e “This is \u003ci\u003ethe\u003c\/i\u003e Annie Linden, I take it?” the Chief asked, still acting like I wasn’t there.\u003cbr\u003e The young cop said, “Annie who?” \u003cbr\u003e  “You kiddin’ me?” the Chief said. “Only the greatest songbird of our time.”\u003cbr\u003e  “\u003ci\u003eYour\u003c\/i\u003e time, Chief,” the young cop said, and his partners tittered. \u003cbr\u003e The Chief ignored them, turned to me like he trusted me more than his underlings, even though I was closer to their age than his. \u003cbr\u003e “You ever meet staff here?”\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, sir.”\u003cbr\u003e His tone went grave. “Would you be willing to identify a body?” \u003cbr\u003e I nodded and we hoofed it back up the hill to the idling ambulance. They opened the back door and pulled the sheet off Troy’s young and shocked face. A wave of anguish crashed down upon me. \u003cbr\u003e “His name is Troy,” I said—the muscles of my jaw pulled into a deep scowl. “Troy Banks. He’s grounds security.” \u003ci\u003eWas.\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The Chief said, “You have a way of contacting Ms. Linden at this time?” \u003cbr\u003e “I can try her private line again.” I listened to two rings in the bracing sea-salt air and smarted when it went straight to voicemail. I shook my head.\u003cbr\u003e The Chief gestured to the beach house. “Let’s go inside.” He made it sound like I was invited.\u003cbr\u003e Raised off the sand by a smooth wooden deck, the bungalow lay still, as placid as the ocean wasn’t. By instinct, my hands reached to flip the indoor lights. The simple living room stared back at us, looking empty and dumbfounded. Just an innocent little studio apartment that had no idea it was attached to a chateau on the beach. Some disarray, toppled cassettes, half a bottle of red and one empty glass. Little blue kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, empty. The Chief rummaged around and I kept my mouth shut. \u003cbr\u003e I’d left one thing out of our little conversation, a favor Annie had asked of me, only days earlier. She’d been anxious, halting. “I’ve got an idea. You told me you did some investigation work once, right?”\u003cbr\u003e “Well, yeah, I worked for an investigator a long time ago,” I said, “but I was just a lackey . . . you know, doing repos, serving papers, lame stuff.” \u003cbr\u003e But she was adamant. “I need to find out about someone, some people\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003efrom my past. \u003ci\u003eSomething isn’t what I thought\u003c\/i\u003e, I—” \u003cbr\u003e “Are you being harassed?” \u003cbr\u003e “No no, nothing like that.” But she sounded distracted, keyed up, almost confused. “I’m just—look, I’m getting \u003ci\u003eolder\u003c\/i\u003e. And I want to, I need to . . . close some circles, look into some people.”  \u003cbr\u003e “Whatever it is,” I’d said with a shrug, “Say when, I’m your man.”\u003cbr\u003e “Now that’s what I like to hear.” \u003cbr\u003e And then she took my hand, and hers was cool, bony, trembling a little as she reeled off her list and— \u003cbr\u003e “Adam—no joking. You’re more than a driver to me. I value our conversations. And I would never ask you to do this if I didn’t trust you.” \u003cbr\u003e The haunted look in her eyes was dogging me now.\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Chief picked up a stray cassette and shook his head to no one in particular. The ocean mocked us with its rolling, crashing rumble song.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e They cut me loose at midnight. Sleep was out of the question. I headed back down PCH, radio off, a new melody looping, distant, driving me on, driving me mad. \u003cbr\u003e The jukebox id was at it again. \u003cbr\u003e The jukebox id was telling me \u003ci\u003eshe’s not there\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e The jukebox id was saying Annie had secrets, secrets that bring tears. \u003cbr\u003e Not everybody had the jukebox id, but if you had it, you knew it. Song fragments spun in your head, nonstop. You didn’t solicit, they sprang from nowhere, little 45s collapsing onto the turntable of your soul—then the needle drops. \u003ci\u003ePlease don’t bother trying to find her—\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Melville House","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304180240613,"sku":"NP9781685890308","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781685890308.jpg?v=1767740161","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-last-songbird-isbn-9781685890308","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}