No Man's Dog by Jon A. Jackson

he’d been playing.
    “Not . . . for . . . a year,” he sang along with her, slowly, patiently, whispering too, “but . . . ever . . . and a day . . .”
    She stopped, evidently out of breath, and her eyes closed. A very faint but definite smile stretched her withered lips. And then she seemed to fall asleep, her mouth still slightly open. Mulheisen sat by her, on the bed, and held her hand. When he was sure that she was asleep, he got up and went back to his room. His eyes were a little glassy, almost moist.
    He called his old friend Jimmy Marshall, now a precinct commander. “Say, Jimbo, how’s it going?” They chatted for a few moments and Mulheisen told him his mother seemed to be improving. He described the singing. Marshall was excited.
    “Ruby Braff? I’ll be damned,” Marshall said. “Well, you know Braff, he was one of the last of the real swinging cornets. Very infectious, that kind of what-do-you-call it, joie de vivre. You should play her some Louis.” Marshall was a fellow devotee.
    “’Struttin’ With Some Barbecue,’” Mulheisen suggested, “or, ‘Potato Head Blues’?”
    “How about ‘I’m Comin’ Virginia’?”
    They went on in this vein, discussing music, but finally Mulheisen said, “Who’s investigating the bombing? You know?”
    Marshall told him it was the new agency, the Homeland Security people, but there were other groups involved. The Wards Cove police, for instance. And some of the Detroit cops were involved, drafted into it by the Homeland group. Wunney was one of them.
    Mulheisen called Wunney. He was willing to discuss the investigation in the most general sort of way, as a courtesy to Mulheisen, because of his mother and because he had been a colleague. But it was clear after a minute or two that he didn’t feel free to provide any details. The case seemed to have stalled.
    “I talked to Tucker,” Mulheisen said. “He came out to see me.”
    “What for?” Wunney said.
    “He seemed to be recruiting,” Mulheisen said. “He suggested you guys needed help.”
    “What guys? He’s the liaison with the Homeland Security people, running this Special Task Force, they call it,” Wunney said. “I probably shouldn’t even be discussing him with you, not on the phone, anyway.”
    “Oh. Okay,” Mulheisen said. “Well, I turned him down, anyway. It didn’t sound like my kind of thing. I’m retired, you know.”
    “Yeah, I know. Well, if you’re out and about, stop in and see us sometime, for old times. We’re downtown.” He mentioned an address in an office building just off Cadillac Square.
    Mulheisen took a drive downtown the next day. He’d arranged for another nurse to be on hand, in case he was late getting back. His mother seemed livelier, but if he’d expected her to wake up talking he was disappointed. He hadn’t exactly expected that, but she seemed more aware of her surroundings, at least. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave her alone at this critical juncture, but he was intrigued about the task force. He thought he could get away for a few hours.
    The task force had taken a number of offices in one of those old buildings that Detroit seemed overstocked with these days. They looked pretty busy, with lots of computers, copiers, telephones, and secretaries. Wunney wasn’t surprised to see him.
    “Let’s go for a walk, Mul,” he said.
    They strolled a block to a small bar on the square. Mulheisen remembered it as being called Johnny’s, but now it belonged to some chain. Franchise bars—what a concept, Mulheisen thought. It seemed a little bright and clean for a Detroit tavern, but he wasn’t interested in booze these days. He opted for coffee, as did Wunney. The coffee was very good, as it should be, costing what one used to pay for a shot of Jack Daniels.
    “What do you know about Colonel Tucker?” Wunney asked.
    Mulheisen smiled. “I was going to ask you that. I don’t know anything about him.”
    “I don’t know much,” Wunney said.