Max Mingus wanted to turn down the case—fifteen million bucks on the table or not. The boy was dead, Max was sure of it. Three years had passed since Haitian billionaire Allain Carver's five-year-old son was abducted. Why bother now? The huge bounty and the resources of the most powerful white family in Haiti hadn't turned up a lead.

Sure, Max had been the best detective in Miami once. But that was eight years back. Before he served time for killing a pair of junkie child-murderers. Before his wife, Sandra, died. Plus, he'd heard what had happened to the other PI's sent to Haiti before him—all dead, or their lives permanently screwed up, without ever getting close to finding Charlie Carver.

But with nothing left to lose—and for all that money—Max does go down there. The talk of voodoo and black magic is nothing compared to the haunting quiet of his own empty house. What Max doesn't count on is the depth of corruption, manipulation, and greed Haiti breeds in its inhabitants, a murky evil worse than death, which can easily swallow a man whole—especially a troubled man like Max Mingus.

When the trail to Charlie Carver points to a local myth—"Mr. Clarinet," a spirit figure who for decades is said to have been tempting children away from their families—could the truth be even more shocking than the legend? Max's job suddenly isn't all about finding the boy, his killers, or the money—it's about just staying alive....

Chapter One...

Honesty and straightforwardness weren't always the best options, but Max chose them over bullshit as often as he could. It helped him sleep at night.

"I can't," he told Carver.

"Can't or won't?"

"I won't because I can't. I can't do it. You're asking me to look for a kid who went missing two years ago, in a country that went back to the Stone Age about the same time."

Carver managed a smile so faint it barely registered on his lips yet let Max know he was being considered unsophisticated. It also told Max what kind of rich he was dealing with. Not rich, riche—old money, the worst; connections plugged in at every socket, all the lights on, everybody home—multistory bank vaults, fuck-off stockholdings, high-interest offshore accounts; first-name terms with everybody who's anybody in every walk of life, power to crush you to oblivion. These were people you never said no to, people you never failed.

"You've succeeded at far tougher assignments. You've performed—miracles," Carver said.

"I never raised the dead, Mr. Carver. I only dug 'em up."

"I'm ready for the worst."

"Not if you're talking to me," Max said. He regretted his bluntness. Prison had reformed his erstwhile tact and replaced it with coarseness. "In a way you're right. I've looked for ghosts in hellholes in my time, but they were American hellholes and there was always a bus out. I don't know your country. I've never been there and—no disrespect meant—I've never wanted to go there. Hell, they don't even speak English."

Then Carver told him about the money.

Max hadn't made a fortune as a private detective, but he'd done OK—enough to get by and have a little extra to play with. His wife, who was a qualified accountant, had managed the business side of things. She'd put a fair bit of rainy-day money away in their three savings accounts, and they had points in The L Bar, a successful yuppie joint in downtown Miami, run by Frank Nunez, a retired cop friend of Max's. They'd owned their house and two cars outright, taken three vacations every year, and eaten at fancy restaurants once a month.

He'd had few personal expenses. His clothes—suits for work and special occasions, khakis and T-shirts at all other times—were always well cut but rarely expensive. He'd learned his lesson after his second case, when he'd got arterial spray on his five-hundred-dollar suit and had to surrender it to forensics, who later handed it to the DA, who recycled it in court as Exhibit D. He sent his wife flowers every week, bought her lavish presents on her birthday and at Christmas and on their anniversary; he was also generous to his closest friends. He had no addictions. He'd quit cigarettes and reefer when he'd left the force; booze had taken a little longer but that had gone out of his life too. Music was his only real indulgence—jazz, swing, doo-wop, rock 'n' roll, soul, funk, and disco; he had five thousand CDs, vinyl albums, and singles he knew every note and lyric to. The most he'd ever spent was when he'd dropped four hundred bucks at an auction on an autographed original double ten-inch vinyl copy of Frank Sinatra's "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning." He'd framed it and hung it in his study, opposite his desk. When his wife asked, he lied and told her he'd picked it up cheap at a house-repo sale in Orlando.

All in all, it had been a comfortable life, the sort that made you happy and fat and gradually more and more conservative.

And then he'd gone and killed three people in the Bronx, and the wheels had come off and everything had skidded to a loud, ungainly stop.

Postprison, Max still had the house and his car in Miami, plus $9,000 in a savings account....

Nick Stone is the son of eminent historian Norman Stone and a Haitian mother who is a descendant of Haiti's oldest family, the Aubrys. Raised in Haiti and a graduate of Cambridge University, he lives in London.