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within the article was a brief mention and tiny photo of the first recording artist Misty signed at Perfect Sound Studios, Ken G. Davis. He had put out a few good R&B hits, according to the article. Jake only slightly remembered some of them.
    He stared at the tiny photo of Ken again.
I've seen that photo before, but where?
    He leaned back in his chair and started twirling his hair again until a tiny piece got caught in his fingers.
    Staring at his computer screen, he typed Ken's name into the web search. A few articles came up, but only one caught his immediate attention. It was the article on Ken's death; a tragic car accident in which he was killed instantly. According to the accident report, he had been coming from a coffee shop.
    That's when Jake remembered where he had seen Ken's photo.
    It was sitting on her passenger seat.
    Jake finally remembered seeing a box of Kleenex in her lap when he tapped on the window.
That's what she had reached in her back seat to get. She had been crying.
    He went back to the article on Misty and stared at her picture again.
    That exterior you have is not as fierce as you pretend; I know it can be cracked.
    Jake smiled.
    As he sat back in his chair again, he reached into the little refrigerator he kept in his office and pulled out his favorite thing, an ice-cold beer. He gulped it down like a child drinking Kool-Aid for the first time, let out one of his famous long and drawn out belches, and spent the rest of his night looking for any articles he could find on her.
    Maybe it's not as bad as rocket science, maybe.
    Jake picked up the phone to make a call. He needed more than what the Internet was giving him.



Chapter 4
     
    "They weren't right back then—saying that I didn't have a heart. But now, who needs one? 'There is no love in success,' is what my father once told me. I will live by those words and I will get it all back!"



Who Needs a Heart?
     
    M isty pulled up across the street. She could see the door that used to hold a sign that said: Perfect Sound Studios. She watched as some of her old employees came and went.
    She sat there for hours, anger brewing.
    She felt like she was back at The Skinny all over again. She kept seeing flashbacks of the look on her father's face when they barged in and started demanding to look at his books and then demanding to know the ages of his employees.
    Overnight, The Skinny—her father's dream, love, and life, had a huge lock on the front door, which would never be opened again.
    Not that Misty loved her father, but they shared one common dream—the need for fame and prominence. He had never reached it, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how many artists he had discovered at The Skinny, the world never came to know his name.
    Misty thought about The Skinny.
Man, back in the day, that place was the hottest jazz spot to sit on a corner of New York
.
    Misty's father, Big Fred, had named the place The Skinny because it was everything he wasn't. Big Fred had a big voice, smooth, and toe curling. It was the only thing she loved and respected about her father.
    To Big Fred, money and music gave him something to sing to the world about.
    Misty remembered the day he hired Naya. He gave her the name Jazzmyne. Said she reminded him of a color in a crayon box.
    She knew the tip to the police had come from her. It was her way of getting back at Misty for tricking her into signing a contract, which would bind her to The Skinny for little to no pay for five years. It almost worked, until Chris stepped in.
    To think that I introduced those two, what was I thinking? That was dumb Misty, just dumb.
    Just like forgetting to re-sign the lease on your building for Perfect Sound Studios was dumb.
    Just like letting your assistant Mia come in and take over. Your assistant! That was beyond dumb of me.
    Misty reached down and picked up the photo of Ken.
    Just like letting the man you love walk out your door, without telling him how you really felt about him.