Indigo Rain

by Elise Noble

  “Want a coffee?” Vance asked. He’d been assigned to camera duty today, which meant Zander got to meet him in person. They’d only ever spoken on the phone before.

  “Thanks. I didn’t sleep so well last night.”

  “I’m not surprised with all this shit going down. Caitlin Wiles was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, and someone’s girlfriend.”

  “Is there any more news on that?”

  “The oil refinery along the road caught a suspect vehicle on camera around the time of the incident. A dark-coloured SUV with one headlight out.”

  “Was the licence plate visible?”

  “No, it was missing.”

  “They took it off?” That suggested premeditation, which pretty much ruled out the possibility of an accident.

  “Maybe. Or it could have been a new car. Here in California, new-car buyers have ninety days to put plates on. When they first purchase a vehicle, they get a small registration sticker that goes in their front windshield instead.”

  “So if they commit a crime in the first three months, nobody can identify their car? That’s crazy.”

  “Tell that to the lawmakers.”

  “Can you cross-reference anyone on our suspect list to SUV purchases?”

  “Someone’s already working on that. Once I’ve got the coffee, I’ll play the footage for you.” Vance got halfway out of his seat, then sat down again as Emmy locked lips with Travis. Hell, she didn’t take this undercover work lightly, did she? “Well, if anyone in that room’s our culprit, that oughta shake ’em up a bit. Think they are?”

  “Are what?” Zander studied the scene on screen. Travis had better not get any more enthusiastic about the task at hand, not when he claimed to be devoted to Lanie.

  “Are in that room. You’ve been on this case longer than me—who do you think did it?”

  Who indeed? With last night’s news about Peyton, Zander had narrowed it down to three or four main suspects in his head. And yes, they were all present today.

  “So far, each incident’s been reasonably clean. The overdose, the allergy thing, and the acid in the moisturiser didn’t even require the person to be in the room at the time. And even the two more violent incidents weren’t messy. No blood. Based on statistics, I’d say a woman was behind this.”

  Vance bobbed his head in agreement. “A fight over a man. Jealousy?”

  “Or a case of unrequited love.”

  “Obsession, more like. Any other options?”

  “Gary Dorfman. The guy’s shifty.”

  “What’s his motive?”

  “I’m not sure about that one yet. He seems determined to get the band to knuckle down and work, so maybe he thinks the women are a distraction? I’d also be interested in finding out if Red Cat Records took out an insurance policy on Travis Thorne.”

  “Life insurance?”

  “This is escalating, and it’s got to be messing with his head.”

  “You think he’d do something stupid out of guilt?”

  “No, but if someone took him out and made it look like an accident, convincing the world he was suicidal would be easier after all this.”

  “At least he’s got Emmy with him.”

  “She thinks she’ll solve this in a week.”

  Vance gave a one-shouldered shrug. “She’s sure trying hard.”

  He wasn’t wrong there. Throughout the day, Emmy spoke to everyone at the studio. Rush, Dex, and JD. Verity and Meredith. Courtney and Jeanne, but they’d ruled the latter out because she’d only joined the tour after Reagan died. The crew who looked after the instruments and equipment. Frank, the band’s manager. And Gary.

  Yes, Emmy’s conversation with Gary was the highlight of the day. It had started off innocently enough, with a discussion about Indigo Rain’s recent tour, then Gary made the mistake of quietly suggesting that Emmy might like to pleasure him for cash.

  Vance whooped with laughter. “Bring the popcorn, boys.”

  Emmy’s voice turned coy. “What, here?”

  “I’m sure we can find somewhere more private.” Gary waved towards the door. “After you.”

  She sashayed along the hallway in front of him, and tension in the surveillance room grew. How bad would this be? Should they call an ambulance in advance?

  On screen, Gary motioned Emmy into a private office and locked them in. Zander almost felt sorry for the guy, and rightly so. Emmy let him get his trousers down before she slammed him back against the wall. He clawed at the arm pressed against his throat, but a swift knee in the balls diverted his attention.

  “I’m here with Travis, and if you ever suggest I prostitute myself again, I’ll ram my Amex Platinum up your ass. Do you understand?”

  Gary might have tried to nod, but he couldn’t move his head.

  “I said, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Judging by his high-pitched squeak, Emmy was twisting something sensitive with the hand out of camera shot.

  “Good. And while we’re here, let me suggest you refrain from making the same offer to other women too. It’s degrading.”

  “O-o-okay.”

  Gary flew across the room and landed in a chair, and Emmy rummaged through a mini-fridge in the corner for ice, then flung that in his direction too.

  “Consider this an unofficial restraining order. Put that on your chicken nuggets and keep the fuck out of my way.”

  Vance smacked the table with a fist and doubled over. “I love that woman.”

  So did Zander at that moment, but if Gary was their culprit, it was safe to say she’d just ratcheted up his animosity to murderous proportions.

  Blackwood’s LA office was about the same size as their five-storey building in London and operated in the same way. Staff had rest areas, sleep pods, and well-stocked kitchens in case they got hungry. At seven thirty in the evening, Zander heated a meatball sub in the microwave and sloped off back to the surveillance room. At least Emmy and Travis had left the studio now. In the eight hours they’d spent there, Indigo Rain had recorded one track—one—but they must have played it a hundred times and now Zander couldn’t get the beat out of his head. If he never heard it again, it would be too soon.

  They’d retired to Rush’s apartment, which wasn’t any bigger than Zander’s, together with a bunch of buddies and half of the crew. All three of their female suspects had gone—Meredith, Verity, and Courtney—which was probably why Emmy had just licked Travis’s face. Once again, Zander thanked the bitch for insisting Lanie stay out of this.

  A quarter to eight, and Emmy checked her watch. Didn’t she say she had a conference call? Zander expected her to make an excuse and leave, but instead, she whispered in Travis’s ear and he got up too. The bedroom. They headed into the bedroom for what had to be the least sexy liaison ever.

  Emmy sat on the floor with her iPad propped on her knees, knocking the headboard into the wall with one foot while Travis sat on the windowsill. Every so often, Emmy giggled, and it seemed she’d briefed Travis too because he groaned loudly each time she held up a hand—presumably when her microphone was muted. In between acting out a porn soundtrack, Emmy put on her serious face and quietly talked shop to the head of Blackwood’s Paris office, first about staffing levels, then about the heightened threat of terrorism in Europe. The woman multitasked like a boss.

  By ten, she’d flaunted her dishevelled clothing and Travis’s mussed-up hair in front of the group gathered in Rush’s lounge, dropped Travis off at Skywater House, and arrived back at Blackwood, pleased with her day’s work judging by the smile on her face.

  “That was fun. I’ve only ever been to Ethan’s studio before, and it’s much quieter there. No groupies, no perverts, no murderous bitches hanging out.”

  “So you think it was one of the three girls too?”

  “Yup.”

  “Which one? What did you find?”

  “What did I find? Nothing concrete yet. All I’ve got to go on is gut instinct.”


  “And…?”

  “At the moment, I have to agree with your assessment. The most likely suspects are Meredith and Courtney.”

  “Do you have a favourite?”

  “Yes, but I’m going purely on gut instinct, and right now, I don’t want to influence the investigation and risk writing off the other suspects, not without proof. So I’ll keep my suspicions to myself for now.”

  “Oh, come on…”

  “What did the team find today? Anything more on the SUV that hit Caitlin?”

  Damn Emmy and her stubbornness. Every so often in Blackwood’s London building, her husband would walk out of the office they shared, his expression veering between homicidal and resigned. He’d pause, take a couple of deep breaths, then stride off to the kitchen. Late one evening, on a day when rumour said Emmy had told a high-ranking politician to go fuck himself, Zander had caught Black pouring the contents of a hip flask into his coffee, and now he understood exactly why the man had done it. Emmy could be the most irritating woman on earth at times.

  But there was no point in pushing her because she’d never yield. No, Zander’s only option was to grin and bear it. And reach for the whisky bottle himself.

  Vance took over. “None of the three girls present today have an SUV registered to them or their immediate family.”

  “Well, the car came from somewhere. Check out their friends, hire companies, roommates. Is there any forensic evidence?”

  “The cops found some paint chips and glass from a shattered headlight. They’re analysing it to see if they can get a make and model for the vehicle.”

  “Any new CCTV?”

  “Not yet. We’re still canvassing. Think this is gonna be a slow one.”

  Caitlin lived in El Segundo, a community that managed to retain a small-town feel despite being a suburb of Los Angeles, according to Vance. She’d been jogging towards the oil refinery when she got hit, on a sleepy side street near Candy Cane Park. The driver had mounted the kerb and knocked her into the parking lot of a nearby apartment building. A Good Samaritan had found her, and since she’d listed Travis as an emergency contact in her phone, the doctors had called him when she arrived at the hospital.

  Blackwood investigators had already spoken to local businesses to no avail, and now they were trying private homes and dashcams in the hope of finding some elusive footage or even a witness. The cops had all the forensic evidence, and with their current backlog, they’d take months to process it.

  Honestly? This was the most frustrating case Zander had ever worked on, made worse by the fact he had no network here in the US. He was little more than a glorified tourist.

  “A slow one? Maybe. Maybe not. But let’s make it more fun, shall we?” Emmy reached for a pad and tore off a sheet of paper, shielded the pen as she scribbled something, then sealed the note in an envelope. “Side bet, Zander. If I had to pick one person, this is my guess for who’s behind all this shit.”

  He reached for the envelope, but Emmy held it out of reach.

  “Fifty bucks if I’m right.”

  “Fine, fifty bucks.”

  “And no cheating. In fact, I’ll mail this to the UK and you can open it when you get back.”

  Gah. Foiled again.

  “Tell me again why I work for you?”

  “Because I order great pizza, honey. Are you done here? It’s time to go home.”

  CHAPTER 36 - ZANDER

  THURSDAY EVENING, AND Lanie rushed across to hug Travis as he walked in the front door with Emmy.

  “How did it go today?” she asked.

  “Better. Kinda weird because right after we arrived this morning, Gary said he needed to go pick up a bagel, then he never came back.”

  “Perhaps he got hit by a truck?” Lanie sounded a little too hopeful.

  “Nah, he texted Courtney to say he didn’t feel well, so…” Travis shrugged. “We got more done than usual because he wasn’t there to complain about every damn note we played.”

  Zander knew exactly why Gary had run off with his tail between his legs. The man was a misogynistic coward. A misogynistic coward who may or may not be party to the scam Red Cat had pulled on Indigo Rain with their punitive contract. When Lanie and Travis disappeared into the lounge, Zander beckoned Emmy into the small study at the front of the house.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Oliver Rhodes returned his assessment of Indigo Rain’s contract today.”

  “And from the look on your face, I’m assuming it isn’t good news?”

  “They’re screwed. Rhodes says the contract language is watertight, and although the band could challenge it as unfair in court, Red Cat’s attorneys would most likely drain the resources of anyone who tried to start that fight. The band members would end up bankrupt if they tried to walk away, and if they manage to stick it out for another two years, they’ll only have Red Cat’s scraps to show for it.”

  Not to mention the non-compete clause hidden away in a section on overseas royalties. They couldn’t sign with a rival label without Red Cat’s approval for ten years, and in Zander’s estimation, the chances of the assholes at the label giving their blessing were zero. While states like California had ruled such clauses illegal, Indigo Rain’s contract had been signed through a subsidiary of Red Cat’s based in the Cayman Islands, which made jurisdiction hazy.

  “Can I see what Oliver sent?”

  Zander handed over his phone and waited while Emmy read the executive summary. How was he supposed to tell Lanie and Travis about this? The guy had to be under enough pressure already without piling on more stress.

  “Eh, it’s not that bad,” Emmy said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Yes, I heard what you said, but are you in a parallel dimension? In what way can that news possibly be good?”

  “Because they’ve got an out.”

  “What out?”

  Emmy highlighted a sentence with her finger and spun the phone back to face Zander. “Here. If Red Cat folds, the contract is null and void, all rights to the band’s music revert, and they line up with the other creditors. Granted, there probably wouldn’t be much left if the label was insolvent, but it’s got to be a good thing overall, right? For them and any other bands who are getting screwed over.”

  “Hold up. I’m still stuck on the folding part. How the hell would Red Cat go bust? They’re raking in millions.”

  According to Tessa and the other two musketeers back in London, the CEO had just bought a new fucking helicopter, probably paid for with Travis’s money. And that was only the tip of the iceberg. Amin had scraped data from online retailers on sales rankings for Red Cat’s acts, plus compiled a list of all their tours, gigs, and public appearances. Ziggy had estimated the income and costs for each line item, then extrapolated it into estimated revenue, gross profit, expenses, and net profit. It was good, methodical work. If either of them wanted to work in the analytics business after university, he’d put in a recommendation for them with Blackwood’s IS team.

  “In 1640, in his Jacula Prudentum, George Hebert said ‘to him that will, ways are not wanting.’ An old proverb, but it’s still true today. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and we’ll find a way, but not until we’ve dealt with our first problem.”

  “But this—”

  Emmy held up a finger. “One thing at a time, Zander. Hey, did I tell you we’re going to Vegas on Monday?”

  No, she didn’t. “Vegas?”

  “The band needs to make a personal appearance at one of the casinos on Sunday and play a private event on Monday, so we get to go on vacay. Fun, huh?”

  “You belong in an asylum.”

  “Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. I love Vegas. It’s the land of showgirls, poker, and all-you-can-eat buffets. Did you know I got married there? Twice?”

  “How am I supposed to explain this to Alana?”

  “What, Vegas? Just tell her it’s work for Travis.”


  “No, not Vegas. The contract.”

  “Simple. You don’t tell her anything for the moment. If she asks, just tell her you’re waiting on Oliver.”

  “You mean lie to my sister? We swore we’d always be honest with each other.”

  And they’d stuck to that promise, even if Lanie had been decidedly hazy over her initial week with Indigo Rain.

  “Hey, nobody’s asking you to lie. Just be economical with the truth.” Emmy tapped away at Zander’s phone. “There, the email’s gone now. We’ll pretend neither of us ever saw it.”

  Zander snatched the phone back and frantically retrieved Oliver’s message from the trash folder. Sometimes, Emmy could be so…so…decisive. At that point in time, Zander felt as if he was clinging to the back of a roller coaster by his fingernails, and he had no choice but to hang on and try not to vomit.

  “You said there was something new?” Zander asked Vance.

  Emmy had thought this job would be done in a week, but it was Sunday evening, five days in, and so far all they’d got was eye strain from staring at screens, both watching Emmy cavorting in the recording studio and trawling through information. Emmy, for her part, had complained last night that she was getting bored, Travis said he didn’t want to go to Vegas, and Lanie didn’t want him to go either.

  “I found a couple of interesting facts,” Vance said. “Not sure what to make of them yet.”

  “Go on.”

  “Meredith McVey has a juvenile record.”

  “Aren’t those sealed?”

  “Technically, yes.”

  “Technically?”

  “She stole a car. Don’t ask how I got that information.”

  Zander’s mind connected the dots, as it had been trained to do. “And we’ve got a mystery SUV, owned by none of our suspects.”

  “Exactly. What if she boosted it from somewhere?”