She mulled over a few other factors.
And it made Colleen feel better about Melanie.
Because she was fine—wherever she was.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The band broke into an edgy version of “Respect,” the singer strutting around the stage with the mic in her hand as she bellowed out the letters R-E-S-P-E-C-T. With each one she pointed an accusing finger at patrons who might be less than enlightened, which appeared to be quite a few. The song ended with a squealing sax and the crashing of drums, followed by raucous applause.
Steve turned back to the bar to order more drinks. Colleen showed her barely-touched longneck, but he bought her a shot anyway.
What the hell? The only way out might be up. She picked up her shot glass, clinked it against his with a little splash, and he gave her a grim look before he downed his.
The bourbon went down with a lingering afterburn.
“Hang tight, Steve,” she said. “I think I’ve got a handle on where Melanie is. And I think she’s just fine.”
“You do? Clue me in.”
“I need to talk to your ex-father-in-law first.”
“Rex?” He gave a tight frown. “Lynda’s not gonna like that.”
Colleen sipped her beer. “She’ll be plenty happy if you say you want to borrow the money from him.”
Steve crinkled his face in confusion. “You reckon that’s what I should do, Coll?”
“No. But that’s what we’re going to tell Lynda. But you’ve got to let me drive this.”
“Again?”
“Again. I smell a rat.”
“What rat?” Steve looked confused. He had just had about five shots and was exhausted. Plus, he didn’t realize the power of betrayal within his own family.
“Two rats,” she said. “I’ll get back to you.” She never shared info that wasn’t 100 percent proven. “But, in the meantime, rest assured Melanie is coming home.”
“How do you figure that, then?”
“Just hang with me for another day or two.”
He squinted, perplexed. “I’ll just pretend you know what you’re doing, love.”
Love. “I do. But if you borrowed money from Octavien Lopes, Steve, and you don’t have it, things will get serious soon.” Things had already gotten serious, but there wasn’t any point in hammering the point too hard right now. “How long would it take to get the money from Lynda’s father?”
“Not long. Overnight maybe.”
“Funny Lynda hasn’t got any money. Isn’t she a big record producer?”
Steve shook his head as he smoked. “Yeah, but it’s easy come, easy go there, too. We’re talking the entertainment business. It’s all limos and nose candy when the riding’s high, but that’s always on some band’s tab. Lynda’s broke at the moment. She just doesn’t look it.”
“Doesn’t she own a house?”
“Oh, yeah. One that used to be ours—until the divorce. But it’s mortgaged to the hilt. And, as she mentioned yet again today, losing Mel is my fault so I can just pay for the privilege of getting her back.”
“Steve,” Colleen said. “We need to go to the police.”
He frowned, sipped beer. “Don’t bring that subject up again, Coll, alright?”
“SFPD gave me until tomorrow to talk to you, Steve. Otherwise they’re going to pull me in.”
“Then tell them. But not with my blessing. And tell them they’ll be wasting their time. Because I won’t give them any info.”
She sighed. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
The singer spoke into the mic while the guitarist tuned up a flat string. “I just found out we have a special guest here tonight.” Colleen turned to see her looking directly at Steve, sipping his beer. “Steve Cook,” she said. “At my gig. Wow.”
Steve held up his half-empty beer glass and toasted her.
She cleared her throat. “How about you join us on the next one, Steve?”
“No thanks, darlin’,” Steve said. “You put me to shame.”
The audience groaned.
“I know bullshit when I hear it,” she said. “C’mon. Make a girl’s dream come true.”
“Sorry.” Steve shook his head. “Long day.”
The crowd grumbled in disappointment.
“Okay,” the singer rasped. “I guess I can cry myself to sleep later.”
But it wasn’t enough for the patrons, who were now clapping and chanting. The drummer started a quiet drumroll, building anticipation. Vernon, the owner, came marching down the bar, glaring at Steve.
“Steve,” he said, putting his big paws on the bar. “I been pretty patient with your girlfriend’s band. I put up with her junkie guitarist. I let her keep her residency, even when you don’t show up. And, quite frankly, the band with no name is no great shakes without you. I let you run a tab. A long tab.”
“My daughter bloody disappeared, Vernon.”
“Yeah, I understand. But one fucking song isn’t going to kill you. You owe me.”
“I’ll owe you for a bit longer.”
“No. How about this? You pay your tab and find somewhere else to drink. How about that?”
“You’re all heart, Vernon.” Steve drained his beer, slammed the empty glass on the bar, peeled his denim jacket off and handed it to Colleen. “Hold this for me, will you, love?”
Again, it didn’t mean anything, but having her onetime fantasy call her sweet names made Colleen’s pulse skip. She took the jacket. It smelled of workaday sweat and Steve’s angst and frustration. It smelled real. And it smelled good, in a primitive way that made her respond in a primitive way. Steve was a survivor. One who needed help. And she was the one to do it. She’d left her own jacket in the trunk of the car, knowing she was coming into a bar, and she slipped his over her shoulders. It was still warm with his body heat. A very uncomplicated feeling reverberated through her torso and down below.
Steve rolled up his sleeves as he made his way to the stage. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. He hopped up to cheers and whistles. The singer was all nervous smiles but obviously thrilled. They conferred for a moment. The drummer thumped out a soulful four-four, just a little sloppy, the way a good drummer could play behind the beat and still keep time. The bass player throbbed along. Steve pulled a mic from a stand, shook the cable out like a whip, and got into a groove, moving side to side in sync with the singer, like they’d been singing together for years. A tight smile stretched across his face and you wouldn’t have thought his daughter had supposedly been kidnapped and that he owed gangsters twenty-seven thousand dollars. The difference between a professional and an amateur. The band joined in, building up the intro like a big slow wave.
Steve and the singer gave each other a quick smile as they raised their mics in unison.
Chain chain chain …
Colleen found herself grooving to the song, just hoping it wasn’t too prophetic. Because something sure wasn’t right with Steve’s situation. But she was going to get to the bottom of it.
She just didn’t know exactly what she was going to do next. But she had a pretty good idea. She had four days. One day to deal with Inspector Owens.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Colleen and Steve left the bar late, Steve numbed by the drinks he’d had before and those that people bought for him after singing what turned out to be several songs with the band. On top of the worry and days awake, he was on the edge of consciousness. It wasn’t a good thing, but under the circumstances, it wasn’t a bad alternative. He was functioning.
Driving down Mission, Colleen spotted a Mexican hole-in-the-wall up ahead, the kind of place that had Christmas lights up year-round.
“I could go for an enchilada verde,” she said. “Soak up some of that alcohol that was flowing so freely.”
“Not really hungry.”
“Have you had anything to eat today?”
“Can’t remember.” Which meant he hadn’t.
“You need to take care of yourself. Otherwise t
hings are going to get the better of you.”
“I’ll eat tomorrow.” Steve rolled down the window, stuck his head out.
“I’ll hold you to it,” she said. “When was last time you slept?”
“The night before Melanie took off.” Days. “I keep waking up. Wondering if it’s all really happening. But now you say it isn’t.”
“Not the way you think it is, Steve. Stay calm. It won’t be much longer. I know it’s rough.”
“No shite.”
The phrase threw her, jarring a memory loose, recent, but unclear. She turned to Steve as she drove. “No what?”
“‘Shite,’” he said. “Sorry, love—it’s just the way some of us uncouth Brits talk.”
She looked back at the road. “What does it mean?”
“Shit,” he said. “Pardon my French.”
She’d heard the kidnapper use that very same word this morning, on the phone, garbled with voice distortion, when he’d lost his temper.
He was a Brit.
Steve nodded off.
Colleen turned right on 20th. Headed to Steve’s place. A late model BMW 320i occupied the driveway.
Colleen drove by the house. In Steve’s flat, light shone around the edges of the tarp over the window.
“Looks like Lynda’s waiting for you, Steve,” Colleen said.
“Christ,” Steve said, waking up. “She said she’d be back. Good to her word.”
“She still has a key, I notice.”
“Needs it for when Mel stays over.” His throat caught on the mention of his daughter’s name.
“Get it back until Mel returns.”
Steve turned, gave Colleen a smirk. “It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.”
“You’ve never been married.”
“Oh, yes, I have,” Colleen said tersely. Steve didn’t remember. He was exhausted and had been drinking.
Steve eyed her sideways. “Not anymore?”
“No.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
“He’s dead.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, my God, Colleen. I’m bloody sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “I’m not.”
Steve squinted. “That sounds worse. Was it an accident?”
“Something like that,” she said, giving him a wry look. She turned a corner, out of sight of Steve’s building, double-parked, flipped on the hazard lights, left the engine running. “Don’t go anywhere. Wait here.”
“You’re not going in, are you? Lynda’ll blow her top if she thinks you’re still working for me.”
“That’s why I’ll make sure she doesn’t think that. I’ll pretend I’m looking for you. But I need to scope things out.” It was remotely possible Melanie had returned. Remotely. Colleen doubted it and didn’t want to say so but needed to verify. And Steve didn’t need another pointless fight with his ex right now.
Up on the porch in front of the door to Steve’s flat, she tried to peer in. From the upstairs flat a squeal of a Hammond organ came from a stereo, too loud, someone playing Patti Smith. The gap was too tight to see anything. Taking a breath, she stood back, knocked.
Quick footsteps approached the front door. It opened and Lynda appeared, wearing a white bell-bottom pantsuit. Her blue eyes narrowed, and her mouth became a straight hard line.
“I do not fucking believe it,” she said.
“Believe it.” Colleen said.
Over on the sofa, where the plastic cover was pulled off completely and tossed on the bare wooden floor in a heap, sat a stocky man wearing thick-framed glasses. He looked like a boxer jammed into a light-colored linen suit that stretched across his arms and thighs. He had a thatch of brown hair and an unruly beard. He gave Colleen a friendly smile.
“Hey, there,” he said in a southern accent. “How’s it goin’?”
In the shadows, leaning against the far wall, Colleen saw the outline of a tall, slender man. His arms were crossed over his chest. From what she could tell, he was decked out in black leather from head to toe. The chains on his boots caught the light from the single bulb.
Lynda had brought a welcoming party.
“Is Steve here?” Colleen asked.
“What do you care?” Lynda said. “We no longer need your services.”
“We?” Colleen attempted to step inside the flat.
“Uh-uh,” Lynda said, standing in the way. Tall Guy stood up, arms hanging in fists.
Colleen moved back outside the door.
“I need to get paid,” she said to Lynda. “That’s why I care.”
Lynda laughed through her nose. “After you went and lost our twenty grand? Fuck that. You should be paying us.”
“Paying you money that was Steve’s. That’s good.”
Lynda’s nostrils flared. “Well, bitch, it makes no difference, because you are no longer part of the equation.”
Colleen looked at the tall guy in the dimness flexing his fists.
“Can he talk?” she said.
She saw him cock his head to one side. Sneer.
“Don’t mind him, kiddo,” the stocky man said in a sociable tone. “But you might want to take a hint and be on your way.”
Colleen nodded. “You make a nice group.” She focused on Lynda. “Tell Steve to call me.” She looked straight into Lynda’s eyes, saw them harden.
“I’ll get right on it, bitch.”
Colleen waved goodbye over her shoulder as she stepped down the wooden stairs to the sidewalk. Upstairs, Patti Smith belted out “Because the Night.”
Back at the Torino, smoke pumped out of the tailpipe. Steve was slumped over, passed out. Best thing for him.
She got in, threw the car into gear, set off. Turned right on 21st.
Steve woke up. “Where are we going?”
“My place,” she said. “Lynda had a couple of thugs waiting for you.”
Steve gave her an uncertain smile.
“You need to crash,” she said. She looked at him with a straight face. “Don’t worry—you’re safe. I’ve got a guest room.”
Steve rubbed his face as she climbed the hill, the big block V8 rumbling. “I’m not sure I like it, you protecting me like some schoolboy running from a fight.”
“It’s okay, Steve. You’re plenty tough,” she said. “But you don’t need a run-in with your ex tonight.”
“And you need to tell me what’s going on with Mel,” he said.
“Mel’s fine,” she said, pulling into the back of her apartment building, where there were a few off-street parking slots in a weed-infested yard. She edged the nose of the Torino up to a fence, killed the engine.
She turned, looked at Steve. His weary eyes met hers in the dashboard lights.
“Spit it out, Coll.”
“I normally don’t share working hypotheses with clients, Steve, until I have all the facts, but you’re a wreck, so I’m going to break a rule: Melanie’s safe.”
He blinked at her in fatigued confusion. “Care to elaborate?”
“You’ve been set up like a bowling pin.”
“What?”
“Your ex. Lynda. And her father.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Lynda’s a thoroughbred ratbag, no argument, but she loves Mel to bits.”
“Maybe she does. But you’re still getting played. No fault of yours for not seeing it. You’ve been up for days and aren’t thinking straight. And you’re a decent guy who thinks other people behave in a relatively similar way. But I got news for you: they don’t.”
He dug out his cigarettes. “Alright … explain.”
“Upstairs.” She switched off the lights, pulled her keys, got out of the car. “Come on, Rock Star.”
Upstairs, in her apartment, Colleen put the kettle on and went to the far end of the long living/dining room, devoid of dining table or chairs for the time being. She pulled the curtain aside to peer down at Vermont Street. No white Econoline van. Who’d been watching earlier? Someone connected
to Lynda?
Steve stood in the living room, swaying, bleary with exhaustion and booze.
“Why don’t you grab a shower?” Colleen said. “You’ll feel better. I’ll get some towels. Make some tea.”
“No way,” Steve said, collapsing onto the sofa. “I want to know why you think Mel’s okay. Because I don’t.” He broke out a cigarette, lit up. Shook the match out, set in a clean glass ashtray. Rubbed his face.
“Fair enough.” Colleen stood there, nodded. “When I looked in Melanie’s bag at your place when I first came over, there were no overnight things. Why didn’t Lynda make sure?”
He seemed to give that a thought, took a puff of his cigarette. “That’s your theory? Mel not being packed?”
“It’s the start. Lynda goes out of town on business, and Melanie gets dumped on you. And then Melanie gets kidnapped? Coincidence?”
He nodded. “Keep going.”
“That night you played the gig at The Pitt—when Melanie disappeared? Did anyone actually see her go off with anybody?”
“No.”
“Right, no one saw that.”
“But the kidnappers called. You were there.”
“Doesn’t mean they necessarily have her.”
Steve screwed up his eyes.
Colleen spoke: “There was an arrangement, Steve.”
Steve gave Colleen a cynical look.
“On the phone,” Colleen said, “the kidnapper referred to Mel as ‘little Mellie.’ Isn’t that a family term for her? A nickname? How would he—or she—know that? Unless he—or she—or they—was in the know?”
Steve shrugged.
Colleen kept going: “You’re being played, Steve. But you’re not responding appropriately. You were supposed to take Lynda’s father’s money—in exchange for your catalog. But you didn’t. You went and got a mob loan instead. That screwed up the intention of the ‘kidnapping’—securing your catalog. It’s not the ransom money the kidnappers really want.”
“Twenty K is a fair amount of cash. And it managed to disappear just fine, didn’t it?”
“Sure. But if I’m a kidnapper worth my salt, why would I target somebody who hasn’t got any money? Like you? And Lynda is making sure you’re the one on the hook for it—not her. And her father won’t give you the money without you signing over your catalog.”
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