“Fucking bitch!” She heard the tire iron clang asphalt as he struggled to get the scooter back upright. It died on him when he did that and he started kicking it over. It wouldn’t start. A front door opened again.
“I’ve called the police!” the fat man shouted.
Finally, the scooter started and whirred off up Whitfield in a wind-up of gears. And then it was gone.
Colleen exited the park, hurried down Whitfield to her guest-house. She let herself in quietly, got to her room before the police could arrive. She peeled off her jacket, lay in darkness, her mind swarming with revelations. She now knew Sir Ian was involved in Steve’s downfall, and the death of Brenda Pike.
As was Ev.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was raining at SFO when Colleen’s red-eye descended through low night clouds to the city by the bay. A gust of wind buffeted the plane as they came in over the water toward the runway. Smeary lights flickered alongside wet asphalt as the 747 touched down, skidding until the plane righted itself. But her second international flight was easier than the first. Turbulence was a part of the process, to be expected. Just like life. She even managed to catnap. And having Tich’s word that he would press ahead with his statement on what transpired the night Brenda Pike died helped settle her concerns, although there were plenty of unknowns left. Like Sir Ian’s involvement. But she could call it progress.
Back home, on Vermont Street, she circled her block, looking for any sign of a white van, or anyone else keeping tabs on her. Nada.
It was still the wee hours when she sat down at her desk and checked her answering service. A call from Gus Pedersen, Steve’s new lawyer.
Early the next morning she spoke to Gus. It wasn’t looking good for Steve. He wasn’t getting bail, which was not a surprise. But no word from the kidnappers. Gus had keys to Steve’s flat now and was checking in regularly and had installed one of those fancy new answering machines on Steve’s phone as a long shot, knowing a kidnapper would not leave a message on an answering machine.
At 9:00 a.m. Colleen signed up for a visit on the seventh floor of 850 Bryant. She got down there slowly through SF commute traffic and parked in a lot nearby that charged her three bucks. Parking prices in SF were getting out of hand.
Just after ten, they brought Steve in. He sat on the other side of the Plexiglas, wearing a faded orange jumpsuit. He hadn’t shaved since his arrest and a thick layer of stubble darkened his already moody countenance. His eyes were sunken. Worry creased his brow. He was about as unsteady as she’d ever seen him, and she felt for him. Even so, he seemed to be holding up better than most people would.
This time he had a pack of Lucky Strikes. Gus had seen he was stocked. He shook one out, lit it up, and picked up the handset. So did she.
He took a deep drag. “Please tell me you’ve got some good news about Mel.”
Colleen took a measured breath. “I wish I did, Steve. But I am closer.”
“How so?”
“She’s worth a lot more to the kidnappers alive. They’re just waiting to make their move. The longer you sit, the more they wear you down.”
“I’ve got news—it’s working.” Steve knocked ash off his cigarette into an abandoned Pepsi can.
“I met Sir Ian,” she said. “In London.”
He returned a sheepish look.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about Brenda Pike, Steve?”
He shrugged. “Why do you think, Coll?” He brushed some loose ash off the countertop and looked away. “It’s not exactly an episode of my life I’m particularly proud of.”
“But you were set up.”
Steve squinted at her. “Nice to think so.” Shook his head. “But no—I fucked up just fine all on my own.”
“No,” she said. “Sir Ian’s got something to hide. Something big.”
“How do you figure that, then?”
“Apart from the fact that he had me tailed in London?” she said. “Ev Cole.”
“Strewth.” A look of surprise crossed Steve’s face. “There’s a name from the past.”
“Twelve years ago, he was seen in the bar earlier the night Brenda Pike was in your room—with Brenda. Along with a friend of hers. Her friend took off.”
“How do you know all that?”
Colleen told Steve about her visit to Church Stretton, meeting Brenda’s parents. Brenda’s father going to the hotel, learning about Ev with Brenda. “He even mentioned it to the police. But by that time, you’d already left the U.K. So it was all back-burnered. The night before Brenda was found dead in your room, Ev was seen getting on the elevator with her on the fifth floor—his room was on the floor below yours. She was staggering, supposedly drunk. But she’d been drinking shandies in the bar. My money says Ev gave her something stronger, brought her up to your room. Where she died of an overdose while you were passed out.”
Steve blinked in thought, obviously turning things over in his mind.
Colleen pushed ahead: “You’d had a beef with Ev a couple days before. He’d beaten up a fan. You told Sir Ian you wanted him fired. You had a fight with Sir Ian that night, too—before the show. You punched him. Threatened him over non-payment. So Brenda’s death is shaping up to look a lot like revenge. Sir Ian is my bet. Maybe Ev. Maybe both.”
“And how do you know all this, Coll? Ev on the floor below mine and such?”
“Tich,” she said.
Steve did a double take. “What?”
“Tich lives in London, works in a pub, drinks too much.”
Steve took a puff, exhaled. “Poor bloody Tich.”
“He’s the one who saw Ev and Brenda that night. You’d gone to bed drunk. After that fight with Sir Ian, you took it out on the bottle in your dressing room.”
“I don’t even remember going to bed. But, if that’s the case, why didn’t Tich say anything at the time?”
“He did—to Sir Ian. But you’d already taken off. And Sir Ian told Tich that if he wanted to be part of anything going forward, he’d best keep his mouth shut about what he saw.”
“Christ.” The cigarette sat forgotten in Steve’s hand. “Christ.”
“‘Shades of Summer’ has been inquired about for an upcoming RomCom.”
Steve looked up. “Rom what?”
“Romantic Comedy. It’s in a gossip column in a recent Variety. Gil Johns, the director of Sweet Sympathy, is rumored to have been making enquiries into ‘Shades of Summer’ for a new soundtrack.”
Steve thought about that. “Get out.”
“‘Flowers’ went for over a million pounds,” she said.
“I remember that tune. The Bang, 1965.”
“Well, the guy who wrote it was working as a warehouseman in Liverpool before Hollywood picked up ‘Flowers’ for Endless Love, last year’s romantic blockbuster. Guess what? He’s no longer lugging boxes around the docks for a living. He won an Ivor Novello for the song after the movie was nominated and recently moved to the South of France. Now he’s looking to buy a vineyard.”
“No.”
“And you were next, Steve. But your entire catalog has been tied up in litigation all these years. Sir Ian knows you won’t deal with him. He’s behind this. When I was in London, I met with him, pretending to make enquiries. He was most interested. I reckon he was able to talk Rex Williamson and Lynda into a fake kidnap, ‘lend’ you the ransom money in exchange for your catalog—get it at a bargain basement price. Both Rex and Lynda had the connections; both have worked with Delco Records. And NewMedia.”
“Lynda’s company. And Lynda went along. Promised Mel the bloody horse she’d been wanting.” Steve shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair. “But it went wrong.” He looked up. “Where the fuck is she?” His voice cracked.
“She’s alive, Steve. When the faux kidnap was blown, my money says Lynda, and most likely Rex, bailed on going any further. Things were getting out of hand. But someone got greedy, shot Lynda, ramped everything up a notch, took Melanie for keeps. A real kidnap.”
<
br /> “Okay.” Steve nodded. “But not Rex. He wouldn’t kidnap his own granddaughter.”
“But Ev Cole would.”
Steve squinted. “Ev again. But he’s over five thousand miles away.”
Colleen shook her head. “Tich says Ev immigrated to the U.S., like a lot of Brits, when the economy went south in Britain. I’m told he lives in the LA area now. I now know he was the guy at your place that night when I stopped by. You were waiting in the car. Lynda was there, with Ev. And another guy. To pressure you into taking Rex’s money. I think Sir Ian enlisted Ev’s help for the dirty work.” She pulled the Polaroid photo of the tall man on a motorcycle receiving a bag from the fateful ransom payoff down at the Transbay Terminal. She pressed it up against the Plexiglas. “Take another look.”
Steve leaned forward, looked at it. “Could be Ev. But it’s not a lock, is it?”
Colleen put the photo away. She described Ev to Steve as he had appeared that night when Lynda was at Steve’s.
“That sounds like Ev, all right,” he said. “Bloody hell.”
“He was right in front of me.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Right in front of me. Twice. Once on the motorcycle. The other time in your flat that night with Lynda.”
A look of anguish took hold of Steve’s face. “Ev was one of our roadies, back in ’65–’66. He was mean and nasty then, and I have no reason to think he’s changed. And now he’s over here. There’s plenty of old U.K. music people in LA. There’s always a need for guys like Ev. They can collect payment for the gig when the manager at the Whiskey says he’s short on cash and will send a check, work as a bodyguard, know where to get more nose candy when your promo party is running short.” Steve gave Colleen a knowing look. “It’s not all peace and love.”
Colleen actually never thought any of it was. “My theory says Ev got greedy after the so-called kidnap blew up. He went over to strong-arm Lynda the night she was killed, sometime after you did. They got into an argument, he threatened her, she ran upstairs, pulled her gun, things got out of hand. He killed her.”
Steve’s eyes were empty. “And then he and whoever he was with took off with Mel.”
“Couldn’t leave her behind. Or they would have to kill her, too. Besides, now Ev had the most valuable bargaining chip in the world: your daughter.”
The cigarette burned down to Steve’s fingers, and he shook it loose, dropped it in the Pepsi can with a sizzle. “What if he killed Mel?”
Colleen’s heart thumped. “There’s no money in that. And money is what Ev wants. Melanie’s worth a lot more alive.”
“But there haven’t been any more ransom requests.”
“You haven’t exactly been available.”
Steve took a deep breath, let it out. “Trouble is, you’ve got to prove all of this, Coll. I’m stuck in here.”
“I know. I will.”
“How?”
“By finding Ev. I’ve got resources.” Moran, to start with.
Steve hung his head. “If only I hadn’t run back in ’66.”
“Brenda Pike wasn’t your fault, Steve.”
“I could have been awake and sober when she was brought into my room. I could have gotten her help. Before …”
“Ev gave Brenda Pike an overdose. He could have easily done something similar with you, slipped something into your bottle in your dressing room after that show. You got drunk fast, you went back to the hotel, straight to bed. Don’t you think that’s just a little strange?”
Steve looked up. “Perhaps. But that’s not much comfort now. Ev was always around. No one would have thought twice about him being in the dressing room.”
Colleen could certainly see that.
“Visiting time’s up,” the sheriff’s deputy said behind her. “I already let you go over.”
Colleen nodded. “Stay strong, Steve.”
He gave a somber nod. “I owe you, love.”
Love. They took a moment to look at each other, without sound. A decade had transpired between them in minutes. If there had been any lingering doubt about Steve’s involvement in killing Lynda, it was gone. And Colleen’s feelings for him were only stronger.
They both hung up their phones. And stood up.
A dark frown settled over Steve’s face. Colleen saw twelve years’ worth of regret and agony travel across it in a matter of seconds.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“That’s Ev Cole?” Moran said, squinting at Colleen’s grainy Transbay Polaroid. He pushed his dark framed glasses up his nose as he studied the photo.
“That’s the guy,” Colleen said, flipping up the collar of her bomber jacket and hunkering down in the sharp wind coming in off the ocean. She and Moran were standing at the end of Santa Cruz Pier, the Boardwalk behind them. The roller coaster was silent. No riders today. A wet rainy midweek day. Whitecaps blew in on the rolling surf. “It’s too bad our only real witness, the guy who probably handed him a bag of cash, is dead.”
“Tell me about it,” Moran said. He’d been there the day that Colleen chased the little guy under a Muni bus on Mission Street.
“I’m told Ev lives somewhere in the Los Angeles area.”
The wind bent the Polaroid as Moran brought it closer. “What kind of motorcycle is that?”
“It’s not American,” she said. “Too small. Maybe Japanese. Maybe a 650. Or a 750. Ev’s tall, about thirty years old now.”
“And you’re confident about this lead, Hayes?” he asked, handing back the photo.
She nodded as she pocketed the Polaroid. Wind blew her hair across her face as she filled Moran in on Ev’s past, back in The Lost Chords’ heyday.
“And you’re sure he’s got Melanie Cook?” Moran asked.
“If not, he knows a lot more than the rest of us.”
“Have you considered that Melanie Cook might be …” Moran didn’t finish the sentence.
“No,” she said quickly. It was too grim to think about.
“Then why hasn’t there been another ransom demand?”
“I don’t know.” Colleen shrugged, shuddering in the cold wind, and the turn the conversation had taken. “He’s biding his time. Wants Steve to sweat it out. Steve hasn’t been easy to get hold of, either, locked up.”
“Okay.” Moran nodded after some thought. “I’ll buy it.”
A surge of relief flowed through her. Moran’s approval was a good sign although she could tell he had his doubts.
“Don’t you have a contact who can run a trace?” she asked. Moran’s connection was somebody at Santa Cruz PD. Someone with a link to FBI databases, other resources out of Colleen’s reach.
“I’ll see what I can find. But Los Angeles is a big place, Hayes—if he’s even in Los Angeles.”
“Can’t be any harder than trying to get hold of you,” she said, smiling.
“Sorry about Daphne. She worries about me. Which reminds me. I better be getting back.”
“Please tell her I said ‘thanks’ for sparing you.”
Moran gave a grin. “The less I say about you, Hayes, the better. How much of all this are you telling Inspector Owens?”
“Up until my trip to London, most everything. But after I was told in no uncertain terms to desist, I’m incognito, as they say. So, until I find Ev, Owens is not exactly at the top of my call list.”
“Is that wise?”
“He had Steve Cook arrested. He could do the same with me. I’m not going to risk that until I have all of the information together—or, better still, Melanie Cook.”
Moran gave Colleen a pensive look before he spoke. “Have you considered that your client Steve Cook might have actually killed his ex-wife?”
“For all of ten seconds.”
“Sure it wasn’t a little longer than that?”
“It might have been. But he didn’t do it.”
“And you’re perfectly sure you might not be—ah—prejudiced towards him?”
Colleen blushed, her face warming. “Steve Cook was a t
een idol. But now he’s my client. And he didn’t kill his ex.”
“Fair enough. I’ll let you know what I find out about Ev Cole. What’s your next move?”
“Circle back to Rex Williamson,” she said. “Lynda’s father. He knows more than he’s letting on.”
“Be careful, Hayes. If this Ev Cole is what you say he is, and there’s a connection to Lynda’s father, you need to keep your eyes peeled.”
She knew that. She was actually looking forward to bumping into Ev. But she also knew she needed to be prepared.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The phone rang in the middle of the night, pulling Colleen from a coma of sleep. Jet lag was catching up. She sat up, the warm waterbed sloshing underneath her bare butt, and blinked to focus. The sharp red digits of the clock read 2:19 a.m.
She had no idea how long the phone had been ringing.
Maybe it was Alex.
She answered the phone, brushing her hair back off her forehead.
There was a squeal of something electronic, followed by a tinny, familiar robotic voice, distorted.
“Good morning,” it said. The sarcasm was heavy, even with the mask of hissing electronica. “Hope you weren’t in the middle of something good.”
“Who is this?” But she already knew.
“Do you really need to ask that?”
“We’ve spoken before. Down at the Transbay Terminal. Before you ripped my client off for twenty K.”
“That was then,” the voice said. “This is now.”
“Why the hell are you calling me?”
“Round two.”
As she suspected. More cash. “You’ve got Melanie?”
“You have a distinct knack for stating the obvious.”
“Great. Put her on.”
“She’d sound like Robbie the Robot. And I’m not about to unhook my magic box and let you speak to her direct, love.”
Love.
“So how do I know she’s alive?” Colleen said.
“Of course she is. What do you think I am?”
“A murderer. You killed Lynda.”
“Want me to hang up, bitch?” the voice snapped, irritated. She’d hit a nerve. Good.
Tie Die Page 22
