Mystery: The Sam Prichard Series - Books 1-4

by David Archer

  “Interesting,” Sam said. “Got his name and address?”

  “Yep, I knew you'd ask, so here it is. His name is Bill Miller, and he lives at the Grand Crowne Apartments on East Evans Avenue, number four twenty. Doesn't have a job as far as I can tell, and he's on Facebook pretty much all the time.”

  “Okay,” Sam said, “I'm on the way to see him.”

  Sam didn't need GPS for this one; the Grand Crowne was a hotbed of criminal activity, and he'd been there many times during his ten years as a cop. It took him almost a half hour to get to the place, but he found unit four twenty with no problem, and rang the doorbell.

  When the door opened, Sam was surprised to see a very small man; Bill Miller was what used to be called a midget, a very short person who was of normal proportions. Bill was about four-and-a-half feet tall, and if you weren't aware of his age, he would have looked like he might be a ten-year-old boy.

  “Yeah?” he said in a high voice, looking annoyed. “Whatever you’re sellin', I ain't buyin'!” He started to close the door, but stopped when he saw Sam's ID held in front of his face.

  “Mr. Miller, I'm Sam Prichard, private investigator. I'm looking into the disappearance of Barry Wallace, and it's come to my attention that you and he were acquainted, and not on the best of terms?”

  Miller stared at the ID for a moment, then looked up at Sam. “You're really a private eye named Sam? Isn't that just a bit cliché?” He shook his head as if he were amazed at the coincidence, then swung the door open. “Come on in,” he said. “Barry Wallace is a pain in my ass sometimes, but I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. We'll see what I can tell you and if it helps.”

  Sam followed the little man into the living room of the apartment, and sat in the chair he was offered. “Thanks for giving me a few minutes,” he said.

  “No worries. You want coffee? I just put some on, and I'm getting me a cup.”

  “Sure, and thanks.”

  Miller went into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a tray. On it were two cups, a carafe, and cream and sugar with spoons. He set it on the coffee table, poured coffee into the cups and said, “I don't mind bringing it, but you can doctor up your own.”

  Sam grinned, added sugar to his cup and stirred as Miller did the same. He took a sip, and said, “Thanks, this is good.” He set the cup down and looked at his host. “Mr. Miller, you claim that Barry Wallace stole some songs from you. Can you tell me the last time you saw or spoke to him?”

  “Yeah, no worries,” Miller said. “Barry and I haven't been face to face for a couple months or so, but we talk on the phone now and then. He'll call me up when he gets stuck on a line, or can't find a good hook, and we'll brainstorm on it ‘til we get it right.”

  Sam's eyebrows went up. “You mean, still? Even after you guys started fussing over the ones you said he stole?”

  Miller laughed. “We're songwriters, man. Every songwriter needs a gimmick to make it in the business, and that's ours. Barry and I go round and round about some lyrics I say he stole, or he says I stole, and people go to hear the songs out of curiosity. They look at our work, then, and see some similarities, and next thing you know I got agents calling who want their artist to record one of my songs, or maybe they think I'm full of it, so they look at Barry's songs and go after one of his. Either way, we both get attention and we both make more money.”

  “So, it's all a game? Just a marketing gimmick?”

  “Yep. Barry and I have been writing songs together since we were kids. The reason we don't hang out is because we gotta keep the image up, the one that says we hate each other. We really don't, and to be honest, most of the songs we each put out are ones we wrote together. We just flip a coin sometimes to see who gets writing credit.”

  “When was the last time you talked to him?” Sam took another sip of coffee.

  Miller leaned back in his chair. “I guess about two weeks ago. He was talking to Jimmy Smith, the so-called talent agent, about a record deal and wanted my opinion on it. Jimmy said he could get him a deal and a tour, but only if he left Step Back Once and let them put a new band behind him. He asked me should he do it, and I said, 'not just no, but hail no!' That band has been exactly what Barry needed; Chris Lancaster's one of the best guitarists that ever lived, and he's got a feel for Barry's voice that's almost eerie. He can make the band sort of mold itself around whatever voice is out front, and that's gold in this business, you know what I mean?”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “I used to sing in a couple of bands, and one of them had some of that. They made me sound a whole lot better than I really was.”

  “Right, then you get it. Now, imagine this: you got a guy with golden vocal chords, he can sing in almost any range, carry any kind of tune, and he's got a voice that makes women want him and men want to be him! Put that voice in front of a band like that, and you've got the next Bon Jovi or Nickelback or Green Day! You don't just have a band, you've got a band that will put out classic hits for the rest of their lives! Their very first records will still be selling twenty years after they're all dead and gone!”

  Sam cocked his head to one side. “Then why on earth would a label want to split them up? That sounds like pure stupidity, to me.”

  Miller was nodding so hard Sam thought his head would fall off. “It is stupidity! The trouble is that a big label can't always see that; they've got some agent shoving an artist at them, and all they know is what they hear. If the agent's talking to a lower-level exec, and he says that it's the artist making the band sound so good, then the exec only wants the singer!”

  “But won't they all make more money by keeping a winning team, the whole band, all together?”

  “Sure, they would, but if you got an agent who doesn't like someone in that band, he don't care! He'll get fifteen percent of everything the artist makes, whether the band is there or not. In this case, I know that the agent involved, Jimmy Smith, he flat hates Chris! That's why he wants Barry to dump the band.”

  “What does Jimmy have against Chris?”

  Miller grinned. “This goes back to 2003, okay? Chris was playing for a small band, lead singer was a guy named Stewart something or other, I can't remember now. Anyway, Jimmy wanted Chris to come play with a hot Canadian band that already had a record deal, already had a hit record, and was looking for a new lead guitar. He made a lot of promises about making him a superstar, and for once he was probably telling the truth, but Chris wanted to bring Stewart along. Stewart was a good singer; he was not, however, a great singer, and the band didn't want him. Chris had to choose between his future and his friend, and he chose Stewart. That band Jimmy wanted to put him in? Three Days Grace! They ended up with Barry Stock, instead, and went on to be one of the biggest rock bands of the century, so far. Platinum, double platinum—Chris could outshine Barry Stock a dozen ways, and they could have been even bigger; if Jimmy had brought them Chris, they would have both made fortunes, but it didn't happen because Chris was too loyal to his friend. Jimmy's an old-school music biz type; he never forgave Chris.”

  Sam sat there and finished his coffee while he thought over what he'd just learned. If Jimmy felt he had a potential superstar in Barry, and once again lost out over loyalty, would he perhaps resort to violence?

  “Tell me something,” he said to Miller. “You've known Barry a while; I've got some info that says he tends to get drunk now and then, and just take off, but this guy had a lot going for him right now, so that doesn't make sense to me. What would you guess is going on, here?”

  Miller suddenly looked sad. “If Barry Wallace has disappeared, there's a reason, and it's not because he got drunk. My best guess is that someone was really pissed over this deal with Jimmy. Could be Jimmy himself, if Barry turned him down; I know that he has a temper that gets out of hand, now and then. I've heard stories about him making threats if he doesn't get his way, even threats about how he's got mob connections, and being as he's in the music business, that might be
true.” He paused for a moment, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “On the other hand, if he really was thinking about taking the deal, it's possible the band might have been mad. Chris is pretty mellow, but that other guy, Stan, he's an oddball. He's got a lot of money, family money, and nobody really knows what to make of him. If Chris made him mad, I don't have a clue how he'd take it. You just don't know about people.”

  “So you think there may be foul play involved?”

  Miller shrugged. “Only other thing I can imagine would make Barry take off is a woman, and last time we talked, he was pretty wrapped up in Janice Peet. I don’t know if you know her story, but he got her off the street and off of meth. Barry kept talking like he was in love with her, and I heard that he told her that when she was clean a year, they'd talk about marriage. I don't know if that's really true, mind, but the way he talked about her, I could believe it.”

  “Would she be violent, if she thought she was losing him?”

  Miller laughed again. “Dude, you're talkin' about a tweaker. They can be pretty crazy, especially if they get back on that crap. It's like in the Bible; if you cast out a demon, and then let it back in, it doesn't come alone. It brings all of its friends, and you end up far worse than you were before. If she fell off the wagon, and then he said he was leaving her—even if it was only for a while—it's very possible that she'd be mad enough to chop him into little bits and feed him to the birds!”

  “Well,” Sam said. “You've definitely given me a lot to think about, and I appreciate it.” He rose to his feet. “And thanks for the coffee, too, by the way.” The two men shook hands, and Miller got up to walk him to the door.

  “For what it's worth,” he said, “I really hope Barry turns up. He's the best songwriting partner I've ever had, but besides that, he's a pretty good guy. We have a sort of history together, but I won't go into that. I just have a bad feeling about this, and I don't think we're gonna see him again.”

  Sam got back into his van and started back to his house. Halfway there, he took out his phone and called his old police partner, Dan Jacobs.

  “Well, well, well,” Dan said as he answered the call. “How's the big PI doing these days?”

  “Working my first official case,” Sam replied. “Tell me something; you ever heard of a girl named Janice Peet, that's P-E-E-T? A tweaker?”

  “Janice Peet,” Dan mused. “Can't say I have. Want me to run the name and see what I find?”

  “Yeah, would you please? I'll hold.”

  “Be right back,” Dan said, and the PD hold music started. Sam listened to some bad instrumental versions of old pop songs for a couple of minutes, and then his old friend came back on the line.

  “Okay, Janice Peet is twenty-four and has two arrests for using, none for dealing. From what I see, she was probably on it for a long time, and went through rehab about three or four months back. Nothing on her since then.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Sam said. They chatted for a minute about the weather and promised to get together sometime soon, then ended the call.

  3

  Sam pulled into his driveway a half hour later, and walked inside to find Kenzie asleep on the couch, with Dora the Explorer on the TV. Indie was sitting in his recliner, and he filled her in on all he'd learned.

  “So,” Indie summarized, “Barry didn't really steal the songs, and Jimmy the agent has a problem with Chris the guitar player, and Janice could be a raging psycho lunatic. Am I close, here?”

  “Pretty much on target,” Sam said. “The whole thing stinks to high heaven, to be honest, and I'm not far from agreeing with Janice that Barry is probably dead. The only questions are which one of several motives caused which one of several possible suspects to kill him, and where is he now?”

  “Okay, then, so next step?”

  “I'm gonna go to the band's rehearsal this afternoon, see if I can pick up anything from Janice or Stan. Chris seems to be clean, and Candy's too new to be much of a suspect; I can't see any kind of a motive for her to want him dead, or even out of the picture.”

  Indie nodded. “Well, I've actually been busy, here, while you were out having gabfests. I did some background checking on all of the band members, and you might find some of it interesting. Come look at what Herman's put together.”

  Sam followed her into the dining room, and she handed him some printed sheets. Each one had the name of one of the band members at the top, and he scanned over them quickly.

  “Stan Bennett,” he read from the first one. “Thirty-two years old, ah, he's done a little time, I see. Two years for manslaughter?”

  “Yeah,” Indie said. “He was driving when his car ran off the road and killed a friend who was riding with him. Since the skid marks said he was doing more than a hundred miles an hour, they cited him for reckless driving, and so he was charged with manslaughter over his buddy's death. He plead guilty and did two years in state prison for it, hasn't been in any trouble since then.”

  “Mm-hmm. Chris Lancaster has a clean record except for a couple of DUIs a long time ago, but I see he spent a few months in drug rehab five years back.”

  “Yep. Painkillers, he got hooked on them after an accident where he got rear-ended by a semi-truck. He went in voluntarily, and from what I can tell, he's stayed clean since then.”

  “Candy McAlester, twenty-two, got a record for, holy cow, prostitution?”

  “Don't get all high and mighty, there, Sam, she had a kid to feed and apparently did what she had to do. I've considered it myself, not long ago; if you remember, I thought you were proposing a little 'take it in trade' thing when you first offered to let me and Kenzie stay here. You'd be surprised what a mother will do to feed her child. Anyway, because she was homeless, she ended up losing the kid to her ex, and only gets to see him on weekends now. I can imagine what that must feel like, and it makes me grateful to you all over again.”

  “De nada,” Sam said. “Janice Peet, twenty-four; I had Danny run her through the computer, so I knew about her history with meth, but you've got something here about jail time? Dan didn't find that.”

  Indie smirked. “Dan doesn't have Herman. It was juvie jail, and after what you just told me, I think she might be a serious suspect. She was convicted of attempted murder at fourteen, a neighbor guy who apparently had been molesting her, and spent the last four years of her childhood behind bars in the Adams Youth Services Center in Brighton. She was released at eighteen, and she's been on drugs off and on ever since. Did rehab a few months ago; I guess that's when Barry started working with her. And incidentally, the guy she tried to kill went to prison, too, eight years for statutory rape.”

  Sam nodded and flipped to the next page. “And here's the man of the hour, Barry Wallace. Twenty-seven, no felony record, just some minor mix-ups when he was drinking, apparently. Worked as a delivery driver for pizza for a few years, then started singing with different bands. Looks like he's been with several, before this one.”

  “Yeah, but is that really strange? I mean, don't singers jump around while they're learning the ropes?”

  “Probably. I was never into it that seriously, so I didn't care that much. I just liked to sing.” He set the papers on the table and looked at Indie. “You want to come with me to the rehearsal?”

  Indie smiled. “Sure. Let me see if Anita can watch Kenzie.” She grabbed her phone and called the neighbor lady, whose twins were Kenzie's new playmates. A few minutes later, she woke Kenzie up and fed her lunch, then got her dressed to go down the street and play for the afternoon. When she got back, Sam was ready to go.

  “It's a little early,” he said, “so I thought I'd offer to buy you lunch. Interested?”

  Indie smiled. “You bet! Give me fifteen minutes to get ready?”

  Sam took out his phone. “I'm setting my stopwatch—now!”

  Indie laughed and ran up the stairs, while Sam watched. There was something about the way that girl moved that just tickled him.

  When she came back down, her make
up was perfect, her hair was brushed, and she'd put on a pair of jeans and a nice top that accentuated her shapely figure. Sam cleared his throat and said, “Wow, girl, you clean up pretty nice!”

  Indie spun once, to let him look her over completely, and Sam blushed just a bit; the pirouette had shown him just how well those jeans fit, and he had to admit that they fit quite well—everywhere! He kept his thoughts to himself, however, and walked her out to the garage, opening the garage door to get to his Corvette.

  “I thought we'd go in style. Besides,” he said, “I recall I promised you a ride in it a couple weeks back.” Indie giggled as he opened her door for her and let her get in, then closed it. He walked around with his cane, got in and said, “Buckle up,” then put the key in the ignition and fired up the big 427. Indie smiled as the car backed out of the garage, and Sam turned it toward downtown.

  He took her to a nice restaurant on East 26th Street, and they enjoyed a leisurely lunch of roast beef and potatoes. Sam enjoyed the jealous glances of the executive types that were eating there, watching him with what was undoubtedly the loveliest girl in the place, and let himself think a bit about what it would be like if she was his girl.

  They'd pretended she was, once, as part of a plot to keep her safe when he was dealing with some very bad men. He didn't want anyone to know what she was capable of with a computer, so he'd convinced her to pretend she was his girlfriend for a while. He'd even gotten a kiss, once, and admitted to himself more than once that he wished she'd do that again.

  Ah, face it, ya big ape, he thought to himself. Indie's the best girl you've ever known, and little Kenzie is as good a daughter as you could ever hope to have! Why not just admit you're falling for her?

  He shook his head to cancel out that thought, and concentrated on finishing his lunch.

  When they were done, he drove them to Stan's address, which turned out to be a pretty nice house on the outskirts of Golden, in a subdivision that allowed some room between the homes. The garage was large and attached, and the door was standing open as Sam pulled the Vette into the driveway.