Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Say the papers.”

  “Says the ME.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says me. I pulled the file.”

  “You did?” I asked, forgetting we were supposed to be whispering.

  He sat back a bit, eyes moving carefully across my face to determine if I was happy or not. I was trying to decide the same thing. “My cards on the table,” he said. “I wanted to know what you might be getting into.”

  “And the problems it might cause.”

  He pulled back farther, and I sat up straighter. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Or me.”

  “I’m not, I just want to understand.”

  “I want to, too. I don’t think I did a very good job with that before. Like you said, why repeat mistakes?”

  Forgetting everything I had ever been taught about the classless nature of public displays of affection, I grabbed him and kissed him as hard as I could without leaving permanent marks. Not that permanent marks would be a problem, since I didn’t plan to let him go ever again and I was willing to ignore marks of my own making.

  It was like that first chocolate egg you grab out of the basket before church Easter morning after giving up chocolate for Lent; you can’t wait another minute to remember how sweet and creamy and intoxicating it is, and you can’t believe you went so long without it. I was ready to gorge myself on the whole basket when Cassady’s voice cut tartly through the buzz.

  “I guess we could have fussed with our hair a bit longer.”

  We pulled apart and pulled ourselves together. Cassady was giving us a mock scowl, but Tricia was beaming. “This is going even better than I’d hoped,” she said, pulling on Cassady’s sleeve.

  “Are you taking credit for any of this?” Cassady asked her.

  “Ladies …, “I attempted.

  “Only for being supportive and hopeful,” Tricia told Cassady.

  “I was, too.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

  “God help me, I’ve missed all three of you.” Kyle helped me to my feet. “Let’s go get some dinner.”

  “We haven’t finished our champagne,” Cassady pointed out.

  “True.” Kyle’s glass had been quietly deposited on the table while our attention was elsewhere, but now he held it up for a toast and looked at me expectantly. When I hesitated, he was the one who offered, “To new beginnings.”

  Between the clinking of our glasses and the happy buzz in my ears, I almost didn’t hear—maybe tried not to hear—the cell phone ringing. New beginnings were going to be tough if the old problems didn’t even let us catch our breath.

  With grim resignation, Kyle fished out his phone with his free hand. “Yeah,” he answered, voice cool and tight. His eyes closed as he listened, and I could feel all the bubbles in my glass going flat. “Yeah,” he said again, and hung up.

  I glanced at Cassady and Tricia, but they were fixed on him, hoping that the call was something that could wait. I knew better. His eyes opened again and moved slowly to me. “Ben sends his regards.”

  “Yeah.” I smiled as much as I could. “Tell him I send them back.”

  “You don’t have to go,” complained Tricia, ever the optimist.

  “Body’s cooling as we speak,” he said, then shook his head s she reacted. “Sorry. Kidding. But they did pick up someone we’ve been looking for, and …”

  “And we’ll see you later,” Cassady said helpfully.

  “No, you won’t,” Kyle said politely, “but with any luck, she will.” He caught my hand in his for one last moment, then let it slide away as he took a step back.

  I wanted to show some modicum of self-control, yet I drifted after him, less following him to the door than being pulled along by his gravitational field.

  At the door, he paused, but rather than blowing me a kiss or even winking, he grinned as he walked out the door. “Remember, most MEs know what they’re doing.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re perfect,” I said, grinning back. It was as refreshing as a good-bye kiss, and I was delighted. Returning to my seat, I could feel how we were going to slide back together, mesh again with our troubles behind us. Right up until the moment Cassady popped me in the bicep.

  “You told him?”

  “Tricia said to be honest with him,” I said, rubbing my arm.

  “Oh, my word, not in the first ten minutes,” Tricia protested, moving her bicep out of Cassady’s range.

  “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be just fine,” I said, which at the time I thoroughly believed.

  Cassady shook her head. “Are we to assume that he doesn’t agree with Olivia’s hypothesis?”

  “He does not.”

  “And are we to assume that it just makes her theory all the more appealing to you?”

  “No,” I said honestly. As though they’d been rehearsing this moment while in the restroom, Cassady and Tricia linked arms and looked at me expectantly. “I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it,” I continued. “And I will be completely frank with you, Kyle, and my editor throughout the entire process.” I raised my right hand in a three-finger salute. “And obey the Girl Scout laws.”

  “You are such lightning bait,” Cassady said with a crooked smile, “I’m not sure it’s safe to stand next to you, much less go to dinner with you.”

  Tricia detached herself from Cassady and took my hands in hers. “I believe you can do this. Balance everything. And you know I’ll be here for you if you need help.”

  “I didn’t say I was abandoning her,” Cassady pointed out. “I said she was dangerous to be around. Which is one of the reasons we love her.”

  “And I, you,” I said. “Now, drink up and let’s get some dinner.”

  We went to Heartbeat and immersed ourselves in great food, wonderful wine, and grand conversation about every topic under the sun. Except Kyle. When Cassady attempted, I parried by asking where her relationship with Aaron was headed, and she withdrew with uncharacteristic speed. Tricia offered her single status for examination, and we proposed a number of possibilities for pursuit, but none of them captured her imagination. So we moved on to broader questions of politics and culture, equally unanswerable, until it was quite late. Sated physically and emotionally, we sauntered off to our separate cabs and headed home.

  By the time I was back in my apartment, the caffeine in my Irish coffees was outperforming the Bushmills and I couldn’t settle down. I told myself it had nothing to do with the fact that it was after midnight and I hadn’t heard from Kyle yet. It was important to take things slowly and not raise false expectations about our slipping back into our old routine as though no time had passed, no feelings had been hurt, and no land mines had been stepped on.

  Determined to put my agitation to good use, I changed into my Washington Redskins sleep shirt and sat at my laptop to refresh my knowledge of Russell Elliott, Micah Crowley, and Subject to Change before meeting with Olivia. But as I began surfing, I realized I was missing an important element for my research. Digging through my CD cabinet, I found Film at Eleven, the band’s third album. The one that was played at almost every party we went to sophomore year of college.

  I hadn’t listened to it in a long time, but as soon as I heard the opening chords of “Go to War for You,” memories pushed to the surface like swimmers coming up for air, and I could smell the sweat and smoke of the crowded off-campus apartments, taste the cheap wine we drank in those days, feel the pulse of the bass line through my back as I leaned against a wall with my lips pressed against Tom Donaldson’s ear in a futile attempt to have a conversation. The images and sensations flooded back with a startlingly visceral punch, and I sank to the couch, letting them wash over me until the song was over. With everything he got out of a cup of tea and a cookie, I wondered what Proust would have done with the greatest hits CD from his favorite band. And a couple of Irish coffees.

  When the second song started, I made my way back to my laptop. Nearly every one of the fansites featured the same p
icture of Micah on its home page, taken from a Rolling Stone article about the band seeking new direction that had been published only two months before Micah died. Mcah shirtless and sweaty onstage at the Meadowlands, his wavy, shoulder-length hair clinging to his neck in damp spirals, one hand on the microphone stand and the other held out to the audience either in blessing or in a request for a moment’s quiet. What made the picture so resonant was the look on his face, pleased but perplexed, as though he couldn’t be sure how he’d gotten to this place. It was that flash of vulnerability Cassady had been talking about, and fans had responded to the picture ferociously. It graced the cover of the greatest hits CD that was released after Micah’s death.

  Pictures of Russell were harder to find, but then again, it had never been Russell’s job to be center stage. He said in every interview I read that he loved his behind-the-scenes role, that he had no musical ability or aspiration, that his gift was finding the ways to make it easier for Micah to bring his artistic vision to life. I did find one picture from the same Rolling Stone article that showed Russell, slight and tailored, leaning forward out of the shadows to whisper into Micah’s ear as the band prepared to take the stage. They’re both smiling mischievously, like little boys enjoying a joke they’re not supposed to be old enough to understand. Gray Benedek, the keyboard player, is walking past them with the sour smile of an older brother who knows the joke well and can’t believe they find it funny. The rest of the band is obscured by the other three, their expressions unclear.

  Subject to Change had recorded six albums and when Micah died, had seemed poised for entry into that rarefied stratosphere where the Stones and U2 reside. There’d been no talk about drugs or any other issues previously, so his death came as a huge surprise; I could picture Carl Davenport walking into the bull pen at Youth & Beauty, the magazine where I was indentured as an editorial assistant, and announcing the news in a hushed, cracked voice. Carl, the photography editor, had a TV in his office, and he let us all cluster before it as CNN ran the short-on-details story with the soon-to-be-iconic picture of Micah floating over the anchor’s shoulder. Everyone in the room had a story about seeing the band in concert or hearing one of their songs on the radio at an auspicious moment in their lives. A fleeting moment of unity in a pop culture that had only gotten increasingly fragmented since then. It was shocking to realize it had been almost ten years.

  I found a few articles from after Micah’s death that had floated the possibility of the band staying together, but before too long, Russell and Gray held a press conference to say that since Micah had been the soul of Subject to Change, they would not continue without him. Jeff Ford joined Downward Spiral, replacing their drummer who had died in a tour bus accident. The bass player, Rob Kenilworth, dropped off the grid and was rumored to be living the high life somewhere in the South Pacific. David Washington, the guitarist, wound up starting a jazz quintet that had won the DownBeat readers poll for best electric jazz group the last two years. Gray Benedek had started a couple of different rock bands, but none of them had lasted more than two albums, and he was currently more in demand as a producer than as a musician.

  Gray and Russell had put together a memorial concert to mark the fifth anniversary of Micah’s death; it was a benefit for Women Against Oppression, a human rights group Claire Crowley, Micah’s widow, had embraced after his death. The concert also served as the musical debut of Adam, Claire and Micah’s son, who at twenty-three was given the daunting task of filling in for his father as vocalist on several of the band’s biggest hits. People had been struck by how much he looked and sounded like his dad, and Russell had announced that he’d be producing Adam’s first album. I found a picture of Adam backstage that night, looking stunned but happy. A young woman clung to his arm; the caption identified her as Olivia Elliott.

  I took a second look at the picture, trying to reconcile the lanky, jeans-clad girl gazing adoringly at Adam with the crisp, mature professional in the Escada suit I’d seen in the coverage of her memorial for her father. We all change in five years, but the transformation here was startling; it was hard to see that it was the same person. As I studied the picture, I was struck by the body language, the implied intimacy in the way their bodies were touching. I wondered if there’d been something between her and Adam Crowley. He’d be easy to fall for, I reasoned, with his father’s knockout sexuality combined with a hint of gentleness. Vulnerability, Cassady again would say.

  As I moved my attention back to Olivia, I had the sense of having seen the picture before. I typed in a new search and brought up articles on Russell’s funeral. There it was: a picture of the mature Olivia standing in a very similar, seemingly intimate pose with Micah’s other son and Russell’s last star, Jordan Crowley.

  Adam and Jordan were half-brothers. While Adam’s mother was Micah’s wife, Jordan’s mother was Bonnie Carson, whose résumé as girlfriend to the stars was much more stellar than her résumé as backup singer. There was significant tabloid and fan hysteria after Bonnie revealed Jordan’s paternity when Jordan was eight years old and Adam was eleven, including speculation about whether Micah would leave Claire, with whom he’d supposedly been having difficulties. But while he acknowledged Jordan as his son and gave the boy his last name, Micah didn’t leave his wife. In public, at least, Micah and Claire remained together and gracious, welcoming Jordan and Bonnie into their family circle.

  Olivia, whose mother had died when she was only seven, and her father had been part of the circle, too. I was beginning to think the interview with Olivia should focus on her front-row seat for some intriguing family dynamics rather than her father’s legacy when the phone rang.

  “First ring,” Kyle said quietly when I answered. “You’re working.”

  “After midnight,” I replied. “So are you.”

  “We’re wrapping up, but I think I should go home.”

  It wasn’t until I felt the pang that I realized how deeply I’d been hoping he’d come by, even if he didn’t stay all night. I was like a junkie falling off the wagon; now that I’d had one taste, I had to figure out how to get my hands on more. But some lingering shred of decorum prevailed, and I said, “Okay.”

  “It’s not, but it is better this way.” We considered that statement a moment before he added, “Not as much fun, but better.”

  “If it’s not as much fun, how can it be better?”

  “Broccoli’s good for you.”

  “Are you saying our relationship is a vegetable?”

  “This is why I have to go home. I can’t keep up.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”

  “No, you won’t be. Which is perfect. But I’m beat. And you have work to do.”

  “Work can wait.”

  “So can we.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I was afraid he’d hung up. Then he said, his voice huskier than usual, “It was really good to see you.”

  “It’d be even better to see you again.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “You better.”

  “You bet.”

  “Good night, Mr. Townshend.”

  “Good night, Mr. Daltry,” he said with an approving laugh, and hung up.

  As tempting as it was to now put the Who’s Face Dances on the CD player and sing “You Better You Bet” at the top of my lungs, I knew that could easily lead to my playing air guitar on the coffee table at three a.m., and I needed to attempt to settle down so I could get a good night’s sleep before meeting Olivia. So I swapped out Film at Eleven and put on The Good Fight, Subject to Change’s fourth album, the one with the uncharacteristic power ballads that gave them three Billboard number ones. I drifted off in front of the laptop with Micah Crowley singing about love, betrayal, and girls with long hair and longer legs.

  “Long-Haired Girls” was still running through my head the next day as I got ready to meet Olivia Elliott in the flesh. Rocking out in front of
the bathroom mirror, singing into the handle of my hairbrush as if I were fourteen again, I remembered that although I’d broken the news about Olivia’s suspicions to Kyle, I hadn’t told Eileen. But I rationalized that while I’d told Kyle to keep him from being upset because I’d kept it from him, Eileen was already upset with me and I didn’t need to nudge that thermometer up any further. Certainly not until I knew whether there was any basis for Olivia’s concerns.

  Figuring I was better off lying low until I knew more, I stayed home to continue my research, increasing my fascination with the circumstances in which Olivia had grown up. The Crowleys and the Elliotts seemed inseparable, and after Micah’s death, Russell had stepped in to manage the estate and the careers of Adam and Jordan. Russell was the one who spoke to the press and dealt with the business matters. Claire dedicated herself to charity work, and Bonnie experimented with a variety of endeavors; she was painting now. They sounded like one big happy family.

  So where did the discordant note of murder come from? I knew all the happy press didn’t mean things had always been sunny, but I was still struggling to imagine what had occurred to put the idea into Olivia’s head and not into the medical examiner’s.

  Olivia was already at the table by the time I got to the Grill Room and neither rose nor offered her hand as the hostess walked me up. She thanked the hostess and looked at the chair, waiting for me to deposit myself in it. “Please, sit down, Ms. Forrester.”

  She was more delicate in person than in photographs, a porcelain-skinned blonde with a long neck, willowy hands, and fine features. Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, emphasizing the patrician oval of her face. She looked far more at home in this grand setting, with its huge windows, towering indoor trees, and blue-blood clientele, than I felt. We were the same age, but she exuded a more mature air. I couldn’t tell if it was a product of her profession or her money.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Elliott,” I said as I sat down.

  “Don’t you want to reserve that judgment until you’ve talked with me for more than a few minutes?” she asked breezily, tenting her long fingers under her chin.