Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  He smiled slowly. “Us or you?”

  “Us.”

  “Too bad. So … no, thank you. But the other, another time.” He jiggled the door gently, and I withdrew my hand, allowing him to close the door. Still smiling.

  I continued to mull over exactly what was behind that smile as Olivia, Jordan, and I entered Wild Salmon. Committed as I was to the task at hand, I was mindful of the time and trying to be efficient in my travels. If all went well, I could wrap up my business with Olivia and Jordan and let them go on their way before Kyle arrived. So far, fate was being kind: Cassady was at the bar, waiting for us.

  I’d called her from the cab, given her a quick summary of events, and asked her if there was any way she could offer Olivia some advice about the legal ownership of the tapes and how she could protect herself—and get the tapes back—when they popped up on the market. They had to pop up eventually, didn’t they? As a family jewel unearthed or a found treasure with a flimsy backstory or even just mysterious bootlegs on the black market? Why else would someone have taken them except to sell them to the millions of fans who still hungered for Micah’s work?

  Once I’d explained the situation, Cassady was happy to oblige, since the restaurant wasn’t far from her last meeting of the day and since I mentioned Jordan was coming along. Which was undoubtedly the reason Tricia was there beside her.

  Fortunately, no one had tipped the paparazzi, so we were able to make a reasonably discreet entrance. As we crossed to the bar, I watched people glance up. They’d recognize Jordan, then either pretend not to care and let their eyes continue casually upward to the golden fish dangling from the ceiling or gaze at him raptly for a few moments. How hard was it to be onstage every moment you were in public? What did that do to your perception of where you fit into the scheme of things? And how did it impact people like Olivia and Claire, who lived in that space where the spotlight spilled over? Did it make you long for the dark—or for center stage?

  I tried to push away the questions as I spotted Cassady and Tricia at the bar. Even though both were in business clothes, they looked pretty stellar sitting there, and Jordan hummed appreciatively as we walked up to them. “You have much better taste in lawyers than I do.”

  “I make a point of surrounding myself with lovely people,” I replied.

  “And we all enjoy the assignment very much, don’t we?” Cassady said, extending her hand to Olivia first and then to Jordan as I made introductions.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Molly? We’re having dinner after this, so I thought I’d tag along,” Tricia asked, pretending to talk to me while absorbed in Jordan’s shaking her hand.

  Jordan answered before I could. “I’m very glad that you did.”

  “Don’t take him too seriously,” Olivia warned. “Or he’ll shred your heart to ribbons—”

  “And you’ll weep, but you’ll never sleep again,” Tricia finished.

  “Wow, great lyrics. Who wrote those? Oh, right. I did,” Jordan said with a self-deprecating roll of the eyes.

  “I loved your album,” Tricia pressed on.

  “Now, that’s something I never get tired of hearing. If you’d like to go into details, I’m all ears.”

  “Should we start with the first track or my favorite?”

  I knew exactly how Tricia felt. The chance to blatantly adore a rock star wasn’t a normal part of our daily fare, even though Tricia had plenty of luminaries on her client list. I wanted to squeal with her in delight, but business came first. Luckily, Jordan hadn’t impressed Cassady nearly as much, and she was staying focused.

  “This flirting is going to be a terrible distraction,” she said, “so why don’t Olivia and I take a table while you three pose seductively here at the bar?”

  She swept Olivia away before I could reply, sarcastically or otherwise. Pleased, Tricia slid back onto her stool and focused again on Jordan. “Your CD is exquisite.”

  “Thank you. What was your favorite song?”

  ‘“Strip Me Bare,’” she replied without hesitation. “I have it on my iPod.”

  “Downloaded legally and everything. She’s a good girl,” I added, more in reaction to Jordan’s wolfish grin than to the manic gleam in Tricia’s eye. Jordan struck me as the kind who would happily love ‘em and leave ‘em, and I wasn’t going to let him do that to my friend. So I changed the subject to, happily, one that I needed to pursue. “So you’d never heard the tapes, Jordan?”

  Tricia tossed me a dirty look, not realizing how noble and protective I was being. “Sorry, are you still working?”

  “I’m with you, Tricia,” Jordan said with a showy look at his watch. “Do I at least get to order a drink before we go back to the serious stuff?”

  “Sorry,” I answered, “but I think this thing with the tapes is huge. Assuming they actually exist.”

  “Claire didn’t burn them, if that’s what you mean,” Jordan said, trying to catch the bartender’s eye. “I remember my mom asking her about them after my dad died, and Claire told her she had no claim to them, the usual kind of bullshit between the two of them.”

  “But if Claire had them then, how did Russell get them, and why is she claiming she burned them?”

  The question hung in the air while Jordan ordered a Grey Goose rocks for himself and a Rob Roy for me. “Because if she says she burned them, she doesn’t have to admit that she couldn’t sweet-talk Russell into giving them to her while they were a couple.”

  Tricia gasped. “Claire Crowley and Russell Elliott?”

  Jordan nodded wearily. “And I gotta tell you, I wouldn’t want to be Gray Benedek right now.”

  I didn’t follow. “What? Why Gray Benedek?”

  “Because the men Claire Crowley sleeps with die young.”

  8

  Time and I don’t have a great relationship. I hate being late, but I usually am. Tasks take me longer than I think they should. I lose track of how long it’s been since I’ve talked to people or written them or checked books out of the library. And let’s not even get into the whole aging portion of the discussion (shouldn’t there be a period somewhere between Clearasil and Oil of Olay when you and your complexion actually get along?).

  But then, every once in a while, Time decides to give me a break and we work together, the pieces of my scattered, over-scheduled life fitting together smoothly—for a moment, anyway—and I find myself right where I’m supposed to be, with a moment to take a deep breath and appreciate it. Or at least a moment to take a deep breath and scribble down all the notes I’ve come up with in the last few hours so that when a very handsome homicide detective walks up to me at a bar, I can give him my undivided attention without worrying that I’m going to forget anything crucial.

  “Hey,” Kyle said, running his hand along my arm with a comfortable familiarity that thrilled me. “You’re early.”

  “Thank you for not seeming shocked,” I said, smiling. I wanted to kiss him, but I had yet to figure out exactly where we were on the “getting back together” spectrum; since I rarely got a second swing at a relationship, I wasn’t sure what etiquette dictated in cases such as this.

  He didn’t lean in to kiss me, either, and I took a moment to wonder if he was wrestling with the same question or if he just didn’t want to kiss me. Before I could worry about that too much, he glanced at my glass. “Been here long?”

  Half the letters I’ve answered for the magazine contain the advice “Honesty is crucial in any relationship.” But it’s paramount when you’re dating a detective. All those forensic instincts are on duty even when he’s not, and he’s apt to pick up on things that mere mortals would miss completely. I followed his glance to my glass; it was half-empty, and the condensation had run down the glass enough to pool around the base, despite the coaster.

  I wanted to be truthful, but I was also determined to be as off-duty as he was and not to let work intrude, so I waltzed around the question as best I could. “Tricia and Cassady and some other people I know were here
, so I came by to see them first.” I wasn’t even going to try to explain how I had also rushed them out to go have dinner somewhere else, suggesting that they would be more comfortable in a more out-of-the-way restaurant, mere moments before he arrived. “Would you like a drink?”

  He ordered a Manhattan straight up and leaned against the bar next to me. “You look nice.”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

  “Complimenting each other?” I teased.

  “Talking to each other,” he said with such gravity that my chest tightened. My mind went blank as he took my hand, holding it tightly and studying it as though he were looking for trace evidence.

  I nodded. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure we keep talking, that things don’t go unsaid. I think if we’re willing to work at it, we can be perfectly comfortable being completely open with each other all the time, about everything.”

  “Whoa,” he said softly.

  I slammed on the brakes. “Okay, now I’m talking too much.”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s just, you’re suddenly talking like we’re back together.”

  I felt as though I might slide off my bar stool in an untidy, humiliated heap. The tightness became a lead weight, and I didn’t trust myself to pick up my glass because I wasn’t sure how much my hand was shaking. “We’re not?” I finally croaked out.

  Kyle fixed me with his amazing blue eyes and a look that I’m sure has gotten much harder hearts to confess to all manner of crimes. “I was planning on it, but you were the one drawing lines this morning, so I figured you were going to stay elusive for at least another dinner or two.” He smiled slyly, and I could feel the color rising in my cheeks as my heart started to pump again.

  “Maybe I decided we’ve already wasted too much time,” I said genuinely.

  Just as he leaned in to kiss me, the hostess appeared to show us to our table. He kissed me anyway, a light but promising kiss that made it difficult for me to rise from the bar stool without wobbling. As we walked to the table, I was grateful for his hand at the small of my back.

  We joked back and forth while we studied the menu, but once the waiter had taken our orders, the jokes faded away. Time for a real conversation. “How’ve you been?” I asked, half hoping for a detailed description of the misery and longing that had pervaded the days we were apart.

  He shrugged. “Working too much. Trying to stay busy so I didn’t think about you all the time. You’re not easy to be with, but you’re hell to be away from.”

  I felt dizzy again. “Do I say ‘thank you’?”

  “No, you say you missed me, too.”

  “I thought I’d already mentioned that.”

  “It’s worth mentioning again.”

  “I missed you.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He straightened his silverware for the fifth time. “So how’s your story going?”

  I hadn’t expected him to voluntarily turn the conversation back to work, so I hadn’t thought out how much detail to offer. How long was it going to take before I could answer a question without weighing all the political ramifications first? “It’s gotten pretty twisted,” I admitted. “It’ll be interesting to see how it all plays out.”

  “And why do I get the feeling you’ve already decided how it’s going to play out?” Adam Crowley asked pleasantly. I’d been so intent on trying to read Kyle’s expression that I hadn’t even noticed Adam walk up to the table. Kyle was on his feet before I could say anything, more out of defensive strategy than proper manners.

  “You’re interrupting our dinner,” Kyle said.

  “She’s interrupting my life, so I think you’re still on the upside of this deal,” Adam responded.

  Kyle’s hand went to his hip, and for an absurd moment, I thought he was going to draw his gun, but he stuck his hand in his pocket—probably so I couldn’t see his clenched fist—and looked at Adam. “Is this one of the jerks from last night?” Kyle asked me after a long beat.

  “Kyle, this is Adam Crowley,” I said, not wanting to get into whether or not he was a jerk because I was still undecided on the topic. While his crashing my dinner date didn’t exactly enhance his current standing, I also found myself remembering the warmth of his mouth against my ear, which was highly embarrassing with Kyle right there in front of me. The real frustration was, I wanted to talk to Adam. But not here, not now.

  Adam stuck out his hand. “And you are …?”

  “Kyle Edwards,” Kyle said, giving Adam’s hand a perfunctory shake. “I’d invite you to join us, but I don’t want you to.”

  Adam yanked over a free chair from the table next to us, startling those people as much as he startled us, and sat down. “This won’t take long.”

  “You got that right,” Kyle said, still standing.

  I could see our waiter and the hostess hurrying over, looking worried. I shook my head to reassure them, and they stopped anxiously several tables away. “How did you find me?”

  “I called my brother, and he couldn’t wait to tell me what fun he was having with you and your friends.”

  Kyle’s eyes moved over to me long enough for me to register his displeasure, then snapped back to Adam. “Let me call you in the morning, Adam,” I suggested. “We can talk then.”

  “Why delay the fun?” Adam asked.

  Kyle sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, in part to look casual and in part to keep his hands within grabbing distance of Adam. “One good album doesn’t make you king, Crowley.”

  Adam leaned in to him in a parody of friendliness. “Guess I better make another one, then. But before I run out to the studio, I just have one question. And then she doesn’t have to talk to me ever again. Unless she wants to.”

  Kyle sat back, pinching his bottom lip, and I knew he wasn’t considering Adam’s question, he was debating how hard to hit him. “Okay,” I said with a touch of warning for them both. “One.” Adam looked at me with a smirk and Kyle gave me a disapproving frown. But he let go of his lip. I shifted back to Adam. “But if you get one, I get one.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  “Better than you deserve,” Kyle muttered, going back to straightening his silverware.

  “So, Adam? Your question?” I said, trying to move things along before Kyle lost his patience.

  “Is my brother paying you?”

  My first instinct was to laugh, but I knew Adam wouldn’t appreciate that at all, and I wouldn’t get to ask my question. “Paying me for what?”

  “For whipping up this ridiculous stuff about the tapes. And Russell’s and Dad’s deaths being linked. You’re dragging up a bunch of ancient history insanity, and it’s upsetting people I care about.”

  “All I’m doing is researching an article about Olivia. This ‘stuff’ about the tapes comes from her, and it’s between her and your mother. And Jordan was the one who said the deaths were linked, not me.”

  “Yet none of this started until you showed up.”

  “She didn’t show up until Russell Elliott died,” Kyle said, eyes on the knife that he was standing up on the table.

  “Are you some fellow conspiracy theorist?”

  “I’m a homicide detective. NYPD,” Kyle said, looking up from the knife in time to see Adam struggle to control his reaction.

  Adam looked back at me, confused and irritated. “And now you brought the police into this?”

  I was going to let him off the hook and explain the dinner was purely social, but Kyle answered more quickly. “You don’t think we should be involved?”

  Adam’s brow furrowed, pulling his black eyebrows down into diagonal slashes. He looked so much like his father. “You’re the ones who told us Russell’s death was accidental.”

  Kyle nodded thoughtfully while I knit my fingers together in my lap to make myself sit still. What was Kyle doing? Playing with Adam? Teaching me a lesson? “You comfortable with that?” he asked Adam.

  “Shoul
dn’t I be?”

  “Not everyone is.”

  “Yeah? Well, whoever isn’t is messed up. Or looking for attention. Probably both.”

  The interesting thing was, Kyle was just telling him things he actually already knew, but with the weight of Kyle’s badge behind them, Adam was taking them much more to heart. What fascinated me most was that Kyle had not said he was actually investigating Russell’s death, but Adam had made that leap. Was it Kyle’s air of authority? Or Adam’s guilty conscience, reminding him there was something worth investigating? Adam leaned back toward Kyle. “Did Olivia ask you to reopen the case?”

  “Who else would want us to take another look?” Kyle tossed back quickly.

  Adam took a deep breath. “I think most of us would welcome it, if you think there’s genuine reason to suspect something,” he said firmly, if not confidently.

  “Anyone who wouldn’t?”

  Adam paused long enough that it was evident someone specific came to mind but he didn’t want to share. Was this the extra information that’d had him smiling back at the apartment? He wasn’t smiling now. “Whoever did it, of course,” he said after a beat. “Assuming someone did do something.”

  “Who might have liked to do something?”

  Adam turned back to me again, the look on his face more beseeching than angry now. “This is really out of line. I want it stopped.”

  “You’ve done a fine job of that on your own,” I said, worried now that Kyle was going to push him too far and we’d be in a nice group shot in tomorrow’s gossip columns.

  “Fine job of what?”

  “Stopping this. Our meal. Not exactly showing the instincts of a future club owner.”

  Kyle looked at me sharply as Adam answered, “What are you talking about?”

  “Aren’t you and Ray Hernandez developing a club?”

  Adam shifted, surprisingly uncomfortable. “Who’ve you been talking to?” Before I could answer, he pushed on. “You can’t believe most of what Olivia says.”

  There was a belief the brothers had in common. “Funny, you seem close.”