Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he called me at my office to ask me what I’d told you about them.”

  “Before or after he grilled me?”

  “After.”

  So Gray hadn’t believed either one of us when we’d said the tapes were gone, and he’d resorted to going to the Elliott apartment himself and digging around for them. Which meant that he didn’t have them. But he’d been the one to take pains to make the distinction between killing Russell and taking the tapes. Did that mean he’d killed Russell?

  I wasn’t going to discuss that part with Olivia, but it did lead to another question. “But if he was in your dad’s apartment after he talked to you, that means he thinks you’re lying and you still have the tapes.”

  Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “It also means he thinks I’m dumb enough to keep them in the apartment.”

  “Are you?”

  “Molly, I don’t have the tapes. Remember?” she asked indignantly.

  “Just checking.”

  A relieved smile spread across her face. “Oh, like The Great Escape, when the one guy has almost gotten away and he’s getting on the bus and the German says, ‘Have a nice trip,’ and he says, ‘Thank you,’ automatically.”

  I smiled, too. “All my best technique comes from old movies. When necessary, I can do a little soft-shoe to get my point across.”

  She slapped her spoon on the table with sudden force. “It’s just not right that you didn’t get to meet him. You would have adored each other.”

  “Your dad?”

  She nodded, trying not to cry. “He was a great listener, too. Micah said that all the time, that Dad heard people’s souls. And he always said the right thing, and he had such a nice voice.” She sniffed loudly, I offered her my napkin, but she used her own. “Would you like to hear?”

  “His voice?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know he ever recorded anything.”

  Olivia looked at me as though I’d blurted out nonsense, then took her cell phone out of her bag. After punching a few keys, she handed it to me, eyes still bright with tears. “Listen.”

  I glanced at the screen, which read “Saved Message,” then put the phone to my ear. A pleasantly rumbling voice, somewhat slurred, said, “Olivia, honey … I need your help…. It’s all a lie, why didn’t I see that? Everything I’ve built, destroyed. What’s most precious, used against me. How did this … I can’t … Please, I need you—”

  I sat transfixed as Olivia slid the phone out of my hand and instructed it to save the message. She reached to put the phone back in her purse, but I shot out my hand. “Let me hear that again.” Smiling sadly, she keyed it up again as I asked, “Is this the message you told me about? From the night he died?”

  She nodded, nostrils flared to keep the tears at bay. “The last time I heard his voice, so I keep storing the message over and over. I’m not ready to let go yet.”

  I took the phone again and closed my eyes as I listened, concentrating as much as possible. The call was so clear, it had to be from a landline. The missing phone from the brass table. There was faint music in the background, but I couldn’t identify it at all. Was it what he’d been running through the mixing board? Had he been playing the Hotel Tapes for someone?

  There was also a rhythmic beat louder than the music, separate from it. Maybe Russell tapping his fingers on the brass table while he spoke, but he sounded a little too far gone to be keeping good time. A separate rhythm track?

  But the sound I wanted to be most certain of came at the end of the message. The nails-on-the-chalkboard sound of the phone being pulled across the brass table. Someone pulling the phone away from Russell, leaving the scratches I’d seen in the brass and ending his last words to his daughter prematurely.

  The killer came back into the room and, finding Russell still conscious and calling for help, pulled the phone out of reach and hung it up. Then took the phone away, worried about fingerprints or Russell trying to make another call, and took the tape off the deck and the rhythm track off whatever was playing it. And left Russell to die.

  Olivia held out her hand for the phone. “Is there anyone your father would have played one of the Hotel Tapes for?” I asked, reluctantly returning it feeling much closer to an answer while I had it in my hand.

  Olivia resaved the message while considering my question. “I don’t know. He didn’t play them for me, that’s for sure,” she said with mounting bitterness. “I’m not a musician, after all. I can’t appreciate certain things the way the rest of them can. I’ve been surrounded by music and musicians all my life, but that doesn’t count. In the things that really matter, I don’t measure up.” She snapped the phone closed with such force that I expected it to shatter in her hand. Stuffing it back in her purse, she kept her face turned away from me, but I could hear her sniffing.

  “You’re the therapist here,” I said gingerly, “but I have to say, I understand why you’re angry. For your dad to be such a big part of your life, but he keeps you out of such a huge part of his … that’s got to hurt.”

  She yanked the rubber band out of her hair and combed it out with her fingers, then drew it into a new ponytail so tight that it gave me a headache. “I loved my father.”

  “I know. But the people we love can still make us angry and vice versa. Believe me, I’m an expert in that field.”

  “So I’m angry. So what? Are you trying to accuse me of having something to do with my father’s death?”

  “No, I’m suggesting that your emotions might be clouding your thinking and keeping you from helping me figure things out. I know the tapes are a sore spot, but can you take a minute to think again—whom might he have played them for?”

  Unhappy with her hair, and probably a lot more, she yanked the ponytail out yet again and redid it. After she’d pulled on it until the rubber band had to be embedded in the back of her head, she finally said, “Adam.”

  “He might have played the tapes for Adam?”

  “He told me he was going to. Gray had been complaining to him about Adam losing focus, they needed to get him back in the groove. Dad thought hearing ‘brand-new’ tracks of Micah’s would inspire him.”

  “Did he?”

  Olivia poked her spoon around in her melting confection, intent on smashing the remaining frozen bits. “I’m not sure. I never asked.”

  “But …?” She was holding on to something because she didn’t want to give it up voluntarily, probably because it would feel like betraying someone.

  “They were supposed to get together that day.”

  “The day your father died.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never thought to mention that.”

  “Because it doesn’t mean anything. I told you, Adam wouldn’t hurt my father.”

  I could hear Peter Mulcahey laughing in the back of my head. “You can believe it of Claire, but not of Adam?”

  “Claire’s a bitch. Adam’s wonderful. You don’t know.”

  “Maybe you don’t know. Maybe Adam’s hidden things from you.”

  Olivia pushed her chair back from the table, poised for flight. “How can you talk about him that way? He’s let you in, he never does that, and you’re going to turn around and say these terrible things about him?”

  I could hear the creaking gears as the drawbridge was being lifted and I dove across the moat, digging my fingers into the wood to hang on. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make sure we’re not overlooking anything. Your father deserves that.”

  That mollified her for the moment and we sat in silence, no doubt thinking the same thing: Turn away from Adam and you were looking right at Claire. Which Olivia had been saying all along and I’d been resisting, not understanding why Claire didn’t just take Russell to court if she wanted the tapes so badly. Of course, I also didn’t understand why Scott Petersen didn’t just file for divorce, so I was willing to acknowledge that people make poor choices for terrible reasons.<
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  Olivia had afternoon patients, so I told her she could go and I’d take care of the check. Picking up her coat and purse, she paused for a moment. “Thank you for caring this much. And for bailing me out.”

  “No problem, but I am curious. Why hadn’t you called anyone?”

  “Who do I have to call?” She smiled sadly and slipped out of the restaurant.

  Working and living where I do, I come in contact with a lot of people I envy. When I’d first met Olivia, I’d envied her, growing up among brilliantly talented musicians, hanging out with other celebrities, traveling, partying, being a cool kid on a global scale. I never would’ve guessed that she saw herself as the outsider, not good enough for her father’s inner circle, no family and no friends she could turn to when she was in trouble.

  Almost four o’clock. It was late enough and I had survived sufficient public encounters that I felt justified in hiding/working at home the rest of the day. I even chose to walk and see what that which passes for fresh air in New York City might do toward clearing my head. It’s strange how invigorating the cacophony of city noise can be, like a grand, symphonic backdrop to your thoughts, Rhapsody in Blue swelling around you while you try to make sense of your life and resolve all its crazy chords.

  But even as I strove to lay out the pros and cons of Adam being involved in Russell’s death, my thoughts kept straying back to Olivia and her friendless state. So, preferring to think of it as appreciation rather than schadenfreude, I called Tricia as I walked, one more rude Manhattanite having a private conversation as she marched down Lexington Avenue. “Thank you for being my friend.”

  “A little early in the afternoon to be buzzed and sentimental, isn’t it?” she asked cheerfully. “Where are you? I’ll come join you.”

  “I’ve had nothing but caffeine and chocolate today.”

  “Oh, one of those moods. PMS or your story?”

  “Way to stomp all over a heartfelt expression of gratitude.”

  “Okay, I’m guessing, PMS and the story.”

  “I’m guessing I’m hanging up and calling Cassady.”

  “No, wait, you can’t do that until I tell you the most amazing thing that happened today.”

  “Yet another embarrassing picture of me is bouncing around the Internet and you haven’t given me a hard time about it yet?”

  “Let me rephrase that: The most amazing thing that happened today that doesn’t have anything to do with you. Except in a very peripheral way because you introduced us.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jordan Crowley wrote me a song.”

  “Wow. Rock muse is a role that suits you,” I said, impressed both by what had happened and by what I must have missed. “How much time have you two been spending together?”

  “He wants to do this party tomorrow, so we’ve been joined at the hip all day. It’s going to be great, and you’re invited, by the way. Nine o’clock at Pillow.”

  “Where?”

  “An after-hours club in TriBeCa. Jordan hangs out there a lot and says it’s a great space. I’m running over for a quick tour.”

  “So the song is an homage to your event-planning skills?”

  “No, it’s about how he can’t stop thinking about me.”

  I could feel her beaming over the phone, and as much as I wanted to warn her about the craziness I was encountering in this group, I wasn’t about to rain on this parade. “Smart guy. He should keep you around. Adam keeps talking about how Jordan can’t finish his new album. You’re the influence he needs.”

  “He and Adam don’t like each other very much, do they.”

  “Why?”

  “Jordan told me Adam’s unstable. Even attacked Gray once.”

  I stopped, trying to reconcile this with my own experiences with Adam, until the not-so-gentle nudges of my fellow pedestrians reminded me that I was in a crosswalk and I hurried to the other side before zipping taxis could slice me in two. “Apparently, Gray provokes that reaction in a lot of people,” I said, thinking of Olivia more than trying to justify Adam.

  “According to Jordan, Bonnie won’t be in a room alone with Adam, but Claire won’t admit anything’s wrong, so he’s not getting the help he needs.”

  Risa had commented on his bad temper, too. Could it be bad enough to be deadly? Peter Mulcahey was laughing again. “Did Jordan accuse him of killing Russell?”

  “Oh, no, no,” Tricia said hastily. “He was probably just trying to make himself look better by comparison, but I thought I should mention it.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” The storm cloud had passed right over her parade and dumped on mine. Tricia and I had both spent the day with rock stars and what did we have to show for it? She had a song. I had a murder suspect.

  13

  Dear Molly,

  What makes bad boys so captivating? Why will good girls who know much, much better make stupid decisions based on the behavior of a bad boy? Do we really think we can save them, or do we actually want them to break us down? Or is it that we know that chances are, it’s going to go badly no matter what and it’s easier to walk away from a scoundrel than a saint?

  Signed,

  Quivering Quandary

  “Hey, Molly, are things serious with you and Adam Crowley?”

  For a moment, I thought it was Peter again and I considered making a pointed hand gesture to underscore my annoyance with his joke. Thankfully, I hesitated just long enough to see that the silhouette in front of my apartment building entrance was far rounder than Peter. And seemed to be wearing a bush jacket and carrying a camera.

  In midflight, my gesture morphed into an awkward wave, saving me from the third installment in my Triptych of Humiliation. “Hello,” I said as he stepped out from under the awning, giving me a clear look. “I remember you. You spoiled my breakfast yesterday.”

  He lifted the impressively complex camera to his eye. “Where’s Adam?” he asked as the shutter whooshed.

  Of course he was going to take my picture. I’d just walked over twenty blocks in a wind strong enough to make my hair, which normally won’t do anything, twist itself into balloon animals. “I’d make a ridiculous face to try and ruin your picture, but that’s the one you’d try hardest to sell, right?” I turned my back on him, but he circled around in front of me, snapping away.

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  I had too many questions of my own to answer anyone else’s, which was the main reason that, while Adam had called my cell six times since I’d left the school, I hadn’t returned a single one. Men always pick the wrong time to get talkative.

  I covered my face with my hand. “Because you didn’t ask the right one, which is: May I take your picture? How ‘bout I ask you one: How did you find out where I live?”

  “You must pay those assistants at Zeitgeist lousy.”

  I dropped my hand. “Who was it?”

  He stopped snapping for a moment and frowned thoughtfully. It was a pleasant enough face when there wasn’t a camera in front of it, apple-cheeked with a scruffy beard, warm brown eyes. A sort of Santa-needs-some-time-in-rehab charm. “Do you reveal your sources?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Not quite the same thing.”

  “No difference from where I sit.”

  “May I suggest where you should sit, then?”

  “Come on now, I thought we were going to be friends.”

  “Are your photographs as creative as your thought processes?” I said with a frown that he instantly photographed. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Kenny. Kenny Crandall.” He wiped his hand on the thigh of his jeans before he offered it to me, which struck me as very thoughtful. As was the fact that he didn’t crunch my hand when he shook it, though his hand was large enough to easily inflict injury.

  “So be honest with me, Kenny Crandall. My own mother wouldn’t find my comings and goings this interesting. You’re after something specific.”

 
; “A shot of Adam Crowley leaving here in the early morning with a big smile on his face.”

  “You weren’t planning on holding your breath, were you?”

  “My editor said to sit on you until I got something, and no way I’m gonna tell him no.”

  “Come on, Kenny. Who’s your editor and what did I ever do to him?”

  “Jeremy Berkinholtz.”

  “Oh.”

  Pop went the balloon of righteous indignation. Yes, I knew Jeremy Berkinholtz. Worse, I knew exactly what I had done to him. We’d worked together at Bottled Lightning, a quirky magazine with the lofty aspiration of “examining the creative process,” and I’d had much better luck getting ideas approved by the editor than he had, a fact that Jeremy attributed solely to the editor’s desire to sleep with me. A theory he chose to espouse in front of the editor. So the editor chose to fire him.

  To this day, according to the publishing grapevine, Jeremy blamed me for derailing his career and exiling him to tabloids like Slice, his current domain. His whining wouldn’t have bothered me at all except that he turned out to be dead on about the editor’s intentions, so I wound up quitting the job Jeremy had so coveted. He’d been a first-class jerk about the whole thing, but he’d also been on to the truth while I’d been in complete denial. Maybe it wasn’t guilt I felt as much as embarrassment.

  “How is Jeremy?” I asked.

  “A pompous cretin, but he’s the boss. So when’s Adam coming over?” Kenny looked at his watch. “Do I have time to grab a burger?”

  “Adam’s not coming here. The picture this afternoon was a mistake, I’m not involved with him.”

  Kenny stroked his beard as he analyzed me. “You’re actually telling me the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  “I tried to tell Jeremy that the dude was already hooked up, but he saw that shot of the two of you and just lost it, wanted to slap you and Adam all over the paper.”

  “Adam’s hooked up?” I asked, then quickly clarified, “I’m asking for professional reasons, not personal. He hadn’t mentioned that.”

  “Really?” Kenny asked with a tantalizing hint of how shocking I’d find the name once I’d heard it.