by Luanne Rice
“Just get in,” Gavin said.
He drove toward the city, remembering previous visits. He had come here, either with Sheridan or to visit her, many times. She’d taken him all over—to the Ryman Auditorium, the big brick concert hall at 116 Fifth Avenue North, that had once been home to the Grand Old Opry.
“It’s the Mother Church of Country Music,” she’d told him. “Everybody’s played here.”
“Yeah? Like who?”
“Elvis, Emmylou Harris, Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Hank Williams…”
“What about Sheridan Rosslare?”
“Someday,” she’d said, grinning.
And she had. She’d played on the Ryman stage that same year, and many other times. Gavin had seen her twice: once when she knew he was there, once when she didn’t.
That second time, on leave from the Crawford in dry dock at the sub base in Norfolk Virginia, he’d traveled to Tennessee just to see her. Being here in Nashville again brought it all back.
She’d told him he belonged to the Navy, not her. She needed real love in her life—someone who was there to hold her and be with her, not someone who’d rather serve in the military and see the world. He’d tried telling her he felt a sense of duty to his country. She’d told him he was good at excuses, pointed out that he’d already finished one tour, had just signed up for a second.
Gavin hadn’t been able to say much to that. She was right. At that time he’d never been to a psychologist, never gone to a shrink, but even he knew he had a problem with settling down. He had, in the words of the shrink he wound up going to after he beat a guy nearly to death for attacking a shipmate, started “acting out” right after his father’s funeral, when he was six.
He knew he had a violent streak in him. He felt so angry at his father for dying, at God for taking him. He’d get into fights wherever they docked, and Joe Donovan would have to haul him back to the boat. Gavin couldn’t rest, couldn’t stay ashore. The only peace he felt was when he was with Sheridan. But he didn’t trust his own ability to be as good to her as she deserved. He was afraid he couldn’t sustain a life on shore with the most gentle woman alive.
So he reenlisted in the Navy, to keep from finding out. And she’d had enough—broke up with him, stopped writing to him. The only way he knew she was performing that weekend was that he happened to see a listing in the Norfolk paper.
She was headlining at the Ryman, complete with a full band. Gavin hitchhiked to see her, felt the same thrill seeing her up on stage. He’d hung around afterward, his excitement building. He was going to make everything right, ask her to come back to him.
Then he saw her embracing some stagehand. Tall, thin, the guy acted as if he owned the place, like he belonged with Sheridan. And she acted as if she belonged with him.
Gavin turned and left before she even saw him. On the way back to the ship, he went to a bar near the dock, got into a fight—something completely unrelated, with someone he’d never seen before. He had nearly killed the man—got thrown in the brig, and got kicked out of the Navy for it. Gavin didn’t care what happened to him—he’d have rotted in jail if it were up to him. All he’d cared about was losing Sheridan.
But Joe had heard plenty over the years about Vincent—by then a young litigator in his uncle’s law firm. Joe tracked Vincent down; Vincent flew south from Connecticut to Norfolk and worked with the Judge Advocate General officer to get Gavin off on the worst charge, attempted murder.
Gavin had left the Navy with a dishonorable discharge. Driving into Nashville, he was reminded of what had set it all in motion: his reaction to seeing Sheridan with Randy Quill.
The Cumberland River flowed, reflecting the city skyline; he thought of the picture on the band’s website, showing the bass player standing on a bridge over this river, and he spotted it straight ahead. Right behind the Ryman Auditorium, he turned into St. Cloud Alley. This was the place. He parked the car in a small lot, stared at the sign: Randecker Studios.
“You ready for this?” Vincent asked.
“Yeah.”
“We beat him fair and square in the divorce,” Vincent said. “We did that for Sheridan…”
“I know. And Charlie.”
Vincent let that pass. “Don’t screw things up by…”
Gavin pictured Sheridan as he’d first seen her this summer: drunk, disheveled, white-haired with grief. He saw Nell as she’d looked that morning outside the Renwick Inn: wild-eyed, crazed, betrayed. Gavin hadn’t figured it all out yet, but so far signs were pointing to Randy Quill knowing something about it.
“I know what you’re saying,” Gavin said. “You don’t want me getting arrested for assault. But if I find out…”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Vincent said, steely-eyed and ready for battle, in full litigator mode. He straightened the cream-colored linen jacket he’d had custom made in Milan, and climbed out of the rental Ford. The August heat was brutal—steam was rising from the riverbed. Vincent walked ahead of Gavin, through the door of Randecker Studios.
The reception room was small, with posters and photos of bands on the wall and a tight seating area with two black leather chairs and a matching loveseat. Gavin saw that pictures of Cumberland got the most wall space: there was the bridge shot of Lisa Marie Langton and her bass, blown up and framed.
It was a low-budget operation: the air-conditioning was broken, or kept on low. Either way, the receptionist looked ready to pass out. Young, dressed in a pink sundress, and dripping with sweat, she sat at a black metal desk, a fan blowing directly into her face.
“May I help you?” she asked, already sounding defeated.
“We’re here to see Randy Quill,” Vincent said, smiling. “Is he in?”
“Mr. Quill…uh…” she said.
“We’ll take that as a yes,” Gavin said, staring down a hallway behind her desk. It was lined with four closed doors, and he was already figuring out which one was Randy’s office. “Which is it?” he asked.
“Let me handle this,” Vincent said, his voice low. Turning back to the young woman, he gave her his best smile.
Gavin watched him in action—it was something to see. Vincent had had his teeth whitened by some New York dentist-to-the-stars. His teeth were of a whiteness not found in nature, and while Esquire-handsome, they were also somewhat menacing. “Young lady,” he said, “we are here on official business.”
“Official?” she asked.
“Yes. I am an officer of the court, and this man is…”
“I’m Gavin Dawson,” he said. “I’m looking into the death of Charlie Rosslare. Mr. Quill’s son…”
“He doesn’t have a son named Charlie,” the woman said, frowning. “His sons are Clinton and Jeff…”
That was all Gavin needed. Randy’s receptionist didn’t even know he’d had a son named Charlie, or that Charlie had died. It was wrong on too many levels to even contemplate, so Gavin just walked around the desk and started trying doors. He heard Vincent calling him, and the woman protesting, but he just turned and gave Vincent a “stay back” look.
The first door he opened was a large, vacant recording studio filled with state-of-the-art equipment. The second was a smaller studio. He skipped the third and went straight to the fourth and last, at the far end of the hallway.
Turning the knob, he pushed the door open and was greeted with a blast of icy air. The walls were covered with more band pictures, and Randy sat at his desk, paperwork and demo tapes spread out on the surface in front of him.
He looked gaunt, his reddish hair thinning and receding. Gavin was not unhappy to see that the boyish-roadie look didn’t age well. Gavin’s shoulders filled the doorframe, and he flexed his muscles as he closed the door behind him.
“You make your receptionist wilt in the heat while you crank your AC in here,” Gavin said. “Still a prince.”
“You’re trespassing,” Randy said. “I want you out of here.”
“I’m sure you do,”
Gavin said, giving him his best showdown stare. He moved his gaze to the phone as if daring Randy to pick it up. Randy instinctively cradled his wrist, the one Gavin had broken last time. Gavin wondered if it still hurt. He kept staring, figuring Randy knew he’d hit him if he picked up that phone.
“What do you want?” Randy asked.
“I want to ask you about Charlie.”
“What about him?”
Gavin glared at him. That was all Randy had to say? He took a step forward, and Randy flinched back.
“I went to see the place where Charlie was killed,” Gavin said.
Randy didn’t reply. Two dots of red appeared on his cheeks, starting to burn. Something was going on inside him, but Gavin couldn’t read it yet.
“A deserted ball field,” Gavin said. “On the bank of the East River.”
“It’s a tragedy,” Randy said.
“In so many ways,” Gavin said. Randy narrowed his eyes, stared a moment, then looked down.
“Leave me alone,” Randy said.
“He wound up taking a walk by the river at three in the morning,” Gavin said, “after spending the day in the city. You know what he was doing there?”
“Kids his age like to explore New York,” Randy said. “I did when I was eighteen, that’s for sure. A lot to see in that city.”
Gavin watched him; why was Randy suddenly unable to meet his gaze? Gavin pulled a chair from a table across the room, dragged it to the desk and sat down at eye level with Randy. “He’d just started college,” Gavin said. “Freshman year at NYU.”
Randy stared at the desk.
“You know that? That your son was in college?”
“What was between me and my son is none of your business.”
The words jolted Gavin—mainly because of the way Randy said them. He was full of emotion, as if there had been something between them. Randy was strung tight, tension in his face and shoulders.
“You know he wanted to be a filmmaker?” Gavin asked, and Randy nodded, his mouth quivering into a near-smile. “Make a documentary about his lost parent?”
“I wasn’t lost,” Randy said, the almost-smile disappearing.
“Charlie wanted to get to know his dad,” Gavin said.
Randy didn’t reply. He stared down at the papers on his desk, shuffling them around.
“Do you mind doing that later?” Gavin asked.
“I do mind.”
Gavin just stared at him. As tough as he’d been trying to act, he knew he couldn’t force Randy to do anything. But after a minute, Randy slid the papers away and looked up.
“Do you think I don’t care what happened to him?”
“Randy, I’m just not sure.”
“Well, I do. Sheridan and I talked, right after he died.”
“She said you didn’t go to the funeral.”
Randy sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He gave Gavin a contentious look, but it quickly drained away. “I don’t like having to explain myself to you,” he said. “Especially because of what I felt you did to me. Back then, when I was with Sheridan, you helped her see and think the worst of me. I’ve changed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, I have. I was young and foolish back then—I’m the first to admit it. Made a lot of bad choices, and hurt people I care about. I nearly died a few years ago, and it showed me that life is short. I started paying attention to what matters.”
“Life was short for Charlie,” Gavin said.
Randy closed his eyes, and Gavin thought he moaned under his breath.
“I asked you about Charlie’s funeral,” Gavin said, unmoved.
“No, I didn’t go,” he said. “Partly because of how Sheridan feels about me. I didn’t want to add to her pain by showing up there at the church.”
“Wouldn’t you have wanted to go for yourself?” Gavin asked. “Since he was your son?”
“Yes,” Randy said, his voice low. “Of course.”
“So why didn’t you? Didn’t you realize that no matter how Sheridan feels about you, she’d understand a father wanting to be there for his son? Maybe the last thing he could do for him?”
“I didn’t think that, no.”
“Show up to bury him,” Gavin said. “That’s what I’m wondering about…why you didn’t go up there to Connecticut to be there for him, especially since you say you’ve changed.”
“He was already gone,” Randy said. “Any peace I might make with my son is between me and him now, no one else. I don’t care what you think about it.”
“You have to make peace with Charlie?” Gavin asked. “For what?”
“For not being there for him when he was little. For being absent for most of his life,” Randy said.
“Try all of his life,” Gavin said. “Sheridan and Nell told me about that.”
“We were making an effort to spend time together, at the end,” Randy said, his voice thick. “He was starting college, away from home for the first time. I wanted to get to know him, and I think he would have wanted that, too. We never got the chance.”
“But you almost did, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Club 192,” Gavin said. “Last August thirty-first.”
“No,” Randy said. “I wasn’t there.”
Gavin stared at him. Randy had been a better liar when he was younger. He was sweating now, reaching into his top drawer for a pill case.
“What’s that?” Gavin asked.
“I take aspirin, keeps the blood thin,” Randy said.
“You know how I know you were in New York the day Charlie died?”
“I wasn’t,” he said. “None of us were.”
Gavin’s ears pricked up at the phrase, but he set it aside for later. “The cops missed it,” Gavin said. “They knew that Charlie had gone to hear Cumberland…they probably checked out the band, part of their investigation. Probably saw they were signed to Randecker Studios, too. Funny you named your company after your first name instead of your last. The cops wouldn’t have made the connection, seeing ‘Randecker.’ Only I did.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah, it is. I saw it there on the Cumberland website and knew. ‘Randecker’ was one of your phony names, for one of your marriages, just another way to keep the IRS off track.”
“That’s old news,” he said, sweating harder. “I’m square with the IRS.”
“Maybe, but are you square with the NYPD? They might have caught it if you’d named your company ‘Quill Records.’ They probably knew Charlie’s parents’ names, and that would have triggered an investigation. But you’re a wily old dog from way back, aren’t you? Why put your real name on anything?”
“It’s not a secret I signed Cumberland,” Randy said, ignoring the question, gesturing at the framed posters on the walls of his office. “I’m not saying they’re not my artists.”
“It’s not a secret here in Nashville,” Gavin said. “But New York’s another story. People up there don’t know the connection. You mind if I call the cops right now? Put them in the loop?”
Randy shook his head. “Go ahead.”
“I have another question before I do that,” Gavin said. “That earlier marriage I mentioned just now. Was that to Jeff’s mother?”
“Jeff?” he asked, color draining from his face. The physical change was instant and dramatic, and Gavin knew he’d hit the trigger point.
“Your son Jeff.”
“What does he have to do with anything?”
“You tell me,” Gavin said, leaning closer.
“He’s…he’s a good kid. Works for me now; he has for the last few years. He’s on the road most of the time, looking after my business interests.”
“Actually, he’s in Black Hall, Connecticut—or he was. He went to Black Hall Savings—you know, the bank that administered Charlie’s trust. Jeff went there two days ago, asking about dissolving it.”
“He did not,” Randy said. “He’s in Ohio.”
Gavin
shook his head. “He was at Charlie’s grave, and Nell—Charlie’s girlfriend—met him. She said he looks just like Charlie—had her confused there for a little while. But they had a long talk, Randy. It’s an ugly situation you’re in. You and Jeff, well, you’re a lot alike. You both like money; I’ve always known that about you, and I found it out about Jeff when I checked and learned about his record, breaking and entering. Taking other people’s things…I think you got him to help you with Charlie.”
“No,” Randy said. “You’re wrong.”
“You were in New York with the band, and Charlie was right there. You saw your chance, and you got rid of him. Probably promised Jeff a piece of Charlie’s trust.”
“Gavin, you’re wrong,” Randy said, standing up. Clearly agitated, he started pacing. “Jeff’s a good kid. He had a tough life, thanks to me. Yes, he’s been in trouble, but that’s all in the past. I promise you, he is working for me, trying hard…I’m there for him, and I can vouch for him.”
Gavin didn’t want to say what he thought Randy’s promises were worth. He just stared, watching him walk over to the window, where he stood looking out into the back alley.
“You say you weren’t in New York last August,” Gavin said. “But Jeff was, wasn’t he? Did he think this up on his own? Maybe he learned about Charlie’s trust, felt it should be his instead. Make up for that bad childhood…”
“No!” Randy said. “And he’s not in Connecticut right now, either. You’re all wrong. I’ll call him myself, right now. He’ll tell you—he’s in the Midwest, on the road with one of my bands.”
“Prove it to me, Randy. Give him a call.”
“I will,” Randy said, as if Gavin had just handed him a solution.
Gavin watched him reach for the phone. His hands were shaking as he dialed the number. He stared at Gavin with defiance, as if he expected vindication any moment. After a few seconds, Jeff answered. Gavin stared at Randy the whole time. At first his expression was lighter, happy to hear Jeff’s voice. But as the talk went on, his face turned into a knot of worry, and he turned his back on Gavin, to have some privacy in the conversation.
