“You going to talk to the police tomorrow?” Garriott asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good luck.”
“Don’t worry. My partner Rudy Bishop is friends with your good mayor, but I don’t think he’ll have to call in any favors. I know police departments don’t usually like to share information with private dicks, but I have a buddy on the inside of the Chicago PD who I’m sure will be willing to help out.” Berenger winked. “He was a member of The Fixers!”
A few minutes later, the two PIs said their goodbyes and left the house. Garriott remained at the front door with Nance as they got into the car. Before Garriott got there, Prescott said, “Look what I found on the chair I was sitting in.” She held out her hand with the thumb and index finger together, in an “OK” sign.
Berenger squinted. “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s a hair, Spike. A long, blonde hair.”
He turned on the car’s overhead interior light and saw it. He took the strand from her and held it up. “His wife’s a redhead.”
“Exactly.”
“Are any of his kids blonde?”
“I noted the family photos in the hallway. Two were brunette, one was a red.”
“Interesting.”
Garriott opened the back door and got in. Berenger looked at him. “Good to go?”
“Sure.”
Berenger started the car and pulled away from the house.
7
What To Do
(performed by Status Quo)
“Mike Case, you old bozo!”
Berenger and the plain-clothes police officer gave each other bear hugs. Prescott found it amusing to watch two big, barrel-chested men embrace each other.
“How are you, Spike? Damn, it’s been, what, twenty-five years?”
“More than that, Mike. God, I don’t even want to try counting. It was the seventies, my friend.”
Berenger turned to Prescott. “Mike, this is my partner and right hand, Suzanne Prescott. Suzanne, this is Mike Case.”
The two shook hands. “Pleased to meet you,” Prescott said.
“And extremely pleased to meet you, Suzanne. Damn, Spike, how come you have such a gorgeous partner? My partner is fat, has a mustache, and reeks of Polish sausage.”
Berenger laughed. “Just lucky, I guess.”
The trio was in a Starbucks not far from the Drake Hotel, where Berenger and Prescott were staying. Mike Case was Berenger’s age and weighed perhaps thirty or forty pounds more than he. His hair was cut to a cop’s respectable length, but he sported a gold stud in his left ear lobe.
“The job lets you get away with that?” Berenger asked, indicating the ear jewelry.
“I’m a Tac Guy,” Case answered. He looked at Prescott. “Short for Tactical.”
She smiled. “I know.”
Case raised his eyebrows. “Oh, pretty and smart! Better be careful, Spike.”
“Believe me, I am. She’s knows judo, too.”
Case whistled. “Ever think of joining the Chicago PD?” he asked her.
“That thought never crossed my mind, I’m sorry to say,” she answered.
“You still play the drums, Mike?”
“Spike, I wouldn’t call it ‘playing,’ but yeah, I bash around on them every now and then. I used to jam with my kids when they were younger. But they grew up and flew the coop.”
Berenger turned to Prescott. “Mike left The Fixers when he got married. Moved to Chicago and never looked back.” Back to Case. “How is Maggie?”
“I’m sure she’s fine, Spike. We got divorced fifteen years ago.”
“Really? Gosh, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Neither is she. Neither are our kids. It was the best thing that could’ve happened. You know why it’s expensive to get a divorce? Because it’s worth it! Why should two people torture each other every day just to keep the façade of an archaic and nonsensical institution alive?” He shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t know if either of you are married.”
“We’re not,” Prescott answered. “It’s okay. I kind of feel the same way.”
Berenger mumbled, “Oh, marriage can be okay…”
“He’s divorced, too,” Prescott said to Case.
The unpleasantness of his recent dinner with Linda threatened to rear its ugly head again, so he quickly changed the subject. “This isn’t the Doctor Phil Show. Mike, like I told you on the phone, we’re here looking into the shootings of Charles Nance, Dave Monaco, Hank Palmer, and the Kriges. Imagine my surprise when you told me you’re on the task force. That’s some coincidence.”
Case said, “Well, I’m one of the Tac Guys assigned to the Fourteenth District, and that’s where the latter two shootings took place. But I’m a pretty low man on the totem pole. You’re going to want to talk to Sergeant Doherty. He’s running the investigation.”
“Is he a detective? I thought sergeants assigned and oversaw cases but didn’t actually take part in them.”
“He was a detective for years. Promoted to sergeant about two years ago. But since these shootings are starting to become heater cases, he’s taking a more active role in the investigation. That happens sometimes.”
“Heater cases?” Prescott asked.
“That means they’re getting media attention. The first two weren’t very big news, but after the third one—Nance—the media is starting to connect the dots.”
“Joe Nance told me that the police haven’t admitted there’s a connection between the shootings.”
“We haven’t. But we know there is. The M.O. is pretty much the same in all three cases. And then there are the witness sightings of the shooter. We haven’t received ballistics results from the Nance shooting, but the first two are identical. The Evanston police are working with us on the Kriges’ case. We just don’t want to alarm anyone.”
“What about the rest of the musicians? They believe someone is bumping off members of Windy City Engine and Red Skyez.”
“Man, I haven’t thought about Red Skyez since I first moved to Chicago. Good band. I always liked them better than Windy City Engine.”
“I preferred Windy City, but I know what you mean. Red Skyez made more of a splash at the time but their flame quickly burned out. At least Windy City Engine has kept going all these years. It’s pretty amazing. I don’t know many bands that have lasted that long.”
Case sighed. “I don’t go hear music like I used to. I’m just too busy with the job and then, I don’t know, it’s just not my scene anymore. The last concert I saw was when the Allman Brothers Band came through Chicago in, what, nineteen-ninety-something. The thing is I hate to stand up at a concert. In most of the clubs you have to stand. Even in the big arena venues with reserved seats, everyone ends up standing for the show in front of their hundred-and-fifty dollar seat. I don’t get it. You pay that much money for a seat and then you stand in front of it. I’m too fucking old for that shit.”
“I hear you. But if it’s a good band and I want to see them, I don’t mind standing. For a little while. But back to the case. You think Sergeant Doherty will talk to me?”
“He’ll talk to you but he won’t tell you shit. He hates private investigators. He thinks they’re bottom-dwelling scum. Worse than lawyers, and he despises lawyers. He’s a stubborn old bull, too. I suggested that we put men in front of the musicians’ houses at night, you know, for protection. He won’t do it. We don’t have the resources or the budget for the OT. Doherty doesn’t have a very high regard for rock ‘n’ roll musicians.”
“I think I can understand that. What do you know about the crime scenes?”
“I was off duty when Monaco and Palmer went down. But I was one of the first officers at the scene when Nance was killed. It was a very clean shooting. Two hits in the chest from close range. Nine millimeter bullets, same as were in Monaco, Palmer, and the Kriges. We recovered shell casings at the Nance scene but not at the others. It was almost like a professional execution. Not Mozambique style, but still
an execution,”
“So it could be any one of a hundred different types of handguns,” Berenger noted.
“Yeah. Nines are pretty damn universal anymore. We’re waiting on the ballistics comparison to the Monaco/Palmer/Kriges shootings, but we’re betting that they came from the same weapon.”
“If that’s the case, are the police going to admit that the shootings are related?”
“I would. That’s up to ranks higher than Doherty’s, though. But Doherty likes to keep as much information as possible close to the vest. But, uhm, there is something I can tell you.”
“Oh?”
“This isn’t known by very many people. The killer left something at each crime scene.”
“What’s that?”
“CDs. Two were left near the Kriges’ bodies. Two were left on the sidewalk where Monaco and Palmer were shot, and one was left on Nance’s front porch.”
“What’s on them?”
“Songs, Spike. Each disk contained a different song, sung by a woman. And get this—each disk was marked, ‘Track One,’ ‘Track Two,’ and so forth. Nance’s was ‘Track Five.’”
Berenger and Prescott looked at each other. “What are the songs?” she asked.
Case shrugged. “They’re original. I don’t think anyone’s heard them before.”
“So, wait,” Berenger said, “you’re saying that the killer is leaving recordings of music with each victim? One song for each victim?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Geez.” Berenger shook his head. “What’s it sound like?”
“I haven’t heard the first four but I listened to the one left at Nance’s place. I guess if you took it out of context and just played it on the radio or something, it’s not a bad piece of music.”
“No idea who’s singing?”
“Nope. Female with a nice, strong voice.”
“What kind of instrumentation?”
“Sounds like a regular combo—guitar, bass, drums, keyboards. There could be other instruments, I’m not sure.”
“Does your task force have all the CDs?”
“The Evanston police have the first two originals, but they sent us copies, so, yeah, we have all five.”
“Boy, I’d really like to hear them.”
“And I’m positive Doherty’s not going to let you do that. Hell, he hasn’t let everyone on the fucking task force hear them. I haven’t heard them, except that last one.”
“Well, that pretty much cements the idea that the killings are related,” Prescott said. “I understand why that information hasn’t been leaked to the public.”
“Have you already had cranks calling in and accepting responsibility?” Berenger asked.
“Yeah. A couple. And when we ask them what the killer left at the crime scenes, they don’t know. So, false alarms there. But there’s another reason why Doherty isn’t totally convinced the shootings are related. We’ve had some similar shootings in the city—not of musicians, but of regular people. Armed robberies. We were already up against an alleged serial armed robber before all of this other stuff began. They started a little over a year ago. Same M.O. and witnesses have said that a female white with blonde hair is doing the crimes. There are no floppy hats, but the woman is usually wearing some kind of hat. She approaches people on the street, robs them, and shoots them. There have been eight so far. And we’re pretty sure they were all committed by the same offender.”
“Unbelievable.”
“That sounds pretty unusual for a woman,” Prescott said. “It’s just not the thing a woman would do. You know?”
“We know. It’s a ballsy thing to do—no offence. To just walk up to someone in public and do that… no, it’s not in the profile for cases like that.”
“Are there any suspects for these robberies?” Berenger asked.
“We have a couple, but no arrests have been made and no one has been brought in for questioning. Doherty hasn’t shared that intel with me. My orders are to keep an eye out for suspicious blondes, though.”
“What about forensics? Is there anything that connects those armed robberies with the shootings of the musicians?”
“Yeah. Nine millimeter bullets were used in all of ‘em.”
“That doesn’t mean the same gun fired them all.”
“No. But ballistics tests on the recovered bullets have shown that they’re very similar. The shell casings match up but we haven’t recovered enough of the bullets from the robberies to compare with what we’ve been able to get from the murders. But it’s possible the same gun was used.”
Berenger took the last sip of his coffee and said, “Well, that complicates things, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“So what about Joe Nance’s theory?”
“That a ghost is doing the shooting?” Case laughed. “What do you think?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. But what about this Sylvia Favero? Do you know anything about her?”
“When Nance brought her up, we looked into it. It’s a cold case from almost forty years ago, Spike. Twenty-two-year-old girl disappeared one night and was never heard from again. She was declared missing. Back then, you know, we didn’t have the resources to find missing people that we do today. And that was the early seventies. Young men and women ran off all the time. And, yeah, there were kidnappings, just like there are today. After about six months, her case was left open but it went into the dead pile. Nobody is still on the job who worked it back then. The notes suggested that she either ran away and changed her identity, or that she was probably dead and buried in a forest preserve or some sicko’s back yard.”
“Yuck,” Prescott said.
“She had no relatives here. Her mother lived in Europe somewhere. I can’t remember.”
“I’d like to see her file.”
“Good luck on that, too.”
Sergeant Doherty was not available that day to see them, but an appointment was made for the following day. Berenger then phoned Stuart Clayton.
“Hello?” The voice was quiet and frail.
“Is this Stuart Clayton?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Stuart, this is Spike Berenger. Rockin’ Security. Remember me?”
“Spike who?”
“Berenger. We met a long time ago when I was in a band called The Fixers.”
“Your name sounds familiar. But I don’t know… when was this?”
“In the late seventies. I run a security service for rock ‘n’ roll acts and I’m a private investigator. You can look us up on the web, if you’d like, at www—”
“That’s okay, I believe you.” There was a pause, then— “What can I do for you?”
“Stuart, my partner and I would like to come by and have a word with you. It’s about these shootings of your former band colleagues. I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s happened.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. It’s terrible. I’ve already spoken to the police.”
“I’m not the police. Zach Garriott has hired my firm to look into the shootings. I’m talking to everyone who was once a member of Red Skyez or Windy City Engine. Essentially, everyone who was originally with The Loop or the bands that sprung out of it.”
Berenger heard the man sigh wearily. “I don’t know anything. Jesus.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but I’d like to ask you a few questions anyway. More about the past than about today.”
There was silence at the other end. For a moment, Berenger thought the man had hung up. “Stuart? Mister Clayton?”
“I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m… I’m not well, you know.”
“Do you think we could come by and have a chat? It wouldn’t take long.”
“Not today. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is good. I have an appointment in the morning, but then I’m wide open the rest of the day. How about I give you a call after lunch?”
“That’s fine. Listen, I don’t remember a lot. My mind… I just don’
t remember a whole lot. I’m… not well.”
“That’s quite all right. We’ll see how we get along tomorrow, okay? Don’t you worry about it. Is there anything we can bring you? Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you. I have a lady that comes twice a week with stuff. And I can go out on my own if I have to. I just don’t… like to.”
Sheesh, the guy sounds like an invalid-and-a-half! Berenger thought.
“All right. Thanks, Stuart. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Berenger closed his cell and Prescott asked, “Well? What’d he sound like?”
“He sounds like he could die tomorrow and he wouldn’t care. It was like talking to a very old man in a nursing home. It was kind of scary.”
“Geez. He must be pretty bad off.”
“Well, we’ll see tomorrow. You hungry?”
“Famished.” She looked at her wristwatch. “But it’s a bit early for dinner. Want to walk along Michigan Avenue for a while? We have nothing else to do.”
“Sure.”
And that’s what they did. The private investigator and his assistant walked north past Millennium Park and the Art Institute and up into the Magnificent Mile, Chicago’s equivalent of New York’s Fifth Avenue. Prescott ooh’d and ah’d at the clothes in store windows while Berenger enjoyed the people watching. The spring day was cool but pleasant—at least the torrential rains had ceased.
Berenger figured they’d grab a nice meal somewhere and then go back down to Reggie’s for the North Side show. He didn’t want to tell Prescott that he didn’t know where to begin on the case because there was so little to go on. Depending on what Sergeant Doherty would share with him, it was entirely possible that they were spinning their wheels in Chicago.
The key would be to crack Joe Nance’s wall of silence. Berenger was certain that the man wasn’t revealing everything he knew about the woman named Sylvia Favero.
8
Witchy Woman
(performed by Eagles)
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 34
