“I’d like to see Clayton again. I’d like to see Nance and the other guys again. I’d like to hear those damned CDs that Doherty’s hogging like gold. And I’d like—”
Berenger’s jaw dropped as he stared toward the lounge entrance. Prescott followed his gaze and was just as surprised.
“Oh my God… Did you know she was going to be here?” she asked.
Berenger simply shook his head.
His ex-wife Linda had just walked into the Coq d’Or with a tall, bald man. The mustache gave his identity away as her fiancé, Richard Noyce. The look of surprise on her face when she saw Berenger was just as individualistic as his own.
“I don’t believe this,” Berenger whispered.
“That’s the guy she’s marrying?”
“Uh huh.”
“He looks like Yul Brynner.”
“I know. I keep wanting to ask him to ‘let my people go.’ Oh, hell, they’re coming this way.”
Linda and her fiancé approached the table. Berenger immediately put on his best smiling face and stood.
“Linda! Well, I’ll be. What are you doing in Chicago?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Linda said, smiling but obviously not pleased. “Hello, Suzanne.”
“Hi, Linda. How are you?”
“Fine.”
Both Berenger and Linda seemed at a loss as to what to do next. Finally, Berenger blurted, “Suzanne, this is Mister Cl...”
He had almost said “Clean” but stopped himself in time. The man finished the introduction for him. “Noyce. Richard.” They shook hands.
Linda put a hand to her face and turned red. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Richard, this is Spike—you’ve met him before. Suzanne Prescott.”
Berenger stood there nodding his head like a fool and then Prescott said, “Why don’t you two sit down and have a drink with us?”
The PI concurred through his teeth while still grinning—but he wanted to strangle his partner.
Linda looked at Noyce inquisitively, and he said, “Sure. We have time.”
It was a booth—Prescott had been sitting across from Berenger, so Noyce sat next to her. Linda was forced to sit in the vacant space beside her ex-husband. Berenger reclaimed his spot, the smile frozen onto his face.
“So what are you doing in Chicago, Spike?” Linda asked.
“I told you I was coming here. We have a case, remember?”
“You said you were going out of town, but you didn’t say it was Chicago.”
“I didn’t?”
“No. Otherwise I would have said, ‘Gee, what a coincidence, Richard and I are going to Chicago, too.’”
“I do remember you saying you guys were going to a conference somewhere. You didn’t say Chicago?”
“I guess not,” Linda said, shrugging.
Noyce spoke up. “I’m attending the annual AIA national convention. It’s in Chicago this year.”
“AIA?” Berenger asked.
“American Institute of Architects.”
“Oh, right. You’re an architect. Suzanne, Richard’s an architect.”
“I think I got that, thanks,” Prescott said.
A waitress appeared and took their order. Linda and Noyce each ordered a glass of white wine. Prescott ordered fruit juice. Berenger ordered a double vodka martini.
So much for laying off the alcohol for a couple of days! he thought. As soon as it arrived, he consumed several sips very quickly.
“Chicago’s nice this time of year,” Linda said.
“It’s been raining a lot since we’ve been here,” Prescott remarked. “The sun just came out in the last couple of days.”
“Yeah, we’ve been here since Friday,” Noyce said.
“Where are y’all staying?” Berenger asked. That was one of the remaining traits from his Texan upbringing. He had managed to get rid of a Texas accent, but he still couldn’t help saying the word “y’all.”
“Here, in the Drake,” Linda answered.
“Here? The Drake Hotel?”
“That’s right.”
“We’re in the Drake Hotel, too.”
“Really?”
“You’ve been here since Friday?”
“Yes.”
“And we haven’t seen you before now?”
Prescott snickered. “It’s a big hotel, Spike.”
Berenger took a big sip of his martini.
“I love it,” Noyce said. “The design is fabulous. Chicago has some of the best architecture in any American city. Have you done the architectural boat tour?”
Berenger shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. There’s an architectural boat tour?”
“Yes, sir. It goes along the Chicago River and they point out all the interesting landmarks.”
“Sounds…great!”
“I’ve done it, Spike,” Prescott said. “It really is cool.”
“When did you do it?”
“I don’t know. Years ago.”
“So,” Noyce said, “I understand you’re in the rock ‘n’ roll business?”
“That’s right.”
“Linda’s told me a little about it. You’re not a musician, right?”
“Well, I am a musician. Just not a working one.”
“Oh, that’s right. You run a security operation. You’re one of those guys that frisks kids when they go to a concert?”
Berenger wasn’t sure if the guy was insulting him or just stupid. “No, I don’t do that myself, but sometimes I hire firms that employ guys that do that.”
“Spike’s a private investigator in the music business,” Linda explained. “I’ve told you that.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” Noyce said. “That sounds pretty interesting. Do you get to meet a lot of famous rock stars?”
Berenger shrugged. “Sometimes.” He had a sip of martini.
“Who have you met?”
Berenger didn’t know where to begin. “Oh, I don’t know. Just about everyone, I guess.”
“Bruce Springsteen?”
“Sure.”
“Wow, you’ve met The Boss? That’s incredible! I love Springsteen. How about Billy Joel?”
“Billy Joel?”
“Yeah, have you met him?”
Berenger slapped the table. “Damn. You got me there. I haven’t met Billy Joel. The score is one to one. Name someone else.”
Noyce was getting into it. “Paul McCartney?”
“Yes.”
“Eddie Vedder?”
“Yes.”
“Miles Davis?”
Berenger frowned. “He’s not a rock star. He’s a jazz star.” As he finished the martini, both Linda and Prescott eyed each other—they both knew what could happen if he drank too much too quickly.
“So? He’s in the music business.”
“Who?”
“Miles Davis.”
“He was in the music business. But, no, I never had a chance to meet him.”
“Then the score is three to two.”
“Are you guys nuts?” Linda spouted.
Noyce laughed. “I’m just having fun. What kind of music do you like, Spike?”
“Please, don’t get him started,” Linda groaned.
“You want to talk music?” Berenger asked.
“Sure. Everyone likes music, don’t they?” Noyce nodded at the two women for approval.
“Richard, really, I—” Linda said with a little more apprehensiveness.
“Let’s see,” Berenger began, “I like early rock ‘n’ roll, I like the Beatles, I like rhythm ‘n’ blues, I like jazz, I like jazz-fusion, I like film music, I like TV music, I like hard rock, punk rock, heavy metal, psychedelia, New Wave, Alternative, I like novelty music, pop rock, soft rock, folk rock, country rock, space rock, jam bands, glam and glitter rock, Krautrock, Zeuhl, world music, reggae, new age, rap, hip hop, a lot of classical stuff, experimental and avant-garde—”
“Spike, Jesus!” Prescott snapped.
�
�—but mostly I’m into prog.” he finished, and then looked around for the waitress. “How about another round?”
Prescott cleared her throat. “Uhm, Spike, you probably shouldn’t have another. We have some work to do—”
Berenger caught the waitress’ attention and summoned her over.
“What’s prog?” Noyce asked.
“Richard, no!” Linda shuddered.
Berenger asked for another martini and then turned back to Noyce. “Progressive rock. You know, the stuff that draws from not only rock ‘n’ roll, but from classical music. It’s more complex and the musicianship is of virtuoso level. I’m sure you’d know it when you hear it.”
“Name some bands I’d know.”
“Well, the biggest prog bands were Pink Floyd, Yes, Genesis—the early stuff with Gabriel, not what they did later—a few years in the career of Jethro Tull, Emerson Lake & Palmer, the Moody Blues, King Crimson, some Frank Zappa. Hell, The Who did a rock opera and that’s prog—”
“Oh, sure, I know what you mean now. I like that stuff okay.”
“But that’s just the most well-known… the true believers like more esoteric stuff, you know, like Gentle Giant, Gong, Soft Machine, Marillion, Porcupine Tree—”
“I haven’t heard of those,” Noyce admitted.
“Hatfield and the North?”
“No.”
“Ozric Tentacles?”
“Nope.”
“Samla Mammas Manna?”
“What?”
“Spike! Enough!” Linda said. “Come on, Richard, finish your drink and let’s go, otherwise we won’t have a lot of time in Old Town.”
Noyce nodded. “We’re going to Old Town this afternoon.”
“I thought you were at an architects’ conference.”
“That was over the weekend. Linda and I had planned to stay a few days in Chicago and see some sights.”
Before Berenger could react to that, his cell phone rang.
“Excuse me.” He whipped it out and answered the call. “Spike Berenger.”
“Mister Berenger?”
It was a woman’s voice. Low in pitch. Friendly. Almost sensual.
“Yes?”
“Is it a good time to talk?”
“Who is this?”
There was a pause before the woman answered, “My name is Sylvia Favero.”
17
Living Dead Girl
(performed by Rob Zombie)
Berenger put his hand over the mouthpiece and announced to the group, “I have to take this call.” He then quickly stood, moved out of the booth, and walked toward the front of the bar, where he couldn’t be heard.
“How do I know it’s you?” Berenger asked. “And how did you get my number?”
“Your number was easy to get. And you’ll know it’s really me after I ask you a question.”
“What’s that?”
“Have the police allowed you to listen to my CDs yet?”
Berenger felt a cold chill run up his spine. Only the Chicago PD knew about the compact disks. And the killer.
“No, they haven’t. I’d like to hear them.”
“Well, Mister Berenger, I want you to hear them. In fact, I’d like to interest you in a little business deal.”
Berenger’s heart was pounding. He didn’t know if he should tell her that he never made deals with murderers, or if he should play along and perhaps get her to reveal more about herself.
“What do you have in mind?” he asked.
“You have connections in the music industry, right?”
“I suppose.”
“You could help get a record made. With your influence. You know some people. You’ve probably done favors that need repaying. If you had to—or wanted to—you could get a record made. Am I correct?”
Berenger knew where this was going. “I could probably do that, yes. But getting it distributed is another thing altogether.”
She was persistent. “But you have connections. To major labels. To distribution.”
“Okay, let’s say I do.”
“I want to turn over my album to you. You’re going to produce it and see that it gets distributed. I’ll give you fifteen per cent of all sales, just like an agent or manager.”
Berenger almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “You want me to produce your album?”
“That’s right.”
He needed to keep her talking. Learn more about her.
“Why are you killing these musicians, Sylvia?”
“They know why, Mister Berenger.”
“You can call me Spike. What do they know?”
“They know why I’m doing this. Every one of them. And I can’t let any of them continue the sickness.”
“The sickness?”
“The plague that began in nineteen-sixty-seven, when I first met them. The pestilence that ended in nineteen-seventy, when I died.”
Berenger rubbed his eyes. The woman was out of her mind. “Are you telling me that you’re dead?”
“Look, if I get you the CDs, will you agree to the deal?”
“You know I can’t guarantee I can get an album produced and distributed. I can try but I can’t guarantee it!”
“Once you hear it, you won’t just try, you’ll want to do it.”
“Maybe that’s true. How do I get the CDs?”
“I’ll get back to you. Don’t tell the police I’ve called you, or you won’t hear from me again.”
She disconnected the call. Berenger immediately tried to redial the number but it was busy. According to his Calls Received list, it was a Chicago number. He quickly punched in Rockin’ Security’s number and told Melanie to transfer him to Tommy Briggs.
“Tommy, I need you to get the records for a mobile phone number. Fast! Grab a pencil.”
“Go ahead, Spike.”
Berenger gave him the number. “Get back to me as soon as you can.”
He hung up and went back to the table. “Who was that?” Prescott asked.
“I’ll tell you later.” He addressed Linda and Noyce. “Listen, guys, it was really, really awesome to see you here, but Suzanne and I have to run.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” Noyce answered. “I was just getting interested in the music talk.”
“You check out some of those bands I mentioned.” He shook hands with the man.
“Uhm, I will!”
Berenger then clumsily leaned over and kissed Linda on the cheek. “See you later, babe.”
Surprised, Linda gasped slightly and said, “Goodbye, Spike.” She rubbed her hand across her cheek and tried her best to smile. Berenger helped Suzanne up and rushed her out of the bar.
“What’s going on, Spike?”
“Sylvia Favero just called me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Jesus! Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. I had to get away from those two. I couldn’t think.”
They stood in the expansive hotel lobby. “You mean you don’t have a plan?”
“I have to wait for her to call me back. She’s going to give me the CDs.” He told her about the killer’s proposition.
“Spike, you can’t agree to do that.”
“Why not?”
“That woman has been killing friends of yours!”
“I know. But maybe this will get us closer to her.”
“Are you going to tell Mike Case about it?”
Berenger rubbed his chin. “Not yet. I want to see how this plays out. I want to be absolutely sure I’m not being taken for a ride.”
“So what do we do while we wait for her to call you back?”
“Let’s try to see Stuart Clayton again. Then we’ll go talk to Joe Nance.”
Berenger tried to redial Sylvia’s number one more time but it was still busy. “Let me use your phone to call Clayton. I want to keep my line open.”
Prescott handed her cell to him and he dialed Clayton’s number.
�
��Hello?”
“Stuart, it’s Spike Berenger. How are you?”
“Who?”
“Spike Berenger. Suzanne Prescott and I were over at your house a couple of days ago. From Rockin’ Security.”
“Oh, yes. Hello.”
“Listen, Stuart, I’ve thought of some more things I’d like to talk to you about. Would it be convenient if we stopped over again today?”
“Stopped over?”
Clayton sounded disoriented. He’d either been asleep or was drugged.
“For a little while. I have a few questions I’d like to ask you about Sylvia.”
There was silence at the other end.
“Stuart? You there?”
“Mister Berenger, I have nothing more to say to you. I’ve already told you everything I know. I’ve told the police the same things. All this stuff brings back painful memories and I have enough problems. Please leave me alone and don’t call again.”
Berenger tried a different tact. “Stuart, I heard from Sylvia. She called me.”
There was some shuffling on the line and then Clayton said, “Perhaps you’ll believe me now. I told you I’d seen her.”
“So let’s get together and talk about her.”
“No, I don’t think so. I said I didn’t want to discuss her anymore. Goodbye, Mister Berenger. I hope you catch her.”
Clayton hung up and Berenger cursed.
“No luck?” Prescott asked.
“No. Let’s try again tomorrow and you ask him. He liked you better than me.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s go drop in on Joe. Screw this calling people and warning them beforehand. Let’s surprise him.”
And they strode out of the hotel to the parking lot.
There were visitors at the Nance house, for two other vehicles were parked out front. Lucy Nance opened the door and didn’t seem surprised to see him.
“Come in. Joe and the others are in the music room.” Lucy held open the door for them.
“Thanks. Who’s here?”
“Manny and Harrison.”
“Just the people I need to see, all in one place.”
“Well, I warn you. They’re a little drunk… and Joe is really drunk.” She led them to a room in which Berenger and Prescott had never been. It contained a grand piano and other musical instruments, chairs, and some recording equipment for laying down home demos. It was a comfortable space for music-making, not a soundproofed studio.
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 41
