Berenger felt his pulse quicken.
“How well do you know her? What can you tell me about her?”
“Spike, what is this about?”
“Sandro, have you heard about what has happened in Chicago over the past two or three months?”
“No, I do not listen to American news. I do not like it.”
“Sandro, many members from Red Skyez and Windy City Engine have been murdered. One by one, someone has been killing them.”
“What? Oh, my God!”
Berenger did his best to bring Ponti up to date on the tragic events. The Italian seemed to be genuinely upset.
“Charles? Manny? Dave Monaco? I can’t believe it!”
“You were friends with all these guys, right?”
“Sure, I knew them all when I was in Chicago. When I was in Rattlesnake, I met them. Bud Callahan was tight with them, so I knew them through him.”
“Did you ever know a woman named Sylvia Favero?”
“Sylvia Favero… no, who is she?”
“She was a friend of the band… well, when the band was The Loop. Remember The Loop?”
“I was not in Chicago then, but I heard of them, of course. That’s what Windy City Engine was before they changed their name, right?”
“The Loop split into two bands—Windy City Engine and Red Skyez.”
“Oh, right.”
“Sylvia Favero was a groupie, for lack of a better word. She also performed, sang her own songs. She disappeared in nineteen-seventy.”
“No, I do not know about her, Spike.”
Berenger explained a little about the CDs that the killer had left for him, and that one of the tracks was identical to Julia Faerie’s cut on the sampler.
“But… how can that be?” Ponti asked.
“I don’t know! That’s what I need to find out. Tell me about Julia.”
“She has been, how you say?—kicking around—the music scene in Italy for twenty years or more. She was with popular choral group that sang religious music for a number of years. When she was in her thirties she became solo act. She is not well-known… yet. I met her about six years ago. I heard some of her original songs and thought they were fantastic. I encourage her to make a record. So, slowly, she has been recording demos. The track on the sampler was a demo. Hopefully we make album soon.”
“I need to talk to her. Does she speak English?”
“Of course! Her mother was American.”
Bingo, Berenger thought. There’s the connection.
Berenger didn’t tell Ponti that he suspected Julia Faerie might be Sylvia Favero’s long lost child. He didn’t want to believe it himself until he learned more and talked to the singer. Nevertheless, Ponti said he would find Julia and get back to him. The Italian was afraid she might be away from Rome but he would search for her. Berenger informed him of the benefit concert on Friday night, and Ponti said he would like to be there and might actually try to come.
That afternoon, Berenger and Prescott left the rental car at the hotel and took a walk through Old Town, a quaint and affluent area of trendy shops, restaurants, and clubs. Berenger had other things on his mind but felt he was at a loss. He didn’t know what to do next since his investigation depended on others getting back to him. So when Prescott suggested that they get outside into the fresh air, he didn’t mind. It would clear his head.
While Prescott window shopped, Berenger noted the diversity of people that populated the area. Young people dominated Old Town and there was definitely a bohemian vibe that reminded him of West Greenwich Village. He was surprised by the number of couples—boy/girl, boy/boy, girl/girl—as if everyone in Chicago had a significant other. He knew it wasn’t so, but it was the impression that the beautiful spring day brought. Perhaps the cessation of the rains had brought out the lovers.
A guitar shop on Clark Street caught Berenger’s eye, so he stopped and admired the goods in the window. He stood slavering over a vintage circa 1950s Les Paul “Goldtop” when he saw the moving reflection of a familiar figure in the window. Berenger turned and confirmed that Felix Bushnell was walking north with a purpose. The man was dressed as he had been at the police station—in a black turtleneck, tight black pants, and the dangling earrings, which were what caught the PI’s attention. Without a second thought, Berenger followed the suspect. Although he had serious doubts that Bushnell had anything to do with the musician murders, the guy was definitely a strange bird. Given the man’s history with armed robberies while dressed in drag, Berenger supposed it was possible that he could be wrong. After all, if Julia Faerie was the woman singing on the tapes that Sylvia Favero had given him, then Favero couldn’t be the performer. And if the real Sylvia Favero was dead, then someone was impersonating her. Could it be Julia Faerie? Or what about Nance’s wife, Lucy? Was it a coincidence that she had blonde hair and suddenly dyed it red? Or could it be Felix Bushnell—a man with a record and questionable lifestyle?
Berenger was an expert in tailing someone on foot. He knew when to stop, when to move, when to blend in with a group of pedestrians, when to cross streets, and when to wait. It helped that Bushnell never slowed. The man didn’t look back or bother with the shop windows or restaurants.
The PI’s cell phone rang when he crossed Armitage Street. It was Prescott.
“Where are you?”
“I’m following Felix Bushnell. Sorry. I didn’t have a chance to tell you.”
“Gee whiz, I go into a shoe shop and you disappear!”
“I’m walking north on Clark. Looks like I’m crossing Dickens now. It’s only been about ten minutes if you want to try and catch up.”
“Why are you following him?”
“I don’t know. I got a funny feeling about him.”
“He’s not your type, Spike.”
“Ha ha. I’m hanging up now.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to continue shopping. After all, we’re not on the payroll now, right?”
“As you wish.” Berenger hung up and kept his pace with the suspect.
The PI tailed the man for a good distance. They crossed Fullerton and Diversey Streets and eventually came to Belmont. Bushnell headed west at this point. Berenger remembered Sergeant Doherty saying that the suspect lived in an apartment in the Belmont and Clark area. Bushnell was most likely headed for home.
The neighborhood had more trendy shops but they were decidedly more fringe in nature. Head shops, sex shops, and tattoo parlors were the norm. If Clark Street had been more like West Greenwich Village farther south, then this part was more akin to East Greenwich Village.
Sure enough, Bushnell entered a door next to a store that sold “erotic novelties.” The PI took a look at the call button buzzer—the name “Bushnell” was next to the number three. The suspect probably lived on the third floor of the building.
Berenger wondered what the hell he was going to do now. There was no telling if Bushnell was in for the day, which was doubtful, or how long he would be. He used his cell to phone Prescott.
“’Sup?” he asked when she answered.
“Nothing. Where are you?”
“Belmont and Clark. I followed Bushnell to his building. Now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Some private investigator you are.”
“I know. What are you doing?”
“I was about to head back to the hotel. You want me to come up there?”
Berenger heard a beeping. “Hold on a sec. There’s another call.”
“Okay.”
He switched over. “Berenger.”
“Hi there.”
Sylvia.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing at the moment. What about you?”
“You sure you aren’t following someone?”
Shit.
Berenger scanned the street. There was nothing suspicious.
“What makes you say that?”
“Looked like you were following someone.”
“Are you watching me?”
“Could be.”
“Where are you? Why don’t we meet? Have a chat?”
“I don’t think so, although it might not be a bad thing. You seem like an honorable man.”
“I am. What do you say?”
“What did you think of my music?”
“Sylvia, I have to be honest. After all, I’m an honorable man.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what?”
“It’s pretty damned good, Sylvia. You have real talent. I don’t think there’s going to be a problem selling your album.”
“Really?” There was an excitement in her voice that he hadn’t heard before.
“Yeah. There’s just one thing.”
“What?”
“Are you sure you’re the one who’s making this music?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sounds an awful lot like an Italian singer I’ve heard before.”
There was a pause. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ever hear of Julia Faerie?”
More silence.
“Sylvia?” He waited a few moments. “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your daughter, Sylvia?”
He could sense that he had surprised her.
“Is Julia your daughter?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Who is Julia’s father?”
The call ended. Berenger cursed and immediately tried to redial the incoming number.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Sylvia?”
“No, it’s Suzanne!”
“Suzanne! Shit, I was trying to call Sylvia back. I don’t know what happened—”
“You had me on hold, remember?”
“Hang up!” He ended the call and tried to redial again. Busy signal. “Damn!” He called Prescott back and told her what had just occurred.
“She’s playing with you, Spike.”
“How the hell did she know I was following Bushnell? Unless…”
“Unless he made you and called you from his apartment—as Sylvia.”
Berenger rubbed his chin and looked up at the third floor windows. “I think I’m going to hang around here a bit. You can go back to the hotel if you want or whatever.”
“Gee, thanks. I love being so useful.”
“Okay, then come up here.” He looked at his watch. “Meet me at the corner of Belmont and Clark in fifteen minutes.” He hung up, walked back to the corner, and noticed a head shop with a sign in the window that read: “Salvia Divinorum – R.I.P.” Curious, Berenger went inside. He was greeted by a tattooed, long-haired old man who looked as if he had just walked out of the original 1969 Woodstock festival.
“How’s it going, my man?”
“Fine,” Berenger answered. “I saw the sign in the window. About salvia?”
“Oh, yeah. What about it?”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s illegal now. In this state, anyway. In a lot of states now. It used to be legal. We sold it up until January first, two-thousand and eight.”
“Yeah? You sell a lot of it?”
The man shrugged. “It sold pretty well. It was a legal high so some people were attracted to it. I didn’t care for the stuff myself.”
“Why not?”
“Too weird. You ever try it?”
“No.”
“It’s not a party drug by any means. I found it pretty unpleasant. But there are some folks who were regular customers. They loved the shit. They liked leaving their bodies and trying to figure out if they were still a human being.”
“I hear it’s pretty intense.”
“Depending on the strength of the extract, it can be. We sold packages of five-X, ten-X, fifteen-X, twenty-X, all the way up to thirty-X concentrations.”
“Ten-X as in ‘Ten Times’?”
“Yeah. Five being the lowest strength.”
“So what happened to all of your stock when it became illegal?”
“Some blonde chick came in sometime in December of ’07 and bought everything we had.”
“A blonde chick? Do you remember her?”
“She was one of our best customers for the stuff.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Nah. She always paid cash. Never used a credit card. But there was something odd about her.”
“What do you mean?”
The old man winked at Berenger. “I think she was really a guy.”
Berenger nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Can I help you with something else? Need any rolling papers? We make our own pipes.”
“No, thanks, I’m good. See you later.”
“Have a nice day!”
Berenger walked out of the shop in time to see Prescott stepping out of a taxi cab.
“Hold the cab!” he called.
She looked at him in confusion.
“Come on, we’re getting out of here,” he said as he got in. She made a noise of exasperation and got into the seat beside him.
“Where are we going? I thought you were shadowing Bushnell?”
“I changed my mind. I want you to keep trying to call Stuart Clayton and see if you can see him. And I want to have another talk with Joe Nance.”
21
Voyage 34
(performed by Porcupine Tree)
Prescott stayed at the hotel while Berenger took the rental car to Nance’s house. It was late afternoon, so hopefully the musician would be in a better frame of mind than he had been during their last encounter. Berenger parked in front of the house, got out, and knocked on the door. No one answered, but the PI could hear the television. He tried knocking louder but there was still no response.
What the hell…
He tried the door and found it unlocked. Berenger stepped inside and called out, “Hello? Joe? Lucy?”
He felt a sudden trepidation and hoped to God he wasn’t about to discover another severed head. Berenger drew his Kahr and slowly walked through the hallway toward the sound of the television. He stopped and listened for any sign of human movement but there wasn’t any. Another few steps and he was standing in the archway that led to the living room. The TV was blaring and Joe Nance lay on the sofa, his mouth open and eyes closed.
“Joe?”
The man didn’t move.
Berenger eyed the rest of the room and determined they were alone. He holstered the gun and crossed to the sofa.
“Joe?”
Nance started violently out of a deep sleep and sat up, scaring Berenger out of his wits. They both shouted at the same time.
“Fuck, Joe!”
“Wha—what?”
“You scared the shit out of me! I thought you were dead!”
“Spike! What the hell?”
“You all right?”
Nance had that look of confusion and surprise when one wakes from a bad dream. “Man. Oh, man. I must’ve been… I was asleep!” He also reeked of liquor. Joe Nance was even drunker than he was the other night, if that was possible.
“Sorry, Joe. The door was open. I knocked and knocked, but no one answered. I heard the TV, so I just came in. Sorry.”
“Where’s Lucy?”
“I don’t know. She’s not here.”
“Oh, yeah.” Nance rubbed his head and put his feet on the floor. “She left. Last night.”
“You two had a fight?”
“I guess. I need a drink.” He reached for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that was on the coffee table, but Berenger grabbed it first and moved it out of the man’s reach.
“Haven’t you had enough for now, buddy?”
“Don’t ‘buddy’ me. Gimme the bottle.”
“I need to talk to you. I don’t care if you are wasted. You’re going to give me some answers.”
“Fuck you, Berenger.”
“Thank you very much, and
fuck you, too. Joe, I’m your friend. I’m on your side. I’m trying to get to the bottom of all this. Why won’t you help me out?”
Nance rubbed his face again and then tried to stand. “I have to take a piss.” Berenger helped him up and then the man staggered out of the living room to the hallway. Berenger picked up the bottle and empty glasses and took them into the kitchen. Sitting on the counter was an empty box for red hair color. Berenger picked it up and noted that it was the same shade that Lucy Nance was sporting when she appeared at the hotel. He set down the box, found a clean glass, poured water from the tap, and looked in the pantry for coffee. He found none, so he returned to the living room with the water and waited for Nance. It wasn’t long before he heard continuous, repulsive retching coming from the hallway bathroom. Eventually the toilet was flushed and Nance walked unsteadily back into the room. He flopped onto the sofa and groaned.
“I brought you a glass of water,” Berenger said, handing it to him.
“Thanks.” The man emptied it but held on to the glass.
Berenger sat in a comfy chair next to the sofa and asked, “Does Lucy color her hair?”
Nance belched and winced. “Yeah. Why?”
“Just wondering. What’s her natural hair color?”
He gave a short laugh. “She changes it so much I forget. It’s been red for… I don’t know. A few days.”
“What was it before that?”
“Uh… blonde. Why?”
“No reason. Okay, Joe. Can you talk about it, now? It’s important.”
“Talk about what?”
“You know. Sylvia. The past. Whatever’s eating you.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Look, someone is killing your friends and colleagues because of something that happened a long time ago. I need to know what it was!”
“Nothing happened!”
“Yes it did!”
“No it didn’t!” Nance threw the empty glass at Berenger. Luckily, the man’s aim was off due to his condition. The glass shattered on the wall behind Berenger.
“Goddammit, Joe!” Berenger stood, grabbed Nance by the shirt, and pulled him to his feet. Nance swung wildly and managed to land a blow squarely on Berenger’s left cheek. The PI had no choice but to punch the musician hard in the nose. Nance yelped and fell back onto the sofa, clutching his face.
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 44
