AHMM, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Okay,” Meg said. “But if I'm gonna be Mom, I've got to know what Dad wants.” Crisp saw them talking and left Peters at the bar to join them.

  "Don't let her dump Promise. Together, she and Quince are great songwriters. Apart, they're last week's coffee grounds. She goes alone, they lose everything."

  Barnes knew that “they” meant “I."

  Talbot led the quartet down the hall, and Meg slipped through the door adorned with the skirted silhouette. Barnes wondered when he'd last seen words on restroom doors and decided that he saw the first picture about the same time that drive-through ATMs gained a Braille pad.

  Meg reappeared. “She's gone."

  Talbot seemed to be taking on water and Crisp didn't look much better.

  "Let's split up,” Barnes said. “If she's still in the hotel, we'll find her."

  Crisp left to check the gym and spa, Talbot headed for the lobby, and Meg strode toward the kitchen. Barnes surveyed the conference room on the second floor when his cell phone vibrated.

  "We've got a problem.” Meg's voice came through his hand. “I've found Debra. She's on the loading dock beyond the kitchen."

  "Hang on,” he said. “Let me find Jimmy and Sugar, we'll meet you there."

  Meg's voice cut him off.

  "Barnes, she's dead."

  * * * *

  "Up past your bedtime, aren't you, Z-bar?” Everett Lowe wore an impeccable suit, just as Barnes remembered from when they both worked Homicide, back before Barnes almost lost his leg in the shoot-out that killed his partner.

  "Don't call me ‘Z-bar.'” Although it was after midnight, Lowe's suit didn't have a wrinkle. Lowe, even bigger than Sugar Crisp, always put people at ease for questioning, maybe because of his suits, or maybe because his voice reminded them of James Earl Jones. With his orange-tinted lenses, he came across as a Rhodes Scholar in sharpshooting.

  "I'm with the lady.” Barnes moved behind Meg, whose long fingers played an invisible piano on the white tablecloth. He wanted to hold her close where it would be safe, but he knew safety was no longer part of the equation. Her brown eyes seemed enormous and her face was even whiter than usual.

  "I knew she was dead, right away,” Meg said. “Her eyes were popping halfway out of her head, and I saw that damned wire around her neck."

  "And you didn't see anyone else around, Ms. Traine?” Lowe knew Meg from her work keeping the Detroit PD's outdated computers functional.

  Now that he'd finally given up smoking, Lowe's partner Jack Maxwell couldn't figure out what to do with his hands. They flew all over the place. A baseball player watching him would try to bunt, steal, and take all at the same time. His dirty blond hair retreated from his flat face and his wardrobe showcased wrinkles: T-shirt, jeans, jacket, a matched ensemble.

  He and Lowe were Homicide's first string, and they looked pissed about having the media in full hue and cry before the medics could even remove Debra Yearning's body. Outside, reporters clawed over each other to get close enough for a sound bite.

  On the dock, the technicians took pictures, samples, and measurements, but the uniforms detained most of the now subdued party just long enough to take names and learn who might be worth questioning. Since nobody took credit for seeing anything, only the remaining waitstaff zigzagged among deserted tables, scooping up the remains of a banquet rapidly gone bad. The band members looked on, their faces dazed.

  Maxwell showed Barnes an evidence bag holding the murder weapon, a guitar string.

  "It was digging into her skin so deep her neck was bleeding."

  Barnes saw kinks where the killer had twisted it around Debra's neck. A silver core thrust from the bronze winding.

  "This wasn't on a guitar, Max,” he said. “The silver end would have been cut off."

  Max's eyes surveyed the damaged stragglers. “Anything else you can tell me?"

  "It's a heavy string.” Barnes avoided looking at Meg. “Maybe even a seventh string."

  Sugar Crisp sat by the dormant bar, Quince Peters and Chuck the drummer next to him. The police had sent the girl in the halter home, and Chuck stared at a half empty bottle of champagne that looked too big for him to finish by himself. Even his mustache looked lonely. Frank the bass player and his wife Beverly sat at a nearby table, his tattooed arm a muscular vine around her shoulders, while she burrowed into his side. Her brown eyes looked even bigger than Meg's, maybe because she was so much taller.

  Jimmy Talbot's face melted under Max's stare. “Sure,” he said. “We've got a hundred sets of strings for the tour, but they're on the plane. Besides, there must be twenty music stores in Detroit."

  "So you can't say this is one of yours,” Max said.

  "Uh-uh."

  Max held up the string in its plastic bag again. “Anybody recognize this?"

  "It's dental floss for King Kong, isn't it?” Peters looked blotchy. Projectile vomiting will do that.

  Max's stare made him sit up straight. “You and the dead girl fought just before she disappeared."

  "We argue a lot."

  "What was the problem?"

  Barnes pulled a chair next to Meg and felt her cold fingers wrap around his.

  "She was gonna dump me."

  "For who?” Max asked. “Someone in this room?"

  "She was gonna bail on the band.” Peters's voice felt brittle. “Your band is family. Anybody who'd dump family, they're scum."

  "We've got a whole roomful of people who heard you threaten her."

  "I told you, we argue a lot.” Nobody corrected his verb tense.

  "You said you wanted to tear her eyes out and make her eat them. You called her a bitch and said you were going to rip her face off."

  Max had boxed as a light heavyweight in college. Now, his questions rocked Peters like body punches.

  "It never meant anything,” Peters insisted. “We were just clearing the air."

  "You left the room a few minutes before the body was found. Where did you go?"

  "I had to pee."

  "And that's right down the hall from the ladies’ room where Debra went, right?"

  Max turned to Sugar Crisp. “This string could have come from one of your guitars, is that right?"

  "Don't know.” Crisp's voice was heavy. “Looks thick enough, could be one of mine."

  "So you're not sure?"

  "My axes are on a plane to Boston. Won't know until I can see them. But the man over there's right.” Crisp nodded at Barnes. “That string didn't come off no guitar."

  "You and the woman have a fight?"

  "We're in a band together. She's with Quince. I don't mess where I eat."

  Jimmy Talbot managed to get the guitar player's attention.

  "Sugar,” he said. “Don't say anything more.” He drew himself up to his full height, level with Lowe's collarbones, and spoke to the detectives. “You can't believe any of these guys would kill Debra. It's like Quince and Sugar said, and all you've got is a guitar string. That's shit. Go out and find who really did this."

  "We're taking it one step at a time.” Max's hands twitched as he seemed to remember that his shirt pocket held no cigarettes now. “Right now, we've got a call out telling your pilot to turn around so we can check Mr. Crisp's guitars."

  "Are you out of your mind? We've got to get set up for Boston tomorrow. We can't—"

  "Mr. Talbot,” Max said. “Let's look at the whole picture, okay?"

  Barnes felt Meg's fingers tighten around his own.

  "We're investigating a murder,” Max went on. He didn't raise his voice, but it felt louder than the music erupting from the Marshall Stacks only hours before.

  "And you're not going to be playing Boston or anywhere else for awhile. Your lead singer is dead."

  The huge room was so quiet Barnes heard the kitchen staff scraping the dishes.

  Quince Peters crumbled face down to the bar. “She's gone,” he sobbed. “She's really gone."

  * * * *

  Barnes and Meg finally reached her
Royal Oak duplex at three a.m. When they climbed into her bed, she curled against him and pulled his hands tightly to her chest.

  "Don't let go,” she murmured. But she still didn't cry.

  At six thirty, Clydesdale, Meg's sixteen-pound tuxedo cat, walked across Barnes's feet to announce breakfast time. Barnes fed him and Bonnie, the calico, then stumbled to the shower. When he came out, Meg followed him. Her eyes looked like she'd been offered a gig on the Lusitania.

  "Stay home today, Meg.” Barnes found a clean T-shirt and jeans in her closet and socks in her bottom drawer. “Max and Lowe have told everyone about last night by now anyway."

  Before she could answer, the phone rang and they listened to the message. It was a reporter.

  "And deal with that all day?” she said. “Besides, Max and Lowe might have more questions."

  He made the coffee so strong they'd need steak knives and retrieved the Free Press from her front porch. Above the fold, there was a picture of Debra Yearning making love to the microphone and the headline “Shattered Promise."

  * * * *

  Valerie Karr, Barnes's receptionist, wore a maroon blazer over a black blouse and gray slacks, and her hair fell to her shoulders in amber curls. She always wore dark clothes to lessen the effect her bust had on clients. Before finding Jesus, Valerie gained legendary status in the Detroit strip joints as “Valli Yumme."

  She handed Barnes another cup of coffee—today was hazelnut—as soon as he came through the door. “God bless you, Mr. Barnes."

  "Thank you, Valerie. You too."

  Beyond blessing people, Valerie made no attempt to force her beliefs on anybody, and she typed a hundred words a minute.

  "I saw the paper this morning. Is Megan all right?"

  "Well, she went to work."

  Valerie gave him a look he would have been used to if he'd had an older sister.

  "No,” he admitted, “but she figured it would be easier to duck reporters at the PD."

  "My mom called me.” Valerie's rising inflection made her statement sound like a question. “She knows the girl's mother from church. She sings in the choir. Her mother, not mine."

  Valerie's vocal tic and her busty blonde looks made it hard for strangers to believe that she had earned a 3.65 GPA before leaving school over a philosophical disagreement with the dean about her part-time employment. A year in the strip joints earned her the rest of her tuition. In September, she planned to return for her junior year in business administration.

  Barnes found it easy to picture Valerie in a power suit. After all, when they met, she wore only red six-inch stilettos. With that to build on, nothing else presented much of a challenge.

  "I only show it,” she told him at the time. “I don't sell it."

  "Maybe Debra—Basia—inherited her voice,” Barnes said.

  "I never heard her sing, just her mom. My mom will take over a meat loaf and visit her tonight."

  "Your mom's a sweetheart.” Barnes knew the woman volunteered at the Red Cross and translated for them if a patient was more comfortable with Polish. Valerie had shortened her name from “Karpelinski."

  Her silver nails tapped the newspaper again.

  "Did Megan know the girl, or someone in the band?"

  "She had played with her, and the guitar player and their manager. Not all together."

  "So this must have really upset her."

  "It did.” He and Meg were still learning how to handle the rough spots, and this qualified as a rough spot. He knew they were spending more and more nights together, but they both bore scars from marriages and told each other they were older and wiser now. He wondered if he'd ever be wise enough to understand how everything worked between two people.

  When Valerie turned down eight phone calls from various media in the next two hours, he realized that Meg was right about going to work.

  At ten thirty, Valerie's voice tweaked his ear. “Mr. B., it's Mr. Warfield."

  Even though he charged enough to fund a Caribbean dynasty, Johnny Warfield was the busiest defense attorney in Detroit.

  "Barnes.” Warfield's voice sounded like he'd just had an oil change. “I know you and your girlfriend are involved in the Debra Yearning case, but did you know the cops have arrested Eben Crisp?"

  The sunlight through the window hurt Barnes's eyes. Valerie typed a whole line in the outer office before the name registered.

  "Sugar's in jail?” Did Max and Lowe have a match on the guitar string?

  "Yeah, they needed an arrest in a hurry, they picked the black guy. Who'da thunk it, right?"

  "Max and Lowe know their stuff, Johnny. And they aren't doormats.” He heard Warfield take a breath. “Johnny, is Sugar in jail now?"

  "Yeah, I'm trying to arrange bail, talk them down from a million. Flight risk, my ass."

  * * * *

  Max's computer still had the flying windows sailing across his screen because he didn't know how to change it. Resplendent in a freshly wrinkled tee and blazer, he glowered at Barnes.

  "I figured you'd show up. Everything else has gone wrong today."

  Barnes straddled the chair next to Max's desk. “Johnny Warfield says you've arrested Sugar Crisp."

  "We brought the equipment plane back from Boston. One of his guitars is missing, and the roadie says it's a seven string."

  "But if it's missing, you don't know that the string came from it."

  "True,” Lowe said. “But Debra Yearning was carrying Crisp's baby."

  Barnes was glad he was already sitting down. “Debra was pregnant?"

  "About two months along. She told Talbot that Crisp was the father. Talbot wanted her to abort, but she wanted the kid."

  "What does Quince Peters say to that?"

  "He's not taking it well.” Max stared at the autopsy report already on his desk. “We just talked to him a little while ago, then let him go back to his hangover. Looks like the guy put away a lot of medicine last night."

  "He does,” Barnes said. “Debra used to, but she's been on the wagon for awhile."

  "Because of the kid?"

  "Not if she was only two months along.” Barnes tried to read the report upside down, but Max caught him and moved it out of his range. “How could Sugar have had time to kill Debra out on that deck and still get back upstairs without Meg seeing him?"

  Lowe spoke up again. “I'm thinking he grabbed a waiter's jacket. Black man, waiter, who'd even notice him?"

  "But that means he had to know he'd be able to get Debra alone at a major bash for long enough to strangle her.” Barnes's eyelids were grinding his eyes like sandpaper. “I met the guy last night; he's gentle as a baby's blanket. And Meg's known him for years."

  "Has he ever knocked anyone up before?” Max caught himself digging for cigarettes again.

  "Not that I know of.” Barnes watched the new homicide guy in a Hawaiian shirt answer the phone. “Warfield wants me to look at it from the other side."

  "Figured you weren't here just for the company.” Max stood. “Your girlfriend come in today, or is she catching up on her sleep?"

  "She's downstairs. She figured she'd have to take the phone off the hook if she stayed home."

  "Probably right."

  * * * *

  Sugar Crisp looked like someone had added too much milk and let him go soggy. He wore last night's party clothes and had neither slept nor shaved. Johnny Warfield's accordion chins had gained pleats since the last time Barnes saw him.

  "Sugar,” Barnes said, “any idea what happened to your guitar?"

  Sugar held a mug of coffee in both hands. Valerie made coffee the way Barnes liked it—triple high-test—and most people had to dilute it or chew it. Sugar took it straight, though, and seemed to be finding the floor under his feet again. “Someone musta stole it after the show."

  "Any idea how?"

  "Shoot, Jimmy handed out backstage passes like Halloween candy. That many people, you can't watch everyone."

  Barnes remembered what Meg told him about lif
e on the road. “Don't you have someone in charge of your guitars, a particular roadie to do your setup and tuning, stuff like that?"

  "He took it off the stage.” Sugar put down the empty mug and glanced toward the door. “Someone musta swiped it from the cart."

  Valerie appeared with the carafe. When she bent over, Warfield did a spectacular double take, but Sugar didn't even notice her.

  "What does that guitar look like?” Barnes hoped he could persuade Max to alert music stores in the area.

  "I was playing it last night. And in a few pictures on our Web site.” Sugar looked at Barnes's monitor. “A black Ibanez, custom made. The position dots on the fretboard spell out ‘Sugar.’ My favorite ax."

  "Shoot,” Barnes said. “If it's that distinctive, nobody's going to try to sell it."

  "They can't find the guitar, so they can't prove the string came from it.” Warfield's voice was even greasier than his hair looked. He was shorter than Barnes, but nearly Crisp's weight.

  "They don't have to, Johnny. Quince Peters plays guitar, too, but he uses really light strings. No way he had a .60 gauge like the one Debra was killed with."

  Sugar looked even worse. “I didn't kill her, man. Hell, I was out looking for her with the rest of you."

  "Yeah,” Barnes said. “But the cops are saying you could have killed her and dumped her just before Meg came along. For whatever it's worth, they think she was killed on that loading dock. They didn't find any signs of her being moved, and no signs of a struggle in the bathroom."

  Warfield opened his mouth, but Barnes held up his hand to stop him.

  "This whole guitar thing is weird, though. We both know that the string that killed Debra was never on your ax. Someone could have bought it at any music store. And didn't I hear Jimmy say that you've got a hundred sets for the tour?"

  "Yeah. Quince changes strings every night. Me, I only change every week or so."

  "But for Eben to have a guitar string with him, he'd have to know he was going to kill her,” Warfield pointed out. “That means there would have to be a motive."

  "Sugar,” Barnes said. “When did you and Debra sleep together?"

  Sugar's eyes grew as big as doorknobs.

  "Well,” Barnes said. “Then you can't be the father of her baby either, can you?"