AHMM, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Yeah,” Frank agreed. “You see that girl he was working last night? The one who sucked up Jimmy's whole champagne budget?"

  "I think that's what he had in mind too,” Bev said.

  "Halter Girl?” Barnes asked. “Is she new?"

  "Oh, hell yeah. Every night. Chuck's still a kid about women. He's not gonna settle down until he's too old to chase them in his wheelchair,” Frank said.

  "It's true.” Beverly brushed her hair behind her ear. “But that girl last night actually looked old enough to have her braces off."

  "Eww,” Meg said. “Don't go there, okay?"

  "Well, he asked."

  "I did, didn't I?” Barnes shifted gears. “How did Promise get together? Especially since Sugar's so much older than the rest of you?"

  "Frank and Quince were in Spawn together.” Beverly's T-shirt was the Promise CD cover. “Quince called him when he and Debra decided to team up."

  "How about the others? When did Sugar come in?"

  "Deb knew him from sessions,” Frank said. All the focused energy from the night before had left him and he seemed to need a standing eight count. Beverly's lips brushed his ear. “He played on a lot of stuff for Jimmy, back when Deb sang backup.” His eyes flickered to Meg. “You knew them back then, too, didn't you? Both Deb and Jimmy?"

  "Yeah.” Meg's voice wouldn't flutter a feather. “And Sugar."

  "And you found her, didn't you?” Bev said. “God. I'm sorry. That must have been . . ."

  Meg studied her coffee, but Barnes saw the cup shake a little.

  "Frank, did you know Deb before Promise?"

  "Uh-uh.” Frank added still more sweetener. “Quince called me, said he'd found this abso-friggin'-lutely incredible singer, wanted me for bass. He was going to play guitar, but then Deb suggested Jimmy for a manager, and she thought Sugar might come along if Jimmy said yes. Well, Jimmy would've surfed across an Iraqi minefield for Deb. Which was even better because it freed Quince up for keys on some of the songs."

  His fingers trailed through his wife's hair.

  "How long have you two been together?” Meg asked.

  "A little over four years."

  "Touring's hell on relationships."

  "Tell me about it.” Bev's head sank to Frank's shoulder. A pair of golden retrievers couldn't have looked happier. “Our anniversary was during the one in the spring. I flew out and we spent the last week on the road together."

  "Good for you, girl.” Meg gave them a smile that would have made Barnes break stride.

  Bev returned it. “Three years on May twelfth."

  "Congratulations.” Barnes wondered if the couple had discussed having children. They both looked hardwired to be terrific parents. “Do either of you see Sugar killing Debra?"

  "No way,” Frank said. “Even if he did, he'd have to be pretty stupid to do it with a guitar string so everyone would suspect him, anyway, wouldn't he?"

  Barnes nodded. “That's what Meg and I are thinking."

  Bev looked at Meg. “If you knew Sugar back when, you know what a sweetheart he is."

  "I do,” Meg said. “I keep telling Barnes here."

  Bev turned to Barnes. “He couldn't do something like this. You've got to help him."

  "We're trying,” Barnes told her. He hoped Valerie was having more luck than they were.

  * * * *

  Meg slid her key into the ignition. “I got eggs and honey and syrup on the way home this afternoon. I can do French toast for breakfast."

  Barnes felt himself perk up. “French toast?"

  "And French roast.” If her Hershey brown eyes were any bigger, they'd need a foil wrapper. “Last night was very bad, Barnes. I needed you with me."

  "Last night was rough.” He knew he had a razor at her place, and even if he didn't, he had one at the office. “I needed to be with you too."

  She started her Toyota. “I don't need you tonight.” Her eyes stared through the windshield, but her hand groped on the seat until it closed around his. “Tonight I just want you."

  * * * *

  When Barnes walked into the office the next morning, Valerie accompanied her blessing with a cup of Mocha Java. Her ensemble of the day was navy blue, which drew attention to her eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. B.” Her rising inflection made it a question again. “Ms. Grzyczyk was really nice, and so was her daughter, but they were holding on with both hands."

  "I can imagine.” Barnes wondered when Basia's body would be released. They must have done the autopsy early in the morning or Max and Lowe wouldn't have known the woman was pregnant.

  Valerie moved her mouse and Barnes realized she was scrolling down her notes from the interview with Basia's family. “The funeral's going to be tomorrow. Is it all right if I go?"

  "Of course. It would be great if we could find out who really killed her by then."

  "Basia hadn't told her mother or sister about the baby,” Valerie said. “They were shocked when I asked them, and I felt really bad about it."

  "That's not your fault, Valerie.” Valerie's Mocha Java teamed up well with Meg's French toast and French roast. Barnes wondered what time Talbot got to his office. “Could they tell you anything at all?"

  "Well, Basia—Debra—thought the CD would probably go gold by the end of the week. And she was really pumped about the tour. She's performed live a lot, but most of it around here."

  "Quince Peters says they've already had thousands of downloads for some of the songs.” Barnes thought for a minute. “Did Debra mention anything to her family about other songs?"

  "Um, she said she was working on some, but that was about all. They really couldn't talk to me very long."

  Valerie closed her notes. “Her sister only got there in the middle of the afternoon. She came in from Bay City."

  Barnes realized that Chuck the drummer was right. “I knew she lived in one of the Tri Cities. What's her name?"

  "Sonya,” Valerie said. Barnes looked at the hanging plant near the window. Valerie talked to it when she watered it. Both she and Meg could make plants do anything, but he could barely keep a cactus alive. Meg claimed her plants did well because her piano playing exposed them to so much classical music.

  "This whole case makes no sense.” Barnes felt himself pacing, which helped him think out loud. “Debra and Quince already have—had—enough songs for a second CD. Nobody in the band would want to kill the lead singer and songwriter. They'd lose thousands, maybe even millions of dollars. And the frame on Sugar is so weak that unless the police find something more, Warfield will make the D.A. look like a fool—if this even goes to court."

  "But what if Debra was going to leave the band like you mentioned?” Valerie's eyes reminded Barnes of delft saucers.

  "What?"

  "Didn't Mr. Talbot say that was what she and Mr. Peters argued about?"

  Barnes saw Quince Peters pointing out the man in the three-piece suit and gelled hair at the party. How much did Sony wave at Debra? And how much would the guy lose if Debra turned him down?

  "I think I need to get a few numbers from Mr. Talbot.” Under Valerie's influence, he always found himself calling people “Mister” and “Mizz” the way she did. “And I'd like you to look up a couple of other numbers for me, okay?"

  "When do you need them?"

  "As soon as you can get them.” He glanced at the clock. If Talbot wasn't up yet, he should be. “When I get back, I'm probably going to have you call Mr. Crisp and Mr. Warfield again too."

  * * * *

  Talbot looked slightly less damaged than the day before, but he had a phone in one hand again. He waved Barnes to a chair and scrolled through a calendar on his computer.

  "You find anything?” One sneaker sported a glaring white lace, probably replacing the one that had gone to his shoe at the launch party.

  "Nothing definite,” Barnes told him. “But Quince brought up something I hadn't even thought about."

  "What's that?"

  "The money. When I was
a cop, we always followed the money trail first.” Jimmy's face grew older before his eyes. “Jimmy, if the CD sold well, how much did everyone stand to make?"

  "Hell, Barnes, two Borders and a Wal-Mart here in Detroit already have it on back order. It's going to be platinum by the end of the week.” Talbot's eyes peered into a lost future. “And it might have been only the beginning."

  "Quince says they already had eight or ten more songs between them,” Barnes said.

  "Damn.” Talbot watched his screensaver come up. “A good start on another CD already."

  "Yeah.” Barnes watched Talbot's screensaver: pictures of the band members in concert. “Jimmy, you know the numbers. How much money are you and the band members looking at?"

  "The CD's eighteen ninety-five. Some stores put it on sale this week for fourteen ninety-five, but it's jumping off the shelves."

  "Can you do the arithmetic for me?"

  "Um . . .” Talbot rummaged in his desk and found a calculator. “Okay. Let's do easy numbers. If the CD sells a million copies at fourteen ninety-five—which it will, maybe it has already—that's almost fifteen million dollars. Take out the production costs, about two hundred and fifty grand. Then figure the royalties."

  "Which would be?” Barnes knew nothing about royalties. Meg played sessions so she usually got a flat rate or an hourly wage and never had to worry about percentage of gross or net. “Uh, all five band members got two and a half percent of the net. And Debra and Quince got another five percent each because they wrote the songs."

  Talbot played with his calculator. “That means that Sugar, Chuck, and Frank are looking at almost three hundred and seventy thou already."

  "And Quince and Debra three times that?"

  "Yeah.” Talbot punched another button. “A million one and change. So far."

  "How about you, Jimmy?” Barnes asked. “You're their manager, so what do you get?"

  "Fifteen percent of their take. That's all of theirs, totaled, times point one five . . ."

  Talbot held up the calculator and Barnes read the numbers. Talbot earned nearly a half million dollars.

  "And that's on one million copies at the sales price,” he said. “The CD goes to its normal price, kick that up another twenty percent. And it'll sell even more."

  "So how much has Debra's death cost everyone? Because you can't follow up this CD?"

  "Ballpark? Everyone in the band just lost at least a mill. Quince three times that."

  "So even if Sugar fathered her baby . . ."

  "Quince would probably want him out of the band, but he'd still get all his royalties for this CD."

  "So nobody gains anything.” Barnes thought of another question. “Did Debra have a will?"

  Talbot's eyebrows crinkled. “I don't know. I don't think she ever mentioned it."

  "But if she did, would her heir still get her royalties?"

  "Yeah, probably. Whoever that is. Maybe her sister or her mother. Or maybe Quince."

  Talbot's eyes widened at what he heard himself saying.

  "No,” Barnes said. “Quince is a drunk, but he's not an idiot. And besides, about a dozen witnesses can place him in the room while Debra was being murdered."

  "But Sugar was out with us, wasn't he?” Talbot's eyes looked like someone was tightening his pegs.

  "Yeah,” Barnes said. “In fact, I talked to Max before I came in. Remember how they asked us all where we went when we were looking for Debra? They sent cops over those routes with stopwatches. None of us had time to kill Debra on the dock and get back to where we were when Meg found her."

  "So Sugar's off the hook?"

  "Yeah,” Barnes said. “But so is the whole band, and the roadies were on a plane to Boston."

  "So we're looking for someone else.” Talbot stared at the number still on his calculator: $497,812.50.

  "Yeah,” Barnes said.

  * * * *

  Two hours later, Johnny Warfield and Sugar Crisp looked at Barnes across his desk. Valerie was still playing phone tag with one of her targets, but Sugar's eyes were clear and his chin bore a slight nick from a fresh shave.

  "They give my guitar back.” Sugar stressed the first syllable. He was fingering chords with his left hand and Barnes almost asked what song he was playing. “Told me it don't prove nothing neither way."

  "I know,” Barnes said. “But Max and Lowe agree with me that someone just grabbed it to muddy the water. The same reason they used a string to garrote Debra."

  "So Eben's off the hook.” Warfield's accordion chins compressed.

  "Not completely, Johnny, but close. Max and Lowe know you could blow the case to shreds, so they're trying to find someone else."

  "Shoot.” Sugar's voice made Barnes's ribs vibrate. “Ain't nobody want to hurt Debra. Sweeter than cotton candy, especially since she quit drinking. And a helluva songwriter."

  "Nobody you can think of that had a grudge against her, Sugar?"

  "Naw, man. She and Quince used to fight like two cats in heat, but once she come back after that big blowup, you could see her count to ten and let his stuff roll off her. I think she was near to getting him to stop drinking too. Or at least cut back."

  "Jimmy figures nobody in the band would have done it because you'd all lose a fortune with her gone,” Barnes said.

  "Screw the fortune.” Sugar's eyes looked filmy. “Yeah, it'd be nice. But Chuck, Frank, and me, we all done studio time. We can do it again. Or if Quince wants to keep us together, we can do that too. It won't be the same without Deb, but—"

  "But who does that leave?” Warfield demanded. “Whoever killed the girl had to have planned it. Nobody carries around a guitar string just for the hell of it.” He glanced at Sugar. “Do they?"

  "Naw, man."

  Sugar's hands stopped playing chords. “Okay if I go to Debra's wake tonight, Barnes?"

  Valerie answered in her rising inflection from the outer office: “I don't see why not."

  "I don't like the idea of you putting yourself out in the open like that, Eben,” Warfield said. “The police, the media, they'll hound you like a bloody chicken."

  "Debra was my friend,” Crisp said. “Man don't go pay his respects to her, that man ain't no better than something I'd scrape off my shoe."

  "I think it'll be okay, Johnny,” Barnes said. “Meg and I will be there, and probably lots of friends and family. The band guys will run interference."

  "Well . . . all right. But I'll be there, too, just to be sure."

  "Fine."

  Valerie escorted the men out the door before she turned to Barnes. Her eyes crackled with knowledge. “I finally caught up with both the people you wanted me to talk to, Mr. B."

  "And?” Barnes thought he knew what was coming.

  "No,” Valerie said. “Both of them say so."

  Barnes felt the puzzle rotate so he could see all the pieces more clearly.

  "Thank you, Valerie."

  He made two more phone calls, one to Meg and the other to Max. When Valerie left two hours later, he remembered that he'd meant to ask Sugar if he gave guitar lessons. Well, he'd see him again tonight.

  * * * *

  Over four hundred people helped launch the Promises in the Dark tour at the Algonquin Hotel, and most of them appeared again at the funeral home to pay respects to Basia Grzyczyk. Barnes saw all the Detroit rock and roll nobility from the previous party, and Meg introduced him to a few others. She held hands with the dead woman's mother for a few minutes and retreated looking exhausted. Even more than Barnes, she had an insatiable need to fix things, but she couldn't bring back a murdered daughter. Barnes knew she would probably have nightmares in his arms again tonight. And tomorrow, after the funeral, too, unless he could make all the pieces fit tonight.

  The roadies all attended, too, shaved, showered, and sober. Barnes felt like he was chaperoning a motorcycle gang's senior prom. Waldo and a bearded buddy disappeared outside and returned a few minutes later with red eyes. The smell of weed hung on their clothe
s.

  Quince Peters actually seemed sober too. Jimmy Talbot seldom took his eyes off him. Frank knelt by the closed casket with his wife, and Barnes felt a vague surprise that they were practicing Catholics. It didn't go with their image.

  Sugar Crisp ignored the stares and poorly muffled comments until Meg took him over and introduced him to the Grzyczyk clan. Valerie hovered nearby with a woman who had the same blue eyes and petite nose.

  Barnes and Meg were discussing whether or not they could leave without being noticed when Talbot drifted by.

  "A bunch of us are going out for drinks.” He named a nearby bar. “You want to come?"

  "Sure."

  Barnes stopped just long enough to look at the signatures in the funeral home register. As soon as he got to the car, he called Max.

  * * * *

  Louie's on East Jefferson probably hadn't had as much business in the last month, but now a bartender scrambled to fill orders for a dozen rock and rollers, plus incidental companions, like Barnes, Beverly, and the tattooed girl who accompanied Waldo, Sugar's guitar man.

  Jimmy Talbot, Quince Peters, and drummer Chuck Boyle sat at the bar looking damaged, Chuck peeling off the label on a Budweiser bottle. Barnes wondered if they should have tracked down the girl in the halter for him.

  Sugar Crisp and Johnny Warfield kept a table between themselves and most of the others; Warfield had a glass in front of him, but Barnes never saw him drink from it. The liquid gradually lightened as the ice melted. Meg and Barnes sat across from Frank and Bev Tolliver, who mechanically chewed cheeseburgers and spoke in monosyllables. Bev wore a demure top with a miniskirt that showed miles of spectacularly tanned legs; Meg stuck to office casual, an emerald silk tank with black slacks. Barnes wore his usual blazer; today it covered his Glock.

  "Christ,” Peters said.

  "Tomorrow's gonna be even worse,” Talbot said. “And you're going to be sober for that too. If I have to put you in a straitjacket."

  "Too young,” Sugar said. “Too young."

  "Be quiet, Sugar,” Warfield told him. “Barnes, are you getting anywhere on this case?"

  Barnes felt every eye in the room move to him as if he were taking a solo.

  "Well,” he said. “I know a lot of things that aren't true."