AHMM, July-August 2010
Page 24
"Like what?” Peters asked.
"For one thing, Waldo counted all the string sets for me this afternoon. Not only was Sugar's guitar not the murder weapon, nobody used one of the spare string sets."
"What good does that do?” Talbot watched Quince order another drink and shook his head at the bartender, but the man was already walking away with an empty glass.
"Well, we said from the beginning that the string was never on a guitar, so whoever hid Sugar's guitar in the Dumpster was just using it as a blind. And since the string could have come from any music store, it doesn't necessarily tie the killing to anyone in the band."
"Well, that eliminates five people out of the million or so in Detroit,” Quince Peters said. “No wonder you get the big bucks, Barnes."
"Shut up, Quince,” Talbot told him.
"Actually, we can eliminate everybody in the band and crew, Quince,” Barnes said. “The roadies were on their way to the airport when Debra was killed, and you, Chuck, and Frank were in the ballroom. The M.E. figures it would have taken about three minutes to garrote Debra and be sure that she was dead. The cops went over Jimmy's, Sugar's, Meg's, and my routes and found that none of us could have had time to kill her on the dock and still get to where various people saw us looking for her. They even timed your trip to the men's room."
"So it's someone else.” Warfield still hadn't touched his drink, and he used his final summation voice, even though Barnes was far from finished.
"Well, yes and no,” Barnes said.
The door opened and Max and Lowe eased up to the bar. Quince Peters recognized them and slugged back his drink. Talbot grabbed the glass when Quince put it down.
"No more, Quince."
Quince brushed him off.
"Does this lecture have a point to it?” Chuck Boyle still seemed pissed about Halter Girl.
"Chuck, you'll never get a date when you're that hostile,” Barnes told him.
Max's eyes looked like a fastball, high and tight. He and Lowe both ordered coffee and the bartender reached for cups and saucers.
"Yes, Chuck,” Barnes went on, “I do have a point. All the guitar stuff was designed to make us look in the wrong direction. When I was a cop, one of the first things I learned was that you always follow the money."
"But—” Talbot said.
"Yeah,” Barnes agreed. “The CD's selling like mad, and you're all going to do well. But Quince and Debra had enough songs for another one, and you'd all be in line to make even more with her alive. So that money motive doesn't work. But money's like everything else. You can look at money you've made, or you can look at money you haven't lost yet."
Frank and Beverly looked at each other. Chuck and Peters rotated on their barstools. Max and Lowe sipped their coffee and watched the room. Lowe's orange lenses reflected the rapt faces, but he seemed less excited than a chair.
"Jimmy,” Barnes asked, “how much was Sony offering Debra?"
"Uh, if she said, I don't remember."
"Would she have gone for it?"
"Christ, I don't think so, but you never know. Quince was giving her a lot of shit, she might have done it just to rattle his chain."
Peters slammed down his new glass and scotch splashed on the bar.
"We always made up. We would have again if . . .” He swept his hand angrily across the bar and Talbot's bourbon splashed too. The bartender glared at Quince and searched under the bar for a rag.
"You and Debra go back a long way, don't you, Jimmy?” Barnes said.
"Yeah, she sang backup for me years ago, not even out of high school. Well, Megan remembers, right?"
"I worked a few dates with the two of you,” Meg said.
"But she always had that fire,” Talbot went on. “The first time I heard her and Quince together, it was friggin’ magic."
"Christ,” Peters said. “We were both on the same bill somewhere, I don't even remember where now. She came up and sang one of my songs, I thought I'd gone to heaven. We got to talking after the show and found we were both writing stuff."
Peters signaled for another drink, but Talbot shook his head. This time, the bartender noticed.
"Jimmy, when did she tell you about the baby?” Barnes asked.
Peters's shoulders tightened like a guitar string.
"Last week,” Talbot said. “She knew she had to tell Quince, but she was scared."
"When do you think it happened?” Max asked. “If she slept with Crisp the night of that big blowup and regretted it in the morning, maybe that's why she went on the wagon."
Meg nodded at something Bev Tolliver said, and Barnes watched two heads of long brown hair bounce in unison.
"It had to be the night she split,” Peters said. “That was the last night we weren't together . . ."
His voice faded and everyone found somewhere else to look.
"Quince,” Talbot said, “I . . . I'm sorry, but when Debra told me about the baby, I told her I'd pay for an abortion. She didn't want you to know ‘cause she knew it was Sugar's kid."
Peters's eyes turned cold sober and Lowe put down his coffee cup.
"She said she always used birth control with you. She wanted you to dry out, too, before . . . The only time she didn't use anything was with Sugar."
"She wasn't on the pill?” Barnes saw Warfield gripping Sugar's fists and talking softly.
"No.” Lowe's voice sounded like a truck in first gear. “Her doctor told us she couldn't take it. And she left her diaphragm in her room when she and Peters here had their fight."
"Christ,” Jimmy shook his head.
Lowe turned to Barnes. “We did that DNA test you suggested, Z-Bar."
"What test?” Waldo asked. The tattooed girl with him seemed to be listening to the conversation like she thought it was a story around a campfire. Max drifted away from the bar where he could see everyone without turning his head.
"We had the doctor do a DNA sample on the fetus when he was doing the autopsy,” Lowe said. “According to the DNA, the baby's father is white."
Meg moved to the bar, where she scarcely reached to Lowe's armpit.
"You mean . . .You mean that was my baby?” Peters said. “That sonofa- bitch killed the mother of my baby?"
"No,” Barnes said. “He didn't have enough time, remember? Sugar's off the hook."
Meg returned to the table with two glasses of champagne.
"I thought it gave you a headache,” Barnes said. “Among other things."
"It's not for me,” she said. “It's for Frank and Beverly's anniversary."
"What?” Talbot said. “Today?"
Sugar and Warfield clutched their drinks like life preservers.
"Uh-uh.” Meg handed each Tolliver a champagne flute. Frank's arms were still pale without his fake tattoos.
"Two months ago,” Barnes explained. “It's why Bev joined you the last week of the tour."
"Happy anniversary,” Talbot said. Wet sand had more inflection.
"Yeah,” Barnes went on. “Frank here can sleep through an artillery barrage, so you and he usually roomed together on the road, right Jimmy?"
"Yeah,” Talbot said. “People tell me I snore like a cement mixer."
"Right. But he and Beverly were together that week."
The room turned so quiet that Barnes heard the ice melting in Talbot's glass.
"Jimmy, you were sleeping alone."
"Except for that one night,” Max added. “When Debra stumbled out of the bar so drunk she didn't even know where she was and you took her back to your room."
"Bullshit,” Talbot said. “That makes zero friggin’ sense."
Meg stood. “You're right, Jimmy. So does your not being able to find her when she split. Shoot, even I remembered she had family in Hamtramck. And there are only three Grzyczyks in the phone book."
"I guess I wasn't thinking."
"No.” Meg's voice sounded like she smelled blood. “Or you would have been more careful when you slept with her."
"Hey,” Talbot said. “I was out looking for her with Sugar and the others, and these guys just said I couldn't have done it."
"Not then,” Barnes said. Everyone stared at him.
"Debra stormed out after the shouting match with Quince,” he explained. “You went after her and got her to go out to that loading dock, then you killed her before you came back to get us. She was never in that bathroom in the first place."
"What the hell are you saying?” Talbot's smile looked tight enough to shatter.
"You even set up being late, didn't you?” Meg said. “You put a sneaker lace in your black dress shoe beforehand. You claimed you'd broken a shoelace and had to find a spare, so you had time to go back and toss Sugar's guitar into the Dumpster."
"Megan, have you ever thought about rehab? Maybe I can get you and Quince a package deal."
Barnes felt the momentum shift. “But you changed to a fresh shoelace in your sneaker before I saw you today, Jimmy. That made me think of the fresh guitar string, and that led me all sorts of places."
"You even started the fight between them that night to get Debra alone,” Meg continued. Barnes felt her voice pick up steam. “You told Quince about the offer from Sony, didn't you? Debra didn't know what he was talking about. She just thought he was buzzed again."
Talbot's face stopped working.
"Jimmy,” Barnes said, “everything we know about Debra and her pregnancy is what you told us. The only thing we could check was that Sony offer. So I did."
When Quince Peters turned to look at Talbot, his eyes seemed to be bleeding.
"And they didn't."
"You're all crazy,” Talbot said. “You say another word, I'll sue your ass to hell and back."
Sugar Crisp stared at him like something he'd scoop off his lawn.
Max drew an impressive-looking document from his pocket. “Mr. Talbot, this is a court order for you to submit to a DNA test. We think once we prove that you fathered the child, the rest of this will fall into line pretty quickly."
Lowe blocked Sugar Crisp and Barnes stepped in front of Quince Peters before they could reach Talbot.
"That's why you killed her,” Barnes said. “You knew Quince would can you and you'd lose all those royalties. We were looking at the right money, but from the wrong direction."
"Dammit, Jimmy.” Meg's voice shook. “You were one of the first guys to give me a break. We go way back. Why'd you have to go and do this?"
Talbot watched the last lifeboat pulling away without him.
"I loved her,” he whispered. “I loved her so damn much. And when she came to me, I just . . ."
Max clapped a hand on Talbot's shoulder, and the whole room seemed to shrink.
* * * *
Barnes felt Meg's fingers squeezing his hand, “Promises in the Dark” flowing out of the boom box on Max's desk. Every radio station in a hundred mile radius had the whole CD in heavy rotation, and it had, indeed, already gone platinum. Barnes heard at least a dozen people mention that at the funeral.
"It's pretty good, isn't it?” he said. In deference to that funeral, he wore a suit instead of his usual jeans and blazer, and his jacket concealed no holster.
"It's okay,” Lowe said. “But it's not James Brown."
"Nobody's James Brown,” Barnes told him. “Except Ted Nugent."
"No, he's Ted Nugent. If he was James Brown, too, he'd have an identity crisis."
Quince Peters, sober for the second day in a row, promised the Grzyczyk family that Basia's new songs would appear on the next CD. Sugar and the others would have to decide whether they would find another female vocalist or go with Quince. They needed a new manager now too.
Max turned off the music. “You know how long we'd have to wait to get a real DNA sample?” he asked. “Never mind come up with probable cause for a real court order?"
"Yeah, but Meg's artwork looked official as hell, didn't it?” Barnes said. “And he was cracking by then."
"Shoot.” In her black suit, Meg looked as slim as Debra Yearning. “I've known Jimmy even longer than Sugar. And it still won't bring Debra back."
"No,” Barnes said. “Sometimes finding the truth just means the right people get hurt."
He pulled her against him and smelled her peppermint hair.
"Do you need us anymore, Max?"
Max shook his head.
Barnes turned to Meg. “I have to stop at a store on the way home. Anything special you want for dinner?"
Her fingers tightened in his.
"Maybe champagne?"
Copyright © 2010 Steve Liskow
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Department: COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2010
The Edge by Agatha Christie
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