Cory’s Dilemma
Suspenseful Secrets – Book 1
Dan Petrosini
Copyright Dan Petrosini © 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Books by Dan
Luca Mystery Series
Am I the Killer—Book 1
Vanished—Book 2
The Serenity Murder—Book 3
Third Chances—Book 4
A Cold, Hard Case—Book 5
Cop or Killer?—Book 6
Silencing Salter—Book 7
A Killer Missteps—Book 8
Uncertain Stakes—Book 9
The Grandpa Killer—Book 10
Dangerous Revenge—Book 11
Suspenseful Secrets
Cory's Dilemma—Book 1
Other works by Dan Petrosini
The Final Enemy
Complicit Witness
Push Back
Ambition Cliff
Acknowledgements
A special thanks to Julie, Stephanie and Jennifer for their love and support.
Chapter One
Cory plugged in a code, and the smell of bleach hit him as the door opened. It was late, after 1 a.m., and he was tired after bartending. But money was tight, and studio time after midnight was cheaper.
Time was melting away. He was thirty-two in an industry that prized youth. There weren’t many breakout artists who came of age in their mid-thirties.
A janitor on his way out passed him as he hit the first step. Trudging up, he wondered if this was his last shot to make it. He had excellent chops; all he needed was a break to prove his father wrong. Walking down a hallway lined with studios, he noticed the live room’s red light was on.
He peered in the window. Jay Bird, a hit machine, was alone in the room used to record full bands. Sitting at an ebony piano, the megastar was playing chords and notating them.
Cory watched. When Jay Bird paused, Cory knocked and opened the door.
“Hey, Jay.”
Jay Bird slurred his words: “Cory. What’s going on here this late?”
“Polishing a couple of my tunes. I’m auditioning for Sharp Five tomorrow.”
“You’ll crush it, bro.”
“I hope so.”
“When you make it big, you still gonna play on my stuff?”
“Definitely. I’m super thankful for all the sessions you’ve given me.”
“I might have given you the first one, but you earned the rest. You know, I got the chills from your solo on ‘Joy River.’”
“Thanks, man. Look, I don’t want to keep you from doing your thing. I’ll see you later.”
“Be well, brother.”
Cory headed to his studio, wondering how it felt to be at the top of the music industry. Jay Bird had blown past Bruno Mars in the number of albums sold and swept the Grammys three years in a row.
Pushing open the door to his studio, Cory couldn’t get his head around how it came so easy to the star.
Unpacking his Martin acoustic, he strapped it over his shoulder and strummed a couple of chords. Cory tuned it and stepped into the vocal booth, putting on headphones. He sang two verses then cleared his throat. His voice sounded dry, almost scratchy. He put his guitar down and went for water.
The light was still on in the room where Jay Bird was. Peeking in as he walked by, he stopped short. The superstar was slumped onto the piano.
Had he fallen asleep? Cory didn’t want to disturb him, but something was off. Opening the first door, he leaned over the soundboard and knocked on the window. No movement. He swung the door open.
“Jay? You all right?”
Cory approached, stepping over the pencil the musician had used. “Hey! You okay, man?”
Jay Bird’s forehead was leaning on the bottom of the music rack. A stream of foam dripped from his mouth, puddling on the keys. Had he overdosed? Cory shook him. His head lolled. He put his fingers on his neck. It felt cool. He couldn’t find a pulse.
Pulling his phone out, he saw a stack of manuscript paper lying on the grand piano. He shuffled through them. There were eight songs that appeared complete and two others with sixteen bars of music.
Cory looked around. He was alone. He scooped the papers up, folded them, and stuffed the music in his jacket. He went into the sound booth, checking the recording equipment. Nothing was turned on.
Cory ran to his studio. He shoved the manuscript papers into his backpack. On the way back, he dialed 911. “I need help. My friend’s foaming at the mouth. I think it’s an overdose.”
“Is he breathing?”
“No. I tried to check his pulse, but there’s nothing.”
“Do you know CPR?”
“Yeah, but he’s sitting up, leaning against a piano.”
“Lay him down and try to revive him.”
“Okay.” He noticed a double-reel tape player with cords running to a series of microphones on booms.
“I want to confirm the address, One Forty-Six West Twenty-Ninth Street, is that correct?”
“Yes, Mirrortone Studios, on the second floor.”
“Okay, help is on the way.”
Cory went to the reel-to-reel. It wasn’t on. He rewound it and hit playback. It was blank. Jay Bird hadn’t recorded
anything.
The star wasn’t breathing, and with no one around, it seemed safe to keep the new material. Then he remembered the drug EMT responders gave to reverse drug overdoses.
Cory eased Jay Bird onto the floor. He wiped Jay’s mouth with a shirtsleeve, pinching his nose, and administered mouth-to-mouth. After a minute, he paused; there was no response. He used his hands to compress the chest area. He had to be certain no one would question his attempt to resuscitate the fallen star.
Waiting for the ambulance to arrive, Cory made a call to the management office that handled Jay Bird. It was the middle of the night, but in the music business someone always monitored their celebrity cash cows. And Jay Bird was one helluva heifer.
Cory stood in the hallway as the sound of the approaching siren grew louder. He put his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.
Chapter Two
Cory watched as the medics hit Jay Bird with an injection of Naloxone. They strapped a face mask on him and forced air into him with a resuscitation bag. Cory shifted positions to see if it was working.
Ten minutes passed. Cory wondered how long they’d keep at it. Nothing they were doing seemed to be working. He knew Jay Bird abused drugs and drank too much. He and many others thought there was a chance it would come to this.
Cory couldn’t believe it. The guy was bigger than Bieber and Katy Perry combined and had flushed it down the toilet. How could he be so stupid?
Even though he had nothing to do with the overdose, Cory rehearsed his story. The police would be asking questions. He could have acted quicker, but that was all. He’d leave that out and keep it to seeing him playing when he arrived and noticing he was slumped over when he went for a drink of water.
The medics looked at each other and shook their heads. One stood, and the other removed the mask from Jay Bird’s face. It was too late. They couldn’t revive him.
Cory trembled and wiped a tear from his cheek. As the medics pulled a sheet over Jay Bird, the star’s manager, Ronny Dee, rushed in. Dee stopped in his tracks when he saw the covered body.
“Oh no, God. Don’t tell me he’s gone.”
“We’re sorry, sir.”
“Oh, Jay, what have you done?”
Cory hung his head. “He was slumped on the piano. When I saw him, he was, was gone already.”
* * *
Cory and his wife, Linda, were in bed.
“I still can’t believe it. I saw it with my own eyes, but it’s hard to accept Jay Bird’s dead.”
“It’s so sad. What a waste.”
“It’s crazy, just the day before yesterday I was laying down a line for one of the tunes on his new album. He was right there, in the control booth. I opened the door just a minute to say hi, and he told me he loved my soloing, and now he’s gone.”
Linda put her head on Cory’s chest. “Life can change so quickly, it’s scary.”
“I know, but he did it to himself with the drugs.”
“Are you sure that was it?”
“Yeah, the last couple of times I saw him, he was high as a kite. I heard that’s why the new album was taking so long.”
“Didn’t anybody, like his manager or agent, realize he had a problem?”
“Oh, yeah, they had to. I’m telling you, in music, they look the other way. More people than not in this business are doing something.”
“What a shame. You better stay away from that stuff.”
“Don’t have to worry about me.”
“I still don’t understand why nobody intervened.”
“You know how much money he was making for everybody? They were afraid to mess things up.”
“That’s ridiculous. The man is dead, and now they have nothing.”
“I know.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“I’m sure the album will come out. It’ll probably top the charts on sympathy alone, not that he needed it.”
“But what about you? I don’t want to seem selfish, but you got a lot of session work from him.”
“I know. There’s a new kid, a girl from Queens, supposed to be the new Taylor Swift; she just signed with Columbia. I’m going to talk to Davey about working with her. We’ll see what happens.”
“I hope it works out.”
“You know, this whole thing just shows you can’t depend on anyone else. I got to make it on my own. Then we’d control our destiny, you know?”
“You’re trying. I’m sure you’ll make it; you compose such beautiful songs.”
“I’ve been writing a lot of new stuff.”
“That’s good.”
“I got to say, some of it’s pretty damn good. Maybe the best I’ve written.”
“I’d love to hear them.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I want to clean a couple of things up first.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Let’s get to sleep. Ava is going to be up in a couple of hours.”
Linda fell asleep but Cory couldn’t. Images of Jay Bird slumped on the piano continually popped into his head, interrupting his thoughts on what to do with the music he’d taken. He worried that someone had been there earlier. Had Jay Bird really been on his own the entire time?
He’d check with the network of musicians that played with the star to see what they knew. He was certain the studio didn’t have cameras in the recording areas as he’d signed his share of nondisclosures before working sessions.
* * *
Slipping a pod into the coffeemaker, Cory said, “Can you take Ava to preschool?”
“I can’t. I’m gonna be late for work if I do.”
“Oh man, I’m beat. I just couldn’t sleep after what happened last night.”
“Take a nap when you get back.”
“I have to take Mrs. Ponte to the doctor.”
“Again?”
“She’s got nobody else.”
Linda looked at her phone. “All right. I’ll get Ava there on the early side.”
“Thanks.”
“Come on, pumpkin. Mommy’s going to take you to school today.”
Cory kissed his daughter and said, “Daddy will pick you up later. Have fun today.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
As soon as the door closed behind them, Cory went to the small room that served as Ava’s play area and his place to practice and write music. He dug into his backpack and took out the manuscript paper he’d taken.
He shuffled through the pages, stopping halfway through the pile. Cory took his prized Gibson Hummingbird off the wall and strapped the acoustic guitar on. He set the handwritten sheet music on the stand and strummed the chords to the tune. Halfway through, he got excited and began singing the melody. After eight bars he was hooked.
The middle of the tune had a difficult passage. The rhythm was hard for him to sing. He wondered whether the song’s bridge was easier to play on the piano. He played through the section a couple of times and got it under his fingers. Hearing how it sounded made it easier to sing.
He started at the top, playing the chords and singing. It sounded good. The lyrics were nothing but fluff, but he’d played on enough tunes with meaningless and repetitive words to know that had nothing to do with it becoming a hit.
Cory shook his head. How did Jay Bird write such catchy tunes? The guy was a hit factory. Cory slipped the next page on top and played the chords. It was totally different, but he liked the dark sounds of the minor chords.
Cory read the lyrics. It was about love found and lost. A timeless theme, but this version used a puppy who’d run away to convey emotional pain. He thought it was weird, but when he started singing it, the fresh approach grew on him. It wasn’t hooky, but he felt it could be another winner.
He put the next sheet on the stand. Unlike the previous two, this one had a title: “A Handle on You.” The lyrics were about controlling someone. He began strumming the chords when the door to the apartment slammed shut.
Cory swept up the sheets as Linda came
in.
“Rushing to leave, I forgot my lunch.”
“Sorry.”
“What are you doing? I thought you were going to try and get some rest.”
“I don’t know, I just felt like writing. You know, maybe the emotions from what happened will come out in a song.”
Chapter Three
As soon as his wife left, Cory took the stolen music out and played through each song. He thought six were amazing and two others better than average. The opening sections on the two incomplete ones were pop oriented, and he felt he could complete them.
Cory took out blank manuscript paper and copied each of the tunes. He double-checked to ensure he had everything duplicated and played the copies as a final test.
Satisfied they were the same, he fed the originals into the shredder, bagged the snippets, took the bag outside, and dumped it in the trash.
Cory didn’t get the relief he’d expected by destroying the originals. He made a call. “Ronnie Dee, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Cory Lupinski.”
“Mr. Dee is extremely busy. What is this about?”
“I’m the one who found Jay Bird last night.”
“Oh my God. I’m sorry, hang on.”
“Ronnie Dee.”
“Hi, Mr. Dee. I-I just wanted to reach out and tell you how sorry I am about everything. And you know, see how you’re doing.”
“We’re devastated. It really hasn’t sunk in yet.”
“I know, it’s really crazy. I keep seeing him in my head, you know?”
“Seeing him lying there, it’s haunting. I just wish we could have done something to help him.”
“I got there too late. I saw him when I came in. I saw him through the window, popped the door open and said hi. That was it. He was working, well, not working but playing, and later when I went to get some water, that’s when I saw him hunched over.”
“These damn drugs. I warned him about it several times. Tried to get him into rehab but he wouldn’t go, said he was cutting back on his own.”
“Wasn’t anyone else with him?”
“Not that we know of. As you know, Jay liked to compose alone.”
Cory fist-pumped. “I wish I would’ve left earlier or something, anything to help him.”
“You and me both. Now we’ve got to pick up the pieces and find a way to move on.”
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