White Hot

by Elise Noble

  And it was them I needed.

  While Mack trawled the dark recesses of the internet, I decided to focus on two of the people we’d found already: the Ghost’s manager and Ronan Pearce, the guy who ran his record label, Spectre. They must have had more contact with White than anybody.

  According to an email Mack intercepted, Styles had taken a trip to California, representing one of the other acts he looked after—a four-piece boy band with a rock edge called Elastic Trickery. A scan of their website revealed that the Ghost had discovered them playing in some underground bar in New York, and his backing had led them to the big time. Ethan White was a regular Good Samaritan, wasn’t he?

  The airline reservation system showed ol’ Harry wasn’t due back for two more days, a fact I confirmed by finding his favourite hotel via his Instagram account and calling the front desk. Rather than chase him across the country, even though I could have used the sun, I concentrated on the record label guy.

  “What have you got?” I asked Mack, dropping into the seat beside her.

  She eyed up the bag I was carrying. “Are those cookies?”

  “Freshly baked.”

  I held my stash out, and she took a white chocolate chip with raspberry.

  “Bribery will get you everywhere,” she mumbled through a mouthful.

  “How was your dinner the other night?”

  She brushed crumbs off her lip and groaned. “Don’t ask. Luckily, I convinced Claude’s to deliver.”

  My second favourite restaurant. French, with a mouth-watering menu and eye-watering prices. I went as an occasional treat—my old penny-pinching habits died hard, and I was more of a Taco Bell kind of girl—but seeing as Mack had married an English guy who’d made a fortune selling computer security products, shelling out for a fancy dinner wasn’t a problem. Her husband, Luke, enjoyed hacking almost as much as she did, so it really was a match made in heaven.

  “Look on the bright side, at least nobody got food poisoning this time.”

  She made a face. “Next time, I’m not even going to attempt cooking. I threw the pan away in the end. The burnt bits wouldn’t come off.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “So, how about this case? Can you get me a home address for Ronan Pearce?”

  “I’ve got it already. I’ll email it to you.”

  “And could you find out how much money the Ghost has? I’m curious.”

  She gave me one of those, “what do you think I’ve been doing all day?” looks.

  “Seven million dollars in cash, stocks, and bonds. Plus his house, a recording studio, and the record label. That’s not huge, but it’s profitable and it’s growing.”

  “Thanks, Mack.”

  Her expertise at ferreting out information made my job so much easier, and all those backdoors she’d built into government and private databases also allowed her to revoke my speeding tickets. On second thoughts, you didn’t hear me say that last part. Or the first part.

  But she’d answered my question about whether White could afford bail if it was offered. He most likely could; he just didn’t want to.

  Ronan Pearce lived in a tidy duplex on the outskirts of town. The place was easy enough to find, which was unfortunate, because a crowd of the local press had located it too. I parked my car—okay, Mack’s car—down the block, got my camera out of the trunk, and slung it around my neck. Time for a little chat.

  “Bit late to the party, aren’t you?” one old-timer said as I walked up.

  He, on the other hand, looked as if he’d arrived a week ago and not taken a shower since.

  “I’m from upstate. There’s not much else on, so my boss sent me to take a look at this Ghost thing. It was either that or another dog and pony show.”

  “Wasting your time here. We all are. Two days, I’ve been waiting, and all the man’s done is drive out of the garage in the morning and drive back into it in the evening. Keeps the drapes closed too.”

  “You know if anyone’s tried his office?”

  “Went there first. Security won’t let us within twenty yards of the place. Pearce goes in via the underground parking garage and nobody can talk to him.”

  I let out a huff, but only for show. At least that meant Pearce wasn’t being harassed by the paparazzi.

  “Looks like my boss sent me on a wild-goose chase. Figure I’ll spend a couple of hours having lunch then head back again. Any recommendations?”

  The old guy chuckled, no doubt amused by us young ‘uns and our lack of tenacity. With fewer reporters on the scene, he had more chance of getting a scoop.

  “Sure, try Bessie’s. It’s three blocks in that direction, straight up. You can’t miss it.”

  He was right about Bessie’s. The lady herself must have been well into her seventies by now, but she still made the best chocolate milkshakes in the whole of Richmond. They’d been my favourite treat as a child on the rare occasions my mom had money in her purse to steal. Today, I couldn’t resist stopping off to buy one before I went back to my car. And perhaps a donut too. I’d spent two hours in the gym this morning—surely that earned me some rights?

  Back in the office, I slumped at my desk in a food coma as I worked out a plan. I was speaking to Ronan Pearce whether he liked it or not.

  “How’s it going?” Emmy asked, pausing by my desk to liberate a cookie from the collection I kept in my drawer. I swear that woman could sniff out any junk food within a ten-mile radius.

  “About as well as expected.” I explained my strategy. “What do you think?”

  “Could work. But I’d take someone with you. Make it look more official.”

  “Not a bad idea. Any suggestions?”

  Her eyes alighted on a guy sitting on the far side of the room. He’d only arrived a couple of days ago, a transfer from the New York office, and last time I saw him, he’d been working at a fashion show and wearing considerably less than he was right now.

  “Take Cade,” Emmy said. “He’s tough in combat, but I’m not sure of his finesse.”

  “With that ass, who cares about finesse?”

  “Dan, stop harassing the staff. He wants to work in Special Projects, and he’ll need brains as well as brawn. I’d be interested to see how he does.”

  Emmy ran the Special Projects department at Blackwood, that crazy band of people who dealt with all the shit nobody else wanted to touch. If it was tricky, insane, or otherwise unusual, Emmy ran with it, often with spectacular results. She only worked with the best, and if Cade wanted on her team, he had a lot to prove.

  And the first thing he needed to work on was his attitude.

  The next morning, he stood with me beside one of the company pool vehicles, grumbling.

  “What kind of job is this?”

  “When you came to Blackwood, you wanted a gun. Now you’ve got a gun and a calculator.”

  He still wasn’t happy. “What if somebody asks me difficult questions?”

  I patted him on the cheek. “That’s where your pretty face comes in. You smile to distract them until Georgia tells you what to say.”

  Georgia had majored in accountancy at college, and although she’d taken a break from the subject while she was married to an asshole, she now worked part-time in Blackwood’s forensic accounting team. Cade was miked up and wearing an earpiece, and she was on hand via radio to help out.

  I wasn’t kidding about the smile, either. Cade may have lacked enthusiasm for the job, but he sure as hell had the looks to make up for it. My gaze dropped to his ass before I could stop it, and I gave myself a mental slap. Too young, Dan. At twenty-four, Cade was a year under my self-imposed limit—my age less six—and I’d put that in place for a reason. Any younger, and things tended to be over faster than I liked. Older was fine, because with age came experience.

  Even so, I might have been tempted to relax that rule with Cade if not for my other rule, the one that trumped everything. I didn’t fuck anyone I worked with. No colleagues, no clients. Ever.

  Emmy migh
t have worked out the logistics of sleeping with her friends and somehow staying on good terms with them afterwards, but I didn’t need that awkwardness. There were enough anonymous warm bodies in the clubs and bars of Richmond without having to shit in my own house.

  Which meant this morning, I was strictly window-shopping. At my request, Cade had dressed in a suit—not made to measure, but it was tight enough in the right places that it didn’t matter. I’d gone for the business look too, in a pencil skirt that almost reached my knees. Demure indeed for me.

  A few fans hovered outside Spectre Productions, Inc., one wearing a Ghost mask and another holding up a placard proclaiming White’s innocence. Somebody had faith; it just wasn’t me.

  Gentleman that he was, Cade waited for me to climb the steps to the front door first, but I gestured for him to go ahead and lagged a couple of steps behind. My gaze dropped. Just one last treat before the real work started. The buzzer had an “out of order” sign taped to it, so Cade rapped on the door with his knuckles.

  Two minutes passed before a glowering security guard cracked it open.

  “What?”

  Good morning to you too. I stepped forward and held out my genuine fake ID, carefully created by our company forger.

  “Danielle Russo, IRS. We’ve had reports of false accounting, and we’re here to do an inspection.”

  “Nobody said nothing about that.”

  “It’s a surprise inspection. That’s the whole point.”

  “I’m not sure about this.”

  “Well, I suggest you find a way to get comfortable, because if we have to go away and come back again, the fine’s only going to go up.”

  Fine. One word, and it worked like the modern-day version of “open sesame.” The door swung open, allowing us into the inner sanctum. A bead of sweat popped out on the back of the guard’s neck as we followed him along the hallway.

  “Who do you need to speak to?” he asked.

  “I need the manager…” I pretended to consult my diary. “Ronan Pearce. And my assistant here needs the payroll department.”

  “Payroll’s over there. Sandra! Can you help these people?”

  I left Cade with three ladies gawking at him while the guard escorted me to Ronan’s office. I didn’t bother knocking.

  “Ronan Pearce?”

  He’d been sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, but at the sound of my voice, he sat up so fast I wondered if he’d got whiplash.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I turned to the security guy, who hovered in the doorway. “That’ll be all, thanks. I can take it from here.”

  He got the message and backed away, pulling the door closed behind him. Papers crackled under my ass as I dropped into a vacant chair, a modern orange thing designed for style rather than comfort.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Ronan growled.

  “I’m here with a few questions about Ethan White.”

  Pearce reached for the phone, one of those fancy consoles with six lines and a hundred buttons. “And you won’t be here for much longer.”

  It only took a second to reach down the side of his desk and unplug the cable. “Hear me out.”

  If looks could have killed, I’d have keeled right out of my chair.

  “Give me one good reason why I should.”

  CHAPTER 6

  PEARCE MENTALLY WRAPPED piano wire around my neck while I studied him. What was the best approach to take? Planning these confrontations in advance was almost impossible without first-hand knowledge, but as Ronan sat there hoping I’d choke on my words, I decided to take a chance. Everything I’d heard said the Ghost was a good guy, apart from the teensy issue of him committing murder, and I was betting he hadn’t been a bad boss either.

  “Why should you hear me out? Because I’m one of the few people working to get Ethan a better deal, and I need all the help I can get.” Ethan, not White. Build rapport.

  Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “And why should I believe you?”

  I flipped over my real ID card. “I’m a private investigator. My client believes Ethan’s innocent, and if he is, I need to prove that.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  “Afraid I can’t disclose that.”

  I wasn’t about to admit I was working for a bunch of kids.

  “There aren’t many people left who believe in Ethan.”

  “Are you one of them?”

  The last tendrils of hope leached from his body in a long sigh. “Yes, I am.”

  Finally, I was getting somewhere. I stuck out my hand and smiled to break the tension.

  “In that case, I’m pleased to meet you. Dan di Grassi.”

  He leaned forward, half out of his chair, and shook. “Ronan Pearce. Except you already knew that.”

  “So…”

  “So?”

  “Will you help me?”

  I watched, silent, as he waged an internal battle. Did he hold on to his secrets and leave White to fight alone, or take a chance on me? Ronan’s eyes closed, and another sigh drifted from his lips. A minute passed, and he focused on me again.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Everything. I wanted to know everything. “To start with, I’m trying to work out what kind of person Ethan is and what might have caused him to snap and kill a girl. My research says it was totally out of character.”

  “If you find the answer, let me know, because I can’t work it out either. Have you spoken to him?”

  “He won’t see anybody.”

  “Figures. He’s always been wary of strangers.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Music.” He shrugged as if to say, “how else?” “When Ethan first came to Richmond, we played in a band together.”

  “A successful one?”

  My research hadn’t turned that up.

  “Before he joined, we did okay. The odd gig in a bar to make a few bucks, that sort of thing. But Ethan was the one with the talent. If it made a noise, he could play it, everything from a pipe organ to a harmonica. With him involved, we were booked every night. Top venues too, not dives.”

  “I thought he was always on the other side of the mixing desk?”

  “Now he is, and even then, he preferred to stay in the shadows. He didn’t wear the mask, but he always kept a hood over his face. And once we started getting bigger gigs, he refused to play the guitar in public anymore. Said women always went for the guitarist or the singer.”

  “Which one were you?”

  “Lead guitar.”

  Figured. Ronan had to be pushing forty, but even with frown lines marring his forehead, there was still something appealing about him. Dirty blond hair, a dimple in his chin—I could imagine women screaming when he got on stage.

  “And Ethan?”

  “Keyboards mainly. Sometimes the drums.”

  “What happened to the band?”

  “People kept asking to buy our tracks, so we decided to lay down an album. Except when Ethan got into the recording studio, he never wanted to leave. The guy who owned it was looking for an assistant and hired him on the spot.”

  “That must have stung for the rest of you.”

  “Not as much as you might think. The band started off as a hobby, and when it grew, let’s just say there were some pissed-off wives and girlfriends. We kept on as a four-piece and played a couple of gigs a week until kids started coming along, then we quit.”

  “And Ethan?”

  “He bought the studio when the owner retired. By then, Ethan had discovered DJing and turned himself into the Ghost. He always loved the buzz of being on stage, but he hated the fame. People think when he puts that mask on, he becomes somebody else, but they’re wrong. He becomes himself.”

  “And he hit the big time.”

  “Knockout punch.”

  Too right. He’d even got his own brand of sneakers.

  “Ethan kept in touch with you, but what about the other band members?”

  Rona
n chuckled. “We still talk. Our singer fell in love and moved to Albuquerque, and our bassist headed back home to Tennessee and became an architect. Floyd, the main drummer, moved to LA to try his hand at acting.”

  “Has he been in many movies?”

  “Nothing memorable, at least in front of the camera. He’s a sound engineer now. We still get together once a year to grill a few steaks and reminisce over the old times. Or at least, we did. Guess we won’t anymore now Ethan’s locked up.”

  “What about family? I haven’t managed to track any of Ethan’s relatives down.”

  Ronan’s face clouded over, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped his pen, a silver ballpoint engraved with Spectre’s logo, a stylised mask. “Ethan doesn’t have any family.”

  Okay, so that subject was obviously off-limits. Mental note: Avoid mentioning Ethan’s family for the time being, to Ronan at least.

  “How about friends? A girlfriend?”

  Ronan’s grip relaxed. “Until a couple of months ago, he hung out with a guy called Ty.”

  “Why’d he stop?”

  “Ethan never told me, but I got the impression they’d had a fight.”

  “And did he have a girlfriend?”

  “Again, he never shared much. I think he was dating one girl for three or four months, but she faded away.”

  “What about Christina?”

  “The girl they say he killed?”

  I nodded.

  “I never saw her before, but that doesn’t mean much. Even when he was young, he’d pick up the occasional woman in a club. Never groupies, though, and never from our gigs. He liked to compartmentalise. Always kept women and music separate.”

  Which fitted with the video Mack had shown me this morning—shaky footage from a camera phone. It showed White and Christina in Liquid, hanging out near the club’s main bar. Their body language said they hadn’t known each other before. A later clip showed them on the dance floor, closer this time, but not all over each other. A cab driver had come forward to say he’d dropped them both off at White’s place, and in his opinion, the pair had been tipsy rather than full-on drunk.