I took the key and a remote for the community security gate.
“What kinda car does he drive?” I asked, pocketing the key.
“Nothin’ fancy. Late-model VW Jetta. White, I think. No—yellow. Before you go, let me introduce you to the Boyz. In case you need to interview them later.”
He walked me down the hall, past the pictures of Global clients and Eli glad-handing celebrities, to a door marked REHEARSAL STUDIO. A red light blinked above it. I followed George through the door.
We stepped into an anteroom for observers and walked past comfortable chairs to the large glass pane that looked into the dance studio. Beyond the glass was an expansive room, brightly lit, with pale hardwood floors stretching from wall to mirrored wall.
Inside the studio, music pounded at a volume that popped my eyes open. Five people were in the room: the three Boyz, a male choreographer, and a female assistant. I recognized the Boyz from the album cover. To my right were Ben and Holden. Then there was a gap where, presumably, TJ was supposed to be. On the other side of the gap was Miguel. All three of them moved in impressive synchronization, performing athletic dance moves while the choreographer clapped hands in rhythm and counted loudly. Legs kicking, arms swinging, the dance looked like a stylized fight, a hip-hop update to West Side Story.
Through all of the moves, Holden sang the lyrics into a small headset microphone. I realized that he wasn’t lip-synching for the dance rehearsal, he was actually singing. I may not be the biggest fan of their bubblegum music, but I can appreciate talent when I hear it. This kid was talented. Not only was his voice strong and soulful, he was able to deliver the vocal goods while performing acrobatic dance moves that would have had me wheezing in thirty seconds.
Miguel turned left when he should have turned right, and the choreographer shouted, “No!” The assistant cut the music. The choreographer chastised Miguel and demonstrated the proper turn, insisting Miguel mimic him.
“Concentrate, Miguel,” the choreographer said. “Concentrate. Okay, let’s take ten and come back for ‘All I Got.’ I’m still not happy with the thing at the end.”
“Come on,” George said, and gestured with his head. I followed him into the studio. George quickly introduced me to the three Boyz before they took advantage of their break, explaining that I was going to try to get in touch with TJ.
“Good,” Holden said. He was tall and sinewy, with curly, close-cropped blond hair. He took a swig from a bottle of water. “When you find him, do me a favor and kick him in the ass.”
“Better yet,” Ben said, “let me.” Ben was shorter than Holden, but solid. He obviously spent a lot of time in the weight room. His thick brown hair contrasted against his pale skin. He wiped a towel across his face.
“Did you talk to his mom?” asked Miguel.
“Yeah,” I said. “She didn’t know anything.”
Miguel nodded. He was about Ben’s height, but thinner, with a taut, dancer’s frame. He had an olive-toned Mediterranean complexion, and his shaggy black hair hung down over his eyes.
“Good luck, dude,” Holden said, finishing his water and walking out of the studio. The other Boyz followed him. Miguel hesitated for a half step before he reached the door, but then disappeared into the anteroom.
“So what’s next?” George asked.
“I think I’ll do a little apartment hunting,” I said.
CHAPTER 6
TJ Sommerset lived in a nice but unspectacular condominium complex on the west side of town, nestled among the landscaped upper-middle-class, ranch-style homes and the strip-mall plazas with Publix supermarkets and Pier 1 Imports.
I used the remote George had given me to open the security gate and parked my truck in front of TJ’s building. I was surprised that, given his popularity, TJ wasn’t barricaded behind some impenetrable fortress. But the Palm Terrace condominium complex was quite nice and, when constructed, was one of the few in the area to retain a number of tall, moss-draped oak trees, which provided both cooling shade and some degree of privacy.
The key worked as promised, and soon I was standing in TJ’s living room. It was a two-bedroom floor plan, airy and spacious. Fireplace in the living room, decent-sized kitchen. He had very little furniture, probably because he spent most of his time on the road. A nice flat-screen TV sat in an ordinary entertainment cabinet, but what looked like an expensive stereo dominated the wall opposite the living room’s solitary couch.
I took a quick tour to make sure I was indeed alone. I was. The master bedroom was neat except for a rumpled pile of clothes in a laundry basket on the floor. I couldn’t tell if they were dirty or clean. The closet door was ajar. Peeking in, I saw a few shirts and pants hanging, but not even a week’s worth. There were a lot of empty hangers. Looked like he packed a full suitcase before he split. I stuck my hand in the pockets of the clothes in the closet and in the laundry basket, but they were all empty.
The bed was a queen and was neatly made. I methodically checked under the mattress, the pillows, and the box spring for something. Anything. There was nothing. A quick search of the lone nightstand netted me two unopened condom wrappers, some loose change, and a few Tiger Beat magazines featuring Boyz Klub on the cover.
The master bath was also neat. It looked like the tub had even been scrubbed. There was nothing of note in the medicine cabinet, the drawers, or the linen closet, unless you’re into spare rolls of toilet paper.
I made my way back to the living room and poked through the entertainment cabinet. A handful of DVDs. Not a bad collection, which included the original Godfather, the latest Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, and a few Gene Kelly flicks. I recalled something that George had told me about TJ. He was a student of his profession. When he needed inspiration for some new dance moves in a concert, he always returned to the masters: Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire. He also loved Gregory Hines, Savion Glover, and vintage Michael Jackson.
TJ’s CD collection was equally eclectic. He appeared to have every album Billy Joel ever released, along with Elton John and Paul Simon. Mixed in were a few Red Hot Chili Peppers, Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys, Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, and Don McLean. Just the thought of this mismatched musical gumbo gave me a headache.
Before leaving the living room, I ran my hand under the couch and between the cushions. Nothing.
Next I headed for the kitchen. The pantry was sparse. I found a clipped bag of potato chips and opened it. I popped a single chip in my mouth. Soft and disgusting. These had been here awhile. Meaning he had probably been gone for a while. I rolled the bag back up, replaced the clip, and put it back on the shelf.
I pulled the lever for the kitchen faucet and the pipe sputtered for a beat before spitting the water out. No one had used this sink in at least a few days. The validation of my assessment came when I spotted that the refrigerator was unplugged and both the fridge and freezer doors were ajar. They were empty and no longer cold. So not only did that confirm that TJ had been gone for a while, but it also bolstered the assumption that he’d left of his own free will.
Abductees don’t typically take the time to unplug their refrigerator before being whisked away. And, in my experience, abductors don’t either.
I perused the small guest bath and, finding nothing, made my way into the second bedroom, which was currently functioning as an office. A computer sat on an IKEA desk. Papers were scattered all around the room. I picked one up at random.
Lyrics were written on it. There were dozens of pages, each containing song fragments.
I pressed on the computer and was able to boot it up without a password. I scrolled through some of the file listings. There was a folder called “Songs in progress,” containing more files of lyrics. He had a couple of computer games loaded.
Double-clicking his Internet connection soon landed me on his home page, the official Boyz Klub Web site. I looked in the saved addresses by clicking the arrow in the address bar, hoping to see if he’d recently accessed a travel site or did some research
about where he might go. But the drop-down list was empty. A quick check of the browser settings revealed that TJ preferred to have his cache and history cleared every day. I looked at his bookmarks. Nothing there either. Just a handful of favorite sites, mostly songwriting pages or official sites for his boy-band competition.
I shut the computer down and began rummaging through the desk drawers. Finally, I found something that might help, if I could pull a favor from an old friend. I found some old statements for both a credit card and a checking account. I scribbled the bank names and account numbers on a piece of paper.
I also found a letter addressed to TJ from some charity called Journeys of Hope. Apparently, TJ had donated $20,000 to the group and they were “very grateful for the generous gift that will provide happiness to some families who desperately need it.” The letter was signed by the executive director, Marian Cooksey. I jotted down her name and contact info from the letterhead.
The last thing I saw before I decided to stop invading TJ’s privacy was a small stack of photos. They were mostly of the last Boyz Klub tour: the guys clowning around backstage, Ben and Holden crossing their eyes for the camera, Miguel sleeping shirtless in a hotel bed, roadies setting up a show, landmarks from cities they had visited. The Space Needle, the HOLLYWOOD sign, Bourbon Street. There were a few pictures of the desert, but there was no way I could tell where it was. Somewhere in the vast southwestern corner of the United States. To this day, nobody knew exactly where in the desert TJ had gone. The pictures provided no definitive clues. Still, I slipped the stack of photos into my pocket.
I left the apartment as I’d found it and locked up. I drove around the parking lot, looking for a yellow VW Jetta. I didn’t find any. Before I split the complex, I stopped by the condo office and spoke to the manager. I explained that I was from Global Talent and had a message for TJ Sommerset. After talking my way through the question of why the management company didn’t know where to reach their client, the manager finally said he had no idea when TJ was coming back. When he went on tour, he was sometimes gone for months. Global sent a monthly check to cover the rent.
“Funny thing, though,” he said. “Last time we saw him, he gave us a check for four months’ rent.”
“He never did that before?” I asked.
“Never. And, coincidentally, that pays up his lease. Are you guys gonna renew for him?”
“I’ll have to ask.” I left a note in an envelope for TJ to call me immediately and scratched out a short, awkward explanation why. It was a waste of ink. TJ Sommerset was long gone from Palm Terrace, and I was pretty sure he had no intention of coming back anytime soon.
* * *
I spotted the blue Mustang right away, trailing behind me after I left the condo complex, but didn’t think anything of it until it pulled into the plaza parking lot behind me. As I walked into the Starbucks, I tried to get a look at the driver, but the glare from the oppressive Florida sun on the windshield obliterated any hope of seeing inside. I shrugged it off, vowing to see if the car was still there when I left.
I got a big, strong cup of coffee and found a quiet table in the back to read over the file George had prepared. It was mostly a press kit for Boyz Klub, but it provided me with some rudimentary background. George had added some comments throughout to flesh it out.
Before I had left for TJ’s apartment, George and I spent an hour or so going over some additional information about the band. Most of my questions were about relationships between the band members, between them and Eli, plus any other significant players in the band’s life. We had talked in a large Global conference room while a publicity intern sat at one end of the table forging the band’s autographs on a stack of eight-by-ten photos, using a different color marker for each member.
My interest was in learning as much as possible about why TJ felt compelled to disappear without a word. George insisted that he was just a temperamental-artist type, but I found that hard to buy at face value. I figured his disappearance was probably related to his relationship with someone. Somebody he wanted to get away from or maybe even someone he wanted to get closer to. So far, I was still sticking with the assumption that no foul play was involved. No one seemed particularly concerned about his safety: not his mother, not Eli, not the band. In fact, Eli and the band had basically been pissed.
I sipped my coffee and flipped open the folder. In addition to the papers was an advance copy of the new Boyz Klub album: Boyz Life. I opened the CD jewel case and skimmed the liner notes. TJ had thanked his mom. Setting the album aside, I began reading, sorting out the information I’d gotten from talking with George and combining it with the data in the background file. Between the two a picture was starting to emerge.
TJ was the youngest of the four, but when the age range for all of them was between twenty-two and twenty-four, that wasn’t saying much. He was born in Orlando and made his way through the hit-or-miss quality of the Orange County school system. He started working at the theme parks while still in high school, clawing his way up from concessions to character performance to successful auditions for live stage shows. TJ sang and danced for two years as historical figures, film characters, cartoon animals—whatever the role required.
Eli Elizondo plucked him from the theme-park stage during an open call for a new band that eventually became Boyz Klub. According to George, TJ had genuine talent. But, so did most of the other folks toiling away in Orlando’s open-air matinee choruses. What TJ had going for him was an indefinable look that Eli was searching for. A sultry innocence that could make teen and preteen girls squeal. What TJ also brought with him was a burning ambition to be more than just part of another pretty-faced boy band.
He wrote songs and lyrics and pushed the envelope of what Eli wanted the band to be—sometimes to the point of ugly public arguments. TJ claimed that Madonna was still Madonna because she’d evolved and grown out of her bubblegum image. She changed and reinvented herself. If she hadn’t, TJ claimed, she would have ended up no different from Cyndi Lauper: a nostalgia act with a couple of old pop hits and irrelevant today.
Eli couldn’t give a crap about evolving. He wanted Boyz Klub to deliver what the demographic wanted. And the demographic wanted cute guys singing benign songs and dancing in sync. Eli didn’t want controversy. He didn’t want edgy. He wanted a formula. It was a source of continuing friction between him and TJ.
TJ’s relationship with the other band members was hot and cold. There were periods where they all seemed to get along great. There were also stretches where any one of them would be on the nerves of one or more of the others. Given the amount of time they spent together, under pressure, dealing with the rigors of travel, it was a wonder they didn’t all kill each other.
There was nothing George could tell me that pointed to any single event—an argument, a practical joke gone bad—that would have driven TJ away without letting someone know. If everyone weren’t so surprisingly unconcerned, my first instinct would be to suspect trouble.
George had nothing on romantic relationships, and whatever preband friendships TJ had were apparently vaporized by his meteoric rise to fame. Except for his mother and the cousin, TJ had no other local family.
His mother’s parents were deceased, and after his father’s death, TJ had lost all contact with his father’s parents. Regarding aunts and uncles, it was the same story—no interest or contact, except for this mysterious cousin. It seemed unlikely that TJ was hiding out with extended family.
What about Arlene? Could TJ be camping out with Mom in the big house in Isleworth? I had no idea. I supposed it was possible, but unlikely. If we were to follow TJ’s previous pattern—if you could even call one prior instance a pattern—he was probably in the desert again or somewhere equally remote. At this point, my Tahiti scenario was as likely as any.
Finding this kid was going to be tough, if not impossible. With his secrecy and unlimited resources, if he didn’t want to be found, he wasn’t going be found. All he had to do was
be smart and avoid an electronic trail. If he did that, he was invisible. A ghost.
I pulled out the piece of paper I had written TJ’s bank and credit-card account numbers on. It represented the only bread crumb I had yet found, and I had no idea how stale it was or if it even led in the right direction. But it was all I had.
I punched a few buttons on my cell phone and listened to the warbling ring. A moment later I heard Jim Dupree’s resonant baritone answer.
“This’s Dupree.”
“Big Jim. Mike Garrity.”
A surprised pause before, “Hey, G. What’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
“Oh, yeah? This a big favor or a small favor?”
Big Jim Dupree had been my partner at OPD for three years. We joined the department at about the same time and had immediately hit it off. Physically, we couldn’t be more different. Jim was African-American and clocked in at a towering six foot five, 270 pounds. But our personalities clicked. He had a smart-ass sense of humor that jibed with mine and an equal passion for removing scumbags from decent society.
We both made detective within two years of each other and had overlapping tenures on the Metropolitan Bureau of Investigation. I had trusted him with my life many times and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again, should the need arise. Too bad Big Jim wasn’t also a neurosurgeon.
“Don’t know,” I said, answering his question. “Probably a big favor.”
“Huh,” he said noncommittally. “How you feelin’?”
“Okay. Good days and bad days. You know.”
“Yeah.… When you comin’ back?”
“I’m out, Jim. I’m out for good.”
“Damn. Never say never. You take care of business. Beat that shit. Get better and come back. I’ll keep your desk free.”
I chuckled. “What’re you gonna do, sit on it?”
“If I have to. You come back and see ass prints on your desk, you’ll know.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “So, what’s this big favor? You wanna date my sister?”
Head Games Page 5