But which band member?
One thing was certain: Whoever the insider was, he’d leave Union Station tomorrow on the Midnight Train.
The phone rang and I went inside to answer. Hy, calling from RKI’s Reno office. “Everything’s under control,” he told me. “The younger kids aren’t even upset; they think it’s an adventure. Your sister’s sworn Chris and Jamie to secrecy about the split.”
“How’re they doing?”
“Chris is being cool, distant, and somewhat snotty. Jamie’s a bundle of emotion, but she’s keeping her Walkman on and refusing to talk. McCone, aren’t you glad you never had kids?”
“Sometimes I feel as if I might as well have. I’ve owned a vested interest in each of Charlene’s, Patsy’s, and John’s since the day they were born. How’s Charlene holding up?”
“Now, she’s amazing. If you’d told me on Saturday that she’d be such a rock, I’d’ve said you were crazy.”
“Crisis brings out the best in us McCones.”
“And a good thing, too. I’ll tell you—if we pull out of Union Station tomorrow night without you wrapping this thing up, we’re in for nothing but crisis.”
My day began abruptly at seven-sixteen when Jenny Gordon, who had forgotten about the two-hour time difference between Austin and Los Angeles, called. Hy moaned in protest as I fumbled for the phone; gray light had been seeping around the draperies when he’d let himself into the suite, and he’d tossed about for a while before settling into sleep. After Jenny identified herself, I put her on hold and went to the sitting room to talk.
“Sorry to take so long getting back to you,” she said, her Texas-accented voice husky from the cigarettes she chain-smoked. “I’m a small operation, and things got kind of jammed up.”
“I understand, believe me,” I told her, imagining what must be accumulating at my own small operation. “Have you got anything for me?”
There was a breathy pause; I pictured the attractive brunette—whose youthful appearance belied the fact that she was a grandmother five times over—lighting one of her Winstons. “Nothing all that earthshaking,” she said, “but I may have come up with a connection between Terriss and Curtin. I’ll start with her.”
I picked up a note pad and a pen. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“According to everybody I talked with, she was kind of a loner. No friends to speak of; one boyfriend, but that cooled off long before she left town. Not sociable with co-workers or neighbors. Lived by herself in a shabby neighborhood of trailers north of town in Pflugerville. Rented a double-wide for a little over four years, from February of eighty-eight to April of ninety-two. Paid her rent in cash, on time. Never even introduced herself to the people next door. Never had any visitors except the boyfriend—the drummer with the band she was with—and he stopped coming around before Christmas of ninety-one. She took off without giving notice late in April, left most of her stuff.”
“Were you able to get a look at it?”
“Nope. The landlord stored it for a year, then disposed of it.”
“Anybody you spoke with have an idea of where she came from?”
“Uh-uh. She didn’t talk about herself—or talk much at all, for that matter.”
“What about the band? Were you able to locate them?”
“They broke up a couple of years ago, and the members’ve scattered. The boyfriend, Tod Dodson, supposedly is up in Nashville, and I’m working on getting a line on him. All told, the band performed around town for five, six years in places like the Broken Spoke, Yellow Rose, and Dallas West, but during the time Terriss sang with them they were mostly at the Sunset Lodge on Lake Travis. Nice place, a lot of local artists get started there and go on to bigger things. The bartender remembers Terriss because he had the hots for her, but she couldn’t be bothered.”
“Because of the boyfriend?”
“No, this was after that cooled off. He suspects she thought she was too good for him, was waiting for her prince to come—and apparently he did.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. One weekend Ricky Savage and his band were in town. They went to the lodge to catch the late show. Afterward she took off with them, didn’t bother to give her band any notice. They scrounged up a replacement, and when she came back three days later they fired her. The end of that week she disappeared from her trailer and day job.”
“What was the day job?”
“Waitressing at Babe’s restaurant near the airport. She wasn’t very good at it: made a lot of mistakes and was snooty to the clientele, like she thought the work was beneath her. Nobody was sorry when she took off.”
“I don’t suppose you were able to get hold of her Social Security number?”
“Nope. Both Babe’s and the lodge are solid operations and touchy about giving out that kind of information. I did get a contact at the DMV to run her license-plate number. Registration expired the fall after she left town, and she never renewed it.”
“Jenny, did anyone you spoke with give any indication that she might’ve been unstable?”
“Nobody came right out and said so, but a few people implied they found her strange, and her behavior is a pretty fair indicator.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, let me tell you about Forrest Curtin. He’s an Austin boy, born and raised. Played with different bands around town from the time he was in high school; folks who know say he’s a damned good musician. Went up to Nashville in nineteen ninety, but came back here a fair amount, supposedly on account of a girlfriend, and used to sit in with his old band at the lodge. A number of times they were double-billed with the group Terriss sang with, so there’s a better-than-even-odds chance that he knew her.”
“Any possibility she was the girlfriend?”
“Well, nobody actually placed them together, but I haven’t come up with any evidence to the contrary.”
I tapped my pen on the note pad, feeling those prickles of excitement that you get when you think you’re on to something. Was it mere coincidence that Forrest Curtin had ended up a member of Ricky’s band—or was it part of a complicated scheme?
“Jenny,” I said, “can you keep working on this? As a priority job? Reinterview everybody who knew Terriss, and show them that publicity still of Curtin that I faxed you. Maybe someone saw them together. And keep after the old boyfriend in Nashville.”
“Will do. Where can I reach you?”
“Here until around seven this evening. Afterward, at this number.” I repeated that of Ricky’s cellular phone, which he’d agreed to loan me. “And if for some reason you can’t reach me there, I’ll be at the Hyatt Regency in Albuquerque early tomorrow morning.”
“You do get around. Any chance you’re coming my way?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ll probably be in Austin on Saturday night.”
Austin—where it had all started.
At ten o’clock, Hy and I were gathered in our suite with Rats, going over the final schedule and security plan for the tour. Hy had previously told the road manager only minimal details of the campaign of harassment against Ricky, but now we were forced to reveal that we suspected an insider was involved. Rattray seemed to sense he wasn’t getting the complete story, but he didn’t ask any questions. It would be more his style, I thought, to watch and listen, hoping to pick up information on the sly.
“Okay,” Hy said, “the staff at the Amphitheatre has been briefed, and they’re coordinating their security measures with ours. Once the concert’s over, we’ll get Ricky out of there right away, into a limo for Union Station.”
“Alone?” I asked.
“No, Rae’ll be with him. I wanted to go along, but he insisted on some private time with her before he leaves. Afterward, the limo’ll drop her at LAX for her flight to San Francisco.”
Rattray snorted and muttered, “Kurt’s right—he is thinking with his balls.”
I glared at him and said, “Go on,” to Hy.
“The publicity woman, Toole, tell
s me they’re expecting a big crowd at the station—both press and fans. Given the recent coverage in the papers, he’ll be asked a lot of questions and he’s going to have to answer them. We’ll try to get him through the station and past the gate to the trains as fast as possible. Nobody gets beyond that point except the performers and people in the press party. Our best bodyguard and I will stick close from the minute he gets out of the limo till he’s inside his suite in Albuquerque.”
I asked, “We’re still transferring to the charter flight at Barstow?”
He nodded.
“How long a trip is it?”
“To Barstow? Three hours and eighteen minutes.”
“God, couldn’t we have used a closer-in airport?”
Rats said, “Our choices were Fullerton and San Bernardino, which didn’t allow enough time for schmoozing with the press, and Victorville, where there was some problem with the airfield. Barstow’s the easiest transfer point.”
“Okay, what happens there?”
“Cars meet the train and take us to the airport. We’ve got two planes chartered. You, Rick, Ripinsky, Kurt, and I will go on one; the band and publicity people’ll take the other.”
“Kurt’s going along?”
“Yeah. He decided to at the last minute, after Rick told him about these threats. He thinks his majesty might need his support.”
I pursed my lips, wondering if lending support was the manager’s real motive.
“What?” Hy asked.
“… Nothing.” Although I hadn’t completely ruled out Girdwood as a suspect, I supposed that as long as he was intent on making the trip, he might as well be where I could keep an eye on him. “So we arrive in Albuquerque at…?”
“The godawful hour of five-forty,” Hy said. “We’re met by limos, taken to the Hyatt. We’ve got two floors—one for the road personnel, another for the rest of us. There’re two wings on either floor, and we’ll divide up like we did for the planes.”
I shook my head. “I want Kurt with the band members.”
Rats’s eyes narrowed, making his face more opossumlike. Another piece had been added to his mental picture puzzle. He said, “Okay, I’ll have his room switched.”
Hy went on, “People from our Phoenix office’re already over there, checking out the hotel and briefing their security staff on our arrangements. After we arrive we’ll catch a few hours sleep, then check out the concert venue—it’s the Tingley Coliseum at the state fairgrounds. After the show we fly on to Dallas—Fort Worth. The arrangements are fairly standard from city to city. Dallas on Friday, Austin on Saturday—”
I said, “I think Austin might be a trouble spot.”
Hy shot me a quick glance, made a note. “We’ll talk more about that later. After Austin, we continue across the South—New Orleans, Miami, Atlanta—then up the eastern seaboard and across the Midwest, with a drop down to Nashville, where he puts in an appearance at the Opry. Then back through Denver and Salt Lake City, to the Pacific Northwest, and end up in San Francisco.”
No wonder Ricky said that performing got to be a pain in the ass! “God, I hope I can wrap up this investigation fast, so we don’t have to go along for the entire tour!”
“Do that, McCone, please. I like his music, but I really don’t want to attend the same concert twenty-five times.” Hy consulted his notes and said to Rats, “One of my people or I will be close to Rick at all times. McCone will probably be involved in other activities. The RKI people’ll be different from city to city—more economical to bring them in from our nearest branch office. I’ll want you to meet with them—”
Someone began pounding on the door. Rats heaved a martyred sigh and went to answer it. Kurt Girdwood stood in the hallway, his face nearly apoplectic, brandishing a sheaf of newspapers and faxes. “What I want to know,” he roared, “is how they get hold of this shit!”
I went over and took one of the papers from him. It was the L.A. Insider—a publication that fell somewhere between a legitimate newspaper and a tabloid. On its front page was a color photo of Ricky and Rae holding hands and laughing in front of the Sorrento. The caption read, “Has Savage marriage reached the Broken Promise Land? Country star only has eyes for his private-eye friend.”
“God!” I exclaimed, passing the paper to Hy.
Girdwood thrust a copy of the Times at me; it was folded open to “StarWatch.”
Although we have not been able to reach country star Ricky Savage for confirmation of the rumors that his eighteen-year marriage to wife Charly has collapsed, pals of the very private Grammy winner tell us that he’s going very public with his romance with San Francisco private investigator Rae Kelleher. In the meantime, the single of “Midnight Train to Nowhere” remains blacked out on major country stations from coast to coast. Will Savage explain this phenomenon at his midnight press conference at Union Station following tonight’s tour kickoff at the Universal Amphitheatre? Will Ms. Kelleher be taking the train to nowhere with him? Again, stay tuned…
I handed the paper to Hy and asked Girdwood, “Has Ricky seen these?”
“No. The day of the concert he holes up, doesn’t read the papers or talk with anybody—except Ms. Kelleher, now that he’s found her.” The manager’s mouth turned down sourly. “And it’s a good thing, too, because will you look at this crap?” He thrust the sheaf of faxes at me.
YOU K N O W WHAT YOU’VE DONE!!!
YOU K N O W!!!
AND SOON THE WORLD WILL TOO.
Each fax was the same, containing all three lines. I asked sharply, “Where did these come from?”
“The Sorrento. Manager refaxed them to me. The same message has been coming in every hour on the hour since eight o’clock.”
I examined the sheets. No header showing the number they’d been transmitted from. They told me two things: one good, that Ricky’s current whereabouts weren’t known; one bad, that Terriss was turning up the heat with a threat of exposure.
Soon the world will too.
How? When?
I looked at Hy. Our eyes met and held. He asked, “Austin?”
“I think so.”
“We’ve got to stop her.”
“Yes.” I reached for my bag where it sat on an end table, then stopped, feeling foolish. Where was I going? I was primed for action, but fresh out of leads—
The phone rang. Hy picked up, spoke, then held it out to me. “Letta James,” he said. “She’s found out who’s been feeding the information to ‘StarWatch.’”
Nineteen
Guilty as charged,” Ethan Amory said.
The attorney sat behind his glass-topped rosewood desk in his spacious office at Zenith Records’ new downtown headquarters. He wasn’t fully moved in: Boxes sat on the floor, and the desk was clear except for a phone and an antique silver pen-and-inkwell set. And in spite of what I’d just confronted him with, he seemed fully at ease as he leaned back in his leather chair, a faintly contemptuous smile on his thin lips.
I went up to the desk and leaned across it, propping my hands on its edge to keep them from shaking with anger. “Why, for God’s sake?” I demanded. “Why?”
“Sit down, Sharon. There’s no need for such dramatics. Perhaps you’d like a drink?”
“I do not want a drink and I do not want to sit down. I want some answers.”
“Suit yourself.” He went to a bar cart and served himself.
I strode to the window behind the desk and peered out. The doorman at the hotel had warned me that the smog was at a record level today; it blurred the details of the surrounding spires and made indistinct the figures of people on the sidewalk of Wilshire Boulevard, some forty-eight stories below. After nearly two hundred years of being a city without a distinctly recognizable core, Los Angeles had experienced a renaissance in its central district, and it was there, nearly at the pinnacle of one of its tallest buildings, that Ricky and his associates had chosen to locate their label’s headquarters.
Fitting, I thought, for a company called Z
enith. An ambitious name for a group of ambitious people, but now I’d found out something that could very well topple the whole enterprise.
Behind me Amory’s chair creaked. I turned, saw he was again seated, drink in hand. Cautioning myself against allowing my anger to rule me, I went back around the desk and, in spite of my earlier pronouncement, sat also.
I said, “All right, now answer my question—why?”
Amory sipped his drink and set it down. “It’s difficult to explain to someone outside the industry, but I’ll try.” He steepled his fingers, propping his chin on them and looking introspective. “Your brother-in-law has immense potential, if it’s properly channeled. He’s a fine performer; in time he could be one of the greats. And his songs, for the most part, are among the best being written today. Already several have crossed over to the pop charts—which doesn’t happen all that often with country singers. His popularity has been building, both here and abroad. He’s ready for a much larger audience.”
“What does this have to do with you leaking—”
“Patience. I’m getting to that. As I said, he has immense potential—if it’s directed. But about a year and a half ago I began to sense a serious problem with him. The songs he was writing were either flat and stale, or else they were cynical and bitter. ‘The Broken Promise Land’ is a good example: With it, he took a big chunk out of the hand that feeds him, and he’s fortunate that our industry is so self-involved that very few people recognized what he was saying. In addition, his booking agent was having difficulty getting him to go out on the road. His fees were rising, but his income was leveling off because he’d turn down every third engagement. And it wasn’t as if he was doing it so he could spend more time on his songwriting or with his family; he was over at Little Savages a lot, not doing much of anything, according to Mig Taylor. When he was home, I’d visit and find him moping around, as depressed as I’d ever seen him.”
The Broken Promise Land Page 22