by Linda Barnes
I nodded.
“Miss Willis has taken a rather unfortunate tone with the police, concerning an accident which occurred at her hotel last night, involving a member of her entourage.”
I made a noncommittal noise.
“I am told that she has been both too forthcoming and too closemouthed in her interactions with the police department, and that she runs the risk of getting herself and her tour, which is financed entirely by our client, into some, er, difficulty.”
“May I ask what she allegedly told the police?”
My use of “allegedly” drew another faint tilt of the attorney’s mouth. “Miss Willis has said that she knows the death was not suicide, but that she can tell them no more than that. She knows because she knows, in other words.”
“Maybe they won’t take her too seriously,” I offered. “When I was a cop, we had psychics who called long-distance to discuss the reappearance of Elvis.”
“Yes, but Miss Willis also maintains that she found the, uh, body in the company of a group of her fellow musicians, and that she has no idea why the body was in her room.”
I said nothing.
“The police say they have received differing accounts of the body’s discovery. I understand Miss Willis telephoned you from the scene.”
I said nothing again.
“MGA/America is most anxious that her tour continue unimpeded.”
“If Dee isn’t being held for questioning, is there any reason why it shouldn’t?”
Mr. Baines stole a quick glance at his watch. “She is, at the moment, resting at her hotel. The hotel switchboard will say she is unavailable.”
He was certainly right about that. I finished my coffee, which was very good, and set the delicate cup and saucer on the corner of his desk. “Why am I here?”
“Ah,” he said. “I am to assure you that MGA/America will be happy to cover your usual fee for whatever, uh, service you are supplying to their artist.”
“And in return for the money, what do they want?”
“First of all, they would like you to continue working for Miss Willis.”
“Who says I’m working for Ms. Willis?” I said. “We are old friends.”
“The best kind,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “The best kind.”
He said, “I did tell the client I felt this sort of thing would be a waste of time.”
“No problem,” I said evenly. “It might have been a problem if I were working for Ms. Willis, but I’m not.”
“Ah,” he said. “That makes things somewhat easier. You would then be free to accept another job?”
“I might.”
“Miss Willis approached someone at MGA/America early this morning concerning the loan of a considerable amount of money.”
“May I ask how much?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars. As an advance against royalties on a recording contract. Up until this morning, contract negotiations were proceeding at a somewhat leisurely pace. Miss Willis seems to wish to speed the process along. And my clients, before signing any documents, particularly large checks, would feel more secure if someone like you were present to keep an eye on Miss Willis, to speak to her perhaps, to urge her to use more tact in her conversations with the police.”
“I would hardly be able to keep her from telling them the truth,” I said.
“No,” he agreed, with the faintest hint of a smile. “But we feel, that is, my clients feel, that Miss Willis should have a discreet friend to rely on at this upsetting time.”
“You can’t hire a friend,” I said. “But if I were to wish to speak with someone at MGA/America concerning Ms. Willis, who would that someone be?”
“You can always reach me at one of these numbers,” he said smoothly, removing a thin leather case from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. We traded business cards. I got the better of the deal; his—thick, cream-colored, engraved—probably cost three times as much as mine.
“I admire your view,” I said.
“If you should happen to come across anything that would convince the police that Miss Willis was elsewhere at the time of Miss Hunter’s death, MGA/America would appreciate knowing it. Will a retainer of five hundred be sufficient?”
I nodded. “Has Dee been charged with anything?”
“No.”
“Are you anticipating she will be?”
“There remains that possibility.”
Behind his head to the right, I could see a tugboat escorting a freighter out to sea. I couldn’t make out the name on the bow, but I thought it might be in the Cyrillic alphabet. If I had an office with a view like that, I don’t think I’d get a lick of work done.
Nineteen
Walking through the common, following the meandering paths from Park Street Station to Charles Street, I sorted it out. Two days ago, Dee had been dead set against paying Dunrobie a dime. This morning she wanted to float a loan—and for the exact amount Davey hoped to extort.
And in between? Brenda’s death.
From Taylor Baines’s earnest request, it sounded like someone at MGA/America was pretty sure Dee was in deep trouble and hoped I could help her out.
Or else someone at MGA/America wanted to find out if their new sensation was up to her knees or her neck in hot water.
Either way, I’d been hired for damage control, to report back with whatever dirt I could dig. That was MGA/America’s message, and Taylor Baines was the high-class messenger boy.
I wondered who’d pointed the record company in my direction.
I patted the folded check in my pocket. I was glad I’d followed my gut and sent Roz to keep an eye on the mailing tube. Now I could afford to ignore Dee’s dismissal, to keep looking for Davey Dunrobie.
I walked faster, shucking my jacket in the blazing heat, draping it across my arm. I wished my silk shirt had short sleeves. With silk, roll the sleeves, and you have to iron the wrinkles out. I’m a menace with an iron, and Roz is not much better.
One thing about Roz as a housemate: I’m never tempted to borrow any of her clothes. Maybe I could do a hell of a job for Taylor Baines and afford a short-sleeved silk blouse as well as a new purse. The cops hadn’t found my bag in any of the likely dumps. If it didn’t turn up soon, I’d have to go through the dreaded driver’s license replacement rigamarole. By that time, I’d probably have frittered Baines’s money away on car repairs, taxes, cat food. The little luxuries.
“I should have called the doctor. She might not have been dead.” And then, later, “He did it. He’s trying to scare me.” I mumbled Dee’s words to myself as I walked, the same way I used to memorize songs back in the days of our group, Cambridge Common. It’s okay to eyeball the lyrics at rehearsal, Lorraine or Dee would lecture, but during performance, you better know it cold.
There are public phones galore in the new Copley Square park. The trick is finding an unvandalized one. It took me three tries, but I finally located one, punched my home number, and pressed my remote beeper to the receiver to collect my messages. A male voice said I’d left my number on his machine and could call him back at 555-9544. I checked my old black book, which I’d hurriedly stuffed into my purse after Taylor Baines’s summons. Angela’s number.
I dug another quarter out of my pocket. The man’s voice, live this time, identified himself as Roger Price and said he didn’t know any Angela. He asked if I’d gotten his number from Together, a local dating service. I asked if he knew Davey Dunrobie. He asked if I wanted to go out for a drink Saturday night. Sunday afternoon would be okay, too, if I was nervous about meeting a strange man at night. He said he was “technically” still married, but eagerly awaiting his divorce decree. I said good-bye.
Then I climbed the stone steps to the library’s main entrance, headed to the telephone directories room, and asked for a copy of Cole’s numerical. I looked up the untagged phone number from my old black book, the one with the recorded message in the laid-back easy voice, the one who hadn’t yet called
back, and wrote down the corresponding Charlestown address in my notebook. The street name struck no chimes in my memory. The phone was registered to Joseph P. Jenson. That didn’t ring bells either. Back at the pay phone, I tried the number.
The damn answering machine again. I left another plea to get in touch.
I thought about checking out Roz’s surveillance gig, decided she and Lemon could probably be relied upon to spot a three-foot-long bright red tube. I crossed Boylston Street to a Pizzeria Uno, sat at the last empty table, and ordered a small pepperoni and anchovy. Then I started making a mental list of the prime live-music bars in the area: Ryles, the Plough, Johnny D’s, Harper’s Ferry, Midnight the Kats, the Tam, Nightstage—places Dee used to play before she hit big. Joints where somebody might remember Dunrobie, where a sober Dunrobie might look for work.
A lady brought coffee. Abruptly I asked if it was too late to cancel the anchovies. She looked at me a little strangely, but said “no problem” in the heard-it-all voice of a long-term waitress. I left my jacket on my chair so no one would steal the table and headed for the public phone at the back of the restaurant.
Mooney was at his desk. I told him I’d already ordered, and would he like to meet over pizza in the Public Garden?
“No anchovies,” he said.
“Not a one.”
“Ten minutes.”
I sat back down and continued listing music bars on a second paper napkin. By the time the pizza arrived, two matrons toting heavy shopping bags were casting longing looks at my table. I asked the waitress to box the pizza for travel, pack up two soft drinks to go, and bring me the check.
She carried out all requests with dispatch. The pizza smelled crusty and spicy in its cardboard box. I stuffed extra napkins from the take-out counter into my pockets. The shopping-bag matrons descended on my table before I was out the door.
I do better with Mooney if I meet him outside the station. I do a lot better if I bring food.
Mooney is not one of these I’ve-got-a-secret cops who hoard information for the fun of it. The problem is he expects cooperation. And in the back of my mind I’m always afraid that if I don’t keep up with him, favor for favor, he’ll want personal attention in return for his help.
He’d probably never pull a stunt like that, but I don’t want to risk it. I make an effort to stay ahead on the balance sheet.
We met on the bridge and walked down the steps to the bench closest to the lagoon. It’s a coveted spot on spring days; in today’s humid heat, Mooney and I had no competition.
Across the lagoon, a young man was painting one of the swan boats, giving it a needed coat of glistening white. The bird looked ungainly out of the water, its bicycling mechanism indecently exposed. The rest of the fleet floated serenely, laden with tourists waving to nearby camera-pointing family members.
“They have a chance to autopsy the bass player?” I asked, after we’d each devoured a wedge. I always toss the crust to the squirrels. Mooney eats the whole thing.
“No such thing as a free lunch, huh?”
“Just asking.”
“It’s not a rush job, not with all the gunshots and stabbings. I hear it’s gonna be two to a drawer at the morgue pretty soon.”
It’s been a bad year for Boston homicides. The drug supply starts to dwindle, the big fish eat the little ones.
Mooney chewed a hunk of pizza, took a swig of Pepsi, and said, “Everybody I’ve talked to says the bass player was ‘moody.’ Of course, I’m talking to musicians here, music people. I haven’t talked to anybody I’d want to certify normal. And moody doesn’t mean suicidal.”
“Family?”
“Mother called after the local cops came round to break the news. Sounded as okay as anybody could, given the circumstances. Flying in from Topeka, Kansas. The father’s dead. Siblings someplace.”
“The prescription bottles on the table?”
“You want a whole lot for a little pizza.”
“I didn’t order anchovies. And maybe I’ve got something to trade.”
“I love maybes.”
The swan-boat painter finished the tip of one wing, circled his handiwork admiringly.
Mooney said, “One of the prescriptions belonged to the stiff. Anxiety medication. Serax. Low-grade stuff. The other was written to Dee Willis. Dalmane. Thirty milligrams. Legit scrip. So we know the victim saw a doctor, possibly a shrink, recently. I’ve got somebody out tracking the doctor. Also the L.A. doc who gave your buddy sleeping pills for the road.”
“But—”
“Don’t rush me. But there’s nothing yet to say that the drugs in the bottle are what the bass player took, right? We have to wait for the tox screen. Now, what have you got for me?”
“Remember we talked about somebody moving the body to Dee’s room?”
“I asked a uniform to check at the desk, but none of the clerks confessed to handing out a duplicate key to 812. Of course, hotel clerks lie to cops in uniform just for practice.”
I chewed a disk of pepperoni. The young man across the lagoon was still circling the swan, eyeing it from different angles.
“Did you ask to see all the linen in the hotel last night?” I said. “Or tell the manager to report any heavily soiled sheets or towels or stuff?”
“Damn,” he said. “I just checked Brenda’s room, not the whole hotel.”
“Too late to do the rest now?”
“I’ll call when I get back,” he said.
“And Brenda’s ‘boy-toy’?”
“You got something on him, or are we back to my turn?”
“Your turn, Mooney. Have another slice. I’m not that hungry.”
“You’re always hungry. We can’t even pin a name on the boyfriend, other than Ray.”
I tossed an edge of crust to a lagoon-swimming duck. Several others appeared from nowhere and converged in V-shaped formation. “Great,” I said. “All this case needs is a guy named Ray with no last name.”
“You are gonna tell me about the park, right?” Mooney asked.
“You don’t think Dee had anything to do with Brenda’s death, Moon, do you?”
“I’m supposed to write her off because she’s your friend?” he said.
“Based on the evidence,” I said evenly.
“Somebody wiped all the prints at the scene. Makes her look like a suspect.”
“Maybe her manager and her producer got a little carried away trying to protect her, Mooney. Aren’t you guys overdoing it a little?”
“She’s Dee Willis. I don’t want some city councillor or the mayor getting on my case about how we treat the rich and famous one way and the poor another.”
“Is there any heat to arrest her?”
“Not till after the autopsy. Probably not till after the concert. She brings bucks to our fair city.”
“Justice for all,” I said.
“I’m glad you’re asking questions,” he said.
“You are?”
“It makes me think you don’t know a whole lot more than I do.”
I crushed the pizza carton so it would fit in the bag with the empty soft-drink cups.
“You are planning to tell me about the park,” Mooney repeated.
I wondered if I should introduce Dunrobie’s name. Mooney might be able to find him faster than I could.
“She was looking for an old friend,” I said. “A guy we both used to know, come way down in the world.”
“Usually those are the friends you don’t want to find. They find you.”
“Well, Dee wants to find him.”
“Romance?”
I pretended to consider it. “Maybe guilt. She made it in the business; he didn’t.”
“Guilt’s funny, huh? A couple of my guys would like to arrest Willis just ’cause she’s acting so damned guilty. I mean, why’s she running around yelling she should have called the doctor, maybe this Brenda was still alive? That babe—excuse me—that lady had been dead for hours.”
“Yeah,�
� I said slowly, “I heard her say that stuff, but she didn’t seem like herself, you know, didn’t seem connected to what was going on.”
“Shock?” he said. “Drugs?”
“No,” I said. “More like she thought she was somewhere else, like she was remembering something.…”
“Go on,” Mooney said.
“This could be total crap, but Dee—Dee and I—had a friend who killed herself. A woman—a girl then—Lorraine Holbrook. Dee was one of the people who discovered her body, I think. I’m not a hundred percent sure on that. But even on the phone, Dee sounded weird, like she was flashing back—”
“Acid?” Mooney said.
“I’m not talking about any drug-induced hallucination. I just mean another death, a similar death, could have thrown her, made her remember that other time.”
Lorraine, I thought suddenly. “Sweet Lorraine.” A song title. A song.
“How’d you get mixed up with this whole weird crew?” Mooney asked.
“Huh?”
“Not that cops aren’t weird. I was just wondering. You okay?”
I kept my face carefully blank. “You mean, how I met Dee? Through the music. Dee and I once played together in a group. We’re old guitar friends from a lifetime ago.”
“Old guitar friends” didn’t say half of it. For me, a kid who’d picked up most of what I knew about the blues off scratchy 78’s, watching Dee play was a revelation and an education. If I’d been a novice painter in nineteenth-century Holland, it would have been like having van Gogh, that weird guy down the street, teach me a little about color.
I tried again. “I even thought about turning professional. I don’t think I was ever quite good enough, but I was backing Dee, and she makes you sound so damn fine. She studied with the Reverend Gary Davis. You know who that is?”
I expected Mooney’s negative nod and went right on. “Just one of the greatest of the great old bluesmen. She was one of his last students; he left her his guitar when he died. Reverend Davis—I saw him play once—the highest praise he ever gave another player, he’d say: ‘Right sportin’ playin’.” I remember every single time Dee said that to me. Just about gave me chills.”