Tanner spoke up. “We tested for a number of profiles through our VICAP database. Hammond did the same in London, but nothing hit. These murders had all the superficial attributes of a serial killer, but not the historic motives. That, combined with the sophistication and access, did not fit.”
Melendez said, “Based on my experience, these have the appearance of serial killings, but don’t look like the work of a serial killer.” Melendez went further. “The facts seem to suggest a variety of killers carrying out a hit. To me, it looks just like the work of a mob.”
The call erupted in a cacophony of voices.
“Why these people?”
“Who would do this?”
“What was the motive?”
“Why wasn’t that ever a consideration?”
“It can’t be.”
As the voices quieted, Gantry asked to speak.
“Years ago, I wrote an article about record company management and the control they had over their rock ‘assets,’ as they were called. Back then, the industry was dominated by a few powerful and reclusive individuals who controlled and protected every aspect of their assets, milking profits through one-sided contracts and routinely replacing anyone who opposed them. This was strictly business for them, and they were ruthless. Many groups were afraid of them, but that was the price for access and stardom at the time.”
“Gantry, I think you may be on to something!” exclaimed Melendez. “As some of you know, we found a common name in the original filings for the St. Albans and Carlton pharmacies: Joseph M. Clark of Los Angeles. Yesterday we also discovered a Joseph M. Clark in the filings for Nevermore Travel, the agency that issued the Al Wilson ticket. We have been unable to locate him. The address in L.A. was an abandoned warehouse.”
Tanner chimed in. “Agent Melendez, on a hunch, I had the property records for that address researched to see who owned it in the sixties. The owner was a small record company called Lexington Records. We have been unable to get anything on that company, but have reached out to the International Record Association for assistance. Perhaps Clark may have been associated with that record company.”
“The messages I received were precisely worded,” Gantry said, “and have helped us discover that these individuals may have been murdered. But I believe there was more to the messages. Aside from their age, they had another common element that we are overlooking: most were related to either recordings or performances that were done outside the norm of the musicians’ contracts in some way, on the sly, so to speak. In fact, many of these stars were trying to get out of their contracts.”
Gantry nodded to Raphael and then looked at Jodi.
“Let me read from a letter from Janis Joplin that I received three months before she died, “… they threatened me…that if I didn’t live up to my contract that I could end up like Jimi. I don’t know if they’re just shittin’ me or serious, but I am scared. Really scared. These Irish guys don’t give a shit about anyone. It’s all money to them...”
“Gantry, you may be right,” Tanner said. “Some of the old papers and interview notes in the evidence boxes mentioned that Jones owned the rights to the Rolling Stones’ name and wanted to start a new group with Hendrix. Ham had quit his group to break his contract three days before his death. Hendrix was speaking to an attorney about not renewing his contract. Wilson wanted out. Morrison wanted out. We see that Joplin wanted out. McKernan wanted out.”
Bruce was astonished. “Could this be the commonality we need?”
“I’m not sure, Robert,” Melendez said, “but let’s do a formal motive analysis as soon as possible on record company motivations for these stars, and also dig into company ownership. Robert, can you, Inspector Prevot, and MacAlistair call me back on my secure line? We will reconvene this group call later today.”
Within minutes, all three called back.
Melendez said, “Gentlemen, I had one of our financial forensic analysts look into the bank records of Nevermore Travel. I just sent you a graphic of the outflows over a five-year period that shows a steady flow of money, with periodic spikes. Compare that to the same chart, but this time highlighted for the dates of each star’s death. Notice the pronounced spike in outflows during the preceding week: $25,000 a pop. A precise correlation between the death and the spike. The copies of the outflows we could find were all checks made out to cash.”
“This is unbelievable!” Bruce gasped. “Especially now that we know that one individual was common to the pharmacies and the travel agency. Has he shown up elsewhere in the commonalities analysis?”
“Not yet. At this stage, we don’t even know if Clark was a real person.”
They all agreed.
The offbeat clues that began with Gantry and a plain manila envelope now appeared to support neither a myth nor a serial killer, but a concerted, well-planned series of murders. The questions that needed to be answered now were why? and by whom? And why twenty-seven? It was beginning to look like everything pointed back to the money trail.
Angus Hislop’s house Westport, CT
Hislop had told the maid that he had some business to attend to and would be back shortly. He didn’t say where he was going, but she thought she saw him loading a cardboard box and assumed he was going to drop or send them off somewhere. He borrowed her car because he said that his gold clubs were in the trunk of his Mercedes.
The TSA and Canadian Border Control had been alerted, and the agency put Hislop on the no-fly list. There would be no way he could fly out of the country, but it was possible that he could drive the back routes into Canada—and at any rate, he had a head start, so anything was possible.
“Agent Melendez, Agent Stratton here. No sign of Hislop at his home. Forensics is going through it top to bottom and will extract all the hard drives,” Stratton explained, “but it’s pretty clean thus far. Except, I did find…”
“What?” Melendez immediately blurted.
“I did find an unopened letter on his desk addressed to Gantry Elliot.”
“Can you open it please?” Melendez asked.
The agent snapped on his forensic gloves, opened the envelope and began reading the enclosed handwritten letter.
“Looks like it was written in a hurry,” he commented.
“Read it please,” Melendez ordered.
He began:
Dear Mr. Elliot,
I have gone into seclusion to protect my life and that of my family’s. This is not going the way I had planned. I am certain that they now know that we have been in contact.
I have in my possession information that will help you bring justice to those artists that were killed. This goes much deeper than you can imagine. That is why I had to get out years ago. Having this evidence has kept me safe all these years.
Brigid Greeley is a lawyer for the recording industry and also general counsel for the International Record Association in Washington, D.C.
Go see her. Make it a surprise. Tell her your investigating some possible murders in the rock and roll industry. Cold cases. And you need access to old industry corporate records.
Can’t tell you anymore, but she is a piece of the puzzle that you need.
DO NOT USE MY NAME.
She is sharp, conniving, and a fit bird, by the way.
Stay one step ahead of her.
I will make contact with you once I am safe. One favor. Please have the authorities protect my daughter and granddaughter in London. They believe I died years ago. Below are their addresses.
Sincerely,
A.H.
PS: To answer your question. The artifacts that I sent you were actually confirmations that actions had been taken.
“Agent Stratton, send a picture to me. Thank you.” Melendez hung up and buzzed Tanner.
“Tanner, grab Gantry and get in here. We have fresh correspondence from Hislop and I need an investigation on a D.C. attorney named Brigid Greely immediately!” Melendez ordered.
Washington, D.C.
L
ate Morning
Greely and Associates and was located in the high-rent district at 2200 Pennsylvania Avenue, just blocks from the White House. The team had already done a thorough background search on Greely and, as Hislop had told Gantry, she was the general counsel for the International Record Association in Washington.
But that was just the tip of the iceberg. She also represented several large record companies, with a client roster straight out of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. One that interested Melendez especially was a company called 1969 Platters, based in London and a subsidiary of Sony-BMG. It was formed in 2006 and founded by Jim Wainscott. Wainscott, the team discovered, was much older than one would expect a working record executive to be; he was seventy-five. They didn’t have much information on the label other than that it featured indie-rock and pop groups.
Melendez was provided an article from the London Times about this label’s top star, a twenty-seven-year-old phenomenon with a brilliant career ahead of him, found dead of a heart attack the year before. The spokeswoman in the article was the label’s attorney, Ms. Brigid Greely, who was quoted on the tragedy, along with the rest of the sentiments said at such events, “Too young for a heart attack.”
Gantry didn’t know what a “fit bird” was until he and Melendez were escorted into Brigid Greely’s offices on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Greely was stunning. She stood to greet them from behind a massive glass-and-chrome desk. Her view from the eighteenth floor was incomparable, with glimpses of the White House, the Capitol building, and the top of the Washington Monument.
Gantry tried not to stare, but took in the landscape quickly nonetheless. She had long auburn hair and iridescent round green eyes. He guessed her age at forty-something. She was about five-foot-seven and had a stunning row of brilliant white teeth. Oddly, she wore no jewelry, with the exception of two small diamond studs in her ears. Not even a watch. The surprise, though, was her outfit. She had on a black Armani skirt, a tight knit top and, Gantry noticed as she came around the desk, a pair of red cowboy boots.
“Hello, gentlemen. Please have a seat,” Greely said, gesturing to two leather chairs. “I’ll take the couch,” she said with a smile.
Melendez appeared to peruse the accolades, degrees, and pictures on the walls.
“Who’s this in the picture with you and Bill Wyman?” he asked. Gantry leaned down to look closer at the picture of the three arm-in-arm, something familiar catching his eye.
“No one you’d know,” Greely replied. There was an edge to her voice. “He’s only somewhat involved in the record industry. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of a meeting with an FBI agent and…” Greely hesitated. “I’m sorry—what is it that you do, Mr. Elliot?” Her tone sounded almost flirtatious.
“I’m an editor with Rolling Stone magazine,” answered Gantry
“That so? Now that’s one for the books, Rolling Stone and the FBI working together.”
“Ms. Greely, Mr. Elliot is consulting with the Bureau, helping me sort through some things,” Melendez explained.
“Oh, that is interesting! A kind of music historian? What, C&W or some other genre?” Greely asked.
“Classic,” Gantry answered.
“Classical?” she said
Gantry corrected the misconception. “No, not classical. Rock and roll classics.”
Brigid Greely could always smell a bad deal coming her way, and this one was a real stinker.
“Well, then,” she said. “What can I do for the FBI today?”
“We are investigating a series of murders, Ms. Greely.”
Melendez let it lie there.
Equally cool, Greely smiled again. “And?”
“And they involve several rock stars. Since you are, well, who you are, we thought you might help us.”
“And who do you think I am?”
“The representative of quite a few record labels and general counsel for the International Record Association.”
“That is correct, Agent Melendez,” she responded. “And you do quite a bit of work involving ownership rights and copyright cases and also have access to legacy international company information.”
“Also correct. So what has all that to do with your case? Really, gentlemen, I’m very busy. What do you need from me? I’d be glad to help a bona fide music historian and a special agent if you’ll just tell me what this is all about.”
“You’re right Ms. Greely,” Melendez said. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you much about the investigation, it’s still ongoing. However, I can tell you that what we are looking for is some record industry account information.”
“What kind of account? I’d be glad to help you.”
Gantry saw her eyes flick to the window and back. Like hell you would.
“Right now, we’re interested in information from the late sixties and early seventies for Elektra Records, a company called 1969 Platters, and Purple Haze Records.”
“That’s quite an order.”
“I know it’s an unusual request, but let’s start with Purple Haze.”
“It’s fascinating that you should mention that particular label, Mr. Melendez. Purple Haze is an interesting story. Maybe Mr. Elliot knows this as well. The chain of rights to Hendrix’s music from 1966 on was owned by Yameta, a Bahamaian company, ninety percent of which belonged to a man named John Hillman. Hendrix was simply a Yameta employee. In 1976, Yameta was dissolved, and all assets, as well as publishing rights to the music, were retained by Hillman, who had no experience in the music industry and apparently had no clue as to the marketing potential of what he’d inherited.
“There’s more, but as I said, I’m very busy today. Why don’t you put in a request for whatever you need and e-mail it to my assistant, Ms. Quincy. She’ll give you the particulars.”
Greely stood up and shook hands with Gantry and then with Melendez.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Greely. I will connect with your assistant,” Melendez said.
As the two men walked out the office, Melendez asked the receptionist for Ms. Quincy’s number and e-mail, and then they continued down the long marble hallway to the elevators.
“She’s a tough cookie,” Melendez said. “Notice how she rattled all that Purple Haze stuff off the top of her head? She would be a good one for you to play rock and roll Scrabble with, Gantry.”
The elevator seemed to stop at every floor on the way down, and it took forever for the garage valet to bring up the car, but soon the two men were out in the clamor and anger of late-afternoon Pennsylvania Avenue traffic.
Melendez was already on his phone dialing Ms. Quincy. As he pulled out into traffic she answered and he introduced himself, explaining what he needed from the record company files.
“Certainly, Agent Melendez. Give me your number and e-mail and a few days to see if I can help.”
“Thank you.”
Melendez knew a runaround when he saw one. He’d give Greely a little room, but not much.
Suddenly, Gantry smacked himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand.
“What’s the matter?” Melendez said.
“Shit! Turn around. Now!”
“What? What for?”
“I left my valise in her office next to my chair.”
“Does it have what I think it has in it?”
“Yep.”
“Why the hell did you bring that with you? I thought Tanner put you through a crash course!” Melendez yelled, furious. He pulled the red light up from the back seat floor and put in on the roof.
Back at 2200 Pennsylvania Avenue, Melendez and Gantry ran to the elevators. The receptionist was on the phone when they approached her desk.
Gantry was out of breath. “Is Ms. Greely still in her office?”
The receptionist, recognizing the two men, said, “No, I’m sorry. She’s left for the day and won’t return until tomorrow. Can I be of any assistance?”
“Yes, I’m sure you remember us. We were just here meeting with he
r. I left my valise in her office. I wonder if you could get it for me? It’s very important.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t. Ms. Greely locks her office whenever she leaves. No one is allowed in there.”
Melendez pulled out his badge.
“Ma’am, I am FBI Special Agent Melendez. That valise is official government property. Now please, open the office.”
“I wish I could help you, but no one has a key and I don’t think Ms. Greely would be very happy if you broke in.”
“Call Security, we need to get in her office!” Melendez ordered. The receptionist immediately called Security, explained the situation, and handed the phone to him. Their answer was short and sweet. Without an emergency or court order, they would not break into her office.
While Melendez tried to figure his next move. Gantry walked over to the glass wall separating the reception area from Greely’s office. He could see the valise sitting next to the chair he’d sat in.
Gantry turned, “Ma’am, are you sure Ms. Greely isn’t returning until tomorrow?”
“I’m certain.”
“Could you call her and see if there isn’t some way we can get into her office?”
“I’m afraid not. She left strict orders not to be disturbed. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Gantry turned to the glass again. He considered banging his head against it.
Then he saw it.
The zipper of the valise was halfway closed. He always zipped his valise completely for fear of something dropping out of it.
“What time does Miss Greely arrive in the morning?” Gantry asked.
“She is usually in by nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be here.”
Brigid Greely sat in her Mercedes holding a burner cell phone she’d purchased at the 7-Eleven. The phone was loaded with three hours of time. Her mentor had taught her years ago how valuable they could be when one wanted to converse discreetly about business issues—or private ones.
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