by David Archer
“So you're saying that Barry Wallace either disappeared deliberately for whatever reason, or someone did something to him, right?”
Sam nodded. “I'm thinking along those lines, yeah. If he got drunk and went on a bender, then he may turn up all on his own, but my gut says this isn't one of those cases. I think Mr. Wallace has fallen victim to foul play, simply because he seems to be a guy who was trying to hold his own life, and other people's lives, together. He wouldn't flake out like this, not without trying to make some provision for the band, especially the girl he was cleaning up.”
Indie nodded, thoughtfully. “One of the band, you think?”
“That's definitely where I plan to start. Let's see if you can get into his accounts and find out if any of them might have been hostile to him lately. People are so into email and social media nowadays that they don’t even think about sending hateful or threatening messages that way as being something that can lead back to them. And see if you can get anything on his phone records, too.”
She smiled. “I'm on it, Chief!”
Sam grimaced. “Indie, please don't call me Chief; I hate that!”
She looked sheepish. “Sorry, Sam,” she said.
They moved into the dining room where Indie kept her computer, and she went online to begin looking into Barry's life. Running him through several databases that compiled information on Americans gave her some insights into his background.
Barry Wallace was not quite thirty, and had a checkered past. He had a number of DUI's on his record, but none in the past three years, and he had been in trouble a few times in his teens, but nothing worse than smoking pot and drinking. He'd grown up right there in Denver, attended high school and college within the metro area, and had a degree in journalism. He'd worked many different jobs, including a couple of stints with newspapers, but mostly he seemed to gravitate toward the music industry.
He'd spent the past two years working as a sound engineer in a small recording studio, and that's how he'd met Chris. They'd become friends, written a few songs together, and when Chris heard Barry sing them for demo tracks, he was blown away. With his encouragement, Barry had agreed to sing lead for the new band, and he'd been building a fan base rapidly. The band was popular in the entire area, playing night clubs, resorts and even many of the Casinos that had opened up around Colorado. Casino gigs were considered a step towards success for a band or performer, and there were rumors of a possible recording contract in the offing.
Barry's parents still lived in Aurora, and he had two sisters who were younger than him. Indie added their names and addresses to the database she was creating, as well as the names of several of his old friends that turned up. After nearly an hour of searching, she had a substantial pile of data, and loaded it all into “Herman.”
Herman was a computer program she had written herself that could scan through tons of data and look for common threads, match facts against other facts and generally find things much faster than human searchers could hope to do. He also found things that humans were likely to overlook, and could compile all of his info into reports that Indie could read. Once he'd done his thing in data mining, she could then tell him to look for what she called “keys,” things that people commonly use when creating passwords or security questions, and then he would begin trying to get into email, social media and other online accounts.
She set him up with his instructions and told Sam she was going to bed. He'd been sitting there quietly, watching her as she worked, which was one of his favorite pastimes. Indie was a beautiful young woman, and Sam thought that just looking at her constituted a great way to spend time.
“Alright, Kiddo,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
2
Morning came, and Sam joined Indie and Kenzie for breakfast, like always, then let Indie show him what Herman had been up to.
“We've gotten into Barry's email and Facebook accounts, and he hasn't been online for at least a week,” she said. “The thing is, some of the last emails he sent were all to one person, a guy named Jimmy Smith, who seems to be a talent agent. Check this out, it looks like Barry was being offered a recording contract.”
Sam leaned over to read the email she had opened.
Barry, I've talked to Mick at Sony, and they're ready to make this official and get serious, but you've got to get over your stubbornness. They want you, but they don't want your band, and if your guys are any kind of friends, they'll understand. They're a good band for bar and club gigs, but they're just not ready for the big time. You've got to let go of them, and they need to let go of you.
You sign this contract and I can have you opening for Three Days Grace for their entire next tour! That's two hundred dates next year, and you'll be pulling down 10 G's a show! If you can't see the handwriting on the wall, then I don't know what to tell you.
Talk to the band, and let them know this isn't personal, it's just business. Sony wants you, and if you sign with them, your career is made. Let me know ASAP!
Jimmy
“Did he ever answer?” Sam asked.
Indie shook her head. “Nope. He read it, but never answered it, and it came in the day he disappeared. All the emails from Jimmy before this one, he answered within a few hours.”
“Find me this Jimmy Smith, let's see what he's got to say.”
“Already did. Here's his number, let me get him on the phone for you.” She picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello, is Jimmy in? Yes, my name is Indiana Perkins, and I work for Sam Prichard, a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Barry Wallace. Yes, I'll hold.” She handed the phone to Sam, and whispered, “They're getting him.”
A moment later, Sam heard, “This is Jimmy, talk to me!”
“Jimmy, this is Sam Prichard. I'm a private investigator looking into the circumstances around the disappearance of Barry Wallace, and I've been told that you were talking to him about a recording contract.”
“Damn right, I was,” Smith said. “We were supposed to sign it last week, but I haven't been able to get hold of him. You got any idea where he is?”
“Not yet, no,” Sam said. “I was actually hoping that you might have heard from him, and could give me some ideas.”
“I ain't heard a peep, but I can tell you what I think. Barry was about to make it big, and I mean big with a capital B-I-G! The only thing holding him back was loyalty to his band, but the label didn't want them, only him. He said at first he wouldn't sign without them, but the last time we talked on the phone, Saturday before last, he said he was gonna cut 'em loose and sign, cause it was just too good a deal to pass up.”
“Do you know if he ever talked to them about it? The band is who hired me, and they didn’t mention anything about this at all.”
“All I know is he said he was gonna tell 'em that night, and I haven't been able to reach him since. To be honest, I'm starting to wonder if he'll ever turn up. There's been stories in the past about somebody about to make it big, but they had to cut someone loose, and then they're never seen again, y'know? This is starting to feel like one of them.”
Sam nodded into the phone. “Maybe. Thanks for you help.” He hung up without saying anything more.
“He says Barry was going to tell the band the night he disappeared that he was gonna sign without them. If he did, and one of them got mad, we could be looking at a murder.”
Indie looked at him for a moment. “Seems odd, if one of them killed him or whatever, they'd want to hire you to try to find him. I mean, that'd lead right back to them, wouldn't it? I'd think so, anyway.”
“People do strange things after they kill someone. Hiring me might make the killer think it makes them look innocent, like the guy who steals something, and then accidentally finds it and returns it when people start looking his way.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I got Barry's phone records here; he did call Jimmy Smith's cell number a little while after that email came in, and then he called Chris, the guitar playe
r. That’s the last call made from his phone, but there are a lot of calls that came in to it. Several from Jimmy, and four or five from each of the band members, including Chris.”
“That call to Chris, that was on Saturday, so that's the call he mentioned. He claims Barry never showed up to talk, and he hasn't seen or heard from him since. If he's telling the truth, then that makes me think Barry talked to one of the others, first. If not, then Chris would be my number one suspect, if I knew Barry was dead.”
“Think Chris would call his phone, if he killed him? Trying to look innocent again?”
“Yeah, that would be normal. Wish I could hear if they left voicemails.”
Indie grinned. “Give me a minute,” she said, and then went to her room. She returned a few minutes later with a cell phone that wasn't her own. “I got his phone's electronic ID number from his carrier's records. If I can clone this one to it, then maybe we can get into his voicemails and listen to them.”
She started punching keys on the phone, and a few minutes later she said, “Bingo! Let's try it.” She put it on speaker, punched in a code, and they could hear ringing on the other end.
“Welcome to your voice messages. Please enter your password.”
Indie punched in four zeroes, and smiled up at Sam. “I reset it through the carrier's system, so it would let us in this way,” she said.
“You have thirty seven new messages. To listen to new messages, press one.” Indie did, and they began to listen to message after message.
Barry, it's Chris. You still comin'?
Barry, this is Jimmy. You get this all worked out? Call me!
Barry, it's Jan, I need you to call me, okay? Or you can come by, if you want. Bye.
Barry, dude, it's Jimmy! Where are you hiding? Call me, we don't wanna blow this!
Hey, Bare, it's Chris. What's the deal, man, it's almost five and we go on at Biggie's at seven. Where you at?
Barry? It's Jan, Barry, where are you? Why haven't you come over? I need you! Please call me!
The rest of the messages were similar, all from Jimmy or the band members wanting to know where he was, and why he wasn't calling them back. There was one message from one of his sisters, all ticked off and asking if he had forgotten his niece's dance program, but that was the only one that was not from the band or the agent.
“Nothing really suspicious, there, other than the fact that he never got these messages. Got anything else at the moment?”
Indie shook her head. “Nope. What's next?”
Sam thought for a moment. “Barry called Chris after he got the email from Jimmy, which lends credibility to Jimmy's statement that Barry was going to tell the band he was taking the contract. On the other hand, neither Chris nor anyone else from the band mentioned it, and they claim they never saw him since the night before. I think it's time to ask Chris point blank what he knew; he seems to be the leader, maybe even the band's manager. I'm gonna pay him an early morning visit and see what I can shake out of him. Call me if you find anything else, okay?”
“You got it,” Indie said.
Sam said goodbye to Kenzie and walked out the door to get into his van. They had gotten all the band members' addresses the night before, and he punched Chris's address into the GPS on his phone as he pulled away. The directions took him into a nice neighborhood in Arvada, and he parked in front of a neat little bungalow, then walked up to the door.
He knocked several times before he heard someone moving around inside, and a moment later the door was opened by Candy, the bass player. She looked at him for a moment, recognition running a little slow, and then smiled.
“Hey,” she said, “the PI guy, right?”
Sam grinned. “Right. Is Chris home?”
She nodded and opened the door up wide. “Yeah, c'mon in, I'll get him.” He followed her inside and watched her walk down a hallway, suddenly realizing she was wearing nothing but a t-shirt that wasn't quite long enough. He turned and studied the living room until he heard Chris come out of his bedroom.
Chris had also obviously been sleeping, and was pulling a shirt over his head as he came into the room. “Hey,” he said, “you find him already?”
Sam shook his head. “No, but I've come across something I hope you can clear up for me. Do you know an agent named Jimmy Smith?”
Chris rolled his eyes. “Jimmy? Heck, yes, Jimmy's always been around, man. He's the guy who always makes lots of promises but unless you kiss his ass, he never delivers. A couple weeks back, he told Barry he could get him on some big label, but he'd have to leave the band, and Barry told him go suck eggs. Why? He know something about where our boy is?”
Sam studied his face, and saw no sign that Chris was nervous or lying. “No, but he claims that Barry agreed to sign a contract, and was going to tell all of you guys that he was dumping you the night he disappeared. I checked his phone records, and he called you about a minute after the last time he talked to Jimmy. Little while later, you called him back and left a voicemail asking him if he was still coming over. That makes it sound like Jimmy could be telling the truth.”
Chris scratched at his beard. “Barry called me that afternoon, said he needed to talk to me and would be over in a half hour, but he never showed. I remember I waited til about two, then called him back, but he didn't get back to me. That's it. Jimmy really said that? Cause, that was one thing Barry was like, uber-stubborn about—he flat refused to take the deal unless it was for all of us. He hadn’t even mentioned Jimmy in better'n a week, at least. I'd pretty much forgot about him.”
Candy came back into the room, then, wearing jeans and a different t-shirt. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Chris turned to her. “Remember that agent that was after Barry a while back? He claims Barry was gonna sign and dump us, and he was supposed to tell us that the night he disappeared.”
Candy scoffed. “That's bull crap,” she said. “Last time he mentioned it to me, he said he wouldn't be any good if he had to work with a band he didn't know, so he told 'em no.”
Sam nodded. “Still sounds funny he'd call Jimmy, then call you and say he needed to talk. He didn't say what it was about, nothing at all?”
Chris shook his head. “Nope. Just said he needed to talk, but you gotta understand, that wasn't anything unusual. Barry'd come over to talk about just about anything on his mind. He said I was his sounding board, and he could bounce ideas off me, or just gripe about stuff and let the stress off. He was always callin' and sayin' he needed to talk.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “I just wanted to clear that up. I'll let you know if I come up with anything else.” He turned toward the door, then stopped and looked back at Chris. “What's the band doing while Barry's gone?” he asked.
Chris shrugged his shoulders. “We keep rehearsing, kinda hopin' he'll just show up like nothin' happened. That's what he used to do, y'know, take off on a bender and then walk back in a week or two later like it was just the next day. We're in rehearsal this afternoon, about two if you wanna come by. It's over at Stan's place, we use his garage. A real garage band, that's us.” He grinned as he said it.
Sam nodded. “Thanks, I might. I listened to your CD, and it was pretty good. I used to front for a band myself, years ago in high school, then a couple times in college, so I'd enjoy sittin' in on a jam session.”
Chris laughed. “Come on, then, man, we'll stick a mike in your hand and let you relive the glory days.”
Sam grinned and thanked him, then went back to the van. He sat in it for a few moments, thinking.
Nothing in Chris or Candy's demeanor suggested that they were lying, but it was possible that they anticipated the question and had rehearsed their responses. He was sure they'd tell Stan and Janice about it, but he thought that seeing them in their rehearsal might let him watch their interactions, get an idea whether any of them were nervous about his presence.
He drove back toward the house, but called Indie once he was on the way. “Got anything new?”
“Well, I'm not really sure,” she said. “I found the band's fan page on Facebook, and there are some pretty nasty comments there from a guy who claims Barry stole some song lyrics from him, and the songs he's complaining about are a couple of their biggest hits, including Another Good Day. He says he wrote them once when he and Barry were jamming together, and Barry just took them and claimed them as his own. The odd thing is, I found this guy's website, and he's a pretty good songwriter; a lot of his stuff does sound like these songs, so it could be true.”
“Interesting,” Sam said. “Got his name and address?”
“Yep, I knew you'd ask, so here it is. His name is Bill Miller, and he lives at the Grand Crowne Apartments on East Evans Avenue, number four twenty. Doesn't have a job as far as I can tell, and he's on Facebook pretty much all the time.”
“Okay,” Sam said, “I'm on the way to see him.”
Sam didn't need GPS for this one; the Grand Crowne was a hotbed of criminal activity, and he'd been there many times during his ten years as a cop. It took him almost a half hour to get to the place, but he found unit four twenty with no problem and rang the doorbell.
When the door opened, Sam was surprised to see a very small man; Bill Miller was what used to be called a midget, a very short person who was of normal proportions. Bill was about four and half feet tall, and if you weren't aware of his age, he would have looked like he might be a ten year old boy.
“Yeah?” he said in a high voice, looking annoyed. “Whatever you’re sellin', I ain't buyin'!” He started to close the door, but stopped when he saw Sam's ID held in front of his face.
“Mr. Miller, I'm Sam Prichard, private investigator. I'm looking into the disappearance of Barry Wallace, and it's come to my attention that you and he were acquainted, and not on the best of terms?”