Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  I wondered whether they realized that a murderer might be among them.

  “I’m going to see what Culligan and Marsten found out,” Friedman said. “That’s the key—backstage security.” But his voice lacked its usual note of flat, complacent confidence. I thought I knew why. The hoopla had thrown him off stride.

  I was looking at David Behr, who was surrounded by a group of costumed performers, stagehands and two men dressed in three-piece suits. Two of the performers were women. One of them was dressed in calico and homespun. She was crying, her cheeks streaked with makeup. The other woman was Pam Cornelison. Standing half a head taller than Behr, beautiful in her shimmering blue silk jump suit, Cornelison’s eyes were dry, her expression cool and calm.

  “Have you talked with Behr?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll talk to him.”

  “Good idea.”

  I walked over to the group surrounding Behr, and saw them fall silent as I approached. Some of them avoided my eyes; others looked at me with a mixture of cynicism and skepticism. The crying woman dabbed futilely at her eyes, making the runny makeup worse. Pam Cornelison transferred her calm, speculative stare from Behr to me.

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mr. Behr. Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  Behr studied me for a long, deliberate moment before he asked, “Are you in charge of the investigation? Is that it?” His voice was brisk and clipped, accustomed to command. Beneath their dark, uncompromising brows, his small black eyes were as hard and unrevealing as two pieces of round, smooth obsidian. Even though he was a small man, Behr’s muscle-bunched shoulders and his thick neck gave the impression of power. With his coarse hair falling in unruly curls across a broad, low forehead, Behr seemed more like a rough-and-tumble stevedore than a man who’d made a million before he turned forty.

  I nodded, looking him straight in the eye. “That’s it.”

  Apparently satisfied that I was important enough to claim some of his time, Behr turned abruptly away from the group, leading the way around the closest corner of the stage. Standing in an angle formed by the stage and an orange nylon curtain that fell to the floor, we could talk without interruption.

  Turning to face me, Behr thrust his hands deep into his pockets, rocked forward on the balls of his feet and demanded, “Well? What’s it look like?”

  I studied him for a moment, then decided to say, “The truth is, it doesn’t look like much. All we’ve got is the gun, and not much else. I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Help you? How?”

  “First, by telling me who would have wanted to kill her.”

  Behr’s thick lips twisted in a tight, grim smile. The smile didn’t warm his eyes. And it didn’t change the hard, aggressive line of his bulldog jaw.

  “If you’re asking whether Rebecca had enemies,” Behr said, “the answer is ‘yes.’ Lots of them. But if you’re asking who could’ve killed her—” Still with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, he shrugged, once more rising on his toes. “That’s something else. And it’s not something I care to speculate about.”

  “You say she had enemies. Are any of them here?”

  “You mean right here? Backstage?”

  I nodded. “That’s what I mean. Right here.”

  I saw his dark eyes shrewdly narrow. Then, abruptly, he moved two bandy-legged paces away from the stage and stood with his back to me, surveying the backstage scene. Again, he looked like Napoleon out of uniform, this time reviewing his troops. Finally he turned to face me.

  “Remember, now,” he said truculently, “I’m not talking about terms like ‘enemies.’ And, sure as hell, I’m not going to speculate about motives for murder. However, I’m willing to supply some input. The conclusions are up to you.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “In other words,” he pressed, “it’s off the record.”

  “All I need are names, Mr. Behr. As for what’s off the record, there’s no witness to what we’re saying. So, automatically, it’s off the record.”

  “Okay—” He pointed toward the group he’d just left. “Rebecca’s biggest current non-fan is probably Pam Cornelison. She introduced me, on stage just now.”

  “I know. What’s her story?”

  Her story is that she’s Pure Power’s number two singer, after Rebecca. And Pam’s coming up fast, some say. Myself included. I was telling the truth when I said that Rebecca never sang better than she sang tonight. But that was tonight. The last year, though, she’s been going downhill. Fast.”

  “And Pam Cornelison was her competition. Is that right?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. You’ve got it.”

  “Why did Rebecca start to slide? Was there a reason?”

  “Some would say she was just plain burned out. This is a full-throttle business, you know. Either you give it everything, or you’re out on your ass. It’s that simple. And she’d been going full throttle almost nine years. Full throttle, and then some.” He paused, then said, “But I don’t think that was it. Or, anyhow, it wasn’t the whole story. Her personal life was a mess. She started drinking too much, and doping too much. Which is always the beginning of the end, guaranteed.”

  “What was wrong with her personal life?”

  “The usual,” he answered. “Men. Sex. Love.” Indifferently, he shrugged. “Take your pick.”

  “It’s all the same.”

  “Right. It’s the same merry-go-round. The faster you go, the harder it is to get off.”

  “You said you were married to her.”

  He didn’t reply, but only nodded. His black eyes revealed nothing.

  Matching his silent stare, I let the silence lengthen. Then, quietly, I said: “Can you give me a rundown on her, Mr. Behr—a thumbnail sketch of her life, maybe? It would be very helpful.”

  With his brooding, uncompromising eyes boring into mine, he took a moment to consider. Then, again, he shrugged his chunky shoulders. The shrug was apparently a trademark.

  “Did you ever hear of Bernard Carlton?” he asked brusquely.

  “The writer? Sure. You mean—?”

  He nodded. “Rebecca’s father. And if you want to understand how Rebecca got the way she was, you’ve got to start with her father. He was a goddamn monster. He had neuroses that rock musicians never heard of. And that’s saying something.”

  “But he was talented.”

  “Right. Talented. And so was Rebecca. We started in this business about the same time, Rebecca and I. Literally, we made each other. She was nineteen years old when I first heard her sing. I was thirty-four. I was just scratching out a living, trying to find someone I could make explode. She was the one. She signed with me and I got a group together behind her. The timing was perfect. San Francisco was where it was just starting to happen, and Rebecca jumped way out in front. Me, too. A year later, when she got her first gold record, we celebrated by getting married.

  “It only lasted two years—two roller-coaster years. We were both of us off on our own separate highs. Looking back—” He shrugged. “Looking back, I can see that, among other things, we made the mistake of believing what we paid people to write about us. She was the ‘reigning queen of rock,’ and I was the ‘rock impresario,’ a ‘genius.’” He snorted bitterly, shaking his head. “Big deal.”

  “But it was true, it seems.”

  Once more, he snorted. “Sure it was true, if you went by the sales figures. The problem was, though, that we were destroying ourselves, and our marriage, and a half dozen people around us in the process. Neither of us had the faintest idea who we were, or where we were really going. All we knew was that we wanted more of everything—more money, more fame, more success. But the more we got, the more we wanted. And by the time we realized what was happening, it was too late. Or, at least, it was too late for Rebecca. She started running wild. She was on the road most of the time, and I was here. Inevitably, she started screwing around. And—” Again, the shoulder-bunc
hed shrug. “And I did, too. It was all part of the life. The more sensations you had—the more men or women you screwed—the more you wanted.

  “So finally, two years later, we got divorced. But, as you heard me say earlier, we were still business partners. I—” He paused, and for the first time his voice sank to a softer, more reflective note. “I always tried to look after her, financially, at least. And in—other ways, too, whenever I could.” He blinked, and cleared his throat. He was staring at Rebecca’s motor home, with “Pure Power” painted on the side in huge block letters.

  “Did she get married again?”

  “Oh, sure. Immediately. She married Sam Wright, the singer.” He glanced at me. “Ever hear of him?”

  “No. I don’t know much about music, I’m afraid. I just know the famous names, that’s all—Dylan, Ronstadt, Carlton.”

  “Yeah. Well, the point is that Sam might’ve been one of them, if he hadn’t married Rebecca. He had it all—he was on his way. He could write the songs, and he could sing them, too. With management, he could’ve done it all, no question.”

  “Were you his manager?”

  “No, I wasn’t. But I knew him, and tried to help him. I always liked Sam. I warned him not to marry her. But, of course, he thought I was jealous. And, looking back, I can’t blame him. It was only natural.”

  “I take it they’re not still married.”

  “As a matter of fact, they are. Or rather—” He winced. “They were. But it hasn’t been a marriage for years. Not really. Or, at least, not for Sam. I gather that, once in a while, when Rebecca was playing San Francisco, she’d drop by Sam’s place for a quick screw and maybe some scrambled eggs in the morning. But that was the end of it. She married him, and she sucked him dry. And then she left him. I always thought of her like you think of the female praying mantis. She finds a mate, and copulates with him—and then she eats him. That’s what happened to Sam. She destroyed him. She made it a contest, him or her. But there was never any question who would win. She was strong, and Sam was weak. Or, at least, he was weaker than Rebecca.”

  “You make her sound almost vicious,” I said.

  Once more, he shrugged impassively. “Rebecca was a mankiller. In this business, you see a lot of them. Maybe it goes with the territory. Sometimes I think it does.”

  “She didn’t kill you,” I prompted.

  Slowly, he shook his head. “No, she didn’t. So we got a divorce. It was a little like a peace treaty, I guess—a negotiated peace. Neither one of us could win, so we called it a draw.”

  “Is Sam Wright here tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s get back to Pam Cornelison—” As I spoke, I looked at Cornelison, so tall and blonde and beautiful in the blue silk jump suit. “What about her?”

  “I already told you that she’s been closing in on Rebecca. Both of them knew what was happening. They hated each other.”

  “Why did they both sing with Pure Power? I’m surprised Rebecca stood for it.”

  “She didn’t have a choice,” he answered shortly. “It was my decision. They’re both first-class talents, and Pure Power is a first-class group. They’re all under contract to me. If I say ‘play,’ they play. Period.”

  I smiled wryly. “You’re tough.”

  “This is a tough business, Lieutenant. You’re either way up, or you’re way down.” He stared at me for a long, defiant moment before he said flatly: “And I intend to be up. Always.”

  “Who’s the leader of Pure Power? Rebecca?”

  “No. She was the lead singer—the front person. It was her show, and she was the one they came to see. She chose the music, and set the style. But she didn’t know a thing about writing music, or arranging, or playing the instruments. She just knew what she liked to sing. I knew what the people liked. And that was it.”

  “I gather, though, that you made her let Pam sing, too.”

  “That’s right. I was taking out insurance. Rebecca was on her way down. It was obvious. It didn’t matter whether her problems were self-induced or not. Facts are facts. So I’d be pretty stupid not to be bringing someone else along. It’s only good business. And also, as I said, they’re all under contract to me—Rebecca, Pam, Richard.” He spoke in the same flat, defiant voice.

  “Who’s Richard?”

  “Richard Gee—” He turned away again, scanned the backstage crowd and pointed to a group of two men and a woman sitting together on the makeshift steps of a motor home parked adjacent to Rebecca’s. “He’s the leader of Pure Power—that Chinese kid. He’s only twenty-one, but he’s a genius. He’s one of the best guitarists in the country. Plus he writes, and arranges. He’s amazing. He never smiles, and he doesn’t talk, unless he’s got something to say. But, Jesus, he can play. And write, too. He’s got seven gold records. Seven.”

  As he spoke, I watched Pam Cornelison leave her own group and walk toward Richard Gee. Seeing her approaching, Gee rose to his feet and stepped to the end of the motor home, where she joined him. Gee wore blue jeans, short boots and a faded khaki safari jacket open down the front. The deep “V” of the safari jacket revealed a smoothly muscled torso. His straight black hair hung almost to his shoulders. His features were classically Oriental: calm, impassive, remote. He moved gracefully and deliberately, projecting a kind of aloof disdain for those around him. If he’d been dressed in embroidered silks instead of denims, he could have been an ancient Chinese prince.

  Gee and Cornelison spoke briefly, their faces revealing nothing. Now they turned their backs to the throng and moved closer together, thigh touching thigh. It was a quick, instinctive movement, revealing an unmistakable physical intimacy. I saw him raise his hand to the small of her back, where it lingered a moment before it fell to the swell of her buttocks. In response, her blonde head inclined toward his shoulder. But then, quickly, they stepped away from each other.

  “They’re friends,” I said. “Good friends. Right?”

  “You noticed, then.” Behr spoke noncommittally.

  “I noticed.”

  For the first time he smiled. His small, shrewd eyes mocked me as he said, “A sensitive cop. The new breed, eh?”

  I didn’t reply. I didn’t like cop jokes.

  The smile lingered for another sardonic moment. I had the unmistakable feeling that, while he eyed me with obvious condescension, he was wondering how many times he could divide my salary into his income. Finally he said, “You’re bound to hear the rest of it, so you may as well hear it now—” He gestured to Gee and Cornelison. “Yes, they’ve got something going. You’re right. But the rest of it is, Rebecca and Gee had something going, too. Or, to be more precise, she had a thing for him. It’s an open question how much he responded.”

  “He’s responding to Pam.”

  He snorted. “Most men respond to Pam. It’s called animal magnetism. And she’s got it. Lots of it. Rebecca, on the other hand, was getting a little pudgy from all the booze she drank. As you may have noticed.”

  “So maybe we’ve got a triangle,” I mused aloud. “Except that the loser is dead, not the winner. Usually it’s the other way around.”

  “No comment.”

  “Who else should I know about?”

  “The enemies list, you mean? Or the lovers list?”

  “You choose. Just give me some names.”

  “All right—” He turned again, facing the group he’d left when he’d joined me. “Do you see that tall, dark, good-looking man who was standing beside me—the one who’s dressed like a stockbroker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s Ron Massey. He’s been Rebecca’s manager for about a year. Which, in this business, means different things to different people.”

  “What’d it mean to Rebecca?”

  This time, Behr’s shoulder-bunched shrug was contemptuous. “It meant,” he said, “that he did everything Rebecca told him. Everything, and anything. The old-fashioned word was toady, I think. And that describes him. Perfectly. He’s
a tall, handsome toady—a goddamn gigolo. But he’s rich. Thanks to Rebecca.”

  “Were they sleeping together? Is that what you mean by ‘gigolo’?”

  “Whenever she felt like it they did,” he answered coldly. “She used him like a bottle, or a needle. And, all the while, he was getting his ten percent.”

  “What’s ten percent of Rebecca Carlton worth?”

  “I’d just be guessing, if I named a figure. And I don’t like to guess.”

  “Try,” I pressed him. “Off the record.”

  “Well,” he answered, “in a bad year, which this year has been, Rebecca would easily gross a million dollars on record royalties alone. Probably more.”

  “Jesus.”

  He nodded. “Right. This is big business, Lieutenant. I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “Massey would want to keep her alive, then,” I mused.

  “Not necessarily. The rumor is that she wasn’t going to renew his contract, which didn’t have long to run—again, according to rumor. If that’s true, and if their contract insured him against her loss, then he’d have a gilt-edged reason to kill her.” He spoke flatly, without inflection. All business.

  “Are agents’ contracts usually written like that?”

  He nodded decisively. “Definitely. It’s almost universal. In fact—” The smile returned, quietly mocking me now. “In fact, I’m insured against her loss.” He looked me straight in the eye, amused at my inevitable next question:

  “How much will you get?”

  “A half million dollars,” he answered. “Tax free.” The mocking smile widened as his eyes still held steadily on mine. He was enjoying my awed reaction:

  “Jesus.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Will Massey get that much, too?”

  “You’ll have to ask Massey.”

  “I will. Who else was a beneficiary?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea. I imagine, though, that Sam Wright was. Or, even if he wasn’t named in an insurance policy, he’s still probably a rich man. I doubt very much if Rebecca left a will. I’m almost positive she didn’t, in fact.”

  As he spoke, I heard a familiar voice calling my name. It was Canelli, from somewhere behind me. As I turned, I heard Behr mutter: