by Louise Clark
Hammer paused to think. "Yeah, there must have been. He said there was a security guard at the top of the staircase." The security guards stayed at the exits until the arena crowd had cleared.
"Did he happen to stop and talk to the fellow?" Trevor didn't sound hopeful.
"Naw. He said he didn't speak to anybody. He just went along with the rest of the crowd headed down the stairs."
"Ah," said Trevor. "So there were people around. Trouble is, a crowd is anonymous. That's why the cops haven't ruled him out. But there's got to be something more they've got on him. Any idea what?"
Hammer shifted on his seat. "He's got a record," he said, after a charged moment. "He was convicted of assaulting a girl when he was fifteen."
"He was a juvenile, then," Quinn said. Hammer nodded. "What exactly happened?"
"We lived in a rough neighborhood. The girls were as tough as the boys. She hung around with a guy who was a small-time pusher. Kyle didn't do drugs, so she was always taunting him. She'd sidle in close and get in his face, then call him a chicken. One day she upped the ante and spat on him." Hammer shrugged. "He lost it and gave her a shove. She ended up on her ass in a puddle and all the guys laughed. She went to the cops and made a complaint against him. He pleaded guilty. His punishment was an anger management course and community service."
"So his case never went up to adult court?" Quinn asked.
Hammer shook his head. "No. It was strictly juvenile. That was part of the reason his lawyer suggested he plead guilty. It stayed in juvenile court."
"It was a long time ago. His record would have been sealed," Trevor said, frowning. "How would the cops know the details before he'd been charged?"
"Beats me," Hammer said.
"Someone told them," Roy said. "Got any idea of who that might be?"
Again, Hammer shook his head.
Roy rubbed his chin. "Okay. Three, you want to take that? See what you can pull out of the cops?"
Trevor nodded.
"Ellen, you know the girl's family. Can you tell us about her?" Roy had evidently decided he'd be the manager of the project. He was busy writing in a small notebook he'd produced from a pocket.
"Her family is well-to-do," Ellen said. She spoke slowly, as if she was gathering her thoughts as she went. "She was a student at English Bay University. She didn't have to work—her parents would have been happy to pay for all her expenses, but Charlotte, her grandmother, said she was an independent child. She insisted on getting a job and paying her own way. Or at least contributing. As a suite attendant at the arena she got good tips, so she only had to take two or three shifts a week to make a pretty good weekly salary. She was proud of being able to work and study at the same time, so her parents didn't pressure her to quit. Now, of course they wish they had."
She paused and in the silence that followed everyone reflected on her last gloomy observation. The quiet was broken by thumps from the gallery above. Christy looked up, but the half-wall that guarded the edge meant it was impossible to see what was causing the sound. The thumps became a steady thud, followed by the sound of scrambling paws. Suddenly, a bright yellow ball appeared on the staircase, bouncing ever more swiftly down the stairs as it gained momentum. It was followed by Stormy, slip-sliding down the uncarpeted hardwood steps. The ball reached the floor and rolled majestically toward the windows, the cat in full pursuit. It dribbled to a stop in front of Sledge's feet. Stormy landed on top of it, grabbed it with his front paws, rolled onto his back and prepared to shred it with his hind claws.
"No, you don't," said Sledge. He bent down, tickled the cat under his chin, then grabbed the ball. "This is my favorite stress ball and I don't mind you playing with it, but I don't want you destroying it." He tossed it up in the air, a bright sunny orb with a smiley face painted into it. Stormy's green eyes followed it up, then down and up again. Suddenly Sledge tossed the ball toward the staircase in a throw worthy of a minor league pitcher. There was a moment when Stormy stood frozen, then he dove headlong after the ball. He skidded along the gleaming walnut floor, all four paws scrambling for purchase as he neared the staircase. The ball landed four steps up, then bounced slowly down again. As the ball reached the bottom of the staircase, Stormy leapt, caught it in his teeth, and landed with perfect cat poise, ready to move. He turned, cast a furtive glance at Sledge, and slunk, mouth full of prize, underneath the staircase and out of sight.
Sledge began to laugh. Quinn shook his head. Roy ignored the cat's antics and continued to scratch notes into his tablet.
"Good shot," Trevor said.
Ellen said with some asperity, "That cat."
Christy sighed and went over to rescue the ball.
She found Stormy in a shadowed corner. He was on his side, front paws clutched around the ball, hind legs poised, ready to rip. When he saw her he leapt up, then hovered protectively over the ball.
"Frank!" she said on an annoyed whisper. "Where are your manners? Sledge said this was a favorite possession. It isn't for Stormy to be playing rough with."
The cat is bored. Frank sounded sulky, the way he did when he knew he was in the wrong and the only excuse he had was a lame one.
"Then the cat can go outside and chase the local wildlife. Give me the ball," she said. Even though she kept her voice low she could hear the annoyance that made the sound almost a hiss.
Stormy put a paw on top of the ball and stared at her unblinking. She stared back, then reached for the ball. At the same time she said, "Let me have the ball or I'm going to take Stormy upstairs and put him out." There was no response for a minute, then the cat sat on his haunches and raised his paw off the ball. He began to clean in between his toes with studious care. Christy picked up the ball. "Thank you." When she turned away to return to the others, Stormy was still carefully grooming himself.
She handed the ball back to Sledge. "Sorry about that."
He shrugged and squeezed the ball. "No harm done."
"I knew we should not have brought the cat," Ellen said.
"We thought he might be helpful," Roy said in an absentminded way, still focused on his notes.
"Good heavens, why?" Ellen asked, astounded.
Roy looked up, blinked, and opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Quinn came to the rescue. "Every group needs a clown for entertainment."
Thanks a lot, jerk. Stormy trotted out from under the stairs.
"Now, now," Roy said. Christy rolled her eyes.
"Shall we begin again?" Ellen said. "We were talking about poor Chelsea."
Roy pointed his pen at Ellen. "Does her family know if she had any enemies?"
Ellen shook her head. "They didn't mention any."
"Sounds like you're suggesting a premeditated murder, Dad. Whoever did it would have had to know her work schedule, then arrange to get a ticket for the concert, which sold out months ago."
"Or figure out some way to slip into the arena without being seen. Pretend to be cleaning staff, or maybe a delivery person. Could be done," Roy said, refusing to let go of his theory.
"I think it's more likely that someone related to her job killed her," Trevor said. "Another employee who had access to the blocked off area could have found her there when she was getting rid of garbage from the suite."
"Or perhaps someone from the nearby arena seats followed her there," Christy said.
"Doesn't have to be someone from our box. Could have been someone from one of the nearby suites that Chelsea managed. People find ways to hide until it's quiet and they can move about freely," Hammer said. The expression on his round face was grim. "We've had enough situations where fans have discovered a way to stay behind, then get to us, for us to know it's possible. The cops don't agree, though."
"There's not much we can do if it was a random concert goer," Trevor said.
"We need to prove it isn't anyone from our suite. We'll start by building a timeline that pinpoints everybody's location from the end of the concert to when they arrived backstage," Roy said.
; "I can do that," Ellen said. "I'm good at organizing material. If you men want to do the digging, I can be the record-keeper."
Christy stared at her in amazement.
Frank was more vocal in his astonishment. Seriously, Aunt Ellen? Where did you learn organizational skills?
"Charity work," Trevor said, shooting the cat a disapproving look from under his brows.
Ellen colored. "Of course I do not expect to be paid!"
"I really appreciate your doing this for me, Ellen. Everyone," Hammer said, looking at all of them.
Stormy settled down in front of the floor to ceiling windows and gazed out at the gorgeous view, head on paws.
Roy had been busily writing down a list of the people who had been in their box that night. He tapped his notebook and said, "Trevor, you're talking to Patterson. I'll start with young Bernie Oshall and his wife. Seems to me that they showed up late to the meet and greet. Who else is there? Oh, yeah. Vince Nunez, Mitchell Crosier, the music exec, and his wife, Kim. Sledge, you talk to Vince. I'll take the Crosiers."
"He was hassling the girl," Quinn said.
"Who and hassle how?" Trevor asked.
Quinn shrugged. "Crosier. He'd probably called it flirting with her, but it was pushier than simple flirting."
"That's why I thought I'd talk to him," Roy said. He grinned. "He's a sleezeball. It'll be fun to dig deeper into his psyche."
"He's got a lot of power in our business," Hammer said. He sounded concerned.
"Don't worry. He wanted to talk to me about my books. I can work with that. Get him feeling comfortable, then wham! Go in for the kill." He illustrated this statement with hand motions and a slap on a nearby tabletop that made everybody but him jump.
"Okay," said Hammer, dubious.
Bright-eyed, Roy asked, "Do we have any more suspects?"
"I saw the musician and his girlfriend down at the meet and greet when we got there," Christy said. "But wasn't there someone else in our suite?" She frowned as she tried to remember by visualizing the scene that evening. Suddenly inspiration came. "I've got it. That man who helps people on the Downtown East Side. What was his name?"
Roy nodded. "He told me he'd been part of the band once."
"Oh," Hammer said slowly. "Syd Haynes. Who invited him?"
"I did," Sledge said. His voice was clipped. "I thought it would be a good idea."
Hammer shook his head.
"Anyone remember where he was at the end of the concert?" Roy asked.
"He left the suite before we did," Ellen said. "I don't recollect seeing him at the meet and greet, though."
"Wouldn't have the balls," Hammer said.
Ellen sucked in her breath. There was disapproval in the sound.
Hammer blushed. "Sorry," he muttered.
"He was with the band once," Sledge said, after a quick look at Hammer. "We parted under difficult circumstances."
"Anyone remember seeing him?" Trevor asked, looking around. They all shook their heads. "I wonder what he was up to then."
"He may not have been comfortable attending the backstage part of the evening," Christy said. "He probably just left."
"Still, he has to be added to the timeline," Ellen said. Roy made a note.
"And someone needs to interview him and find out exactly what he did do." Roy raised his brows and looked at his son. "Quinn?"
"Dad."
"He's an interesting character. He's done a lot for the East Side. You might get an article out of it. He certainly wouldn't be suspicious if you were the one to question him. You'd get more out of him than any of us."
Quinn blew out his breath. "Okay, I'll talk to him."
There was the sound of a yawn. Great we're organized. Stormy left his post by the windows and leapt onto Sledge's lap, where he sat down. Sledge swallowed hard, then slowly reached out to pat him. Stormy stared up, his green eyes demanding.
The cat's hungry. Got any tuna?
Chapter 8
The night was clear, the lack of clouds adding a crispness to the air. Sledge stood on his deck looking out over the English Bay, where moonlight rippled on the dark water, and beyond to the dark shadows of the landmass of Point Grey. His father and his ill-assorted posse had departed an hour ago; Hammer had gone long before that. It had to be close to two, but he couldn't settle. A sense of foreboding had caught him in a chokehold and he couldn't shake it, no matter how hard he tried.
He put his hands on the polished hardwood that capped the glass railing surrounding the deck and leaned forward, hoping that somehow the cool night air would wash away troubles he'd hoped to banish with the strategy session today. For a while it seemed to have worked when everyone agreed to pitch in and they'd made a plan. He believed in plans. You never succeeded in anything unless you had a goal and thought out a way to get to it. With the plan in place he'd felt better, so much so that he'd invited the little group to stay for dinner. Hammer had declined. He had something planned with Jahlina, but the rest stayed.
Dinner turned into a party of sorts. Christy had gone into the kitchen and inspected his fridge, since he was clueless about what was inside. He didn't stock it, his personal shopper did. She'd made a drop the day before, but he'd only looked for breakfast fixings and beer since then. Apparently, she'd provided the ingredients of a decent meal, though, so Christy set about making them something to eat. Quinn decided to help her and the rest of them had cleared out.
With Christy and Quinn in the kitchen cooking, and doing God knew what else, Roy Armstrong had pulled out a packet of weed. Ellen had raised her brows and opted out. To his utter shock, his father had also declined.
Was that what was bothering him? His father interested in a woman other than his mother? No, couldn't be. He was an adult and he understood why it was better that some relationships end. Maybe, then, it wasn't that his father was interested in a woman, but the woman he was interested in. Ellen Jamieson, wealthy socialite with a reputation of being stiffer than a starched shirt, and his tempestuous father? Was it possible?
He grinned to himself. Good thing SledgeHammer had no plans to go out on tour again for another year or so. The next few months could be interesting. It would be a good time to be anchored in Vancouver.
With his father flirting with Ellen in the great room, he took Roy and the cat into his music room to indulge in Roy's weed. It had been an interesting session. The cat wanted to talk. No, not the cat, Frank Jamieson. The cat had absolutely no tolerance to the pot, so it didn't take much to get Frank Jamieson high. And once he was high, he started to chat.
Turned out Frank Jamieson was a fan. Who knew? Sledge laughed softly to himself. He was still bemused by the idea that he'd been communicating with a dead guy. Having the same guy as a dedicated fan should have been disconcerting. Instead it just made him sad.
Frank Jamieson's whole story made him sad. A life wasted, cut short before amends could be made. There were the makings of a song in that life, in the frustration and anger that kept a man's soul here, looking for redemption.
The foreboding that had driven Sledge out to the deck eased as a lyric started to form in his mind. The beginnings of a melody followed. He stood for a few minutes, letting the song seep through him, before he went inside to his music room to work on it.
By eight o'clock on Sunday morning he had it finished. He left his perch on the piano bench and stretched. That was when the sense of foreboding hit him again. He didn't know why. He decided that the song must be causing it. He could hear it in his mind, more than just words and a melody. Sometime in the night harmonies had started to form and he'd felt the beat of Hammer's drums as well, something that usually happened during the collaboration process while they were in the studio recording the song. Even though he'd been up all night, he wanted to be in the studio today. Now.
He called Hammer, who was grumpy because Sledge had woken him up, then Vince, who was even grumpier, and convinced both of them that they had to get the song recorded today. Only when he had their ag
reement did that eerie sense of problems ahead go away.
Five hours later it was back. The song was in the can, the session musicians had left and it was just him and Hammer sitting in Vince's office on Vince's uncomfortable couch, with Vince sitting behind his desk, looking like a businessman, as he always did.
"Yeah, but should we?" Vince asked.
"We always have a party at the end of the tour." Hammer sounded miserable, as if he was being torn apart by conflicting emotions and not sure how to handle it.
"What kind of spin will the media put on it, if they get wind of the party?" Vince asked. He didn't bother waiting for a reply. He answered himself, his tone harsh. "They'll say that you guys are callous bastards who don't care about your fans."
"She wasn't a fan," Sledge said, quite reasonably he thought.
Hammer nodded. "She worked for the arena where we were playing and happened to be the server for the band suite. That's our involvement."
"The girl was killed not far from your suite, after your concert." Vince narrowed his eyes, then his finger shot out, pointed directly at Hammer's chest. "Your brother is about to be charged with her rape and murder! Of course you're involved!"
"Kyle didn't do it." Hammer's expression was tight. His voice shivered with suppressed anger.
"Doesn't matter!" Vince said. "The media is already all over the possibility that he's under suspicion. If we have the party they'll say you care more about your brother than SledgeHammer fans, which is true."
"If we don't have the party, everyone—including the cops—will figure Kyle's guilty. We might as well throw him in a jail cell now and have done with it."
"If we do have a party we might as well announce that SledgeHammer is finished and not bother with that new album we started today," Vince retorted furiously.
Sledge slid a glance at Hammer. He was leaning forward, his hands clenched, his eyes narrowed. He thrust out his jaw, then let fly. "We don't have to break up Sledgehammer. We just have to get rid of our manager."
Shock froze Vince's expression before he smoothed his features into an impassive mask.