“We don’t want to seem rude,” said Brandt. “It’s expected, after all. And besides, we need to get Kit out of there and back on the road.”
“Those people hate me,” said Angela bitterly. “I’ve done nothing but run an efficient tour and they all hate me.”
“They don’t hate you,” said Brandt.
“Yes, they do,” said Angela. “None of them will sit next to me on the bus.”
“Why would you want to sit with them anyway?” asked Brandt. There was the sound of the door opening and then closing over Angela’s whining reply.
Carefully Nikki exited the bathroom and surveyed the bags left by Brandt and Angela.
“Let’s do yours first, peaches,” said Nikki, reaching for the Louis Vuitton carry-on bag that she presumed to be Angela’s. Carefully she unpacked the bag on the coffee table, laying everything out in the order she removed it. It was a boring collection of items. Designer brush, designer soap, designer underwear, all packed in separate designer pouches.
Nikki didn’t know how much tour managers made, but she was pretty sure that at any salary a designer life was still going to stretch the budget. The remaining item of interest was a binder filled with clipping after clipping from Kit’s career.
The clippings dated back to his @last days. There were the basics, founding, highlights, implosion, death of the lead singer in drug-fueled car accident, predictions of a similar death for Kit. Brandt was mostly missing in those articles—usually listed under “other members.” Then there was the founding of Faustus Records—MASTERS AND DETTLING PARTNERS! Apparently that article had gone for the double entendre about the gay rumors surrounding Kit and Brandt’s close friendship. Then there was Kit’s first number one single. KIT MASTERS CAUGHT IN SWISS MISS MAYHEM! The picture showed a sprightly blonde in braids and lederhosen. Nikki skipped that article. A recent article about Brandt was headlined FAUSTUS SUES ISLAND RECORDS. Artist poaching seemed to be the problem in dispute. A short article about the helicopter incident rounded out the collection. With a shrug, Nikki was about to shut the notebook when it fell open to the back cover.
The back pocket of the binder was stuffed with letters. Nikki might have dismissed them as fan letters had she not caught the word “kill” in the midst of one of the sentences. Pulling out the letters, Nikki scanned them. They were all threats of some kind. One raving anti-fan blamed Kit for the breakup of his relationship and threatened a whole list of bodily damage. The last letter in the stack seemed the least crazy but disturbed Nikki the most.
“Your very existence is proof that the world has become like an obese man eating ever more while his neighbors starve. You should be put down before you poison the world with the corrupt culture you represent.” The letter was signed AMC. Antonio Mergado Cano? The letter had a Spanish postmark, but she had no idea what the postmark from Puerto 1 would look like. If the letter was from Cano, then it seemed clear that Cano had abandoned the Basque cause for a general hatred of Western culture. And it seemed equally clear that he was aware of Kit’s existence. Neither was a particularly good sign. She shuffled through the letters again. Angela hadn’t appeared to give AMC’s any special attention, but it was a connection, however tenuous. And Angela had admitted to leaving the champagne in Kit’s greenrooms. Angela was looking even more likely as the figure in the tracksuit, but Nikki couldn’t be sure.
She moved on to Brandt’s luggage—a slim-line Nava briefcase and small overnight bag.
The overnight bag held basic necessities and a small .38 pistol. Nikki contemplated the gun with interest. There was no smell of cordite to indicate a recent firing, but the piece had been oiled and cleaned not long ago. Tucking the contents back in the overnight bag, she turned to the briefcase. It was locked but yielded easily to Trista’s lock picks.
The briefcase was a mess of paperwork. If Angela was precision itself, then Brandt was an explosion of restless disorder. She removed a notebook containing tiny, chicken-scratch writing and doodles; several artist contracts; and a spreadsheet that she couldn’t make heads or tails of. After further digging, she found a copy of Kit’s contract. Nikki checked her watch and mentally cursed. She didn’t have time to go through the legalese and still search everyone’s room. They would all be getting back from dinner and the hospital soon.
Acting quickly, she went back to the desk and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out a fax machine. It took several minutes to fax the entire contract to Jenny and Ellen, but she thought it was worth the effort. Getting the staple back in the exact same holes, however, taxed her patience to the utmost.
Sliding out of the penthouse, she moved on to the other rooms on her list. She went through the band’s rooms first. They had enough physical proximity to Kit to be a threat, but they had been onstage during the collapse, which made it unlikely that they were behind the accidents or in league with Cano. But Nikki didn’t cross them out entirely. From there she turned to the road manager and top crew members; nothing suspicious appeared. Duncan’s room was last since he was still at the hospital with Kit and was least likely to return without warning.
Turning toward Duncan’s room, she began to hurry. Trista’s semicoherent rambling and Duncan’s own suspicious behavior and knowledge of Carrie Mae had put him at the top of her suspect list until she’d seen the letter in Angela’s carry-on.
Nikki opened the door to Duncan’s room and looked around. His bags, all two of them, had been placed on the bed. Not surprisingly, since she didn’t think he’d left the hospital, nothing else had been touched.
She took the first bag off the bed and placed it on the floor. The main portion of the bag contained clothes, an incongruous but well-worn pair of cowboy boots, and what looked like a hand-knitted sweater of oatmeal-colored wool. The other pockets contained a well-worn bulletproof vest and toiletries, a netbook computer, and a fat novel by Neal Stephenson. The second bag contained an expensive black suit and dress shoes.
And that was it. Necessities and entertainment. Nothing personal. The guy was a blank slate.
“He ought to have more equipment,” she muttered to herself. A bodyguard needed equipment, didn’t he? Maybe he was wearing all of it, so it wouldn’t be in his suitcase, but there ought to be something. “OK, start again,” she told herself.
She ran her hands along the lining, feeling for lumps and looking for gaps. She finally found a small slit in the lining near the base of the bag. Reaching inside, she withdrew a flat piece of folded cardboard fastened with electrical tape. Inside the cardboard was a hand-honed ceramic knife. No chance of setting off a metal detector, and near the spine of the bag, it probably blended pretty well in an X-ray.
Next she inspected the wheels and handle. She pulled the handle out to its full extension. A second’s worth of effort pulled the handle off entirely. Inside, she found a piece of piano wire, bundled neatly and taped to the inside.
“Garrote,” she said, “check.”
When the suitcase revealed nothing further, she went back to the clothing, starting with the off-duty outfit. The cowboy boots were from Austin, Texas, according to the label, and revealed a spring-coiled sap hidden in the heel. So much for being weaponless. Carefully replacing the sap in the heel, she turned her attention to the sweater. It was definitely hand-knitted, but by a skilled knitter.
She opened the netbook and immediately checked the history on the browser—nothing of interest. She poked around some more and eventually found his e-mail account, but his password eluded her. She thumped the netbook closed in frustration. She needed Jane. She snatched up the novel, preparing to repack it, and dropped it in her anger. The book immediately flopped open to a page bookmarked with a photo.
Picking up the photo, Nikki read the back first. The lone description scrawled on the back was “1971,” and flipping it over Nikki was shocked to see a young Camille Masters smiling back at her. Next to Camille was her husband, Declan. Except for the AK-47 machine guns they carried, the couple looked as though they were o
ut for a Sunday hike in boots and backpacks. Duncan wasn’t in the photo, but that would make sense if he took the picture. She flipped the picture over and read the inscription again. It was definitely during the time period that Camille had been undercover in the IRA. Did Duncan know Camille and Declan? And if he didn’t, how had he gotten the photo?
Damn, she needed Jane. This would be so much easier if she had any equipment. A simple scan and upload, a few inquiries, and she’d have more intel than she could shake a stick at. She thought about using Duncan’s netbook to log on to the Carrie Mae site but rejected the idea as too risky. Reluctantly, she rezipped the luggage and placed it back on the bed. She had gone looking for answers and come away with more questions.
She considered searching further, but tour members were beginning to return to their rooms. She thought about going to her room, but a growl from her stomach made her detour toward the hotel bar.
She was halfway through a mediocre omelet when Hammond entered. His left hand and wrist were bandaged. She waved and he smiled weakly.
“Hey, Nikki,” said Hammond. “Didn’t recognize you in those sweats—gray isn’t really your color. I was going to get a drink. Would you care for anything?” He made eye contact with the bartender, who came out from behind the bar, with a desultory air.
“Gray?” repeated Nikki, glancing thoughtfully down at her sweats. In the half-light of the bar, they did look gray.
“Gin and tonic,” said Hammond to the bartender, and they turned inquiringly to Nikki.
“Vodka and cran,” Nikki said, and watched the bartender’s mouth purse up. “Vodka and tonic?” suggested Nikki, guessing that he was trying to figure out how to tell her that they did not carry “cran.”
“Holly says,” said Hammond, seating himself, “that you are some sort of private detective that’s here to solve the mysterious accidents. That you’re not really here to replace Trista.”
“And what do you think?” asked Nikki.
“Part of me hopes you are a private eye. This tour needs help,” he said glumly.
“And the other part?” asked Nikki.
“The other part of me doesn’t want to know,” said Hammond. “Because if the accidents aren’t accidents then it’s sabotage, and that means it’s one of us. I’m not really sure I could take that. I’m not sure I want to know which one of my friends is trying to kill Kit. Because it has to be Kit, doesn’t it? None of the rest of us is worth killing. We just happen to be in the way.” Hammond sounded only a little bitter.
“I’m not sure the accidents were supposed to be deadly,” said Nikki.
“Then what are they ‘supposed’ to be?” asked Hammond. “I can’t come up with a motive, other than killing Kit or stopping him from singing. And who would want that? You’d have to be crazy to want either. And how are we supposed to tell if it was one of the stagehands or … or someone I actually know? It could have been anyone on the tour.”
“Not anyone,” said Nikki.
“We all have access to the equipment,” said Hammond. “I don’t see how you can narrow the pool at all.”
“They have to be the kind of person who can think of it, and then they have to be the kind who can execute.” The bartender returned, set down their drinks, and departed again.
“You’d have to be daffy-headed to think of it,” answered Hammond.
“What’s different about this tour?” she asked, deciding not to argue.
“Besides the accidents?” demanded Hammond, setting his glass down forcefully.
“Yeah,” said Nikki, taking a sip.
Hammond shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Kit’s sobriety,” he said at last. “But I don’t know what that’s got to do with anything.”
“Mmm,” said Nikki. Hammond looked miserable and guilty. Having searched his room, she thought she knew why.
“You want to tell me about the book?” she asked.
“You know about that?” His face was a mask of panic.
Nikki shrugged, implying that nothing was secret from her. Hammond gulped his drink.
“The publishing company wants me to include Kit, but I…”
“You don’t want to?”
“I see their point. I mean, what’s a tell-all book if you don’t tell all, but I just … The publishing company might drop me if I don’t include him, but all the dirt I have on him is from when he was using, you know? And he’s been working so hard on his sobriety. It just seems like if I put him in the book with the others that it would just be tossing it back in his face. Although it might be better for him if he did start drinking again.” Hammond sighed heavily.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Brandt’s hounding him to get back in the studio, and Kit keeps saying he’s working on songs, but I saw his notebook. Maybe Kit should listen to his mum—go get a real job. He’s got nothing. He can’t write sober.”
“Oh,” said Nikki, feeling a sudden click in her head. “No, that can’t be right.”
“It is,” said Hammond. “He had twelve pages of crap and a bunch of doodles.”
“I believe you,” said Nikki. “I was thinking of something else.”
“You know something, don’t you?” demanded Hammond.
“I think something, and that’s a separate thing entirely,” said Nikki.
“You know, some of the others are thinking of leaving the tour. They don’t think they can take another ‘accident.’” Hammond made finger quotes around the word.
“There won’t be another accident,” said Nikki. “You can tell them that from me.”
Hammond took a deep breath and leaned back. “For sure?”
“Pretty sure,” said Nikki, hedging her bet. “You can stop worrying.”
“About dying anyway,” said Hammond, going back to his personal hell.
“Maybe you could ask him,” said Nikki. “He might be OK with you talking about his past.”
“Not likely,” he said, shaking his head.
“Put the sobriety in,” she said suddenly.
“What?” asked Hammond.
“This tour doesn’t have high jinks, but it does have drama. Describe the bus crash and Kit’s heroic behavior afterward. That’d sell some books, wouldn’t it?”
“Maybe,” said Hammond, sitting up a little straighter. “Maybe! Counterbalance some of the bad stuff. Keep the bad stuff funnier.”
“Sure,” said Nikki. “It’s all in how you tell it.”
“Thanks, Nikki! I’m going to go write some notes on that. You’re giving me an idea.”
Hammond rushed from the room and Nikki held up her drink in a silent toast to his back.
“Gave me an idea too,” she said. She finished her omelet and hurried to return to her room. She needed a closer look at Trista’s luggage.
FRANCE IV
Interrogation
December 29
On Monday morning, Trista was still unconscious and Kit was still unwilling to move. The rest of the band had cheerfully taken the day off while Brandt and Angela huddled in Kit’s suite stewing. By the next morning, Trista was well enough for visitors and the band was starting to prepare to hit the road again. Opting out of the preparations, Nikki made her way to the hospital, pushed her way through the throng of fans, and headed for Trista’s room.
Halting on the threshold, Nikki felt a surge of uncertainty. Her theory seemed appallingly low on facts in the harsh light of day. Trista was sitting up in bed and looking very pale. Kit and Brandt were sitting on opposite sides of the bed, with Duncan hovering in the background. As usual, Kit looked as if he’d slept on a park bench. He was staring vacantly at the pattern on the bedspread and absentmindedly twirling the bit of hair at his temple that Trista typically spiked up as devil’s horns. Brandt looked as if he’d just stepped off the pages of a men’s magazine.
“Kit,” Brandt was saying, “be reasonable. You can’t stay here. You have obligations and a much better hotel waiting for you.”
; “I don’t want to leave Trista or anyone here,” sulked Kit.
“Well, you can’t stay,” said Brandt, his tone making it clear Kit was being childish. “If for no other reason than because this town just isn’t equipped for us. I’m surprised the hospital hasn’t asked you to leave already.”
“The hospital doesn’t mind,” said Trista. “I asked the doctor. They all think it’s very exciting.”
“Yeah, well ‘exciting’ becomes ‘pain in the arse’ after two days,” said Brandt.
“We could use a break,” said Trista. “Missing a show wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“Not for you,” retorted Brandt.
“We’ll just stay until everyone’s back on their feet,” said Kit.
“Well, most of them can come back to work now, but Trista can’t be moved. Doctor’s orders,” said Brandt with businesslike indifference.
“I don’t want to leave Trista by herself,” Kit said, reiterating with a frown.
“She won’t be by herself,” said Brandt heartlessly. “Louis is in the next room, and didn’t you say your daughter would be out in a few days?”
Trista nodded reluctantly.
“You see, Kit?” said Brandt, nodding. “She’ll be fine and you’ve got to get to Paris for the show.”
“I don’t give a damn about the show in Paris,” said Kit forcefully, and Nikki watched Brandt’s jaw clench.
“Well, you might not, but there’s a lot of crew and people who do. Not to mention the fans in Paris and on TV,” said Brandt with a deceptively easy tone.
“It’s a hell of a way for a man to spend his New Year’s,” muttered Kit bitterly.
“Yes, surrounded by one of the biggest parties of the year, with some of the hottest stars in the EU.”
“Yes, the perfect place to find drugs and alcohol,” said Trista.
“You know,” said Brandt, ignoring Trista, “I’m getting a bit tired of this ‘poor me’ routine. We have worked damn hard to get here. And now you’re acting like you don’t want it.”
Kit shifted uncomfortably and shrugged. “I want it. I just … maybe Mum’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a star.”
Compact with the Devil: A Novel Page 15