As Gina spoke, Berenger was impressed by her composure but he could see through the façade. She was very upset and her earlier kidding around was merely bravado.
“I came east to visit Adrian a little over two weeks ago,” she said. “Adrian lives on the Upper West Side. I have a room at the Empire Hotel, across from Lincoln Center. I had planned to go back to LA after a few days, but when Flame died I decided to stay longer until after his memorial service. Now it looks like I’ll be here even longer.” She gave a small, sarcastic laugh.
Patterson took over the story. “The police came to Adrian’s apartment last night around 7:30 and had a warrant for his arrest. They hustled him out and took him downtown to the Sixth Precinct. The Sixth covers West Greenwich Village, where Flame’s townhouse is.”
“Had Adrian been questioned or anything before that?”
“Oh yeah,” Gina said. “Me too. The police talked to everybody in New York that knew Flame. It was being treated as a suicide until, I don’t know, a couple of days ago.”
“Actually I have a feeling that foul play was suspected within a day or two after the discovery of the corpse,” Patterson said. “The DA is being very quiet about it.”
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” Berenger asked.
Patterson looked at his notes. “A detective downtown… here it is, Lieutenant Detective Billy McTiernan.”
Berenger nodded and smirked.
“You know him?”
“Yeah,” Berenger answered. “We’ve had some dealings with each other. Total jerk. Did you notice he can’t say a sentence without inserting the F-word or the GD-word?”
Patterson smiled. “I did notice that.”
Berenger made his voice go low and gravelly in a perfect imitation of Detective McTiernan and said, “And he fucking sounds like this, goddammit!”
Everyone laughed and Berenger enjoyed his little moment before Patterson continued. “So anyway they took Adrian to the Sixth Precinct and booked him. They had him there in a holding cell all night where he was questioned intensely by the detectives. Adrian said nothing except that he was innocent. The one phone call he made was to his mother.”
“Then I got hold of Mister Patterson,” Gina said.
“The DA had his court appearance expedited and he was in front of a judge at 11:30 this morning. I had maybe ten minutes to talk to him before that. It was all very irregular, but given that it’s such a high profile crime—” Patterson shrugged. “They’re supposed to take him away to Rikers right after lunch today.”
“What did Adrian tell you?” Berenger asked.
“That he didn’t do it. That the last time he saw his father was backstage at the Beacon Theater two weeks ago, the night he died.”
“What can you tell me about that night? You were at the show, right?” Berenger asked Gina.
“Yeah, Adrian and I went together. Al Patton had sent me a couple of tickets. And you know, I felt funny about it all evening, before and during the show. I knew something bad was going to happen. You know me, Spike, it was one of those funny premonitions I get. I could smell death in the air and I even mentioned that to Kenny, you know, Flame’s tour manager?”
“I know him.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “Adrian was being his usual curmudgeonly self, slumped in his seat and doing his best to show that he wasn’t enjoying the music. Everyone else in the theater was on their feet, clapping, hollering, and whistling. Granted, it had taken them a while to warm up to Flame’s, uhm, newer material. I don’t understand Flame. It was obvious that the audience only wanted to hear his old stuff. When the band segued from one of the newer ‘religious’ songs into ‘Keep On Rollin’ to Me’ the crowd went wild. It was amazing what difference a choice of song makes. The audience put up with Flame’s conversion to hardcore religious cult rock just for a chance to hear one measly song that Hay Fever or Flame’s Heat recorded.”
Berenger needed to steer her back on track. “You saw Flame before the show?” he asked.
“Uh huh. He wasn’t just cool to us—he was cold as ice. But what else is new? Did I expect anything else? After all, I’m only the rock star’s first wife, the one discarded long ago with a young son to show for our four years of marriage. Anyway, in Flame’s dressing room that night, he and Adrian got into another one of their big arguments.”
“What about?” Berenger asked.
“The usual,” Gina replied. “Adrian’s career, mostly. Flame always accused Adrian of being lazy, and I suppose that’s true to an extent. It’s common knowledge that Adrian didn’t get along with his father. Flame disinherited him in 1988. At the time they were both doing a lot of drugs and drinking way too much. You know how Flame could get really belligerent when he was drunk? So can Adrian. Adrian resented the fact that Flame wouldn’t help him with a career in music. All he had to do was pull a few strings and Adrian could have had a head start, but no, Flame wouldn’t do it. Adrian is talented, too. You’ve probably heard some of his music.”
Berenger merely nodded. He remembered that Adrian made a record in the late-eighties that was released with fanfare as the album by “Flame’s son,” but it tanked—big time.
“Wasn’t there an incident at one of Flame’s concerts that involved Adrian?” Berenger asked.
Gina rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Adrian was drunk. He caused what the police called a ‘disturbance,’ and he was arrested. Adrian spent two days in jail because I wasn’t around and his father wouldn’t help him. Look, I know Adrian’s got a reputation for being a bad boy. He’s been arrested a few times, that’s the tabloid truth. But is he capable of murder? No. Absolutely not.”
Berenger nodded, letting all this sink in. “Well, I’m going to have to talk to him. Can you get me in to see him?”
“Yeah,” Patterson said. “Visiting hours are restricted, even with his counsel. But we’ll manage something.”
Rudy asked, “How did murder enter into this picture, anyway? Didn’t the guy hang himself?”
Patterson frowned. “That’s what it looked like, at first. I don’t have all the details yet, but obviously the post-mortem revealed some things that weren’t immediately apparent. Like the fact that Flame was strangled to death before he was hung. The crime scene was staged to make it look like he had committed suicide.”
Berenger looked at Gina. “So who do you think killed him?”
“If you ask me it’s probably one of those creepy Messengers that Flame was hanging with. They’re definitely involved,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Have you ever met them?” she asked. “They’re totally bonkers. They’re what the Manson family would have been if they’d been into Jesus instead of… well, Manson. And that girlfriend of his...”
“Brenda Twist,” Patterson said.
“Yeah. What a phony. I can see right through her,” Gina said. “She acts like she’s Mother Theresa but I’ll bet she’s got skeletons in her closet. Those people are just after Flame’s money.”
“All right,” Berenger said. “Anyone else?”
“I hate to say it,” Gina said, “but Dave Bristol is high on my list, too.”
Berenger was surprised. “Dave? He was Flame’s friend and partner for years! The drummer for Hay Fever and Flame’s Heat!”
“Exactly. You know they had a big falling out when Flame broke up Flame’s Heat and started doing the religious stuff?”
“I guess they did,” Berenger agreed.
“And Bristol and the rest of the band wanted to use the name Hay Fever but Flame wouldn’t let him. So they started calling themselves Blister Pack.”
“There are some writing credits in dispute, too,” Patterson said. “Bristol filed a lawsuit against Flame two years ago, did you hear about that?”
“Yeah, I think I did, now that you mention it. So you think Bristol had a grudge big enough to warrant murder?”
Gina said, “You know Dave, don’t you? He has a temper worse than Flame’s
. And a drinking problem, if you ask me. I think he’s into the nose candy as well.” She tapped her nostrils and sniffed.
Berenger acknowledged that. Bristol had always been an unpredictable and volatile soul. He was usually in trouble with the law—for drugs more than once and for vandalism of public property at least three or four times.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“Well, what about his second wife?” Gina suggested.
“Carol Merryman?” Rudy interjected with disbelief.
“Sure, why not?” Gina countered. “She’s VP of Flame’s company. I’m sure she stands to inherit a shitload of money. Her son Joshua probably does, too.”
“When did they divorce?” Rudy asked.
Patterson answered, “Nineteen eighty-seven. But they remained friends. She was already a partner in the business. It was part of the settlement that she be made a Vice President.”
“You think she’ll inherit Flame’s estate?” Berenger asked.
“Either she will or Joshua will. Or they both will.”
“He sure isn’t going to leave anything to me or Adrian, that’s for damn sure,” Gina muttered.
There was an awkward moment of silence. Berenger shrugged. “Is that everything?” he asked.
Patterson cleared his throat. “There is, uhm, one other thing.”
Gina frowned and nodded, preferring to let the lawyer explain it.
“What’s that?” Berenger asked.
“Adrian was selling drugs,” Patterson said, “for the Jimmys.”
“Oh shit,” Berenger said. “What was he doing associating with the Jimmys?”
“Dealing drugs!” Patterson answered. “He hasn’t admitted as such, though. The police found a bunch of evidence in Adrian’s apartment that indicated he was selling for the Jimmys. That’s a big strike against him.”
“Sorry, but as I live in California, I don’t know a lot about them,” Gina said. “Just what’s been reported in the news.”
Berenger shook his head. “The Jimmys are only the most ruthless and violent gang operating in the New York area,” he explained. “Unless you want to count the Cuzzins. They’re probably just as bad.”
“They’re rock bands, too,” Rudy added.
“I guess you can call them that. The Jimmys play Death Metal Punk to the extreme—really angry stuff. They incite riots and always cause a lot of destruction whenever they play somewhere. As a gang, they allegedly supply drugs to a mostly very wealthy clientele—Manhattan’s rich and famous. Not a lot is known about their organization other than it might have originated in the Caribbean and immigrated to America sometime in the nineties. Legend has it that they send a package full of broken guitar strings to the people they plan to knock off. A very nasty bunch.”
“There’s an on-going war between them and the Cuzzins,” Rudy said.
“At least I like the Cuzzins’ music better,” Berenger added. “It’s mostly fifties-era rock ‘n’ roll. Needless to say, both gangs have gone a long way toward giving rock ‘n’ roll a bad name in this town.”
This information caused Gina’s eyes to cast downward. “I see,” she said. “Why haven’t they been arrested?”
“By the time the cops arrive at one of their concerts—which always occur unannounced—they’re already speeding away, leaving a mess in their wake. They like to start fires, things like that. It’s what you might call ‘guerilla punk.’”
“Unfortunately, the kids in New York love them,” Rudy said. “The gangs have become underground heroes. The word gets out, usually over the Internet, that the Jimmys or the Cuzzins are going to play somewhere and magically the high-schoolers and college-aged kids show up. Both camps sell homemade CDs through various dubious distribution centers that do very well. In fact, you can probably buy them at any of the indie shops in the East Village.”
“Wow, that’s totally bizarre,” Gina said. “I had no idea.”
Berenger looked at Rudy and asked, “You’ve already discussed terms and stuff?”
Rudy nodded. “The case is ours if you want it.”
Berenger looked at Gina.
“Please, Spike? We need you,” she said.
He gazed into the green eyes that had once exhibited a great passion for him. He didn’t want to go back there but he couldn’t help it. Gina Tipton was a beautiful, intelligent woman. He still liked her. And he believed her.
“Okay.”
“Great,” Patterson said. “I’ll arrange a meeting with Detective McTiernan tomorrow morning and then we’ll try to get into Rikers by lunchtime. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure.”
“Tomorrow afternoon is the reading of the will and we’ll be attending that,” Patterson said.
“Flame’s will? Really?”
Gina nodded. “Carol didn’t want me there but I insisted. I have certain rights, too, you know.”
“Can you get me in to that?” Berenger asked. “It would be very helpful.”
Patterson replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Everyone stood and shook hands. Gina held on to his a little longer.
“You know, I had one of my premonitions that I’d see you today,” she said.
“Well, if I remember correctly, you were usually right on those things,” Berenger said.
“So I’ll see you soon?” she asked. Her eyes sparkled with promise.
“Sure,” he said.
4
Roll With the Changes
(performed by REO Speedwagon)
Berenger gave the team three hours to get up to speed on the case and then they gathered in the Rockin’ Security conference room. Suzanne happened to get to the sound system first, so Tori Amos was singing her way through the Little Earthquakes album on the overhead speakers, replacing Danny Lewis’ earlier pick, Licensed to Ill by the Beastie Boys. Berenger liked Tori Amos and thought that her first album was still the best one. At any rate her music was more conducive to a planning meeting.
“Good afternoon,” Berenger said.
“Hi,” replied Melanie Starkey, the office assistant. She never went by Melanie—she preferred Mel—but most of the time everyone called her “Ringo” because of her last name. Anyone interested in the Beatles knew that Ringo Starr was a stage name for Richard Starkey. Mel didn’t seem to mind the nickname. She happened to wear several rings, too.
Berenger poured a cup of coffee from the freshly brewed pot on the hot plate. Besides being a damned good office assistant, Mel made a superb pot of coffee. And she looked great today, as usual. She was a twenty-eight year old feisty redheaded babe. Berenger didn’t know if she was Scottish or Irish by heritage—she was most likely a mutt. It didn’t matter, really, because she spoke with a thick New Jersey accent.
Danny Lewis was a smart-aleck kid from Harlem that was perhaps the brainiest hacker he had ever known. He was nineteen, half-Caucasian, half African-American, and had no loyalties to either race. He called himself a “mix,” hence the nickname “Remix.” Lewis could probably write his own ticket into any major corporation as a systems manager but most employers would likely resist hiring someone so young for such an important position. The dreadlocks and nose piercing didn’t do much to inspire confidence in a white-collar human resources executive either. Berenger had recognized Lewis’ talents when the teenager came in one day to repair a Roland 64-voice synthesizer module. Danny had taken it apart, fixed it, and had it back together within twenty minutes. The “kid” was a genius.
Tommy Briggs was Berenger’s contemporary. At age forty-nine, he had made the most cracks the other night about Berenger turning fifty. Briggs used to be a field agent for the FBI and had held the job for nearly twenty years until he decided to give it up one day and work for Rockin’ Security. Briggs maintained a good relationship with the Bureau and had pals on the inside. He could usually get any information he wanted from the organization. Outside of Berenger’s musician friends, like Charlie Potts, Briggs was the closest thing to a best friend that
Berenger had.
Last and certainly not least was Suzanne Prescott, Berenger’s second-in-command and personal sidekick. At least he liked to think of her that way. Originally from California, Suzanne was thirty-eight, had short dark hair and brown eyes, and was just the type of woman that Berenger found attractive. Berenger couldn’t imagine how she might have looked back in the late eighties when she was a Goth devotee, sporting the classic black clothes, dark makeup and pale white skin. After doing a bit of maturing she had gone to the Far East for a few years and come back a student of eastern philosophy and martial arts. After the love of her life overdosed in the mid-nineties, Berenger and Suzanne had a brief love affair. He had always felt it was merely a rebound for Suzanne—no one could replace drummer Elvin Blake—but it was nice while it lasted. Several months later he had asked her to work for him. It was one of the wisest moves he’d ever made. These days Suzanne was certainly a beauty with brains.
“We waiting for Rudy?” Briggs asked.
“Appears so,” Berenger replied.
Remix piped up. “Did you hear about the gang fight last night?”
“Nope.”
“The Jimmys and the Cuzzins got into it down at Astor Place. The Cuzzins were playing and were into their second song when the Jimmys showed up. They actually beat the police there. It got pretty nasty.”
“Anyone hurt?” Berenger asked.
“I heard two Cuzzins were messed up pretty bad and are in the hospital.”
Rudy hurried in at last, poured a cup of Mel’s coffee and sipped it as he sat down. “Did you wait on me? You shouldn’t have,” he said.
“It’s all right, Rudy,” Berenger said. “We’ve only been here an hour.”
“Funny. Hey, why didn’t you tell me you and Gina Tipton were an item?”
Suzanne raised her eyebrows. “What? Is that true, Spike?” The others in the room were equally surprised.
“All right, all right,” Berenger said. “Yeah, we dated for a few months. It was a long time ago.”
“Is she as weird as people say?” Tommy Briggs asked.
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 3