“Hey, mom, listen—it’s ‘A Hard Day’s Night,’” Berenger said.
Ann Berkowitz looked up and smiled. “I remember that song.” She began to rock back and forth a little in her bed as she mouthed some of the lyrics. Berenger knew that a person’s love of and familiarity with music was one of the last things to go in an Alzheimer’s patient. He was glad to see that his mother could still rock ‘n’ roll.
“Hey, mom, do you remember when we sat in front of the television and saw the Beatles when they were first on Ed Sullivan?” he asked.
She stopped singing and looked at her son with a gleam in her eye.
“You silly boy,” she said. “How could anyone forget when the Beatles first came to America?” She shook her head and made a “tsk tsk” sound. “Even I remember that!”
ON THE THRESHOLD OF A DEATH
A Spike Berenger Rock ‘n’ Roll Hit Single
SIDE A
The gunman finished stuffing the compact .40 caliber Glock 23 in the shoulder holster, the weapon snug against his armpit. He then looked at himself in the mirror.
Not bad, he thought. The jacket would hide the fact that his tux wasn’t a perfect fit. As long as no one frisked him, he’d be fine. And since he was officially a part of the VIP entourage, he’d be able to enter with the other VIPs and avoid the security checkpoint.
Wasn’t life grand?
Too bad it had to end in a few hours.
The strains of The Moody Blues’ “Never Comes the Day,” from their seminal album On the Threshold of a Dream, bombarded Spike Berenger as he stepped into the special exhibit on the museum’s top level. It was the building’s smallest gallery, usually reserved for a tribute to a particular act. In this case the music provided a soundtrack to the Hall’s tribute to the symphonic rock pioneers whose repertoire also included Berenger’s personal favorite, “I’m Just a Singer (in a Rock ‘n’ Roll Band).”
Berenger had been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum in Cleveland, Ohio, numerous times and it never failed to fill him with a kind of pride. Even though he was a freelance private investigator and one of the two co-founders of Rockin’ Security, the most-respected rock ‘n’ roll security firm in the world, he was still a musician at heart. But at age fifty-one, being a rock ‘n’ roll star was a long-forgotten dream.
“Spike, where are you?”
It was Suzanne’s voice. The In-Ear device not only worked well for musicians to monitor themselves while performing on stage, but it was also a great communication tool for a security team.
He spoke into the lapel microphone. “I’m at the top of the pyramid, Suzanne. It checks out, all clear.”
“Well, get down here. The senator’s advance team is here and they want to talk to you.”
“Be right down. What’s Cramer’s demeanor? Is he scared?”
“He just looks angry.”
“That’s understandable, I suppose.”
“Hey, if I were the press secretary for Senator Perkins, I think I’d be a little upset, too. I still can’t believe they went ahead with this thing.”
Ain’t that the truth, Berenger thought. The evening was supposed to have been a star-studded fundraising cocktail party for the senator, complete with a performance by hot newcomers Chicago Green. But the news of the last forty-eight hours had changed everything. For a while it was unclear whether or not the event would be cancelled, but Spike and his team learned earlier in the day that the party would go ahead as planned. He was amazed, for already the streets outside the building were clogged with a couple hundred protestors.
He glanced at his watch and noted that it was six o’clock; the museum was now closing to the public. Time to ride the several escalators that connected the museum’s levels down to the main lobby.
“Hey, Spike.” Suzanne again.
“Yeah?”
“Didn’t you say that Senator Perkins went to high school with you?”
“That’s right. He was also in my first rock band during high school.”
“What made him go into politics? He had a pretty successful solo career in the late seventies, didn’t he?”
“I’ll say. I remember when my band The Fixers opened up for Joe Perkins once—and it was right here, in Cleveland!”
“No shit.”
“I kid you not. But I have no idea why he hung up his guitar. It was a move I never understood. It was in the eighties—he relocated to Ohio and got into politics. They called him the ‘rock ‘n’ roll candidate’ and did pretty well for himself. How he white washed the ‘sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll’ image, I’ll never know. He was a bit of a wild card when we were teenagers. When did he become a U.S. Senator?”
“Uh, nineteen-ninety-something?”
“Yeah. We kept in touch a little over the years. I was happy he called us to act as head security team for this little shmoozefest.”
Until Senator Joe Perkins was accused of partying with and supplying an overdose of drugs to a young girl in a Chicago hotel room two days ago…
Berenger shook his head and sighed. If the allegations ended up being true, Senator Perkins’ career in politics was over and he could possibly face jail time. Unbelievable.
Berenger reached the first floor and joined the rest of his team. Suzanne Prescott was his number two, an attractive thirty-nine year-old brunette with whom he had had a bit of romantic history—but all that was years behind them.
“You’ve been to the museum before, right?” he asked her.
“Uh huh. Pretty amazing,” she answered. “I personally like the Jimi Hendrix section. You’d look good in some of those clothes of his.”
Berenger chuckled. “I’d look pretty god-awful in those frilly things. That guy was doing Prince before Prince was.”
“Yeah, but the boas are cool as hell.” She nodded toward the back of the lobby, near the escalator that descended to the ground level. Two men in tuxes and a woman in an evening gown stood in a huddle, examining a floor plan. One of them was Press Secretary Wally Cramer.
“I’ll go talk to them.” Berenger turned to the third member of Rockin’ Security, a fifty-year-old man sitting at a makeshift command station that was set up just inside the gift shop. Tommy Briggs was former FBI but had joined Rockin’ Security after he retired. He was also the closest thing to a best friend that Berenger had.
“How’s it going, Tommy?”
Briggs stood and patted the top of one of the three laptop computers on the table. “We’re plugged into the museum’s security system and can monitor all of their cameras from here.”
“Good work. That was fast.”
“They don’t call me Lightnin’ Tom for nothing.”
“Tommy?”
“Yeah?”
“They don’t call you Lightnin’ Tom.”
He grinned. “I know. I just made it up.”
Berenger winced.
“And the rest of our people are all present and accounted for.”
“Cool.” Rockin’ Security had access to the best and the brightest security firms all around the country whenever they needed to hire bodies, and this was one of those nights. The place was crawling with highly qualified freelance security guards.
Berenger strode toward the new arrivals. Wally Cramer looked up and scowled. Cramer was in his mid-forties, short, and bald. Berenger had never seen him smile. Cramer indicated the attractive thirty-something Lois Lane-type and the handsome thirty-something Clark Kent-type.
“Mister Berenger,” Cramer said. “These are my associates, Miss Wilcox and Mister Trainer. This is Spike Berenger from Rockin’ Security.”
Berenger shook hands all around. “For a while I was wondering if we were really going to do this.”
Cramer rolled his eyes. “For the record, it’s against my judgment.” Berenger noticed that the man’s bald spot was red and sweaty. “But Joe insisted we act as if nothing was wrong,” Cramer continued. “Yeah, right. Have you seen the mob outside?”
“U
h huh. At least the Cleveland police are helping us out.”
“Every protest group in the world is behind the blockades around the museum. It’s ugly. Can you hear them chanting?”
“No. It’s pretty soundproof in here, Mister Cramer. All you can hear in the museum is the music.”
Cramer looked up and around. “I guess you’re right. Anyway, they’re all chanting ‘Arrest Perkins, arrest Perkins!’ It’s a regular lynch mob. To tell the truth, I’d like to hang him myself.”
“Is the number of guests still in the five-hundred range?”
“Yeah, but a lot of the RSVPs were made before the big news was announced. Only a few have called with regrets. You never know who’s not going to show up without telling us, though.”
“Do you think the allegations are true?”
Cramer grunted and whispered. “Today a witness came forward and placed the senator outside the woman’s hotel room on the night of the incident. And, yes, the senator was indeed at the hotel that night.”
“How’s the woman, Miss… uhm… what’s her name again?”
“Miss Penebaker,” the Lois Lane-type ventured. “Rosemary Penebaker. She’s still in a coma. Last we heard.”
Berenger shook his head. After a brief awkward pause, he said, “All right, Mister Cramer. Let’s just try to have a good time tonight. Leave everything to us. Let me know when the senator arrives.”
The man with the gun looked at his watch and was surprised that the entourage made it to the fundraiser on time. As expected, the senator’s group was ushered in through the loading dock in the back of the building, foregoing the X-ray machine and security check.
The good senator had fooled the American people long enough. All that crap about kicking drugs and going straight… all the lying and cheating… the cover-ups…
All that would end tonight.
But the gunman thought he might as well enjoy the party for a little while.
No need to ruin the evening for all these people just yet.
Berenger was on the lower level checking out the guests claiming to be press. When they demanded a statement from the senator, a few were quite hostile. Cramer did his best to explain that the senator would be down to say something soon, although Berenger knew the man had no clue when Perkins would decide it was time to do so.
The first hour of the party had gone smoothly and Berenger felt much less apprehension than he had earlier in the day. As long as the police kept the angry mob of—at last count—three hundred people away from the building.
“Everything okay, Suzanne? Tommy?” Berenger asked into his lapel.
“Fine in the main exhibit area, Spike,” Suzanne answered.
“Same up here,” Tommy replied from another floor. “Everybody’s pretty much sticking close to the food and booze downstairs.”
“Where’s the senator now? I haven’t had a chance to say hello.”
“In here with me, Spike,” Suzanne answered.
“I’ll find you.”
The senator stood with a small group of people in front of the glass cases containing Rolling Stones memorabilia. Perkins was incongruously telling them about a game of golf he’d recently had. Suzanne stood on the fringe of the gathering.
The senator saw Berenger and stopped his story. “Well, I’ll be… there he is!”
Berenger stepped up to his old friend and grasped the man’s hand. It was a bit clammy. In fact, Perkins didn’t look very well at all and he smelled strongly of alcohol. Not good form for his own fundraiser. He was a man under tremendous stress, and it showed. Nevertheless, the senator was making a valiant attempt at pretending it didn’t.
“Hey, Joe, where you going—” Berenger started to ask.
“—with that gun in your hand. Damn it, Spike, I knew you were going to say that and say it exactly the way you said it.”
Berenger shrugged. “Creature of habit. How are you, really, Joe?”
The senator smiled with a tinge of sadness that only Berenger recognized as such. “Hanging in there. And you? How’s this security thing working out for you? I hear you’re a PI, too.”
“I love my job, Joe. I get to go to all the cool parties.”
The senator laughed for a second and then drew his voice down. Leaning in to Berenger, he said, “Listen. They’re out to kill me. Every one of these people. And all those outside. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone here has a gun.”
“Joe, we’ve got things under control, but if you suspect someone, for Christ’s sake tell me. It’s what you hired me to do.”
The senator shook his head. “Let’s just say that if I was a betting man, and you know that I am, then I’d lay good odds that I’m right.”
Berenger recognized the fear in Perkins’ eyes. “It must be tough, Joe. All this… stuff.”
Perkins smiled sardonically and said, “I don’t know why I ever laid down that guitar, Spike.”
“You could always pick it up again.”
“Nah.” Perkins shook his head. “Those days are over. Look, I need to move on, lots of people to greet, hands to shake, you know…”
Berenger clasped the senator’s hand again. “Good seeing you, Joe. Take it easy, okay?”
By then, the man had walked away. Suzanne slid next to Berenger and told him that the senator’s group consisted of some legal big shots from Chicago, each of them with one or two assistants. The senator’s personal secretary, another aide, and a rugged Secret Service bodyguard completed the group
“The senator thinks his life is in danger,” Berenger said. “I don’t know if he was just making a dire comment on how rotten he feels, or if he was serious.”
“Well, there are a lot of people angry with him, but enough to kill him? That’s probably bullshit.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Berenger said. “Still, we can’t ignore it. Go to code pink and keep your eyes open.” He repeated the command to Briggs, who would relay it to the rest of the security guards stationed around the party.
Berenger walked past the John Lennon exhibit, into the main foyer, and took a position near the buffet that had been laid out in the middle of the floor. Although the level was crowded, full of the elite and wealthy—all there to contribute money to a falling star, a good number had apparently already left. Once they had seen the seriousness of the security situation, they didn’t want any part of it. None of the big name celebrities had shown up, and so far the band Chicago Green was nowhere to be seen. Berenger studied the faces of those still in attendance, trying to gauge how they really felt about the troubled senator. It was fairly obvious—although they did their best to pretend nothing was wrong, they all seemed uncomfortable. There were furtive glances here, some tightly controlled whispers there, and an intangible pall that hovered over the proceedings.
Wally Cramer ascended from the ground level and approached him. “It’s a madhouse. All the major groups with a reason to protest are outside. The NRA is out there protesting the senator’s stance on gun control. The Right to Lifers are there to tear down the senator’s pro-choice platform. There’s an Islamic group that doesn’t like his pro-Israel position. And then there’s everyone else—who just wants to see the guy hang for what happened to Rosemary Penebaker. I’m surprised they’re not throwing rocks.”
“The Cleveland police are pretty good, Mister Cramer. That’s not going to happen.” Berenger looked through the glass walls of I. M. Pei’s remarkable pyramid structure. “Don’t they know a man is innocent until proven guilty?”
“Mob mentality doesn’t take that into account,” Cramer replied. The man forcefully slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. His bald head was even redder and wetter than before. “Damn him! How could he screw it up so badly? This is going to wreck all of our careers!”
“Take it easy, Cramer. You’ll have a stroke. Press secretaries can always find work.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
As Cramer hurried towards the bar, Berenger scanned the crowd on the
floor. Who would be the most likely candidate to have a gun, other than the Secret Service bodyguard? Even Berenger wasn’t carrying; he had left his Smith & Wesson Model 638 “Bodyguard AirWeight” in New York. He didn’t think the fundraising party warranted being armed.
Berenger’s thoughts were interrupted when there was a loud crash on the building’s glass wall. A few women inside screamed. Someone in the mob outside had finally thrown something—a rock or a brick. The glass didn’t break, but there was now a large crack and spider-web pattern spreading from floor to ceiling.
Berenger spoke into his lapel. “Hank, did you see who did that?” Deputy Chief Hank Gould was the point man with the City of Cleveland Division of Police’s Special Operations department, stationed in front of the building.
“No, but I heard it,” the man replied. “I’ll have my men push the barriers further back.”
“Do that. Thanks.”
“Oh, and we just received a bomb threat.”
“What a surprise. Is it for real?”
“We doubt it. But the bomb squad is on the way. If I think there’s a real threat, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
The senator’s group emerged from the main floor exhibit area. Berenger kept his eye on Cramer, who was standing at the bar with a drink in his hand. Sure enough, the press secretary suddenly slammed down the glass and walked purposefully toward the senator. Cramer’s right hand moved up and into his jacket, as if he were reaching for something. Berenger’s internal alarm went off, and without thinking he bolted toward the press secretary. The two men collided with a much stronger impact than Berenger had intended—they both sailed across the floor and landed hard.
“What the hell?” Cramer shouted. “Berenger! Owww!”
Berenger pulled out Cramer’s right hand and saw that he was clutching a digital camera.
“Shit, Mister Cramer, I’m sorry.”
“You dumb ass, get off of me!”
Berenger stood and helped the press secretary on his feet. “I’m sorry. I saw… I thought…”
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 27