“Thanks, Mel. You wanna go out on a date?”
She snorted and said, “I wasn’t fishin’, Spike. You’re a good-lookin’ guy but you’re just not my type. Besides, it’s not cool to date the boss. Sorry!”
“Okay, you’re fired. Now will you go out with me?”
“You wish.”
He laughed, but as he ascended, he studied his likeness in the reflective paneling that lined the circular staircase. There was no doubt about it—he was simply a big ol’ hairy bear of a man. The long salt-and-pepper hair he had worn in a ponytail since coming out of the army reached to the middle of his back. His facial hair was slightly darker but the gray and white patches complimented his blue eyes.
Berenger went all the way to the Operations room on the third floor, and that’s where he found most of his team.
Danny Lewis was a smart-aleck kid from Harlem that was perhaps the brainiest hacker Berenger had ever known. He was twenty, half-Caucasian, half African-American, and had no loyalties to either race. He called himself a “mix,” hence the nickname “Remix.” Lewis was the firm’s tech guru, hacker, systems analyst, programmer, and streetwise geek. And damned good at what he did. He was also the practical joker of the group and could be counted on for the more eyebrow-raising shenanigans.
Tommy Briggs was Berenger’s contemporary. At age 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 knew people in just about any Federal government organization one could name. If a piece of information could be obtained from an archival or electronic source, Briggs usually found a way to access it though the good old boy network.
And then there was the inimitable Suzanne, his number two. Originally from California, Suzanne Prescott was thirty-nine, had short dark hair and deep brown eyes, and possessed the most interesting history of the entire bunch. In the eighties she was a Goth devotee, sporting the classic black clothes, dark makeup and pale white skin. After doing a bit of maturing she traveled the Far East for a few years and came back a student of eastern philosophy, martial arts, and Transcendental Meditation. After the love of her life overdosed in the mid-nineties, Berenger and Prescott had a brief love affair, brief being the operative word. But they remained friends and several months later Berenger asked her to work for him.
“Fearless leader!” Remix cried when Berenger entered the room.
“Hey, guys. ‘Sup?”
His team members sat at computer workstations, pretending to look busy.
“I’m buried by all this work you left me,” Remix said. “I can’t even see the sunlight, man. I’m starving and dehydrated and I’ve gotta take a leak and—”
“Okay, okay, enough.” He addressed Briggs. “Anything happen while I was out?”
“Nope.”
“Nope,” Prescott echoed.
“That’s good, I guess. I heard Zach Garriott called.”
“The Shredder? Really?” Remix asked.
“Yeah, really. I guess I need to go call him back.”
“I don’t think he has any openings in his band, Spike. So get that right out of your system. And besides, you ain’t half as good as he is.”
“Thanks, Remix. Oh, I’m gonna need you in a while. We’ve got this IRS auditor coming to see Rudy and me. You think you could do one of your specials on him and keep him occupied for a while? Make him, uhm, comfortable while he waits?”
Remix’s eyes brightened. “The IRS? Holy snowballs, Batman! I’ve always wanted to take a crack at one of them!”
“Just don’t kill him. That’s against the law.”
“But you don’t particularly want to go through with the audit, is that the idea?”
“You got it.”
“Leave it to me, bossaroo.”
Prescott rolled her eyes as if to say, “Uh oh. We’re in trouble.”
“Say, Spike, Tommy and I want you to settle an argument for us,” Remix said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s not important, Spike,” Briggs grumbled.
“What?”
Remix cleared his throat. “Pink Floyd’s album. Is it THE Dark Side of the Moon, or just Dark Side of the Moon?”
Berenger winced. “Remix…”
“No, man, I wanna know! Tommy here bet me a dollar that the album title is The-less. I say it’s supposed to have a The on it.”
Berenger looked at Briggs. “Is this a real discussion you guys have been having? On company time?”
“Hey,” Briggs answered, “all I said was that the The was dropped from the title when the album was released on CD. Back in seventy-three, when the vinyl record came out, it did have a The on it. But now it doesn’t. Look at the spine of the CD. There’s no The. Pink Floyd and everybody else constantly refer to the album as just Dark Side of the Moon. Having to say THE Dark Side of the Moon is… well, awkward. Don’t you think?”
Berenger stared at his two teammates. “I haven’t really thought about it with such intensity, guys. But to answer your question, Tommy’s right. The original album had a The, but I always called it Dark Side of the Moon without the The. It sounds better that way.”
Remix grunted in disgust.
“You owe me a dollar, Remix,” Briggs commented.
Berenger left the room and made his way down to the second floor, which belonged to him and Prescott. Besides their separate offices, the level contained a recording studio and gym exclusively used by Berenger.
He went into his office, sat at his desk, and dialed Bishop.
“Bishop.”
“Rudy, I’m here.”
“Good. The auditor’ll be here any minute. You had me sweating bullets.”
“Rudy, I told you not to worry. Besides, Remix is gonna take care of him for us while I call Zach Garriott back.”
“Remix? Oh, no…”
Berenger chuckled and hung up. He went downstairs just as Melanie buzzed in a thin man in his thirties who wore a conservative suit that Berenger thought shouted I AM AN IRS AGENT!
“Ringo, call Remix and have him come down and make our guest comfortable. Rudy and I will be with him in a minute.”
Melanie’s eyes bulged as she gulped, but she made the call.
The man approached the desk and spoke with a comically nasal voice. “Hello, I’m Milton Morgan with the Internal Revenue Service and I have an appointment with Rudy Bishop.”
“Just a moment, sir,” Melanie said with efficiency as she punched buttons on her desk phone. She was doing her best not to laugh. “Remix? Could you come down here? There’s a Milton Morgan from the IRS here.”
Berenger ducked into another office and waited. After a moment, Remix came bounding down the stairs. Morgan’s eyes widened when he saw the dark-skinned young man with out-of-control dreadlocks and piercings decorating his face.
“Hi, there. I’m Danny Lewis, Mister Bishop’s executive secretary.”
Melanie snorted again, because Remix was speaking with a phony British accent, as if he were a sophisticated black Londoner from the City.
“Mister Bishop and Mister Berenger will be right with you. I’m going to show you into our conference room where you can wait for a minute or two. Can I get you something to drink? Ringo here makes superb coffee.”
Morgan nodded. “Coffee would be nice, thanks. Cream and sugar, please.”
Remix led the man into the adjacent conference room. “Please have a seat and I’ll return in a moment.” He shut the door and ran into the kitchen. He poured a cup of coffee and then removed a piece of paper from his pocket. It had been folded into a receptacle for a white powder he had hastily procured from his office. He mixed in two spoonfuls of the powder, and then put the box away. Remix then added the cream and sugar.
“Here you are, sir,” Remix purred as he brought the spiked coffee into the conference room.
“Oh, tha
nks very much.”
“You’re welcome. Mister Bishop and Mister Berenger will be with you shortly.”
Remix turned, left the room, and locked the door behind him. As he started up the stairs, Berenger caught his eye. Remix gave him a thumbs-up and winked. Berenger noted the time on his wristwatch and then walked into Bishop’s office.
“Where is he?” Bishop asked. A man in his late forties, Rudy Bishop was a nervous type who couldn’t keep still. At the moment he was compulsively tapping the end of a ball point pen on the edge of his desk.
“In the conference room. We have time to make that call.”
Bishop half-smiled and slid his phone across the desk as Berenger sat in the chair on the opposite side. Bishop gave him a piece of paper with the phone number written on it and Berenger dialed.
“Hello?”
“Is this Zach Garriott?” He shot Bishop a look and indicated the tapping ball point pen. Bishop immediately shoved the pen into his shirt pocket and attempted to be motionless.
“Yes?”
“It’s Spike Berenger.”
“Spike! How are you, man?”
“Okay! Nice to hear your voice. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, it has. What’s it been, three or four years since I saw you in New York?”
“I think so. I heard you called?”
The timbre of Garriott’s voice changed from exuberance to solemnity. “Yeah, I did. You heard about Charles Nance?”
Berenger frowned. “No. What about him?”
“He was murdered, man. Shot and killed a few nights ago outside his house!”
“Oh my God!”
Berenger had met Charles Nance a few times. He knew the man’s brother, Joe, slightly better. Their band, Windy City Engine, was one of Berenger’s favorite underground prog outfits out of Chicago.
“It’s the third one in two months, man, and we’re getting spooked!” Garriott said.
“Wait. What do you mean, it’s the ‘third one’?”
“You haven’t heard? About the Kriges? Or Dave Monaco and Hank Palmer?”
“No.”
“Where you been, Spike? Someone’s killing off Chicagoprog musicians right and left. It’s like open season on us, man. You gotta come help us out. I mean it, man! Get out here as soon as you can!”
“Wait, wait, slow down, Zach. Back up. I’m in New York. We don’t see news from Chicago unless it’s pretty big stuff.”
“Yeah, well that figures. If Sting or Elvis Costello got bumped off, it’d be international news. But kill some unknown, underground has-been musicians that hardly anyone listens to anymore, and it just ain’t news.”
“Zach, will you tell me what’s happened? Take a deep breath and start at the beginning!”
Berenger heard Garriott breathe slowly and with force, and then the man said, “Okay. About six weeks ago, Lew and Sarah Krige were shot outside their house in Evanston. Did you know them?”
“No, I never met them. But I know who they are. They were members of Red Skyez. Lew Krige took over from Stuart Clayton when he left the band in the early seventies, right?”
“Right. Well, anyway, they were shot and killed. Then, about three weeks later, Dave Monaco and Hank Palmer were on their way out of the Double Door and were shot. They had just played a gig there and were headed for their cars. Blam, blam! Both of ‘em dead.”
“Jesus!”
Dave Monaco and Hank Palmer were also former members of Red Skyez. Monaco, a bass player, and Palmer, a drummer, had gone on to other bands and session lineups in the mid-seventies and beyond.
“And now Charles is dead. We’re all freakin’ out, man.”
“I’ll bet. What do the police say?”
“They don’t say nothin’! They’re runnin’ around in circles. Hell, they haven’t even admitted that all three murders are connected. They need some help, man, and that’s why I called you. You’re the best in the business, Spike. We need you.”
“Do the police have any suspects? Anything at all?”
“Only that a witness reported seeing a woman with blonde hair and a big hat leaving one of the scenes. And if it’s who I think it is, Spike… well, you’re not gonna believe this, but she’s a goddamned ghost!”
“What do you mean, Zach?”
“I mean what I said! The killer has been dead for thirty-five years!”
3
Taxman
(performed by The Beatles)
Berenger and Bishop told Garriott they’d phone him back. They sat in their chairs for at least a minute before anyone moved.
“So, is he doing too many drugs or something?” Bishop asked.
“I have no idea. Zach always struck me as pretty smart. He’s made a decent career for himself.”
“So did Hendrix. So did Janis Joplin. So did—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Berenger picked up the phone and called the Operations room. “Suzanne? Hey, would you or Tommy go on the Internet and find all the stories you can about recent shootings of musicians in Chicago.” He gave her the victims’ names.
Ten minutes later, Remix brought down a small stack of printouts. As Berenger suspected, the news items were not front page news. Charles Nance received a page two story, but the other two incidents were considerably smaller. Lew and Sarah Krige were shot in front of their home in Evanston, just as Garriott had told them. Police suspected robbery or a drug transaction-gone-bad to be the motive, although nothing from the house seemed to be missing. A witness described a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and a broad, “floppy” hat leaving the scene. Marijuana was found in the house, adding weight to the drug scenario. The Kriges were in their late fifties and were once members of the band Red Skyez before striking out on their own with the band simply called Krige. Friends and colleagues said the couple had kicked around Chicago for nearly three decades and never found great success, although they made a living and seemed relatively happy.
Dave Monaco and Hank Palmer were also former members of Red Skyez. When that band split up, Palmer followed the Kriges and played drums for their group. Monaco joined the band South Side for a while but struck out on his own in 1978 to play with a variety of musicians and line-ups in Los Angeles. He moved back to Chicago in the late nineties and played one-off gigs with various former members of the Chicagoprog scene. On the night of the shooting, Monaco and Palmer had done a show at the Double Door club with musicians not related to Chicagoprog. The duo was shot at point blank range in the street as they left the club. Once again, a blonde woman in a large hat was seen by a couple of witnesses.
No one saw what happened to Charles Nance. He was shot outside his home in Chicago and his body was discovered the next morning by the newspaper delivery boy. Again, police chalked it up to a possible robbery attempt. There was no mention of the previous murders.
“I don’t get it,” Bishop said. “Isn’t it obvious that these shootings are related?”
“Maybe the police are keeping the evidence close to the vest. They’re not going to release some information if it can help catch the killer… or killers.”
“So what do you think?”
Berenger shrugged. “It’s intriguing. I have to admit that I’m interested more because I’m a fan of the music.”
“How well do you know all these musicians?”
“Not well. I know Zach the best. I’ve met all the guys in Windy City Engine. Joe Nance and I are fairly friendly. I knew some of the crew in Red Skyez.”
“What about Stuart Clayton?”
Berenger made a face. “Met him once. A long time ago. I think it must’ve been when his first solo album came out. Nineteen-seventy nine? He’s a strange duck.”
“I’ll say. Didn’t he spend time in a mental hospital or something?”
“I don’t know about that. He had a stroke or a heart attack, I forget which. That was in the early seventies. Withdrew from everyone, became a recluse. No one thought he would continue in music, but then he put out that so
lo album. And he put out another one, what, ten years or so later? I guess I’ll have to talk to him, too.”
“Is he, like, coherent?”
“I have no idea.”
After a pause, Bishop shrugged and said, “It’s up to you, Spike. You don’t have to ask me. If you want the case, we can do it.”
“I think I do. We don’t have anything pressing right now, do we?”
Bishop shook his head. “Just Rod Stewart’s alleged blackmail attempt, which I think is bogus, and that business with Iggy Pop’s dogs. Oh, and Willie Nelson says that some very expensive herb was stolen from his ranch in Texas, but I don’t think we should get involved in that.”
“I’ll bet it’s not stolen. He probably just forgot where he stashed it. What happened with Debbie Harry and her landlord?”
“Lawsuit was settled.”
“That’s good. I didn’t particularly relish the thought of her hiring me to go through the guy’s garbage just to find a stinking receipt.”
“We also have a couple of tours coming up. Need security teams and all that. But you can organize those in your sleep.”
“Who’s touring?”
“Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young are doing another protest show.”
“What are they mad about now?”
“Beats me. That’s their shtick.”
“They beat you with a shtick?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Sorry.”
“And Penn and Teller want to tour the Middle East.”
“Penn and Teller? Since when are they a rock ‘n’ roll act? One of ‘em can’t even talk, much less sing.”
Bishop threw his hands in the air. “Hey, they called us and we took the job, all right?”
“Fine. So you can spare Suzanne and me for a few days?”
“I guess so. But what’s all this about a ghost being the shooter?”
“I don’t know. I’m gonna call him back.” He picked up the phone and dialed the third floor again. “Tommy? Get ready for a team meeting in a half hour. Tell everyone to pull up all the background info on these Chicago killings, the victims, and the history of the Chicagoprog bands. I’ll be up in a bit.”
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 30