“Yeah, but you straightened out,” Berenger noted. “And besides, it’s okay to be a little bad, and luckily you still are.”
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up, this isn’t funny.”
“I know.” He then showed her that day’s Chicago Sun-Times. “And now there’s this.” One of the smaller headlines on the front page proclaimed, “MUSICIAN KILLER SLAIN.”
“Oh, no,” Prescott said. She picked up the paper and began to read.
“I think they’re jumping the gun. They haven’t finished the ballistics tests, they don’t have the physical evidence to prove that Bushnell was the shooter… all they have is an armed robbery attempt totally unrelated to the musicians. The Chicago PD must really want to close this case.”
“It happens all the time, Spike, you know that. The police will rush to close a high profile case, even if they’ve got the wrong offender. You see it everywhere, especially in the big cities. Look what happened with that Central Park Jogger case in New York, for example.”
“I know. What are you gonna do? It’s out of our hands.” He took out his mobile and started to dial a number, but stopped. “Oh, and I found out that Lucy Nance dyes her hair. A week ago it was blonde.”
“Oh, really?”
“Uh huh.”
“You think there’s anything to it?”
“At this point, I’m not ruling out anything.” He dialed New York and asked Melanie to connect him to Remix.
“Howdy-do, Spikers.”
“How are you doing with collecting that music, Remix?”
“Got most of it. Spent all day yesterday in the Village haunting the vintage record and CD shops. I managed to get all of Red Skyez’s stuff that you didn’t already have, as well as Windy City Engine’s. I’m still missing Joe Nance’s solo album and Stuart Clayton’s two records. But I have a lead on Clayton’s that I should hear about today. I’ve started uploading the music.”
“Thanks. I guess I need to start listening.”
“You really think there’ll be some clues in the music?”
“Well, I found out last night what the big mystery is about, so now I don’t know if your efforts will be of any use.”
“What? You mean I wore a hole in my tennis shoe for nothin’?”
“No. Stay on task. I’m still going to give everything a listen. Did you scan the album covers and upload them, too?”
“Not yet. I was doing the music first. I’ll get on that today as well.”
“Great. Thanks. Transfer me to Tommy, will you?”
After a few seconds, Briggs picked up the phone.
“What’ve you got, Tommy?”
“I was about to call you. Okay, I finally got the Immigration records for Sylvia Favero, Joe Nance, and Stuart Clayton. Sylvia went back and forth from the U.S. to Italy three times in her lifetime. Once when she was young, in nineteen-fifty-five. The next time was nineteen-sixty-two. Then again in nineteen-sixty-eight.”
“That’s when she went to have her baby.”
“She left the U.S. in January of sixty-eight and returned in November. There are no records of her leaving the country after that.”
“That’s because she really was dead. I’m pretty sure about that now.”
“Not a hundred per cent?”
“No. What about the guys?”
“Joe Nance has a long history of traveling in and out of the country. Windy City Engine did eight European tours and three Far East tours over the years. All of those are accounted for.”
“No other instances, not related to a tour?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Okay, what about Clayton?”
“Other than one European tour that Red Skyez did in seventy-two, he left the country in nineteen-eighty. Apparently he went to Italy, but as you know, that doesn’t mean he stayed there. You can travel around Europe and maybe they’ll stamp your passport when you enter a new country, and maybe not. The U.S. doesn’t keep records of that—they just look to see where all you’ve been when you return to America. Unless it raises a red flag—like if you’ve been in a country that supports terrorism or somewhere that’s on the State Department’ no-no list—then usually Immigration doesn’t give a hoot. But I’ve got a source that tells me that Clayton applied for a work visa in Italy, which he renewed a few times. So maybe he did plant some roots in that country. Anyway, he returned to the U.S. in nineteen-ninety-two. Hasn’t left since.”
“Thanks, Tommy. I’m not sure what it means, but it just might be helpful.”
Berenger wondered if the fact that Clayton went to Italy indicated that he had a connection to Julia Faerie. Was he Julia’s father? Or was his residing there merely a coincidence?
“You do know that Clayton’s parents were wealthy?” Briggs asked.
“Yeah. But I just have vague details about all that.”
“His grandfather founded a ball bearing company in Chicago in the early nineteen-hundreds. Made a fortune. Clayton’s father took over the business during the forties. He and Clayton’s mother died in some kind of boating accident in nineteen-seventy-five.”
“A boating accident?”
“That’s what the death certificates say. There’re a few newspaper items about it. Seems there was a fire at sea and they didn’t make it.”
“Gee.”
“Clayton sold the company soon after that. I would bet he used the money to live in Italy for those twelve years.”
“Well, he’s practically penniless now. He told us he has a trust fund that he depends on for income. I’d like to know where he was for the few years after his stroke in seventy-three.”
“Hold on, I might have a lead for you.” Berenger heard Briggs shuffle some papers. “I got hold of copies of his parents’ death certificates. There’s a family doctor listed—a Jeremiah Levine in Chicago. I have no idea if he’s still in practice or not. Maybe you can find out?”
Berenger scribbled down the name. “Thanks, I’ll look into it. Anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“Okay, now transfer me to Rudy.”
While he was waiting, Prescott’s cell phone rang. She answered it and her eyes grew wide. “Oh, hello there!” She looked at Berenger and mouthed the name, Stuart Clayton! Berenger nodded enthusiastically, and then went across the room so he could have a private conversation.
“Hey, Spike.”
“Rudy, we’re staying until Saturday. That’s my decision. I want to be here for the benefit concert tomorrow night at the very least. I think between now and then I’m going to learn something big. Just in the past twenty-four hours I’ve discovered a whole hell of a lot, and as you know, in this business when the dam breaks you get a flood.”
“And you think the damn has broken?”
“I do. At least there’s a big ol’ crack in it. I’m getting close, Rudy, I can feel it.”
“All right, Spike. Just keep me informed. I suppose we can write off your expenses.”
“Geez, Rudy, if you want us to move out of the Drake and into a Motel Six, we will.”
Bishop laughed. “Not necessary, partner. Just do your job and come home.”
Berenger hung up and rejoined Prescott.
“Okay, Stuart, I’ll see you then. Bye!” She hung up and smiled. “Okay, he said I could come over.”
“Where’s he been?”
“He didn’t say. Didn’t sound particularly coherent. You’d think he was about to drop dead any day. But anyway, I said I’d like to ask him some more questions and at first he hemmed and hawed and said he wasn’t well, blah blah blah. But I mentioned that you were busy and it would just be me, so he warmed up to that idea.”
“He has the hots for you, Suzanne.”
“Yeah, but given his condition, I don’t know what he’d be able to do about it.”
“Sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, then. Go on over there. Use that beautiful n
oggin of yours to draw him out. Use Nance’s story if you need to. I’d like to get a confirmation from him that what Joe said happened really occurred.”
“All right. What are you going to do?”
“I need to use your laptop. I’m going to sit here and listen to several hours of Chicagoprog music. I’m going to pretend it’s not a waste of time. You never know.” She nodded, but Berenger could see that something was bothering her. “What’s wrong?”
“What are we going to do about it, Spike?”
“About what?”
“You know, what happened in nineteen-seventy. Are these guys liable for murder, or what?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I really don’t know the legalities. We don’t know if it was really murder. Negligence, yes. And I don’t know if I should tell Mike Case or not. Would it make any difference after all this time? Would Joe and Stuart and Harrison be arrested? I doubt it. There’s no body. There’s no proof that Sylvia Favero died out there on that boat. There’s no way they could pinpoint the location and drag the lake. There wouldn’t be much left of her after thirty-nine years anyway. What would be the point in telling someone?”
She frowned and sighed. “I guess you’re right. But it bothers me. Those guys were responsible, you know, in many ways. Seven adult men and one woman. They were really stupid. All those drugs. It’s a wonder one or two of the guys didn’t die, too!”
“If they’re going to be judged then it’s going to come from a higher power, Suzanne, if you believe that kind of stuff.”
She shook her head. “You’re forgetting something, Spike.”
“What’s that?”
“There might still be a killer out there who wants to judge—and sentence—them.”
23
Down In It
(performed by Nine Inch Nails)
Prescott left for Clayton’s house and Berenger went online to try and find Dr. Jeremiah Levine. There was no practice with that name listed in any of the popular search engines. Googling it produced several hundred hits, none of which seemed to be located in Chicago. But he spent some time scanning the various entries and eventually found one with embedded text that mentioned a “Dr. Jeremiah Levine in Chicago.” Berenger clicked on the link and found a website with a blog by a woman named Carol Hersh. He scanned the pages and finally found the reference. It was an entry dated two years earlier that described the traumatic experience of placing her father in an assisted living facility. Apparently her maiden name was Levine and she was the good doctor’s daughter.
It was relatively easier to locate her telephone number. Berenger called it but reached an answering machine.
“Ms. Hersh, my name is Spike Berenger, and I’m a private investigator working with the Chicago police on a case.” It was a lie, but a tiny white one. “I need to speak with your father, if he is the same Doctor Jeremiah Levine who had a practice in Chicago during the seventies. Please call me back. It’s urgent.” He left his mobile number and hung up.
Then he accessed Rockin’ Security’s server, found the folders where Remix had uploaded the music, and set about listening to the Red Skyez albums he wasn’t familiar with. It was going to be a tedious job, but at least it was music he enjoyed.
Prescott drove the rental car to Clayton’s house on Mango Avenue, parked in front, and got out. Curiosity got the better of her, so she walked around the side of the house. A separate garage stood at the end of an unpaved drive with a padlock securing the door closed. Prescott could plainly see tire tracks on the gravel leading to the structure, indicating that Clayton had recently driven his car. The back yard wasn’t fenced, and Prescott noted that it was just as poorly cared for as the front. She had a mind to perform a good deed and hire a lawn service for a day as a gift for the invalid.
She went back to the front door and knocked—but the door was ajar and swung open on its own. Prescott took a step inside and called out, “Stuart? Are you here?” The house was eerily quiet. “Hello? Anybody home?” She went all the way in and closed the door behind her. The place smelled awful, worse than before. The hallway was dark and unlit, but she knew her way around. First she checked out the kitchen. Clayton wasn’t there, but the sink remained full of dirty dishes and the pizza box from the other night—with uneaten pieces—was still on the table. She winced at the sight.
She retraced her steps back to the hallway, and then looked in the living room. It, too, was empty, and it first she thought nothing had changed since she and Berenger had visited. But as she turned to explore more of the house, she noticed broken glass on the rug near the unused fireplace. Prescott moved closer to check it out and found that the framed photographs of the band had fallen. She picked them up and recoiled slightly when she saw that the pictures themselves had been mutilated. Someone had used a sharp object and sliced the faces of every band member in the photos.
“Stuart?” she called again. When still no one answered, she pulled out her cell and dialed Berenger. She cursed when his voice mail kicked in.
“Damn it, Spike, answer your phone. I’m at Stuart’s house and no one’s here. But someone’s been here. I think he might be in trouble. I’m going to continue exploring to see what I find. Call me back.”
She hung up and went back to the hallway. The bathroom was filthy and cluttered with toiletries—some empty and forgotten, and a few still in use. The shower curtain was moldy and gross. Prescott pulled it back to look at the tub. She couldn’t imagine bathing in it.
Instinct prompted her to open the medicine cabinet. It was full of dozens of prescription medications, some dating as far back as the early nineties. There were antidepressants, antipsychotics, and tranquilizers, as well as standard over the counter pain killers. The most recent prescriptions were dated five years earlier and the bottles appeared to be untouched.
Prescott stepped out of the bathroom and went farther down the hall to the first bedroom. She knocked and carefully peered inside, fearful of what she might find. But there was nothing but an unmade bed and a room covered in discarded dirty clothing. The drawers on the bureau were partly open and contained underwear and socks. A closet contained a few shirts and pants on hangers.
A second bedroom, across the hall, was full of all manner of junk. Apparently Clayton didn’t use it for anything but a receptacle for stuff he didn’t use, such as a busted microwave, broken furniture, a rusty bedspring and uncovered mattress, and piles of old newspapers and magazines. A framed photo of Stuart Clayton in a high school graduation cap caught her eye. It was lying on top of an open carton. She took a moment to squat and examine the photo. Clayton was a handsome young man when he was seventeen or eighteen, whatever his age was when the photo was shot. She lifted the photo and found that the carton was full of artifacts from Clayton’s high school years and earlier. There were a few school notebooks, a second place science fair award, several track-and-field awards, and an old Boy Scout uniform. Clayton had reached First Class and collected a number of merit badges, but he must have dropped out before going further in the program. Prescott put everything back in the carton and stood. The rest of the stuff in the room was just trash. Lots of trash.
A firetrap waiting to happen, she thought.
She continued the exploration by making her way to the makeshift recording studio. There, she found several reel-to-reel tape boxes sitting on the mixing board, as if they’d recently been pulled from the storage room. The studio itself appeared untouched since their last visit. Prescott picked up the boxes and read the labels.
Trrrrans Sessions A. Trrrrans Sessions B. Trrrrans Sessions C. The box labeled Session A was empty.
Apparently they were the master tapes of Clayton’s solo album from 1979. A reel was already threaded on the player, so Prescott reached out and pushed the “Play” button.
Clayton’s fragile voice, accompanied only by piano, sang out through the speakers all over the house. The music was strangely beautiful, but there was something disturbing about it that Prescott could
n’t quite put her finger on. The song was about an out-of-body experience, most certainly autobiographical. She wished Berenger were there; perhaps he would have more insight.
At one point, the music stopped because Clayton had made a mistake on the keyboard. A woman’s voice said, “You did it again, Stuart.”
“I know,” Clayton replied. “Sorry.”
“Try it again.”
He picked up the song at a point prior to the error.
The woman’s voice was familiar and Prescott was certain that she knew to whom it belonged. The person in the studio with Clayton during the recording was Sylvia Favero.
But if Sylvia Favero died in 1970, what was she doing in Clayton’s studio in 1979?
The musician made another mistake.
“Stuart! You’re never going to get the album finished if you keep fucking up.”
“Sorry, honey. This is the first record I’ve made in a few years, remember?”
“I know, but you’re a professional.”
Clayton laughed a little. “Professionals make money doing this.”
“Stop that, Stuart! We don’t need bad vibes. Keep thinking groovy thoughts, honey. Let your mind go free and soar in the sky. Just like we used to. I know you can do it.”
“Okay.”
He started again and this time he made it all the way through the song. Prescott found it profoundly moving, even though the lyrics were pretentiously obtuse.
“Take twelve. I’d say that’s a good one,” Sylvia said. “Want to try it again now or would you rather have your break?”
“No, no, I can keep going. Just let me drink some water…
And he started the song from the beginning.
Fascinating, Prescott thought. But who was listening to this earlier? Clayton… or someone else?
Berenger had turned the volume of Prescott’s laptop as high as it would go. That way he could still listen to the music as he used the toilet, brushed his teeth, and showered. But as a result, he couldn’t hear his cell phone. When he picked it up off the coffee table, he saw that he had missed three calls. One was marked as a Private Call, one was from Prescott, and one was from C. Hersh. He listened to the Private message first.
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 46