“Because they can. Because they want to make a point.”
“I want you to get me off. I don’t care what it costs, if I have to owe you for the rest of my life.”
“There’s a saying, Rick. ‘You can beat the rap, but you can’t beat the ride.’ You know what that means?”
He laughed without a trace of humor. “I’m not gonna like this, am I?”
“It means, we can go to trial. We might win. But the minute they indict you, the public is going to believe you’re guilty. Your business is going to head for the basement. Maybe you can pull it out, maybe not. The jury might acquit you—you could beat the rap. But hang on tight, Rick. You’re not going to beat the ride.”
“Oh, my God.”
“We’re going to my office,” Dan said. “You’re going to tell me everything that happened between you and Miguel Salazar. How you got involved, what you did, what he did. I need to find a defense for you, Rick. Forget the damned band.”
“I want to see Sandy,” Rick said. “She’s up at Coral Rock. I have to talk to her.”
“Not now.”
“I want to talk to my wife!”
“No. You’re the client, I’m the lawyer. If she’s angry enough, Sandy could testify as to what you told me. I can’t allow that.”
“She wouldn’t,” Rick said, “but if she did, I don’t care. It’s my decision, right? I’m the client?”
“You’re an idiot.”
Rick said hoarsely, “Sandy would be better off if I had an accident, you know that? I have life insurance.”
“No. It’s never better that way.” Dan put his arm across Rick’s shoulders and steered him back across the parking lot to their cars.
“It’s a tough business,” Rick said. “You can be rich one day, poor the next, then rich again. I was okay, then I made some bad decisions. Had some bad luck. Gigs fell through. I spent tons of money on promotion and nobody showed up. Usually I’d make it back on the next concert, but about a year ago I got in real deep. Sandy and I had been having troubles, so I said, baby, let’s go to Paris. We got back, I bought her a car. She was happy, I was happy. We threw some great parties. Everybody was there. I heard Kelly’s band that season and knew I had to represent them. I gave Kelly a job part-time at Coral Rock. Leon Davila, their drummer, introduced me to Miguel Salazar, who said he’d make me a loan. It wasn’t a hundred grand all at once, it came in dribs and drabs. I didn’t tell Sandy, naturally, because she would have raised hell.
“Did I know what Miguel was? Yeah, probably. Leon was such a cokehead, always hanging with guys I knew were dopers. They like the entertainment industry. If you’re on the outside, it looks glamorous and exciting. Miguel wanted to be inside. Did I care what else he was doing? Not really. That was his business. Then it became mine. You know, these things always start off so small. He was pushing me to pay him back, but I didn’t have the cash. He said okay, let me produce one of the shows, I’ll take my money out of that. Yes, I knew he was going to run money through the ticket sales, but after it was over, we’d be square. But we weren’t. The Palm Beach winter festival was rained out, and I hadn’t bought insurance. It never rains in the winter, right? He lent me thirty grand to cover office expenses. Now I see he kept me on the hook like that, reeling it in, little by little. Early on I had a choice, but I didn’t see it coming. No. I saw it. It was easier not to care.
“There was a point when I wanted out. I was scared he’d get busted, scared I’d go down with him. After he did what I know had to be close to a million bucks through that huge rave concert at Joe Robbie stadium last summer, I said it’s definitely over. No more or I’m going to the cops. He and Leon Davila took me in Leon’s Jeep out on Alligator Alley into the Everglades. I knew I was going to die. They made me kneel down. I was crying. Jesus, I wet my pants even. Begging him. I could see the sawgrass against the blue sky, and hear the damned mosquitoes, and feel the muck going through the knees of my pants, and I remember the regret. So sorry that I’d never see any of that again, and how little I’d valued a damn mosquito, you know? I thought of Sandy, and my last thought was, man, is she going to be mad at me. Miguel put his pistol to the back of my head and pulled the trigger. It wasn’t loaded. He said, ‘You see how easy I could do it? You see?’
“After that I didn’t say anything else. I denied it was even happening. You take that attitude, all your problems go away.
“Miguel’s big interest was the band, which by then had changed names from Black Mango to Mayhem. That was Kelly’s choice. Miguel didn’t like it, but Martha did, and he’s crazy about Martha. The way I heard it from Kelly, Miguel and Martha took one look at each other and bells went off. His money, her talent. She doesn’t know about his other life. She thinks he made all his money shipping videos and CD’s to South America. What Miguel wants is to make Martha a star. He said if I got Martha a contract, he’d consider my debt to him paid in full. My desire to get the band signed was also a desire to get rid of Miguel.
“I guess the DEA was already on to him. They used Kelly Dorff. Now I know she had no choice, so I’m not going to think bad of her. I know how it is. I can’t throw stones. Whoever killed her, I blame the government. But I can’t make excuses, either. Not for her, not for myself. It’s over.”
Rick spoke for almost an hour. The last of the employees had already gone, and the office was quiet. They were alone, the three of them, Rick behind his desk, Sandy and Dan in chairs facing him. When he finished, he smiled slightly and straightened the edges of papers stacked next to his computer monitor.
“Sandy, I don’t expect you to stay after this, and I’ll make sure you don’t leave here with nothing. I’ve got stuff put away nobody knows about—not a lot, but enough to set you up in a new life back in Georgia, wherever you want. Dan can make the arrangements for that, if he’s not too squeamish about lying to the U.S. government, who wants everything but the caps on my teeth. Dan, you can say no if you want to, but I’d appreciate it if you’d help Sandy out.”
He finally looked across the room at his wife, who only stared back at him. “I won’t sit here and say I’m sorry, pumpkin, even though God knows I’ll be sorry for a long time. Now Dan and I have to decide what to do, take their offer or put my fate in the hands of a jury. Whatever happens—and maybe I’ll go to prison for the rest of my life—I’ll be all right as long as I can remember that you loved me. Those years with you were the best. You made me so happy.”
After a moment Sandy turned her head toward Dan and wiped her cheeks with her fingers. Her hands were shaking. She spoke in a whisper. “Dan? I think Rick and I need to be alone right now.”
CHAPTER 29
A cold front was coming through; the temperature would drop to the mid-forties by morning. The palm fronds rattled, and the wind chime on the back porch played its pattern-less five-note tune. The stars were icy pinpoints. Elaine sat in a white chair made of two curves of mesh with spindly legs that rested unevenly on the paving stones. The chair rocked when she pulled her legs up and crossed her arms, tucking her hands inside the sleeves of her sweater. She could hear Vincent in the kitchen making drinks. She had asked for brandy.
Vincent brought the drinks out and set them on a metal table between her chair and the one that matched it. Still standing, he lit a cigarette, hand cupped around the flame, cheeks going hollow for a second. The lighter clicked shut, and the smell of fluid vanished in a gust of air. The backyard was small, enclosed with a woven wood fence choked with ivy. It hadn’t rained lately, and the plants were turning brown and brittle.
“Go ahead and ask me, Vince. I can tell you’re itching to get it off your mind.”
He picked up his drink. “I know why, Elaine. You believe he’s innocent.”
“Yes, perhaps my clock was wrong.”
“Perhaps,” he said, mocking her tone, “you saw what you wanted to see.”
Elaine freed her hands from the sleeves of her sweater and took a sip of brandy.
Vince sa
id, “You could have discussed it with me first.”
“I wonder what advice you would have given.” She balanced the brandy snifter on her knees. “How did Scott Irwin find out? You didn’t say.”
“He was curious why Galindo hadn’t been picked up, so he asked.”
“And then came running to you.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said.
“Batman and Robin.”
He looked at her as he brought the cigarette to his mouth.
She laughed. “You know what Scott told me? That if I wanted to … to fuck you, I ought to wait till after this operation is over. I mean, what? You’re the one who’s married, not me. Maybe I’m sapping your strength, Vince. Delilah with her scissors, mucking around in the boys’ tree house.”
The wind chime swung and tinkled. Elaine swallowed half her brandy. It burned her throat.
“What was Galindo doing here?”
“I do not know.”
They were circling now, ready to close in.
“Was he here, Elaine?”
“No, I gave him an alibi because Miguel Salazar paid me. Or maybe I’m fucking Dan Galindo too.”
With his back to the house, Vince’s face was in shadow. The orange end of the cigarette rose, then fell. “That morning I showed up unexpectedly, he had been here. It bothered me. I kept wondering, thinking about it. How long had he been here? Five minutes? Two hours? All night? It went through my mind.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“No, let me finish. I can accept five minutes. I believe it. But it never used to occur to me to wonder.” Vince spoke softly. He always did when they came out in the backyard. Training. In case someone had an ear pressed to the fence.
“I trusted you absolutely. That’s why we got together. Fidelity. Honesty. Honesty above everything else. Now we’re into these games. I hear about things going on I didn’t know about. You met Kelly Dorff, and you told me only because she threatened you. Then you asked me not to say anything to Paxton about it. Maybe nothing’s going on. That’s probably the case. But I don’t like having to convince myself of that every time we’re together.”
“Honesty. Oh, let’s hear it for honesty.” Elaine lifted her brandy glass. “John asked me, ‘Elaine, when was the last time you saw Dan Galindo?’ The way he said it, I could tell that he already knew the answer—last Sunday morning, right outside my front door. John wanted to see if I’d lie. How did he know, Vince? Let’s see how honest you can be.”
Vince looked at her, but she couldn’t see past the surface. “I don’t know why John was asking you that. I didn’t tell him.”
“Gee, I wonder who did? Robin? Did you two guys discuss it together? Honesty, Vince.”
“Of course we did,” Vince said sharply. His voice dropped once more to just above a murmur. “We talk about whatever might affect this case.”
“I suppose that means he told you he spoke to John? Well?”
“I won’t play these games with you, Elaine.”
“What a suspicious, cynical, bitter man you are. It makes me tired.”
He flicked his cigarette into the darkness. “I think I’d better go.”
“Yes. Why don’t you?”
So this is how it ends, she thought. Like cutting off a dead limb. Maybe later there would be the rush of blood, but for now, there was no sensation at all.
Vincent paused beside the chair. “Be seeing you.”
“Probably not,” she said.
“No. Probably not.” He reached down and patted her cheek. “Take care of yourself.”
CHAPTER 30
When Arlo Pate went to Miguel’s study to tell him that Rick Robbins was on his way with the new guitarist, the door was half open. Arlo crossed his arms over his chest and came a few steps closer. He was wearing tan lace-up boots with heavy rubber soles, but he made no noise on the marble floor.
Miguel was talking on the phone. Arlo leaned closer to the door. Spanish. He had picked up some of it on the construction site, enough to order a snack from the roach coach or understand a joke. He didn’t usually eavesdrop on Miguel, but with everything going on lately, he wanted to figure out where he stood.
Ice cubes dropped into a glass. There was a bar in the study with smoky mirrors and a gold sink. Arlo had installed it himself.
“… el Domingo, sí.… No hablamos de eso por teléfono, Victor. ¿Me entiendes?”
He was talking to Victor Ramirez, the guy who ran the studio. Arlo wondered what that was about. A meeting on Sunday. Don’t talk about it on the phone.
“Que me llames por la mañana, okay?… Bueno. Nos vemos.”
He hung up. Arlo backed off a few paces, then walked back stomping his boots before he knocked on the door. Miguel turned around from the bar, putting his glass in the sink.
“Rick is here with the guitarist.”
“Good. What do you think of him, Arlo?”
“I haven’t seen him. The guard shack called. Martha sent me to get you.”
Miguel turned off the light in his study and closed the door. Following him down the stairs that circled to the main floor, Arlo could see both of them reflected in the big windows looking out over the lake. One guy had everything, and the other was an ugly redneck whose chances were just about to run dry.
Rick had told everybody in the band he wouldn’t hold it against them if they quit. He had cried. Broke down and cried, talking about Kelly. He had told them nobody could replace her, but she wouldn’t have wanted them to give up. They decided to check out the guitarist, then decide what to do.
For a little while Arlo had thought things would work out. Not that he’d get rich and famous, but that he’d be able to say he did more with his life than mow lawns and fix toilets. Lying up on the roof at night, he would make up scenes, like riding his Harley home to Memphis, going into a music store, and finding the Mayhem CD in the racks. He’d pick it up, turn it over. Run his thumb over the shrink wrap and hear it crinkle. Read the list of songs, look at his own face right there with Kelly and Martha and Scott. Somebody would notice what he was holding and say, Hey, that’s Mayhem. They kick it, man. Now, with Kelly gone, Arlo wondered if he would ever have that CD in his hands.
They went out the kitchen door, then past the tennis court to the guest cottage. To please Martha, Arlo had ripped out the carpeting and blocked up the windows, making a rehearsal room out there where she could play and not bother the household.
Coming closer, following the little lights along the walkway, Arlo could hear guitar music right through the walls. A chill skidded down his chest and landed in his gut. He could swear it was Kelly in there. What if it was? What if she wasn’t really dead, but some other girl was dead who looked like her? And the real Kelly was in there like always, leaning way back on the high notes, tossing her hair out of her eyes. Those skinny arms in the white tank top, that blue Fender Jag screaming.
Miguel opened the door.
It was the Jag, but it wasn’t Kelly. It was some dude about thirty-five, looked like he had TB. He was playing Kelly’s guitar. The others stood around listening. Rick smiling like he’d found the Lord. Scott dancing, his blue hair swinging over his forehead. Martha with her arms crossed. Arlo couldn’t tell what she thought, but that was Martha.
The guitarist kept playing till Rick went over and signaled him to stop. Rick glanced their way, then said, “This is Bobby Doyle.”
The guitarist said, “Hey.” He took the lit cigarette out of the strings at the neck of the guitar, where he’d wedged it. Tattoos went from his wrists all the way up under the sleeves of his black T-shirt. He was totally bald, with a stripe of blond beard under his lower lip and about six earrings. His left hand hung over the top edge of the guitar like a dead fish.
Miguel said, “He sounds like Kelly Dorff.”
“That’s the point,” Rick said. “He’s perfect.”
“Sorry about Kelly, man,” the guitarist said. “She was fine. I heard her up in Lauderdale at the Edge ja
mming with the Lunachicks. She had vibe.”
Nobody said a word. Arlo guessed they were all thinking about Kelly Dorff in their own ways. He was. Miguel had said that her boyfriend, Dan Galindo, had done it, according to the newspapers. Nobody had seen him do it, but Miguel was sure he had. Last night, not being able to sleep, Arlo had thought about what he would do if he could get Galindo alone. He would probably bury him next to Leon, out past the vacant lot under one of those piles of rock near the lake. If Galindo went to court, he wouldn’t be convicted. The judge would throw out his confession. The lawyers would make the jury think the DNA didn’t match, or whatever. Arlo had gone to sleep making up scenes of how he would torture the guy before he buried him.
The guitarist, Bobby Doyle, took another drag on his cigarette and stuck it back in the strings. “Rick gave me the board mixes of the band yesterday, plus Kelly Dorff’s tracks. I was up all night working with the songs. I’ve got a reputation for being able to duplicate particular styles. I’ve gotten some studio work as a result. I’ve done Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, B. B. King, Stevie Ray Vaughan—”
“Stevie Ray,” Arlo said. “He’s my man.”
“Dead now. Yeah. Stevie.” The guitarist hit an effects pedal and his fingers moved over the strings, and Stevie Ray’s “Cold Shot” came out. After a few bars the music slid into Kurt Cobain, then Peter Buck.
Scott said, “Amazing.”
Rick said, “Just sound like Kelly Dorff for the concert, Bobby.”
Miguel stared at the guitarist. He walked closer. “You smell like you been smoking funny stuff.”
Bobby smiled. His eyes were half-closed. “Rick? Who’s this joker?”
Rick was sweating through his shirt. “Be polite, Bobby. This is the person who’s paying your salary.”
Miguel’s black eyes were bugged out a little. He said to Rick, “Why are you doing Kelly’s songs at the concert?”
“Because the guy from Capitol Records expects to hear basically what he heard when I played him the tape in New York. He liked Martha’s part in it. He’ll hear her at the concert, but for the demo we have to stick with what we’ve got.”
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