Their Special Agent

by Mel Gough

  The two, hardly out of their teens, looked dazed and worried. They were good kids, did as they were told, and had talent. Jay had been quite taken with Spider. Under the shaggy mop and the outrageous clothes, he looked a lot like Lou had at that age.

  He wrenched his thoughts away from the gorgeous boy. Focus, dammit.

  Fucking Barry. What did he get himself into that’d get him murdered?

  Tears stung the corners of Jay’s eyes. His mentor, and one of his best friends, was dead.

  That word. It made bile rise at the back of his throat. He turned his back on the room. Keep it together, Davis. At least, this time nobody doubted that it was murder. I’m sorry, Danny. So many years, and you’re still not at peace. But I won’t give up, baby. I promise.

  Something brushed his leg. He looked down, right into Corey’s golden-green eyes. Expressive as usual, his strong-featured face showed raw and real concern. He raised an eyebrow, mouthed, You okay?

  Jay nodded curtly and looked away. Corey would help him carry the grief, if he only let him. But Jay couldn’t afford to go to pieces, not yet. If he let down his guard now he’d fall down here on the expensive carpet and never get up again. He was being dramatic, but it sounded like an attractive proposition.

  The door to the suite opened and Phil stepped through. For the first time ever, it bothered Jay that Phil had a key to all the rooms.

  The assistant motioned to someone behind him. “Please, come in.” He did a quick headcount, nodding. “Everyone’s already here.” His eye twitched, a tic that had started just after the news had reached them. Jay turned away, ashamed of the annoyance welling up in him. Phil had lost a friend too. But was he maybe a little too eager to step into Barry’s shoes? He wasn’t usually this self-assured.

  A woman followed him into the room. She was shorter than Jay had imagined an FBI agent could get away with. Five-three at most, her flat-heeled boots adding very little. She sure didn’t look like she could bring in a criminal by herself.

  Her dark hair was tidily cropped around the ears, setting off her small features to good effect. She had a pointy chin and alert, sea-green eyes that scanned the room. Not much would escape her attention. Even with no makeup and her guarded expression, she was extremely attractive. Jay tried not to stare.

  Corey, as usual, had no such qualms. His eyes were narrow, and he slowly licked his lips.

  The FBI strode into the room. Her hips were wider than Jay had first realized, and her long strides spoke of confidence and strength. All eyes in the room were on her. The fact that she was short didn’t matter. She had all the authority she needed to deal with any situation. As he watched her, Jay’s stomach did a flip and his dick twitched.

  Whoa, where’s that coming from? He felt betrayed by his body. All he could see when he looked at her was another law enforcement agency that would betray them. Hell, he was even calling her the FBI in his mind! Yet there was something about her that defied his aversion.

  Not waiting for Phil to make the introductions, she zeroed in on Jay, stretching out her hand. “Mr. Davis? Special Agent Carrie McDonald.” Jay shook the proffered hand. It was small, but her grip was strong. She made the rounds, shaking everyone’s hand. Corey’s eyes glittered, and Lou had stopped humming. He watched her with interest, his usually dreamy gaze alert.

  Phil looked put out. “Special Agent, these are the members of Thistle Hearts.” He wasn’t willing to let go control. “Jay Davis, Louis Zee, Corey Hart.” He indicated them one by one. “And these are Spencer Mallory and Ant Dyers. They’ll only be with us for the first few shows.”

  The FBI acknowledged the explanation with a curt nod, then addressed the room. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me. I know it’s tedious. You’ll have been through it all with the local officers already, but it’s important that I get my own statements.” Her accent was tempered. Jay guessed Chicago as her hometown, and wondered where she’d ended up.

  “Special Agent—,” Phil began, but Corey interrupted him.

  “Please, sit.” He jumped up from his armchair and gave her a dazzling smile. “Would you like something to drink? Water, or coffee?” He glanced at Phil, who turned red. In principle, they could send the assistant to fetch drinks, but Phil might feel that his new, elevated position of interim manager wouldn’t dignify it.

  The FBI shook her head, saving them all from a confrontation they should best have in private. “Thank you, Mr. Hart—”

  “Corey, please.”

  “All right, Corey. I’m fine for the moment.” But she took the seat, giving Corey a smile. Jay clenched his jaw. Corey’s charm was lost on no woman, or man. It was difficult to ignore his good looks, and he knew this. To his credit, Corey never used his genetic advantage to manipulate people. He simply enjoyed them—all of them.

  He squeezed onto the sofa next to Ant. Phil pulled up a chair from the dining table. Jay was the last one standing. The FBI gave him a glance. “Mr. Davis, if you don’t mind? The sooner I get to ask my questions, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Scowling, Jay sank onto the wide armrest of Lou’s chair. Lou patted his leg, then shifted to lean into his side. Jay relaxed. Body contact with Lou always calmed his frazzled nerves.

  The agent pulled out a notepad and pen, then glanced at Jay. Her eyes were a deeper shade of green than he’d first imagined. His body reacted to her attention, and he wondered what it would feel like to kiss her full lips and let his hand glide under the black blazer and over the small but nicely formed breasts. With an effort he forced his imagination to heel. Everyone’s eyes were on him. Had she asked him a question?

  Rather than admitting he needed her to repeat it, Jay kept his face impassive and returned her gaze stoically.

  “Mr. Davis,” she said at last, a new sharpness clipping her words. “Could you please recount for me the disagreement you had with Mr. Cornell on the night of his murder?”

  Pretending to clench his jaw in annoyance and not in an effort to prevent his gaze wandering to her slender, elegant hands, he glowered. “It was about money.”

  “Well, not exactly,” Phil interrupted. “You see, Barry forgot—”

  “He didn’t pay the deposit for the venue,” Jay cut over him, annoyed. That dickhead. He took a deep breath, the anger at his now dead friend slicing through his heart. Why hadn’t Barry double-checked? It wasn’t like him to forget stuff like that. He took a deep breath. “It wasn’t something to kill him for, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

  Not quick to anger, that one. Or to jump to conclusions. She fixed him with that intent gaze again. “Back up a notch, and tell me the whole story?”

  Phil glowered in the background. Maybe he thought he should be the one to lay out that sorry tale, since he was nominally in charge now. Jay would’ve been happy to let the new manager do the honors, but the FBI had asked him.

  “Something went funky with the deposit.” He took care to keep his voice even. “It wouldn’t have been a big deal, usually. Only, Barry missed a couple of emails the venue’d sent him, so in the end they called. It was almost too late. They have a forty-eight hour penalty clause. We’d’ve been without a venue for our very first gig.”

  He took another deep breath, anger surging through him like it had at the dinner. Lou’s hand snuck into the small of his back, a warm, secret anchoring point. It gave Jay the focus to continue. “Barry got it resolved right then and there. But when he came into the restaurant I was so pissed, I started shouting before he even had a chance to reassure us.” He rubbed his face. “We didn’t speak again that night.” The fact that the last words he’d said to his friend had been in anger would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he couldn’t let the FBI see it.

  “The thing is,” Corey added, “it wasn’t like Barry to ignore or miss emails. He really had his shit together. Great manager. He’s averted much worse fuck-ups.” He glanced at Jay. When Jay gave him
a nod, he continued, “Agent McDonald, there was something odd going on with Barry the last few days.”

  Brows drawn together, she asked, “What do you mean?”

  Phil’s lips were a tight line. He shook his head minutely. The FBI didn’t see, since her focus was on Corey, who ignored Phil. There was no reason to keep this from her. Hell, they had no idea what this even was.

  “He was distracted since we got to Texas.” Jay rubbed his face. “I asked him about it, but he wouldn’t say what was bothering him. Phil tried as well.”

  Phil stared daggers, but on his pudgy face the effect was comical. Jay only raised an eyebrow. Cornered, Phil said reluctantly, “It’s true. I asked him a few times, but he’d just tell me to mind my own business.” He gave Jay another withering look. “I was wondering if he’d had some kind of health scare. He looked pretty unwell. Maybe something will show up in the autopsy?”

  “Maybe.” The FBI’s tone was noncommittal. She glanced at her watch. “Mr. Young, I wonder if you could arrange for me to interview everyone separately over the next couple of days?” He nodded, looking mollified. Phil liked to be needed.

  “We don’t have time to go through everything again,” Jay protested. “We have a show to prepare for.”

  The FBI turned back to him. “You’ll make time.” Her voice was icy. “So you’re planning to go ahead with the tour?”

  The hand in Jay’s back pressed down harder. He swallowed down an angry reply. “Barry would’ve wanted us to.”

  Her expression softened. Could she sense how close he was to losing it? Jay dug the nails of his right hand into his palm. He didn’t need her pity.

  “There are two concerts scheduled at the Frank C. Erwin, Jr. Center?”

  Jay nodded. “Tomorrow and Friday. Then we’re off to Houston.”

  Would she tell them they couldn’t leave town? Jay braced for an argument, but the FBI only nodded. “We have a lot of ground to cover.” She turned to Phil. “Now, can we get those interviews scheduled, please?

  5

  Carrie rubbed her eyes. For two hours, her attention had been fixed on her MacBook. Stretching, she looked around, squinting against the golden light from the setting sun that streamed through the window. Her hotel room was smaller than the suite where she’d spent the better part of the afternoon interviewing the band, but still twice as luxurious as the hotels the FBI generally recommended to agents in the field.

  There had been exactly zero new developments in the case. After the conversation with the band Carrie had interviewed the two Texan musicians. The others had been scheduled for an interview with a local radio station. Carrie’s first instinct had been to request that all interviews be cancelled, partly to avoid the guys commenting on the ongoing investigation, and partly so she’d have more time to speak to them all. But she couldn’t justify it, even to herself. They seemed smart enough, so she merely instructed them not to speak about the case.

  “Just repeat that you’re shocked and heartbroken,” she’d told them. “And if the interviewer wants details about the investigation, even if it sounds like a tiny thing, just tell them you can’t comment.” They’d seemed to understand her reasoning.

  Carrie had been surprised by the professionalism and courtesy she’d been met with. Her first encounter with the rock-and-roll lifestyle had been a lot more civilized than anticipated.

  She’d let them go with a few more words of advice. “Keep any comments about Barry generic, don’t tell them anything about the fight. If pressed, tell them that there will be a statement from the police soon.” Her conviction that the six men in the room had nothing to do with Barry’s death was strong, even if she wouldn’t have voiced that gut feeling out loud yet, not even to George, or Susan if she had been there.

  Gut feeling was all very well, but even now she had no shred of evidence to back it up. The interviews with Spencer “Spider” Mallory and Ant Carter had brought no new insights. Once the main band had left with that obsequious assistant Phil, who seemed eager to take on Barry Cornell’s role, Carrie had sent Ant Dyers from the room, instructing him to come back in an hour.

  Spencer had then requested he call him Spider. In a way, that was helpful. He and Ant looked nearly identical, with stringy hair dyed black, piercings, tattoos and artfully ripped clothes. Spider sported silvery streaks in his hair that reminded Carrie of cobwebs, the kind used in movies and on Halloween. She was grateful for the memory aid.

  Spider and Ant tried to be helpful, but knew very little. The two men had met Barry at the casting in New York, and not seen him for months after that. Apparently, Corey Hart was in charge of hiring the young musicians from the parts of the country the band would be touring. Ten days ago all of them had met here in Austin to start rehearsals. Spider explained that it was about giving new, local talent a leg up, and he'd sounded grateful for the chance. Was he grateful enough to cover up a crime for his employers?

  The way they spoke about Jay, Lou and Corey cemented that impression. “Especially Corey, he’s the nicest dude.” Spider blushed, then grinned.

  Carrie filed that away with interest. Sitting at her computer, she sucked thoughtfully on her lip. What was so special about Corey? He seemed to have a knack with his colleagues as well as with the fans.

  And she had to admit, his charms hadn’t been lost on her either. He was ridiculously handsome, with the shock of blond hair still thick and untouched by gray even though he had to be Carrie’s age. His straight nose and gold-green eyes in a face where the only wrinkles were laugh lines. And his athletic body was that of a man who worked out every chance he got. Bet he’s a surfer, too.

  Carrie was startled from staring into space by the buzzing of her phone. It was George. Finally!

  Carrie snatched it up. “Hey.”

  “Really sorry to keep you hanging so long. I did as you told and went home for some kip. When I came back, the chief wanted an update on each of my running cases, and I have a list as long as my arm. I’ve just escaped from his office.” He sighed. “Not that there’s much to report for this one.”

  “No new leads at all?”

  “Well, we know Barry left the hotel alone; the team’s checked out all of the footage. He got into a cab out front at half past ten, but the camera angle doesn’t show the registration, or even what direction the cab went once it left the hotel drive. I’ve had my team check the closest cameras around the hotel, but there’s a dozen cabs that show up around the right time.”

  “Have them check out those drivers anyway.”

  “Already given the order. Not all registrations showed up on those, either. And if the cab went down one of the smaller streets before it passed a camera, we’re screwed.” He sounded exhausted and dejected.

  So much for the advantages of technology. Something else occurred to Carrie. “You haven’t mentioned whether Cornell was carrying anything. A backpack, carrier bag, laptop case, anything?”

  “No, he wasn’t.” The rustling of paper. “There’s a description here of what he was wearing—same as when he was found. Under ‘Items on person’ it says N/A.”

  Carrie sighed. “Did you schedule the press conference?”

  “Tomorrow, half past nine. Our press team has sent the details as well as a statement to the local papers and networks.”

  “Good. Have they finished double-checking the alibies?”

  Now it was George’s turn to sigh. “Gone through them all again with a fine-toothed comb. Everyone’s accounted for. But there’s still Mr. Davis and Mr. Zee covering for each other.”

  “I doubt they had anything to do with it.” Where had that come from? Hadn’t Carrie just decided that she wasn’t ready to make that judgment?

  “Did you interview them?” George sounded curious. Carrie was glad he was sticking to business, at least. She’d had enough of his fan boy excitement earlier.

  “I talked to the band and the assistant, Phil Young. I’ve spoken individually with the two Texans and will reinterview the re
st as soon as we can fit it in. My impression is that, disagreement notwithstanding, Mr. Cornell was well liked.”

  “I got the same impression.”

  “Remind me, where was Mr. Young on the night in question?”

  “He went with some of the crew and the Texans. They were painting the town red until two in the morning. Seems a regular occurrence. So, Agent McDonald, what are our next steps?”

  Carrie decided not to point out that this was still his case, and she was just the hired help. It looked more and more like she’d have to do most of the thinking here. “I’m going to stay close to the band tomorrow. That should give me the opportunity to speak with the three main guys. They have the concert in the evening, and some kind of meet-and-greet before then. I want to be around for all of that, maybe observe the crew when they’re setting up.”

  “Admit it, special agent, you’re curious about the guys.” A grin colored George’s voice and he didn’t bother to hide his amusement.

  Here we go again. Carrie pursed her lips. “What I’m curious about, detective, is how someone managed to lure a grown man from his secure environment to murder him.” She had trouble keeping the sharpness in her voice to the bare minimum.

  “Of course.” George sounded contrite. “I apologize. I saw that Smith copied you in on the CSI report. Nothing of interest in there. Have you thought of any other avenues?”

  “Unfortunately not.” She checked the time on her MacBook. “Look, it’s late. We should call it a day. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine o’clock.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. See you tomorrow. I’ll put the coffee on.”

  “Night, George.” Carrie chucked the phone on the desk and rubbed her face. Her brain buzzed. She didn’t think she could form another coherent thought that night. She wanted a drink, but that was a bad idea. Maybe a soak in the huge tub would have a similarly calming effect.