Sedona Law 4: A Legal thriller

by Dave Daren

  “So, it’s like this thrasher group,” he said. “It’s hardcore, but not like hardcore.”

  “What’s it called?” I asked.

  “It’s called Devil’s Balls,” he said. “We play every week at this underground place called 312 Main. All we really need is one person to get behind us. If we just had one person that would be all we need.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, as I realized where this was going.

  “So, I was thinking,” he said, as he not so casually leaned forward. “Harmony says you might know some people in the industry.”

  “I’m not in that line of work anymore, really,” I said.

  “That’s cool, man,” he said and turned to Harmony. “Do you have the demo, babe?”

  “Sure,” Harmony pulled a homemade CD out of her purse and handed it to him.

  “Look,” he handed me the CD. “If you can just listen to this, and tell me what you think. You know, maybe get it to the right people. I just think if the right people could hear us... Man, that’s all we would need. All we would need.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “But I can’t make any promises.”

  “Thanks, man,” he said, and he smiled and put his arm around Harmony.

  I handed the CD to Vicki who put it into her purse, and I shot her a look. It’s not that I didn’t want to help the guy. It’s just that if music was dead, rock was deader, and the market was so oversaturated, it was almost impossible to stand out. A blue-haired rocker with a band called Devil’s Balls was not particularly compelling material for the major labels. I pledged to give it one good listen for Harmony’s sake.

  An emcee walked onstage and introduced the next act. “So joining us this evening is Sedona’s own Cabbages and Kings.”

  The crowd emitted a polite applause, but our little group of followers cheered loudly.

  My dad’s four-piece band filed out on stage. I thought they would do a bland rock set with mediocre originals. But, then my dad, supposed to be the lead guitarist, picked up this weird three string guitar looking thing, with an elongated wooden neck and a boxy canvas bottom.

  “You see your dad on the shamisen?” my mom whispered to me. “It’s an ancient Japanese instrument he got at an antique shop.”

  I raised an eyebrow and then watched my dad pluck out a banjo-like rendition of the opening lines to Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit. The crowd loved it, and I turned to Vicki.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked her. “That was the sound of Kurt Cobain turning in his grave.”

  She laughed. “I don’t know. He might have been into it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You might be right about that.”

  Then, they went into some sort of folk song, and I was surprised, it was actually not bad.

  “Y’all get up,” the frontman ordered in a thick Southern accent.

  The crowd jumped to their feet, cheering and clapping time.

  “Alright, I’m gonna need y’all’s help,” he said. “I have officially made all of you honorary members of Cabbages and Kings.”

  To this, the audience roared and cheered.

  “Without the royalties,” my dad qualified into his mic.

  This caused the crowd to laugh even harder.

  “Well,” the frontman said. “You’re not missing much.”

  Everyone liked this, and the frontman smiled.

  “So,” the singer continued. “Your first duties as band members, is we need you to be our percussion section. Y’all think you can do that?”

  This caused a loud cheer and the vocalist went on, “Okay, so this is what we’re gonna need y’all to do. Moondust, give us somethin’ good.”

  The singer turned to my dad, who went to town on his shamisen, and everyone practically lost their minds.

  “So what y’all gonna do,” the vocalist said, “is this.”

  He demonstrated a stomping-clapping combination, and everyone cheered as they tried it out. I watched Vicki, my mom, and sister laugh and fall all over each other trying to figure out the routine.

  “That’s good,” the singer said to the crowd. “Now, let’s try it all together.”

  They did about half a chorus of a song, and the crowd did the routine, and the singer did a melodramatic approval motion, which only encouraged the cheering.

  “Now,” the vocalist said, “We’re gonna need some o’y’all to come on down to the front and keep us on rhythm.”

  There was much more cheering as close to two or three hundred people from all over the packed auditorium made their way to the front in the darkness.

  Harmony and my mom grabbed Vicki, and they all rushed to the stage. But not before Vicki grabbed my arm.

  “Come on,” she laughed. “Let’s go.”

  I was reluctant. Dancing was never my thing, but in the darkness, she just looked so happy.

  “Alright,” I said and followed the group to the front of the stage. A large crowd had now formed, some six or seven deep around the stage. The band went into a fairly boisterous number, and the stomping-clapping routine broke out in the front dance area. I tried it out, and nearly fell over onto Vicki, and almost knocked us both over. We dissolved into laughter and finally figured it out. In the dark, about all I could see were Vicki’s eyes, and they glowed as she moved.

  Her hair swished around her face, and her smile radiated. What the hell, I thought, and I gave into the music. I had never liked dancing until I met her. With her, on the dance floor, or anywhere really, the world faded away, and it was just me and her. I don’t know how long the solo went, but we were out of breath by the time the band stopped.

  The house lights came back up, and there was one last cheer, as Cabbages and Kings exited the stage, and an emcee arrived.

  He announced the next band would be up shortly and there was a quick intermission. Vicki and I made it back to our seats, and my ears were still ringing from the deafening music. The rest of our party wasn’t in our row, either, and I spotted my mother and sister stuck in the crowd up front as well.

  Vicki collapsed in a chair and fanned herself with her palms.

  “Could you see if they have something to drink in the lobby?” she asked me.

  “Sure,” I said.

  I slipped out to the lobby to find a concession stand or vending machine. I navigated the maze of bodies in the hallways, and it wasn’t until I got to a deserted corner that I finally found a soda machine. I dug through my pockets for change, when I heard talking. In a darkened, roped off cordon, a black clad security guard was on the phone.

  “I understand,” he said, his voice rising with impatience. “But, I couldn’t just tell him no. He’s Senator Malone, for Christ’s sake.”

  My ears perked up, and I slowly inserted the coins as I listened.

  “He’s in the back, behind the east entrance,” he continued. “Don’t screw this up like you did the other night. You can’t miss him. He’ll be in a red Escalade.”

  Chapter 10

  “Holy cow,” AJ said. “This is insane.”

  It was the next morning, and we were back in our office. Normally a conversation like this would happen informally in the main room. But, now with Landon behind a camera on a tripod, we had adjusted, and it became an official staff meeting in our conference room. We were getting used to the camera, at least I think.

  “All we know at this point,” Vicki clarified, “is that Senator Malone was at the performance that night, and that he was lurking out back behind the east entrance.”

  “That’s quite a bit,” I said. “We also know that he works frequently with Iakova, who was sponsoring the performance.”

  “Then there was a dead body,” AJ said. “We can’t forget that little tidbit.”

  “Then there was a dead body,” I repeated. “A minor side note.”

  “Minor side note,” AJ said.

  “What does Malone’s family life look like?” I asked. “I want to find out about this guy. Is he single, married, gay, what’s his
story?”

  AJ pulled out her phone and then summarized the screen, “He’s the typical politician. He’s got the smiling blonde wife named Amy, and two school-aged daughters, both in grade school and sports, the whole thing.”

  I smiled and rubbed my tongue over my teeth and chuckled.

  “Oh, my gosh,” Vicki responded. She was good at reading my mind. “You are not implying what I think you’re implying.”

  I nodded and snickered. “What if Senator Malone had a nasty little secret?”

  “In the form of Judith Klein,” Vicki followed me. “That would explain her lurking around behind the entrance conveniently when she was coming out.”

  “Of course, she wouldn’t say that she knew him,” I said.

  “Wait,” AJ said. “You mean that Senator Malone was a client of Judith Klein?”

  “Ugh,” Landon shuddered. “Perverted politicians. That’s never happened before.”

  “Well, it’s an idea,” I said. “Just because it’s a cliche doesn’t mean it is or isn’t true.”

  “But why would she say she even saw him in the first place?” AJ asked. “Why not just keep quiet about the whole thing?”

  “If she was scared,” Vicki said. “Scared of being framed for murder and Malone leaving her out to dry. Which he would have to in that case.”

  “But we still don’t have a good motive,” I said. “I can see Iakova’s reason for a murder, at some level. Although, I think it’s a weak motive, and there’s got to be more to it. But, I don’t see Malone having a reason to be involved at all.”

  From behind the camera, Landon cleared his throat, and I snickered and shook my head.

  “Aside from the Illuminati, of course,” I said.

  “This is where we keep getting hung up,” AJ sighed. “Every time I run the scenario, we keep coming up with no real reason.”

  “Well, now, what if Judith was somehow blackmailing him?” Vicki theorized.

  “There’s an idea,” I said. “But how would she blackmail him without exposing herself?”

  “Maybe if she had incriminating photos she could leak,” AJ said. “Photos that she either wasn’t in, or wasn’t identifiable.”

  “Okay,” Vicki said. “So, in this fictional scenario, we have this idea of a senator being blackmailed with racy photos. And then there’s the media executive, a publicity campaign, and a dead body. How do all of these pieces fit together?”

  “This is what I keep saying,” AJ groaned. “It’s like a bad jigsaw puzzle. It doesn’t solve, and I run these around and around all day long.”

  “Hmm,” I contemplated. “What I want to know is how would that still be advantageous for her to leak photos, provided that they exist at all.” I took a long pause. “Because if she ruins his life, he’ll eventually name her and ruin hers as well.

  “Yeah,” AJ said. “But, he’s not going to let it get that far because he has too much to lose.”

  “So he’s not going to call her bluff?” I asked. “That seems reckless.”

  “Maybe that’s what happened that night,” AJ said. “Maybe she was going to expose him.”

  “Okay,” I said. “There’s a conflict for disaster, but not a murder. Again, why the murder?”

  We were all quiet for a few moments as we contemplated the question.

  “Where are we on that meeting with Malone?” I asked.

  “It’s still a few more days,” Vicki said.

  “We need to find out about all of these dancers,” I said. “I know we’ve done research, and we’ve talked to them. But, I think we only scratched the surface on them. They didn’t really tell us anything we didn’t already know. I want to go deeper.”

  “What if they don’t go deeper?” Vicki asked. “What if we’re on the wrong track and everything they told us is all there is?”

  “That might be the case,” I said. “But I don’t think it is. We need to know everything about them, from their kindergarten teachers, illicit baby daddies, and everything in between. I want to know every place they’ve ever lived, slept, gone to school, college, traveled, all their friends, families, enemies, everything. We need to find out how these people are connected to Malone and or Iakova.”

  “I’ve got their tour schedule,” AJ said.

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s start there. How long was the tour?”

  “It started on April 14,” she said, “And was supposed to go until May 27.”

  “That’s what?” I asked. “Almost two months? That’s a pretty long tour for an indie act.”

  “They’ve got stops all over the map,” she said as she skimmed her phone screen. Landon leaned over her shoulder.

  “Minnesota,” he said as he pointed. “Wisconsin. Then Maryland, and then Nevada? Why would you book it that way?”

  “Because,” I said, “that’s the way tours work. It’s the promoters that set the schedules for the most part. So, you can negotiate the dates, but in the end, it’s up to whatever event the promoter is doing, or when they have openings. At least when you’re a little guy on the scene. Once you get to be a big A-lister, you can call the shots.”

  “I see,” Landon said. “So they take what they can get.”

  “Right,” I said. “Even if it means criss-crossing across the country like a boomerang. I want you to call every contact on there and find out everything that you can about what happened at those tour stops. Find out about arguments, conflicts, payment disputes, stage mishaps. I want to know so much about what happened on that tour, I should be able to write a memoir.”

  “Got it,” AJ said.

  “You want me to help?” Landon asked.

  “Perfect,” I said. “You and AJ split the calls, call host families as well. We want to know if there was anything that they picked up on, dynamics, late-night conversations, anything that might give us a clue as to what happened.”

  “I’ve already been following them all on social media,” AJ said. “They all seem to be as in the dark as anyone.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s find out their whole life stories. We want to know who they know.”

  “Got it,” AJ said. “I think we should have some way to document what we’re finding.”

  “Right,” I said. “How about whiteboard columns?”

  She made columns on the whiteboard for the four dancers, Senator Malone, and Marvin Iakova.

  “Alright, people,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”

  We grabbed laptops and cell phones and spread out on the conference table, and cold called everyone we could think of.

  “Hi,” Vicki said. “My name is Vicki Park, and I am an attorney representing a dancer named Julianna Spencer. I believed she stayed with you a couple of weeks ago?”

  AJ’s voice stepped over her, “Right. I understand that you hosted a performance with Ghoti earlier this month.”

  Landon paced the room, his phone to his ear, “Well, what can you tell me about the night they performed?”

  So, I made the call I had been dreading for the last week. I called Marvin Iakova.

  “Hey, Marvin,” I said.

  “Henry Irving,” he said. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going,” I said. “We’ve got our hands full with this Ghoti murder case. I’m telling you.”

  “Yeah,” his tone was strained. “I know about that. We’re trying to cover our asses on our end. It’s a publicity nightmare.”

  “Right,” I said. “I understand completely. Listen, I wondered if I could meet with you sometime this week. Go over all the details of that night, we just need to talk to everyone involved. We’ve got this poor girl charged with murder, we need to leave no stone unturned.”

  “No, I understand,” he said. “Give her a fair trial. She deserves her day in court.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do,” I said. “Since you were there that night, I thought I’d find out if you have any unique perspective that might give us some leads, that wi
ll either lead us to the real killer, or get the charges dropped.”

  “She’s pleading not guilty, huh?” he said.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “It was her dagger. She was arguing with him all night, and then she fled the scene. I don’t see how you’re going to get her out of this one.”

  “It’s a tough one,” I shook my head. “But, would you be open to talking about it?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think I’ve got an opening tomorrow. I’ll have my assistant call you to set it up.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Thanks, Marvin.”

  “Anytime,” he said.

  We said our goodbyes and ended the call. The rest of the team was still on their phones. I noticed little notations had appeared under the columns on the whiteboard. Beyo’s ex-wife, Evelyn, had refused to attend the funeral and called him a “misogynistic bastard.”

  Chloe had an estranged relationship with her family once they found out she was bisexual. Olivia’s host family in Minnesota said she seemed withdrawn, and she didn’t eat anything, and they had noticed subtle signs of bulimia. This was all interesting dirty laundry, but none of it pointed to murder.

  I looked up the number for the coroner to get the autopsy. The body had been sent back to New York, but with the team still grounded in town, I don’t think a funeral had occurred. The coroner’s report would probably reveal very little, but it might give us a small clue.

  AJ ended the call she was on and then stopped as she looked into her computer screen.

  “Uh, Henry?” she said.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “You might want to look at this,” she said and turned her laptop screen toward me.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “I clicked on The Herald, for ideas on leads, and I found this,” AJ said.

  I pulled the computer toward me, and everyone gathered around.

  “Shit,” I said.

  My eyes widened as I saw the day’s leading story. The graphic was a thumbnail image of me, walking down the block, evading Jerry Steele. The headline read, Sedona Attorney Admits Shady Deals with Corrupt Media Execs.