The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (48 page)

“Of course. Richard’s going to a conference for architects and I’m tagging along.”

The food arrived. Berenger took his fork and stuck it into the steaming pasta, but suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore. He set the fork down and took another sip of wine.

“What’s the matter?” Linda asked.

“Too hot,” he lied.

“So, are you okay with all this?”

“Yeah, it looks delicious!”

“No, I mean the
wedding
.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay with it. If the kids are okay with it and you’re okay with it and Yul Brynner is okay with it, then I’m okay with it.”

She smiled again. “Okay. And don’t call him
that
either.”

H
is two-level apartment in a building at 68
^th
Street and Second Avenue—just down the street from the Rockin’ Security offices—seemed even more quiet and empty than it usually did when he arrived home.

Berenger locked the door behind him and went directly to the kitchen. He opened the pantry and removed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He grabbed a glass, filled it with ice from the automatic dispenser on his refrigerator, and poured three inches of forgetfulness. He then took the drink upstairs to the studio where he kept his musical instruments and recording equipment. It wasn’t anything as sophisticated as what was at the office, but sometimes in a pinch it would do for laying down a riff or two. Sometimes his best friend Charlie Potts would come over and they’d jam for hours. Berenger always digitally recorded those occasions. One never knew when something brilliant would happen.

This wasn’t one of those nights.

He took the new uniquely-carved DBZ “V” out of its case and sat on a stool in the middle of the room. The “V” was the first guitar released by Dean Zelinsky’s new venture, DBZ Guitars, following the designer’s departure from Dean Guitars. The instrument had the styling of a Red Ferrari, as perfect and exquisite as a woman’s body. The flashy logo on the headstock was a large gold Zorro-like “Z” flanked by the initials “D” and “B.” The designer’s signature was at the bottom of the “Z” and an eagle was perched atop it. It was a beauty.

Already a little tipsy from the wine, Berenger took a long drink of the whiskey and winced as the lovely fire burned his throat on the way down. He then knew what the night was going to be like. Experience had taught him that before long, the glass would be empty and he’d most likely have another. By then he wouldn’t care about his former love remarrying. There’d be hell to pay in the morning and the flight to Chicago would be horrendous—but at least he’d feel better in the here and now.

He plugged into one of the Marshall amps and then took a minute to tune the guitar. He then strummed an E minor chord. From there he went to an A and then back to the E minor. For a moment he messed around with Neil Young’s “Down by the River” but then switched to an old Fixers song he had written about his high school sweetheart breaking up with him. Berenger started to sing in the low growl that was his trademark. Howlin’ Wolf or Captain Beefheart would’ve been proud. The Rockin’ Security private investigator sang and strummed the guitar as if his guts were on display.

Which they were.

F
lights to Chicago had been delayed because of thunderstorms, so they didn’t arrive until early evening. As expected, Berenger had a splitting headache and was in a foul mood when he and Prescott arrived at a wet and rainy O’Hare. When Prescott had asked him what was wrong and why he looked like a “strung-out bear,” Berenger snapped at her. She didn’t speak to him for the remainder of the trip until he apologized.

Zach Garriott had asked them to meet him at a show that featured a new band he was producing. The building actually contained two venues—Reggie’s Music Club and Reggie’s Music Joint. The Music Club was a large space with a big stage and a balcony for those patrons who might want to sit. The Music Joint was a sports bar that served food and drinks and had a small stage for more intimate acts. In between the two venues, on the second floor, was a CD store called Record Breakers. Reggie’s was on South State Street, near the University of Illinois Chicago. Berenger and Prescott took a taxi from the airport and arrived at the club just as the music was beginning.

The band was a young and talented group called Chicago Green. Berenger and Prescott had actually seen them before in New York and spent a few minutes standing with the crowd on the floor in front of the stage. Berenger was happy that the group had found someone like Garriott to sponsor them. After a few songs, the couple went upstairs to the balcony and found Garriott subtly disguised in a baseball cap and sunglasses. Garriott gave Berenger a hug, shook hands with Prescott, and then they sat in chairs to watch the rest of the show. Berenger ordered a round of beers for everyone, knowing that the alcohol would go a long way toward relieving his hangover.

Chicago Green played an energetic and impressive set of covers and originals, after which Garriott went backstage for a few minutes with the boys to give them some tips. He then rejoined Berenger and Prescott in the unique sports bar on the other side of the building. Reggie’s Music Joint decorated with all kinds of rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia and real vinyl record labels were embedded in the clear epoxy-covered tabletops. The menus were made out of classic LP record covers.

As they sat, the club’s owner, Robby Glick, came over to give the superstar guitarist VIP attention. Glick was in his forties, had a shaved head, and was dressed in a sports jersey and shorts as if he’d just come from the basketball court. Garriott introduced Berenger and Prescott to him.

“I’ve heard of you, man,” Glick gushed. “You were with The Fixers!”

“You know The Fixers?” Berenger asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“You bet. I have your album, and every once in a while a used one comes in and we sell it in the vinyl section of the shop upstairs. How come you guys didn’t make more than one?”

“That’s a question I ask myself every day.”

“You should try and release it on CD.”

“Easier said than done, pal.”

Glick turned to Garriott. “How was Chicago Green tonight?”

“Great. They draw a nice crowd here when they play?”

“They do. They’re sort of a house band.”

“I’ll see what I can do for them.”

“Nice, kid, nice.”

Glick took drink orders for the trio—on the house—and then left them alone.

“Okay, Zach,” Berenger said, “tell us what you know.”

Garriott nodded and answered, “I’m going to take you to see Joe Nance in a bit. He told us not to show up before eleven. He’s still in mourning, naturally, he’s drinking a lot, and he’s not in the best of spirits. But he can tell you a lot more than I can.”

“What
can
you tell us? What’s all this about a ghost?”

Garriott became sheepish. “I don’t know how to explain it. That’s what the other guys all think.”

“They believe in
ghosts
?”

“Look. There was this girl named Sylvia. A long time ago. Back when The Loop was together, before they split up into Windy City Engine and Red Skyez. I didn’t know her. It was before my time. She was a groupie, I guess. She was also a singer/songwriter. All I really know is that she disappeared in nineteen-seventy. Went missing.”

“And?”

The guitarist shrugged. “They think it’s her that’s killing off members of The Loop and the two bands that sprung from it—Red Skyez and Windy City Engine.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“I’m not really sure. Maybe Joe can explain it.”

“Well, I sure hope so. ‘Cause this is just plain nuts.”

Prescott interrupted. “Excuse me, but are you saying that this girl, Sylvia, is supposed to be dead?”

“Well, she went missing and was never found. So presumably, yeah, you have to figure she’s dead. Met with a bad end.”

“How old was she?”

“I’m not sure. Same age as the guys in the band at the time, I think.”

“Twenty-one, twenty-two?”

“Yeah.”

Berenger asked, “Why would Joe and the others think she’s returned from the dead to kill people?”

“Apparently she matches the description that witnesses supplied. She always wore a floppy hat that was hers and hers alone. Had blonde hair. I know, it sounds pretty ridiculous.”

“What about the police? What do they think?”

“Joe tried to tell them about her, but you can imagine their reaction. So far they haven’t admitted that the shootings are related. The sergeant who’s in charge of Charles’ case is a dick. Sergeant Doherty.”

“He’s a detective?”

“I don’t know. He’s a sergeant.”

“All right. So we’ll talk to Joe tonight. I’ll want to see Harrison Brill and Manny Rodriguez, and also talk to the North Side guys.”

“As a matter of fact, North Side is playing here at Reggie’s tomorrow night.”

“Great. We’ll see ‘em here, then.” Berenger drummed his fingers on the table and said, “Okay, finish your drinks, folks, and let’s go talk to Joe.”

T
he rain hadn’t let up. Garriott made the comment that they might as well swim to their destination, but no one laughed.

The Nance residence was a townhouse located on Melrose Street in Wrigleyville, one of the nicer old areas of the city. Just off of Lincoln Avenue, the locale was a hotspot of restaurants, clubs, funky shops, and young people.

“Joe is still married to Lucy,” Garriott said as he pulled his SUV into the paved driveway. “Thirty-something years, I think. Their three kids are all grown and live elsewhere but I think they’re here for Charles’ funeral.”

“When is the funeral?”

“What’s today, Thursday? There won’t be a funeral. The cremation is Sunday, and so is a big memorial party that they’ve planned. A wake.”

They got out of the vehicle and went to the front door. Garriott knocked. The door opened and Joe Nance, looking haggard and disheveled, stood in the light. He was a tall, thin man with a weather-beaten face and silver hair cut short above his ears. The pain and stress of losing his brother was apparent in the man’s sad eyes, but Berenger detected something else in Nance’s demeanor.

He was afraid.

“Well, lookie here… Spike Berenger, hello.” he said. “Come in. Hi, Zach.”

Nance stood aside as the trio entered the house. Berenger held out his hand and Nance took it.

“Joe, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. God, how long has it been?”

“I don’t know. Last time I saw you, I was a music manager. That was in the eighties.”

“Well, pardon me for saying so, but you look older.”

“I guess we all do. Joe, this is my partner, Suzanne Prescott.”

“Hi,” Prescott said, offering her hand. “I’m sorry for you loss, too.”

Nance shook her hand and nodded. “Pleased to meet you. Come into the living room. Can I get you something?”

“We just had drinks, so no thanks,” Berenger replied.

They followed the man through a hallway lined with family photographs and into a very narrow living room—as was the case for most townhouses in Chicago—and took seats in various comfy chairs. Nance introduced them to his wife Lucy, an attractive redhead who appeared to be in her mid fifties. There were bags under her eyes, as it had obviously been a stressful week. As soon as she left the room, Berenger’s eyes focused on the handgun that sat on top of the coffee table. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. He chose to ignore it for the moment and then addressed his host. “Joe, as you know, Zach here has hired us to look into your brother’s shooting.”

“I appreciate it. The police don’t know anything, and if they do, they’re not telling me.”

“What
have
they told you?”

“Some bullshit about it being a drug transaction gone wrong. Charles had some pot in the house. But you’d think if that were the case, why didn’t the killer go inside the house and take the pot? Or anything else?”

“And they don’t think it’s connected to what happened to Dave Monaco and Hank Palmer?”