The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (49 page)

Nance rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. They won’t admit it. I think they believe there’s a connection, though. They’re just not saying.”

Berenger looked at Garriott and raised his eyebrows. Garriott prompted him with a slight nod. “Joe,” he said, “I understand you have a theory about who’s responsible for this.”

“Yeah, I do. You’re going to think I’m crazy, though.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“A woman named Sylvia Favero killed Charles. And I think she killed Lew and Sarah Krige, Dave Monaco, and Hank Palmer.”

“Who is she?”

Nance laughed a little and bit his fingernails. “She’s a ghost, Spike. She’s been dead for nearly forty years.”

Berenger tried not to show his frustration. “Please explain that, Joe. I want to know everything you know about this woman.”

“Right.” At that point, Nance stood and went into the kitchen. Berenger noticed Prescott pick something off of the chair she was in. He gave her a questioning look and she shook her head—
I’ll tell you later.
Nance returned with a glass full of something—it appeared to be whiskey or bourbon. He had apparently been nursing it before they had arrived. “You sure I can’t get you something to drink? I have beer, whiskey, vodka—”

“We’re fine, Joe.”

Nance sat. “Okay.” He took a sip and began the story. “It was back when we were first starting out… in the summer of nineteen-sixty-seven. We’d just graduated from high school. One of our biggest fans was a girl our age named Sylvia Favero. She was talented. Wrote songs, was a great singer. Hot-looking, too. Hippie chick, you know the type. And a groupie. She went everywhere to see us play. And we became friends. All of us. She’d hang out with the band, do drugs with us, you know…”

“Sex?” Prescott asked.

Nance turned red. “Yeah.”

“With everyone?”

He paused. “Yeah.”

“Okay, go on,” Berenger prompted.

“Anyway, in nineteen-seventy, she upped and disappeared. Just vanished. No trace. She had no family here. None of us knew where she went. Finally, she became a police statistic. Missing. Possibly kidnapped. Possibly murdered. Who knows? We never heard from her again.”

Berenger shifted in his seat and said, “So why do you think her
ghost
is back and killing members of the band?”

“Because she appeared to me.”

Berenger raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“It was just before the Kriges were killed. I was leaving a gig at Schuba’s… that’s a club on Southport, not far from my house. Anyway, I was putting my guitar in the trunk of my car and I looked up. There she was. She always wore this same, floppy hat. It was unique. It was a real ‘hippie’ hat, the kind that some chicks wore back in those days. But this one was special. It had flowers and peace signs all over it. She wore sunglasses all the time, too. And there she was, standing in the parking lot. And she told me, ‘You’ll be the next to last to die. And Stuart Clayton will be the last.’ At first I thought I was stoned or something, but I wasn’t! The shock of seeing her made me reel for a second. I rubbed my eyes and looked again… and she was gone. Vanished. It really freaked me out.”

He took a swig from his drink.

“A day later, the Kriges were shot and killed in Evanston. A witness said they saw a blonde woman with a floppy hat. And I knew it was her. Then Dave and Hank were killed and she was seen there, too.” Nance leaned forward and picked up the revolver. He held it in his hand and said, “But if she comes for me, I’ll be ready for her.”

The room was silent for a moment. Berenger didn’t want to ask how a handgun would be effective against a ghost. Instead, he said, “I hope you have a permit for that.”

“I do.”

“Then let’s put it back down on the table, okay?”

Nance contemplated the request for a few seconds and then complied.

“Joe, the big question is why would Sylvia want to kill you guys? What’s her motive?”

Nance’s eyes darted around the room and he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He’s lying
, Berenger thought.
There’s some kind of guilt in play.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I can’t imagine why.”

“Did she have a grudge against you guys? Did something happen between her and the band?”

“No. We were all great friends. We loved her. She loved us.”

“Then it doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. It doesn’t. But I saw what I saw. Heard what I heard.”

“And you told the police this?”

“Yeah.”

Berenger looked at Prescott and she made a face that communicated—
The guy is wacko
!

“Joe, do Harrison and Manny agree with you?”

“Yeah. I told ‘em about seeing Sylvia in the parking lot, and then when the killings started, they believed me.”

“Joe, what are you not telling me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re holding something back. I can see it. I can feel it.”

Nance looked away. His feathers were ruffled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Joe, I’m a private investigator. I served as a CID investigator in the army. I’m trained to read people. I have to tell you, and please don’t be offended, but I think you know something that you’re not telling me.”

“That’s all I know, I swear!”

Berenger and Nance stared at each other for a moment. Finally, the detective slapped his hands on his knees and said, “All right. I’ll do what I can. Tomorrow I’ll go to the appropriate police precinct and try to find out what they have. The police don’t usually talk to PIs, but you never know.” He looked at Garriott. “We’ll go see North Side tomorrow night, right? I can talk to those guys then. When can I see Manny and Harrison?”

“They’re playing a couple of gigs on their own in Michigan this week,” Nance said. “They’ll be back for the memorial on Sunday.”

“And Jim Axelrod? Where’s he at these days?”

“Los Angeles. I talked to him this morning. He’s flying in for the memorial, too.”

“What about Stuart Clayton? Have you talked to him?”

Nance gave Berenger a wry smile. “I haven’t talked to Stu in ages. We don’t get along.” The musician shook his head. “We were so tight in high school and for a couple of years after that. The band tore us apart.”

“You started the band in high school, didn’t you?” Prescott asked.

“Yeah. He’d say he started it, and I say I started it. I really don’t remember how it came about. We were both on the school track and field team, so we had to work in band practice between homework and track meets.”

“You two were athletes?” Berenger asked.

“We weren’t bad. I played football my freshman and sophomore years of high school. My junior year I dropped out and did track. It was more fun. And Stuart was on the team, so we were buds together. I won some medals.” Nance shrugged. It wasn’t a big deal.

“Is Clayton in town?”

Nance shrugged. “As far as I know. The guy fortifies himself in his house. He probably hasn’t seen sunlight since the eighties.”

“Where does he live?”

Garriott answered that one. “He lives in a dump near Portage Park. A street called Mango.”

Suzanne asked, “How’s his… health?”

Nance answered, “I don’t know. He lives like a recluse and doesn’t see anyone. I’d say he’s totally bonkers.”

“Why is that?” Berenger asked.

“Look, we all did a lot of drugs in the sixties and seventies, right? But
this
guy... man, oh man. Stuart was always tripping on something. It was like he wanted to change his brain. I know you can’t get addicted to LSD but I’d swear he was. He was tripping every day for a while. That’s got to boil your gray matter in the long run.”

“But he functions? He lives alone?”

“Yeah. It’s hard to believe at one time the guy was rich as a skunk.”

“I heard his family was wealthy.”

“Damn right! He came from big family money. Clayton owned a yacht at one time. But after his parents died in the late seventies, he sold the family business and squandered all the money. Stuart’s one step away from poverty now.”

“That’s a shame. Well, I’m going to contact him. Hopefully he’ll remember me. I met him once.”

“When was that?”

“Not long after his first solo album came out. Nineteen-seventy-nine, I think. The Fixers were in Chicago and he came to the gig. I met him backstage. To tell you the truth, I was flattered and honored that he came. I used to respect him. He was talented.”

Nance nodded. “Yeah. That he was. Then he stepped into the Twilight Zone and decided to stay there.”

“Joe, why are you ‘second-to-last to die, and he’s the last?”

Again, Berenger sensed evasiveness. “I don’t know,” Nance replied. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

Berenger sighed and looked at his watch. “Okay, folks. Joe, thanks for seeing us. We’ll be in touch. Suzanne and I need to check into our hotel.” He handed the guitarist a business card. “My cell number’s on there. Please call me if you think of anything that might be relevant.”

“You going to talk to the police tomorrow?” Garriott asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

“Don’t worry. My partner Rudy Bishop is friends with your good mayor, but I don’t think he’ll have to call in any favors. I know police departments don’t usually like to share information with private dicks, but I have a buddy on the inside of the Chicago PD who I’m sure will be willing to help out.” Berenger winked. “He was a member of The Fixers!”

A few minutes later, the two PIs said their goodbyes and left the house. Garriott remained at the front door with Nance as they got into the car. Before Garriott got there, Prescott said, “Look what I found on the chair I was sitting in.” She held out her hand with the thumb and index finger together, in an “OK” sign.

Berenger squinted. “I don’t see anything.”

“It’s a hair, Spike. A long,
blonde
hair.”

He turned on the car’s overhead interior light and saw it. He took the strand from her and held it up. “His wife’s a redhead.”

“Exactly.”

“Are any of his kids blonde?”

“I noted the family photos in the hallway. Two were brunette, one was a red.”

“Interesting.”

Garriott opened the back door and got in. Berenger looked at him. “Good to go?”

“Sure.”

Berenger started the car and pulled away from the house.

“M
ike Case, you old bozo!”

Berenger and the plainclothes police officer gave each other bear hugs. Prescott found it amusing to watch two big, barrel-chested men embrace each other.

“How are you, Spike? Damn, it’s been, what, twenty-five years?”

“More than that, Mike. God, I don’t even want to try counting. It was the seventies, my friend.”

Berenger turned to Prescott. “Mike, this is my partner and right hand, Suzanne Prescott. Suzanne, this is Mike Case.”

The two shook hands. “Pleased to meet you,” Prescott said.

“And extremely pleased to meet you, Suzanne. Damn, Spike, how come you have such a gorgeous partner? My partner is fat, has a mustache, and reeks of Polish sausage.”

Berenger laughed. “Just lucky, I guess.”

The trio was in a Starbucks not far from the Drake Hotel, where Berenger and Prescott were staying. Mike Case was Berenger’s age and weighed perhaps thirty or forty pounds more than he. His hair was cut to a cop’s respectable length, but he sported a gold stud in his left ear lobe.

“The job lets you get away with that?” Berenger asked, indicating the ear jewelry.

“I’m a Tac Guy,” Case answered. He looked at Prescott. “Short for Tactical.”