The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (41 page)

In front of the journalists… in front of the nation… in front of the world…

The senator-turned-murderer was going to die.

“M
ay I have your attention, please?” Cramer called. When the reporters saw the senator, they immediately began shooting photographs and calling out questions. Cramer tried again but he couldn’t be heard.

“
SHUT UP!
” Berenger shouted in his best imitation of Captain Beefheart.

That did the trick.

“Thanks,” Cramer said. “The senator would like to say a few words. No questions. Just a statement. But I’m also obligated to tell you that we’ve had a bomb threat and are in the process of evacuating the building. You can leave out those doors behind you now, or you can stay a few minutes longer at your own risk.”

No one budged.

Cramer nodded to the senator. Joe Perkins stepped forward as all the cameras turned on him and snapped away.

“This message is for my constituents and the American people. First, I would like to say to the Penebaker family how deeply sorry I am for what has happened. I know those words can never replace a human being, but at the moment it’s the best I can do. Furthermore, in light of the circumstances surrounding the allegations that have been made against me, I have no choice but to resign as senator and not pursue re-election.”

There was a collected gasp—or sigh of relief—from the journalists. Pens scribbled on pads, camera shutters clicked, video cams whirred…

“That said,” Perkins continued, but then he paused, as if he were searching for the next words to say. His right hand reached inside his tuxedo jacket and stayed there for a moment. “God will judge me, I am sure of that. But, please, let me spare myself the indignity of being judged here on earth.”

The Glock emerged from the senator’s jacket. Perkins quickly turned the barrel to his mouth and closed his eyes.

Everything happened simultaneously—

…journalists gasped…

…women in the crowd screamed…

…the bodyguard lunged for the senator…

…Berenger lunged for the senator’s right arm…

Both the PI and the bodyguard collided into Perkins, but it was Berenger who had control of the senator’s gun-arm. As the three men fell to the floor in excruciating slow motion, the Glock fired. The .40 caliber round burned past the left side of the senator’s face and struck the wall behind them. The men slammed into the floor and the handgun slid across the room. It came to a rest at Wally Cramer’s feet. Even though the press secretary was in something resembling shock, he had the presence of mind to stoop and pick up the gun.

“Damn you, Berenger!” Perkins shouted. He struggled out from under the two other men and bolted for the up escalator. By the time Berenger and the bodyguard were on their feet, the senator was already running up to the first floor. The bodyguard winced as he stood—he had twisted his ankle in the fall.

“I’ll get him,” Berenger said as he ran for the escalator in pursuit.

Nearly everyone from the main floor was gone as the two men scampered up the next escalator. Berenger shouted for Perkins to stop but the senator ignored him. They went on up to the second floor, then to the third and fourth…

Finally, the senator stopped on the fifth floor at the bottom of the staircase that ascended to the Moody Blues’ special exhibit. From there, he could look down over the rail, all the way to the main level. By the time Berenger caught up to him, Perkins had thrown one leg over the rail and sat on it, side-saddle. Ironically, the song “Are You Sitting Comfortably?” was currently playing in the exhibit.

“Don’t do anything crazy, Joe,” Berenger said, panting.

“What’s the matter, Spike?” Perkins asked. He, too, was out of breath. “Not in the same shape as you were back in high school?”

“No, and neither are you. Come on, Joe. This is… this is not a good idea.” He moved toward the senator but Perkins held up his hand.

“Stay where you are, Spike. You come any closer and I’ll jump.”

Berenger held his ground.

“You spoiled my statement to the press, Spike. So now I have to do something else that’s just as spectacular. Fitting that I should die at the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, isn’t it? Of course, they haven’t
inducted
me yet. Maybe they will now.” He laughed.

“Joe, don’t do this. It’s not the way to go.”

“What do you know, Spike? You’re a has-been rock ‘n’ roller, just like me. Now I can put ‘has-been politician’ on my resume, too. It was all a big lie… for nearly twenty years.”

“Look, Joe, I know you’re under a lot of stress. I know this murder rap isn’t going to be pleasant, but you’ve got to be a man and face it. Killing yourself is the coward’s way out.”

“You’re the second person to say the word, Spike. Murder. ‘Cause that’s what it’s going to be. I’m going to be charged with murder. And you know something, Spike? It’s true. I did it. I did give Rosemary Penebaker the highball that put her into a coma. I was high. I was… out of my head.”

“Then you’ve got to get a good lawyer. It’s the only way. You have to face the music, Joe.”

“The music. I wish I could face the music. Don’t you wish you were playing music again? I do.”

Berenger could see that Perkins was becoming nostalgic. Perhaps if he could keep the senator talking…

“Yeah, I still play, for fun. You remember Charlie Potts? We get together every once in a while and run through our old Fixers tunes or write new ones.”

“Tell him I said hello.”

“I will.”

“You still have that ancient Dean V guitar?”

“I do. I keep it in its case, though. But I’ve stuck with Dean Guitars. I usually play the newer HardTail Professional. Has a great sound, and it has the old V style neck. I also have a Dean bass. They’re good instruments. What do you play?”

“Me? I don’t play anything anymore. But when I’m
alone
I drag out my old Fender.”

“The black one with the peace signs?”

“Yep. Same one.”

“You made some mighty good music on that, Joe.”

“I guess.”

“You still could.”

“Not in prison. I don’t think I’m the Johnny Cash type.”

“David Crosby had his own band when he was in prison in the eighties.”

Perkins laughed. “Right. I can just see me jamming with all the other serial killers, drug dealers, and child molesters.”

“You know there’s a bomb threat, right? We could both be blown up any minute. The bomb squad is on its way.
They’re
going to get you down from there if I don’t.”

“I’ll have already jumped by the time they get here. I’m just getting up the nerve to do it. Go on. Save yourself. If there’s a bomb, I’d hate to think you were killed trying to save me.”

“No way. I’m going out with you.”

“You can’t save me, Spike. I’m going straight to hell. Tonight.”

Berenger thought hard for something else to blab about. “What are you listening to these days?”

Perkins shrugged. “Mostly the old stuff. I really don’t care for much of the new music that’s out there, do you?”

“Not really. Some of it’s all right. Nothing beats the classics of the sixties and seventies.”

“Damn straight. Give me the Allman Brothers Band any day. You liked all those arty bands like Jethro Tull and Yes.”

“I still do. It’s a shame the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame hasn’t inducted them yet. They’re not too big on prog rock.”

Perkins actually chuckled. “I miss talking music with you, Spike.”

“We should jam sometime.”

Perkins was silent. Down below, they could hear the voices of the Cleveland police teams. The bomb squad was in the building.

“Spike, you there?” Suzanne asked in his ear receiver. Berenger didn’t want to break the rapport he had with Perkins, so he didn’t answer. “Spike? Listen, if you can hear me, you have to get out of there. The police will handle the senator. You’re off the hook. Come down… I don’t want you to get blow’d up.”

“I tell you what, Joe,” Berenger said. “Come down with me. I
know
you don’t really want to jump.

“A cry for help, is it?”

“Look—I’ll have my assistants rustle up some guitars. You turn yourself in and I’ll insist that I sit in the holding cell with you. We can jam like we used to—all night if they’ll let us.”

Perkins laughed. “You’re too much, Spike.”

“Come on, it’ll be a blast.”

The senator grinned and shook his head. “You know, it does sound fun. We’d make the Folsom Prison thing sound like an amateur recording.”

“Let’s do it! What do you say?”

They heard the sound of running footsteps coming closer. Perkins sighed deeply. Then he nodded, pulled his leg back over the rail, and stood on the floor in front of Berenger.

“You can tell the police I called in that dumb bomb threat,” Perkins admitted. “I just wanted to add more excitement to my big finish.”

The two men gave each other a bear hug before descending.

A
crowd of Cleveland’s finest met Berenger and Perkins at the exit doors. There were still dozens of reporters carrying bright lights and cameras, but they were safely behind a barrier some distance away. The mob was even further back, kept in line by officers with riot gear.

Suzanne and Tommy Briggs met Berenger and Perkins as they came out.

“Suzanne, I want you to find two decent electric guitars and a couple of practice amps. Joe and I are gonna make some noise at the police station.” Berenger looked around and found Hank Gould. “Deputy Chief Gould? The senator here would like to surrender to you.”

“No, you don’t, you bastard!” It was Wally Cramer, whose bald head was a bright crimson red. “I’ve lied for you for that last time!” And before anyone could do a thing, the press secretary aimed the Glock 23 at Perkins’ chest and fired three times.

Berenger threw himself onto the man and knocked him to the ground. He was followed by Gould and two other officers. Berenger wrestled the handgun out of Cramer’s hand as the press secretary screamed and cried like a child having a tantrum.

“I knew there was something scuzzy about you the
first
time I tackled you,” Berenger growled. He got up and let the officers take the man away in handcuffs.

A crowd of police and the senator’s aides huddled around the fallen politician. When the Lois Lane-type aide rose, she looked at Berenger with a pained expression on her face, and shook her head.

Berenger and his team moved away from the front of the building and descended the long, cement steps that were decorated with large sculptures of fanciful guitars. An ambulance took away the senator’s body, Cramer was ushered away in a patrol car, and the rest of the police dispersed the stunned crowd.

The private investigator had always known that mixing politics with rock ‘n’ roll wasn’t always a good thing. He felt bad for his old friend. It was a shame the man was guilty.

“I don’t know what to say,” Suzanne muttered.

Berenger nodded. “It’s like that Moody Blues song they were playing at the museum.”

“Which one?”

He sighed heavily. “‘Isn’t Life Strange?’”

FOR MAX

There is no such thing as Chicagoprog.
Chicago
never had a progressive rock movement (as far as I know), although I’m aware of one band called Pentwater that existed in the seventies. The bands and musicians cited within as Chicagoprog acts are entirely fictitious. A few real Chicago-based bands are name-checked in the manuscript. All of the club venues are real. The band Chicago Green appeared in Spike Berenger’s previous adventure and is also real. More information about them can be found at www.chigreen.net.

The author and publisher wish to thank Dave Case, Michael A. Black, Dean Zelinsky, James McMahon, J. A. Konrath, and the City of Chicago Police Department for their help in the preparation of this book.