The Day Will Come (3 page)

“Lead on.”

We found them where they’d promised, Lucy with a blanket from the trunk wrapped around her shoulders while she sat in the front seat and talked with Norm and the woman. Lenny stood by the front of the car with Jermaine, who must’ve been done with his security detail.

“Hey,” I said.

Jermaine lifted his chin a fraction. “Hey, yourself.”

“You look beat.” I took in his slumped shoulders and sweat-soaked security T-shirt. He had to be freezing in the chilly air.

“Spent the last hour herding freaked-out folks, trying to keep them from trampling each other.”

I nodded. “Cop told us no one was killed in the rush to get out?”

“Not that we know of. Lots of injuries, but no pile-ups, thank God. Mann keeps the club in good working order and up to code, plus the security staff is well-trained. I had to pass a test before he gave me the job tonight.”

I looked at Nick. “Mann, that’s his name.” I gestured over my shoulder. “We saw him not too long ago at the ambulances, looking for somebody named Bobby. Know him?”

Jermaine shook his head. “Nah. But then, I don’t know many of the staff. Not by name, anyway.”

“You all done for the night?”

“Supposedly. The official cops have taken over now, and we’re not even allowed back in the building. I called Vernice to let her know what was happening, just in case she saw it on the news.”

“You call home?” I asked Lenny. “Let the baby-sitter know you’d be late?”

He shrugged. “Lucy might’ve.”

“I’ve got a phone,” Nick said. “I’ll ask her.” He walked over to the car door and leaned in. Lenny followed.

“Stella! Jermaine!” Jordan strode up to us, his face a tight mask of anxiety. The two girls we’d seen backstage trotted along behind him. “You see any of the band?”

I shook my head. “No, but I haven’t been looking for them.”

Jermaine held his hands up, palms to the sky. “They weren’t my responsibility. Don’t know where they got to.”

Jordan stuck his hands in his pockets, craning his neck to see around Jermaine. “I found Tom Copper, along with LeRoy and Donny. They’re set up pretty well down at the other end. But I haven’t found Genna.”

“The female singer?” I asked.

“Right. You met her backstage.”

I studied his face, remembering how Genna had avoided looking at Jordan.

“She’s probably with Ricky.” The dark-haired girl cracked the gum she was chewing like a cud. “Where else would she be?”

Jordan’s expression made it obvious her words had no soothing effect. “I need to know she made it out.”

“The cops told us everybody’s out of the building,” I said. “She’s probably stuck in this crowd somewhere.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced.

A phone played the first few bars of INXS’s “Pretty Vegas” and the dark-haired girl reached into her coat. “Hi,” she said. Her eyes flicked to Jordan. “He’s here, but she’s not. Huh-uh.” She looked around. “Under one of the streetlights. I don’t know. South, I guess.”

“Dead tree limb,” I said, pointing.

She repeated our location into the phone. “Okay. We’ll wait.” She closed the phone and stuck it back in her pocket. “Ricky’s on his way here. Says he’s close.”

“Genna’s not with him?” Jordan’s voice cracked.

“Nuh-uh.” She cracked her gum again. I fought the urge to smack her on the back and send the gum flying. Or down her throat.

“Who’s Ricky?” I asked.

Jordan glowered. “The band’s drummer.”

I raised my eyebrows. Ricky was the guy making neck-wringing threats before the concert. “Why would she be with him?”

Jordan didn’t answer.

“He’s her boyfriend,” the gum-cracker said.

I looked at Jordan, who avoided my eyes by studying the crowd, arms crossed over his chest.

“So who’re you?” I said to the girls.

The dark-haired girl stopped her mouth mid-chew. “I’m Marley. This is Annie.”

The blonde’s mouth flickered, as if she were trying to smile but couldn’t quite do it.

“What do you do with the band?”

“Oh, we’re not official,” Marley said.
Crack, crack.
“We just hang out.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed for a second before her expression ironed out. “I help Jordan with the sound.”

“That’s right. Jordan said something to you backstage about taping a cable.”

“There you are!” The drummer was suddenly there, forcing his way through the crowd and ending up nose-to-nose with Jordan. “Where’s Genna?”

Jordan’s nostrils flared. “I can’t find her. I assumed she was with you.”

“Well, she’s not.”

It wasn’t clear whether the spikes in Ricky’s black hair were there by design or situation, but they stood up in wild peaks. His thin and angular face highlighted nearly black eyes, and his leather vest, with nothing underneath, made me shiver. He’d obviously chosen it for the concert—and it looked good, I had to admit—and not for a chilly night in a parking lot.

“So why aren’t you looking for her?” Jordan asked.

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Have you called her cell phone?”

Ricky waved his phone in Jordan’s face. “For the last half-hour. She’s not answering.” He thrust the phone into Jordan’s stomach. “Here. You call if you think I can’t do it good enough.”

“I don’t want your phone.” Jordan pushed his hand away. “But if you’re not going to look for Genna, I will.”

Jordan’s expression made no bones about how he felt toward the drummer, and I hoped Jermaine and I wouldn’t have to jump in between them.

“Fine,” Ricky said. “Let me know the minute you spot her.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” Jordan’s usually sweet voice dripped with sarcasm, and I watched with surprise as he stomped away.

Jermaine met my eyes with his own, which opened wide with interest.

“I bet Genna just took off,” Marley said.

Ricky snorted. “Not without her lap dog.” He watched Jordan leave, and I shook my head at the venom in the drummer’s voice. He had a few jealousy issues to work out. Not that he might not be right about it.

A cop made the mistake of approaching our group just then. He’d barely opened his mouth when Ricky started into him.

“My girlfriend’s missing and nobody in this lame-ass police force will help me find her.”

If I’d been the cop, I would’ve laid Ricky out cold. The officer, however, had more self-control, and actually took a respectful step back. “We’re doing our best to make sure everyone’s out of the building, sir. Perhaps you could start by giving me your name?”

In fits and starts the officer pulled the information from Ricky, taking down Marley and Annie’s info, as well. I told him the cops already had my name, and pointed him back toward Lucy and Lenny.

“We’ll do our best to find your friend, sir,” the officer told Ricky. “Until then, you just have to sit tight and maybe she’ll find you.”

Ricky turned away from him, scanning the crowd. He didn’t seem to care so much about Genna’s safety as about making sure he found her before Jordan did.

The cop, realizing he’d gotten everything he would from us, headed back toward the Civic.

“What about you two?” Ricky said to the girls. “You see Genna?”

Marley shrugged. “Before the concert. Not since.”

“And you?” Ricky’s eyes bored into Annie, and she huddled tighter in her sweater.

“Saw her backstage. Not after the bomb threat, though.”

“Hmphf.” He turned back to the crowd, glowering.

“Looks like the place is clearing out a bit.” Lenny appeared at my shoulder. “Cop said we can leave if we can get out.”

I looked at the car, where Nick now sat in the driver’s seat, one leg sticking out the door, his head leaning on the headrest. His eyes were closed.

“We probably should.” I looked at Jermaine. “You’ll stay with Jordan?”

“Sure. What’re brothers for?” He flashed a quick smile. “He rode down with me, anyway. I’ll get him home.”

“Norm and Cindy’s car is down the aisle there,” Lenny said, pointing. “We’re going to drop them off. You mind following us on foot?”

“Nope. Can Nick go with you, though?”

“Oh, yeah.” Lenny’s forehead wrinkled. “What’s up with him, anyway?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“Okay, so I guess Lucy can drive them down, and Nick can ride. I’ll walk with you.”

“Peachy.” I turned toward Ricky and the girls, but they were already slipping into the crowd, Marley hanging onto Ricky’s elbow, Annie sticking close behind.

I couldn’t help but hope Jordan found Genna first.

Chapter Three

Five-o’clock rolled around pretty fast the next morning. I silenced the alarm with a quickness that surprised me, and slipped out from under the quilt, doing my best not to fall on my face from exhaustion.

After pulling on some jeans I tiptoed down the stairs, disgusted at the smell of smoke still hovering around my body. We’d gotten home so late I didn’t have the energy to take a shower, but now I regretted it. Even the cows would probably turn their noses up at me this morning.

I peeked into the front room, where Nick had taken over the sofa. He’d fallen asleep on the way home from Philly, and I’d practically carried him into the house before dumping him as gently as possible on the couch. His face, from what I could see of it in the darkness, looked relaxed and peaceful.

I walked back through the house to the kitchen, where I poured a bowl of Cheerios and ate it while watching the early morning news. The bomb threat at Club Independence received headline status, after a story about a Philadelphia Mafia multi-homicide, and I recognized scenes from the night before, with the cop cars and fire trucks filling South Street.

The anchor, fresh-faced and handsome—Kevin Something—was speaking. “Last night we reported that the Club Independence security staff was able to evacuate the building with no fatalities after a bomb scare at the concert of one of Philadelphia’s favorite musical sons, Tom Copper. The successful clearing of the building marked an extraordinary occurrence in these days when club fires and bombs mean multiple trampling deaths, caused by panic and fear. We are saddened to learn this morning that a body has been found in the building, apparently a victim of the chaos. More from our correspondent on the scene, Maria Gomez.”

I stopped eating as the screen split into two pictures—one the anchor, one the reporter on South Street. Milk dripped from my spoon into my bowl, and my mouth hung open. The cops had been so proud the night before of their casualty-free evacuation, and the paramedics calm and confident.

“A tragic development, Kevin, but true,” the reporter said. “Officials tell us a body has been discovered in Club Independence following last night’s bomb scare, but the identification of the victim will not be released until family has been notified. Cause of death has not been disclosed, nor has the location of the body in the building.”

Behind the reporter stood the club, clearly seen now the fire trucks were gone. A few vehicles still dotted the street, the only recognizable one a police cruiser.

I set my spoon in my bowl and watched, horrified.

“When can we expect more details on this, Maria?” the anchor asked.

“Officials hope to locate the victim’s family this morning, and have a cause of death by later today.”

The anchor set his face in an expression of concern. “And what do they expect to discover?”

“At this point, Kevin, they have not offered an explanation. But no matter the cause, the much-anticipated concert with Philadelphia’s local favorite, the Tom Copper Band, has resulted in a death. We will keep you up-to-date as details become available. Until then, this is Maria Gomez, reporting from location on South Street, in Philadelphia.”

“Thank you, Maria. We heard also from the owner of Club Independence, Gary Mann.”

A video of the man I had seen backstage and again at the ambulance site came on screen. His eyes were sunken above dark bags, and his voice came out husky and drained of emotion.

“I don’t know how to talk about this,” he said. “We pride ourselves on keeping our security staff educated and well-oiled. We thought we had succeeded last night in preventing any deaths, and I’m sick at this latest discovery. Nothing like this has ever happened before, under my ownership.”

That video segued to another, the words on the bottom of the screen denoting the Commander of the Bomb Squad as he stood behind a podium at a press conference.

“Club Independence was as ready as it could’ve been,” he said. “Despite the tragic loss, discovered late last night, I commend Gary Mann and his staff for a job well done, and extend my thanks to the entire Philadelphia police and firefighting force.”

A garbled question was thrown at him from the floor.

“Yes,” he said. “There was an actual explosive device. It was designed to be detonated by remote control, but we were able to disrupt the bomb before it was used. We are fortunate to have an efficient K-9 team, which hit on the bomb directly upon entering the building.”

The video ended and I once again watched Kevin-the-anchor’s expressive face. “In addition, the police have asked us to put out a call for a Robert Baronne, Club Independence’s office manager. He has gone missing since the concert, along with the evening’s proceeds. It has been confirmed that the body discovered in the building is not that of Baronne, and officials are treating the disappearance as a kidnapping.” Baronne’s picture flashed onto the screen, and I sat back as I recognized the mane of dark hair. Baronne had taken our tickets at the door the night before, and wished us an enjoyable evening.

I also remembered Gary Mann, the owner, and his worries about “Bobby” when he approached the man at the ambulance. Robert Baronne—assuming he was “Bobby”—had already been missing within an hour of the evacuation. I wondered just how much money he’d been in possession of, and who would’ve known how to get to him through the security staff. If, indeed, he had been kidnapped and not taken off to some island with the money. I turned my attention back to the TV, where a phone number was flashing for those with any information.

“So a concert ends in tragedy,” the anchor said, Baronne’s image above his left shoulder. “A death and a missing staff member. But hundreds are alive through the efforts of our safety officers. A job well done. We will inform you as more details come our way. In other news, the Phillies have added a surprising name to their line-up—”

I hit the power button on the remote and the TV flickered off. While I’d been milling around in the parking lot last night, someone was dying, or had died. And the bomb had been real. If the threat hadn’t been called in, if it hadn’t been taken seriously, if we hadn’t been evacuated so quickly… I shook my head, not wanting to think of the devastation that could’ve happened.

In the kitchen I dumped my soggy Cheerios down the drain. Nothing like an unidentified body and the smell of second-hand smoke to ruin your appetite.

Queenie, my collie, met me on the front step, her nose twitching when she caught my scent.

“Sorry, girl,” I said. “I promise to shower after milking. And they weren’t my cigarettes. Really.”

She trotted ahead of me, obviously wanting to avoid my stench by staying upwind.

The familiar and much more pleasant smell of the barn greeted me as I wandered down the aisles of the parlor, saying hello to the cows, who had already claimed their stalls. We had yet to let the cows outside this spring, waiting until the temperatures had reached steady warmth and I had a chance to mend the pasture fences, so they chose a stall for the winter and pretty much stuck to it. Between Queenie and me we got the girls clipped in and settled, and I switched on Temple Radio, their usual favorite classical music station.

I was spreading out hay when headlights flashed through the windows. I listened as a door shut, and as the big dually truck reversed out the drive, then turned to greet Zach Granger, Jordan and Jermaine’s nephew and my weekend and summer farm helper. “Morning, Zach.”

He sauntered my way, hands in his pockets. “You were at that concert last night, right?”

“Yeah.” I stopped pulling hay when I saw the look on his face. “What is it?”

“You know that body they found in the building?”

A lump formed in my throat, and I suddenly knew what he was going to say. “Oh, God, no,” I said.

He nodded. “It was that girl singer from the band. Her name was Genna.”