The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (20 page)

They ran to the sidewalk and hugged the wall as they moved down the street. By now they could hear police sirens growing louder. As Berenger and Suzanne turned the corner onto Seventh Avenue, three patrol cars soared past them and headed toward the brawl. The riot squad wouldn’t be far behind.

“Damn, Spike, you sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Suzanne said breathlessly. “I haven’t had this much fun since I threw up at Coney Island.”

He laughed. “You okay? You aren’t hurt are you?”

“Nah. What about you?”

“My knuckles are a little sore from hitting that guy but that’s just because I’m not used to it. I’m fine.”

They were a bit stunned from the excitement but managed to walk quickly to the parking garage where he had left his Altima. It was a relatively new three-story structure that had been built to accommodate the overpopulated Village streets. The car was on the top level and Berenger had paid for the space when they first arrived.

He held the stairway door open for Suzanne and she went through. “We really could have been hurt badly, huh?” she said.

“Yeah. I should have got you out of there sooner.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

As he followed her up the stairs, Berenger asked, “By the way, did you see Dave Bristol outside by the Jimmys’ van?”

“No. Was he there?”

“Yeah. Looked like he was making some kind of transaction with one of their roadies.”

“Must be where he gets his drugs. The Jimmys like to sell to rock stars, don’t they?”

“Yeah.”

They got to the third floor landing and opened the door. All the parking spaces were full and the Altima was at the other end of the level. They walked toward the car as Suzanne said, “He seemed pretty together tonight, didn’t you think?”

“He did. And he was nice, too. Sometimes Dave can be a curmudgeon and a half.”

“So I’ve heard. I tell you, Spike, when those—”

BLAM!

The sound of gunfire interrupted her and Berenger felt the hot stream of the bullet sear the air in front of his face.

“Get down!” he shouted. The couple leaped forward and hit the pavement. Berenger immediately rolled toward her and covered her body. He then quickly turned his head and looked in the direction from where the shot was fired. A figure darted along the far wall, moving into the shadows beneath a section of burned-out ceiling lights. Was it a Jimmy?

“Over there, hurry!” he whispered, pointing to the cramped space between two vehicles to their left. Suzanne scrambled over, her eyes wide with fright. Berenger snaked across the floor behind her as another gunshot echoed through the garage. The bullet hit dangerously close to Berenger’s side, chipping fragments off the pavement. The round ricocheted and smashed a headlight on a Range Rover next to where they were lying. Berenger pushed Suzanne beneath the SUV and then got to his knees.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Get under here!”

“I have to see who that fucker is!”

“Don’t!”

But Berenger ignored her. He desperately wished he had his weapon with him. He normally used a Smith & Wesson Model 638 “Bodyguard AirWeight” in a .38 Special with a snubbie barrel or a Kahr P9 semiautomatic, but Berenger rarely carried a handgun on the job. Nine times out of ten there was never a need to be armed. He did have a Class G license that piggybacked his private investigator Class C license and that allowed him to carry the gun in most states. Because Berenger knew the New York City mayor personally, he had a special permit to carry the weapon in Manhattan—which was usually taboo for most PIs. In fact, it normally took an act of God to get a firearm permit for New York City—but a special relationship with the mayor happened to be just as good. Berenger had to pay a small fortune for the permit but it was worth it.

Unfortunately, that didn’t do an awful lot of good at the moment.

Berenger carefully peered over the Range Rover’s hood and scanned the shadows on the other side of the level. Nothing.

“I know you’re there!” he shouted. “Why don’t you come out and show your face like a man? We’ll settle this without your puny pop gun!”

“Spike!”

“What?” He turned to Suzanne and was astonished to find her holding a Guardian 380 semiautomatic.

“Can you use this?” she asked.

“What the hell are you doing with
that
?” he blurted.

“Hey, it fits nicely in my Kate Spade handbag,” she said. “I never go anywhere without it.”

“Damn, Suzanne, do you have a permit to carry that thing?”

The sniper fired another round. The Range Rover’s windshield shattered. Berenger ducked out of view.

“Well… yes and no,” Suzanne answered. “Look, do you want it or not?”

Berenger took it, tested the gun’s weight by transferring it from one hand to the other, and then gripped it firmly in his right. It was definitely a woman’s handgun, lightweight and compact, less than five inches in overall length and less than four inches in height. It held seven .380 caliber rounds. Without another second’s hesitation, he rose, stretched his arms over the SUV’s hood, and aimed the Guardian in the direction of the shadows. He squeezed the trigger twice. The rounds hit the far concrete wall with dull, reverberating thuds.

“Two can play your game, pal!” he shouted.

Suddenly the figure bolted from the shadows and ran toward the stairwell door. Berenger took a bead on the running man but it was too late. The sniper burst through the door and was gone. Berenger wanted that guy’s hide, so he angrily leaped from his cover and bolted across the floor to the stairwell. He flattened his back to the wall next to the door and took a breath. Using commando tactics, he grabbed the knob, thrust the door open, and assumed a squatting firing stance. The landing was empty.

“Where are you, you bastard?”

He moved inside and looked down the stairwell. Something was on the steps a flight below. Berenger slowly descended to the next landing and stooped to pick up what the shooter had left behind.

It was a Jimmy mask.

B
erenger’s appointment with Carol Merryman was to take place at 11:00 in the morning, so when Berenger got up he didn’t bother going into the office. He phoned in and discovered that Suzanne had also left word that she’d be in late.

It had been an interesting evening, to say the least. After the incident at the parking garage, Berenger decided not to involve the police. That would just complicate his investigation. He took the Jimmy mask with him and delivered Suzanne to her home. They sat in his car in front of her building for nearly a half-hour talking about the case, the trouble she could get into by carrying a handgun in Manhattan without the proper permit, the street brawl, Berenger’s mother, and Suzanne’s love life. Regarding the latter, she had said it was non-existent. Berenger reciprocated, telling her that he hadn’t been on a real “date” in months. Suzanne must have sensed where the conversation was heading so she said she was tired and excused herself. Berenger let her go and watched her long legs move up the steps of her building. He drove home wondering what might have happened between them a decade ago if he hadn’t broken off their relationship. Would it have lasted? He kept telling himself it most likely wouldn’t have. Suzanne had been on the rebound. The love of her life, drummer Elvin Blake, had died of an overdose and Rockin’ Security was hired to investigate the circumstances. Berenger would never forget walking into Blake’s apartment and seeing Suzanne for the first time. She had been crying for hours, understandably distraught, and yet she was one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. Two months later they were dating. It lasted approximately five months and Berenger felt the need to break it off. To date he still wondered why. A year passed, he and Suzanne remained friends, and eventually he asked her to work for him.

Before going to bed Berenger berated himself for playing the “what if” game. That was always a no-win situation.

A reasonable amount of sleep and the new morning cast a different light on things. He put the previous night out of his mind as he phoned Remix to ask if he’d found out anything about Carol Merryman’s troubles with the IRS.

“Yeah, she’s definitely being audited,” Remix told him. “I couldn’t find out a whole lot, but she’s got income that isn’t substantiated. Apparently she had something like $250,000 in her bank account last year that she was unable to account for.”

“Do you think she might have been stealing from Flame Productions?” Berenger asked.

“That’s certainly the easiest way she could have gotten it. But who knows?”

“Thanks, Remix.”

At the appointed time, Berenger showed up at Carol’s building. She lived in an exclusive apartment building on Madison Avenue and 82
^nd
and could certainly afford to do so. Berenger understood her divorce settlement to be in the millions and she continued to make money working for Flame since the split-up. Why would she feel the need to steal, if that was indeed what was going on?

Her door was open when he reached to the 14
^th
floor where she lived.

“Carol?” he called.

“Come in, Spike. I’ll be right there!”

He went inside and marveled at the décor. The place was adorned with artwork and sculpture, a white grand piano, and ultra-chic furniture that looked as if it came out of the Museum of Modern Art. The piano supposedly once belonged to Noel Coward or Cole Porter, he couldn’t remember which.

“Nice place, Carol,” he called.

“Make yourself at home.” Her voice came from the bedroom. “Fix yourself a drink if you want one.”

Berenger declined the invitation and instead went to the bookcase to examine the multitude of CDs and record albums. He couldn’t help but notice the prominent display of Flame’s entire works—not only US releases but also copies of every official foreign release since the beginning of his career. It was an impressive collection.

Carol entered the room, dressed exquisitely in a striking black and gray business suit that must have come from some high-priced Fifth Avenue shop. She looked like a million bucks and could have appeared in any of the big fashion mags. She carried a garment bag that she draped over a chair.

“I’m sorry, but this will have to be short, Spike,” she said, slightly breathlessly. “I have a lunch meeting with Al Patton that I couldn’t move and then I have to rush over to the Music Box for some last minute arrangements.”

That’s right, Berenger remembered. Flame’s star-studded memorial service was later in the evening, scheduled to take place at a rented Broadway theater.

“We could reschedule for another time,” he said.

“No, no, let’s get this over with.” She stopped in front of a mirror near the front door, adjusted her skirt and examined her makeup, and then turned to face him.

“You look very nice, Carol,” he said.

“Thank you, Spike. You know the press will be all over me today. I don’t think I’ll have time to come back and change so I’m bringing my gown with me. I hope I can stay together for the rest of the day.” She gestured to a leather sofa. “Please sit down.” She took a chair at a right angle from the sofa.

“I’d love to attend the service tonight, Carol,” Berenger said. “I hope I’m not being too forward but—”

“Oh, Spike, just yesterday I realized you weren’t on the invite list. I had a pair of tickets messengered to your office this morning.”

“Carol, you didn’t have—”
“It was an oversight. And please don’t argue with me. You’re on the guest list.”“That’s very kind of you. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Now. How can I help you?” She looked up and smiled at him. Ever the glamour queen, Carol Merryman was well aware that she could break down the defenses of nearly any man she set her sights upon.

“Carol, we’ve known each other a long time, but since you and Flame were divorced I haven’t run into you all that often. I’d like to know a little about the divorce itself—why it happened and so forth—and what your relationship with Flame has been like since then.”

She took a breath and began. “Well, gee. We got married in 1982. The marriage was a close one until, oh, I’d say about 1983 or 1984, just after Flame’s Heat started making it big. Then Flame’s attention was focused on other things. We rarely saw each other after that. Flame was always on tour and he didn’t seem to want me on tour with him. Joshua was an infant then and Flame didn’t like having us around except under very controlled circumstances. So Joshua and I stayed at home while Flame traveled the world. Over and over. When he
was
home, he was either busy in the recording studio or he was getting stoned. The drugs started happening on a more frequent basis during those years. It didn’t get really bad until after the divorce, but it was beginning to be a problem. Anyway, in 1987, we mutually decided to call it quits. For ‘incompatibility reasons’ was the official line. And that’s the story.”