The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (37 page)

It’s about time!
he thought.

Once again he climbed onto the railing and leaped to the landing below. Only seven more floors to the bottom. He rounded the corner and started to descend the stairs but was halted by the sight of Black standing at the bottom of the flight, gun in hand. Berenger simply fell back onto the steps as the Colt recoiled and the bullet whizzed over his chest.

Shit
! He was surely a goner. There was no way he could scramble out of the way now.

Black pulled the trigger again but the gun only clicked. He was out of ammo!

Berenger sat up, pointed his gun, and fired. But Black had already begun the next descent and the bullet simply bore a hole in the plaster.

Where were the goddamned cops?

He got to his feet and resumed the chase. Floor 4… Floor 3… Was Black completely out of bullets? Was he reloading as he ran? Berenger always kept a spare magazine with him when he carried his weapon. He had lost count of how many shots he had fired—did he need to reload as well? There was no time for it, for he heard Black opening the door to the ground floor, followed by shouts.

One last time, Berenger climbed onto the rail of the second floor landing and jumped to the first. He burst out the door and found Freddie the doorman on the floor, rubbing his head. Black had pistol-whipped him and run through the lobby and out the front door.

Berenger rushed outside and saw Black sprinting across West End Avenue toward Riverside Park. The sirens now filled the air, for two patrol cars screamed into view and pulled over in front of the building. Berenger ignored a policeman’s command to halt and he took off after Black.

Black ran west on 103
^rd
Street and bolted across Riverside Drive, straight into heavy traffic. The scream of breaks and the sudden dull
thump
accompanied the horrific sight of a taxicab slamming into the running man. The impact flung Black into the air and he landed hard on the hood. More cars screeched to a halt. Berenger ran into the avenue, prepared to grab the guy and disarm him, but Black rolled off the cab and continued to run—with a pronounced limp—toward the park. His pace was much slower now and Berenger had no problem decreasing the distance between them.

Black hobbled onto the grass, causing a group of carriage-pushing mothers to scream. Berenger stopped at the edge of the park to examine his S&W. There was one cartridge left. No time to reload.

“Black! Stop now!” he shouted, but it didn’t do any good. The man kept limping away.

Berenger took aim at Black’s lower body and squeezed the trigger. The S&W coughed loudly and Black dropped to the ground.

“You! Throw down your weapon! Now!”

Berenger turned to see three policemen, guns drawn, running toward him. He immediately dropped the S&W and raised his hands.

“I’m a PI!” he shouted. “I have a gun permit!”

“On your knees! Now! Hands on your head!” one of them shouted as they reached him.

Berenger did as he was told. “I can show you my ID, fellas. The guy you want is over there.” The cops looked up and saw Black attempting to crawl across the grass. He moved like a wounded bird, unable to fly to safety.

Two patrolmen left Berenger in the care of the third and ran over to intercept Black. At that moment, a familiar voice yelled from the edge of Riverside Drive.

“Let that guy go!”

It was McTiernan. He and two other patrolmen ran across the avenue to Berenger. “This man’s on our side, officer,” McTiernan said, addressing the patrolman. “Get up, Berenger.”

Berenger stood and picked up his S&W. “Thanks, McTiernan. I tried to tell ‘em I was one of the good guys but they didn’t listen.”

One of the two policemen with Black shouted, “Sir, the suspect has a gunshot wound in the right leg. We’ve cuffed him and he’s ready for an ambulance.”

“That’s fine, officer!” McTiernan yelled back. “Keep him under wraps!”

“McTiernan, have you been upstairs to Joshua’s apartment?” Berenger asked.

“The paramedics are up there now. They’ll be bringing him down any minute.”

As the police took charge of Black, Berenger followed McTiernan back to Duncan’s apartment building, where a sizable crowd had gathered. Four patrol cars and two ambulances were parked in front, lights blazing.

Eventually the paramedics brought Duncan out on a stretcher. They were about to load him into one of the ambulances when the young man opened his eyes and saw Berenger. The paramedics paused a moment to get the gurney ready to slide in.

“How ya doin’, kid?” Berenger asked.

“I’m… sorry,” Duncan whispered. Tears streamed down his face. “I didn’t mean… for it to go this way…”

“Save your breath, Joshua. You can tell us all about it when you feel better.”

“All I wanted… was a chance to prove myself. I could be something… in the music business… too. Patton… Patton promised to help me… after I got control of Flame Productions… if I’d let him release… if I’d let him release…”

“I know,” Berenger said. “Hush now. They’re gonna take you to the hospital and fix you up. Don’t worry about a thing. We got Black and we’re gonna get Patton, too.”

Duncan coughed, spitting blood.

“Back away, please, sir,” one of the paramedics said as they shoved the gurney into the ambulance.

Berenger stood and watched it speed away, and then he turned to McTiernan, ready to give the police detective his statement.

T
hree hours later Berenger walked into Lightning Rod Studios at the appointed time and could hear smoking jazz-fusion coming from the monitors in the reception room. He recognized the signature sound of Blister Pack, formerly known as Flame’s Heat but without Flame. Berenger told the receptionist he was there to see Dave Bristol. She shrugged and gestured toward the studio access door. Security was unbelievably lax in some recording studios.

When he walked into the control room, Al Patton looked up and was momentarily unable to conceal the expression of surprise on his face. He quickly recovered, smiled, and nodded.

“Hey, Spike, how’zit goin’?” he said.

“Hello, Al. I’m fine. How are you?” Berenger asked.

“Good.” Berenger turned toward the plate glass window that separated the control room from the studio. Dave Bristol was banging away on his Tama kit, Brick Bentley was slapping his Rickenbacker bass, and Moe Jenkins was pouncing on his array of Yamaha and Roland keyboards. Bristol noticed Berenger and their eyes met in collusion.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Berenger said to Patton, but he was lying. He had spoken to Bristol by phone two hours earlier. Berenger explained what was going on and Bristol agreed to help with the private investigator’s plan.

“Yeah, I’m working with Dave on their new stuff,” Patton said. “I’m hoping to make Blister Pack a bigger household name than Flame’s Heat ever was. What are you doing here, Spike? This is supposed to be a closed session, my friend.”

“Oh, Dave told me I could come by.”

“He did?” Patton frowned. “That’s weird. Dave usually doesn’t like
anyone
but essential personnel in the studio when he records. I mean, I know you guys are friends and all…”

Berenger shrugged. “He’s never said anything to me. I’ve always been welcome.”

Patton didn’t respond. He fiddled with the mixers and focused on the music.

“You know, Al, I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Berenger said. “We never did have that talk you promised me.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been super busy, Spike. You know how it is.”

“Your assistant says you’re on vacation.”

“I am. This is how I spend it!” He laughed unconvincingly.

The music continued for another minute and then Bristol abruptly stopped playing. He got off his stool and shouted, displaying his famous temper.

“This is crap, Al! I hate it! We sound like
shit
!”

Bentley and Jenkins stopped playing and looked at their partner as if he were crazy. “What do you mean, Dave?” Brick asked. “We were cooking!”

“Fuck this!” Bristol said. “I’m going out for a smoke.” He threw his sticks on the floor and stormed out of the studio. Bentley and Jenkins exchanged expressions of bewilderment. Jenkins addressed the control room, “What the hell was that all about, Al?”

Patton punched the intercom and spoke. “I don’t know. Sounded good to me.”

“So what do we do, take a break?” Bentley asked.

“I guess so. Let him cool off a bit.”

Patton leaned back in his chair and shook his head at Berenger. “That bastard Bristol. You never know with him.”

Berenger chuckled. Of course, Bristol’s little act had been prearranged. It was just what Berenger needed.

“So let’s go get a cup of coffee or something, Al. I can’t let you put me off any longer. Now you have no excuse,” Berenger said good-naturedly.

Patton knew he couldn’t get out of it easily. “All right. Let’s go downstairs to the diner.”

He stood and Berenger opened the control room door. They walked through the reception room and down the stairs to the street.

Just as Patton opened the front door, Berenger said, “Oh, by the way, did you hear that your big brother was arrested a few hours ago?”

Patton froze. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath when he saw what was waiting for him on the sidewalk. Lieutenant Detective McTiernan, two other plainclothes detectives, and four police officers stood with weapons drawn.

“Mister Patton,” McTiernan said. “I’d like you to turn around, place your hands against the wall, and spread your legs."

“What is this?” Patton growled. He looked at Berenger. “You fuck!”

“Sorry, Al,” Berenger said. “You gotta pay the piper.”

The two plainclothes cops “helped” Patton turn and face the wall. As he was being frisked, McTiernan began the litany.

“Mister Patton, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say…”

Berenger walked away. He had heard the Miranda warning too many times in his day. It was music you couldn’t dance to.

E
veryone but Suzanne gathered in the Rockin’ Security conference room the next morning for a debriefing. Remix had put on Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives” as a joke to start off the meeting but Berenger told him to shut it off.

“Ringo, what’s the word on Suzanne?” he asked.

“The doctor says she’s doing great,” Mel announced. “She had some solid food for breakfast this morning. That’s four days ahead of schedule.”

Bishop, Briggs, and Remix applauded.

“You mean she actually kept that hospital shit down?” Remix asked.

“Her prognosis is excellent and the doctor says she’ll make a full recovery,” Mel continued.

“That’s good news,” Berenger said. “I hope everyone finds the time to go visit her once a day. It really lifts her spirits.”

He got nods all the way around.

Briggs raised his hand and asked, “Are the Patton brothers gonna confess?”

“Ron Black—er, Paul Daniel—already has. It’s probably only a matter of time for Al Patton to break. He’s wise enough to cop a plea. A judge would be a lot harder on him if the city has to go through a lengthy trial and he’s found guilty.”

“How did you know it was Ron Black and Al Patton that was behind it?” Remix asked.

“It was a culmination of things, Remix,” Berenger explained. “I was really leaning toward the Messengers as being the culprits until I learned of the connection between Al and Flame’s driver, who of course was Al’s estranged brother. Tommy provided us with the story on Paul Daniel Patton’s background and how he was a hit-man for the mob and eventually found himself sharing a jail cell in Jamaica with Theodore Ramsey.”

“Reverend Theo,” Mel said.

“Right. Theodore Ramsey was in the Jamaican drug racket since he was a kid and could be a pretty nasty character. But while he was in prison for a number of drug charges, old Theo became religious. But he’s got a warped mind, you see, and he twisted the religion to suit his needs and his drug-soaked little brain. He formed the fundamentalist Messengers as a means to make money and control people. It’s the same kind of syndrome you see in guys like Charlie Manson. They have charisma and intelligence and can influence the weak-minded. That’s what ‘Reverend’ Theo managed to do.