The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (57 page)

“Shit,” Rodriguez whispered. “Did you know that was coming, Harrison?”

“No.”

Nance continued. “Anyway, that’s my decision. But enough of me talking. Go on. Have a good time. Charles would have wanted a big blowout like this, so I don’t want anyone walking out of here sober!”

The crowd applauded once more and Nance stepped down. He rejoined his wife at the table and took a big swig of beer.

“I guess we’re not regularly employed anymore,” Brill said.

“Fuck it,” Rodriguez answered. “Windy City Engine should’ve hung it out to dry a long time ago. We’ll do okay without it. We had a good turnout for the two of us in Detroit.”

“I guess.”

“It’s the end of an era,” Axelrod muttered.

Berenger wanted to continue pressing the men about Sylvia Favero, but he noticed Mike Case come into the room. “Excuse me fellas. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

Prescott broke away as well and went to speak with some of the other Chicago musicians. Berenger sided up to Case and asked, “What’s up?”

The plainclothes officer handed Berenger a large envelope. “Those are copies of all the case files. The Kriges, Monaco and Palmer, Nance, and Garriott.”

“Wow. Thanks, Mike.”

“Still no luck with the damned CDs, though.”

“Oh, geez. There’s got to be something important on those disks.”

“I think Doherty knows it was me who told you about them. He’s been giving me more shit than usual. He figured out we were friends from way back.”

“Sorry, man.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He looked at his watch. “I’m on third watch today and have to go on duty at three. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get to the station.”

“Okay, Mike. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks again.”

Case left the party and Berenger rejoined Prescott, who was talking to a group of musicians in their fifties. Rodriguez, Brill, and Axelrod had separated and drifted away. Berenger figured he’d catch them another time in a more conducive environment.

“These guys are the Buffalo Grease Band,” Prescott said, introducing her new friends to Berenger.

“Are you a musician?” one of them asked.

“Yeah, but that’s not my day job,” Berenger answered. “I was in a band called The Fixers, once. Ever hear of them?”

The four men shook their heads.

“Figures.” He looked at Prescott. “I’m getting another drink. You want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

Bud Callahan intercepted Berenger on the way out of the room.

“Hey, Spike.”

“Hello, Bud.”

“Listen, remember I told you I have a whole mess of newspaper clippings and articles all about the Chicagoprog scene? They go back to The Loop days. I have stuff on Sylvia Favero’s disappearance, too. You might want to take a look at it. Could be helpful, I don’t know.”

“Where are they?”

“At my house.”

“Thanks, Bud. Maybe I’ll send Suzanne over to have a look. Is tomorrow okay?”

“Can’t see why not.” He gave Berenger his card. “My number’s on there. Just call first.”

“Will do.”

Berenger stuck the card in his pocket and went to the bar. As he ordered another beer, he noticed an elderly African-American man standing next to him, reading the
Chicago Sun-Times
. The paper was spread on the bar, open to an article about Zach Garriott’s killing and the “Chicago Musician Murders.” The man, who appeared to be about seventy-five, tapped the paper and said, “This kind of thing didn’t happen when I was playin’ music.”

“You a musician?” Berenger asked.

“I was. Until the arthritis got s’bad I couldn’t play no more.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sonny Drake.”

The bartender nodded at the man and explained. “Sonny’s one of Chicago’s great blues guitarists. He’s a legend.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Berenger said. He held out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” The old man shook his hand.

“Back in my day, we didn’t have to worry about
assassins
. It was
dope
that was killin’ us off. Horse. Heroin.”

“I hear you.”

Drake jerked his head toward the party. “You wit’ that crowd?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard some of their music. Some years back. Can’t say I liked it much. They took the blues and twisted it. Squeezed the soul right out of it.”

Berenger shrugged. “It was a different take on it, I guess.”

“I s’pose. Rock ‘n’ roll ain’t what it used to be, that’s for sho’. Back in the day it was all about what came from the heart. It was simple and to the point. Gimme some of that old time rock ‘n’ roll. That’s where it’s at.”

Berenger took a long sip of his beer and sighed. “Maybe you’re right, pal. Maybe you’re right.”

T
he 1998 Chevrolet Malibu that sat in a legal space on Southport was positioned so that one could look out the back window—or in the rearview mirror—and see the front of Schuba’s, approximately two hundred yards away. The car appeared empty to anyone who might have given it a glance. Even if someone had looked in the passenger window and seen the circa-1960s floppy hat on the seat, it was doubtful that there would be much concern.

Nevertheless, the owner was inside of the car. It was possible to place long objects in the trunk by folding the back seat inward. The excess portions of the items could extend into the car, lying across the seat. Thus, the killer found it easy to lie inside the trunk with a high-powered Heckler & Koch PSG1 sniper rifle. She had stolen the idea from the notorious “Beltway” shootings that occurred in the Washington DC and Maryland area in 2002. By drilling a hole in the rear bumper large enough for the barrel to protrude, a sniper could shoot at a target without being seen.

From her vantage point, she had a perfect shot at Schuba’s front doors.

A
t five o’clock, a hundred intoxicated party guests began to file out of Schuba’s front doors. Prescott collected Berenger at the bar and helped him off the stool. He had been drinking steadily since he had struck up a conversation with Sonny Drake and was feeling, in his words, “comfortably numb.”

“Come on, you big bozo,” she said. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

“Aww, Suzanne. You ain’t mad, are you?”

“No. I had a good time in there talking to everyone. I could care less if you were out here wallowing in beer. But you better hand me the keys to the car.”

“You’re not drunk?”

“I’ve only had fruit juice, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Berenger belched.

“Nice, Spike. Nice.”

“Excuse me. Maybe it was that Polish sausage I had earlier.”

She grimaced and waved her hand in front of her face. “Ugh! I think it was. Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

Jim Axelrod stepped out of the main space just as they reached the front door. He grinned widely when he saw them. “Spike! Suzanne!” The Red Skyez guitarist was also comfortably numb.

“Hello, Jim,” Berenger said. “You’ve met my partner, Suzanne?”

“Sure have! You introduced us when you came in.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“She does TM, too!”

“TM?”

“Transcendental Meditation!”

“Oh, right. You’re into that, Jim?”

“Uh huh. Twice a day for twenty minutes keeps the doctor away.” He hiccupped.

“Spike,” Prescott said. “Out. Now.”

She opened the door for them and the two men stepped outside. Berenger lifted his arms and stretched. The sun was shining and it felt good after the rainy days.

“Hey, it’s like spring!” Berenger bellowed.

“It
is
spring, Spike,” Prescott said. “Come on, give me the car keys.”

Axelrod stood next to them and peered at the sky as the PI dug into his trouser pocket.

The guitarist pointed. “Does that cloud look like a Fender Hot-Rod Stratocaster or am I nuts?”

Berenger handed Prescott the keys, put a hand to his brow and looked up. “Damn, Jim! That
is
a Fender Hot-Rod Stratocaster!”

“The Great Fender Hot-Rod Stratocaster in the sky!”

They both laughed.

Berenger and Prescott heard the first
zip
but didn’t associate it with what sounded like a car backfiring some distance away on Southport. But Axelrod inhaled loudly and violently, as if he’d suddenly had the wind punched out of him.

When they heard the second
crack
, the Rockin’ Security team knew something was wrong. Axelrod stumbled backwards and fell into the arms of Manny Rodriguez, who was just stepping out the door.

“Jim!” Berenger shouted.

Two crimson-red stains spots began to spread rapidly across Axelrod’s chest. Rodriguez registered what was happening and, in fright, dropped the guitarist. Axelrod fell on his back in the doorway, still trying to catch his breath. He clutched his ribcage and writhed as Prescott pushed the crowd back into the club.

“Get back inside! Someone call nine one one! Now! Get back inside!”

Berenger dropped to a squat and went to draw his Kahr, but it wasn’t there. The handgun was still at Area Five. He cursed aloud and stood straight, not caring if he was in the shooter’s sights or not. He continued to look up and down both Southport and Belmont—but he didn’t see any sign of the sniper.

“Spike, get inside!” Prescott shouted. She and Rodriguez dragged Axelrod back into Schuba’s, but Berenger remained on the sidewalk. He was determined to find the perpetrator. The fog of alcohol had vanished in an instant. A massive dose of adrenaline had taken over and he was as sober as his partner.

“Spike!”

“I don’t see anyone, do you?”

“Get inside!”

He slowly backed up, but his eyes darted in every direction, searching for any movement that might betray the sniper’s position. Traffic continued to move on both streets and there were a few pedestrians, oblivious to what was happening.

“I’m gonna get you!” Berenger yelled as loud as he could. “I’m gonna find you, you hear me?”

Both Rodriguez and Harrison Brill pulled the PI inside and shut the door.

S
he waited until the ambulance and police cars arrived. As soon as there was a beehive of activity in front of the club, she left the rifle in the trunk, crawled out backwards, pushed the back seat into a locked position, and maneuvered into the driver’s seat without having to leave the vehicle. She started the car, carefully pulled out of the parking space, and drove away unnoticed.

It had worked. She had known Jim Axelrod lived in Los Angeles and today was probably her best opportunity to strike him off the list. The sniper rifle from her collection of firearms finally came in handy.

Surely it wouldn’t take long for the police to find the plastic bag attached to the parking meter. It contained one compact disk and a song for the Garriott shooting, which she was unable to leave at Reggie’s the other night, and a second CD and song for Axelrod.

Tracks six and seven. The album was nearly finished.

A
t mid-morning on Monday, Berenger walked into the Area Five headquarters and asked to see Mike Case. He’d spent another several hours there the previous night, making a statement and going over it a hundred times. The station was the last place he wanted to be that morning except that Case asked him to come in. As Berenger waited in the reception area, he could feel the other police officers and support staff looking at him and whispering.
The star witness in the Chicago Musician Shootings is a dreaded private investigator and—even worse—from New York. The guy looks like an aging pothead. Sergeant Doherty wants to kick his butt back to the East Coast but the PI is connected with the mayor. Twice now he was standing next to a victim that was shot. Could he be involved? What’s his story? Why is he here? And who’s the good-looking woman who’s always with him?