The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (59 page)

“The guy from Italy was Sandro Ponti?”

“That’s right. You’re well informed.”

“Spike knows him. What happened to the band?”

“Success was slow and pretty much non-existent. Sandro went back to Italy in seventy-five. So Rick and I formed another band and we called it South Side. By then Red Skyez was in Los Angeles and doing fairly well—but there were personnel changes going on. Dave Monaco came back to Chicago and joined us. We enlisted a young guitarist named Paul Trinidad and the new band was complete.”

“And then South Side became North Side?”

“Yeah, when Dave and Paul left, we replaced them with Zach Garriott on guitar and Sharon took up the bass. That’s when things really started happening for us.”

Prescott touched some photos in the scrapbook. “Okay. Let’s go back to The Loop for a minute. When were these pictures taken?”

Callahan leaned over her shoulder. The photos depicted a young band on stage and in a dressing room.

“Oh, yeah. That’s from nineteen-sixty-nine. The Loop was playing at the old Kinetic Playground, which isn’t there anymore. I was at that show. I took the pictures.”

Prescott pointed to a girl hanging on to Stuart Clayton in the dressing room. “Is this…?”

“Yeah. That’s Sylvia.”

Other photos from the same set also showed the young woman clinging to the arm of Joe Nance.

“She seems to be pretty friendly.”

“That she was.”

“Was there any jealousy going on within the band?”

“Over Sylvia?”

“Yeah.”

“If there was, it was only between Stuart and Joe. Charles, Harrison, and Manny weren’t that interested, although I’m sure they had their way with her a few times. And later on, Jim and Dave probably had their turns, too—but there wasn’t any rivalry that I know of.”

A couple of photographs featured Sylvia on stage, singing into a microphone. She was wearing the trademark floppy hippie hat and sunglasses, along with flower child clothing.

“Her outfit is very ‘summer of love,’” Prescott remarked. “Isn’t sixty-nine a little late for that?”

“Yeah, Sylvia always dressed that way, before
and
after it was fashionable. She was in tune with what was going on in England and Europe long before that stuff came over here. She was kind of locked into that peace and love spirit, if you know what I mean. Hey, remember I mentioned that I think I have a recording from that show? I found it.”

“Really?”

“Hold on, let me go get it.”

Callahan left the room and Prescott continued to study the scrapbook. Eventually she found a small news item from August 1970, reporting a “woman missing.” The article stated that Sylvia Favero, age twenty-two, was reported missing and hadn’t been seen in two months. She was described as an aspiring musician and poet. Her only known family was an American mother in Italy.

“Italy,” Prescott murmured.

A second clipping, dated two weeks later, featured a poor photo of the woman. The detective in charge of the case was quoted as saying, “Young people run away every day without telling anyone. Until we have evidence of anything otherwise, that’s how we’re treating this. But we’re not discounting theories that Miss Favero ran into foul play.”

A few minutes later, Callahan returned with a portable reel-to-reel tape recorder and a tape. “Found it. Let me plug it in.”

The recording was primitive. The microphone was obviously in the audience, so it picked up more chatter and noise than it did of the music. Nevertheless, Prescott could get a sense of The Loop’s performance and repertoire. It was very similar to what she and Berenger had heard at Clayton’s house, only not as well-recorded.

“Hold on a sec,” Callahan said. He fast-forwarded the tape a bit and then switched it back on. The setting was different. People were talking and laughing.

“This was recorded in their dressing room during the intermission,” Callahan said. “I brought the recorder back there with me and got all this on tape.”

The band members were recounting how the first set had gone, describing who was in the audience, and what they were going to do after the show. Prescott recognized the voices of Joe Nance, Stuart Clayton, and Manny Rodriguez. She assumed the other ones belonged to Harrison Brill and Charles Nance. Women also occasionally laughed or said something.

“Who are they?” Prescott asked.

“One of them is Sylvia. I couldn’t tell you who the other two are. Girlfriends at the time, I suppose. Or other groupies. I don’t know.”

Prescott listened carefully.

Joe: “…for another short set. You up for it?”

Sylvia: “Sure.”

Stuart: “Want me to play piano?”

Sylvia: “… not necessary… the fun of it!” (Laughs.)

Charles: “You can say that again!” (More laughs.)

Sylvia: “… tonight after the show!”

Several Men: “Woo hoo! All right!”

Stuart: “No way, guys! She’s all mine!”

Joe: “Screw you, man. She knows who’s got …” (Laughter).

Stuart: “Hey, Bud, get that out of here! Go on…”

The recording switched again. This time Sylvia was performing alone with a guitar. She had a strong, soprano voice that carried the melodies in a wistful, ethereal style. The audience was talking more than before, not paying much attention.

“I remember she opened up both sets, which was unusual,” Callahan said.

“She sounds like Judy Collins,” Prescott noted. “Or maybe Joni Mitchell, a little. And this was sixty-nine?”

“Yeah. I thought she was pretty talented. Unfortunately the audience didn’t give her a fair shake.”

“Is this her material?”

“She always performed her own material.”

“It’s pretty good. Do you have more of her?”

“Nope. I’m pretty sure that was the only time she opened for them. There
may
have been another time later, like early nineteen-seventy, but I wasn’t there.”

Prescott went back to the scrapbook. There were no more cuttings about Sylvia after the last one she’d seen.

“So that’s it?” she asked. “No more news on Sylvia? The police just wrote it off?”

“I guess so. There was never any closure to the case. We all just went on with our lives and, well, forgot about it, I’m sorry to say. Like I told you before, I never really knew her. The only guys who really knew her well were in The Loop.”

“Zach Garriott didn’t know her well. The Kriges probably didn’t know her well.”

“But they were in a band that sprung from The Loop. They were in later incarnations of Red Skyez.”

“Yeah, that seems to be the killer’s thing. She’s targeting anyone who was connected to The Loop. You never played with them?”

“No, I was just a friend. I never played with them, or Red Skyez, or Windy City Engine.”

“Then maybe you’re lucky.”

“Maybe I am.”

Prescott’s cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse, noted that it was her partner, and answered it. “Hey, Spike. What’s up?” She listened for a few seconds and then her face dropped. “Oh, no. Yeah. Okay. I’ll meet you at the hotel. I’m just about finished here. Yeah. Bye.”

She hung up and sighed.

“What is it?” Callahan asked. Sharon entered from the kitchen to join him.

“Jim Axelrod just died. The killer can now claim seven victims.”

P
rescott met Berenger in the Coq d’Or Lounge at the Drake Hotel. It was an elegant, dark-wood martini bar with comfortable red leather chairs where guests could order drinks, refreshments, and breakfast all day long. The Drake was a classic establishment that opened during the height of Prohibition and the era of the legendary Chicago gangsters. Berenger was impressed that Frank “the Enforcer” Nitti kept an office in the hotel in the thirties and forties. Sitting in the Coq d’Or made him feel as if he’d stepped through a time tunnel and was holding court with Al Capone and his cronies—even though the only other people in the bar were a few Japanese businessmen, a group of elderly women, and Prescott.

He had Case’s files with him and was going through them when his partner joined him. They both ordered bar snacks and Virgin Mary’s. The previous day’s binge hadn’t sat well with Berenger, so he had vowed to lay off the alcohol for the next day or two.

“There’s nothing in these files we don’t already know,” he said. “Nothing that gives us any clue as to the identity of our shooter. I tell you, Suzanne, I’m not sure what to do next.”

“Should we go home?”

Berenger looked at her. She had a point. They were no longer being paid for the job. Nance and the rest of the band had not come back with an offer to keep them on. It didn’t appear that the City of Chicago wanted them around either. And yet Berenger felt an obligation to stay and figure the thing out.

“I’ll give Rudy a call. But in a minute. Tell me what you learned at Bud’s.”

Prescott quickly ran through what she had discovered, including the fact that Sylvia Favero’s mother lived in Italy. She told him about the concert tape and hearing Sylvia’s speaking voice and songwriting talent.

Berenger opened his cell and dialed New York.

Melanie Starkey’s pleasantly sexy New Jersey voice answered the ring. “Rockin’ Security.”

“Ringo, it’s Spike.”

“Hi, Spike. Howzit goin’?”

“Okay. Let me talk to Rudy, will you?”

“Hold on.”

After a few seconds, Bishop answered. “Hey, Spike.”

“Rudy, we need to talk.”

“Okay.”

“Suzanne and I are sitting here wondering what we should do about this case. As you know, Zach is not with us anymore and no one is paying the bill.”

“Yeah, and that concerns me. How close are you to solving the damned thing?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m not very close at all. In fact, I’m kind of stumped.”

“Then maybe we should get out now, Spike. The firm does pretty well, but it doesn’t pay for vacations in Chicago.”

“I know. It’s just that… I just need some more time and I think maybe something’s going to break. I feel it.”

Bishop sighed heavily. “I appreciate your sixth sense about these things, Spike, that’s why you’re good at what you do. But I don’t know. We have some other cases pending. I could use you back in New York.”

“I know. Listen… this has become a little personal for me. After all, I was shot at. Twice! The assassin’s bullets could have missed their targets and hit me instead.”

“But they didn’t. She’s obviously a pretty good shot.”

“Whatever. Okay, how about this? Friday night there’s a benefit concert for Zach and some of the others. Windy City Engine is playing. How about I stick around through Friday? If I haven’t picked up something solid to go on by then, we’ll come home this weekend.”

“I don’t know…”

“That’s only four days. We’ll fly back on Saturday morning.”

“Spike, you’re the other half of this organization. You can do what you want. But if you’re looking for my blessing, all right. Go ahead. But how about you let me know by Thursday how the progress is going.”

“Will do. Now transfer me to Tommy.”

“Okay. See you.”

Another few seconds of dead air, and then—

“Briggs.”

“Tommy, how are things?”

“Spike! Okay.”

“Remix staying out of trouble?”

“No. Are you kidding?”

“Well, it’s good to know nothing changes when I’m gone. Listen, I need you to use all of your connections to do extensive background checks on some people. By that, I mean I want to know their movements—in and out of the country—and at home. For the last thirty years.”