The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (60 page)

“Jesus, Spike. We have a special on building pyramids. I think we can get that done faster.”

“And I need it by Thursday.”

Berenger knew that Briggs was wincing. “Who are they?”

“The first is Sylvia Favero. We know a little about her, right? We need to know everything. Who are her parents? Where are they? We have some information that her mother may have lived in Italy—or maybe still does. Find out. Also, what kinds of attempts did law enforcement make in trying to find her when she went missing? Where did she go in nineteen-sixty-eight when she was gone for a few months? And what conclusions did the police make regarding her disappearance?”

“Okay.”

“The next two are Joe Nance and Stuart Clayton.”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so. They’re hiding something. They
all
are, but I have a feeling that whatever is happening is because of something involving these three people.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks. Talk to you soon.” He hung up and then concentrated on finishing his snack.

“What do you want to do the rest of the day?” Prescott asked him.

“I’d like to see Clayton again. I’d like to see Nance and the other guys again. I’d like to hear those damned CDs that Doherty’s hogging like gold. And I’d like—”

Berenger’s jaw dropped as he stared toward the lounge entrance. Prescott followed his gaze and was just as surprised.

“Oh my God… Did you know she was going to be here?” she asked.

Berenger simply shook his head.

His ex-wife Linda had just walked into the Coq d’Or with a tall, bald man. The mustache gave his identity away as her fiancé, Richard Noyce. The look of surprise on her face when she saw Berenger was just as individualistic as his own.

“I don’t believe this,” Berenger whispered.

“That’s the guy she’s marrying?”

“Uh huh.”

“He looks like Yul Brynner.”

“I know. I keep wanting to ask him to ‘let my people go.’ Oh, hell, they’re coming this way.”

Linda and her fiancé approached the table. Berenger immediately put on his best smiling face and stood.

“Linda! Well, I’ll be. What are you doing in Chicago?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Linda said, smiling but obviously not pleased. “Hello, Suzanne.”

“Hi, Linda. How are you?”

“Fine.”

Both Berenger and Linda seemed at a loss as to what to do next. Finally, Berenger blurted, “Suzanne, this is Mister Cl...”

He had almost said “Clean” but stopped himself in time. The man finished the introduction for him. “Noyce. Richard.” They shook hands.

Linda put a hand to her face and turned red. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Richard, this is Spike—you’ve met him before. Suzanne Prescott.”

Berenger stood there nodding his head like a fool and then Prescott said, “Why don’t you two sit down and have a drink with us?”

The PI concurred through his teeth while still grinning—but he wanted to strangle his partner.

Linda looked at Noyce inquisitively, and he said, “Sure. We have time.”

It was a booth—Prescott had been sitting across from Berenger, so Noyce sat next to her. Linda was forced to sit in the vacant space beside her ex-husband. Berenger reclaimed his spot, the smile frozen onto his face.

“So what are you doing in Chicago, Spike?” Linda asked.

“I told you I was coming here. We have a case, remember?”

“You said you were going out of town, but you didn’t say it was Chicago.”

“I didn’t?”

“No. Otherwise I would have said, ‘Gee, what a coincidence, Richard and I are going to Chicago, too.’”

“I do remember you saying you guys were going to a conference
somewhere
. You didn’t say Chicago?”

“I guess not,” Linda said, shrugging.

Noyce spoke up. “I’m attending the annual AIA national convention. It’s in Chicago this year.”

“AIA?” Berenger asked.

“American Institute of Architects.”

“Oh, right. You’re an architect. Suzanne, Richard’s an architect.”

“I think I got that, thanks,” Prescott said.

A waitress appeared and took their order. Linda and Noyce each ordered a glass of white wine. Prescott ordered fruit juice. Berenger ordered a double vodka martini.

So much for laying off the alcohol for a couple of days!
he thought. As soon as it arrived, he consumed several sips very quickly.

“Chicago’s nice this time of year,” Linda said.

“It’s been raining a lot since we’ve been here,” Prescott remarked. “The sun just came out in the last couple of days.”

“Yeah, we’ve been here since Friday,” Noyce said.

“Where are y’all staying?” Berenger asked. That was one of the remaining traits from his Texan upbringing. He had managed to get rid of a Texas accent, but he still couldn’t help saying the word “y’all.”

“Here, in the Drake,” Linda answered.

“Here? The Drake Hotel?”

“That’s right.”

“We’re in the Drake Hotel, too.”

“Really?”

“You’ve been here since Friday?”

“Yes.”

“And we haven’t seen you before now?”

Prescott snickered. “It’s a big hotel, Spike.”

Berenger took a big sip of his martini.

“I love it,” Noyce said. “The design is fabulous. Chicago has some of the best architecture in any American city. Have you done the architectural boat tour?”

Berenger shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. There’s an architectural boat tour?”

“Yes, sir. It goes along the Chicago River and they point out all the interesting landmarks.”

“Sounds…great!”

“I’ve done it, Spike,” Prescott said. “It really is cool.”

“When did you do it?”

“I don’t know. Years ago.”

“So,” Noyce said, “I understand you’re in the rock ‘n’ roll business?”

“That’s right.”

“Linda’s told me a little about it. You’re not a musician, right?”

“Well, I
am
a musician. Just not a working one.”

“Oh, that’s right. You run a security operation. You’re one of those guys that frisks kids when they go to a concert?”

Berenger wasn’t sure if the guy was insulting him or just stupid. “No, I don’t do that
myself
, but sometimes I hire
firms
that employ guys that do that.”

“Spike’s a private investigator in the music business,” Linda explained. “I’ve told you that.”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” Noyce said. “That sounds pretty interesting. Do you get to meet a lot of famous rock stars?”

Berenger shrugged. “Sometimes.” He had a sip of martini.

“Who have you met?”

Berenger didn’t know where to begin. “Oh, I don’t know. Just about everyone, I guess.”

“Bruce Springsteen?”

“Sure.”

“Wow, you’ve met The Boss? That’s incredible! I love Springsteen. How about Billy Joel?”

“Billy Joel?”

“Yeah, have you met him?”

Berenger slapped the table. “Damn. You got me there. I haven’t met Billy Joel. The score is one to one. Name someone else.”

Noyce was getting into it. “Paul McCartney?”

“Yes.”

“Eddie Vedder?”

“Yes.”

“Miles Davis?”
Berenger frowned. “He’s not a rock star. He’s a jazz star.” As he finished the martini, both Linda and Prescott eyed each other—they both knew what could happen if he drank too much too quickly.

“So? He’s in the music business.”

“Who?”

“Miles Davis.”

“He
was
in the music business. But, no, I never had a chance to meet him.”

“Then the score is three to two.”

“Are you guys
nuts
?” Linda spouted.

Noyce laughed. “I’m just having fun. What kind of music do you like, Spike?”

“Please, don’t get him started,” Linda groaned.

“You want to talk music?” Berenger asked.

“Sure. Everyone likes music, don’t they?” Noyce nodded at the two women for approval.

“Richard, really, I—” Linda said with a little more apprehensiveness.

“Let’s see,” Berenger began, “I like early rock ‘n’ roll, I like the Beatles, I like rhythm ‘n’ blues, I like jazz, I like jazz-fusion, I like film music, I like TV music, I like hard rock, punk rock, heavy metal, psychedelia, New Wave, Alternative, I like
novelty
music, pop rock, soft rock, folk rock, country rock, space rock, jam bands, glam and glitter rock, Krautrock, Zeuhl, world music, reggae, new age, rap, hip hop, a lot of classical stuff, experimental and avant-garde—”

“Spike, Jesus!” Prescott snapped.

“—but mostly I’m into prog.” he finished, and then looked around for the waitress. “How about another round?”

Prescott cleared her throat. “Uhm, Spike, you probably shouldn’t have another. We have some work to do—”

Berenger caught the waitress’ attention and summoned her over.

“What’s prog?” Noyce asked.

“Richard, no!” Linda shuddered.

Berenger asked for another martini and then turned back to Noyce. “Progressive rock. You know, the stuff that draws from not only rock ‘n’ roll, but from classical music. It’s more complex and the musicianship is of virtuoso level. I’m sure you’d know it when you hear it.”

“Name some bands I’d know.”

“Well, the biggest prog bands were Pink Floyd, Yes, Genesis—the early stuff with Gabriel, not what they did later—a few years in the career of Jethro Tull, Emerson Lake & Palmer, the Moody Blues, King Crimson, some Frank Zappa. Hell, The Who did a rock opera and that’s prog—”

“Oh, sure, I know what you mean now. I like that stuff okay.”

“But that’s just the most well-known… the true believers like more esoteric stuff, you know, like Gentle Giant, Gong, Soft Machine, Marillion, Porcupine Tree—”

“I haven’t heard of those,” Noyce admitted.

“Hatfield and the North?”

“No.”

“Ozric Tentacles?”
“Nope.”

“Samla Mammas Manna?”

“
What?
”

“Spike! Enough!” Linda said. “Come on, Richard, finish your drink and let’s go, otherwise we won’t have a lot of time in Old Town.”

Noyce nodded. “We’re going to Old Town this afternoon.”

“I thought you were at an architects’ conference.”

“That was over the weekend. Linda and I had planned to stay a few days in Chicago and see some sights.”

Before Berenger could react to that, his cell phone rang.

“Excuse me.” He whipped it out and answered the call. “Spike Berenger.”

“Mister Berenger?”

It was a woman’s voice. Low in pitch. Friendly. Almost sensual.

“Yes?”

“Is it a good time to talk?”

“Who is this?”

There was a pause before the woman answered, “My name is Sylvia Favero.”

B
erenger put his hand over the mouthpiece and announced to the group, “I have to take this call.” He then quickly stood, moved out of the booth, and walked toward the front of the bar, where he couldn’t be heard.