Death Sung Softly Page 5

  Indie reached out and took the ring, slipping it onto her finger, and they both laughed as it spun there. “Yeah, it's a little big,” she said, “but it kinda makes me happy that you'd want me to have it.”

  “Indie,”Sam said, “I like you, and I like you a lot. I see how beautiful you are, and I'll admit I like that about you, but that isn't why I like you; and if this turns into more, then it still won't be because you're beautiful on the outside; it'll be because of the woman I see on the inside.”

  Indie sat there for a moment, and Sam could see tears welling up in her eyes again, but he thought they were okay, this time. She got up and walked around the table, leaned down and kissed him. It wasn't the chaste little kiss she'd given him before, but a truly passionate kiss that said that the future might hold some surprises.

  She turned back to her cooking then, and Sam sat there and watched his new girlfriend make dinner.

  After they'd eaten, Sam asked Indie to see what she could dig up on Jimmy Smith, the agent. She went to the computer and told Herman what she wanted him to do, then she and Sam went into the living room and put a movie on the TV. Sam passed up his recliner and sat on one end of the couch, and a moment later, Indie sat down beside him and leaned back against him.

  “Well, hi, there,” Sam said, smiling down at her.

  “Hi,” she said. “Is this okay?”

  Sam didn't answer, but put an arm around her and pulled her closer. She snuggled in and relaxed, and they watched most of the movie before Kenzie noticed the way they were sitting. When she did, she didn't say a word, but climbed up on Sam's lap and let her head rest against her mother's on his chest. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.

  “Want me to take her on upstairs?” Indie asked quietly, but Sam shook his head.

  “She's just fine where she is,” he said.

  When the movie ended, however, Indie said it was time for Kenzie to go to bed, so she took her up and tucked her in. Sam went to the dinging room and looked at the computer, but it was just running numbers across the screen. He waited for Indie to come back, and then she punched a few keys and papers began to spit out of the printer.

  “Okay,” she said, looking over the printouts. “Jimmy Smith is fifty two years old, married with two kids in college, and get this, he's got four felonies on his record. Two for assault, one for fraud and another for tax fraud. This is not a very good guy, Sam.”

  “And he's been known to harass people who don't do things his way. The more I hear about this guy, the more suspicious I get. What else you got there?”

  “Well, he's been sued repeatedly by people who claim he didn't deliver on his promises, and he's settled out of court with most of them. Paid out a settlement of more than half a million to one band that said he promised them a recording contract that never materialized. He's got some shady deals in his history.”

  “What about the assaults? How bad were they?”

  Indie looked through the papers. “One was against a woman named Samantha Harris, who backed out of signing a contract with a minor record label, and the other was in a bar fight. He broke a beer bottle over some guy's head, then slashed him up with it. According to the victim, Johnny Darnell, Smith was mad because he rejected a musician Smith wanted to put in his band. In both cases, he got probation. The woman was back in 2006, and the bar fight was in 2010, not all that long ago.”

  “Hmm. Sounds like a guy who might lose it if he doesn't get what he wants, then, doesn't he? I think I'll go see him in the morning, see what kind of reaction I get.” He looked at Indie, and smiled. “You done good, there, kid. Now go get you some sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow.”

  She looked at him and grinned. “A big day?”

  “Well, you don't think I'm gonna get up there and sing without my number one fan, do you? We've got rehearsals to go to, and I'm not doing this without you.”

  Indie inclined her head, said, “Okay,” then stood. She started toward the stairs, but stopped, turned around and came back to him. “Sam,” she said, but then she just leaned down and kissed him. “Goodnight, boyfriend,” she said, and was gone up the stairs while he watched with a smile.

  The following morning, Sam headed off to see Jimmy Smith, who had an office in Denver. He didn't call for an appointment, but was at the office shortly after it opened at nine. The receptionist looked up as he walked in and asked, “May I help you?”

  “Sam Prichard,” he said, “private investigator. I'd like to speak with Mr. Smith.”

  The receptionist frowned. “You're not on my appointment list, Mr. Prichard, and I'm afraid Mr. Smith doesn't see anybody without one. Can I set one for you? He has an opening next Friday...”

  “No, that's okay. You just tell him I'm here, and if he doesn't have time to see me, I'll go on down to the police, and maybe he'll have time to see them.”

  She looked at him blankly for a moment, then said, “One moment.” She picked up a phone and pushed a button. “There's a Mr. Prichard here who would like to see you,” she said, “and he said if you're too busy, he can send the police, instead.”

  Jimmy Smith came out of his office a few seconds later, and Sam was surprised at the sheer size of the man. Where Bill Miller had been a very small fellow, Jimmy Smith was almost a giant; he stood at least six foot six, and was built like a football coach's dream.

  “Mr. Prichard,” he said with a scowl. “If you'd called ahead, I would have been happy to see you without the theatrics.”

  “That's okay,” Sam said with a smile. “I think theatrics can be fun, now and then. Besides, I didn't want to risk anyone else finding out I was coming, so this was easier.”

  Smith gave him a menacing look, but Sam kept smiling. “Come on in,” Smith said after a moment.

  Sam followed him into his office, and sat in the chair in front of the big desk that dominated the room. “I do appreciate you taking the time for me, Mr. Smith, and I've only got a few questions. Can you tell me about your relationship with Chris Lancaster?”

  Smith scrunched his eyes together. “Lancaster? He's a jerk, I can tell you that much. I got him a gig years ago that would have made him rich, and he blew it off like it was nothing. I spent thousands of dollars setting it up, and when it came down to it, he just decided it wasn't good enough for him. The guy who got it has made about two hundred million bucks, while Lancaster's been playing barrooms and dives ever since.”

  “So you're not fond of him, then?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Is that why you insisted Barry Wallace had to leave his band behind? To get back at Chris for that incident?”

  Smith stared at him for several seconds. “No, of course not. Barry is far too good for Chris and his band, that was all. He needed more professional musicians to back him, and I could make that happen. When he signed with Sony, he'd have had his pick of musicians; they'd have let him have anyone he wanted, no matter who it was or what the cost.”

  Sam cocked his head. “Then why couldn't he have the ones he already had, the ones you knew he really wanted? You say Sony wanted him so badly they'd have let him choose the band he wanted; why did he have to reject the one he already knew and had chosen? That sounds more like your decision than the label's.”

  Smith leaned back in his chair. “Look, Mr. Prichard, with all due respect, I know this business. Barry might have done all right with the band he had, if he'd signed and taken them along, but he could do much, much better with a truly professional band. One of the things my job entails is teaching artists about how the business really works, and Barry was one of those guys. He didn't know what was best for him, but I did.”

  Sam nodded. “Okay. Now, you say Barry told you he was going to sign, and would tell the band he was gonna leave them, right? Thing is, no one else ever heard that, and apparently he'd been adamant that he never would. The band thought he was done with you two weeks earlier, after he told you he wasn't interested if they didn't go with him.”

  “That's their st
ory, I'm sure, but then, it would be. They aren't going to admit he was leaving them, even if they had nothing to do with his disappearance, because it would hurt them as a band. If the word got out that someone like Barry thought they weren't good enough, no other serious singer would be interested in fronting them, simply because they all think they're the best. If this band wasn't good enough for one singer, they aren't good enough for anyone else, either. Simple music marketing.”

  Sam nodded again. “So the only reason you wanted him to leave the band was so you could help him do better, right?”

  “That's exactly right.”

  Sam smiled. “Okay, got it. Tell me about Samantha Harris.”

  Smith blinked, and his eyes went dark. “Mr. Prichard, I don't see what ancient history has to do with your current investigation, and I think that this interview is over.” He started to rise from his chair, but Sam went on.

  “It has to do with the fact that you've got a record of violence whenever an artist doesn't do what you want. According to Ms. Harris, you slashed her hand when she declined a contract you wanted her to sign. I was giving you the chance to tell me your side of it.”

  Smith sat back down in a huff. “Samantha Harris was a good singer, very good, but she had one flaw; she was nuts about her keyboard man, who stunk to high heaven. As a result, she refused to see past her emotions to the fact that the guy was usually stoned out of his mind on coke, and couldn't play 'Chopsticks' without missing notes. When I tried one last time to explain that fact to her, she picked up a vase and threw it at me, but it hit a wall and shattered. A piece of it bounced back and nicked her hand, and she claimed I had hit her with it. If the cops hadn't been idiots, it would have been obvious she was lying, but I ended up having to take a plea bargain for probation because the prosecutor was going to put some of her friends on the stand, people who claimed they were there and saw it, even though they weren't.”

  Sam nodded. “Uh-huh. And John Darnell? Did he break a beer bottle over his own head?”

  Smith was on his feet instantly. “John Darnell attacked me with a knife, and I defended myself! When the cops got there, they took the damned knife and it was never seen again. Once again, his friends all said I had gone after him, and I took another plea to stay out of jail! Now, we are done, Mr. Prichard, finished. Shall I show you out, or can you find your way?” The man was angry and breathing hard.

  Sam stood, but he walked toward Smith, not to the door. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Smith. I've got enough information to convince me that you are quite capable of violence if you don't get your way, and that makes me wonder if you know more about Barry's disappearance than you say you do. I'm going to keep digging until I find out what happened to him, and if that leads back to you, then I'm going to make damn sure that I have the most airtight case against you that I can hand to the prosecutor. Now, if you've got nothing to hide, then good; I'll keep looking. But if it comes back to you, then I'm going to hang you as high as I possibly can.”

  Smith's face had turned bright red, and he was trembling. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Get—out!” and pointed toward the door.

  Sam smiled, then walked out of the office. He felt sure that Smith was capable of violence, and didn't believe his stories of innocence for a second, but he wasn't sure that Smith actually had done anything to Barry Wallace. He got to his van and sat in it for a few moments while he thought it through, then called Dan Jacobs.

  “Danny, this is a little outside your office, but can you check for any John Doe corpses around the area in the past ten days? Yeah, thanks.” He sat and listened to the hold music for a minute.

  When Dan came back, he said, “There's two bodies that turned up with no ID, and the coroner is trying to identify them now. One is old, probably been dead six months, but the other is a little fresher and missing some important pieces, like head and hands. White male, thirty-ish, about five nine when he had his head. They're saying he's been dead about ten days.”

  Sam sighed. “Where'd he turn up?”

  “Out on route thirty, behind Buckley Air Force Base. Found in a ditch by a jailhouse road cleanup crew two days ago.”

  “That may be my guy. I'll get with the coroner and see what I can find out. Thanks.”

  Sam called the coroner's office and spoke with a clerk there, who suggested he come on down and talk to the ME on the case. He started the van and headed downtown, arriving about twenty minutes later.

  The ME, a woman named Bertha Ochoa, listened to Sam and asked only one question. “Do you know if Mr. Wallace had had any surgeries in the past year? This JD has apparently had a bout with a testicular problem, because he's had one of them removed within the last twelve months.”

  Sam's eyes went wide. “Give me five minutes and I can tell you,” he said, then took out his phone. He called Chris Lancaster.

  “Chris, it's Sam, and I got an odd question for you. Did Barry have both his balls?”

  Chris hesitated, but then said, “No. It was supposed to be a big secret, but he got a cancer down there about nine moths ago, and he went to a clinic in Arizona to have it treated. When he got there, they said the only way to stop it was to take one out, so they did.” He sighed. “I'm guessing the reason you're asking is cause things aren't looking good?”

  “I'm afraid Barry's dead, Chris. I'll tell you guys more this afternoon.” He hung up and looked at Bertha Ochoa. “Looks like we have a winner. Testicular cancer, one removed.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “Sorry,” she said, as Sam rose to leave.

  5

  Sam, Indie and Kenzie drove up to Stan's place at two on the dot, after a stop at Taco Bell for lunch. Chris had called to say that the band all felt they should go ahead with rehearsals, that Barry wouldn't want them to stop, so they were still on. Sam wasn't sure how well it would go, but he agreed to come.

  There were chairs lined up just inside the garage, and they all sat down. Sam started by explaining about his call to Dan, and then described his meeting with the ME, including the way the body had been found and the condition it was in.

  “When Chris confirmed that Barry'd had a testicle removed, that clinched it pretty well,” he said. “I'm afraid we're now looking at a murder case. If you want me to stay on it, I will, but you only hired me to find out where he was, and I did. Your call.”

  “You can't quit,” Janice said, tears flowing steadily. “You can't. You gotta find out who did this to him.”

  Sam looked at Chris, who seemed to be the band's manager. Chris looked at each of the others in turn, then looked back at Sam. “I think we all need to know,” he said. “We'd like to keep you on it for now, if that's okay. We can afford a few more days, and maybe you'll figure it out.”

  Sam nodded. “Okay, then. I'm working some leads, and I'll give it my best shot.”

  “Let's make some music,” Stan said. “Barry wouldn't want us to quit over this. Let's make some music.”

  The rest agreed, even Janice, who couldn't stop crying. The band all took their positions and Chris gave Sam some printed out the lyrics to their songs. They chose four songs to work on that day, and then they played them through with Chris singing, so Sam could learn how they went. On the second run-through, Sam stepped up to the mike and sang along with Chris, and on the third he sang alone. By the time five o'clock came around, Sam knew them fairly well, and someone ordered pizza so they could break to eat and then go through them a few more times.

  Indie and Kenzie were having a blast. The more Sam sang, the more animated Kenzie became, until finally she was standing in front of him,dancing her little heart out to the beat of the music. Indie laughed happily, and soon she was dancing, as well, holding hands with Kenzie and both of the shaking everything they had. While there were moments of sadness, all of them were enjoying themselves to some degree, and when they finally broke it off at nine, they were all exhausted.

  “Same time tomorrow,” Chris said as Sam and Indie took a sleeping Kenzie to the van and b
uckled her into her car seat. Sam smiled and waved, and they headed for home.

  “So, how bad was I?” Sam asked.

  “You were terrific,” Indie said. “I'm blown away, Sam, you're really every bit as good as the guys say you are. I love hearing you sing!”

  Sam turned a little pink. “I kinda like singing for you,” he said. “I like seeing you smiling at me while I sing, I mean, and Kenzie just tickles me!”

  Indie leaned her head back and looked at him, smiling. “So, when am I gonna get to hear more of your songs?”

  Sam grinned. “We'll have to see what we can do about that,” he said. “Did I ever tell you I cut a few records, years ago? They weren't rock—I was actually in a country music band for a while, and we went into a studio and made an album. I've still got some do the tracks, somewhere.”

  Indie's eyes were wide open. “And you're gonna find them for me, aren't you?” she asked. “I like country music, too, I'd love to hear them!”

  Sam grinned. “I'll see what I can do about that, but not tonight. I think we need to get our little one into bed, and then we can take it easy a bit before we give it up for the night.”

  Indie was staring at him, and Sam got nervous. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head slowly. “You don't even know what you said, do you? Sam, you just called Kenzie 'our little one,' and that's the first time I've ever heard anyone say those words...” Suddenly she had tears on her cheeks. “That was just so sweet,” she whispered.

  Sam shrugged. “Well—I guess that's just how I think of her. I mean, I know I'm not her father, but when we're together, I just think of all three of us as being part of something, so that makes her 'ours' in that sense, right? I'm not making any sense, am I?”

  She laughed and nodded. “Yes, you are,” she said, “you're making perfect sense.” She sat and chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “If I tell you something, you promise not to freak out on me?”