Killer Riff (13 page)

To buy myself time to answer that question, I had to make sure Risa didn’t get swept up in dreams of major acquisitions. “I honestly don’t know anything about the tapes, but if the subject comes up while I’m working the story, I’ll keep you informed.”

“Do you know how much money Courtney Love made last year, just for selling part of the publishing rights to Kurt’s songs? Twenty-five million dollars. I’m not saying Claire Crowley could get all that for the tapes, but it’s a valid point of reference,” Risa said, squeezing my hand again.

“You think Claire has the tapes? If they exist?”

Risa snatched back her hand and mockingly bit at the back of her fist. “Stop teasing me. Who has them?”

“I don’t know, since—”

She nodded, finishing my sentence for me in exasperation. “Since you don’t know that they exist.” She shook her head. “People were never sure the Holy Grail existed, either, but they did pretty extraordinary things to try and find it.”

She was agreeing it would be motive enough for murder for some. I didn’t dare ask any more questions for fear of betraying how much I already knew, so I smiled broadly and asked, “So how is Randy Dunn these days?”

Risa laughed. “Almost as sly as you are.” She threw up her hands in surrender. “Okay, moving on. You heard about the office uprising at
Kewl
, didn’t you?”

We had a terrific lunch, stealing from each other’s plates and dishing back and forth about mutual friends and enemies, while the various people who might feel entitled to the tapes danced into a lineup in the back of my mind. I went back to the office full of gossip and olives, but no closer to a theory.

By four o’clock, Cassady was calling with the results of a question I had asked her: A few discreet lawyer-to-lawyer calls had determined that Russell’s estate hadn’t been administered yet. “So, whoever killed Russell still has to deal with the fact that the tapes might wind up with someone other than Olivia,” I said after thanking her profusely.

“Are you listening to yourself?” she asked tartly.

“Do I sound like I’m coming down with something?” I asked, sniffing reflexively

“Yeah, a bad case of the ‘so it was murder’ flu.”

She was right. I couldn’t pinpoint the moment, but I’d moved from debating whether Russell had been killed to who might have done the killing. “My instincts are telling me …, “I attempted.

“Those are the same instincts that told you you’d look good with your hair dyed purple,” she countered. “Honey, I’m not trying to slow you down, I’m just trying to keep you honest. I’ll leave it to Tricia to try and slow you down. Although I could recommend an excellent flu remedy.”

“I can barely bring myself to ask.”

“Take one hunky detective and don’t call anyone until morning.”

“I’m seeing him for dinner.”

“Good, then you’re not as far gone as I thought you might be. Don’t eat too fast.”

So as I sank into the leather couch in the Elliott apartment that evening, I was still trying to figure out whether the killer knew who would take possession of the tapes after the reading of the will. Was the killer counting on them going to Olivia and being able to talk her into parting with them or at least releasing them? Or would the will put them in other hands? Or was the killer going to have to take matters into her or his own hands again?

They were thorny enough questions, but compounding their difficulty was Jordan’s presence next to me. The give of the couch made me feel as if I were tilting toward him whether I wanted to or not. Fixing me with a penetrating gaze, he smiled slowly. “Feel history approaching?”

I nodded. “It is momentous.”

“Damn straight.” He stood up as Olivia walked into the room with an ornate wooden box, very medieval looking with brass fittings and detailed carvings on the sides. He seemed to be standing out of respect for what was in the box more than out of respect for Olivia. I started to get up, but the depths to which the sofa had settled made it awkward, and I decided to just stay put for a little longer.

Jordan reached for the box, but Olivia pulled it back, more as a reflex than a statement. “Give me a second,” she protested, placing the box on the brass end table and trying to ignore Jordan hovering over her as though he could barely contain himself.

Which he couldn’t. The moment she put down the box, he was struggling with the latch to open it. And her whimper of frustration was barely voiced before he exhaled in a loud bark of anger. “What the hell, Ollie?”

And I knew from the look on their faces that the box was empty.

7

In a science class
somewhere along the line, somewhere along the line, I learned that music is stored in a specific, more easily accessed part of the brain than other information (such as which science class I learned it in), which is why they teach children the alphabet and state capitals by putting them in a song. It’s probably also the reason a song gets stuck in your head and won’t go away for hours at a time. Or that four bars of a song heard in a commercial as you flip past a radio station or as you walk by someone humming can transport you back to a specific moment in time with heart-stopping speed and accuracy. The Pretenders, “2,000 Miles“: kissing Mike Tomlinson on his grandmother’s front porch on New Year’s Eve as it started to snow. Ella Fitzgerald, “Just One of Those Things“: learning to fox-trot by standing on my dad’s feet as he did the steps. Talking Heads, “Life During Wartime“: driving to Cape Cod with Tricia and Cassady on a perfect summer evening, with the top down.

As we stood staring at the empty box, all I could hear was Pink Floyd’s “Money,” the rhythm of the guitar and bass lines mixing with the clanging cash register and the cascading coins. And the cascading coins were pouring through Olivia’s and Jordan’s hands then disappearing into thin air.

“You should call the police,” I said quietly, feeling a little uncomfortable about being pragmatic at a moment when Olivia looked as if she were about to faint and Jordan as though he were going to throw up.

“We can’t,” Olivia said with a long exhale.

“Why not?”

“Because then people would know about the tapes.”

“People already know. They’ve been asking me about them, for crying out loud.” I pointed to the box. “Besides, you have to know about something to take it.”

Olivia shook her head forcefully. “No. Most people hope they exist, but don’t know. We need to keep this quiet, or people will be tearing up the city looking for them, it’ll be insane.”

I looked to Jordan to see if he was going to back me up or at least grab Olivia and shake her, but he was still staring at the empty box with a stunned expression. “But you want people looking for them, don’t you?” I pressed. “If these tapes are everything everyone believes them to be, they could be the reason your father’s dead, Olivia.”

She turned to me as sharply as if I had grabbed her. “‘Everyone?’ This is family business.”

“A friend of mine said the tapes could be worth seven figures. People have killed for a lot less.”

Jordan’s head snapped up. “Who’ve you been talking to about the tapes?”

“No one,” I evaded. “People bring them up on their own.”

“Who’ve you been talking to, Ollie?” Jordan pursued.

“You know better than that.” Olivia was fighting tears, but she managed to hold his gaze and convince him—us—of her sincerity.

“Olivia, have you seen the tapes since your father died?” I asked, trying to sound helpful and not investigative.

“Yes. I listened to them after his funeral, and then I locked them back up, and …” Olivia slammed the lid on the box as though it would contain her emotions, but tears still leaked from the corners of her eyes.

Jordan drummed his fingers on the table in a furious tattoo, then spun and headed out of the room. Olivia didn’t move, but I hurried after him. “What are you going to do?”

“I can count on one hand,” he said, holding up his hand to illustrate, “the number of people who knew those tapes were real. Which makes it pretty damn clear who took them.” He curled his hand into a fist and strode to the front door.

Olivia called his name in anguish and raced past me. As she and I rushed into the hallway behind Jordan, I realized he was shooting straight past the elevator. To Claire’s door.

It all raced through my mind in a whirling three seconds. Micah leaves the tapes to Russell and not to Claire; Claire wants them, but Russell says no; they fight, Claire’s pushed to the brink, and she kills Russell to have the tapes. It would make sense. Perfect sense. If it had happened six or seven years ago, as the dust from Micah’s death settled. But why now?

Jordan didn’t share my hesitation, pounding on the door with his fist and hollering for Claire as Olivia ran up to him, yelling his name. Good thing they were the only two families on the floor or someone would be calling the police in another bellow or two.

“Jordan, wait. Think this through,” I urged as I caught up with them.

But I didn’t get to say anything else, because the front door swung open and Claire stepped out. Jordan opened his mouth to say something angry and ugly, I could tell by the torque of his lips, but before he could even get out the first sound, Claire cracked him across the face with startling force. It was so sudden and so loud that Olivia and I flinched; Claire got three for the price of one.

Jordan’s shoulder lifted a few centimeters, and I started to lunge forward to keep him from hitting her back, but his shoulder rolled back down and he rocked back on his heels, looking at her more in disbelief than in pain.

“You pathetic infant,” she spat. “How dare you stomp over the graves of the men who raised you just to get your self-centered face into the news?”

I put my hand on Jordan’s back in a gesture meant to placate them both. “I don’t think this is a conversation either one of you should have right now,” I said, trying to catch Olivia’s eye and draw her into my diplomatic effort.

“And who the hell do you think you are?” was Claire’s appreciative reply.

“Mrs. Crowley,” I attempted, “I’m only trying to help.”

“Your career?”

“Mother, stop.” Adam walked up behind Claire, a wineglass in his hand. He was the only one in the group who didn’t look ready to strangle someone, and I was including myself in that number.

“Adam, stay out of this,” she warned.

“Like that’s ever been an option in this family.” He acknowledged my outsider status with a quick flash of an apologetic smile.

“Somebody nailed your feet to the floor, bro?” Jordan asked. “Last I heard, you were free to go.”

“And miss all this fun?” Adam shrugged grandly, but frost was creeping into his voice.

“I’m trying to understand this, Jordan,” Claire continued. “Did God pack you so full of talent that there was no room left for manners and good sense? Or have you just chosen to live without them?”

“This isn’t about me,” Jordan said.

“Wow. Note the date and time.” Adam looked at his watch in mock surprise. “This won’t happen again soon.”

“I happen to believe what I told the ‘razzi rats this morning, but right now, you need to listen to Olivia,” Jordan insisted.

Claire took a deep breath, steeling herself, and turned to Olivia with the practiced smile of a teacher who isn’t going to answer the question because she knows it’s going to be ridiculous. “What is it, Olivia?”

“I want back everything you’ve taken from me,” Olivia said quietly but steadily.

Claire seemed surprised. “But everything you have is because of me.”

Adam took his mother’s arm. “If you’re going to flay each other, at least don’t do it in the hallway.” He eased her out of the doorway and gestured for the three of us to follow them into the apartment.

The Elliott apartment was a cool, muted space, heavy on the earth tones and leather upholstery. In contrast, the Crowley apartment was shockingly bright and airy, with more archways than doorways and bright, vibrant art pulsating on the walls. Adam led our ragtag procession through the tiled entryway, which seemed one central fountain away from a Roman piazza, and into a living room designed to make you gasp at the view of the river. The sofas were tweedy, long and low, emphasizing the spaciousness of the room and facing you toward the windows.

Adam gestured for people to take seats. Olivia obediently slid onto a couch, but Jordan marched to the window, and I stood uneasily as close to the archway as I could. Whatever was about to happen, I wanted to be there to take the whole thing in, but the sense that I was intruding on family business made me restless.

Claire sat in one of the few chairs in the room, an armchair that faced the room, back to the view. Maybe the room wasn’t arranged to honor the river as much as the person who sat in that chair. She crossed her legs, folded her hands over her knee, and sat with her back so straight that it made mine hurt. She was poised for action of some kind, but whether it was to be able to slap Jordan again or bolt from the room, I couldn’t be sure.

“So …, “Adam began, sliding onto the sofa near where I stood, his demeanor as relaxed as his mother’s was stiff. “Who wants to dive in and try to explain just what the hell is going on?”

“Your mother robbed me,” Olivia said in the same steady voice, but her eyes were on Adam now, not Claire.

Claire continued to look at Olivia steadily, her bottom lip scooping out in an exaggerated expression of sorrow. Her hands parted briefly as she recrossed her legs, then cinched up again around her left knee. “Are you on something?”

Jordan snorted. “Why is that always your question?”

“Because it’s usually the answer,” Claire said with a crisp sneer. “I’ve never understood why children who’ve had their lives handed to them on a silver platter have such a difficult time facing a rather lovely reality.”

“I thought maybe you were on something and wanted us to join the party,” Jordan said. He stayed at the window with his back to all of us, and I watched with fascination as he and Claire refused to turn to face each other.

“Watch it, Jordan,” Adam said, his body still relaxed but his voice sharper.

“C’mon, Adam. I know you’ll eat worms if your mother tells you to, but are you really going along with this ‘lovely reality’ crap?”

Claire softened her pose enough to look at him over her shoulder. “If you hate your life, Jordan, I’m very sorry. But the rest of us don’t need to listen to it.”

Adam smiled, which should have been a warning. “Unless it’s on that new CD that was supposed to drop … when?”

Jordan came at him so quickly that I didn’t even think about what I was doing, I just stepped in between them as Adam rose from the couch, one hand out in front of me to stop Jordan and the other in back of me to contain Adam. Neither Olivia nor Claire moved, either caught more by surprise than I was, which seemed doubtful, or content to let me become the DMZ, which was more likely.

The brothers pulled themselves up enough that they weren’t grappling with each other around me this time, but they were only a heavy breath away from it. I dropped my hands. “I’d really like to join you all for Thanksgiving dinner. It must be magnificent.”

“Ms. Forrester, you don’t need to be here,” Claire said, deigning at this point to rise from her throne.

“Actually, I do,” I said. “Not just because I’m the only one who seems interested in preventing a brawl, but because I’m writing a story about Olivia and I’d like to hear your response to her statement.”

“All the more reason for you to leave,” Claire said, gliding past us back toward the front door. “I’m not going to enable this ridiculous behavior on any level.”

“Give me back my tapes and I’ll leave you alone,” Olivia offered.

“What tapes?” Adam asked.

“The Hotel Tapes.”

Adam’s breath came out in an explosive grunt, as though Olivia had kicked him in the stomach or even lower. Before he could say anything, Claire turned around and fixed him with a glare so cold that I shivered, standing next to him. And with good cause, because the glare moved to me next. “Did you put her up to this?”

“Me? Up to …?” I wasn’t sure what I was being accused of, and I wasn’t about to admit to anything that was going to stoke her wrath.

“She’s not an interesting enough story by herself, so now you’re going to manufacture one for her?”

“First of all,” I said as evenly as possible, “Olivia’s a great story on her own. But if I wanted to create a story, I’d be putting cocktails and small firearms on the table and setting up a videocamera in the corner. Fortunately, I’m interested in minimizing damage, not documenting it.”

“My mother’s never had a good relationship with the press,” Adam offered.

“As opposed to all the other sterling relationships in her life?” I asked.

Surprisingly, Adam looked pleased, and Claire just seethed. “The Hotel Tapes do not exist,” she said slowly, as though this were too difficult a concept for me to easily comprehend. “I burned them when Micah died.”

“Liar!” Olivia exclaimed. “I’ve heard them!”

Claire’s eyes didn’t move from my face. “The fact that some of the tapes might have survived is a fantasy Russell embraced for years and, apparently, passed down to Olivia. Despite the fact that, if they existed, they would belong to me.”

“Double liar! Micah gave them to my father, and my father willed them to me!”

I thought about shifting over to stand between the two women in the room for a while, but I was too stunned by Claire’s claim to move. “Why would you burn them? They were priceless.”

Disgust swam across Claire’s face. “So was everything I lost because he couldn’t stay clean or focused …” She shifted her glare to Jordan.

“Or faithful?” He said it with the lilt of an old joke, but it was a dagger between the ribs, and Claire struggled not to wince as it hit home. So much of her golden reputation was based on the perception that she had graciously opened her home and her family to Bonnie and Jordan, it was a revelation that Micah’s affair continued to pain her all these years later. Sort of like discovering that Mrs. Claus hates the elves.