The Boom Room (7 page)

As Pratt was leaving the condo, the final thing Ellis told him was, “You need to check out Rotten Attitude's Facebook page. It will give you a clearer view of how Master views himself. For one thing, he's a cocky bastard. You'd think he was already a rock star.”

In Pratt's case, checking out the page was easier said than done.

He was up and at 'em at seven the next morning. At his kitchen table with his usual toast and coffee, he was prepared to do battle with his laptop.

Pratt knew how to turn it on, and he'd been taught the bare minimum of how to use what he needed for his job. But social media? He'd heard enough about that to curl what hair he had left.

Ellis had emailed detailed instructions on what to do. Pratt munched a piece of cold toast as he read them a second time.

“Seems straightforward enough,” he muttered.

Fifteen minutes later, he was ready to chuck the laptop right out the window. Looking at the email again, he started over.

This time, it was a piece of cake. He was sure he'd done exactly the same thing before. That's why he hated computers so much.

After pouring a second cup of coffee, he went through the process of “liking” Rotten Attitude's page. Twenty minutes later, he'd seen enough.

McDonnell had called a meeting for nine, so Pratt had to get a move on. But as soon as he had a chance, he needed to talk to his partner. Had Ellis seen that small slip too?

“Please tell me we have the murder-weapon situation sewn up,” the skipper said as soon as everyone had sat down.

At the conference-room table, Gordon was busy studying the table's surface, Pratt was studying everyone and Cheevers was shuffling papers inside his open briefcase.

“Gordon,” McDonnell prompted. “What have you got?”

Gordon slid the two murder-weapon photos across the table to Cheevers.

“There you go. Nice clear prints from our suspect on the knife. Easy peasy.”

Cheevers looked at them closely. Pratt's opinion of him went up when he asked, “What about these smudges on the handle?”

“Probably happened when he pulled out the knife,” Gordon quickly responded. “My theory is that something spooked the kid. That's why he threw the knife under the photocopier.”

McDonnell asked, “What does the kid say?”

“Nothing anymore without his lawyer on hand—not after what Pratt did.”

“Well, I don't like this. I want an answer
ASAP.
”

“Why the rush?” Pratt asked. “I have some other angles I'm currently looking at.”

“Turns out the murdered man's widow has friends at City Hall. They're asking when the club will be reopening. Is there any reason it can't?”

Gordon cut in. “I'll get on the blower to find out if Forensics is through.”

“The singer for the band, Mike Master, also called—twice. They want their gear back—not that we have to hurry on their account.”

As the meeting ended, Pratt badly wanted to talk with Ellis. But there was no time for that now. As he'd looked at the two photos again, something had finally occurred to him. It was a pretty wild theory, and to prove it, he needed to get down to the club before the all clear was given.

He hotfooted it to the street, where he hailed a cab, telling the driver to step on it.

A uniform was still on duty at the door. Forensics wasn't on scene at the moment.

“I think they may be done, sir,” the patrolman told the detective. “But we're always the last to know about those things.”

The club smelled less of beer and body odor than Pratt remembered. It was still filthy though, as cleaners hadn't been allowed in yet.

He felt sure now that the murder had been a spur-of-the-moment opportunity. The matter of Jamie Clark's heated argument with Lewis had started it off. Someone had seen what happened and used it for his own ends. But why and, more important, who?

The main room had been pretty thoroughly searched before the knife showed up under the photocopier, but in thinking back, Pratt had remembered one spot that hadn't gotten much of a going-over. The stage.

Rotten Attitude's gear was still there, in much the same place he remembered from the night of the murder.

It took a few minutes to get the stage lights on. Their flashing and sweeping movement almost made him ill, but he needed to be able to see.

Pratt began to carefully check each piece. The drum set was fairly easy, but the amplifiers were quite heavy. The effort of moving them into the light soon had him removing his jacket and wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve.

Two of the smaller amps had slightly open backs. Laying the first one facedown, Pratt shone his flashlight around the inside. He found some guitar cords and a small metal box with
The Destroyer
printed on its front. Pratt wondered what it could be used for. Other than the speaker, there was nothing else.

The second amp looked much the same, although it had two smaller speakers covered by a piece of wood that only partially covered the back. Pratt couldn't see much and hadn't brought a screwdriver, so he used his hand to feel around. Almost immediately, he touched something metal stuck to the big magnet on the back of the left speaker.

He knew at once what it was.

Chapter
Sixteen

Forensics responded to Pratt's call with impressive speed.

“I'm not surprised this was missed first time through,” the tech said. “Whoever stuck the knife here knew it wouldn't come loose, not with this huge magnet holding it.” He removed the final screw holding the back on. “Thing that puzzles me is why you were looking for this in the first place.”

“You've seen those smudges on our murder weapon?”

“Yeah. I took the photos.”

“What did you think?”

“They bothered me. Gordon had too ready an explanation, seemed to me. If you were pulling the knife out quickly, you might cause those smudges, but I wasn't convinced.”

The flashing stage lights had been turned off and two portable work lights set up. The two techs wanted to get this new knife photographed properly in situ.

“How did you figure this out?” the tech asked as he worked.

“I like to consider things backward,” Pratt answered. “It often helps.”

“Like this time. Man! You're a magician, Pratt.”

The knife looked similar to the murder weapon. The handle was different, being all metal, but its blade, once revealed, would almost surely be the same length.

Just then McDonnell showed up—followed closely by Gordon.

“What have you got, Pratt?” he shouted, striding down the length of the room.

“A second switchblade.”

Gordon looked like he'd been slapped. “A second knife?”

The tech was ready to remove the knife from the grip of the speaker magnet. The three detectives crowded around to watch.

“How did you come up with this?” McDonnell asked.

“Those smudges on the first knife bothered me. They were odd, not expected. I simply tried to come up with other theories to explain them.”

“And that led you to a second knife?”

“I felt from the beginning that the knife we found might be a plant. Consider. You've just stabbed someone. Do you throw the murder weapon away in a place where it will certainly be found?”

Gordon said, “Come on, Pratt. No one said this kid was a brain.”

“No, but they didn't say he was stupid either. It just didn't make sense. Then there were the smudges on the handle. What if they got there because someone was holding the knife with two fingers and then wiped off those fingerprints, leaving Clark's alone on the rest of the handle?”

“You couldn't stab someone with just two fingers on a knife. It takes some force.”

“Precisely. And that led me to consider another knife and a different murderer.”

The tech delicately pulled the knife from the magnet's grip. He placed it on a piece of plastic, then used a small screwdriver to press the blade release button.

“Normally I would wait until we got back to the lab to do this. You deserve to see it though, Pratt.” He pulled a magnifying glass from his toolbox. “Yep. There's blood on this blade, although it's been wiped or I'm a rookie.”

McDonnell and Pratt both leaned forward to look. Gordon declined.

“So, Pratt,” the skipper asked, “who's the guilty party?”

“That I can't tell you yet, but I have a few theories.”

“Well, get right to work on it. Gordon will be glad to help you, I'm sure.”

McDonnell winked at Pratt as he turned and headed for the door.

Gordon was clearly beside himself with fury but knew enough to keep his mouth shut.

“What do we do now, all-knowing one?” he asked Pratt.

Pratt ignored him and spoke to the tech.

“We need to get this knife identified
ASAP.
And make sure you dust that speaker magnet too. Space was tight back there. It's likely the person who put it there left some good prints. How soon can you get us prints and photos?”

“Give me your email address. I can download the photos to my laptop and email them right to you. Prints will take a bit longer, but I'll make sure you have them by day's end.”

Would wonders never cease? Pratt got the feeling the two techs were rubbing it in Gordon's face. Flash had a bad name with the support crews.

Pratt's problem was that he had a few likely suspects, but nothing solid to go on yet. He needed to speak to Ellis—pronto.

“Is this Detective Pratt?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.

Ellis willed his heartbeat to remain slow as he held his cell phone to his ear. “No, it isn't. This is his partner.” He then added to the fib with an outright lie, since he'd put his number on the police bulletin instead of Pratt's. “He must have left his phone behind again. What can I do for you?”

“I'm responding to a bulletin he put out last night. Could you ask him to give me a call?”

“No problem. Can you
ID
the person in our two photos?”

“Short answer—yes. Long answer—I only tell Pratt. Just get him to call me, son. Okay?”

Ellis quickly scribbled down the details. Then he hit the Speed-dial key for Pratt. Hopefully, Pratt would pick up when his phone rang, for a change.

Ellis had spent the past few hours tailing The Boom Room's manager around town. Right now he was sitting in his car across the street from a trendy bar. Thomson had arrived and immediately made a phone call.

Thomson had just been served a pint of beer. Then Margerie Lewis arrived, dressed in jeans and a silk shirt. Ellis could see them clearly since their table was front and center in a large window. Pratt was correct. Margerie was definitely not your typical grieving widow as she chatted, gestured and smiled.

So far so good. Ellis snapped several photos. He was sort of enjoying playing private eye.

Why hadn't Pratt called back yet? He was bad about remembering to recharge his phone, so it might be out of juice. Or he might be involved in something that couldn't be interrupted. Ellis sighed. He just had to be patient.

While the Widow Lewis had only a glass of white wine, Thomson was chowing down on a burger and fries. Both leaned across the table at intervals, making it clear they didn't want to be overheard. As the conversation went on, Margerie looked less and less happy. Ellis smacked himself upside the head. Too bad he couldn't hear what they were saying to each other.

He was watching them pay their bill (separate checks, interestingly) when his cell phone rang.

It was Pratt, finally.

“So you've gotten some action on that bulletin you put out? That was quick.”

“Problem is, the guy will only talk to you, since I put your name on the bulletin. I didn't think it was, um, smart to impersonate you.”

“Very wise. Where are you right now?”

“In my car watching Thomson and Lewis preparing to leave Gill Maloney's Bar and Grill.”