The Chilling Spree (4 page)

“Fuckin’ a, man,” he muttered and glared at
his tour manager.

“It doesn’t mean you can’t go on with the
show,” I focused my attention on Fulk.  “We need to chat with
him first, and your manager.”

Dev cut in.  “We’ll need a list of all
the patrons with back stage access.”

Madden reached out and fingered the pass
around my neck.  “Including the two of you?” he asked.

“I think we’re aware of our status,” Devlin
bristled and stepped closer to me.  “And I’ll give you one
warning, Mr. Madden.  Detective Eriksson doesn’t like being
manhandled.  She won’t hesitate to defend herself from
unwanted contact with anyone.”

He grinned.  “Like her even more
now.”

“Fulk, can you make sure that the amp from
–”

“Already done, boss,” he said to
Swanson.  “They can hit the stage right away.  I’ll talk
to her and you can give the information to Mackenzie.”

I wondered at the pecking order in the world
of music tours.  The so-called boss took nothing but orders
and flack from what I could see.

“You’ll still be around after we finish our
set, right?” Madden asked.  “You gotta take our statements and
stuff, yes?”

“It depends on the outcome of our test on
the blood,” Devlin said.  “I’ll talk to you after the show if
it’s necessary.”

He glanced at Devlin and nodded. 
“Yeah, sure man.”

Devlin finally inched closer to our
so-called evidence and took a look at what prompted me to call our
crime scene division.  “Shit,” he muttered when he saw the
amount of blood inside the wooden case.

“Yeah,” I said.  “Way too much to be
less than foul play, wouldn’t you say?”

“Should we call Winslow?”

“What for?  Even if it’s human blood,
we don’t have a body.  We don’t need Forsythe to know that
this is fresh.  Thank God for that much at least.”

“Helen –”

“Go with Swanson and get that list,” I
said.  “I’ll talk to your old pal from the Marines.”

“Helen, I don’t think –”

I knew where it was going.  I’d
encountered Underwood’s type often enough in the past to see him
coming from the womb.  Unfortunately for him, he was hardly
what he exalted himself to be in his own eyes. 

Fulk Underwood believed himself to be the
quintessential alpha male.  The world lived by his rules or he
walked away.  Women were drawn to his power, his magnetism,
the fact that right or wrong, he was the ultimate authority on any
and every topic under the sun.

What I saw when I looked at him was somewhat
different.  The underlying affect demonstrated an unhealthy
amount of anger and resentment, though he tried to cover it with a
sort of suave disdain toward me.  He swaggered forward on legs
much shorter than my own.  I couldn’t help but think
Shetland pony
as he approached.

One hand thrust forward and clasped
mine.  “Fulk Underwood,” he clung with one meaty paw to my
bony hand longer than my comfort zone liked.  “My friends call
me –”

“Mr. Underwood will do just fine,” I
said.  There was some doubt in my mind already that he had
true friends, more likely a pack of other oversexed jocks who
fancied themselves legendary with the ladies.  I tugged my
hand free and stomped the urge to body slam the little weasel or
send him flying over one of my shoulders for invading my personal
space without permission.  “Tell me what time you performed
the pre-concert check on the equipment for Mr. Madden’s gear.”

“It must’ve been three, three-thirty this
afternoon.  Does that matter?”  He smiled engagingly.

“It’s part of the process, Mr.
Underwood.  At that time, after you verified that the gear was
in working order, what’s the normal procedure?”

“We store the stuff back stage, in close
proximity so we can quickly change the set over after the opening
act finishes.”

“How did you find Mr. Madden’s equipment
after the opening act finished their performance?”

“It was right where I left it.”

“Exact same place?”

He nodded.  “Yeah, right over
there.”

I stared at the place indicated by the tip
of one well aimed finger.  It was almost the exact place where
the speaker apparatus now lay open on the floor. 

“Upright?”

“‘Scuse me?”

“Was the equipment upright, ready to roll
onto the stage.”

Underwood frowned.  “Obviously
not.  There’s no puddle of blood on the floor, is there,
detective.”

Rhetorical questions are fine – so long as
they’re coming from me and not some smart ass witness at a
potential crime scene.  “So someone tampered with Scott’s
equipment before the set they’re playing right now.”

“Clearly.  Wow.”

I felt my eyebrows inch closer.  “Feel
free to elaborate on what sounded like a spectacular display of
sarcasm, Mr. Underwood.”

“Just never talked to a chick detective
before.  I’m curious if you always ask such pedantic questions
when you interview people.”

“I try not to overburden certain suspects
until I’ve been able to accurately assess things like personality
and cognitive function, Mr. Underwood.  And while my title is
technically
detective
, I am a doctor, of forensic
psychology.”  Evil brain shifted into assault gear. 
Take that, you feeble shit.  Who is this guy?  Trying
to intimidate a cop on the basis of gender is a really stupid
move.

He leered at me.  “I stand corrected
then, doctor.  I can assure you, my cognitive functioning is
higher than anyone else’s you’ll find around here.  Hit me
with the tough questions.”

“Where were you between the time you
finished your sound check and the time you discovered that Scott’s
equipment was not the way you left it?”

“I hung out, drank a little, kicked back,
called a couple of girls I know from the last time we came through
Darkwater Bay.”

“Did you leave the premises at any
time?”

“Uh, define premises.”

“This building.”  So much for his
assertion of intelligence.

“Yeah, I did.  There’s a building
adjacent to this one that’s part of the complex.  When my
girlfriends showed up –”

“Were they granted access to this area?”

“No, but they sent a text to let me know
that they were here.  That must’ve been around five.  I
went to the building next door and hung with them for about an
hour.  I was back here before the lights went on for the
opener.”

“Did you check the equipment upon your
return?”

“No need,” he said.  “I never do. 
After the initial check is done and I know that the guitars are
ready for the show, I’m basically done until it’s time to roll out
for Pan Demon’s set.”

“Did you notice anyone other than the crew
and staff authorized in this area this afternoon?”

“By the time I got here, all that meet and
greet bullshit was done.  I kind of prefer avoiding the
sycophants, if you know what I mean.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and threw an
icy stare down at Underwood.  “Let’s, for the sake of
expedience, assume that I don’t know what you mean.  Who are
the sycophants, and why do you prefer to avoid them?”

“Uh ...” he started to stammer a little
bit.  Despite the blaring music from the stage that bore
evidence to where the band was, Underwood behaved like eyes and
ears were upon him.  “Maybe I’d rather not say,
detective.  My personal opinions aside, these guys are my
bosses, and I’d rather not see that arrangement come to an end
because I voiced an unpopular opinion.”

“You can either say it here or down at the
station, Mr. Underwood.”

“I really wish you’d call me Woody. 
You call Madden
Scott
.”

“Who are the sycophants?”

He sighed and stared at the concrete. 
“Madden’s fans.  The guy is determined to surround himself
with only the shit heads of his fandom.”

“Meaning?”

“You know the difference between a
brownnoser and a shit head, detective?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Depth perception.  Madden might come
off as this super secure, don’t-give-a-damn dude, but he’s got a
really fragile ego, to the point that he will not tolerate even the
most constructive and gentle criticism.  He’d shit on his own
mother if she dared say anything he didn’t like.  The guy is
like fucking Napoleon or something.  So when he holds these
fan events at the shows, he makes sure that nobody makes the list
who isn’t so far up his ass that he can feel their breath on the
backs of his teeth.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Typical response to fame,” I
said. 

Underwood shook his head.  “No way,
man.  The other guys in the band are way more secure. 
Nobody calls Madden on his shit, because as he pointed out to you
right away, Pan Demon belongs to him.  Everybody else is
expendable.”

“Everybody’s got to have a leader, Mr.
Underwood.  Democracy is a beautiful concept, but the average
person in the world has never experienced it in the true sense of
the word.  Democracy in government is quite a different thing
than in a business.  While you may not like Mr. Madden’s
desire to surround himself with positive opinions, there is
certainly nothing illegal – or even uncommon about that
practice.”

His posture tightened, added half an inch to
the short stature.  “And I should’ve figured that you’d land
on the famous side of the fence.”  His second finger flicked
the all-access pass hanging around my neck.  “You’re part of
the after-show bash, where Madden treats the special ones to the
real party.”

“I’m not a fan.  Let’s talk about you
right now, shall we?”

“Then who scored the VIP’s for you?”

“Mr. Underwood –”

“It was that fucker Mackenzie, wasn’t
it?  I should’ve known when I saw him that he’s still the
little gay-fan boy he always was.”

I think my eyebrow bounced off the
sixty-foot high ceiling.  Granted, I hadn’t known Devlin for
very long, but not one time had I ever had an inkling that anybody
would’ve accused him of being gay.  “Detective Mackenzie is my
date tonight,” I chose words carefully.

“I thought you said he was your
partner.”

“For all intents and purposes, since we were
already on the scene, we’ll work this case together.  I don’t
really have a partner, Mr. Underwood.  As I explained, I’m not
like any detective you’ve met.  Do you understand what a
forensic psychologist does?”

I didn’t wait for him to answer. 
Instead, I impaled his smug body to the floor with a single
withering glare.

“I profile behavior.”

“Well, you’re gonna have a hell of a lot of
fun when you finally have a conversation with Madden.”

“I’m curious about something.  If you
hate Mr. Madden so much, why on earth would you want to work for
him?”

Underwood grinned without shame or
hesitation.  “Because it’s just too much friggin’ fun
snatching pussy right out from under him before he gets to make his
move.”  His eyes stripped away my clothes with predatory
resolve.  “Chicks dig me, whether they want to admit it or
not.  I could have you on your knees in a matter of minutes if
I wanted you.”

“I guess I should count myself lucky
then.”  Sarcasm bounced off his impervious ego.

“I dig blondes,” he said.  The eyes did
another once over, and despite the fact that his creepy gaze made
me want to cover myself in revulsion, I resisted the urge. 
“You know what?  Fuck it.  I’ll make an exception for
you.  Damn, you’re hot.”

Tension built around me, heavy and
suffocating.  I hadn’t felt it so strongly since –

The voice hissed over my shoulder down at
Underwood.

“Show some respect, boy, before I decide to
pound it into that smug little head of yours.”

My head turned, and eyes met those of Johnny
Orion.

“And our little sex triangle suddenly is a
square,” Underwood murmured, not put off in the least by Johnny’s
size or anger.

All balls and no brains.  I dog paddled
through the river of testosterone and attached a tether to
Orion.  Somebody had to pull him away, before he ripped
Underwood’s head off.

My immediate inclination was to grab
Johnny’s arm, drag him away and placate what looked like simmering
jealousy to me.  Reality dashed that tiny flicker of hope as
his vacant eyes caught mine and his words obliterated everything
but the brutal fact that I was every bit the stranger to him
tonight as I’d been a week ago.

“Are you all right, Detective Eriksson?”

If he remembered me at all, he’d have known
there was no need to ask.  I pasted a cold smile on my face
and nodded.  “May I ask why OSI is here, when we’re not even
sure that a crime has been committed beyond petty vandalism?”

His eyes narrowed.  “Your partner
called Chris Darnell.  Apparently he’s convinced that
something illegal happened tonight, detective.”

Sometimes I have to remind myself that for
as much as men accuse women of being bitchy, they are as capable of
the behavior as anyone sporting ovaries.  They are after all,
merely a broken leg away from that Y being and X chromosome. 
“Devlin,” I muttered.

“He said you were talking to the prime
suspect –”

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Underwood made
an unwise attempt to step between Johnny and me, as if he believed
his lame come on would actually result in me swooning before his
massive sex appeal.

Johnny had him by the scruff of the neck in
an instant.  “You will cease and desist, sir.  I’m
discussing official police business with a colleague.”

“It’s all right, Commander Orion.  I
think I can handle this.”

Blessedly, Forsythe arrived with techs from
CSD before I had to resort to drastic measures.  “Mr.
Underwood, please go to whatever area is off limits to everyone but
staff and the band’s crew and wait for me there.  I need to
talk to our crime scene supervisor.”