The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (52 page)

Callahan scratched his head. “Geez, that was a long time ago. I think I might have asked Joe Nance about her. He just shrugged and said they were all wondering what happened to her.”

“Did they seem upset about it?” Prescott asked.

“I don’t really remember. I’m sure they were puzzled by it and they were concerned for her safety. I think they were afraid something bad may have happened to her. Since she never turned up again, I guess something
did
. I have a scrapbook of clippings and stuff at home you can look at.”

“That might be useful.” Berenger looked at the others. “Anyone else?”

Tittle nodded. “I may have met her but I’m not sure. I do remember the ‘missing’ posters and some of the talk. I got into the music scene later than Bud.”

Sharon Callahan and Greg Cross didn’t know her.

“I do remember one thing about Sylvia,” Callahan said.

“What’s that?”

“She sang like an angel. She wrote her own songs, too. Joe Nance was considering bringing her into the band. He told me so.”

“What did the others think of that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did she perform on her own at the time?” Prescott asked.

“Not much. I don’t recall her ever having a show of her own. She opened up for The Loop once or twice—just her and a guitar. Sort of a Joni Mitchell act.”

“Were you there?”

“I was. I recorded some of their shows back then. Now that I think of it, I might have that show on tape. I’ll have to look.”

“Did you hear her sing anywhere else?”

“There was a party at Charles Nance’s house one night. A lot of people were there. Everyone was high or drunk. She started singing and everyone was mesmerized. I remember thinking, ‘wow, that chick is talented.’ I never would have guessed ‘cause she was such a
groupie
, you know? Most groupies in those days just wanted to sleep with rock stars.”

“Interesting.” Berenger slapped his knees. “Okay, folks, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He handed out business cards. “My cell’s on there. Call me if you think of anything—anything at all—that might help.”

Everyone stood, shook hands, and said goodbye. As Berenger, Prescott, and Garriott left the dressing room and entered the middle section of the building, the guitarist said, “Hey, I want to look for a CD in the shop upstairs. You want to come with me?”

“Sure,” Berenger said.

Prescott said, “I’ll meet you guys in the bar.”

“Okay. Grab a table and order some more beers.”

Prescott went through the door to the sports bar as Garriott and Berenger proceeded to climb the metal stairs to Record Breakers. They reached the first landing, turned to ascend the second flight, and froze.

A woman with blonde hair, a floppy hat, sunglasses, and a trench coat stood at the top of the staircase. She held a pistol in her hand and it was pointed directly at them.

“It’s
her
!” Garriott whispered.

Before Berenger could make a move, the woman’s weapon coughed twice. The noise of the gunfire was deafening in the stairwell and at first Berenger was confused by the echo. Had she fired more than twice? Was anyone hit?

Instinct took over. Berenger tackled Garriott and threw him to the landing. At the same moment, he attempted to draw his Kahr. But the woman fired again, and Berenger felt the heat of the round within inches of his head. Then she rushed down the steps and kicked Berenger’s arm before he had the gun completely out of its holster. The Kahr flew down the steps as the woman leaped over the two men and descended quickly to the ground floor.

Berenger scrambled to retrieve his weapon and then pointed it at his prey—but she had fled through the front door to the street. He then turned to Garriott.

“Zach! Are you hit?”

Blood was spreading across the guitarist’s chest. The man’s eyes were wide with fear and pain.

“Oh, God. Take it easy, Zach! I’m calling for help!”

Suddenly the stairwell was full of people. Prescott appeared and rushed up to the landing where Garriott lay.

“Call nine-one-one!” Berenger barked. “I’m going after her!”

Garriott clutched Berenger’s sleeve and pulled him close. The PI leaned in to hear what the man had to say.

“Spike… she
is
a ghost!” Garriott coughed. “She’s supposed to be… dead… she’ll kill us all…!”

Berenger lightly slapped his friend’s cheek and said, “Hang in there, Zach. Help is on the way.”

Then he got up, cut through the crowd at the bottom of the stairs, and hurried out into the night.

I
t was raining again.

As it was still fairly early in the evening, South State Street had plenty of traffic on it. But night had fallen and the downpour made visibility a challenge. Berenger peered up and down the sidewalk in front of Reggie’s but saw only a small gathering of winos at the corner in front of a liquor shop and convenience store. A few of Reggie’s patrons were standing against the building, smoking cigarettes.

“Did you see a woman in a trench coat run out of here?” he asked them.

“Yeah, man.” One of them pointed across the street.

Berenger shielded his eyes from the traffic headlights and saw her. She had crossed State Street and was running like a banshee from hell toward Cermak, an east-west thoroughfare at the end of the block. Berenger took off after her.

When he got to the corner of State and Cermak, she was a good hundred yards ahead from him. Nevertheless, he didn’t slow his pace. Eventually she would have to rest, wouldn’t she? There was no doubt that the woman was in great shape. She ran like a professional marathon contestant. Berenger, on the other hand, was twenty-five pounds overweight and was already out of breath.

He crossed Clark Street and saw the shooter ascend the stairs to the Cermak/Chinatown El Train station. In horror, he scanned the overhead tracks and saw that, sure enough, a train was about to pull in to board passengers. Berenger poured on the steam and ran with all his might. The staircase was tall, but the PI attacked it with ferocity, taking two steps at a time. When he reached the platform, he encountered another obstacle—the turnstile. He had no rail ticket and it didn’t take cash. There was certainly no time to stop at the vending machine and buy a ticket, so he did what any action hero would do—he leaped over the turnstile.

“Hey!” shouted a CTA employee who was standing on the platform. Berenger ignored him and ran for the train, the doors of which were about to close. He slid into the last car just as they slammed shut.

He almost collapsed onto the floor as he tried to catch his wind. Passengers looked at him with little pity, for they had seen it all on the CTA bus and rail system. Berenger clung to a pole as his heart pounded against his chest. He wanted to catch the homicidal woman, but he didn’t care to have a coronary doing so.

The train started to move. Berenger scanned the platform as it swooshed by to make sure she hadn’t faked him out and not boarded. Which car did she enter? She must be somewhere up ahead.

Get moving
! he commanded himself.

Berenger walked unsteadily to the front of the car. The CTA trains were similar to the subways in New York. One could easily open the door at the end of the car, step out onto a small platform, move to the next car, open that door, and enter. It was against the rules and it wasn’t the safest thing in the world to do, but plenty of people did it if one car was particularly crowded. Berenger ignored protocol and slid open the door. Outside, the noise of the rattling train was much louder. It was also on an elevated track, exposed to the rain. He almost slipped on the wet platform, but he grabbed a handlebar to steady himself. Within seconds he was in the next car.

There were maybe ten people in it and the woman with the floppy hat was not one of them. Holding on to an overhead bar, Berenger made his way through, flung open the door, and stepped outside just as the train made a sharp turn and gradually dipped underground toward a subterranean station. He held on for dear life as the darkness of the tunnel enveloped him.

Berenger managed to open the door and get inside the car. This one was more crowded than the others. All the seats were taken and several people were standing and holding the handlebars. Berenger quickly scanned the interior but didn’t see the hat. There was a woman with blonde hair, though. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses or a trench coat. She probably wasn’t the shooter, but Berenger approached her for confirmation. As he moved closer, he saw that she was holding the hand of a small child.

“Look, mommy, that man has a gun!” the boy exclaimed at the top of his voice.

Damn
! Berenger’s flak jacket had ridden up his waist, exposing the Null holster and his Kahr. The child’s pronouncement caused everyone to perk up and look at him.

“I’m a police officer, folks!” Berenger called out. It was a lie, but he had been in a similar situation before. It was best to alleviate any fears without having to explain who he really was. He also carried a fake badge inside a wallet in case he ever had to flash it quickly at someone. It was dishonest—and illegal—but Berenger had found that it saved time and trouble. And he’d never been caught doing it.

He addressed the boy’s mother. “Ma’am, did you see a woman about your size wearing a big floppy hat?”

Wide-eyed, the mother shook her head.

“That lady with the dark glasses, mommy! She had a hat in her hand!” the kid announced.

“Oh, right,” the woman said. “She went past us just a minute or two ago and went into the next car. He’s right, she was carrying a hat.”

Berenger was already on the move. He blurted, “Thanks, kid,” over his shoulder and rushed to the door at the end. He felt the train decrease speed as he maneuvered between the cars and burst inside the last carriage. The train pulled in to the Roosevelt station and stopped.

There she is
!

The floppy hat moved with the swarm of passengers out of the opening doors. Berenger attempted to push through but there were too many people. By the time he stepped onto the platform, the shooter had disappeared into a passageway leading from the Red rail line to the Orange and Green lines. It was time to run again.

Berenger chased her into the tunnel—and it was a long one. He saw her at the end of the corridor. She looked at him and then quickly jumped on the Up escalator. The woman climbed it faster than it was moving and vanished. Berenger followed her, reached the next level, and stopped.

She could have exited the station to the street, or she could have continued up another flight to the Orange or Green lines. A CTA employee stood just outside the turnstile, so Berenger couldn’t very well go through the gate, take a look outside, and hurdle back inside.

Which way would she go
?

Berenger looked up the moving escalator and then back at the exit. Blind intuition told him that he needed to keep moving higher. He turned, boarded the escalator, prayed that his hunch was correct, and ascended the steps two at a time. When he got to the next landing, he found yet another long flight of stairs—and this time the only escalator was going down. He cursed aloud and began the torturous climb.

The next big question was which line would she have boarded? The Green line went north into the Chicago Loop. The Orange line went north but then took a sharp left and headed west so that it could circle around the Loop and head back south toward Midway Airport.

He heard a train screech to a halt at the platform above him. Berenger figured she would board the first train that arrived, so he put forth the extra effort to reach the top of the stairs in time. Once again, he had to hurry and jam his leg into the closing doors so that he could squeeze inside.

It was a Green line elevated train. As it began to move, he saw the floppy hat slip through the door at the far end of the car.

“Stop that woman!” he shouted, but he was so out of breath that he could barely project his voice. He attempted to chase her but his body rebelled. A severe pain cut through his chest, causing Berenger to collapse to his knees as he held on to an upright pole.

“Are you all right, mister?” an African American woman asked.