The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (69 page)

“Sorry, honey. This is the first record I’ve made in a few years, remember?”

“I know, but you’re a professional.”

Clayton laughed a little. “Professionals make money doing this.”

“Stop that, Stuart! We don’t need bad vibes. Keep thinking groovy thoughts, honey. Let your mind go free and soar in the sky. Just like we used to. I know you can do it.”

“Okay.”

He started again and this time he made it all the way through the song. Prescott found it profoundly moving, even though the lyrics were pretentiously obtuse.

“Take twelve. I’d say that’s a good one,” Sylvia said. “Want to try it again now or would you rather have your break?”

“No, no, I can keep going. Just let me drink some water…… okay. I’m ready.”

And he started the song from the beginning.

Fascinating,
Prescott thought
. But who was listening to this earlier? Clayton… or someone else?

B
erenger had turned the volume of Prescott’s laptop as high as it would go. That way he could still listen to the music as he used the toilet, brushed his teeth, and showered. But as a result, he couldn’t hear his cell phone. When he picked it up off the coffee table, he saw that he had missed three calls. One was marked as a Private Call, one was from Prescott, and one was from C. Hersh. He listened to the Private message first.

“Hey, Spike, it’s Sandro here. I fo—” But a burst of static interrupted the message. The rest of it was broken up, probably due to bad reception when Ponti made the call. “—Julia—what was going on—with me—early morning flight from Milan, connecting through London—in Chicago by afternoon tomorrow. Okay? See you soon!”

What?
Berenger replayed the message but still couldn’t make much sense out of. He phoned Sandro back and reached the Italian’s voice mail.

“Sandro, it’s Spike. I got your message but you were breaking up. Couldn’t understand a word. It sounded as if you’re coming to Chicago, which is great. But I’d still like to talk to Julia if you find her before you leave, so please call me back when you can.”

Next he listened to Carol Hersh’s message: “Uhm, hello? This is Carol Hersh calling for Spike Berenger? You left a message that you want to speak to my father? Yes, he was Dr. Jeremiah Levine in the seventies. He’s retired and lives in assisted living, but he’s in pretty good health. If you want to call back, I’m at home now.”

He dialed her number and she picked up.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Hersh?”

“Yes?”

“Spike Berenger.”

“Oh, hello.”

“Thanks for calling me back.”

“You’re welcome. What can I do for you?”

Berenger spent a minute explaining a little about who he was but not going into great detail about what case he was working on. The less she knew, the better.

“So, I’d really like to talk to your father about a patient he had in the seventies. Would he be in any shape to remember something like that?”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know. He had a lot of patients. I suppose if he or she was a memorable one…”

“What about his records? Where would they be kept?”

“Another practice took over his when he retired. But I imagine all the old records would be in storage somewhere unless the patients’ files were still active. I work in nursing, so I know how that is. If after ten years there is no activity with a patient, that file gets archived. Most of the time archives are kept in a completely separate office or maybe even a different building.”

“I see. Well, then, I guess I’d like to speak with your father and see if he remembers. Would that be all right?”

“Sure.” She gave him the name and address of the facility where the man lived.

“I saw your blog online,” Berenger said. “I can relate to your experience. My mother is in an assisted living home in New York.”

“Oh, then you know how it is. It was difficult at first, but it’s a really nice place where my dad lives. They treat him really well. And because he’s a doctor, he knows when the care is good or not!”

“Perhaps you could call over there and let him know that I’m on the way?”

“I will. Let’s see, what time is it? Oh, okay. He’s up from his afternoon nap by now. I’m sure you’d be able to see him before their dinner-time if you go right now.”

“Thanks. I can be there in half an hour.”

“I’ll call now.”

He hung up, shut off the music, put the laptop in sleep mode, and rushed out of the room. In his haste, he forgot about Prescott’s phone message.

P
rescott turned off the player after the tape ran out. The music had been extremely strange. Clayton seemed to have intentionally set about creating compositions that only he could understand. Nevertheless, there was an emotion behind the words and music that was powerful and haunting. She felt a little odd that she had sat and listened to it without Clayton being there. It was as if she had pried into his personal things. But she told herself that she was a private investigator and it was her job to do such things. And it was time to continue looking around the house. If she didn’t find anything else, she would leave and go back to the hotel.

She stepped out of the studio and noticed the storage room door. It had been closed and locked when she and Berenger had visited the other evening, but now it was ajar. Prescott pushed the door open to reveal shelving units full of record albums, tape boxes, and cartons of all sizes. It was a typical storeroom—

—except for the outline of a trap door in the floor.

She figured it went to a basement. Wouldn’t the house have one? Where were the regular stairs?

Prescott backed out of the storeroom and returned to the kitchen. She hadn’t noticed it before, but the table was butted against a closed door in the wall. She moved the table out of the way and tried to open the door, but it was either locked or stuck. She knocked on it and heard a hollow sound behind it. Surely the stairs to the basement were there… why was it inaccessible? Did Clayton never use his basement?

Prescott went back to the storeroom and took a closer look at the trap door. There was a ring attached to it so that one could lift up the panel—and that’s what she did.

A wooden staircase led down into darkness.

“Hello?” she called. “Anyone down there?”

Quiet.

Wait—was there a flickering light down there? Could it be a lit candle?

What the hell…

She descended the steps and found herself in a small space surrounded by ceiling-to-floor white drapes. Sure enough, a tall, lit candle sat on a small table. The curtains created an anteroom effect, hiding the rest of the basement from her. The creepiest thing was that now there was no doubt someone was either still in the house or had recently been there to light the candle.

“Hello?” she nervously called again.

This was definitely odd.

The curtains appeared on two sides of the anteroom. Prescott slowly moved to the curtains directly behind her and parted them in the middle. As she peered beyond the drapes, her jaw dropped.

The space contained two Nautilus exercise machines—an elliptical trainer and a treadmill.

Who the hell uses these?
Clayton certainly doesn’t!

Prescott stepped past the curtains to examine the machines. They weren’t new but they appeared to be used regularly. A towel was draped over the seat on the elliptical. Prescott tentatively reached out to touch it and discovered that it was damp. Definitely recently used.

Next to the machines was a small bathroom that contained a toilet, vanity, and shower. Remarkably, it was clean and spotless. A bath towel hung over the shower door. Inside the vanity were other toiletries—feminine ones, including a razor for shaving legs.

Holy shit
, Prescott thought.
What have I stumbled onto?

She went back to the trap door stairs and peered through the curtains on the other side of the anteroom. Prescott was just as astonished, if not more, by what she saw.

The basement obviously had as much floor space as the entire house upstairs. On this side of the curtains was one large room, tastefully furnished as living quarters for
someone
. Even though the lighting was dim, Prescott could see that the decor and colors were decidedly feminine. There was a large, round—and clean—Persian carpet on the concrete floor. On the far side of the room there was a queen-sized bed covered with a flower-patterned spread. The dresser was white and pristine, and on top of it were trinkets and knick knacks only a woman would keep. Next to the dresser was a set of oriental screens—the kind behind which a female would dress. Opposite that was a wardrobe with a large oval mirror on the door. There was a writing desk against one wall, and whoever used it was neat and organized. A small rack containing magazines and newspapers sat on the floor next to the desk. In the middle of the room were a table, three chairs, and an acoustic guitar propped on a stand.

Hanging on the wall near the desk was a cabinet with a glass door. Inside was an assortment of guns.

She pulled the curtains open as far as they could go and then stepped farther into the room. A shiver ran down her back as Prescott considered the implications of what she was seeing

My God
, she thought.
What is going on in this house
?

She moved to the center to examine the guitar. It was a Gibson classical model with nylon strings. Prescott didn’t have the expertise to determine its age, but it definitely wasn’t new. She guessed it was at least twenty years old, maybe more.

Next she went to the gun cabinet. A Heckler & Koch PSG1 rifle hung on a rack behind the glass. Two handguns were also mounted inside and there was an empty space for a third. A padlock kept out anyone but the owner.

The rifle… a sniper rifle… probably the weapon that killed Axelrod?

She had to get out of there. Tell Berenger. Call the police.
Something
.

But Prescott wanted to see more. What was in the dresser? What kinds of clothing were inside the wardrobe? Would she discover the identity of the room’s inhabitant if she searched the desk?

She slowly approached it and saw that a piece of paper was lying on top. Something was written on the scrap, but it was face down. Prescott took the note by the corner and turned it over.

It was a list of names she recognized, and all but three had lines through them. The ones that didn’t were “Joe Nance,” “Harrison Brill,” and “Stuart Clayton.”

Sheer terror froze her to the spot as she dropped the scrap. Then she felt a sudden sensation of air moving behind her. Before she could act, a strong force grabbed hold of her and a cold and damp rag covered her mouth and nose. Prescott screamed but the cry was muffled. The cloth reeked of a horrible chemical smell which grew worse as she attempted to take in oxygen.

Her eyes focused on the wardrobe mirror. Prescott saw herself in the clutches of a tall, blonde woman who had one arm around the PI’s torso, and the other hand holding the cloth. The woman must have been hiding behind the oriental screen.

Then Prescott’s vision blurred. The room tilted and spun.

Think! You’re a martial arts expert!

Prescott managed to elbow her assailant in the stomach. There was a blunt cry of pain, but then a knee slammed into the middle of Prescott’s back. Her knees weakened. The PI attempted a
judo
throw but her attacker resisted the maneuver with raw strength. Another blow in the back caused Prescott to drop to her knees. Whatever chemical was in the cloth, it was doing its job. She knew she was losing consciousness and there was nothing she could do about it. Prescott was aware of falling onto the rug.

The last thing she saw was that the blonde woman above her was wearing a floppy hat and sunglasses.

B
erenger took a taxi to the Meadowmere Southport Assisted Living Apartments on LaSalle, right across from City Hall. He went inside, signed in at the front desk, and was shown to a comfortable sitting area where several elderly residents were watching the television, reading books, or playing cards. After a few minutes, a man of eighty-something came into the room using a walker. He was dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt that had a Chicago Bulls logo emblazoned on it. The man looked around, spotted Berenger, and approached him.