"I thought you said this was not our case?" Sam said, giving me a knowing look an hour later as she, Caleigh, and Maya sat in reception with fresh coffee in hands, Maya having made good on her Starbucks promise.
"You're right," I told her. "Drake's death is not our case. Our case is now the song."
"'Hot Waitress,'" Caleigh said.
"You know it?" I asked, turning to her as I sipped my drink. It was hot, sweet, and giving me both a sugar and caffeine high. Heaven.
Caleigh nodded. "Next to 'Being Rick-rolled,' it's the most shared song online right now. It's hecka popular."
"And apparently hecka lucrative," I said, sharing with them the story Bash had told me. "If Drake had been able to prove he wrote the song and owned the rights, it would mean a lot of money lost to the rest of the band."
"Which sounds like it could make the band angry enough to commit murder," Maya jumped in.
I shot her a look. "We're not investigating a murder."
She shrugged. "Just saying."
I frowned. "Yeah, the wife just said too." I quickly filled them in on my visit the night before with Jenna.
"You think she was telling you the truth about not leaving the house after you and Danny left?" Sam asked.
I pursed my lips. "I'm not sure. If I had to guess, she was hiding something. What? I don't know."
"It could be she didn't leave but her boyfriend did come over later?" Caleigh offered. "After killing Drake."
"Or possibly she was actually pointing you in the right direction with Bash. If Drake had found proof he wrote the song, Bash might want to get rid of him before he could show his lawyer," Sam said.
"But then why come here and hire us to find the proof that Bash wrote it?" Maya asked.
Sam shrugged. "Maybe he killed Drake but wants to make sure the proof isn't still out there?"
"Maybe it's a red herring?" Caleigh said. "A misdirect to make him look innocent?"
"Maybe we should focus on the case we have and not the murder," I suggested.
Caleigh pouted.
"Killjoy," Sam said.
I shook my head. "Look, we're just looking for some old cassette tapes or videos or notes. No killers. Just a song."
Maya sighed, clearly as disappointed as the others. "Okay, where do you want to start?"
I turned to Caleigh. "I'd like to know if the studio where the band made their original recordings kept any masters."
After Bash had left, I'd gone to my trusty friend Google and found out everything I could about the history of the Deadly Devils. They had, as I'd already heard, been moderately popular for a couple of years during the hair metal days in the nineties. Enough that there'd been the expected amount of touring, groupies, drugs, and debauchery that qualified one for rock star status. The band had consisted of Drake, the lead singer, Bash, the drummer, and three other members—a guitarist, a bass player, and a keyboard player who'd left the group after their second album. The band was managed by a guy named Alvin Carmichael, who kept an office in North Hollywood, and the last time any of them had played together professionally had been over a decade ago.
According to the Wikipedia page I'd found, the band's first two albums—including the one featuring "Hot Waitress"—had been recorded at a place called Dragonfly Studios in Inglewood. After that, the keyboard player had left and the rest of the band had done one more studio album, recorded somewhere in Mexico, where apparently studio time was cheap. The band's popularity had already started to fizzle at that point, and the gigs stopped coming shortly afterward.
I gave Caleigh the address of Dragonfly Studios. "It's possible the studio kept masters of some of the raw early tracks or the jam sessions Bash mentioned that might give us a clue to who wrote the song."
Caleigh nodded. "I'm on it."
I turned to Maya. "In the meantime, maybe you can track down some current contact info for the other band members?"
Maya nodded.
"And," I continued, "I'm going to pay a visit to the group's manager, Mr. Carmichael, and see what his take on the lawsuit is."
"I'm guessing that leaves me on Gammy Manchester again?" Sam said from her spot on the sofa.
I nodded. "How did it go with Alejandro last night?"
Sam shrugged. "After the potluck, they both went back to Gammy's place, watched a little TV, then went to bed."
I shrugged. "I guess older people go to sleep early."
"Oh, I didn't say they went to sleep. They were awake for quite some time. And very vocal." Sam's face took on a pained expression at the memory.
Maya did a snort-slash-giggle thing.
"Please tell me you didn't watch?" Caleigh said, clearly trying hard to contain laughter.
"No way. It was traumatic enough to have to listen. But even from a bench in the adjacent garden, I couldn't help hearing them. Over and over," she emphasized.
"Wow." Apparently Alejandro wasn't just smoldering looks. "Well, good for her," I decided. "At least someone is getting some."
All four of us single girls contemplated that thought for a moment.
"Well, I'm off to North Hollywood," I said with about as much enthusiasm as anyone about to enter the Valley could muster. "Wish me luck."
* * *
Alvin Carmichael's offices were in a large, nondescript building off Vanowen that looked like every other grey, stucco office building on the block. Four stories high, square, and dingy from years of smog exposure, it was far from the high rises of Wilshire. Then again, Deadly Devils were far from A-listers also.
I parked my Roadster beneath a tall palm tree in the lot at the rear of the building and made my way inside, where a directory near the back door told me Carmichael Management was on the third floor. The elevator smelled like stale cigarette smoke and groaned as it struggled up the two flights. I let out a sigh of relief when the doors finally opened on the third floor and made a mental note to take the stairs on the way down.
Carmichael's office was located at the end of the hallway, indicated by a brass sign on the door covered in fingerprints and a layer of grime of indeterminate origin. I gave a quick knock on the door before pushing inside to find myself in a small reception room.
"May I help you?" a dark-haired woman asked from behind an oak desk. She looked about as nondescript and grey as the building itself, her expression one of neutral boredom.
"Hi, I'm Jamie Bond, and I'm here to see Mr. Carmichael," I told her, giving her what I hoped was a pleasant smile.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
I shook my head. "No, but one of the talent he manages is a client of mine."
"One moment," she said in a monotone that told me she really didn't care who I was or why I was there.
She rose from the desk and traveled the three steps down a short hallway to a closed door. She gave a sharp rap before opening it and sticking her head in, the rest of her body hanging back in the hallway as she talked in muffled tones to someone inside. After a moment, she popped back out and addressed me. "What did you say your name was again?"
"Bond. Jamie Bond of the Bond Agency." I purposely neglected to tell her what kind of agency it was. I'd learned that in entertainment circles, it helped get a foot in the door if people labored under the misconception that I was the kind of agent that could book you on a film set rather than the kind that would catch you doing naughty deeds and report it to your spouse.
The receptionist turned back to the doorway, relaying the info to the person in the other room. Who apparently deemed me worthy of his time, as she finally stepped back and gestured toward the door. "Mr. Carmichael will see you now."
"Thanks," I told her, giving her a bright smile as I passed her.
That she completely ignored.
The inner office was just a shade bigger than a closet and gave off a distinct vibe of claustrophobia with the amount of clutter packed into it. Large file cabinets stood in the two back corners, both topped with stacks of folders and loose papers threatening to topple over. A desk sat in the middle of the room, the top littered with more papers and various electronics. It was flanked by two leather chairs showing wear on the arms. One small window sat on the back wall, though most of the light in the room came from buzzing fluorescents overhead.
Behind the desk stood a slight man with thinning brown hair, a pale complexion, and a dark suit that seemed to hang on his thin frame. A dark mustache twitched above his lip, and his eyebrows seemed pinched together in a slightly pained expression.
"Alvin Carmichael." He stepped from behind the desk to greet me.
"Nice to meet you," I told him.
"My, uh, receptionist said we have a client in common?" Carmichael gestured to one of the worn leather chairs as an invitation to sit.
Which I did, feeling a sort of sticky film on it. "Yes. I was hoping to ask you some questions about the band Deadly Devils."
Carmichael's pained expression deepened, and he opened a desk drawer, extracting a bottle of antacids. "I feared you were. Press has been unrelenting."
"I'm sorry for your loss," I told him.
He popped one of the pills into his mouth and crunched down loudly. "Thank you. It's been a…shock." He paused. "What sort of agency did you say you ran?"
I shifted in my seat. "I'm a private investigator," I told him, coming clean.
Carmichael's skin paled even further, looking an almost sickly grey beneath the fluorescent lights. "A private investigator…" He trailed off, sinking slowly back down into his desk chair, which groaned with a creak. He shook his head. "I've been fielding calls all day from the press and the police. And now a private investigator."
"Were you and Drake close?" I asked, trying to sound sympathetic, lest the guy pass out on me.
"Well, I don't know about close. But, I've been managing the band since they started. Almost thirty years now."
"That's a long time. You must have gotten to know the band well."
He let out a short, humorless laugh, but I was glad to see his color returning some. "Well, it's not as if we're best friends. Most of that time I've been on damage control."
"Damage control?" I clarified.
"Trying to keep the more, shall we say, distasteful antics of the band out of the media." He shook his head. "You don't get a reputation like the Devils did by being angels."
"Any recent antics come to mind?" I asked, trying to get a better picture of the dynamics of the band.
"Oh, the usual." Carmichael blew out a breath. "Last year Bash threatened a paparazzi member who took an unflattering picture of him at the beach. And there was a DUI from Keith, some woman claiming to be carrying Harry's baby, and as soon as Drake discovered Twitter, he had to be monitored constantly to make sure he didn't say anything libelous."
"Sounds like babysitting the band is a full-time job."
"It is. I tell you, I'm on high blood pressure medication, antianxiety medication, and my doctor thinks I'm developing an ulcer. All thanks to the Devils!"
"And now Drake's death."
The pained expression was back, his eyebrows pulling together. "Yes. Terrible tragedy."
"I understand there was some tension lately between Drake and the other band members?" I asked.
Carmichael didn't answer right away, grabbing his bottle of antacids and extracting another one. "Who did you say your client was?"
I cleared my throat. As twitchy as the guy seemed, he was careful. Then again, he'd just admitted that the better part of his life had been spent cleaning up the Devils' messes. He had reason to be.
"I'm afraid client confidentially prevents me from saying." I paused. "But I did meet with Drake Deadly the day before he died."
Carmichael popped the pill into his mouth and chewed. "I see."
"I understand Drake was suing the rest of the band. Over rights to a song called 'Hot Waitress,'" I said, coming to the actual point of my visit.
"That's right." He blew out a breath. "But I'm sure the guys would have worked it out. I mean, it's not like the song was worth killing over."
I gave him a questioning look. No one had said anything about killing.
Yet.
"You think Drake was intentionally drowned?" I asked, watching his reaction carefully.
"Well, I…I mean, that's what I assumed from the way the ADA was talking," he sputtered, backtracking.
"ADA Aiden Prince?" I asked. "He was here to see you?"
Carmichael nodded slowly, as if unsure he should admit to anything. "Yes. Earlier this morning. He wanted to know about the meeting."
I frowned. "What meeting?"
Carmichael licked his lips. "The meeting Drake called the night he died."
This was news to me. And it must have shown on my face, as Carmichael added, "That's why we were all at the hotel that night. Drake said he needed to talk to us."
"Who is all?" I asked. "You and…"
"And the band." Carmichael shook his head. "But I told you, none of them would have harmed Drake. They were like family."
Family who sued each other. But I set that aside, focusing on something else he'd said. "The entire band was at the Beverly Hotel the night that Drake died. All the members?"
"W-well, yeah. I mean, Keith was a little late, but he was there. Harry too. We were all at the bar. Waiting for Drake."
"And Bash? Was he there too?"
Carmichael nodded. "Yes. Everyone. Why?"
Because my client had told me he'd been at the gym. Those waving red flags started chanting I told you so, and I had a sinking feeling the wad of cash sitting in my desk drawer at the agency was going to have to be returned.
"No reason," I said, trying to ignore the dread collecting in the pit of my stomach. "So, you said Drake called a band meeting. Why?"
Carmichael sucked in more air, as if he were having a hard time getting enough. "Drake said he had something he wanted to show everyone."
"Must have been something important for everyone to show up," I said, immediately thinking of the proof of song ownership that I'd been hired to find. "What was it?"
"I don't know," Carmichael answered. "Drake never made it. I mean, we all waited a good hour, but when Drake never appeared, we all assumed he'd changed his mind or had one too many and passed out somewhere. We never imagined he was…" He trailed off, swallowing hard, his eyes bouncing around the room as if struggling for something to look at that didn't make him envision how Drake had been found.
"What time was this meeting supposed to take place?" I asked.
"Uh, eleven."
Which was right in the window Aiden had given me for Drake's time of death. "That's a little late for a business meeting," I noted.
Carmichael shrugged. "Not for rock stars. These guys didn't usually get out of bed until afternoon."
"You mentioned Keith and Harry. I think I read that they played guitar and bass for the band, correct?"
Carmichael nodded.
"Didn't the band have a keyboard player there too?"
"Uh, yeah. Tosh. Tosh Thomas."
"Was he at the hotel that night as well?"
"No. No, he left the group years ago. I haven't seen him in forever. I think he moved back East or something," Carmichael added. "Why?"
"Just trying to get a clear picture of what happened that night."
He shrugged and sighed. "I'm not sure we'll ever have that. I mean, it's not like Drake can tell us what happened." He sighed, looking positively ill again.
"Mr. Carmichael, what can you tell me about 'Hot Waitress'?" I asked him, changing gears.
"Uh, well, what do you want to know?" He clasped his hands on the desk in front of him, looking grateful for the change of subject.
"Drake was claiming he wrote the song originally. But I understand some of the band members didn't agree with that?"
"Right, yeah. Drake even had a lawyer. Served the other guys notice of a civil suit."
"Did you know about this beforehand? That Drake was planning to sue?"
"Me?" Carmichael squeaked out. "No. No, I would have strongly advised against it."
"And why is that? Did you think Drake's claims were false?"
He shook his head. "Honestly? I don't know. I never had a hand in the creative side of things. As long as the record company was happy, what the band wrote was up to the band."
"So you don't know who wrote the song?" I clarified. "Or if, say, someone else in the band might have written it?"
"Like Bash?" Carmichael asked. "Yeah, I've heard his claim too."
"And you don't believe it?"
Carmichael shrugged his slim shoulders. "Who knows? Maybe he did."
"What about the other band members? Keith and Harry? What did they think?"
"I can't imagine they were happy about the lawsuit, but you'd have to ask them."
"They ever say who they thought had written the song?"
Carmichael shook his head. "But they wouldn't now, would they? I mean, the band splits royalties five ways right now. If either Drake or Bash proved in court that they should own the rights, the rest of the band would be out of luck."
"Can I ask what sort of royalties we're talking about?"
Carmichael gave me a dubious look, like that was pushing it.
"My client mentioned that the song had a resurgence in popularity recently," I added.
"It did. Thanks to that commercial." He sighed, relenting. "I-I don't have exact numbers in front of me, but royalties were in the high six figures last quarter."
Whoa. "High six figures just last quarter?"
Carmichael nodded. "Each."
I took a moment to drag my tongue off the floor. "That's one hot waitress."
"You're telling me," he agreed.
"And a lot on the line if Drake's claim had any merit."
Carmichael licked his lips again. "That band…they were like brothers. None of them ever would have harmed Drake. I mean, they've known each other for decades." He gave me a pleading look, like he hoped I was buying his reasoning.
"Did Drake ever tell you if he had anything to back up his ownership claims?"
"No." The manager shook his head.
"Do you think it's possible he found something and was going to show that proof to the band the night he died?"
He paused before answering, his chest rising and falling quickly, as if he'd definitely had the same thought. And it was giving him minor heart palpitations.
"I don't know why Drake called the meeting," he said, repeating his earlier line. "And at this point, I doubt we ever will."
I sincerely hoped he was wrong. Because if it had anything to do with the song rights, I was possibly working for a murderer.
* * *
I left Carmichael with my business card and took the stairs down the two flights to the parking lot. The bright sunlight was a welcome relief from the artificial lights of his office, and I sucked in cool, crisp air along with it.
My mind churned over what Carmichael had told me as I unlocked my car and slipped inside. Drake calling an important meeting right before his death put a whole new spin on things. Especially since he'd never had the chance to tell anyone why he'd called it. Clearly he hadn't been on good terms with his bandmates, so it must have been important for him to reach out. And they must have thought it important to show up.
Even my client, who'd said he'd been elsewhere at the time.
Bash had come to my office assuming Drake had hired me to find proof that Drake had written "Hot Waitress." But just because Bash was still looking for that proof now, that didn't mean he hadn't killed Drake first to prevent him from telling the rest of the band about it.
Of course, the other band members had just as much to lose as Bash, if that was the reason Drake had called them all to the hotel. And at least the guitar and bass players had just as much opportunity to stop him, too. Any one of them could have shown up a little early for the meeting and killed Drake first.
But if that was what Drake had been planning the night he died, where was that proof now? Had the killer taken it? Destroyed it? Or was it still out there?
I picked up my phone and called Aiden's number. Four rings in, it went to voicemail.
"Hey, Aiden, it's me," I started. "Listen, I was wondering if you guys have found something among Drake's possessions at the hotel. Something relating to an old song he may have written. Like maybe cassette tapes or recordings." I knew it was a long shot, but if Drake had been about to present proof of his ownership to the band, it's possible he'd had a copy of it on hand. "Specifically relating to a song called 'Hot Waitress.' It's possible it had something to do with his death and why the band was at the hotel. Anyway, call me back when you get a chance. Thanks."
I hung up, feeling a little like I was chasing down a poodle when there was an elephant running loose. Who wrote a song thirty years ago was certainly going to seem secondary to Aiden while he was trying to figure out how a celebrity had died.
But, I reminded myself, as long as I wanted to deposit Bash's cash, the poodle was my case. While I was feeling a little unsettled over the fact my client had given me a false alibi, I wasn't 100% ready to write him off as a murderer. At least not yet. There was no way I would take a murderer's money. A mostly innocent guy who just lied about his gym dedication…that was possibly another story.
I picked my phone up again and called the office number.
"Bond Agency," Maya answered, her voice the perfect blend of perk and professionalism.
"Hey, it's me," I told her.
"Hey, boss. Did you meet with the band's manager?" she asked.
"I did." I quickly relayed the gist of our conversation to her. "I'd like to talk to the other band members who were there that night. Have you been able to get their contact info yet?"
"The guys who were at the hotel that night—yes." I heard rustling as Maya shifted papers at her desk. "I haven't been able to find anything on the old keyboard player yet. It's like he disappeared after he left the band. But I did track down the guitarist and bass player."
"I'm assuming they're local?"
"They are," Maya confirmed. "Keith Kane and Harry Star. They're roommates, sharing a house in Tujunga, just over the canyon. They do a podcast from there every week about the current hair metal scene."
"There is one?"
"Apparently the genre is hard to kill," Maya said. "I'll text you the address."
"Thanks," I told her before hanging up.
A moment later my phone buzzed with the info she'd sent over, and I pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward the 5.