Details were scant, though Maya, Sam, and I flipped between different news outlets trying to piece together what had happened. Bash's body had been found in his West LA home that morning by his manager, Carmichael. I thought of the naturally antsy man and had a moment of sympathy. He was probably eating antacids like Pez. Police had been called in, and at the moment it was being reported as a possible robbery gone wrong.
Which I didn't buy for a second.
As soon as we'd gleaned all we could from the media, I grabbed my purse and made for the door, quickly navigating the morning traffic toward West LA, where the street leading to Bash's house was all but blocked off by dozens of news vans, paparazzi, and law enforcement vehicles. I parked around the block and wished I'd gone with lower heels that day as I quickly made my way toward the hub of the commotion.
Bash's house was an older two-story home in a historic district on a lot that was impressively large—and probably expensive. Mature trees flanked the front of the property, and a large expanse of lawn separated the house from the street. Along with several wooden police barricades and uniformed officers, holding nosy reporters and curious passersby back at the sidewalk.
I scanned the assembled crowd, hoping to find another old pal of my dad's among the law enforcement, but my luck wasn't that good today. None of the faces looked familiar. Or friendly. I had a hunch Aiden might be inside the house, having had to respond to that "early call." I was just about to engage in that awkward morning-after moment by calling him at a crime scene, when I did finally spot someone I knew. Alvin Carmichael, the band's manager.
His brown suit was rumpled, his face pale, his few remaining hairs on his head flying at odd angles. He had one hand to his chest in an unconsciously protective gesture. A uniformed officer spoke softly to him as he led Carmichael away from the house. As they moved closer, I could see Carmichael's face and had another pang of sympathy for the man. His eyes looked like they were rimmed in dark circles, his mouth set in a grim line below his twitching mustache, and his forehead a network of worried wrinkles.
"Mr. Carmichael?" I hailed him, causing his watery eyes to turn my way. I wasn't sure the expression on his face as he spotted me could be called relief, but it at least held recognition.
"Ms. Bond," he said. Then he gave a nod of thanks to the officer and joined me on the other side of the barricade.
"I'm so sorry," I told him, meaning it. "I heard you found the—" I stopped myself just in time from calling his client a body. "You found Bash."
Carmichael sucked in a long breath and let it out slowly, as if trying to steady himself enough to talk. "I did. Earlier this morning."
"What happened?" I asked softy, putting a comforting hand on his arm.
He shook his head. "I-I was supposed to meet him this morning. Bash, that is. I knocked on the door, but when no one answered, I went in, and I just found him…" He trailed off, his skin ashen as he obviously relived the scene in his mind.
"The door was unlocked?" I asked.
He nodded. "Maybe Bash forgot to lock it?"
Or maybe his killer hadn't bothered.
"What time was this?" I asked.
Carmichael licked his lips. "About eight. A little before. I-I was early."
"Do the police have any idea what happened to him?" I asked, my eyes cutting to the officer Carmichael had been chatting with.
Carmichael reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a prescription pill bottle and fussing with the childproof lid. "They said he was probably killed sometime yesterday evening. Blunt force trauma, I heard them say."
"Meaning he was hit over the head," I mused, more to myself than him. "Any idea what the murder weapon was?"
Carmichael visibly cringed at the word murder. "A Grammy."
"The award?"
Carmichael nodded. "They're really heavy."
I didn't doubt it, but I wondered if someone had been sending a message with that particular choice of weapon. Possibly a disgruntled bandmate?
"You said you were supposed to meet Bash here," I said. "What was the meeting about?"
"I don't know." Carmichael finally got the bottle open and popped a little white pill into his mouth, swallowing it dry. "Bash called me yesterday and said he needed to see me. That it was important. I agreed to meet him this morning, but when I got here…" He trailed off again, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like the pill might have gotten stuck. Or maybe he was just trying to swallow down the bad taste in his mouth at finding a dead man.
"Bash didn't give you any indication of what he wanted to see you about?" I grasped.
But Carmichael just shook his head. "No. Just that it was important."
"What time did he call you yesterday?"
"I-I don't know. Maybe a little after five?"
I bit my lip, staring back at the house teeming with law enforcement.
Bash was supposed to have met me at six. I'd thought he'd stood me up, but now…now I wondered if he'd already been dead by then.
My mind flashed on the wife's tapes, sitting in Derek's houseboat. Had they had anything to do with Bash's death? Had the killer thought Bash had them? Suddenly I wondered if this actually might have been a robbery attempt gone wrong after all. Only, they tried to rob the wrong person.
I tuned back to Carmichael. "There's something I think you should know."
He frowned. "What?"
"I was supposed to meet with Bash yesterday."
His eyebrows rose. "You? About what?"
"About the song. 'Hot Waitress.' Bash hired me to find proof that he'd written it. I was supposed to give him an update on my findings yesterday."
"You were supposed to. I take it that means you did not speak with him," he surmised.
I shook my head. "He never showed up. I tried to call him, but there was no answer." I glanced at the house.
Carmichael winced again, as if coming to the same conclusion as to why Bash hadn't answered his phone.
"May I ask what you were planning to tell Bash?" Carmichael asked.
I bit my lip. Honestly, I hadn't been sure what I was going to tell Bash. "I have some tapes," I said slowly. "Of the Deadly Devils' old jam sessions."
"So you did find what Bash wanted," Carmichael said.
"Maybe. I honestly don't know if they contain any information about who wrote 'Hot Waitress' or not."
"Where did you get them?" His eyebrows were drawn down into a deep V.
I shook my head, not sure I wanted to drag Jenna into this. Assuming she wasn't already knee deep. "That isn't important. What is important is that I have them and I was going to meet with Bash about them last night."
Carmichael's eyes went to the house. "Did he know you had them?"
I shook my head slowly.
"Bring them by my office," Carmichael said.
I paused, sizing the man up. But in all honestly, what else was I going to do with the tapes? They weren't technically evidence of a crime, and Jenna didn't want them anymore. I had no idea who they should go to. Carmichael was probably the best person to sort that all out in a legal and official capacity anyway. "Alright," I agreed. "I've got a few things to do right now, but I can bring them by this evening." I figured that should give Derek plenty of time to be sure of what was on the tapes first.
Carmichael's frown didn't budge, but he nodded. "I'll be in my office until seven." With that he shoved his pill bottle back into his jacket pocket and walked away, his shoulders slumped in a way that made me think a brunch whiskey might be in his future.
I hiked the half mile back to my car. I could have pressed to see Aiden, but I had a feeling he didn't know much more than Carmichael had already given me at this point. Forensics would still be gathering evidence, and the ME would be unlikely to give up anything definitive. And the truth was, I really had nothing more to add to his case. I hadn't seen Bash last night, and I had no idea where he'd been or with whom.
And I wasn't yet ready to face that awkward morning-after moment.
My phone rang as I slid into the driver's seat, and I pulled it out of my purse to see Caleigh's name on the readout. I swiped to take the call.
"Hi, Caleigh," I answered. "What's up?"
"Well, for starters," she answered, "guess who slept together last night?"
I had a brief moment of panic, thinking somehow my evening with Aiden had been telegraphed to all my employees.
Until Caleigh finished with, "Jenna and her boyfriend!"
I let out a sigh that I hoped wasn't audible to Caleigh. "So she did go see him."
"Oh, yes, she did. In fact, she just now left his place."
"What's the address?" I asked, rummaging in my purse for a pen to write it down. "Maybe I can get a name off of it."
"Don't bother," Caleigh said, and I could detect a note of mischief in her voice this time. "You already know it. Jenna just left Keith Kane's place."
I blinked at the pleasant street sitting outside my window. "Wait—are you telling me Keith is sleeping with Drake's wife?"
"Uh-huh." Caleigh's voice was positively gleeful.
"You sure it was Keith and not Harry she was there to see?" I clarified.
"Positive. It was definitely Keith I just watched her kiss goodbye."
I let out a sharp breath. "That puts a new spin on things."
"That's what I thought," Caleigh agreed. "Drake had been threatening both Jenna's and Keith's gravy trains. I could easily see the two of them conspiring to get rid of their problem together."
"But if that's true, why kill Bash?" I asked, watching another police car turn down his street.
"Well, maybe Bash saw something?" Caleigh reasoned. "That night at the Beverly Hotel. Maybe Bash figured out it was Keith who killed Drake, and then Keith had to kill Bash to cover his tracks."
"It's possible," I conceded, thinking of how Derek had been sure of Keith's guilt in my office the day before.
"And didn't you say he was late to the band meeting that night? Everyone else was waiting for him in the bar?"
"That's right. He was last to arrive."
We were quiet a beat as we thought about that.
"So what do you want me to do?" Caleigh asked.
"You're still in Tujunga?"
"Yeah. I'm parked two houses down from Keith's place."
"Stay where you are. I'll be right there."
* * *
Unfortunately, with Tujunga sitting on the outer banks of civilization in Southern California, "right there" ended up being a good forty minutes later. But I spotted Caleigh's car as soon as I turned onto Keith's street and pulled to a stop at the curb behind it. We exited our vehicles at the same time, and Caleigh shaded her eyes against the sun as she nodded across the street toward Keith and Harry's McMansion.
"He's still in there. No one's come out since Jenna went home," she told me.
I nodded. "Good. Let's go chat with the boyfriend, then."
We quickly crossed the street and walked up the pathway to the wood and iron detailed front door. I gave a swift knock, and we didn't have to wait long before footsteps sounded on the other side. A beat later the door opened to reveal Harry, again dressed in too-tight leather. This time he'd paired the sausage-casing pants with a T-shirt bearing the band's likeness circa their heyday. Like Harry, the shirt looked faded, wrinkled, and like it had seen better days.
"Hey," he said, squinting at me as if he was trying to pull some recognition to the forefront of his mind.
"Jamie Bond," I supplied.
"Riiiight. Lady cop."
"PI," I corrected. "And this is my associate, Caleigh Presley."
"Presley?" Harry turned his attention to Caleigh. Or at least to her cleavage. "Any relation to Elvis?"
Caleigh's face lit up. "Actually, yes! The King is my third cousin twice removed on my father's side."
"Dude. Cool." He grinned at her. Well, at her cleavage.
"Is Keith in?" I asked, looking past him. "We were hoping to talk to him."
Harry nodded. "In the living room." He opened the door wider to allow us entry. "Come on in."
I stepped inside and was immediately assaulted by the stench of marijuana and beer. I could see Caleigh wrinkling up her nose beside me, but her mama had raised her right, and she was too polite to say anything.
"It reeks like pot in here," I told Harry.
What can I say? Derek had raised me.
Harry just giggled. "I know. Gotta love legal California, right? They even deliver that stuff now."
Keith was sitting on the leather sofa facing the giant TV. This time it was tuned in to a news station, the image of Bash's house flashing across it behind a reporter. While the scene was slightly different than the one I'd left—fewer police cars and more paparazzi—I could tell by the snippets of text scrolling across the bottom of the screen that not many more details had been released to the public yet.
Keith turned from the news as we walked in, popping up from his seat as soon as recognition set in. "You again."
"Hi, Keith." I gave him a big smile.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his eyes flitting to Caleigh.
"We had some questions to ask you," I said, not waiting for an invitation before sitting in the armchair opposite him.
"About what?" he asked. He slowly lowered himself back to the sofa, but his eyes were still pinging quickly between Caleigh and me as if expecting an inquisition.
Smart man.
"Let's start with that," I said, nodding toward the TV. "What do you know about Bash's death?"
"It's on like every channel," Harry piped up. "They're coming after us, dude."
"They?" I asked, turning my attention to the bass player.
"Whoever killed Drake and Bash. Obviously someone is killing off the band. And we're next!" Harry's eyes were wide and had a little bit of a wild look.
"Chill," Keith told him. "No one is killing off band members."
Which wasn't entirely true. Two band members were dead. And I had a feeling all the rest were liars.
Harry didn't look convinced either, but he clamped his lips shut and sank down onto the leather sofa with a squeak.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Caleigh said, laying the Southern charm on thick. "This must be such a shock."
"Huge. Big shocker," Harry agreed, nodding vigorously.
I turned back to Keith. "And you?"
"And me what?" Keith shot back.
"Were you shocked to hear Bash was dead?"
"O-of course I was!" Keith sputtered. "What sort of question is that?"
"Where were you last night?" I asked, answering his question with a question.
"Here." His eyes darted around the room.
"Alone?"
"Harry was in his room."
"And you were in yours?" I asked.
Keith nodded.
"Alone?" I asked again.
Keith licked his lips. "Yeah."
I glanced to Caleigh. She shook her head, giving me a small, knowing smile.
I turned my gaze back to Keith. "I don't think you're being honest with me."
"W-what are you talking about?" he asked with more pinging eyes, more sputtering, and a lot more fear.
"I'm talking about the woman you were with last night."
Keith worked his jaw back and forth a little. "Okay. Yeah. So, I was with a chick. So what?"
"So she's your bandmate's widow. Jenna James."
"Dude!" Harry yelled. "You were with Jenna?"
"No!" Keith jumped up from the sofa again. "I mean…" His eyes went from Caleigh to me, as if trying to assess how much we were guessing and how much we knew for fact. "I mean, yeah. Yes. I saw her. So what? She was grieving. I-I was comforting her."
"With your tongue?" Caleigh asked, giving him her Southern belle smile.
Keith's mouth opened and closed a few times, as if trying on a few different lies for size. Apparently none felt like they'd get him out of this jam, as he finally just let out a long breath, seeming to collapse in on himself as he sank back down onto the sofa. "Okay. Yes, fine. I was with Jenna last night."
"Dude," Harry said again. Though this time there seemed to be more reverence than shock in the intonation.
"But it's not what you think!" Keith protested.
"Oh?" I asked. "What is it that we think?"
"Look, it's not like this was an affair or a fling."
He was sleeping with his friend's wife—that was pretty much the definition of an affair. But I just nodded for him to go on.
"Jenna and I are in love."
"Really?" Caleigh asked, clearly skeptical.
"How long have you been seeing each other?" I asked.
He licked his lips again. "Almost a year."
"Did Drake know?"
"No!" Keith shook his head, grey hair swinging at his sides. "No way. We were super careful. Jenna didn't want him finding out and cutting her off."
"And I don't imagine he'd take too kindly to his friend betraying him either," I pointed out.
Keith sucked in some more air. "Yeah. There was that." He paused. "Look, Jenna gets me like no other chick does. It isn't just physical, you know? We have so much in common."
"Like Drake," I noted.
But he shook his head. "No. She's like real, you know."
Well, parts of her were. Other parts were clearly man-made.
"And we're both survivors," he went on.
"Cancer?" Caleigh asked, sympathy in her voice.
He shook his head. "Abduction." His gaze went to the ceiling. "From up there."
Mental forehead smack. "Don't tell me you're a member of AAA too?"
He nodded slowly. "I've been probed, man. By aliens."
"Dude!" Harry piped up from the sofa, the word taking on another meaning this time.
I shook my head. "Okay, E.T. stuff aside, what was your plan with Jenna?"
"Plan?" Keith asked.
"She asked Drake for a divorce," I pointed out.
"Hey, that was all her idea, man." Keith jutted his chin out. "But yeah. We were going to be together after it was finalized."
"And she got her alimony settlement. Only she found that Drake had her followed by a PI."
"Wait, aren't you a PI?" Harry asked.
The man was so quick on the uptake it was scary.
"Jenna feared Drake would find out about you," I went on, ignoring Harry's attempts to catch up, "and then she'd get nothing in the divorce. So, you killed Drake for her."
"Whoa!" Keith put his hands out in a surrender motion. "I didn't kill anyone. I was nowhere near the pool when Drake drowned. I was in my hotel room."
Then it hit me. "With Jenna. She's the hot, stacked 'chick.'"
Keith nodded.
"So Jenna was at the hotel the night that Drake died too?" Caleigh piped up.
"Now wait a minute," Keith said. "Jenna had nothing to do with this either. She was with me the whole time."
Convenient that the two secret lovers were each other's alibis. Or non-alibis as the case might be.
"Maybe you two killed Drake together when Jenna realized that her blackmail plan might backfire."
"Blackmail?" Keith frowned. His eyes went from me to Caleigh. Then to Harry, who just shrugged.
Apparently Jenna hadn't shared that part of her plan with her boyfriend.
"The band tapes," I supplied. "Jenna had the tapes with all of your jam sessions on them."
"Jenna had our jam sessions?" Keith said, almost more to himself than to us. His eyebrows drew down, his eyes going to the floor as he processed this.
Harry frowned. "How did Jenna get them?"
"Drake gave them to her as a wedding present," I said.
"Before he realized what was on them," Caleigh added. "Before the song hit big."
"So what is on them?" Keith asked. I detected a distinct note of fear in his voice at what the answer might be. I was tempted to leave him hanging for a bit for lying to me.
"I don't know," I finally relented. "Neither did Jenna. She didn't listen to them. But someone broke into her house to try to take them."
"Dude!" Harry said.
"Jenna told me someone broke in. She didn't say why," Keith said. "Did they get the tapes?"
I shook my head. "Jenna interrupted them before they could find anything."
"Where are the tapes now?" Keith asked, his eyes cutting meaningfully to Harry.
For once, Harry looked stone-cold sober, his full focus on my answer.
"They're somewhere safe."
The two shared a look again. I had a sudden niggle of fear that I might be painting a target on my back. I'd be glad to offload the whole mess into Carmichael's lap that evening.
"Harry," Caleigh said, her big blue eyes turning on the bass player. "You never said where you were?"
"Me?" Harry looked from one face to another. "W-what do you mean?"
"Last night. Keith here says he was with Jenna. If that's true, it sounds like you were alone when Bash was killed."
Harry's face went white. "I didn't kill him!" His eyes went to the larger-than-life display of Bash's house on the TV screen. "It's some maniac out there. Someone killing off Devils!"
Not even Keith looked like he believed that anymore.
"Have either of you talked to Tad Windhorse?" I asked, feeling like our welcome was quickly wearing off here.
Two blank expressions turned my way.
"Tosh Thomas?" I tried again.
"I told you he took off years ago," Keith said.
"That may be, but he's in town now." Or at least he was. "He got in a couple of days before Drake died."
The fear was back in Harry's eyes, and he opened his mouth to say something.
"No!" Keith jumped in, silencing Harry with a look. "We haven't heard from him."
Harry shut his mouth. "That dude was bad news," he mumbled.
"Look, I think we've had just about enough of answering your questions," Keith said, rising from his spot on the sofa. "I think you better go."
Honestly, it was a wonder they'd let us stay as long as they had. Keith followed us as we rose and walked to the front door. He held it open, all but shoving us out onto the porch.
"And stop following us around!" he warned.
Before he slammed the door shut and threw the lock.