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CHAPTER THREE

“Take good care of her,” Will says, depositing his car keys in the hands of the hotel valet.

“I hope the poor woman isn’t too intimidated,” Rav remarks as they cross the sparkling lobby. “She parks Bentleys and Ferraris all day long, but can she manage a turd-brown Golf?”

“What is it with you and my car?”

“I just don’t see why you won’t take a department car like everybody else.”

“I like knowing where my stuff is at. If I want a tissue, there’s a tissue. If I want a mint, there’s a mint.”

“You know Tic Tacs fit in your pocket, right?”

“If you don’t like it, maybe you could drive for once.”

“We both know that’s not going to happen.”

Vale is staying in the penthouse. Rav has actually been to this very suite once before, at a New Year’s Eve party thrown by an extravagantly wealthy friend from London. It takes up the entire floor, with a massive terrace overlooking the park. There’s a pool and everything. Rav has a vague memory of skinny-dipping and champagne… or does he? That might have been a different night. His college antics tend to bleed together in his memory.

A huge man in a sharp black suit stands beside the door. “You the cops?” Rav flashes his badge, and the bodyguard waves a key card in front of the panel.

They’re met by a harried-looking young woman clutching a tablet to her chest. “Hi there! I’m Eloise, Mr. Vale’s assistant?” She says it like it’s a question. “If you’ll follow me, please?” She leads them through a maze of rooms, her neon-striped trainers squeaking on the parquet floor. Things have been rearranged since Rav was last here, but it’s still like walking through the pages of Architectural Digest . Live-edge hardwoods, pudding-soft leather, floor-to-ceiling windows. Eventually they reach a lounge area that gives out onto the terrace. “Mr. Banks thought you might enjoy mimosas by the pool?”

Rav is honestly not sure if it’s a question.

“We’re on duty,” Will says.

“Oh, right.” The PA laughs, high-pitched and nervous. “Well, anyway.” She deposits them poolside with assurances it’ll only be a moment, and then she flees, leaving them alone with a bucket of champagne and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Will takes in their surroundings with a shake of his head. “Rock stars. You could land a helicopter on this terrace.”

Rav has seen worse. Or better, depending on your point of view. He helps himself to the juice.

“Ah,” says a voice, “I see you’ve found the mimosas.” Rav and Will rise to meet their interviewee, but instead they find a middle-aged man with a graying ponytail and a fake tan. He’s wearing a bright red Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned to reveal an unconscionable amount of chest hair, and he’s got a phone in each hand, one of which is pressed to his ear. “I’ll look into it,” he tells whoever is on the line. Then he thumbs off the call and sticks out a hand. “Charlie Banks. I’m the band’s manager.”

Rav shakes and flashes his badge again. “I’m Detective Trivedi and this is Detective Shepard. We’re here to interview Mr. Vale.”

“Sure, sure.” Banks gestures for them to sit. “Why don’t the three of us get started, and if you still have questions—”

“I’m sorry; Mr. Banks, was it? I was under the impression we’d already cleared the gatekeepers.”

Banks chuckles and throws an arm over the back of his seat, clearly no stranger to tense conversations. “Nobody’s gatekeeping, Detective. I’m just trying to be efficient. You’re here about Dick Vanderford, right? You heard about the little dustup he and Jack had on Monday, and you’ve read about the falling-out with Flashpoint. As the band’s manager, I know more about that than anybody. If you’ve got questions about Flashpoint or the band’s relationship with Dick Vanderford, I’m the man to ask. If after that you still wanna talk to Jack, I’m not gonna stop you.”

He has a point, Rav supposes. They’ll want to interview him anyway, so there’s no harm in starting there.

“Champagne?”

“Thank you, Mr. Banks, but we’d rather get down to it.”

“Please, call me Charlie. And shoot.”

“You offered to tell us about the band’s relationship with Mr. Vanderford. Why don’t we start there?”

“Sure. So, look, I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I’m just gonna give it to you straight: Dick Vanderford was a parasite. One of these trust fund kids who never had to work a day in his life.” He pauses, eyes flicking over Rav. “No offense to trust fund kids,” he adds.

Rav smiles thinly. Apparently, he’s not the only one with a talent for sizing people up at a glance.

“I’ll say this for him, Vanderford invested his assets wisely. Turned a tidy profit and used it to start gobbling up record labels.”

“Including Flashpoint,” Will says. “Giving him the rights to the Nicks’ first two albums.”

“I’m not clear on how that makes him a villain, though,” Rav says. “When an investor purchases a business, they also purchase its assets, do they not?”

“Sure, of course.” Banks pauses to pour himself a glass of orange juice. “It’s not uncommon for new artists to sign away a lot of rights when they’re just starting out. Once they find their feet, it’s considered good industry etiquette to let them buy back their work—for a fair price, of course. It’s also smart business. Sends a signal to up-and-coming artists that you’re a label they can trust. Vanderford didn’t give a shit about any of that.”

“He wasn’t willing to sell?”

“Not at any price. But that wasn’t even the worst part. After Tommy died in that motorcycle crash—that’s Tommy Esposito, the former lead singer—after he died, there was a huge spike in demand. Vanderford started peddling Tommy’s songs to anybody who asked. Commercials, political rallies, the works. He made every sleazy penny he could off Tommy’s death.”

“I imagine the band was upset about that,” Rav says.

“Wouldn’t you be? Jack, especially. He and Tommy were like brothers. They went to high school together. Started the band together. Wrote most of the songs together.”

“Fair to say that Mr. Vale had a bone to pick with Mr. Vanderford, then.”

“Sure, but it’s not like you’re implying.” The manager flashes his too-white teeth and spreads his hands. “Jack Vale wouldn’t hurt a fly. Trust me.”

Oh, certainly. Why wouldn’t they trust the unctuous manager? “What precipitated Monday’s argument?”

“The lawsuit. We’re suing Vanderford—well, I guess his estate now—for unauthorized uses of the band’s images, music, and so on. If you’re interested in the details, I can have the lawyers get in touch. But the part you should focus on is this, Detective.” He leans forward, looking Rav right in the eye. “We were gonna win that suit, and it was gonna be worth millions. Vanderford knew it, and he was starting to sweat. So Jack went over there to try to reason with him. Make one last personal appeal. Sell us the masters back, and we drop the suit.”

“I take it he refused.”

“Categorically.”

“Did he give a reason?”

“You’d have to ask Jack.”

“I will. That is, if we’re allowed to see him now.” Rav arches an eyebrow.

Banks sighs. “You’re allowed, Detective. Just… be gentle with him, all right? He’s a sweet kid.”

Rav stands, buttoning his jacket. “Shall we?”

The manager leads them back inside, pausing by a set of French doors. “One sec,” he says, and slips through. They hear him murmuring on the other side, presumably preparing his client for the big bad detectives, and then he opens the door and beckons them through.

Vale is perched on a sofa near the window, curled over a guitar as he plucks out a soft sequence of notes. He’s dressed casually: simple knit shirt pushed up at the elbows, faded gray jeans. No bling, just a couple of plain silver rings and a leather bracelet. The whole vibe is effortlessly sexy, which annoys Rav for some reason. Vale looks up at their approach, and damn , those eyes. They’re even more stunning in person. They travel over Rav, taking in his dark blue pin dot suit (Gucci) and burgundy polka-dot tie (Tom Ford), his high-maintenance haircut and neatly trimmed beard. His expression is hard to read. “You don’t look like a cop,” he says.

Rav tilts his head. “What does a cop look like?”

Vale’s glance strays to Will and his quite acceptable but undeniably bureaucratic suit. Then his eyes meet Rav’s again, and the faintest of smiles touches his mouth. Like that.

It’s a fraction of a moment, but it’s electric, as if a secret has just passed between them, and Rav is thrown enough that he just stands there, mute.

He’s startled back to reality by the crisp rhythm of high heels as a stylish older woman crosses the parquet floor. She has chin-length blond hair and icy-blue eyes, and the curl of her mouth says, Bring it on, little boy. She’s Diane Lockhart in a gray pantsuit, and Rav is feeling a little fanboy about it. “Joanne Reid, Hogan & Baker. I’m Mr. Vale’s attorney.” She hands him a business card, and as she does so, Rav gets a whiff of her perfume. It’s spectacular.

“Detective Rav Trivedi.” He offers his card in turn. “And this is—”

“Trivedi?” Belatedly, Rav realizes there’s another person in the room. The bass player—Nash, was it?—eyes him coldly from by the window. “As in Lord Trivedi?”

A Londoner, from the accent. Even so, Rav is surprised the name would ping. Most people don’t pay much attention to parliament. “My father,” he admits grudgingly. “How nice to meet a fellow Englishman.”

“We’re not fellow anything, mate,” Nash says.

Charming.

“Would you excuse us please, Ryan?” Diane Joanne says with an indulging smile.

The bass player leaves, but not before giving his bandmate an elaborate solidarity handshake that is almost certainly for the benefit of the cops.

Rav takes a seat directly across from Vale and makes steady eye contact. That moment they had before, whatever it was—he can use that. Establishing a rapport with your interviewee is just about the most important thing you can do as an investigator. A comfortable witness is more likely to share sensitive information. And a comfortable suspect? They make mistakes.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” he says, his tone smooth and businesslike. “We were hoping you could help us fill in some blanks regarding Richard Vanderford’s last few days.”

Vale nods. His eyes are watchful. Guarded, even. Does he always look like that, or just when he’s being interviewed by the police?

“I understand there was a disagreement between the two of you on Monday. Can you tell us a little more about that?”

He sighs, pushing a hand through his wavy black hair. “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, what did you argue about?”

The singer’s glance cuts to Charlie Banks, as if to say, Is he serious ?

“We spoke to your manager about this already, but we’d like to hear it in your own words.”

Vale sets his guitar aside, taking his time with his answer. As he moves, Rav catches a glimpse of ink peeking out of the left side of his collar, hinting at a tattoo under there. “We argued about the same thing we always argued about. His refusal to sell our property back to us.” There’s nothing aggressive in his demeanor. On the contrary, he has a gentle way of speaking, in a surprisingly rich timbre for someone of his slight build. Rav finds himself wondering what his singing voice sounds like. He wasn’t paying attention that night in the cab.

“Shady move,” Rav says, “buying your own records out from under you.”

Vale doesn’t bite. “That part was fine. He bought the label, right? But refusing to sell them back, even for a profit…” He shakes his head and leaves it at that. He’s careful, this one.

“I can see why that would be upsetting. On top of which, he was profiting from Tommy Esposito’s death.”

That gets a reaction. A glint of fury passes through Vale’s blue-green eyes. It’s gone in an instant, but Rav was watching him closely. There it is , he thinks, and maybe the thought shows on his face, because Vale says, “Have you ever lost someone close to you, Detective?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant, Mr. Vale.”

He nods slowly. “Fair enough. Either way, I doubt you would know what it’s like to have a personal tragedy exploited for profit. So yeah, I was angry. But I didn’t kill him.”

“Is that why you think we’re here?”

“Isn’t it?”

“We’re just getting started in our investigation,” Rav says with a bland smile. “So, you went down there to try one last time to convince Mr. Vanderford to sell your recordings back. I gather he refused?”

Vale’s jaw tenses, and he looks away, hoisting the ink at his collarbone back into view. “He told me he’d decided to sell them to someone else. Lupin Media.”

“The movie studio?”

“Apparently, ‘Let it Burn’ is going to be the official song of Pyrophantom .”

Rav can’t help wincing. He doesn’t know the song, but he does know a little about the Pyrophantom franchise. The hero is a wisecracking dude-bro who solves his problems by setting things on fire. His catchphrase is “get crispy.”

“Ouch,” Will says, succinctly.

“Did he say why?” Rav asks, grimly fascinated despite himself. “If he was willing to part with them, why not sell them to you?”

“Because he was a vindictive son of a bitch,” Charlie Banks puts in.

“Mr. Banks, please. If you have something to add—”

“He’s right, though,” Vale says. “Vanderford straight-up told me it was payback. Maybe if we hadn’t weaponized our fans and dragged him on social media, blah blah. He was so smug about it, too. Going on about how this was just the beginning. Like he was holding all the cards, and he couldn’t wait to make his play. He literally waved the paperwork in my face. So yes, we argued. But he was very much alive when I left, and I haven’t seen him since.”

Rav eyes him closely. “Where were you last night between 9 P.M. and 2 A.M. ?”

“Here.” Vale inclines his head at the floor. “Right here, on this sofa, writing music.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

He shakes his head. “I always write alone, at least since Tommy…” His glance falls. “No,” he finishes quietly.

Joanne Reid rises from the sofa. “Now, Detectives, I believe my client has answered enough questions.”

“Actually,” Rav says, “we have several more. If you’d prefer, we can continue this conversation at the station.”

She just smiles, as if to say, nice try . “Mr. Vale has a train to catch. Please feel free to submit a request for a follow-up interview. You have my contact details.”

“I’ll do that. But I’d advise you to honor that request, Ms. Reid, so that when the press asks me whether Mr. Vale has cooperated with the investigation, I’m in a position to say yes.”

The lawyer starts to answer, but Vale beats her to it. “We’ll be back in town on Saturday. We can talk then, if need be. But I really do have a train to catch.”

Rav studies him for a long moment, as if maybe, if he stares hard enough, he’ll find an answer in those guarded eyes. Not that it matters. Short of arresting the singer, there’s nothing he can do and everyone in this room knows it. “I hope I can count on that, Mr. Vale,” he says, rising. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

“Lawyers,” Shepard mutters as the harried PA escorts them back to the elevators. “What are the odds she’s gonna let us within fifty feet of her client without a warrant?”

“I’m hoping he’ll overrule her. Him, or the manager, or his publicist. Avoiding us won’t play well for him in the media.”

The bodyguard hails them as they walk by. “Hey, Officers, if you catch the guy who offed Vanderford…” He lets that dangle, and Rav glances back over his shoulder. “Tell him I’d like to buy him a drink.”

The elevator pings . Shaking his head, Rav steps in.