The Boom Room (2 page)

“Switch blade? Stiletto?”

The tech nodded.

“Death would have been very quick. You can see there's not much blood.”

“Any sign of the murder weapon?”

“You can see the room is a pigsty. My guess is we won't find the murder weapon in here, but we have to look anyway, don't we?”

“Let us know if anything interesting comes to light. Okay? Looks like I'm going to be upstairs for a few hours.”

“Sure.”

Things had to be done the right way or the case could fall apart in court in a big hurry. With Gordon so focused on his suspect, Pratt knew he wasn't paying attention to much else. Since Snow was down for the count, at least for tonight, it was up to Pratt to attend to the important details.

Someone else was clumping down the stairs. It was past time to post a person at the top to keep people away from the crime scene.

Pratt turned to see his young partner, Ellis. Tall, dark-haired and decidedly handsome, he was dressed casually, but his eyes were busy, anything but off duty.

“You got here quickly.”

“I was already downtown for the evening,” Ellis answered, but there was something odd about the tone of his voice.

“Why did you offer to come in on this?”

“I know what this place is like on a Friday night. I figured you'd have your hands full.”

“You've been here before?”

“Yeah. A few times.”

Again, the feeling something wasn't quite right.

Ellis continued. “Where's the suspect?”

At that moment, the door to the dressing room opened. Gordon frog-marched his handcuffed murder suspect in front of him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Ellis. “Should have expected that when I got Frick, Frack wouldn't be far behind.”

“I thought you could use some help. This club must have been full of people when the shit hit the fan. If you don't want help, I'll just leave.”

“Suit yourself, Cubby,” Gordon shot back as he pushed his suspect toward the stairs.

Pratt hadn't said a word, but he was certain something had flashed between the suspect and Ellis as he'd passed by. Eyes never lied if you knew what to watch for—and when.

“We need to talk,” he told Ellis, leading him into the empty dressing room. “What's going on?”

“I came down to help.”

“Did you? That's the only reason?”

Ellis looked as if he might try to brazen it out. He started to speak twice, then deflated and sat down on one of the folding chairs.

“The kid Gordon is fingering for the murder…”

“Yeah. What about him?”

“He's my half brother.”

Chapter
Three

Pratt could remember only three other times he had been rendered totally speechless. The last was when his wife had walked out on him three years earlier.

Ellis sighed heavily.

“I haven't told you, but my dad was killed when I was five. Car accident. My mom remarried three years later, and the kid you just met was the result. Jamie Clark is my half brother. We haven't had any contact in nearly five years.”

“Reason?”

“Well…let's just say he didn't see eye to eye with the rest of the family. One night we'd all had enough and my stepdad asked him to leave.”

Pratt raised an eyebrow.

“Asked?”

“Okay. He booted Jamie's ass out the door. Satisfied?”

“Has anyone in the family had contact with him since?”

Another sigh.

“Obviously, my mother did. She was the one who told me Jamie was in trouble down here tonight. He always was her little darling.”

“You sound jealous.”

“Oddly, I think he was jealous of me, or at least envious.”

“Why?”

Ellis finally looked up at Pratt.

“Because I was always ‘the good son.' No matter what Jamie did, it was never good enough in my stepdad's eyes. Yeah, he was a wild kid. Didn't care about school. But there were good things about him that never seemed to count for much. His music, for instance.”

“When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?”

“The night he left. I was starting with the force and thought I knew it all.”

“Then someone gave your mom the news about what happened tonight. Who was that?”

“I didn't think to ask.”

Pratt wasn't satisfied with that answer but filed it away for later.

“So your mother told you about this mess and you thought it would be okay to come down here to check it all out?” He made sure he had his partner's full attention. “Are you actually that stupid?”

“I didn't stop to think. Mom was really upset.”

“Shall I lay out what you've probably done? Compromised this case, is all. We might not be able to take it to court because of what you've done.”

“I had to do something.”

“You want to do something? Use your brain. Get up!”

“Why?”

“Because I'm booting your ass out the door in order to try to save it. If they get wind of this downtown, you're toast. Understand?”

They went back upstairs, where Pratt loudly sent Ellis on his way, saying it was his night off and to go out and enjoy it. He hoped the other cops bought it. When Ellis's relationship to the suspect got out—and it would sooner or later—he wanted everyone present to remember Ellis being on the scene for only a few minutes.

At the door to the club, he leaned over and whispered, “Now get out and pray to God no one finds out you're the suspect's damn brother.”

Ellis pursed his lips.

“Sorry I let you down. I didn't know what else to do.”

Pratt clapped his partner on the back.

“Just leave, okay?”

It was a long night for someone whose evening was meant to be spent at home reading and listening to music. Pratt did that a lot now that he was alone.

He called downtown for more help and got it pretty quickly.

He assigned two new detectives to interview the staff. Several patrolmen were sent out to check nearby alleys and dumpsters for any sign of the murder weapon. Pratt and another patrolman took on the task of questioning the suspect's bandmates.

Pratt knew nothing about what passed for “kids' music” these days, but these three musicians looked the part. One had long hair, two short, but they all looked scruffy, with tattoos, nose rings and torn clothing. They called themselves Rotten Attitude. All claimed to know “nothing at all.”

But beneath their sneers, the detective could tell they were worried and scared. One of their own was downtown, being charged with murder. It was likely that one of them knew something useful. Pratt aimed to find out.

To unnerve them even more, he questioned them one at a time at the far end of the club, where he could be easily seen but not heard. Although he usually sat quietly when questioning a suspect, Pratt made sure this time to gesture a lot and raise his voice. Afterward, he then sent each of them to separate tables to wait, further tightening the screws. They shouldn't have been left together in the first place.

“I can't believe this happened,” said the heavyset, long-haired one as he sat down. His earlier bravado was gone, probably because he lacked an audience.

“Name?”

“Mike Master.”

“So how long you been in the band, Mikey?” Pratt asked.

Behind the kid, the patrolman taking notes smirked.

“Six months. They asked me to join because they needed a better singer.”

“And are you a better singer?”

“Our fans seem to think so.”

“So your little band has a lot of fans?”

Pratt was baiting the kid. A bit of anger might cause him to drop his guard.

“If we play our cards right, we'll get a big recording contract. Everyone says so.”

Pratt led him through the standard line of questioning. Did he know anything? What had Jamie Clark said? Where was he when the murder occurred? How had Clark behaved that evening?

Master knew nothing—or wasn't about to give up his fellow band member.

The only new thing drummer Jonny Fedrano could add was that Clark had told him before the first set that his knife was missing. Lewis was still alive at that point. Pratt wondered if it was just to set up an alibi.

Bassist Skip Blair was more forthcoming.

“Jamie is innocent! Sure he talks big, but I've known him since we were ten. He'd never hurt anyone, I swear it!”

“Has Jamie ever been involved in a fight?”

“Never that I've seen.”

“That sounds like a cop-out.”

“It's not, man! Okay? He's my bro.”

Pratt wondered what this punk would have said if he'd told him, “No. He's not your bro. My partner is actually Jamie's bro. What do you think of that?” But all he said was, “Look, I'm at least marginally on Jamie's side. Why don't you help me?”

The kid glared at him, making it clear there wouldn't be help.

Could it mean Jamie's band members also thought he was guilty?

About quarter to three, Pratt was rubbing his tired eyes when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was one of the crime scene techs.

“Got something to show you downstairs.”

“What?”

“You'll see.”

Pratt nearly told the guy off, but that seemed like too much effort, so he just followed along.

Downstairs, the office was now almost empty. Only the desk, the chair and a photocopy machine remained. The piles of paper, bar supplies and other junk had all been removed and stacked neatly outside.

“So what do you have?” Pratt asked irritably.

“It was underneath the photocopier. I knew we should have looked there first instead of wasting our time with the other junk.”

“Show me, please.”

The other tech rolled the copier away and there it was: a rather long switchblade with a carved wooden handle and brass hardware. It was just as Jamie Clark's knife had been described to Pratt by his band members. The blade was still extended.

“There's blood on it,” one of the techs said unnecessarily.

Chapter
Four

Pratt didn't drag his sorry butt into the squad room until nearly ten the next morning.

By that time, Jamie Clark had been booked for murder and Harry Gordon was strutting around like a hero. Gordon's partner, Snow, was still sick at home, so Pratt remained on the case.

Ellis was at his desk working the phones for a case they were just finishing up. His desk faced his partner's, and as Pratt sat, Ellis raised his eyebrows in a question.

“Care for a coffee?” the older man asked.

Ellis got off the phone. “Sure. I need to stretch my legs.”

The cafeteria was in the basement. They remained silent until they were alone in a far corner of the room.

“Late night?” Ellis asked.

“Got home at four. I'm exhausted.”

“So, ah, what did you find out?”

Pratt took a sip of coffee. “Your half brother has been arrested and charged with murder. A switchblade that might be his was found in Lewis's office early this morning, under a photocopier. We believe it's the murder weapon.”

Ellis sagged. “Jesus Christ…”

“That's not all. Jamie was not quiet about his dislike of the murder victim. The club manager who found Lewis's body confirmed he'd witnessed an earlier argument between the two. So did two other employees.”

“What was it about?”

Pratt grimaced over a large sip of coffee.

“Money, what else? Lewis actually wanted the band to pay to play there.”

“That's the way it's done in some of the top clubs. Bands are willing to pay to play, or at least play for nothing, just to be seen.”

“Unbelievable! Are they nuts?”

“No. Just desperate. Did you find out anything that might help Jamie?”

“David,” Pratt said. Using his partner's first name was not something he often did. “This is where we stop. You can't know anything about this case. You can't come near it. Understand me? If you're really smart, you'll go right upstairs, tell McDonnell about your relationship to Jamie Clark and asked to be moved to another department for the duration.”