Authors: Terri Blackstock
Double Minds (19 page)
She pressed her speed dial for Gibson, waited as it rang.
“Hey,” her brother said.
“Gibson, write this down! ULM 346.”
“What?”
“ULM 346. Write it down! It’s the tag number of the guy who’s been following me.”
“Somebody’s following you?”
“No, I’m following
him!
” The man must have seen her—he turned off onto a less traveled road. She had no intention of following him there. “Did you get it?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
She stepped on her accelerator and raced away, in case he pulled a copycat and came after her again. “The better question is where is
he?
He just turned from Hillsboro Pike onto Woodmont. He’s in a small white sedan. Send somebody, Gibson! Quick!”
“Is this the guy on the security tape? The one who may have called you?”
“Yes. He has the baseball cap, the long brown hair. I’ve seen him following me before.”
“Are you safe now?”
“Yes, I lost him. Or … he lost me.” She searched her mirror. “I don’t see him anymore.”
“Okay, give me a minute.” He put his phone down, and she prayed he was sending a squad car. He came back to the phone.
“Very interesting.”
“What?”
“You’re not going to believe who this guy is.”
She swallowed the invisible cotton in her mouth. “I’m dying to know.”
“It’s Mick Evans. Nathan Evans’s son.”
Gibson sat in his Bonneville in the parking lot of Mick Evans’s apartment, waiting for his sister’s stalker to get home. Mick showed up not long after Gibson arrived and ambled up the steps to his apartment, hands in his pockets.
Gibson got out and yelled up to him. “Mick?”
Mick turned at the top of the stairs.
Gibson showed him his badge. “I’m Detective James with the Nashville Police Department. Can I have a word with you, please?”
Mick shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” He came down the steps and shook Gibson’s hand. “Want to come in?”
Gibson assessed him. Long hair, baseball cap. He looked a little like his father—and nothing like Brenna. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“About my sister’s death?” Mick asked.
“Yeah, mostly.”
Mick shrugged. “Sure, come on up.”
Gibson followed Mick up the stairs and waited as he unlocked it. As he turned the knob, the door flew open. Marta, Brenna’s roommate, stood there.
“Hi!” She looked startled at the sight of Gibson. “What are you doing here?”
Mick looked just as surprised to see her in his apartment. “He wants to ask me some questions. What are
you
doing here?”
She looked a little troubled as she backed away from the door. Her eyes seemed to signal Gibson. Was she worried he’d tell Mick that she’d been the one to turn Chase in? She turned back to Mick and answered his question. “I wanted to talk to you, so I used my key.”
Mick didn’t seem happy. “You should have called.”
Following Mick inside, Gibson felt tension rippling on the air. “Do I need to go?” Marta’s question seemed addressed to both of them.
Gibson thought about asking her to leave, but she’d been pretty forthcoming already. Maybe having her here would help them get to the bottom of things. “You can stay, as far as I’m concerned.”
Mick ignored her question and went to the couch, gesturing for Gibson to have a seat.
There wasn’t much furniture. Just a couch and a chair, a couple of beat-up end tables, bare white walls. A framed picture sat on one of the tables, the only picture in the room. It was a blown-up snapshot of a woman who looked like she didn’t want to be photographed. Gibson nodded toward it as he sat down. “Pretty lady. Who is she?”
Mick didn’t even look at it. “My mother.”
“Tiffany?”
“Tiffany’s not my mother.”
Was that hostility in his tone? Gibson looked up at Marta. She wore a T-shirt with the neck cut out; it lay in a wide, frayed smile across her shoulders. Her hair was spiked, and the ring on her lip caught the light from the window. “His mother died.”
Gibson looked at Mick. “When?”
“When I was twelve.”
Gibson locked onto Mick’s eyes—they were several shades of gray. “Did you live with her until then?”
“Yes.”
Mick clearly wasn’t a talker. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So why don’t we cut to the chase?” Mick asked. “We both know why you’re here.”
Did they? Were they talking about Brenna or Parker? “So why do you think I’m here?”
“My sister, of course.”
Gibson decided to go with that. “Could you tell me what your relationship was like with your sister?”
“Half-sister,” he corrected. “We didn’t get along very well. I’m sure you already know that.”
Actually, no one had mentioned it. “So how is it that you’re friends with her roommate?”
Mick looked at the floor. “We met at a party at my dad’s house.”
Gibson didn’t give keys to
his
friends. “So are you guys going out?”
They answered simultaneously.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Mick looked uneasy as he denied it. Marta’s fragile smile faded.
“Mick, how did you hear about Brenna’s murder?”
He looked at the floor and rubbed his mouth. “I was at work with my dad when Tiffany called and said the police were there, that they wanted to talk to him. He left and I stayed.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
“I didn’t figure it was anything big. I thought Brenna might have gotten into trouble.”
“Had that ever happened before?”
“No, but there’s always a first time. She wasn’t perfect, like some people thought.”
Yes, definite hostility.
Mick went on. “She’d been involved in some things …”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “Just … lies, now and then. I don’t know.”
Gibson wondered if he was referring to the song.
“Do you know why she was working at Colgate?”
Mick was quiet then. “I think you need to talk to my father about that.”
“Did it have anything to do with the song ‘Altar Ego’?”
Mick’s chin set, his lips tight. “Like I said, you need to talk to my father.”
Gibson pressed on. “That night, did you think the police were there to talk about the theft of the songs?”
“I sure didn’t think it was about murder.”
Marta, sitting on the arm of the couch, rubbed Mick’s back.
“Were you in on that scheme? To have your sister infiltrate Colgate and steal Parker’s songs?”
He looked up at Gibson at the mention of Parker’s name. “I wouldn’t take part in anything like that. We’re in the Chris Christian music industry. I believe we should act like it.”
That sounded good, Gibson thought. But he wasn’t buying it. “So you knew about the plot?”
Mick got up then. “That’s not what I said. Do I need a lawyer?” Gibson didn’t want to shut him up. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”
Now Mick didn’t meet his eyes. He stared at the floor, his chin set again. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed hard.
Marta met Gibson’s eyes. “They didn’t get along, but she was his sister. It’s hard for him.”
Gibson let the quiet settle between them.
Finally, Mick turned back. “I guess it was Chase, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t have thought so. He seemed like a good guy. But since he had the gun—”
Marta met Gibson’s eyes again.
“Yeah, he had it all right.” Gibson walked across the room, glanced through the opening into the kitchen. His kitchen was spotless, seemingly unused. “How long have you lived here?”
“I’ve had the apartment for a year. Sometimes I stay at my dad’s, though.”
That explained it. He didn’t really
live
here. Gibson walked back to Mick. “Well, I guess I’ll go now. Good to see you, Marta.”
She nodded.
“Sorry I caught you just as you were coming in.”
Mick shook his head. “No problem.”
“Been at work?” Gibson asked, shaking his keys around, as if he couldn’t remember which one started his car.
“No. I was just out running some errands.”
“You didn’t happen to be in the Green Hills Mall area, did you?”
Mick’s eyes got dull. “Why?”
“My sister might have seen you over there.” He looked down at his keys again. “You know, my sister and I … we’re pretty close. You might say I’m protective of her. And she has the idea that you keep turning up wherever she is.”
Marta rose from the couch, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”
Tension hung thick in the air. Mick slid his hands into his pockets. “I went to the Elite Salon to look for my stepmother. Her car wasn’t there, so I was waiting for her. She was supposed to have an appointment.” He took a step toward Gibson, got close to his face. “I know who your sister is. I saw her coming out of the salon. But I wasn’t there for her.”
Gibson stared at him for a moment. “So you haven’t been following her? Calling her with cryptic messages?”
Mick wet his lips then, his eyes locked on Gibson’s. “No, I haven’t. But this is the end of this conversation. If you want to talk to me more, it’ll be with my lawyer present.”
Gibson hoped the warning was enough.
As he headed back out to his car, he heard Mick’s door open and close again. “Detective James?”
He turned. Marta was hurrying down the stairs toward him. He waited until she reached him.
“I just wanted to ask … what’s the deal with him following Parker? I mean, I’m kind of in a relationship with him, and if there’s something I should know …”
Gibson glanced back at Mick’s door. “If I were you, I’d steer clear of that whole family.”
“But why? I mean, you seem to think he’s been stalking her. But he wouldn’t. He’s not like that. What he told you is true. He doesn’t lie.”
“Marta, you seem like a nice girl. You’ve been a big help in this investigation. But you’re a little vulnerable right now. Be careful who you get involved with.”
He looked up. Mick was standing at the window, looking down at them. Tossing him a wave, Gibson backed toward his car, leaving the girl standing alone.
The studio needed new carpet. Parker had never noticed the dirt and stains until she’d sat on it for twenty minutes at two in the morning, waiting for the band Half Moon to vacate Studio H. Her whole family sat with her—her brothers on either side, her parents on either end.
Nothing was right. Her spirit had been unsettled ever since she’d spotted Mick following her a few days ago. She’d been completely distracted, which had thrown off her writing and preparing to record. Though she had quickly rewritten “Ambient” for Serene, her work on her own album wasn’t coming as easily.
The fact that Gibson had warned Mick away didn’t make Parker feel better. If Chase was innocent, as she believed he was, then the killer was still out there. Mick’s behavior made him a suspect, at least in her mind. But Gibson had nothing on him. Even if he had been the one who called her, he hadn’t threatened her in any way. In fact, he’d done just the opposite—he’d promised to protect her.
So was he the one who’d broken into her house to leave the song sheets? According to Gibson, he seemed to know about the theft. Would he have done something so stupid to tip her off?
She imagined herself sitting on the witness stand in court, answering questions about his guilt. What would a jury think about his threatening calls to protect her? His breaking and entering to leave a message?
It was just too weird. The whole thing was driving her crazy.
Even Serene’s phone call telling her that she was definitely still on the tour hadn’t eased the burden. And now she sat here like some kind of idiot, her family lined up like ducks in a shooting booth, waiting for another band to keep their word and surrender the studio.
Pete had already gone back out to his car once, where he must have had alcohol waiting. He’d come back in, staggering slightly. “This is asinine,” he said now. “
We
have the studio.” He got off the floor, dusting his seat, and stepped closer to the studio door.
“What are you doing?” Parker asked.
“I’m gonna bang on the door.”
“No, Dad. They’re our clients. I can’t run them out.”
LesPaul sprang up, too. “That’s ridiculous, Parker. Dad’s right. We can let them know that they have to leave. That we have the studio now.”
“But they’re paying clients.
We’re
not.”
Her younger brother wasn’t in the mood for logic—at least not her brand. “You work here for the sole purpose of getting studio time. So it costs you more than anybody else, when you get right down to it.”
She looked at Gibson. His head was back against the wall. He was sound asleep. Her mother had her head on his shoulder.
Parker just wanted to go home and go to bed herself. How would they record in this condition?
LesPaul banged on the door, startling them awake. It opened, and Half Moon’s producer leaned out.
“Your time’s up, Griff,” LesPaul said. “We have this studio now.”
“We’ll be out in a minute.” Griff slammed the door.
LesPaul looked back at her. “Parker?”
“I can’t do anything. He said a minute. We can wait a little longer.”
Pete wouldn’t listen. He banged on the door again. The door opened, and the producer looked angrily out. “
What?
”
Pete was a large, imposing figure—an asset in this situation. “Define a
minute
, pal.”
“We just need a few, okay?”
“No. You have sixty seconds to get out, and then we’ll come in and clear you out ourselves.”
“Dad!” She scrambled to her feet. “I have to work with these people!”
She stepped forward and tried to diffuse the situation. “Griff, it’s fine. We scheduled the studio at two because you said you’d be out by then. But if you need more time—”
“That’s it,” LesPaul said. “I’m going home. My time is valuable even if nobody else’s is.”
“No, wait. Les, please!” She turned back to Griff. “Here’s the thing—I’m going on tour with Serene, and my album’s not finished. The only time we can get in the studio is in the wee hours, since everybody’s trying to make up for lost time …”
He just stared at her.
She winced. “But, like, if it’s a problem …” Her voice faded, and she hated herself for being weak. “It’s okay if you need more time.” Griff glanced back at the band members. “Oh, forget it. We’ll get our stuff and go.”
“Really? Thank you, Griff. I owe you one.”
“No, you don’t,” LesPaul said. “You don’t owe him anything. He’s doing what he agreed to do. You book time, and you honor it. That’s how it works.”
The security guard came around the corner from the lobby. “Anything I can help with?”
“No, we’re fine.” She shot her brother a beseeching look. “Come on, Les, I have enough enemies.”
Griff shot LesPaul a threatening look. “Don’t worry about it. I said we’re going.”
Parker and her family waited as the band rounded up their gear and finally left the room. Groggy, Gibson and Lynn got up from the floor. “Mom, you really should go home and get some sleep,” Parker said. “You have to work tomorrow.”
“So do all of you. This is a family affair. It’s not every day you get to see your daughter blossom into a star.”
Parker knew that her mother worried about Parker’s mental state, what with the murder, the break-in, and the stolen song. Lynn James had no musical ability, but she was great at encouragement. And tonight, they might need that even more than they needed caffeine.
Parker deliberately hadn’t asked Daniel to play with them tonight. The early morning hour was too much to ask of a non-family member with a daytime job. Besides, she wasn’t confident enough of the song they were recording to let him hear it just yet. And she was glad Daniel wasn’t here to see their bad moods.
LesPaul’s mood didn’t get any better after they got into the studio. “Gibson, I suggest you throw down a Red Bull to wake you up. We have work to do.”
“Les, you make things so fun.”
Parker prayed that the irritable moods would be lifted from them before they started recording.
By six a.m., the recording of her new song was going as Parker could have hoped, but as she listened to playback, she felt that something was still missing.
“Parker, I think this number needs an orchestra behind it.” Les-Paul sat in the control booth, watching her through the glass.
“Forget it,” she said into the microphone. “You know I can’t afford that.”
He folded his hands in front of his face and peered at her. Gibson was leaning back against the wall in the control booth, his feet propped up on another chair. She saw him mutter something to LesPaul, then LesPaul said into the mike, “We could ask the orchestra at church to do it.”
She thought for a moment. That was one solution … but could she expect them to come in the middle of the night? Not many people would do that for her.
“Whatever time we get in the studio, we need to spend it recording the rest of the songs. I think we’d better make do with what we’ve got.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
The fatigue was starting to work on her vertebrae, making her neck stiff and her back ache. Even her feet hurt. She felt old. She didn’t know how many more sessions like this she could manage. But time was running out. She had to get the tracks down so she could get the records pressed. She had a million things to do. Once she got the recording done, she’d start worrying about money to finance it all.
When they finished recording her vocal tracks, it was almost morning. The sun had probably already come up. She hung her headset over the mike and went through the door into the control booth. Her family looked like the walking dead.
“I really appreciate you guys doing this. Nobody else in the world would do it for me.”
“Yeah, well, when we get a shot at the big time, you’ll do it for us,” Gibson said.
She grinned. “You’re kidding, right? I’m never sacrificing sleep for you people.”
Gibson took off his cap and threw it at her. She ducked.
“Seriously, guys, thanks a lot.”
“Well, don’t thank us until you hear the finished mix,” LesPaul said. “It may be the worst thing you’ve ever heard.”
“I’ve got utmost faith in your abilities.”
“At least your voice is strong enough to carry it. And the songs are killer.”
She didn’t often hear praise like that from her younger brother. Smiling, she crossed the control room, took LesPaul’s face in her hands, and kissed his cheek. He badly needed a shave. “See, I knew you were a sweetheart under all that huffing and puffing.”
He grinned and pulled away. “Somebody needs to huff for you, Parker, or you’ll get blown away.”