The Day Will Come (13 page)
I showed no mercy to the other cars on the road. Flew by them right and left, cursing out loud at the slowpokes in the passing lane. I must’ve somehow been the recipient of divine intervention, not getting a ticket or causing a traffic pile-up in the process. I guess God hadn’t noticed how long it had been since I’d been to church.
Once I made it to Philly I spent way too much time finding the damn street and the right block. Those one-ways were killing me. When I finally got in the vicinity, it wasn’t hard to find Ricky’s house.
A small crowd had gathered to watch as Jordan pounded on the door of the brick townhome. The numbers hanging on the doorjamb jiggled visibly with each thump.
I angled my truck toward the curb, filling up the space in front of an alleyway, the only space on the block. Hopping out of the truck, it didn’t take me long to hear what was going on.
“Show your face, you bastard!” Jordan was yelling. He rattled the doorknob and kicked the bottom of the door. “I saw you in there! You come out, or I’m breaking down the fucking door!”
Neighbors stood on their front stoops, their expressions mixtures of amusement and irritation. No fear that I could see. From what I could gather, they weren’t too sorry to see Ricky on the receiving end of trouble, but didn’t necessarily want it on their quiet street.
I jogged down the sidewalk to Ricky’s place and waited at the bottom of the steps. Jordan didn’t notice me.
“Jordan?” I spoke quietly. Too quietly, I guess, because he didn’t react to my voice.
I went up the steps and laid a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, his arm rising defensively.
“Whoa.” I held my hands out in a gesture of peace, palms toward the sky. “Just me, brother. Take it easy.”
He lowered his arm, offering me a view of his eyes, which were red and watery. The first show of tears I’d seen.
“He’s in there,” Jordan said. His voice began as a husky whisper but quickly elevated. “The goddamned prick killed Genna.” He kicked the door again, not seeming to feel the impact.
I glanced at the many faces aimed our direction. Some of the amusement was still there, but I didn’t think it would be long before suspicion took root. The last thing Jordan needed was some scared old woman calling the cops. Taking a deep breath, I turned around.
“Show’s over, folks. Nothing here to see.”
They didn’t move. I took another look, gauging the mix of the on-lookers. Some older people, like I’d registered before, but lots of younger, too, with hard bodies and even harder faces.
I locked eyes with a young guy a couple of parked cars down, where he leaned on the hood of an old Mustang. His arms were crossed, riding high on his seriously muscled chest. His skin was almost as dark as Jermaine’s, and a brand of a flaming goat graced his upper arm. I prayed it was the mascot from his high school, and not the symbol of some violent street gang. Or the Devil. A glance at the crowd showed they were looking at the guy, too. Perhaps for a signal to disperse. I could only hope.
A loud thump spun me around to see Jordan standing with his forehead against the door, his hands in fists above him, against the wood. His eyes, I could see, were still open, and fixed on some point beyond the physical structure in front of him. I had to get him away from here before he either went ballistic on the door or broke down completely.
I looked at the Mustang Man again and straightened my spine. “Please?”
He studied my face, his mouth upturned at the corners. His eyes danced as we stood staring at each other—probably with the knowledge that he could make or break this for me.
Finally, he shifted forward just enough he scooted off the car. A subtle jerk of his head sent several people scrambling for cover. The rest of the crowd let up a collective sigh, as if disappointed the entertainment had come to an end. Doors clicked shut all around us, and people went about outside business, watering petunias on their porches, picking up litter strewn by the curb. Mustang Man gave me one last look, raising his eyebrows, his eyes sparkling. I nodded my thanks, and he sauntered down the sidewalk, trailed by two other guys who could claim only a small percentage of their leader’s charisma.
I guessed the guy ran the whole street.
Letting out my pent-up breath, I leaned against the doorjamb, about a foot from Jordan.
“Jordan. It’s time to go.”
His eyes closed.
“Come on, man. This isn’t helping anything.”
“But Genna…”
“We don’t know that Ricky did anything.”
That opened his eyes. “He—”
“—is an ass. I know. But that doesn’t mean he killed her.”
His eyes closed again, and his shoulders slumped.
“Come on, bro,” I said. “If he did it, the cops’ll get him.”
He rolled his head back and forth on the door.
I pulled gently on his elbow. “Come on.”
Using his upraised fists, he pushed himself off the door. Without the support, he swayed toward me. I caught his arms, his whole weight crashing toward me.
Using the wall as leverage, I eased him onto the step. His knees completely gave out halfway down, and he collapsed onto the step. I sank down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder, keeping him from keeling into the railing.
“She was getting out, you know,” Jordan said.
“Genna? Of her relationship with Ricky?”
He leaned back into me, tipping his head up toward the sky. “All of it. Ricky, the band. She wanted to get married.”
“To you?” I asked softly.
He nodded, his eyes filling again. “To me. Genna wanted to marry
me.
”
I tightened my arm around him, his pain evident in his words and voice. He cried silently for a minute or so before sitting up and swiping at his face with the heel of his hand.
“Ricky didn’t know?” I asked.
He looked down at the step and dislodged a stone with his shoe. “He knew she wanted to quit the band.”
“How’d he react?”
“Like you’d imagine. Completely freaked out.”
“Why?” Although I knew. I’d heard it from Annie.
Jordan confirmed it. “Because the band only kept him on for Genna’s sake. She was the only reason they considered him in the first place.”
Exactly what Annie had told Marley at rehearsal, when I eavesdropped in the bathroom.
“Without her,” Jordan said, “he had to know he’d be out on his ear.”
“He didn’t know about you?”
He sighed. “He knew about me. But he thought it was completely one-sided. My side. He had no idea how serious it had gotten.”
Oh, he had more than an idea. I was sure of it.
But I didn’t think Ricky was stupid enough to kill Genna. At least not on purpose. Because for
sure
he’d be done with the band then. Unless…if he got carried away and beat her up, he might not have meant to kill her, but figured she’d tell the others afterwards, so he left her to die.
I shook my head. It was all too horrible to think about.
“Jordan.” I considered my words, not quite sure how to phrase the question. “Remember how people said they heard you and Genna arguing the night of the concert? What was that about?”
“Is it anybody’s business?”
I looked at him, and he ducked his head. After a few moments he said, “She told me she wanted to quit the band, get married, have a family.”
I waited.
“I asked why we couldn’t do both. Why we couldn’t pursue our music dreams with the band and be together.” He stopped, rubbing his face with his hand.
“She didn’t want that?” I asked.
He shook his head. “She was tired of it all. Tired of touring, of the songs, of the guys. Being around Ricky. And she didn’t want to make the band choose between her and their drummer.”
“Doesn’t seem like it would’ve been a hard choice, seeing how they feel about him.”
“No. They would’ve chosen her. But it was another excuse for her.”
“You weren’t ready?”
A strangled sound came from his throat. “I thought she was being selfish. I thought she needed to give the guys more warning, let them make the decision about the band. Show her she could have me
and
the music.” He leaned forward, resting his face in his hands. “God, I loved her, Stella. I would’ve given it all up for her. I should’ve. I was an idiot.”
“She knew you loved her,” I said.
“Did she?”
Looking at Jordan, at the tension in his shoulders, I knew he would always wonder.
With Jordan practically comatose and me not knowing Philadelphia streets real well, I ended up somewhere I didn’t recognize. I pulled to the side of yet another street that looked like all the others and poked Jordan’s side.
“Whuh?” He blinked slowly as he turned his head my way.
“Have any idea where we are?”
He looked around. “What street are we on?”
“I don’t know. Some freaking one-way.”
He studied the area, then pointed out the front window. “Keep going.”
“Where will that get us?”
“South Street.”
“Where Club Independence is?”
“Yeah. I’ll know my way home from there.”
I stared out the front window.
“What?” Jordan said.
“You sure you want to drive by the club?”
He didn’t answer, so I checked the mirrors and pulled out into the street.
“Jordan,” I said when we were on our way. “Any reason you would’ve been arguing with Bobby Baronne at the concert?”
His face scrunched. “What? Why?”
“Someone told the cops they heard the two of you.”
I expected a blow-up, but instead he closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “I didn’t argue with Baronne. Didn’t kidnap him, either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I’m not wondering anything.”
“Just the cops. Fantastic.”
I stopped badgering him and drove. Following his mumbled directions, we soon came up on the club.
“Stop,” Jordan said suddenly.
“What?”
“Stop!”
I swerved to the curb in front of Club Independence and we jerked to a stop.
“What is it?”
He kept his face averted from the building. “Will you see if anybody’s here?”
I watched as his face grew pale. “Why, Jordan? Why would you want to be here?”
He shrugged and shook his head, apparently not sure himself. “I don’t know. There’s some equipment I need to pick up for Saturday.”
But that wasn’t the real reason. We both knew it.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I didn’t know if we were actually in a real parking spot, so I looked around for some kind of marking. A sign by the curb read, “Independence Club Parking Only.” I figured since Jordan worked there—at least sporadically—we qualified. I hoped the meter maids would agree.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
He didn’t say anything, but kept his eyes pointed away from the club. I opened the door without checking for traffic and about got the panel taken off by a Lexus, which screeched sideways, its horn blaring. Yanking my leg back into the cab I took a deep breath, hoping I wouldn’t have a heart attack.
“Country mouse,” Jordan said, his eyes lighting up a fraction.
I glared at him. “Oh, shut up.” Scouring the street for cars, I jumped down from the truck and stalked to the doors of Club Independence.
All of the doors—a half dozen—were locked. I put my hands on my hips and studied the entryway.
“Over on your right.” Jordan pointed beyond me to a small metal square on the wall. “It’s a bell. Ring it, and if Mann’s here, he’ll answer.”
I pushed the button with my thumb, holding it down long enough to annoy whoever was inside so they’d come see who was knocking. I hoped so, anyway.
A few minutes later, just when my thumb was hovering again over the button, the latch clicked on the closest door and Gary Mann peered out. He didn’t look any better than when I’d seen him at Tom’s place on Monday. If anything, his color looked worse after a couple more days of worry. His clothes weren’t up to par, either. Dirty jeans, an even dirtier T-shirt, and smudges of grime marking up his cheeks and forehead.
“Help you?” he asked.
I glanced over my shoulder at Jordan, and Mann followed my eyes. Recognition lit his face, and he squinted at me. “I’ve seen you before.”
“A couple times. I’m Stella Crown, a friend of Jordan’s.”
Jordan stepped down from the truck and slammed the door behind him.
Mann watched him, his expression softening only slightly. “What do you want, Granger?”
Jordan’s jaw bunched, and he swallowed. “I need to pick up some stuff. That’s all.”
Mann closed his eyes and puffed out his cheeks, forcing air through his lips. “Okay, fine. Come on in.” He held the door open wider, and I scooted by him before he could change his mind.
The lobby felt like a different space from Friday night, when I first saw the happy, before-concert crowd. Different, too, from the screaming, frightened mob. Concert posters plastered the walls almost from top to bottom. I hadn’t noticed them on Friday night, with all the people. Mann advertised a variety of acts: magicians, dance troupes, plays. And, of course, bands.
“I’ve even done spelling bees and proms,” Mann said, following my gaze.
“A multi-function facility,” I said.
“You got it. That’s where the money is.”
“You ever have something like this happen before?”
His eyes shot to Jordan, then back to me. “You mean…?”
“The bomb threat.”
“Oh. No. I’ve been in this business for thirty-some years, and there’s never been trouble.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Well, there’s been little things,” he said. “Drunks and fights and graffiti and stuff. But nothing…nothing like this.”
His eyes went blank again, and it almost looked like he was holding back physical pain.
“Have you heard from Bobby?” I asked. “Or his kidnappers or anything?” If there
were
kidnappers.
He blinked once, and his face sagged. But then he blinked again and was back to his old expression. “No. Now, is there something in particular I can do for you?”
I met his eyes, wondering again why he wasn’t tearing up the police station for news of his missing partner. But I didn’t think I’d be getting any more out of him about that particular subject. At least not yet.
“I need to grab some stuff from the stage,” Jordan said. “We took a few things for rehearsal, but a lot of the concert equipment is still here.”
Gary nodded. “It’s all out there. I figured you’d be back to get it, and I don’t have anything booked till Friday. I had to cancel the gigs last Saturday and Sunday, and the new act isn’t moving their set in till Friday morning.”
“So I can box up our sound equipment?”
“Sure.”
Jordan avoided my eyes and headed into the auditorium. Mann didn’t seem at all interested in where Jordan was going. Kind of strange, if he was listening at all to the cops, who’d placed Jordan at the top of their suspect list for planting the bomb. For everything. How did Mann know Jordan wasn’t going to set another one?
“Think you could show me something?” I said to Mann.
“Like what?”
I hesitated. “Where Genna died.”
Mann narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t really
want
to see it,” I said. “But I think I
need
to.”
“Because…”
“Because I’m trying to help Jordan deal with this whole thing, and I’d like to know everything I can.” And maybe help out the cops in the process.
Mann’s tongue worked in his cheek, and he jiggled the keys in his pocket. But finally, without another word, he turned and walked to the far end of the lobby, toward the door Nick and I had gone through when we followed Jordan, on our way to meet the band.
There was no tour guide patter this time. Just the clumping of our feet on the tile floor, Mann jingling his keys, which were now in his hand. We traveled through the maze of hallways, ending up at the backstage door, where we had first run into Marley and Annie. And where we’d seen Mann on our way out.
Mann opened the door and kept walking, but instead of leading me toward the green room, where the band had been hanging out, we curved to our left, through a fire door and into another hallway, this one doubly wide as the others.
“Storage,” he said, waving his hand.
There were several doors in the space, and peeking through their small windows I saw boxes, shelves, and even one room that was completely empty. At the end of the hallway stood another door, with a red and white sign that read,
Do not open except in case of EMERGENCY
.
“Where does that go?” I asked, pointing at the exit.
He grunted. “Back alley. Our part’s shut off by a metal garage door. It’s where we load and unload big set pieces or equipment.”
“So it’s not really rigged to an alarm, like it says?”
“Sure it is. But I can disable it when I need to.”
He stood by the second door on the right and hunted through his ring of keys. He slid one into the lock and turned the doorknob.
“Sound storage,” he said.
I stepped into the doorway, but stopped at the sight. Cables, microphones, mic stands, amps, and even parts of an old drum set lay haphazardly around the room on the floor and metal shelving. A coat of black dust covered it all, and I couldn’t imagine that anything in there could ever be used again. Those cops sure didn’t scrimp when it came to checking for fingerprints.
“Here?” I said.
Mann stood in the hallway, his back against the opposite wall. “On the floor, right beyond the door, her head pointed that way.” He indicated the other end of the room.
I looked down, now seeing a dark stain under the layer of dust, the black not as thick where fingers wouldn’t have touched. “Is that—”
“Genna’s blood,” Mann said.
I stepped back into the hallway, bile rising in my throat. Why exactly had I wanted to see where she’d been killed?
“The door was shut,” Mann said. “They didn’t find her at first because the fire exit hadn’t been used, so they assumed no one was in this section. Only after they’d cleared the main areas did they come back here.”
“The band didn’t exit this way?”
“No. There’s a much closer door behind the stage. My security team took them right out the back. They were probably the first people out of the building.”
At least the guys were. Genna was the last.
A sound from backstage made me jump, and I headed that way. “Can we get out of here? I don’t want Jordan seeing that.”
Mann closed the room’s door and locked it, shoving his keys back in his pocket.
“You mind showing me backstage?” I asked. “Giving me a tour of the dressing rooms?”
He eyed me curiously, but gave a half-hearted shrug. “Can’t hurt, I guess.”
We walked out of the hallway and he led me around, showing me the room where I’d first met the band, and the little nook of dressing rooms surrounding it. I remembered Genna leaving in a huff after meeting us—probably still hurt at Jordan’s response earlier that evening, when he’d said no to her proposal to run off and get married.
“If someone left the room that way,” I said, pointing toward the door where she’d gone, “how would they get around to backstage?”
“Stage left or right?” Mann asked.
I considered this. Didn’t stage folks talk about their sides backwards? When it’s right it’s really left, or some other dumb thing? I knew it was either right for the audience and left for the folks on stage, or the other way around. Freakin’ theater crowd.
I stood in the same direction as backstage and pointed to my right. “That side.”
“Stage right,” Mann said. “Easy. You’d go out that door and simply walk across the stage to the other side.”
“Even if there’s an audience?”
“Sure. There are sound barriers that hide the actual back wall itself.”
So Genna could’ve been in the wings overhearing Ricky tell Marley he was going to wring her neck if she didn’t shape up. It would’ve become clear the kind of relationship Ricky had with the groupie girl, making Genna even more certain of her desire to take off with her new love.
We left the green room and found Jordan piling sound equipment onto a dolly. He glanced up from where he knelt, tucking a microphone into Styrofoam. His eyes were watery and red, and I realized too late that I should never have let him come back here. At least, not yet.
“Can we load some of this stuff into your truck?” he asked me, not meeting my eyes. “We’ll need it on Saturday.”
“The wedding?” Mann asked.
Jordan nodded.
“Sure,” I said. “The bed’s empty, and I’ve got some tie-downs.”
He nodded again and began pulling the dolly toward the storage hallway. The place where Genna died.
“Jordan,” I said.
He stopped. “What?”
“The truck’s out front.”
Mann looked at me, understanding, I was sure, my anxiety. “Yeah, Jordan, go ahead and take that out through the front. Use the ramp by the stage. Save you having to move the truck and all.”
Jordan studied us both, obviously knowing something was up, but he changed directions and took the dolly toward the auditorium.
When he was gone, I turned to Mann. “So, Mr. Mann. How come your head of security was at the concert when he’d supposedly called in sick?”
His face went white, then red, and he began jangling those keys again. “What do you mean?”
I snorted. “Come on. I know why Jermaine Granger was called in to sub—or why
he
thought, anyway—but I also know I saw Walker after the concert. He wasn’t in uniform, but he also wasn’t sick. Looked healthy and strong, carrying injured folks to the ambulances.”
“I don’t think—”
“And he was talking to you, after you ran up to him, asking if he’d seen Bobby. I was there, Gary. I saw you. And him.”
Mann closed his eyes and staggered backward, collapsing onto a folding chair that sat against the wall. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between them.
“You gonna faint?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“You care to explain?”
He shook his head again. “Not really.”
“Humor me.”
He sighed deeply and sat up, leaning his head against the wall and looking up at the rafters. “I can’t—”
“A woman is dead, Gary. Don’t you think it’s time to tell the whole story?”
I waited, crossing my arms and standing three feet in front of him, staring down into his face.
“Bobby didn’t kill Genna,” Mann finally said.
I cocked my head. “You’re sure of that?”
Mann’s eyes opened. “He’s not a killer.”
“Okay. That’s your opinion. But he wasn’t kidnapped, was he?”