Deception at Castle Rock (Amelia Grace Rock 'n' Roll Mysteries Book 2) Page 10

  Ginger Robbins greeted me at the door to suite 207 a half hour later. I had to bite back a small gasp of surprise at the sight of her. Her long red hair wasn't in its usual flawlessly coiffed style. It hung limp around her shoulders and looked like it hadn't been brushed since she'd taken it down Saturday night. Dark circles rimmed Ginger's eyes, and I noted the smudge of day-old eyeliner and mascara in the corners. It was quite a transformation from the perfectly put-together woman she'd been a couple of days ago.

  "We had to unplug the room phone from the wall," the harried band manager said, stepping back to let me in. "It's been ringing off the hook. Someone must've told the media where we're staying." She sighed wearily. "The guys can't even go downstairs without getting mobbed by reporters and paparazzi. Even the pizza delivery boy last night had a camera."

  "Well, I brought breakfast," I said holding up the box of fresh pastries from Sublime Donuts. I lifted the cardboard drink carrier in my other hand. "And coffee."

  Ginger's tired eyes lit up. "Ohmigod, you're a lifesaver!" She threw her arms around me, nearly knocking the drink carrier out of my hand. "I don't know how much more of this I can handle," she said in a shrill whisper, pulling back to stare at me with wide, desperate eyes. "The band's publicist quit this morning. I've been managing artists for almost ten years, and I've never had to deal with damage control for anything like this. We've had to cancel all of the band's tour dates through Thursday so far, and we don't even know the date for Sid's funeral. Plus who knows when—or even if—Mickey will be out of jail to make up the postponed performances." I flinched as she gripped my arm, digging her nails into my skin. "We may have to cancel the whole tour!" she practically hissed.

  I weaseled out of Ginger's grasp and rubbed my arm where her nails almost broke the skin. Ow. "If they can't find enough evidence to pin Mickey for the murder, he should be out by Wednesday," I told her. "So for now, let's just focus on getting through the next couple of days. Castle Rock is closed until then too, so I'm here to help. Anything you need."

  Ginger gave me another grateful squeeze and then led me further into the hotel suite. Zane, Jack, and Suzie were in the common room area gathered in front of the TV. Zane absently twiddled his thumbs as he sat cross-legged on the floor. Behind him, Suzie was curled around Jack on the couch, holding his head to her chest and stroking his straw-colored hair. She looked up as we entered the room and gave a tiny nod of greeting then shyly tucked her chin. Zane gave a half-hearted wave before dropping his forlorn gaze back to the blue and gray carpet. Jack continued staring at the television as if we weren't there.

  "Amelia brought donuts," Ginger said in a cheery tone that sounded forced. She took the box of pastries from me and set it down on the coffee table in front of the somber trio.

  "Thanks." Zane smiled weakly and leaned forward to open the box, grabbing an Oreo-crumb-covered donut. He picked cookie pieces off the top as he resumed watching the news. I flicked a glance to the TV and saw that Hollywood Today was airing a segment on Mickey's arrest. I grimaced when Mickey's mug shot appeared on the screen. Even in the black-and-white photo, he appeared paler, his eyes sunken. My heart ached at the sight of him.

  "This is bullshit!" Jack growled. Suzie let out a startled cry as he pushed out of her lap and flung the remote at the TV. It slammed into the screen with a loud smack and then clattered to the floor.

  "Jack, no!" Ginger yelled, rushing toward the television to inspect the damage. Thankfully, it didn't seem the remote had left any cracks or scratches.

  "I'm sorry," Jack said gruffly. "But Mickey wouldn't do something like this. The whole thing is insane." He flopped back down on the couch and hung his head in his hands.

  I sat down next to Jack and Suzie and helped myself to an orange-cream-filled donut. "You're right," I said. "Mickey didn't do it, and I'm going to find out who did."

  "See? It's going to be okay, Jackie," Suzie said softly, squeezing his hand. It was the first time I'd heard her speak.

  "Do you have any leads?" Ginger asked.

  I debated telling them about the knife and thought better of it, shaking my head. "Nothing yet, but I'm hopeful. Did Mickey and Sid come back to the hotel with you guys Saturday night?"

  Jack shook his head. "We never saw Sid again after he stormed out of the green room. Knowing him, he probably posted up at the nearest titty bar and downed enough Jim Beam to kill an elephant." He gave a bitter laugh. "The way that idiot drank, I wouldn't be surprised if they cut him open and find a flask of bourbon where his liver used to be."

  "He carried one with him twenty-four seven," Zane agreed. "A flask, I mean," he added when I gave him a confused look. I'd momentarily pictured Sid with a spare liver in his pocket. Ick.

  "So, Sid never came back," I summarized. "What about Mickey?"

  "Kat dropped him off with us," Ginger replied. "But after that, we're not sure what happened. He and Chad are sharing the suite next door. Chad said that Mickey was there when he went to bed—but the next morning, he was gone."

  A frown creased my face. "Where's Chad now?"

  "In the other suite," Jack answered. He met my gaze, his blue eyes sad. "Mickey's his best friend," he said. "They're as close as you and Kat. Chad's taking this whole thing harder than anyone."

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. I knew how desperately Chad must want to help free Mickey—I felt the same way. "Maybe I should go talk to him," I said, squeezing Jack's shoulder and rising from the sofa. I grabbed two more donuts and one of the to-go coffee cups. "I'll take him some food."

  I made my way back into the hall and knocked on the door to suite 208. Several moments passed with no response. Frowning, I knocked again. "Chad? Are you in there? It's Ame."

  I leaned forward and pressed my ear to the door, listening. There was a rustling noise, followed by whispered voices, though I couldn't make out what was being said. Soft footsteps padded toward me from the other side, and I pulled my ear back from the door just before it opened. Kat blinked sleepily at me. "Mornin'," she said with a yawn.

  "Um, good morning to you too," I said slowly. I looked from her bleary-eyed, makeup-smeared face down to the daisy yellow sundress I could've sworn she'd been wearing the day before at Camila's. Had Kat spent the night with Chad? A smirk curled my lips. Well, well, well. Good for her! "I'd have brought an extra coffee if I'd known Chad had company," I said, my voice teasing.

  My comment seemed to wake Kat up better than caffeine could. Her eyes went wide, and her cheeks colored. "This is so not what it looks like!"

  I nodded, still grinning. "Uh-huh. Whatever you say, K." I winked.

  Kat's face burned an even deeper shade of red. "Cut it out!" she said in a shrill whisper. "He'll hear you." She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.

  "Who cares?" I replied in the same hushed tone. "This is great, really. I kinda always hoped you two crazy kids would end up together."

  Kat rolled her eyes. "Chad just needed someone to talk to, Ame. And besides, this is a horrible time to start something with him…" She blew out a frustrated breath, and then her expression softened. "Just cool it, okay?"

  I held up two fingers. "Scout's honor—but you owe me some details later."

  "You were never a Girl Scout." Kat arched a brow. She gave an exasperated shake of her head as she stepped aside to let me into the suite.

  "How're you holding up, buddy?" I asked Chad, who was sitting with his eyes closed in much the same position that Jack had been on the couch in the other suite. Nostalgia pinged through me as I took in his red-white-and-blue plaid shorts and faded navy blue Atlanta Braves T-shirt. Chad and Mickey had each bought that shirt at the first game we'd attended together the summer Mickey and I started dating. I booked Royal Flush a pre-game gig performing on the brick pavers at Turner Field before first pitch, and we'd all stayed after their set to watch the Braves play the Padres. I couldn't remember who won, but I'd never forget how adorable Mickey looked with his brown hair curling up from under his backwards, wide-bri
m baseball cap. He'd bought me the same shirt Chad was wearing now, except it was red instead of blue. I still had it tucked away in my closet.

  Chad blew out a breath. "Oh, you know," he said, sounding two parts exhausted and one part his normal, sarcastic self. "About as good as I can be, considering I'm holed up, hiding from the news hounds while my best bud is probably trying not to drop the soap in the prison shower." He opened one eye and fixed it on me then opened the other and quickly sat up, his expression turning from tired to hungry. "Ooh, are those Sublime Donuts? I haven't had those in years!" He snatched one out of my grasp and took a huge bite. "Mmmmrph," he said through a mouthful of pastry. I handed him the coffee, and he took a swig to wash down the donut. "Maple cheddar bacon—Ame, you're a goddess," he said dreamily.

  "You're welcome." I sat down on the opposite end of the couch, and Kat perched between us. I turned my head to hide a grin when Chad offered Kat his coffee. I handed her the last donut—fresh strawberries and cream, which happened to be her favorite—and the three of us sat in silence for several minutes. "I want to ask you a few questions, if that's all right," I said finally, fixing Chad with an apologetic look. I knew he probably didn't want to talk about Sid or Mickey, but I needed to find out if he knew anything that could point me in the direction of another possible suspect for Sid's murder. If it meant clearing Mickey's name, I knew he'd cooperate.

  "Fire when ready," Chad said, though he avoided my gaze.

  I'd start with the lipstick-stained cup I'd found next to Mickey's knife. It could've been coincidence, but I wasn't going to rule anything out just yet. "Did Sid like to bring girls on board the tour bus?"

  "Sure," Chad said, nodding. "We all did." He shot a glance at Kat, and his ears turned red. "To, er, play poker and stuff."

  Kat rolled her eyes. "Right. Probably strip poker." She playfully punched Chad in the arm.

  "How did Sid treat the girls he brought around?" I continued, trying to keep the annoyed edge out of my tone. Now isn't the time for flirting, y'all.

  Chad frowned. "About like you'd expect. I mean, he wouldn't hurt them—" he tilted his head, gesturing to my bruise "—that was an accident, Ame. Really."

  "I know," I said. "Keep going."

  "All right. You know—he'd use 'em then lose 'em. If a chick managed to stick around for more than ten minutes after Sid was done with her, he'd get security to boot her from the bus. The dude was kind of a dick."

  I chewed my lip. So, with the exception of my shiner, Sid wasn't violent toward women. That probably ruled out self-defense. On the other hand, it sounded like he'd left a trail of angry groupies in every state between here and California over the years. It was possible he'd scorned the wrong woman—but how did Mickey's knife come into play? Someone would have to know where he kept it—someone who'd been around longer than one of Sid's disposable girls. "Did Sid have a beef with anyone in the band's camp? A roadie, maybe?"

  Chad shoved the second half of his donut in his mouth all at once, staring thoughtfully down at his hands as he chewed. "Not anyone in particular," he said when he'd swallowed. "But I didn't really pay him much attention." His freckled nose crinkled. "To be honest, Sid didn't really get along with anyone especially well. We all kind of thought he was a giant douche."

  "Then why didn't you guys kick him out of Royal Flush?" I asked.

  "He played a mean bass." Chad shrugged. "He was an arrogant alcoholic in need of a personality transplant—and probably a new liver, too—but he gelled with us onstage. As long as we were making good music, the rest of us just tolerated him."

  Okay, so they weren't exactly running a We Love Sid Malone fan club, but that doesn't mean any one member of Royal Flush wanted him dead. Not current members, anyway. "What about Dillon?" I asked.

  Chad snorted. "Dillon Green," he said, his tone bitter. "Dill's a street stain. I mean, did you see him? Looked like he'd been living in a cardboard box down on Boulevard for the past five years."

  "Chad!" Kat gasped, raising her brows at him.

  "What?" he asked indignantly. "You saw how he acted the other night. Sid may have been a total tool, but Dillon's no prize either. I don't care what happened between Jack and him—it was half a decade ago. He had no business showing up and ruining that meet and greet."

  "I'm not so sure that little guest appearance was entirely Dill's idea," I said, thinking of Tim Scott. "Didn't you guys used to be close before the split? You didn't keep in touch?"

  "Nah." Chad shrugged and dropped his gaze to the floor, his big ears burning. "I mean, yeah, we were buddies back then. But it was hard to stay friends after Jack kicked him out of the band. He was just so bitter. Mickey's the only one who tried reaching out to him." Chad rubbed his face and let out a low groan. "This is so messed up!" he huffed. "We gotta get Mick outta jail."

  "I'm trying," I said. "But we need proof that he couldn't have killed Sid. An alibi, or another plausible suspect." That sick feeling returned to the pit of my stomach as I pictured Mickey's bloody pocketknife still hidden in the bushes. Could Dillon have snatched it when Mickey helped break up the scuffle? "I wish I could talk to Mickey about all this," I said aloud.

  "Maybe you can." Kat leaned forward on the sofa, her ice-blue eyes practically glowing in the dim hotel lighting.

  "How?" I furrowed my brow at her. "You have to give at least twenty-four hours' notice to schedule a visitation with a prisoner at the ACDC—and I'm not even sure if Mickey's been arraigned yet. They might not allow him any visitors for several days."

  Kat turned to face me, and her lips quirked. "True," she admitted. "But we may have an in. Whom do we know who has an APD Police Sergeant wrapped around her finger?"

  My eyes widened. "Duh! Bronwyn. Why didn't I think of that?" I smacked my forehead with my palm.

  "You'd have gotten there eventually," Kat said, patting my shoulder.

  Chad leaned over and wrapped his arms around Kat in a bear hug. "Woman, you're brilliant!" I couldn't help but notice that he briefly rested his forehead against hers as he spoke and that Kat went from cool and collected to blushing fiercely in zero to sixty. D'aww.

  I rose from the couch and stepped into the little hallway to give them some privacy. Pulling my phone out of my purse, I hit Bronwyn's number on speed dial. "Hey, Bron," I said when she answered. "I need a favor."

  CHAPTER TEN

  "I really appreciate this, Sergeant," I said, shaking Eddie Sinclair's hand. It was just after noon, and we were standing in the lobby of the Atlanta City Detention Center on Peachtree Street. It felt strange to be back here less than twenty-four hours after my own brief stay in one of the cinder block cells.

  "You're welcome, Amelia." He peered down at me with dark blue eyes. "I hope this makes us even for now," he added, his tone suggesting that I'd better not ask him to pull any more strings for a while.

  "Oh, lighten up, Sarge," Bronwyn chimed in, giving her father a playful punch on the arm—something no one else in their right mind would do to the giant hulk of a police sergeant. Eddie was a large man, tall and broad shouldered with a head as bald and shiny as a cue ball. Think Mr. Clean with a badge. He was also Bronwyn's father, and my snarky, pink-haired assistant had him wound around her finger tighter than piano wire. He'd also been best friends with my late boss, Parker. Between helping bring Parker's killer to justice and saving Bron's life, I was currently in Sinclair's good graces. Still, that didn't mean he liked handing out favors any more than he had do.

  "Thank you, sir," I said, my cheeks coloring. "And, er, thanks for talking to Thompson about the whole pepper spray thing, too."

  "Like I said, we're even," Sinclair said gruffly. He looked down at his daughter, and his stern expression thawed a little. "Stay out of trouble, okay, pumpkin? I can only take so much stress."

  Bronwyn rolled her eyes. "I don't go looking for trouble, Dad."

  "Doesn't mean you don't usually find it," the sergeant said, leaning down and giving her a peck on the cheek. When he straightened, he met my
gaze. "You're cleared for visitation at the front desk. Just stop by and give them your IDs, and Gladys will give you both a visitor's badge. Then Edmonds will escort you down to see Mr. Ward."

  Bronwyn and I thanked the sergeant and made our way toward the front counter. "This is so cool!" she exclaimed in a hushed whisper as she walked beside me. "Damn, it feels good to be back on a case."

  "You wanna say that a little louder?" I shot her a dark look. "I don't think they heard you down at Turner Field."

  "Whatever." Bronwyn shrugged, but her glossy lips spread wide. "Admit it, Ame," she said, nudging my arm with her elbow. "We make a good crime-solving team. Like Sherlock and Watson, except way hotter."

  Bron had been happy to pull some strings with her father on the condition that she got to come with me. Chad and Kat opted to remain back at the suite so that Chad could avoid any run-ins with the throng of reporters camped out in the hotel lobby. Judging by the sudden shift in the air around them, I got the feeling they might have had more romantic ulterior motives for staying behind. It made me happy that my BFF seemed to be taking my advice about opening up and giving our old college buddy a chance. They would make a really great couple.

  After signing in, we were patted down and searched for potential weapons before receiving our visitor badges. Then Officer Edmonds came to escort us to Visitation. He turned out to be the same sandy-haired cop that took me to meet with Dixon the day before. "Back so soon?" he asked, flashing me a toothy grin. "On the right side of the law this time, at least."

  "The day's not over yet," Bronwyn said, smirking.

  I didn't smile. I guess they'd forgotten to return my funny bone with my other belongings.

  Bron and I sat in two aluminum chairs that faced one of the visitation stalls. Atlanta was behind the times as far as the new video-conferencing technology was concerned, so instead we would be communicating with Mickey via telephone, separated from him by a thick Plexiglas window.