White Hot Page 6

  What happened after that was anyone’s guess.

  “You know the name of the girl Ethan was dating?”

  Ronan shook his head. “I can’t even say for sure that he was. But on a couple of days, he quit work early and said he was going to dinner or a movie. Those aren’t the sort of things you do alone.”

  Or with a one-night stand. I knew that from experience.

  “How about Ty? Do you know his surname?”

  “Sorry. He was just Ty to me. Sometimes, he hung out in the studio when Ethan was working.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Black guy, about Ethan’s size and age. Had a tattoo of an eagle on his left biceps.”

  Not a lot of information, but I’d found men with less. “I’m curious. If nobody knew Ethan’s identity, how did he get anything done, business-wise? Booking gigs, signing contracts, that kind of thing.”

  “Harold. He always had Harold.” Ronan’s tone suggested he didn’t care for the man much. “He was the publicist at the studio when Ethan started working there, and when he realised how much potential Ethan had, he took over as his manager.”

  “So Ethan was reliant on him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ronan missed the word “unfortunately” off the end, but his grimace said it all.

  “And what about you? How did you go from the band to working here?”

  “Via a brief stint as a high school music teacher.” He gave a wry laugh. “A very brief stint.”

  “It didn’t work out?”

  “I didn’t have the patience for it.” He looked around at his walls, covered from floor to ceiling in framed album artwork and gold and platinum-selling discs. “Although some of the celebrities aren’t much better than the kids. But Ethan was a different story. You know about his work with the Music Matters Project?”

  I nodded.

  “He spent hours teaching those youngsters, even the ones who were tone deaf. Said as long as they were enjoying themselves, it was worth persevering. People can say what they want now, but that’s how I’ll always remember him.”

  How did a man like that snap so dramatically?

  “You sound as if you’re writing him off.”

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  When I first met Emmy, she gave me one very important piece of advice. It was something she lived by, and I’d taken it to heart over the years. Never, ever give up.

  “I’m not.”

  I might have been losing my mind, but I wasn’t writing him off. Not totally. Not yet. Too many little things didn’t add up about this case. Ronan closed his eyes for a second and sighed again. That seemed to be a habit of his.

  “So, what now?” he asked.

  “Honestly? I don’t know. The evidence I’ve seen so far is strong, but even if Ethan does get convicted, character witnesses can certainly affect the sentence. We need to help him in any way we can.”

  “I’ve thought over and over about that poor girl’s death, ever since I first heard the news. I don’t get why he’d do something so out of character. His life may not have been conventional, but he had everything he wanted. Why ruin it?”

  “I can’t answer that at the moment.”

  “Good luck with finding out.”

  Ronan gave me his card, which at least meant future meetings would be easier, and I went to collect Cade.

  Judging by the number of women clustered around him, he certainly was learning a lot about figures. I shoved through the crowd and pulled him towards me.

  “Time to go, fast fingers.”

  There was a collective groan.

  “Sorry, people, this turned out to be a misunderstanding. It’s all sorted out,” I told them.

  “But we only got through six months’ worth of records,” whined a blonde in an overly tight shirt.

  “You’re doing a top-class job, ladies,” Cade told them, giving them a panty-melting smile. “Maybe I’ll be back next year.”

  “We’re gonna have to make a mess of the taxes,” I heard one whisper as we walked away.

  “You get what you needed?” Cade asked.

  “I got some useful stuff. You?”

  “All of their phone numbers and a crash course in social security deductions from Georgia.” He paused. “You think Emmy’d be okay with it if I called the blonde one?”

  “She’s laid back about things like that, as long as you give it your all at work.”

  Now I got the smile. “Perhaps this morning wasn’t so bad.”

  It was lunchtime before we got back to the office, and we made an emergency stop at a diner on the way to pick up proper food. Toby, Emmy’s nutritionist, was on another of his health kicks, and he’d stocked all the kitchens at Blackwood with green stuff and vitamin pills—no cookies or chips or soda in sight.

  “Any luck?” Mack asked.

  I gave her a chocolate bar, and she looked around surreptitiously before shoving it in her desk drawer.

  “Toby’s around?” I asked.

  “He just had a bust-up with Emmy when he caught her eating a cheeseburger. She tried to convince him it was much-needed protein.”

  “Did it work?”

  “He put it down the garbage disposal.”

  I had to laugh. Emmy would take on the Taliban without a second thought, but Toby could bring her to her knees. “I’d better hide the rest of this candy, then.”

  “Emmy’s stashed hers in a biohazard container in the basement.”

  “Good plan.” Mine could join it. “I’ve got a couple more leads for you to look into.” I told her about Ty and the possible girlfriend.

  “So that’s why you brought me chocolate. Fine, I’ll go through White’s phone records and cross-reference. Have you been to see him yet?”

  “That’s what I’m struggling with. I need to have a chat with Emmy about it.”

  “She’s suffering from sugar withdrawal at the moment. Take junk food.”

  Emmy was not only a devious bitch, she was a devious bitch with contacts. Over the years, she’d become a master at the political game, trading favours left, right, and centre, although she was more elusive than the Ghost when it came to pinning down her whereabouts. After a fruitless search, I got Mack to track her phone and found her on the roof, sitting cross-legged beneath a satellite dish with the remains of a burrito in her lap.

  I tossed a Milky Way bar at her. “I need a favour.”

  “How did I guess?”

  An hour later, she sauntered into my office and took a bow.

  “Are those jelly beans?” she asked.

  I pushed the packet towards her. “Tell me you’ve got good news.”

  “Blackwood is now the unofficial sponsor of the Redding’s Gap staff Christmas party. You get two hours a week with the Ghost, split into two sessions.”

  “Alone?”

  She nodded. “Your first visit’s tomorrow. He’ll be shackled at all times, and they’ll have video but no audio. And they’re insisting on searching you before you go in.” She gave me a one-shouldered shrug. “Sorry, best I could do.”

  I’d have to take it. I made a mental note to wear matching underwear.

  “What if he refuses to see me?”

  Emmy smiled, the devious smile she always wore when she knew things were going her way. “The warden assured me that wouldn’t be a problem.”

  CHAPTER 7

  REDDING’S GAP STATE Prison was a monstrous grey scar on the landscape named after its nearest town. Even that was an hour away. The prison itself had been built on the site of an old copper mine in an area devoid of any civilisation. Virginia’s most dangerous inmates had only deer and squirrels for company.

  Life in a seven-by-twelve cell, if that could be called life.

  I called it a slow death.

  Conditions at Redding’s Gap were reputed to be the harshest in the country. Segregated prisoners stayed in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day. Their cells contained only a steel slab with a thin mattress
for a bed, a steel desk and shelf, and a steel toilet/basin combo. Meals were served through a slot in the door, and the cells were arranged so inmates couldn’t see any of their fellow guests.

  Five days a week, the prisoners got an hour in the yard, watched over by armed guards, and every other day they were allowed the luxury of a shower.

  The life of an animal.

  Actually, worse—most caged animals got more human interaction than the inmates at Redding’s Gap. The only reason the suicide rate wasn’t higher was because the poor sods had nothing to kill themselves with. Last year, the death of an inmate who’d achieved the feat by repeatedly bashing his head against the concrete wall of his cell had made the news.

  And Redding’s Gap was the Ghost’s new home. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

  According to SatNav, the prison was a six-hour drive from Richmond. In my world, time was money, so I borrowed Emmy’s helicopter for the trip and cut that to three. And when I say borrowed, I mean I sent her a text message once I was in the air. After dropping this case in my lap, she damn well owed me.

  Leah, my assistant, had arranged for a car to meet me at the tiny airfield in town, and as I settled Emmy’s shiny new Eurocopter into its assigned landing place, I spotted an ancient Ford saloon parked up by the hut that masqueraded as a terminal. My ride?

  Yes, it turned out, and Otis, my driver, spent the entire journey moaning about everything from the weather to the state of the roads to the prisoners who’d had the misfortune to end up so near his town. By the time we arrived, I’d have gladly swapped my seat for a not-so-comfy cell.

  Inside, I suffered the indignity of being strip-searched by a woman more butch than most of the men were. She’d probably been on her high school wrestling team as well. While I shimmied out of my matching set from Victoria’s Secret, the Ghost would be going through the same thing on the other side of the wall. Only his search would culminate with his hands being cuffed to a waist belt and his legs being shackled together before a guard with an Ultron II electronic stun device led him to the room where we were to meet.

  Five minutes later, I got my first look at the Ghost.

  White was already seated when I got there, and I peeped under the table to check the situation. The guards had secured his leg shackles to the metal chair, which was in turn bolted to the floor. A steel table stretched between us, and he fixed his eyes firmly on its scratched surface.

  I sat down opposite him. “Hi.”

  No answer, so I tried again.

  “I’m Daniela.”

  Nothing. So, this was how it was going to go.

  “Would you prefer me to sing a song or tap dance? I should warn you, I’m not a great singer.”

  Finally, White looked up. He hadn’t shaved for a while, and his once tidy beard had grown into an unruly black fuzz. What was the policy on razors in here? Worry lines marred his forehead, much like Ronan’s, only White’s eyes had dark circles underneath them. They never turned the lights off completely at Redding’s Gap, but I doubted the prison’s electrical policy was what had caused White’s sleepless nights.

  But despite the beard and the wrinkles and the lack of rest, I couldn’t deny White was attractive. If I’d seen him in a bar, I’d definitely have given him a second glance. Those aqua eyes were clear but with a depth that spoke of hidden thoughts and secret dreams. Turbulence lurked under the surface, a whirlpool of fear that sucked me in and held me captivated. It was all I could do to tear my gaze away.

  I sucked in a breath and held it. Was White going to say anything? Or would silence be his only answer?

  “I don’t care.”

  The words came out low and husky. In any other situation, they’d have liquified my insides, and as it was, I went kind of mushy. Get a grip, Dan.

  “What do you care about?”

  A whisper of a sigh escaped his lips, and his gaze dropped to the table again. Thank goodness. No photo did those eyes justice.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “To help you. I’m a private investigator assigned to your case.”

  “By who?”

  “Your lawyer.” More or less.

  “Let me save you the trouble and him the money. Go home.”

  “It took me six hours to get here.”

  “Well, you wasted your time, didn’t you?”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  White lapsed back into silence, and as dead air stretched between us, I felt an uncontrollable urge to speak. What was wrong with me? Usually, I liked keeping my interviewees on edge.

  “I can’t do anything if you won’t talk to me.”

  “Then don’t. I’ve got nothing to say.”

  I began to understand why Lyle was so pessimistic about the whole case. White was so damn negative I wanted to shake him. I might have reached out and done so if it wouldn’t have got me clapped in a pair of handcuffs and escorted off the premises.

  I bit my bottom lip to stop my sigh of exasperation from escaping. How could I get him to talk? The kids? Maybe, but I didn’t want to talk about the kids. What had I learned from other people? Eli’s voice popped into my head, telling me he’d spoken with White about music and cars. A normal conversation, he’d said.

  “Look, I’m here for the next hour, and my boss will give me hell if I leave early.” The bitch with the rubber gloves had confiscated my watch, so I only had the clock on the wall to go by. Fifty minutes left. “So if you won’t discuss the case, could you satisfy my curiosity about something?”

  White’s head tilted up slightly. “What?”

  That one word dripped with suspicion.

  “I always see those music desks on TV, you know, the ones with all the little knobs and buttons?”

  He stared blankly, no doubt wondering what the hell I was talking about. I carried on regardless.

  “Anyway, I’ve always wondered how they work. I mean, how do you remember which bits to adjust? There must be hundreds of settings.”

  “Are you serious?”

  I shrugged and tried a smile. “Might as well fill the time in. Silence drives me crazy.”

  His look said he thought I was quite mad already, but as I’d hoped, he started speaking.

  “It’s not as complicated as it looks. Sure, there’re a load of buttons, but they’re really just the same ones repeated over and over, one set for each track. You know what a track is?”

  Vaguely from Eli’s chatter, but I shook my head.

  “When you record a piece of music, it’s not just one mash-up of all the sounds. Each part’s split out into a different track. So you might have one track for the drums, another for the guitar, a third for the voice. Get it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Each track has its own set of controls, arranged vertically on the console. They change the volume, adjust the balance between the base and treble, distort particular notes, that sort of thing.”

  “It sounds straightforward when you put it like that.”

  “It is. You might have two thousand knobs and buttons, as you put it, but what you’ve really got is the same twenty buttons a hundred times over. Well, ninety-six, in my case.” His voice fell to a whisper. “Or at least, that’s what I had.”

  He faltered in the middle of that last sentence, and I cursed myself inwardly for being so insensitive, pushing him when he didn’t want to talk. But at the same time, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to carry on.

  “Ninety-six? Still sounds like a lot to me.”

  “It’s a good number. Mixing desks come in banks of twenty-four, but when you get above a hundred, it’s just showing off. A contest over who’s got the biggest dick. There’s no real reason for it, only ego.”

  “So ninety-six is the musical equivalent of eight inches?”

  White cracked a grin. “Try nine.”

  His smile quickly faded, reined in as if it had escaped unbidden. Yet his sense of humour had shown, just for a second. And for that brief moment, I wished w
e could have met under different circumstances—a coffee place, his music project, a concert. Anywhere but a super-max correctional facility.

  Dan, don’t even go there.

  The man seated opposite was more than likely a murderer, no matter how pretty he looked or how cute he acted. My job, my goal, was to help Lyle get White the most appropriate sentence under the circumstances.

  What would that be? Life? Or an insanity plea? Because the guy sitting across from me hadn’t shown any signs of being nuts.

  Yet. There was still time.

  Those blue-green eyes studied the table again. Ronan was right—despite White’s former occupation, he was incredibly shy.

  “I hear you used to play the keyboards,” I said. “And sometimes the drums?”

  “Have you been talking to Ronan?”

  “I saw him yesterday.”

  White nodded slowly. “Yeah, I did. Back then, I played for money, but now it’s just for my own amusement. Well, not now, but before I ended up in here.” He paused to compose himself. “Did he tell you what the band was called?”

  “No, he didn’t mention it.”

  “King. Our singer was a big fan of Freddie Mercury, so it was a play on Queen. We used to kid about turning up with gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

  “Did you cover their songs?”

  “Sometimes, but I preferred when we played our own. I always liked to create the music, not just copy it.”

  “Who wrote your stuff?”

  “Me. The other guys would chip in occasionally, but mostly they were happy to let me get on with it. They were more interested in performing.”

  The conversation kept flowing, and tempted though I was to steer it back to the investigation, I thought it was more important to gain his trust. Eli was right—White did open up more about music, everything from Handel to hip-hop. Hearing him speak, it was clear a soundtrack ran through his soul, and being in Redding’s Gap was torture for him.