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“You think I’m going to bloody sleep? Knowing some bastard’s got my daughter?”

  “It was worth a try.”

  “Beer?”

  “No.”

  “Something stronger?”

  “Not for me.”

  He went back into the kitchen, and she heard the sucking pop of a refrigerator. He came back, drinking an oil can of Foster’s. He sat down on the unfinished subfloor, his back up against a stud.

  “When is the first payment due?” she asked.

  “Not until next week.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t have any assets to pay anyone back twenty K, beyond this building, and that’s iffy, too.”

  “You, madam, are bloody clairvoyant.”

  “You’re my client. One who is in a jam. Now you’re in two. See where I might be concerned?”

  “I had a limited education, but I can count to two. Just help me get Mel back. I’ll worry about the rest.”

  “You really should get some sleep,” she said. “You’re no good if you’re exhausted.”

  “I’ll sleep when we get Mel back.”

  Colleen gave a sigh. “So tell me your story.” It would change the subject, possibly get him to relax a little. She needed to learn more about his past, anyway. Why he stopped singing. Was there any connection to the situation he was in now?

  Steve left to get a fresh beer, returned, sat back down against the stud, popped the beer, and told Colleen he worked construction here and there. The flat was a work in progress between jobs. He bought the building when he came to the U.S. over ten years ago, when they were still affordable, with what money he had left. He rented the upper two flats out but Señora Rojas on the top floor was eighty-seven, with no family, hadn’t paid rent in over a year. He wasn’t about to throw her out. The building was mortgaged to the hilt. He was a few inches away from losing it.

  “What about Lynda?”

  Steve laughed out loud. Lynda was a record producer and his former manager with NewMedia who had tried to revive his career. It was not a success, due, mostly, to his apparent inability to make a fresh start with a fast-moving industry that had left him behind. His tumultuous marriage had resulted in Melanie.

  “But The Lost Chords …” Colleen said. “You were huge.”

  “We made one album.” He held up a single finger.

  “Plus a bunch of singles. And that one album was a smash. You knocked the The Beatles off the top of the charts. Even I had a copy.”

  “That was 1966,” he said, drinking. “This is 1978.”

  “What happened?” she said. “You guys were on your way.”

  “Got ripped off is what happened,” he said. “Stupid working-class lads who thought a fancy meal in a restaurant meant we were on top of the world. Signing papers we didn’t understand. I never saw a penny beyond what I could eat, drink, or wear. And I wrote the bloody songs. ‘Frenzy’ sold over a million copies.”

  “I loved ‘Shades of Summer.’” A hippy-dippy song about love being everywhere.

  He actually smiled. “That was secretly one of my favorites, too.”

  “Really? It wasn’t your usual fare.”

  “Wrote it for my mum.”

  “Get away.”

  “Lovely Louise, she makes my summer sun shine,” he sang softly, vaudeville style. “Louise Cook.” He drank. “My mum.”

  “Kind of ruins your bad boy image.”

  “Delco—my old record company—hated it, but I was big enough at the time to call the shots, so they put it out. ‘Shades of Summer.’ Never got anywhere as a single. So they threw it on the album as filler. But my mum heard it on the radio. So there you are. Never got a penny for that, either.”

  What was the reason he quit performing?

  “I’d just gotten married,” she said. “Worst mistake I ever made. And that album of yours … and ‘Shades of Summer’ … let’s just say I listened to that song a lot. The way you sang it. It was like you were singing it to me.” She wasn’t just digging for info now; she was opening up. “I wish I still had my copy.”

  He looked at her close from where he sat. “That makes my day, Colleen. Because, at the end of it, it’s not about the money—especially since I never bloody got any. It’s about connecting. Yeah, I know, it sounds like new-age bullshit, but I’m really chuffed you liked that silly song. So did my mum.”

  He said it in such a way that she felt special, and she realized that was what being a real artist was about—connecting.

  “But, even so,” she said. “After 1966, you just disappeared.”

  He drank, turned his head away. “Yep.” He looked back, smile gone.

  “So, what happened, Steve?”

  He shook his head.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’m asking as a fan.”

  Steve drained the beer, crumpled the empty, tossed it into the plastic garbage can again from where he sat on the floor. “I don’t need to lose any more fans. I’m down to about three.” He got up, went to the back of the house.

  She could tell that was the end of that conversation. For now.

  He returned, carrying a record album. She recognized it.

  He came up, handed it to her. “Long out of print. Enjoy.”

  Colleen took it, looked at the cover she had studied many times in her room in West Denver while her husband was at work. The Lost Chords in a grainy black-and-white photo, standing in front of a white van parked in front of some old brick building. There was Steve in front, modded out in a wild paisley shirt, 19th-century military uniform jacket with epaulettes. His thumbs were hooked into the belt loops of his hip-huggers. His eyes were glowing. The rest of the band weren’t bad either. All in high sixties fashion.

  “How much did you guys spend on clothes?” she asked.

  “The band had open accounts all over Carnaby Street. Since we never got paid, we took our revenge in accumulating the latest gear. Ran our clothing allowance through the bloody roof! I spent five hundred quid one month at I Was Lord Kitchener’s Valet alone. That’s 1966 quid. Nev—our guitarist—had silk underwear tailor made. We were always trying to outdo each other.” He actually laughed. It was good to see.

  She smiled, studied the album cover again. “I can’t take this, Steve.”

  “I’ve got a gold one on my bedroom wall. And Deena has a copy if I really need to hear myself sing ‘Frenzy’ for the millionth time.”

  “Handed to me by the man himself.” She held the record up to the light. “How cool is that?”

  “Not too much anymore, truth be told.”

  She set it down, carefully, to one side against the sofa. “Are you still in touch with anyone from the old days?” Maybe there was a link.

  He shook his head, patted his shirt for cigarettes. None. “Sorry to say, no.”

  “No one who could have anything to do with the current situation?”

  “That bridge was crossed long ago. Hang on. I need to get some smokes.” He headed back to the rear of the house again.

  Outside, Colleen heard quick feet coming up the front steps, on the porch now, followed by the sound of a key sliding into the front door lock. The door opened.

  And there stood a blond woman, early thirties, a year or two shy of Colleen’s age, dressed in smart jeans and a short black coat that matched the mascara under her hard blue eyes. A faux fur collar highlighted a face as striking as it was fierce-looking.

  She gave Colleen a sneer.

  “Who the fuck’re you?”

  So it was going to be like that. “Colleen Hayes,” Colleen said, standing up.

  “Where’s Steve?”

  Steve returned from the rear of the house with a pack of cigarettes. His smile faded.

  “Lynda,” he said.

  She dumped her handbag on the floor with a clunk. “I can’t believe you’re trying to bang some tramp while your daughter is being held by maniacs.”

  “Stop.” Steve grimaced. “This is Colleen Hayes. She’s a private investigator. I’ve been tr
ying to call you.”

  “What?” Lynda’s face dropped—barely—before her sneer resumed its natural position. “An investigator? No, Steve. Why?”

  “Because we need help.”

  “We know what to do. We don’t need some rent-a-cop.” She glowered at Colleen. “A female one at that. What is she gonna do? Attack them with her nail file?”

  Colleen said, “You need all the help you can get right now.”

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch. I’m not talking to you.”

  Colleen let it slide, but saw more problems heading their way.

  “That’s enough, Lynda,” Steve said. “Bloody stop it.”

  “You were supposed to call Daddy,” Lynda said.

  “Well, I changed my mind.”

  “Say what?” Lynda’s face reddened. “Do you know how hard it was for me to talk him into helping us out?”

  “I don’t want your father’s money.”

  Colleen wondered about a guy who would take a mob loan over his ex-father-in-law. But there was obviously plenty of bad blood between Steve and Lynda. She’d circle back on this when the screaming stopped.

  Lynda shook her head angrily. “If Melanie dies because of you … you motherfucker, I’ll see you go to prison. For the rest of your fucking life. Don’t think I can’t make it happen. Child endangerment just to start.”

  Steve worked a cigarette out of his pack, lit it up, put the pack in his shirt pocket. “Guess what, Lynda? I don’t bleeding care. Once we get Mel back, you can do anything you like.”

  “And how are you going to get her back, hotshot? Get your drummer girlfriend to take up a collection for you?” Lynda flicked a nasty smile on Colleen. “Oh yeah, he’s got one for every day of the week, in case you thought you were special.”

  Losing your temper with a woman like Lynda was counterproductive. Lynda would have fit in perfectly with the women Colleen spent almost a decade with behind bars. “None of this is helping get your daughter back,” she said.

  “And I thought I told you to shut your hole. You’re not Melanie’s mother. So fuck off.”

  “Lynda,” Steve said. “I’ve got the money.”

  Now Lynda was well-and-truly taken off guard. Her perfect red lips dropped open for a moment, showing perfect white teeth. She looked at Steve and blinked.

  “What?”

  “It’s covered.”

  “You got it?” Lynda said. “All of it?”

  “Twenty K.” Steve smoked.

  “How?”

  “Borrowed it.”

  Lynda let out a breath. “Borrowed it from who?”

  “That’s my business.”

  Her face softened. “Daddy had it all ready.”

  “Well, now you can tell him I don’t want his money.”

  “Why not?”

  Steve laughed. “Do you think I’m bloody stupid? You know why.”

  She shook her head violently. “Fuck!”

  “That’s all you have to say, Lynda? Here I was thinking a curt ‘thank you’ might be more in order.”

  “And all I can say is that if anything goes wrong, Steve, it’ll be your damn funeral.”

  “You can thank me when we get Mel back.”

  Now that the fury had died down, Colleen spoke: “How you two handle the ransom money is your business. Mine is to make sure you get your daughter back. But giving twenty thousand dollars to total strangers without conditions is not the way to start. We don’t hand it over unless we’re certain we’re getting Melanie back. That means proof before payment. That means we talk to her. That means we all have to agree to be tough and stay tough.”

  Lynda narrowed her eyes at Colleen. “And you’re an expert.”

  “I’ve dealt with scum like these people before. I’ve got resources. And I’m not in the middle of an emotional shitstorm like you two are. I’ve got a daughter of my own who ran off. I know what it’s like. I can be a lot more objective than you.”

  “Yeah,” Lynda said, “you look like a load of help.”

  Colleen ignored her. “Twenty thousand is a lot of money, but it’s not a fortune. So it’s most likely their starting point. Ten to one the kidnappers are going to ask for more. It’s important to negotiate before we start paying. This is our strongest time, before they’ve gotten anything.”

  Lynda shook her head, glared at Steve. “She’s going to get my daughter fucking killed.”

  “She makes a point, Lynda,” Steve said. “They could have asked for more, yeah?”

  “Yeah?” Lynda mimicked Steve’s accent. “You’re such a fucking whiz with money. You damn loser. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing. I don’t want her.” She nodded at Colleen. “She’s out.”

  “Lynda,” Steve said. “I’m the one paying Colleen. I’m the one paying the ransom.”

  “Damn right, you’re paying the ransom,” Lynda said. “It was your fault Melanie was taken in the first place.”

  “Right. We’ve established that—several times. But since I’m footing the bill, I’m the one who decides. And Colleen is going to get us through this.”

  “No, she fucking isn’t.”

  “Lynda, if you don’t like it, feel free to leave.”

  “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Jack. I’ll have you arrested for child endangerment right now.”

  Steve strolled over, put his hands on his hips. “Get out.”

  “Get the fuck away from me!” Lynda slapped his face. Hard. It echoed in the room without walls and ceiling.

  Steve stood there, didn’t move. “Lynda, you’ve got five seconds to leave before I throw you out. And that’ll be the end of your involvement in getting Mel back.”

  “You can’t do that, you sad sack. I’m her fucking mother!”

  Steve still had his hands on his hips. “One …”

  “Go ahead, tough guy. I fucking dare you. My lawyers will eat you alive.”

  “Two …”

  “You pathetic loser. You could have had everything.”

  “Three …”

  Lynda’s face suddenly crumpled; she collapsed into tears. “I’m just so scared, Steve!” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed like a baby. “I just don’t know what to do anymore!”

  Steve immediately took his hands off his hips, stood back, mouth open. He came back up to Lynda, put one hand gently on her shoulder. “I know, Lynda. Me, too. But we’re going to get Mel back. I promise.”

  “Don’t make me go, Steve! She’s my daughter. Please let me stay. Please!”

  “Of course, Lynda. Of course.”

  Colleen watched, wondering how these two were going to hold up as things got bumpier. But she also wondered about Lynda. And her father. She was going to have to look him up as soon as she got the chance.

  “We’ll wait and see if they call tonight,” Colleen said. “When they do, Steve, you’ll do the talking—but I’ll tell you what to say.”

  Steve looked at Colleen, his hand still on Lynda’s shoulder. “We’re counting on you, Colleen.”

  “Good,” she said. “Then we have a plan.”

  Lynda sniffled, wiped her eyes, stared at Colleen with a glare carved from ice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Steve’s phone rang just after 2:00 a.m., the bell splitting the late-night silence. Colleen had been sitting on the sofa, resting her eyes. Steve sat on the floor in the shadows by the opposite wall, against a stud, his head hung low, catching a little rest. But he snapped to at the first ring. Lynda was sleeping in Steve’s bed down the hall.

  Colleen stood up, took a deep breath, went over to the window, bent down, picked the receiver up on the second ring. Steve came up and stood next to her, as arranged, his head cocked to listen into the call. Lynda came padding down the hall in her stocking feet, rubbing her eyes. She gathered on Colleen’s other side. She was an inch or so shorter. She smelled of expensive perfume. Steve smelled of cigarettes.

  They waited.

  An electronic noise, like air being pushed
through a fan, preceded a metallic, robotic voice.

  “I do hope you have the money,” it said. There was no way to make out sex, or accent, or any human characteristics of the voice.

  Colleen made eye contact with Steve, gave him a single nod. She held the phone between the two of them, the mouthpiece aimed his way.

  “Yes,” Steve said.

  “Tomorrow. Nine a.m. Transbay Terminal. The pay phone by the snack bar. Wait for the call. Bring the cash. Don’t be late.”

  Colleen gave Steve another nod to continue as planned.

  “I need to talk to Mel,” he said.

  “All in good time. Just bring the money. Anyone comes with you, is seen with you, or is even suspected of being with you, you’ll see little Mellie’s head. In a bag.” There was a mechanical staccato laugh and then the phone was hung up. The buzzing of a dial tone droned.

  Colleen hung up the phone.

  “Christ,” Steve said, wiping his hand across his forehead. Lynda was hyperventilating.

  “They wouldn’t even consider letting me talk to her,” Steve said.

  “It’s too bad,” Colleen said. “But not entirely unexpected.”

  “So now what?”

  “We move forward,” Colleen said. “Remember, I’m driving this.”

  “It’s happening,” Steve said, digging his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. “It’s actually happening.”

  “It’s happening, alright.” Colleen looked at her watch. “Stay calm. I’m going home, get cleaned up, take care of a few things. I’ll be back in the morning, early.”

  “Don’t think you’re going with Steve to the drop,” Lynda screeched at her. “You heard what they said. Anybody comes with Steve, they’ll kill Melanie.”

  “I haven’t decided exactly what we’re doing yet,” Colleen said. The less Lynda knew, the better.

  “You’ll get her killed!”

  “The kidnappers aren’t going to do anything rash—yet. They want the money. We still have time. To gain some kind of advantage.”

  Lynda turned to Steve. “You can’t fucking let her go down there, Steve!”

  Steve took a drag on a cigarette he had lit. “We agreed to let Colleen handle this, Lynda. She knows what she’s doing—a lot better than we do.”

  Lynda shook her head, took a deep sigh, but finally nodded, too.