"Been dazed and confu-u-u-sed so long, it's not true. Wanted a woman, never bargained for you..." Robert Plant's voice wails in tune with Jimmy Page's slow, hypnotic guitar riffs and is backed up rock solid by John Paul Jones on bass and John 'Bonzo' Bonham on drums. Led Zeppelin's sound is bigger than life, as though determined to blow the tiny speaker on the hotel's cheap television set.
Ripp Tailor has seen the rock group's self-indulgent concert movie of the Me Generation at least a hundred times, maybe more. He'd brought the DVD on tour with him and he watches Jimmy Page play after nearly every show, often backtracking and checking out his favourite riffs over and over again.
A few minutes into the song, Page brings out a violin bow and begins to run it across the guitar strings, slow and cool. Screaming, alien sounds come from the axe and the stage lights glow eerily green and purple across the strings, casting Page as a modern-day Paganini playing ominous tunes in a Hellish concerto.
"Too cool, dude!" Ripp shouts at the TV screen, giving Page a hearty thumbs-up.
His girlfriend, Sheena, sits next to him on the couch, staring glassy-eyed with boredom at the movie that she, too, has seen over a hundred times. Stifling a yawn, she says, "Ripp, honey, I'm going to bed..."
"Not yet. Wait, babe," he whines, holding her hand and leaning closer to the flickering screen. "Here it comes."
After a backstage scene, the movie goes back to the onstage action where the opening strains of Stairway to Heaven, the rock anthem for all time, elicits screams and appluase from the massive audience at Madison Square Gardens. A spotlight illuminates Jimmy Page's long, delicate fingers as he strums his legendary red doubleneck guitar.
"There it is, babe!" Ripp breathes excitedly, squeezing Sheena's hand painfully tight. "There's my gee-tar!"
"You don't know that yet," she replies, extricating her hand. "You may just be outbid."
"No way, baby. I'm a rich son-of-bitch, and I'm the axe-man's biggest fan!"
"Can I go to bed now?" pleads Sheena, tired of hearing how Ripp will be the proud owner of the world's greatest guitar. She loves Ripp; she's been his woman since the early days when his group, Thirteen, was just a garage band. It was she who had dubbed him 'Ripp Tailor' one night while the group was sitting around watching the buffoonish old comedian, Rip Taylor, on the tube and getting high. She was there at the group's first live performance, there when they got the record deal, there at their first headlining show, always there.
She loves Ripp, but she's getting tired of his obsessions. Obsessed with Jimmy Page. Obsessed with Page's guitar. Obsessed with money and power. Obsessed with his new fame. Obsessed with himself.
* * *
Ripp and Sheena arrive at the Music Superstars Charity Auction in classic rock n roll style. Roaring up on a massive black Harley which is handed over to an open-mouthed valet parking attendant, the two are dressed like biker twins. Both wear mirrored sunglasses, matching white kidskin jumpsuits accented with sharp silver studs, black leather motorcycle boots and gloves, and both have their long, frizzy locks teased out to there in goth perfection.
Reporters and photographers mob them as they make for the entrance, shoving microphones in Ripp's pinched, angular face. "Are you buying or selling?" one of them, a short, stocky staff writer from Spin, asks earnestly.
"I don't deal no more," Ripp quips, "I got myself a real job now!"
The reporters laugh politely, then turn back toward the street to await the arrival of someone bigger, like Axl Rose perhaps, or Puff Daddy.
The auction has begun already, as Ripp and Sheena find their reserved seats. The present item is Lot 24, a brass knuckle that once belonged to Sid Vicious.
The red doubleneck is Lot 49, so Ripp settles back to wait.
Lot 34 comes and goes. Lot 39. Lot 41. Lot 42...
"Hey, asshole!" Ripp turns around to the drunken voice that comes from directly behind him. "What the hell are you doing here, you fucking prima donna? Come to buy a pretty little trinket for your whore here?"
It is Melvin Goldstein, newly proclaimed Creem's Second Best Guitarist of the Year. Ripp was named Numero Uno, and Melvin, who had been in the top spot for three years running, was pissed off about it. He had been slamming Ripp in the press for weeks. Everyone knew his popularity was slipping and that though he had never even met Ripp Tailor, he was using Ripp's headline-grabbing antics as an excuse for his own shortcomings.
Now the man shows up here, wasted.
"You're pathetic," Ripp says, and getting up, smiling politely, he raises his fist and slams it right into Melvin's mole-like face.
Melvin drops drunkenly to the floor and passes out with a gentle sigh.
Security comes running and the two men are dragged outside. Ripp is kicking and fighting, while Melvin, still in a semi-twilight state, simply giggles a little.
"Buy it!" Ripp shouts to Sheena as he is forcibly escorted through the glass double doors.
Trembling with nerves, Sheena hears number Lot 49 announced. She knows that there are rock musicians, as well as collectors, here with more money than Ripp could even count and fears that she will be outbid. Ripp would blame her and hold it against her forever if she were to lose that guitar.
* * *
Andrew Phelps is sitting reading a recent court transcript in his air-conditioned office when the call comes. "It's a Mr. Thompson," Zelda's voice hums over the com line. "He says you know him?"
"Oh yes. Put him right through," Andy says, picking up the telephone receiver. "Dean, what a surprise!"
"Hello, Andy," comes the flat, emotionless voice of Dean Thompson, a dear friend whom Andy hadn't heard from in well over a year. Not since Dean and his family had moved to California. "I only wish I was calling under happier circumstances."
"What's wrong?" asks Andy, running a finger over his thick salt and pepper beard.
"Sharon has just been booked as a suspect for murder."
"What?" Andy is aghast. He's known Dean's daughter Sharon since she was a nine year old tomboy catching frogs in the swamps. He hadn't seen her in a couple of years, but he still pictured her as the pretty teenager she'd grown up to be. She had to be about 20 or so now. He'd heard through local gossips that she had changed her name to Sheena and was the girlfriend of some big mega-bucks rock star. The kid seemed to be doing okay for herself.
"Then you haven't heard. She was booked and questioned about the murder of her boyfriend, Ripp Tailor. They let her go, but she is the prime suspect and we expect her to be formally charged any minute. They told her not to leave town. I'm calling from L.A. now." Dean pauses uncomfortably. "I need a favor. I need you. I'll pay anything you ask if you'll just come to L.A. to defend her if need be. I'm afraid they're going to charge her soon and we'll need a good lawyer."
"Of course, Dean, of course. You didn't even have to ask. I'll fly down tonight," Andy says, rising from his chair as though ready to go that very instant.
"I know she's innocent, but it looks pretty bad, Andy."
How bad? Andy wonders, but doesn't ask. He'll find out soon enough.
* * *
Andy arrives at L.A.X. at 11:00 p.m. that night and takes a shuttle to the hotel.
The Thompsons have booked a room for Andy at the hotel in which they are staying, the Westwood Marquis in Beverly Hills. It's quite a trek, but worth the wait, the driver assures him.
Andy, though a prosperous defense attorney who's easily able to command the highest fees in this side of the border, is still a Eunice, Louisiana, country boy at heart. He drops his suitcase on the floor of the lobby and whistles in astonishment.
"This place must be $500 a night in the basement!" he gasps with childlike wonder, eyeing the lavish decor.
"Sharon is waiting in her room." Dean Thompson's been waiting in the lobby, eager for the arrival of his friend. Without so much as a 'how was your flight?' he begins leading the way to the elevator.
They ride up in silence, each staring ahead as if the man next to him does not exist. Dean is lost in thought, while Andy is respectful of Dean's all-consuming worry.
As they get off the elevator, they hear the eerie recorded strains of a strange song being played loudly in one of the rooms.
"Soul of a woman was created below..." the singer is warning as Dean unlocks the door to Sheena's room. Judith emerges from the adjoining suite and raises her hand in greeting.
Sheena is laying in total darkness, the only illumination coming from the big screen television set. She is watching Ripp's disk of 'The Song Remains the Same' at top volume.
She looks up briefly at her parents and at Andrew Phelps. "This was his favourite part," she says dully.
Dean goes over to the player and turns it off, while Judith snaps on the lights. "Sharon, honey," she stops short at the sharp look from her daughter, and continues gently. "I mean Sheena. Get up, now. Andy is here to see you."
Sheena sits up part way and smiles slightly. "Hi Andy. Guess I'm really in trouble if they called in the big guns, huh?"
Andy has never seen a young girl who looks so old.
She is only 21, yet she looks so worn and battle-weary. She's very pale, and her light brown hair has been teased, then allowed to tangle and mat up on one side. She wears a white terry cloth bathrobe that hangs from her like an old rag on a scarecrow. Andy notes that even her fingernails are chipped and ragged.
"No, dear," he says gently. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
"I'm tired," she sighs, lying back down. Her face offers little contrast against the stark white pillow case.
"Andy has flown all the way down here," her father says a little too sharply.
"Maybe we should leave them alone," says Judith, taking Dean's arm. "This is hard enough for her."
After the two have gone to their own room, Sheena sits up again. "Can we get room service? I want a diet 7-up and some fries."
"I think it's closed now," Andy says, noting the late hour by his gold pocket watch. He moves his suitcase over and sits on the chair beside the bed.
"Ripp could always get room service, no matter what time it was."
"He was a rock star," Andy nods. "Don't they threaten to throw the television set out the window if they don't get room service?"
"Yeah," says Sheena, smiling a little. She sits up more and looks Andy in the eye intently. "I think Melvin Goldstein is the killer," she announces.
"Who's Melvin Goldstein?"
Sheena's eyes widen. "You don't know? Only one of the biggest metal guitarists of the 80's and 90's. And I thought you were cool!" she adds with a grin.
"Sue me. I never even heard of Jimmy Page before your father told me about what happened with the guitar. Did you see anything last night?"
"No, I was knocked out. I took a couple of 'ludes," she glances up to gauge Andy's reaction, hoping to shock him a little, "and I guess I slept through the whole thing."
"What happened on that last day?" Andy asks, opening his ever-present notebook.
"Well, we had this big auction to go to, so we got up early. Around eleven. We were staying at the Riot House," she smiles. "Sorry. Musician slang. The Sunset House, which is on Sunset Boulevard, is sort of a rock landmark. All the great classic bands stayed and played there: the Stones, the Who, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, you name it. Thirteen wanted to stay there too."
"This was Thirteen's first headlining tour?"
"Yes. We've been all across the U.S. and Canada. We were going to Europe in three months." Sheena looked down at her slender, bony hands. "I guess there's no more 'we.'
"Anyway, we got up at eleven and were at the auction just past noon. Right after we got there, this jerk, Melvin Goldstein comes up and starts hassling Ripp. So what's Ripp gonna do? He knocks the dude upside the head, then they both get thrown out.
"I stayed there to bid on Jimmy Page's red doubleneck." Sheena takes a deep breath and continues. "I was scared shitless. Ripp wanted that guitar more than anything in the world. When he found out it was going up for auction a few weeks back, it became an obsession with him. I was afraid I wouldn't get it."
"But you did." Andy states quietly.
She nods. "It wasn't easy. I think I spent way too much. I hear the sale broke some kind of record -- all I knew was I had to get that guitar. One other bidder, some collector from England, was on my ass the whole time but he finally gave up and I got the guitar."
"Who was he?" Andy asks, shifting in his chair.
"I don't know. But he was royally pissed! He left right after I gave the final bid, and he just stalked right by me, staring down at me with all that British arrogance. Kinda spooky," she shivers and rubs her arms as though cold.
"I guess so," Andy smiles. "So when you got back Ripp was waiting for you in the hotel suite?"
"No. He was at the Forum already, doing a sound check for the show. So I left the guitar on the bed, changed clothes, then took a taxi to Inglewood.
"Ripp was on stage when I got there." She pasues. "You ever hear him play?" she asks, her eyes growing bright.
"I'm afraid not. Willie Nelson is about as rocked out as I get."
"Willie Nelson! Yeccch!" she gags jokingly and continues. "Well, Ripp is great. And he didn't just play goth-metal; you should listen to the album sometime."
Andy can't help but notice Sheena's odd mood swings. She was limp and listless when he first came in, now she seems almost manic. Certainly not the mood one would adopt the day after one's boyfriend was murdered, and then one was suspected of that murder. He looks at the bottle of pills on the nightstand and wonders what kind they are. She has already spoken nonchalantly about having taken quaaludes on the night of Ripp's death. What else might she have taken?
Sheena continues. "So anyway, the minute he saw me, he ran to the side of the stage and said, 'Where is it?' Of course I knew what he meant. I told him I'd forgotten the guitar in the hotel room. He was so mad! I thought he was going hit me right then and there -- oh, Ripp never beat on me," she adds quickly. "He was just real upset. He told me he'd wanted to play it on stage that night. Well, I had no idea! I thought he just wanted to see it, and I guess it didn't seem too important whether he saw it then or later, so I just forgot. He was really nervous about playing the L.A. Forum, and he was pretty edgy.
"He took it out on me, I guess. He said I should have known that he would at least want to see the guitar, and I suppose he was right, but I got mad and left.
"I went to the Roxy for a few hours --"
"Where is that?" Andy asks, pencil poised above his note pad.
"It's a rock club. It's just few blocks from the Riot House," she explains. "Anyway, by the time I got back to the room the guys were all there along with a couple of groupies and leeches, talking and partying. Ripp was playing his new guitar and having a good ole time. He didn't even look at me when I walked in, so I went straight to bed." She slumps down and drops her eyes. "The next morning he was dead."
"This very important, Sharon. Excuse me, Sheena," Andy says, leaning forward and taking one of her hands. It's ice cold. "You mustn't leave out a single detail. What did you see when you woke up?"
She takes a deep breath and speaks slowly. "Well, when I opened my eyes I looked at the clock and saw that it was 12:30. Past noon. Ripp wasn't in bed with me, so I figured he'd either passed out in the front room or gone to sleep in one of the guy's rooms as a petty way of punishing me for forgetting to bring the guitar.
"So I got up and walked into the front room. There he was, lying on the floor all sprawled out. The shades were drawn, so I didn't see the blood on the back of his head at first. I thought he'd just passed out."
"What kind of drugs was he taking?" Andy asks.
"Oh, none!" Sheena exclaims. "I'm sorry, I guess I did give you that impression. No, Ripp never took anything in all the time I've known him. He used to in high school, but I guess he got busted. Anyway he quit. None of the guys did anything more than smoke weed and drink a little whiskey... well, sometimes a lot."
"What about you?" Andy asks, reaching up to her face and tilting her chin up so that she would meet his eyes. "I've known you since you were a kid. Don't lie to me."
"All I took that night was 'ludes. I just wanted to sleep. To escape. I didn't want to think about our fight. It's not like I'm a dope addict, Andy." She smiles a little, trying to keep Andy from getting too serious. She doesn't like being scrutinized, even if it's by someone she knows and trusts. "I loved Ripp. I wouldn't kill him even if I was on Dust -- really, Andy!" To her surprise, she begins to cry. It's the first time since the morning she discovered Ripp's body.
"I know. I know, honey." Andy still holds her clammy hand. "You just take your time."
His deep Southern voice is sincere and soothing, and soon Sheena is relaxed and able to continue. "As I got closer to him, I felt like something was wrong. I got scared. Terrified, actually. Then I saw the blood. I just began screaming and screaming." She sniffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "I don't remember anything else. I guess they had to break the door down, because there was a key jammed in it from the inside."
"That means the killer couldn't have left from the door. I understand the window was locked from the inside as well."
"I'm in deep," she sighs, nodding.
"I've got lots to do tomorrow, dear. I'm going to go to my room and get some rest," he kisses her on the forehead. "Thank you. I know it's not easy to talk about."
* * *
When Andy gets to his own room, which is just a few doors down, he takes a shower and crawls into bed. He lays there for quite some time, unable to put his mind at ease and go to sleep.
Piecing and meshing the stories from Dean and Sheena, he puts together the following scenario of Ripp Tailor's last hours: The young man had woken up late, probably hung over. He was greatly on edge because he was going to try and buy one of the most famous guitars in rock history, then play it (or so he thought) on stage that night for a sold-out audience at the Los Angeles Forum. He beat a man up with little provocation, then had a fight with his girlfriend later. He did the concert, which went badly according to the reviews, then went back to his hotel room. Sheena was not there. He probably called the guys in the band over, and they all drank and made merry until Sheena came back. He probably got upset all over again and asked everyone to leave. Andy made a mental note to speak with the rest of the guys in the group before any of them could leave town.
Then somewhere in the early hours of the morning, Ripp Tailor was hit hard in the back of the head with a heavy object and was killed. For all intents and purposes, it looks like Sheena is the murderer. It was only the two of them, who were angry at each other, locked inside the room. Andy's mind flashes back to Sheena's broken, torn fingernails; could there have been a struggle? He would be able to find out more about the condition of the body and the room tomorrow when he speaks with the police. It does look pretty bad for Sheena at this point.
Dean had told him that the guitar was missing, which seemed impossible. It could have been stolen before Ripp was killed -- heaven knows there were enough different people in the room that night. But Dean said that the guitar was believed to be the murder weapon, because fragments of red paint chips were found in Ripp's hair. So how could this person have killed Dean without waking Sheena, then stolen the guitar and left the room without unlocking a door or a window? And surely the police didn't think Sheena had stolen the guitar? Andy would certainly ask them about that tomorrow.
Finally, he sleeps.
* * *
Andy was woken early the next morning by a hard rapping at his door. "Who is it?" he shouts from the bed.
"Dean," comes the hushed reply.
"Oh, gosh," he mumbles to himself, pulling a robe on over his pajamas. He steps into his slippers on the way and opens the door.
Dean is dressed in a three piece grey suit and looks as though he has been awake for hours. He looks surprised when Andy opens the door. "Aren't you ready yet?"
"Ready for what?" Andy yawns, always a slow starter in the morning.
"For what?" Dean repeats incredulously. "Our big day, that's what! We've got to go the police, the coroner, the Sunset House, the..."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Andy says, raising his voice and his hand. "Now I appreciate your offer, but this is a very important case as you well know. I've got to do this alone -- I don't need a concerned father to help me."
Dean is taken aback. "But--"
"No buts about it," Andy interrupts. "I'm a professional. We are friends, but you hired me as a lawyer and I'm going to do my job my way," he says firmly.
"But don't you want--"
"I'm quite capable, thank you," Andy says, shutting the door. He feels bad about having to be so tough, but he knows Dean is a very persuasive man and he dosn't want to have to argue with him. He knows Dean only wants to help, but he cannot have him messing anything up by becoming emotional.
After he dresses and eats breakfast, Andy goes to Dean and Judy's suite and knocks on the door. Sheena answers.
"Good morning, Andy," she says. She still looks tired, but her hair is freshly washed and combed, and she wears a pretty skirt and sweater. "We're having breakfast. Come on in."
"Hello," Judith greets him as he enters the room. She and Dean are sitting at a table by the window drinking coffee and muching toast. Dean looks up, but says nothing.
Andy knows Dean's feelings are hurt, but feels that he will understand eventually. "Howdy folks," he says, smiling. "I just need to get some basic information, and then I'm on my way.
"I'll need to know where I can contact the guys in the band, the addresses of the hotel and where that auction took place. Let's see... oh yes. I need the name of the police detective who is investigating your case as well."
Sheena calls a friend of the band and tracks the guys down at a house in Laurel Canyon. She calls there and sets up a meeting for Andy.
"Meet you back at the hotel's restaurant for dinner at six?" Dean calls after Andy as he turned to go.
He has been forgiven. "You got it!"
* * *
Using Dean's rented Cadillac, Andy drive to Laurel Canyon and finds the house with some difficulty, high up on Crescent Heights Drive. It sits way back and is up high and secluded, overlooking the winding canyon road and congested traffic below.
Andy parks the car on the street and walks up the long dirt driveway, which wasn't really made for vehicles. He's panting by the time he makes it to the door of the three storey house.
He knocks and the door was answered a few minutes later by a young man with long blonde hair. "I'm Chris Brown," he says smiling. "You must be the lawyer dude." He opens the door wider and steps aside so that Andy can enter. "The guys are upstairs."
"Do you live here?" Andy asks, noting that the huge house is vacant and in fact seems to be in danger of falling down around their ears at any moment.
"When I can, man," Chris says from ahead of him on the stairs. "This place was once rented by the man himself -- Page. I guess that's why the guys wanted to be here for awhile. To remember Ripp."
"I see," says Andy, regretting having given up his exercise program as he makes his way up the steep flight of sagging stairs.
There is an open kitchen at the top of the stairs, then to the right a huge hardwood floored room with large open windows on three sides of it and a brick fireplace on the fourth. There's a bare king-sized mattress in the middle of the floor upon which three young men in torn, faded blue jeans sit, semi-sprawled.
"Hello, I'm Andrew Phelps, Sheena Thompson's lawyer." Andy introduces himself with an avuncular smile. "I've come to ask a few questions."
"We talked to the cops already," says one of them, a rail-thin dishwater blonde with close-cropped straight hair.
"I know, but you may have forgotten some little detail about that night," Andy replied. "Who might you be?"
"Bam-Bam Johnson," the skinny man answers. His white t-shirt is thin and worn, and Andy can see his ribs and collar bones plainly through it. His arms are thin also, but hard and muscular.
"Ah, the drummer. And you?" Andy nods toward the man sitting next to Bam-Bam, a Middle-Eastern looking fellow with masses of long black curly hair and dark eyes.
"I'm the singer, man. My name's Jordan. Just Jordan."
The third man, the bassist no doubt, says without any prompting, "I'm Phil Diego."
Chris, the young man who had opened the door flops down on the mattress with the others and sits looking at Andy expectantly.
"It won't be long," Andy assures them, taking the note pad from his pocket and shifting from one foot to the other. He sure wishes there was a chair for him to sit in. He felt adversarial like this, towering above the youths. "The three of you came to Ripp's room at his request that last night, right?"
"Yeah," says Jordan. "He wanted to show off his guitar. He was so excited about it. We all were."
"Wasn't he a bit upset that Sheena hadn't stayed for the concert?" Andy asks.
"Well, sure, but not like you think. He was pissed at her. She'd been doing a lot of stupid shit lately. Like forgetting appointments with reporters; Sheena was supposed to be sort of like his personal secretary. One time the chick from Creem just showed up at the hotel room at 8 a.m., insisting on an interview. Ripp didn't know she was coming or anything."
"Yeah," Phil adds, "Sheena was taking too many pills."
"What kind?" Andy asks.
"Hell, I don't know. She wasn't my girlfriend."
"Okay," Andy continues, "what about the girls and people who were with you that night? How can I get in touch with them?"
Jordan laughs, "Hey man, we don't even know their names let alone where to get a hold of them!"
The other three break into smirks and giggles as though Andy had just asked what the time the Queen of England took high tea.
Andy pushes on. "Well, what time did you all leave? Did you leave together?"
"Yeah, we all left at about the same time," Phil replies. "What would you say, about three or four?"
The others nod in confirmation. "About that," Jordan agrees.
"Thanks, you've been a lot of help," Andy sighs. "I may need to talk to you again, so please call me if you plan on leaving town." He hands Jordan the Westwood Marquis' card with his room number written on it then leaves the old house, unescorted.
* * *
Andy's next stop is the restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard where the Rock Superstar Charity Auction is held. He's able to gain very little information other than what he already knew from the management and security people. He is, however, able to get a hold of the organization that conducts the auction. When he asks about the English bidder, they tell him that there were several British collectors at the benefit, but that their guest list is strictly confidential.
Since Andy feels as though he's been running into brick walls all day anyway, he decides it's was only fitting to visit Detective Rodriguez at the Hollywood Police Department next.
* * *
"I haven't got much time, Phelps," is Rodriguez's curt reply to Andy's friendly greeting and introduction. "Make it snappy."
"Well, yes, yes of course," Andy replies, dropping his unshaken right hand back to his side. He had never met such rude people as he had that day. He is certainly beginning to miss that world famous Southern hospitality. "As I said, I'm Sheena Thompson's attorney and I just need some basic information."
"You should have called for an appointment," says Rodriquez, shoving a gooey bearclaw down his gullet.
"I'm sorry, really I am," Andy says, not sorry at all now. "The way I hear it, the door and the window in the hotel room were locked from the inside. The only two people in the room were the deceased and Miss Thompson."
"Right. The people in the room next door heard her screaming like an animal and throwing things around the room at about 12:30 noon. They had just checked in and were wondering what the hell kind of hotel it was, you know? So anyway, the security guard tries his pass key. Nothing doing, something's jamming the lock. So the security guard breaks the door down, and there's Sheena Thompson yelling and tearing up the room while Loverboy is on the floor, dead to the world -- literally." Rodriguez is smiling now and beginning to relax in his desk chair. He obviously enjoys discussing the more ghoulish details of his job.
"Could grief cause this reaction?"
"Ask the police psychologist. I don't know," Rodriguez answers curtly. "Personally, I think she's just a basket case."
"Better be careful what you say, I could get her off on an insanity plea," Andy says jokingly, hoping to cajole Rodriguez in to a genuine smile. Rodriguez did not smile. Andy pushed on. "Now what about the guitar? That's missing, right?"
"Right. We figure the girl bopped Loverboy over the head with it, then threw it out the window. Some passerby or bum found it, and took it."
"But that guitar is worth a lot of money. Couldn't someone sell it on the black market to an unscrupulous collector?" He asks rhetorically, then continues. "And, I know the room was only three stories up, but isn't that a pretty far fall for a guitar? Did you find splinters or paint fragments, or even a red smear on the ground?"
"No, but that doesn't mean anything," Rodriguez answers defensively. He suddenly changes the subject. "Hey, I've got the pictures of the body right here. Let's see -- oh yeah -- here they are." He pulls a white manilla envelope from under the box of Winchell's donuts and holds it out to Andy with sticky, sugar-sweet fingers.
Andy takes the envelope and undoes the thin metal clasp. There are four or five 8 X 10" photos inside, to which Andy gives a perfunctory glance. He'd seen worse. Much worse. He slides the photos back in and hands them back. "Is Sheena Thompson really the only suspect? Do you have any evidence other than circumstantial against her?"
"Sheena is the only viable suspect. Of course, there were others such as Melvin Goldstein. But he had an alibi, and besides I really don't think he could do it; I interviewed him personally," explains Rodriguez, and before Andy could say it, adds, "I suppose you'll be wanting his address too."
"Yes, please. I may have a few questions for him."
"Here," Rodriguez thrusts a crumpled piece of white note paper at him. "Don't ever say I never did nothing for you," he sneers.
"I won't. I would never use such bad grammar." Andy leaves Rodriguez scowling at his back as he leaves the office.
* * *
The Holmby Hills address of Melvin Goldstein in hand, Andy makes his way up Sunset Boulevard toward Beverly Glen. Up the picturesque winding road and past several traffic lights, Andy finally finds his turn-off amidst the Colonial mansions and Tudor homes.
Andy has no choice but to show up unannounced, because Detective Rodriguez hasn't given him a phone number and of course it wasn't listed.
He locates the address and sees nothing but a 12 foot high wrought iron gate covered in ivy. Next to it, nearly over-run with foliage, is a small black box mounted on a short black pole. Andy gets out of the rented Cadillac and walks over to it. He presses the buzzer.
"Yes?" comes a woman's creme de menthe voice from the microscopic speaker.
"Ma'am, my name is Andrew Phelps. I'm a lawyer from Louisiana..."
"Melvin Goldstein doesn't not give out autographs, sir. You can buy his latest record at..."
Andy presses the buzzer again, laughing good-naturedly. "Oh, no ma'am, you don't understand. I'm not a fan -- I like Willie Nelson myself -- I'm here on business. I need to speak with him in connection with the murder of Ripp Tailor."
"Why didn't you say so?" This time it's a slightly annoyed male voice. "Drive up."
Andy gets back into the car and drives through as the gates open slowly and without a sound. The driveway winds up for what must amount to 1/8 of a mile, completely walled in on both sides. When he reaches the top of the summit, there's a circular driveway and open garage off to the side. There were two silver Jaguar XKEs parked in the driveway, and he thought he saw a Delorian and a Countache in the garage. Andy had always had a penchant for sports cars, though he had never actually driven one.
He stops his big, practical car, uncertain as to where he should park. A barefooted man comes out of the garage dressed in grey slacks and a blazer with no shirt underneath. "Mr. Phelps," he says as Andy is climbing out of the car. "I am Melvin Goldstein."
"How do," says Andy, surprised to meet a an Angelino who actually cames up and introduces himself like a decent human being.
Melvin, though dressed rather haphazardly, looks like anything but a rock star to Andy. He is a small man, about 5'3", thin and compact. His hair is shorn quite short and seems to be falling out before Andy's very eyes. Melvin's features are all pushed into the middle of his face, making him resemble a mole, or a weasel. His right eye has a yellow and brown fading bruise beneath it. He extends his right hand, which looks much too large for the rest of the body, and says, "I'll be glad to answer any questions you may have. Let's go inside."
Andy follows Melvin into the garage and through a door which leads into the main house.
It has to be one of the biggest homes Andy has ever seen. It's only one storey, but it extends all around him as far as the eye can see. It's tastefully decorated with fine modern Italian furniture, original paintings, and ultra-expensive abstract sculptures are scattered about.
"Let's sit in the living room," suggests Melvin, leading the way.
The living room is absolutely huge, and very spacious looking as it only contains two small sofas with a long glass coffee table between them. Beyond the couches were French doors which would allow one look out over the pool and tennis court.
Never one to waste time, Andy asks, "If I may be so bold, what happened that day at the auction between you and Mr. Tailor?"
"Oh, that was nothing," Melvin laughs lightly. "I was just a little drunk and Ripp put me in my place, that's all. There were no hard feelings."
"But geez, wasn't that embarrassing, causing a big scene in a public place like that?"
Melvin's smile is a bit forced. "Well, boys will be boys. We are great friends, really. Sure, there was a friendly rivalry for the benefit of the press, but that's show-biz!" His harsh laugh rings false.
"Had you come to bid on that Johnny Page guitar as well?" Andy asks, taking the ever present note pad from his breast pocket.
"Jimmy Page. No, actually I was just going for the publicity. My record company sent me, thinking it would be a good idea."
"Uh-huh," Andy says thoughtfully. "Where were you at the time Ripp Tailor was killed?"
"I was home, sleeping it off. My girlfriend, Denise, was here the whole time..."
As if on cue, a leggy young blonde steps into the room carrying a tray with three tall iced tea glasses on it. "Hello, I'm Denise," she smiles at Andy as she sets the tray down on the table. "We spoke on the intercom. I'm sorry if I seemed rude, but we weren't expecting anyone. I was just taking a swim." Indeed, she was wearing bikini bottoms and a big Melvin Goldstein '94 Tour t-shirt knotted at her waist. "Have an iced tea," she holds out a frosty glass toward him, serves Melvin, then herself and plops down on the floor by the sofa.
"I'm sorry to have shown up unannounced, but Detective Rodriguez only gave me your address," says Andy taking a sip of tea. He swallows, then begins to choke. "Ack! What is this stuff?"
"Iced tea," Denise replies, puzzled.
"Long Island Iced Tea, dear," Melvin corrects. "Mr. Phelps was probably expecting the other kind of tea." He turns to Andy. "Sorry. Anyway, as I was saying, I was here the whole night." He glances at his girlfriend. "Right, Denise?"
"Right," she agrees quickly.
Melvin gets up and says, "Well, if that's all, Mr. Phelps..."
Andy knows a blatant hint when he sees one. "Yes, I'll be on my way. One other thing -- could you please give me your telephone number, just in case I need to contact you again?"
"Yes, it's easy to remember. Got your pencil ready? Just dial F-U-C-K-Y-O-U," Melvin says with a bland smile.
Andy's eyes widen with surprise when he sees the letters spelled out on the lined page of the note pad. He isn't sure if Melvin's phone number really spelled out such a comment, or if the aging rock star is just having a little fun with him. He didn't ask.
* * *
Andy's next and final stop for the day is the Sunset House Hotel. It's about 20 minutes from Melvin Goldstein's estate, right on the Sunset Strip.
The hotel itself is rather nondescript, just a large stucco building close to the street. It looks as though it had been built in the 50's with its plain, blocky design and large pink neon sign on the very top which proclaims, "SUNSET HOUSE HOTEL" in tall, thin letters.
Andy knows the room number, 310, and even if he didn't he would have had no trouble finding it. It's still stantioned off in front with long plastic strips that warn, "Police line, do not cross." The door has been taped shut as well, but the seal is broken. Either someone doing what he was doing, Andy thinks to himself, or a depraved fan looking for Ripp Tailor artifacts.
He looks both ways, then pushes the door open without a sound. His eyes widen in surprise when he sees the condition of the room.
The chairs and tables are overturned, the air conditioning grate is torn off the wall, pictures that aren't on the ground hang crazily askew, and even the curtains are ripped down. If Sheena had done all of this, it certainly would explain the condition of her nails.
The tape outline of the body lay in the middle of all the chaos, a somber reminder of why Andy is here.
He walkes to the window and inspects the lock. It was a very good one, not loose or broken. He looks down. The window faces the alley, so someone could probably throw a guitar down there without it being noticed right away. But if someone were to kill for a collector's item guitar, why would they risk breaking it? Unless the removal of the guitar was just something to make police suspect theft as a motive. But then, Andy asks himself, why go to such trouble to have everything locked up so mysteriously? It makes no sense.
The door lock, of course, had been broken by security so there was no way Andy could look at that.
He walks into the bedroom, which was pretty much undisturbed, except for the fact that the bed was unmade. The bathroom still contains some of Sheena and Ripp's personal effects, such as shaving cream, toothpaste, hair brushes, make up (his or hers?, Andry wonders with a droll, inward smile) and the like.
Andy has to admit, there isn't much to go on here. He decides to go down to the alley and have a look around.
* * *
It's past six p.m. and Andy is starved by the time he rolls back up the entranceway to the Westwood Marquis.
Dean, Judith and Sheena are waiting in the restaurant when Andy walks in, wishing he had had time for a shower before dinner. He knows his clothes smell of Los Angeles smog and rotting refuse.
"So, what did you find?" Dean asks expectantly.
"Not much," Andy admits.
Dean's face falls. He'd been half-expecting the case to solved in an hour, just like Perry Mason or Matlock did it on TV.
"Only the red guitar!" Andy says, grinning triumphantly.
His three dinner companions all gasp in unison, "What?"
Andy recounts his day, pretty much sparing the details until he gets to the part where he went down to the alley behind the Sunset House Hotel.
"It was hot and muggy back there," he began. "And it smelled foul! I looked up to where the window of your room was, Shar-- Sheena, and saw that it was a straight shot into an open dumpster. So what is any self-respecting evidence-seeking Southern attorney to do? I climbed up on the dumpster and began to go through the trash."
"So that's why you smell so narly," giggles Sheena, plugging her nose in jest.
"Thanks," Andy says ruefully. "The bin hadn't been cleaned in weeks, I'll bet. Anyway, as I was standing on the edge and leaning way over, my note pad slipped out of my front pocket. It landed right on the far side of the dumpster, and when I reached for it, I accidentally knocked it over the edge. So now it's crammed somewhere between the bin and the wall of the building. This does not make me happy, I must say.
"So I climb down and walk around the side. My note pad is there on the ground, but guess what is also there, jammed between the dumpster and the building?"
All eyes are on Andy as he pauses dramatically. "The guitar," he finishes with a cat-that-ate-the-canary look on his face.
"So it wasn't stolen," says Sheena dully. "That makes it look pretty bad for me. And of course," she sighs, "my finger prints are all over it."
"I thought of that already. I took it to the police, and they are going to fingerprint it. Sure, they'll find your prints and Ripp's, but maybe they will find some that don't belong," says Andy.
"Do you know how many people were in the hotel room that night, Andy?" she asks, unconsolable. "Any one of them could have touched it, and probably did. It doesn't mean anything."
After that, they eat their dinner pretty much in silence. Upon finishing his steak, Andy excuses himself and goes upstairs to his room.
He's in the shower when he hears a tentative rap at his door. Andy yells over the water, "Hold on!" then shuts off the stream. He dries off quickly and pulls on his robe.
He opens the door and sees an unsmiling Sheena standing there, holding out a Styrofoam container. "You forgot dessert," she says and walks in.
"Cheer up, honey," Andy says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Everything's going to work out. I'm considered a pretty decent lawyer where I come from."
"I know, but our justice system doesn't always work that great -- guilty until proven innocent, right? You should see what they're saying about me in the papers. Lizzie Borden looks like a saint next to me."
"What are they saying?" Andy asks.
"Well, like the 'fact' I left my parents and 'ran away with a rock group to Hollywood.' As you well know, Andy, I left home at 18 with the full consent of my parents. And I did not leave with 'a rock group.' I didn't even meet the guys until I moved down here. And," she adds, "I am not a groupie!
"The so-called informant even had an 'interview' with my 'heartbroken' mother. You know she would never even give them the time of day, let alone an interview!"
"How did you meet Ripp?" Andy asks, referring back to her original gripe of being called a groupie.
"I met him through Bam-Bam. I was his girlfriend at the time.
"Let me back up," she says, noting the shock in Andy's gentile Southern eyes. "I was having lunch alone at the Snow White coffee shop on Hollywood Boulevard when this skinny little guy walks in and sits right down next to me. He was really bold you know, and he just asked me out. I was pretty impressed with his confidence, so I said yes.
"We had been dating for a couple of weeks, nothing serious, when he invited me to come watch his band play. When I met Ripp -- Rick then -- it was love at first sight. We were together from that day forth."
"Wasn't Bam-Bam," Andy feels ridiculous even saying that name, "upset over that?"
"Well, sure, at first, but he got over it," says Sheena. "Like I said, we were nothing serious. I think his pride was just a little hurt, that's all." Her eyes brighten suddenly. "Oh, I get it! Andy, this was two years ago and he certainly wouldn't hold a grudge that long."
"You're a mighty pretty gal," Andy drawls. "He just might have."
"Impossible. The five of us were the best of friends," she insists.
"Okay, just a thought." Andy shrugs his shoulders. If they were such great friends, where were Bam-Bam, Phil and Jordan now that Sheena needed all the friends she could get? And why had they talked about Sheena in a less than favorable light to him?
Andy pauses, then says, "So you think this Melvin Goldstein fellow did it, huh? He seemed pretty calm when I talked to him today."
"He's desperate!" Sheena spats with vehemence. "He's been slamming Ripp in the press ever since Thirteen's debut album came out. He knew Ripp was a better guitarist, and he simply couldn't take the blow to his ego. Ripp wasn't exactly what you'd call a humble newcomer," she adds. "He rubbed it in at first, playing along with the press. That really got Melvin mad. Then, of course last month Creem magazine named Ripp the Number One Metal Guitarist."
"Oh, so they weren't friends?"
Sheena's smirk answers his question. So Melvin had lied. What else might he have lied about?
"Did Ripp have quite an ego then?"
"Yeah, sure," Sheena says off-handedly. "They all do -- meaning good musicians. It's just part of the rap though.
"I must admit Ripp was pretty hard to deal with for a while there. Thirteen almost broke up a couple of months ago because of it."
"Did any of the other members of the group or crew threaten him?" Andy's eyebrows rise quizzically.
"No. He may not have been the most humble guy, or the easiest to work with, but he never did anything really rotten."
"What you or he didn't consider bad, someone else might," says Andy.
"Not that bad. Not bad enough to kill him," says Sheena with conviction.
"Well, you'd better get along and let me get my beauty rest," says Andy picking up the container and handing it to her. "Take this with you, too. You need it more than I do, you're just skin and bones!"
"No I'm not. My ass is a mile wide!" she insists as she goes out the door with the piece of chocolate cake in hand.
* * *
Andy's first stop the next day is the L.A. Forum's security department. Andy feels sure the police hadn't come here yet since Ripp wasn't found until hours after he'd been here, and then miles away. He discovers that he's right when he begins to talk to the head of security, a physically formidable black woman whose brass name tag identifies her as M. Brookline. She explains that rock groups always leave some things behind in their dressing rooms, and that security holds the items for a certain amount of time, then if unclaimed, they throw the items away.
"Did the group Thirteen leave anything behind when they were here?" Andy asks expectantly.
"I don't remember," she says. "Let me go in back and check."
She comes back in a few minutes carrying a wire basket with a few items in it. "Here it is. Are you going to claim it?"
"Yes, I'll give everything to Ripp Tailor's personal secretary. Thank you, ma'am," he adds as he signs for responsibility of the items on a sheet she pushes toward him from across the desk.
When he gets back to his rented car, Andy begins to inspect the pieces more closely: There is a black plastic comb, a few guitar picks, a date book and a pair of jean shorts.
Andy begins to go through the date book. It appears to belong to Ripp. He had probably started keeping track of his own appointments after Sheena had forgotten one too many.
Ripp wasn't a very thorough note writer, because many of the pages were left blank for days at a time, and then when he did write in it, it was something like "Meet J. at 5." Andy flips through the booklet a few times to locate the page that contains the date on which Ripp had been killed, but can't seem to find it. Finally, he resorts to turning each page of the few days that lead up to it. It simply isn't there. It has been torn out, leaving no outward sign, as the book is spirally bound.
Andy holds the small book up to the light which is strong coming through the windshield. It looks as though something may have been written on the missing page, because Andy can see indentations on the following page.
Like a kid playing detective, Andy gets out his pencil and begins to colour lightly over the entire page. The places where the force of the pen used on the previous page have caused indentations stay white. It works like a charm. The words, written in hasty block print, became visible:
"B --
YOU ARE OUT!!!
MEET ME LATER AND I'LL TELL YOU WHY
-- R."
Apparently, Ripp had torn this page out himself after writing the note and given it to this "B" person. Andy sat in the car for a moment and thought. The only logical answer is, of course, Bam-Bam the drummer. But why would Ripp want him out of the group? According to Sheena, they were the best of friends.
Andy decides to drive back to the hotel and ask Sheena to confirm the handwriting.
* * *
"Is that his writing?"
"Yeah, it could be," Sheena says, squinting at the faint lines. Andy thinks she looked a bit perturbed when he had presented the date book to her, but couldn't figure why.
She hands it back and said, "I've got to finish rolling up my hair, then we can talk more. You wait here; I won't be a minute." Sheena leaves him standing by the table in her room.
Andy wanders around slowly, slightly bored. Her room is a mess. Clothes strewn across the bed, nylons on the floor, make-up out on the nightstands, and a box of old letters is partially dumped out on the table by the window. When Andy makes a pass by the letters, he can't resist a quick glance. He stops.
They aren't exactly letters; mostly cards and little notes. Love notes handwritten in Ripp Tailor's blocky style. A few of them are face up and Andy sees the salutations, all to "Bumpkin." Sheena is a country girl from Louisiana; could that have been Ripp's pet name for her? Andy wonders. Bumpkin started with a B...
"All done!" Sheena calls from the tiny bathroom. "Now don't laugh!" Andy turns guiltily from the private notes when he hears her footsteps coming.
She has huge green plastic rollers in her hair that stick out about 3 inches, and Andy can't help but laugh just a little. "Hey, I asked you not to laugh!" she says in mock offense. Her face becomes serious again. "So, what are you going to do about that note? Are you going to take the book to the police?"
Before he can answer, they are both startled by a sharp rap at her door and the loud, authoritative voice that shouts, "Police, open up!"
Andy goes to the door and two uniformed officers along with Detective Rodriguez practically push him aside and walks brusquely into the room. Sheena's eyes are as big as saucers.
"Sharon Marlene Thompson," says Rodriguez, striding up to her. "You are under arrest for the murder of Ricardo James Ruiz. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney..."
Big tear drops begin to slide down Sheena's cheeks as she listens to Rodriguez go through his spiel and she stands quietly as one of the uniformed officers handcuff her.
"Do you understand these rights as they have been given to you?" Rodriguez ask, going by the book all the way.
Sheena's whispered "Yes," is barely audible.
As she is escorted from the room Andy says to her, "Don't you fret. I'll be there just as soon as I can."
Sheena's parents are in the hall, and they begin to follow along, Dean asking Rodriguez about bail.
Andy stays in Sheena's room for a few minutes, thinking.
Theoretically, he knows it's very possible that Sheena could have killed Ripp. All of the elements are there, as he cooks up a possible scenario of their last day together: That morning Ripp is edgy and in a bad mood. He takes it out on Sheena and they fight. They go to the auction and Melvin Goldstein begins hassling Ripp. Ripp punches him, then is thrown out just before he has a chance to bid on the guitar he wants so very badly. In an even fouler mood, Ripp goes onto the L.A. Forum for a sound check. He is very nervous about playing such a big stadium. Maybe things aren't right during the sound check. Then Sheena arrives without the guitar. She has forgotten other important things in the past, and this sends Ripp over the brink. He goes backstage and scrawls out a note to her, telling her it's all over. She leaves, heartbroken. Later that night when she returns to the hotel room, Sheena is angered by the sight of groupies and friends hanging around when she thought she and Ripp were supposed to have serious discussion. Later they argue and she kills him in the heat of passion, wrecking her nails and the room in their struggle.
Possible, but not probable. Andy knows Sheena and doesn't feel that she would or could kill another human being. Secondly, some of things just don't add up. For instance, why would Ripp give her a note with the heading of "B"? You don't tell a lover goodbye using their pet name. Most importantly perhaps, was the question of why would she go to the trouble of locking herself in with the body? That was very incriminating. If there was a struggle in the early hours of the morning (the time of death was estimated at between four and six a.m.), the hotel's other patrons surely would have heard it then; they certainly heard Sheena at 12:30 p.m. when she supposedly discovered the body.
The only other "B" that Andy was aware of was the drummer, Bam-Bam Johnson. Perhaps there had been resentment boiling beneath the surface of the two men's friendship ever since Sheena had come along. Things seemed to be going well for the group success-wise, but not personally. Sheena had said they almost broke up just a couple of months ago, but she didn't say why, exactly. Whatever the reasons, this would certainly cause tensions as well. The concert went badly that night -- was it because of Bam-Bam? Even it wasn't, Ripp could have blamed him and written out a note telling Bam-Bam he was out of the group. Bam-Bam was probably making more money than he'd ever dreamt of and getting fired could really hurt. But if there was a chance he could stay in the group, why kill the very reason for the group's success -- Ripp was the group and the group was Bam-Bam's meal ticket. Sure, he could have killed the golden goose in an act of passion, then locked everything up so it would look like Sheena did it. That way he could get back at her too. But how did he manage to lock everything up from the inside, then leave the room? Andy simply needed more information.
Of course there was a third possibility: the note may not have been the catalyst that night, and perhaps Ripp had been killed by someone else, not the mysterious "B."
Andy sighs tiredly and leaves the room, ready to go back to the Sunset House and have another look around.
* * *
This time Andy asks the chief of hotel security if he can have a look at the room. After a bit of cajoling, the man decides to let Andy inside, but not alone.
Sergeant Ross Nesbit leads the way as they went down the tacky red-carpeted corridor. "So you're the girl's attorney, huh?" Nesbit asks conversationally, not turning to look at Andy. He doesn't wait for a reply. "Never did trust them rock n roll types. They'll give you trouble every time." He stops in front of the door. "Here we are."
They step inside, and Andy sees immediately that the room has been cleaned up. The curtains are still down, but are neatly folded on a chair, and the white tape in the shape of a man is gone off of the floor.
Nesbit looks around. "This place sure was a mess. You should have seen it. Anyway, the cops took all the pictures and fingerprints they needed, so we've started to put it back together." He stops and walks toward the air conditioner. "Damn," he says, looking at the crooked vent grating. "Those maintenance men couldn't put a toddler's three piece puzzle together. Look at this."
"Was that taken out of the wall?" Andy asks, knowing the answer full well.
"Yep, that crazy girl really did a number on this place."
"Where does that lead?" Andy asks, peering into the dark shaft beyond the grating.
"All through the hotel," Nesbit replies. "The a/c repair man has to get into the vent to fix the units sometimes. It's kind of like a maze that they have to crawl around in. We even have a blueprint map of the whole thing, just in case one of them gets lost!" he chuckles. "Which is a distint possibility."
The opening is small, but Andy remembers how reed thin Bam-Bam was. It would certainly explain how he managed to lock everything from the inside, then escape undetected. Of course, Sheena is just as thin. So is Melvin Goldstein.
"Sergeant Nesbit sir," Andy says, using his respectful Southern charm to its full potential, "Would it be at all possible for me to find out what rooms the other members of the group were staying in?"
Nesbit, like most people he dealt with, is pleased and flattered by Andy's polite respect. "Of course," he replies. "I'm pretty sure they were all on the same floor. I'll just radio down to the front desk and have them check it for you." He does, and they find that Bam-Bam Johnson's room was on the same row, just two doors down.
Luckily the room is vacant, so Nesbit opens the door for Andy with his pass key and they both step inside.
Andy immediately walks to the air conditioning unit and wiggles the grate to see if it was loose.
It's quite loose, and Andy lifts it out with ease. The screws were barely lodged in the plaster, as though the grate has been kicked out of the wall from inside the vent, then pushed back into place.
Andy's heart flutters with excitement. Though it doesn't really prove anything, it's certainly a step in the direction Andy was hoping to go in. What he needs now was to find the note or some other solid evidence in Bam-Bam Johnson's possession. Easier said than done, but Andy is ready to try.
* * *
Andy stands in front of the Johnson home in West Covina, a good hour and a half drive from Chris Brown's house in Laurel Canyon.
When Andy had gone there looking for Bam-Bam, Chris told him that Johnson, Jordan and Diego had all gone to their respective homes "to sort things out and decide what to do about the band."
Next Andy had called Detective Rodriguez and obtained the addresses of the three men through him. He told the Detective that he was hoping to bring in enough evidence to free Sheena before the day was over. Rodriguez was still laughing when he hung up the phone.
He made a quick stop at a stereo equipment shop to pick up a piece of vital equipment and was on his way down the 10 freeway.
Andy knocks on the loose screen door of the sixties style pink stucco house. An older woman answers, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "May I help you?" she asks vaguely, using the tone one does with a door-to-door salesman.
"Please," Andy says, smiling broadly. "Ma'am, my name is Andrew Phelps. I am the attorney for the Thompson girl..." he lets his statement hang in the air to see what her reaction will be.
"Oh, poor Sheena, she was always the sweetest little girl," says the woman shaking her head from side to side. She looks up at him and smiles. "Where are my manners! Won't you please come in?"
"Thank you, ma'am," says Andy as he steps inside. "Is your son home?"
"No, but he should be back soon," she answers, motioning Andy to sit at the kitchen table. "Would you like some coffee while you wait?"
"I'd be a happy man if you had mint tea," he says, stroking his beard. It's a casual gesture, but one he adopts when nervous.
"I think we do," Mrs. Johnson replies. "Would it be out of line to ask how the case is going?" she asked as she turned on the kettle.
"Of course not. Things don't look too good, but I have known her since she was nine years old and I just know she's not guilty."
Mrs. Johnson smiles again. "I thought I heard a Southern accent. So you're from Louisiana too?" He nods and she continues. "Sheena's accent was pretty thick when I first met her, but she was taking acting and speech classes at the junior college. She's pretty much lost it now, don't you think?"
"Pretty much," he agrees. "And i do consider it a loss."
"She was always such a pretty girl, and so nice. Bam-Bam was awfully hurt when she broke up with him." The water has begun to boil and Mrs. Johnson turns her back to get the tea from the cupboard.
Andy thinks a moment, wondering if he should play it like he doesn't know Sheena had dated Bam-Bam at one time. He could possibly get more information that way, but settles on a different tack, one in which he does not have to be dishonest. "Seems strange that your son and Ripp would remain friends."
She pauses a moment, then says, "Well, I think Bam-Bam realized that Sheena hadn't really been serious, and I don't believe he ever told Ripp how he felt. So he acted like he didn't really care, but I know my own son." She asks if he takes milk or sugar, then gives him his tea and sits across from him at the table. "Anyway," she continues, "they were all young. I had my heart broken a couple of times by that age myself."
"Me, too," Andy agrees, smiling. He takes a tentative sip at the hot tea then says, "How long had you known Ripp?"
"Well, he was Ricky when I met him. The boys met in junior high and always had some sort of a band going. Then a couple of years ago they hooked up with Phil and Jordan. Ripp took over the management, and things really started to happen.
"Bam-Bam," she smiles fondly, "-- we've called him that since he was a boy -- still lives with us because they have been on the road so much it's not feasible to get a place of his own."
"So is your garage the famous garage where Thirteen did all of their practicing?"
She rolls her eyes and holds her hands over her ears in jest. "Yes! In fact Bam-Bam was practicing in there this morning... brings back some noisy memories."
"I'd love to see his drum kit, if I could."
"Sure. Do you play the drums Mr. Phelps?" she asks as she leads the way.
"No, I just like to look at pretty things," he admits. "Musical instruments, sports cars, sailboats. I just like to look though."
She flicks the lights on in the garage, and Andy sees an immaculate room with tools neatly hung on the walls, a few boxes stacked in the back, and a big Ludwig drum kit all set up in the middle on a brown shag carpet.
Andy walks around it a few times, eyeing the snares, cymbals, and tympanis with appreciation. The bass drum, which sits up in front, has "13" emblazoned across the front of it, in a knife-slash writing style.
"Is this the kit he used at the Forum?" Andy gets behind by the tiny seat.
"Oh yes," Mrs. Johnson says, "he only has the one. Isn't it big enough for you?"
Andy smiles, nodding his head. His eye catches a small piece of paper folded up lying in the hollowed out bass drum. He drops his note pad on purpose, then bends down to pick it up, along with the small piece of paper.
"What are you doing here?" Andy almost hits his head upon rising at the sound of the sharp male voice.
"Bam-Bam!" his mother admonishes. "That is no way to talk!"
"Sorry, mom." His eyes lower petulantly. "Hello, Mr. Phelps."
"Can I talk to you alone for a moment, please?" Andy askes him, glancing pointedly yet respectfully at Mrs. Johnson. She smiles understandingly and leaves the two of them alone.
Andy complements Bam-Bam on his drum kit, and asks him a little bit about playing.
"My little nephew plays drums," Andy says. "Not so little," he laughs. "He's thirteen. Hey, Thirteen! I'll bet he's a fan of your group."
Bam-Bam smiles, beginning to loosen up. "What kind of drum kit does he have?"
"Well, I don't know for sure, but last time I saw him he was having a great deal of trouble with a song called 'My Generation.' Ever hear of it?"
"Of course," says Bam-Bam, perching himself up on the tiny seat among the drums. "It's the Who. Keith Moon was the greatest! I can see why the kid is having trouble, trying to imitate Moon." He picked up his drum sticks off of the floor. "It goes like this. One, two, one, two." He begins to demonstrate.
"Wait, wait," says Andy. "Can I record this for him? It just might help."
"Sure," said Bam-Bam, continuing to play.
Andy runs out to the Cadillac and gets the tiny tape recorder which he had bought on the way out of town earlier. While he has a moment, he unfolds the crumpled piece of paper he found in the drum. It's exactly what he thought and hoped it would be: Ripp's original note.
He trots back to the garage, carrying the recorder. He flicks it on and puts it on the floor in front of the drum kit. "Okay, I'm recording now," he says loudly.
"Okay," Bam-Bam replies. "Here's how it goes."
Andy lets him play uninterrupted for a few minutes, then begins to ask him a few questions. "I'm sorry to come to your home and all, but I just wanted to get a few things straight. Now what time did you say you left Ripp and Sheena's room?"
"About three or 3:30," he continues his drumming as he speaks. "I don't have a watch, man."
"When I talked to you last, why didn't you tell me you and Sheena had dated in the past?"
Bam-Bam looks up sharply, but he keeps playing. "I didn't think it was important. Besides, you didn't ask. It's ancient history. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Nothing," Andy said soothingly. "I was just wondering, that's all. Now what about these rumours that Thirteen almost broke up a couple of months ago? I hear that you and Ripp had been fighting." Andy has heard nothing of the sort, it's just a little mini trap he's hoping Bam-Bam would fall into.
He does, though cautiously. "It was nothing. You obviously don't know anything about rock musicians, Mr. Phelps. There are some legendary fights that have gone on for years between members within the same group. Some of them are the biggest names; Jaggar and Richard, Daltrey and Townsend, Rose and Slash to name a few."
Andy has never heard of any them. "What about this?" He asks, dropping one of his bombshells. Andy holds out the date book which Ripp left behind at the L.A. Forum.
Bam-Bam takes it in a sinewy hand, the other maintaining the beat. His eyes cannot hide the rush of panic that seizes him. He regains his composure, but not before Andy notes the momentary loss. "So?" he says, sounding bored.
"Was that note for you?" Andy asks, taking the date book back and putting it in his breast pocket.
"How should I know? If it was, I never got it."
Au contraire, Andy thinks smugly. "Well, you know, I saw something rather interesting when I went to the Sunset House."
"Pray, tell," says Bam-Bam sarcastically, still pounding the skins.
"Well, I noticed that the air conditioning's vent grating was torn off in Ripp's room. I thought that was kind of strange. So I wanted to see if any of the other rooms had their gratings loose, because those vents are like tunnels that connect all of the rooms. Yours was loose."
Bam-Bam's eyes waver, but his voice stands firm. "Mr. Phelps, let me tell you something. Sheena is a smart girl. I wouldn't doubt for a minute that she killed Ripp, then tried to make it look like I did it. She never really forgot that I dumped her."
"You dumped her? That's not the way I heard it."
"Were you there?" Bam-Bam is getting angry now. This could work for or against Andy.
"Okay, okay," Andy says softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say anything to upset you. I just want to make sure I've got my facts straight." He hears the drum beats soften a little, then continues. "So you think Sheena did it -- why?"
"Ripp was ready to dump her. She doesn't take break ups well; I know that first hand. She's an emotional girl. Even if she didn't mean to kill him, she would still try to cover it up by putting the blame on me."
"But it was she who became the prime suspect," Andy points out. "Why would she plant such subtle clues pointing at you? The police even missed them."
"Well, I guess you're just lucky, being her attorney and all. Did she tell you about the grate and the note?"
Andy doesn't answer and instead asks, "What was your problem that night at the L.A. Forum?"
The drumming gets faster and heavier. "I was just nervous, that's all. It wasn't my fault entirely." He isn't looking at Andy anymore. He begins to talk again, but more to himself than Andy. "He thought it was my fault. He blamed me. He said I was out, well, he's out now -- permanently."
"What do you mean, exactly?" Andy asks, bringing Bam-Bam's attention back to him.
Bam-Bam smiles. "Divine providence, man."
"Wasn't he your friend? I should think you would be upset over his death." Andy can't believe his ears. Even if Bam-Bam was the killer, which Andy feels sure he is, he certainly should have felt some remorse.
"Look, I can't change what's already happened. I'm sorry our problems had to be solved this way, but now that he's gone, things will be better for Thirteen. Thirteen was my group. I started it, and now I'll be in charge again."
Andy glances down at the tape recorder. It's still going, and he hopes it's picking up Bam-Bam's voice over the drums. "Wasn't it decided by mutual agreement that Ripp should take over the management?"
"Mutual agreement," Bam-Bam sneers. "Yeah, right."
"Couldn't you have simply kicked him out of the group?" Andy smiles bashfully. "I'm afraid I don't know too much about these things."
"Well, we needed him at first. He was a pretty good guitarist, and he had the chutzpa to get us gigs and publicity. After things started to happen he had us all sign a management agreement with him, and well, how could we say no? He was getting us gigs, after all." Bam-Bam, for the first time since their conversation has begun, puts down his sticks. He reflects for a moment, then says, "He got really tyrannical, especially after the album did so well. He began to take all of the credit and treated us like session musicians. His back-up band. We called him 'Adolph' when he wasn't around."
His eyes become faraway, then teary. Andy stays quiet, not wanting to upset him further. "It was their idea, Phil and Jordan's. I was mad because of the note, and I'd been putting up with the brunt of the abuse, so I went along."
"What happened?" Andy asks in an unobtrusive whisper.
"Well, after Ripp gave me that note on stage at the Forum of all places, I really lost it, you know? After the show I told Jordan and Phil about it, and they said that we ought to teach him a lesson. We were just going to beat him up." Bam-Bam is trembling, and on the verge of tears. "I didn't mean to kill him."
"Okay, okay," says Andy softly, in soothing tones. "I believe you. It was an accident. Start at the beginning."
Without Phil and Jordan to support him, Bam-Bam went to pieces. "They told me we could put Ripp in his place. We went to his hotel room and partied for awhile, but he was really pissed at me. He took me aside and told me he wanted to have a band meeting to decide what to do about me. He kicked everyone else out, and it was just me, Ripp, Phil and Jordan in the room.
"He began to put all of us down. While he was listing all of our collective faults, Jordan walked to the window and opened it. Phil picked up the Page guitar, and before Ripp could stop him he took it to the window and dropped it down. Ripp lunged for him, and before I knew what was going on, I hit him on the head with a block of wood."
"A block of wood?" Andy interjects. "How did you find a block of wood in a hotel room?"
"Well, fans make us things and give us gifts. Sometimes they're tossed up on stage, and sometimes they are left for us at the hotel. I guess someone had made a collage on this block of wood for Ripp, because it had pictures of us on the front, then was painted red on the back with black letters that said, 'To Ripp Tailor, From...' I forget the name."
"Where is that collage now?"
Bam-Bam begins to grow more nervous than tearful. "Hey, I told you, it wasn't my fault!"
Andy decides to forget the murder weapon for now. "Why did you lock the door and window?"
Bam-Bam forgets his tears instantly and smiles proudly. "That was my idea. I figured since Sheena was asleep in the other room, we could try and shift the blame to her -- we were pretty sure Ripp was dead by that time. So Phil and Jordan left by the front door. I tipped over a few chairs, then took the grate off the wall. I saw an old movie once, called 'Crawlspace' with that Klaus Kinski dude. He's Nastassja Kinki's father, did you know that? She's fine. Oh, so anyway, he crawls all though these vents, spying on people, you know? So since I'm pretty skinny and my room was on the same side, I figured it would work. It did, until you came along. How did you figure it out?"
He looks distressed, not quite sure what to do without Phil and Jordan to back him up. When Andy met him the first time at the house in Laurel Canyon, Bam-Bam had spoken barely two words. Phil and Jordan wisely did all of the talking. Now he knew he was stuck. Like a dare devil who has changed his mind while going over the brink of Niagra Falls, Bam-Bam begins to back-pedal desperately.
"But like I said, it was all Jordan and Phil's idea. I'm not even sure if it was me who hit him, we were all pretty wasted, you know? Ripp may have even tripped and hit his head when he lunged for Phil. That collage couldn't have been heavy enough to kill him." He decides to get cagey. "And besides, there really isn't any proof."
"Well," says Andy, "I have the whole thing on tape. Shall we play it back in Detective Rogriguez's office just to make sure?"
Bam-Bam smiles
bitterly and shakes his head. "Shit."
