Technically it was August 18, 2000. It was 1:15 a.m. I
usually don't count it the next day until I wake up. While I was
waking up to answer the ringing phone, I had been asleep for less than
an hour. After a few rings, I realized I was alone in my house.
Otherwise, Sharon would have answered it.
I tried
to reach past the pillows to the phone at the head of the bed. I
felt nothing but air. I opened my eyes and found myself reaching
out past the foot of the bed. Flipped one eighty on the bed again.
Damn, I was drunk. The phone droned. Righting myself, I
stopped the ringing. My voice was whiskey raw, "Yeah?"
Crying.
Followed by two short gasps for air. Then more crying. I
blinked my eyes open again. Maybe I hadn't picked the phone up
yet. Still, I tried again, "Hello?"
The
gasping sound again. This time followed up with, "The son of a
bitch!" There was a brief return to crying, snuffed out by a
growling curse.
I had
never heard her cry before, but I knew that cursing. "Sharon, what's
wrong?"
Her
composure returned, barely, "The son of a bitch finally did it!"
"Kyle?
What happened? What's going on?"
"She's
dead, Geoffrey!" She was gasping again. She stopped herself again.
"Jesus Christ! She's dead and that son of a bitch did it!"
This was
not really happening. This was a nightmare born of whiskey and my
dashed dreams. Dreams dead months ago, but no one told me.
Weakly, "Raychel?"
"Kyle
killed her. The police were here when I got here. They're
talking to him now. I think he's confessing." That guess
turned out wrong and then some.
My
attention was turned otherwise, "You're at his apartment? I
thought you-"
"Sorry,
Geoffrey. I had to look in on her." Four words bounced
through my head: Right instinct. Wrong time. In Sharon's
business, regret like that lasts a lifetime. Problem is, they last
your lifetime. Not your client's.
She was
feeling it already, "I'm going to tell them everything, Geoffrey.
He can't get away with it!"
I don't
know if it was chivalry or anger that made me say it, "I'll be right
there."
Sharon
snapped, "No, Geoffrey. Not in your condition."
"I'll
have a driver bring me over, " I assured her. I knew who to call.
"Stay there, okay?"
"Sure."
She sounded uncertain.
"I love
you." Why did I say that? I did love her. But why did
I say it then? Do you remember the first time the person you are
with told you he/she loved you? It probably wasn't right after
he/she told you a close friend had just been murdered.
She took
me off the hook, "Get here soon, Geoffrey."
|
"Work is
pre-programmed in my matrix. I'm in California, but not a
Californian." |
I hung up
the phone and looked at the clock. 1:18 a.m. After I spoke
with the police, it would definitely be tomorrow. Sleep or no
sleep. It would probably be closer to 6:00 a.m. when they finished
with me. After that, I might as well just go to work.
I rolled
off the bed, started to grab my clothes, and dropped them again.
Better to show up in fresh clothes than yesterday's rumpled outfit.
I briefly considered burning those clothes. Bad luck never washes
out. Worse, it spreads in the laundry. Damn, I'm drunk.
I tried to rally myself for the effort. Won't do Raychel any good
showing up in a drunken fog. Clear the cobwebs, Geoffrey.
Focus. Get new clothes. Rewind my mind.
August
17, 2000. I show up at work at 7:00 a.m. Same as every
morning. Before going up to my office, I walk the studio level.
Studio 4 is still in need of repairs. (Ken Kincaid had better get
moving on those repairs. They are his responsibility.)
Studios 1 and 6 have all-nighters going deep into overtime. I
check in on them, make sure they're happy, and see if we can get them
anything. That's my policy. You work on your project hard.
I'll take care of the rewards. I am using it to build credibility
back for Terror Trax. Acts hear about hard-working Terror Trax
bands being treated well, and more acts follow. Casually and
loudly throw out a couple of lazier bands, and the tide stems. Now
only the hard-working ones flow here. Repeat as needed.
Slowly simmer until one band finally hits it big and hard. Then
reap rewards and continue building. It's not a business plan.
It's a recipe.
Finish
walking the studios and take the elevator to my office. Very Feng
Shui. Minimal meets functional. It creates the impression
that my time is important, and the person entering should get to the
point quickly. It seldom works. My morning is awash in
wasteful in-person meetings and productive phone calls. Near noon,
I am again questioning why I have an office. I picture a revised
work schedule: Come in, walk the studio level, leave, call
executive assistant from the car, make orders, eat lunch at Spago, and
look important. I smile and fight the urge to vomit. I can't
even stomach the image. Work is pre-programmed in my matrix.
I'm in California, but not a Californian.
Two to
noon and in enters the janitor. Sergei Brosovsky is the only
person who keeps as regular a schedule as myself. New day.
Same conversation.
"Morning,
Mr. MacIntyre."
"Good
morning, Sergei."
He does a
brief once over and by the time I give up to leave for lunch he is
finished.
"Lunch,
Mr. MacIntyre?"
"Yes,
Sergei."
We're out
the door together. Me and Sergei. Executive and the spy.
I don't know why but I should have known. At the time I didn't
know that while I left for lunch, Sergei would go down and let Raychel
and Kyle into the building through the back door and they would proceed
to the relative secrecy of the "defunct" studio 4. That was Ken's
conspiracy and he ran it right under my nose. I hate him, but I'll
admit one thing: He is one brave son of a bitch to pull that stunt.
Fully
clothed again and I'm on the phone calling for my driver. The
phone rings twice and he picks up, voice chipper, "You coming?"
Confused,
I ask, "Ken?"
I am
answered with curious silence. Finally, Ken responds, "Geoffrey?"
Ken lives
a few minutes away. He was closer than a cab. Also, I
thought he would want to come. "Yeah, Ken. Can you come
over? I need your help."
More
silence, "What's wrong?"
"I just
got a call from Sharon Wolfe." Stop for the deep breath, let it
out slow, "Kyle killed Raychel."
"What?
When?"
"Tonight.
Not long ago. The police are talking to Kyle now. Sharon
says he's confessing. I need to get to their apartment, but I need
someone to get me there. Can you come and get me?"
"Sure, "
he stopped. "You okay, Geoffrey?"
"No.
You?"
"I don't
know. Shocked, you know? I'll be there in a few."
"Okay."
Something still stuck in my mind, though. "Ken, who did you think
I was before?"
"Not
important. I was just expecting to see a friend in a bit.
See you soon." and the phone went dead.
If you've
read my earlier writings (or a few works from others), I am sure you are
wondering why the first person I called was someone I consider a
personal traitor. Had I been more devious at the moment, I could
have considered it an opportunity to close the growing gap between us.
Show him that our differences could be settled by calling on him to help
out in a crisis. But that was not the case. I just needed
the ride and he was nearby.
Sitting
down and waiting for Ken, and I'm back in my office yesterday.
"You need to get number 4 back in order, Ken."
Ken is
leaning smugly against my credenza. He never uses the chair.
"I've got a new mixer on order, but it's a custom job. It's going
to be at least a month or so. When I designed the studios, I
designed them for optimal sound. I never designed them to be
repaired. The good news is we don't really need it until November.
I'll have it back up and running by then."
|
"I would like to
point out that, unlike Kyle, I do not live for anger or relish the
opportunity to express myself in that manner." |
Typical
Ken. Blizzard of bullshit. Only drawback for him is that he
doesn't listen to himself. I did, though.
"Mixer,
Ken? Last week you said it was a rattle in the acoustic panels."
He didn't
break, or shuffle his feet. Just looked me straight in the eye,
"Did I?"
"Yes.
You said the panels were imported and they were on order. But the
timeframe was the same. A month or so."
Same
dead-eyed delivery, "Did I?"
"Why
don't I just go and take a look myself? You want to come along,
Ken?"
He
smiled. The bastard just smiled, "If you want to look at an empty
studio, far be it from me to stop you."
I stomped
out of my office, leaving Ken leaning, and went down to the studio
level. The elevator acted like an anger incubator. I started
wondering what Ken would try to hide from me in number 4. The list
was very short. By the time I reached the studio level, I knew
what I was in for.
Sergei
shuffled up the hallway to pick me off. I noticed he came from the
direction of number 4. Had he been watching out for them the whole
time? The picture was coming together very quickly. He tried
to start a typical conversation, "Morning, Mr. MacIntyre, " regardless
of the fact that it was 6:30 in the evening.
I smiled
to him, grabbed him by his shirt and flung him into a wall, "Who is in
number 4, Sergei?" He stammered for an answer (an English one).
I was not going to be stalled further, "Sergei, your job is riding on
your answer."
His eyes
went wide. He blubbered a weak, "She . . . they're gone now."
"Raychel
and Kyle?" I asked. His eyes went wider. I let go of him and
stalked to number 4, practically kicking open the door.
The less
said about the confrontation in number 4 the better. I cannot
contradict Kyle's account of the events. I admit that my actions
in the studio were wrong, and even stupid at times. I was out of
control. I would like to point out that, unlike Kyle, I do not
live for anger or relish the opportunity to express myself in that
manner.
It's 1:35
in the morning when Ken picks me up and we make a quiet drive to Kyle's
apartment. Our drive together is utilitarian. Any attempt to
come together for a meeting of the minds is aborted by our unstated
preference to enjoy each other's silence.
It is
hard to believe how the world was so different two hours ago. I
try to remember what I was doing two hours ago, with minimal success.
Drunk? Definitely. I don't really like to drink that much,
but Sharon was persistent. I remember being at Safehaven with
Sharon and Laura Douglass and the car ride home, but I cannot remember
what time anything happened at. Late, I know. I fell asleep
in the car. Next thing I know I'm being carried into my home like
a sack of potatoes by Sharon. She flopped me on the bed.
That's when I saw the clock for the last time that night. It was
12:23 a.m. Sharon looked down on me and said, "I'll be back in a
minute." I dropped off to sleep and everything changed in an hour.
Ken and I
made it to the apartment by 2:00 a.m. The police were everywhere.
None of them were talking. I asked one if he had seen Sharon Wolfe
and was directed to a homicide detective. He informed me that if
Ken or I wanted to make a statement too that it would be best if we came
to the police station to do it.
We did.
It went well into the morning. Do you want to know about my
statement to the police? Sorry, but that's none of your business.
That day is over.
