Rock & Roll Homicide Read Online Free Page A

suits now instead of the rockers?” I asked sympathetically.
    “I thought you got out of the head-shrinking business?” Jasmine retorted in a way that brought back memories of her feisty nature.
    “I did and for the same reason you got out of your marriage. I couldn’t live with the dick-heads either. Most of the bosses I met needed more help than the clients. At least you don’t have that problem working here,” I said.
    “You got that right. Bernie is the real deal. I’ve been working here for six years now and for at least the first two I kept waiting for Bernie to show a little bit of a dark side,” she said then shook her head. “Never happened.”
    “Is he around yet?” I asked.
    “Yeah, he’s in his office. I’ll tell him you’re here after I help the white collars get happy,” she said with a smile.
    I finished my drink and ordered another double. As I was reaching for my wallet, I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder while Bernie told the bartender, “This one’s on the house.” Then to me he said, “Since when did you start slamming doubles.”
    “Since about an hour ago when a thug stuck a gun in my neck,” I said, knowing it would be counterproductive to hide anything from my mentor.
    He replied, “I thought your practice was limited to the foibles of the rich and famous.”
    “I’m working on the Terry Tucker murder. I’m sure you’ve been following it in the papers,” I said.
    “Terry played my club a few times in the early days when he was with Caliber 9,” he said. “I was saddened, but not entirely shocked.”
    “How come?” I asked.
    “Terry was a perfectionist. The first time he played here he very politely asked if his band could rehearse some new songs at the club the afternoon before their performance. I agreed and showed up at noon to let them in. Terry worked them non-stop until 4:30 PM. He was pretty confrontational in the way he addressed his band mates when they didn’t measure up to his expectations,” he said.
    “Are we talking obvious mistakes or nit-picky stuff?” I asked.
    “I have a pretty good ear and half the time I couldn’t hear anything that sounded remotely off. It was clear that the guys in the band weren’t hearing it either. They were pissed,” he said.
    At this point I launched into what I knew of the contract with Cerise Records. “I was hoping you could take a look at it and see if you could spot anything that might give the record company a motive to kill him.”
    “Do you have it with you?” he asked.
    “No,” I said. “Jeannine was supposed to get a copy from Chelsea Tucker today, but after my near death experience, I forgot to call to see if it came in.”
    Bernie said, “Why don’t you call her from my office. If it’s there she can fax it over.”
    It was almost 6:30 PM and Jeannine had surely left for the day, but who knows how many times her OCD compels her to check the lights now that she lives within walking distance of the office.
          I tried calling her at the office and didn’t get lucky. I called her house and connected. “Hi, Jeannine. Have you settled in for the evening?”
    “Uh-huh,” she replied in a quivering voice.
    “Are you OK” I asked in a panicked voice, fearing the Russians had come looking for me.
    “No. I’m not OK,” she replied with a sob.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “Lassie’s dead!” she cried. “One minute she was standing next to the river and the next minute she’s going down the rapids. Now she’s dead.” Jeannine began to wail. She was letting it all out, like I’d never heard her cut loose before. It could have been the basis for a very therapeutic session. But, since I’m no longer her therapist I did what any other self-respecting detective would have done. I ruined the movie by telling her how it ends and got her to walk over to the office and fax the contracts. About twenty minutes later thirty-one pages of legal bullshit came steaming out of Bernie’s