Song of the Nightbird

The year had begun with such hope, such promise. But with each month that passed, the outlook began to appear grimmer and grimmer. We weren’t drowning, at least not yet. But the business flow that had been so promising slowed to a mere trickle, and we were struggling to pay the bills. Oh, an occasional case showed up on our doorstep, like a lost lamb searching for its mother. The wayward spouses quit philandering, no one disappeared without a trace, and murders came to a screeching halt.

I’m sure you’re wondering why I should be so concerned about the drop in the crime rate. It would probably make more sense if I did a little explaining. My name is Rick Simon, and I’m partners in a private investigative service named Simon and Donahue. The senior partner, if push came to shove. When the firm began many years ago, it was Simon and Winchester, but Eddie Winchester went and got himself killed, and I had no desire to go it alone. I was lucky enough to find an ex-policeman, Sean Donahue, and we tried it to see how things might work out. They worked out fine, and I knew I was lucky to have stumbled across Sean, as it were. We had our ups and downs, but what partnership doesn’t? We were doing a great job at continuing to build the firm’s reputation when something happened. I don’t know what or why, but clients dropped off steadily over the year.

Yes, I was watching crime statistics, and it wasn’t my imagination. Business had begun slowing down everywhere as the need for private investigators did the same thing. We still had regular clients, and I was exceedingly grateful for that, but there were afternoons when the two of us and our receptionist Robin, sat in my office and played poker.

Sean suggested we run an ad in the newspaper, but I was loathe to do that . . . it was like waving a white flag and yelling, “I give up!” We’d just had another discussion regarding what path we would take, this time while we were at lunch, but no decision was made – until Sean and I got back from lunch to find someone sitting in the reception area waiting for us. He looked like a kid, but a kid with a lot of polish. He wore blue jeans, but they were expensive, and he had on a silk shirt and a classic Rolex. Nothing ostentatious, just enough to scream “money.” His name was Brock Taber, and he gave me his business card. Sean and I took him into my office to see what we could do for him.

Not much, yet it seemed like everything. A new singer had burst upon the populace, and she was fast becoming the hottest star in town. Her real name was Mary Jane Oxford, but she performed under the name Nightbird. That was the extent of what I knew about her; rock and roll is not my forte. Mr. Taber, of course, wanted to discuss Nightbird. When I discovered the subject, I almost passed on the possible assignment; I thought about the bills piling up and reconsidered. Robin brought in coffee for the three of us, and Sean ensured Taber had the most comfortable chair.

“You come very highly recommended, gentlemen. Rosalyn Weeks could do nothing but sing your praises. Even her manager, George Aaronfsky, had only good things to say about you. And George is notoriously stingy with compliments.”

“I didn’t think musicians and actors ran in the same circles, Mr. Taber,” I remarked, biting my tongue almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth. “I meant to say; I’m surprised you know Ms. Weeks or Mr. Aaronofsky. With the schedules you must keep, there doesn’t seem to be any time to socialize.”

“There isn’t, Mr. Simon. Ms. Weeks made a point of calling me herself to recommend your firm. Mr. Donahue, I understand you’re a former Detective?”

“That’s right; I am, Mr. Taber. Did Rosalyn tell you that, too?”

“She did. Look, let’s dispense with the formalities. I’m Brock. May I call you Rick and Sean?”

We both nodded assent, and Peters continued. “Look, this is a most unusual situation. Nightbird is a very private individual; she doesn’t make friends easily. Right now, though, what she has is a stalker. And no security. Our hiring the two of you would provide us with investigators and protection. She’s performing a series of concerts in California, and we’d like to get you in place as soon as possible. You are welcome to go home at night when the concert is local – when we’re out of town, you’ll be provided with accommodations. We will never be in one place, except for the Los Angeles area, longer than five days. If we’ve been somewhere for five days, you’ll have a week off when we return to the area. Are you interested?”

I looked at Sean, and he stared back at me. He was the man processing the financial reports; he knew we were in dire straits. I nodded, and Sean told Peters, “Yes, we’re interested.”

“What are your normal fees?”

“One hundred dollars a day, each, plus expenses.”

“So that’s a thousand dollars a week. How about making it fifteen hundred, plus expenses, to make up for the unusual circumstances?”

“When do we start?” I asked.

“I’d like you to start tomorrow, but that would just be a meet and greet with Nightbird. We can fill you in on what’s been going on, and you can sit in on a rehearsal. Is that too soon?”

“What time?” Sean asked.

“We usually get started around three, so if you would meet us at noon, we can eat lunch and have plenty of time to fill you in. I have with me a check for five thousand dollars to serve as a retainer. Is that sufficient?”

“More than sufficient. What about clothes, Brock?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Blue jeans, shirts, just no graphic tee shirts, please. Whatever you’re comfortable in. Remember, tomorrow is to give you the lay of the land.”

“Where?”

“Come to the studio we’ve rented. It’s on Whittier Boulevard in Boyle Heights. 6387 Whittier Boulevard. We’ll see you tomorrow at noon, then?”

“We will be there, Brock.” Sean and I shook hands with Brock Peters and I saw him out. When I returned, Sean was waiting for me in my office.

“You sure this is alright with you?” I asked, wanting to be sure we were on the same wavelength.

“More than alright. Not only do we have enough money for you to quit worrying, but this could also be rather pleasant. She has a very unusual voice.”

“I’ll bring earplugs.”

“Go look for Nightbird on YouTube. I think you’ll be surprised.”

“This could be dangerous, you know. There is a stalker involved,” I reminded him.

“With any luck, nobody will roll her up in a rug and kidnap her,” he shot back, the fate that befell Rosalyn before we rescued her.

“Now, all we have to do is deal with Dani and Deanna.” I didn’t know how Deanna would take the job, but I was sure Dani would be understanding . . . and unhappy. I was hoping I was wrong about the unhappy part.

It was going to be later that day before I was able to gauge her reaction. It was my night to play chef, and I was making a dish we both loved – Lemon Garlic Shrimp Pasta. It was easy, quick, and a recipe even I could remember how to make. Several months back, Dani and I had decided on a unique arrangement – we alternated nights at each other’s apartment. If we stayed at Dani’s place, she cooked. If we stayed at my place, I cooked. Or grilled or paid for delivery. I’d always wanted to learn to cook, which was a good way of forcing me to do just that.

By the time she got to my apartment, I had the martinis chilled and ready, dinner was mere moments away, and a lovely breeze was blowing in from the balcony door. I met her at the door with a smile and a kiss, and once she got seated on the couch, I produced the promised drinks. “I could learn to live like this,” Dani remarked as she sipped her martini.

“I know how you feel. How was your day today?”

“Frantic,” she laughed. “You know they talked me into making the arrangements for the Christmas dance, and everyone is driving me crazy. Everyone I see keeps reminding me of what happened at the last dance we had on Valentine’s Day. No matter how often I assure them murder is not on the menu, I don’t think anyone believes me. Please tell me it won’t happen again. I don’t think I could stand it.”

“I hope not, but you know as well as I do, baby, that people pick the oddest places to commit murder.” She sat there with her martini glass and stared at me. “Come on, laugh. It’s a joke.”

“It better be. I’d run off to someplace in the South Pacific if the Christmas party became another murder scene. At least the gallery isn’t in dire financial straits as it was the last time we had a dance. No fundraising necessary this time.”

It must have been a tough day – her martini glass was already empty. Mine was still half full. Very rarely did Dani have occasion to outdrink me before we ate dinner. “Do you want another drink?”

“Do I have time?”

“Sure, I can stall dinner ten minutes or so.”

She held out her glass and smiled. “Yes, please. Your martinis are so much better than mine.”

“I’ve had more practice.” I checked dinner to ensure we had enough time and poured her another drink. “Speaking of dire financial straits – you know I’ve been worrying over business at the office. We finally got a case today, and it sounds like a big one. Have you ever heard of Nightbird?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. She’s fairly new on the scene.”

“Sean and I have been employed to provide some security services for her.”

“And what else?” After all the time we’d been together, Dani knew she could get me to tell her who and what about a case and that I wouldn’t go any further with the information. Part of that was not wanting to violate the client’s privacy, and part of it was for her protection. She’d gotten pretty good at knowing when to push and when to back off. And she was aware she could push just a little harder right now.

“She has a stalker. That’s all I know, and dinner is ready, so hand me that glass, and I’ll pour us some wine.”

“Yes, master.”

I was chuckling as I poured the wine, then went to the kitchen to finish the food. We talked about other things, mainly the arrangements for the Christmas dance, as we ate. Once we finished and the dishes were in the dishwasher, we settled on the couch, and I knew I had to tell her more. I explained the Southern California concerts and that some would require spending the night away from home. All in all, she took it quite well. As long as I could promise I wouldn’t be away for the Christmas dance.

“Don’t worry; I’ve seen your dress. I fully intend to be the man that escorts the belle to the ball.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” she whispered as I bent down to kiss her.

“Yes, I am.”