Chapter 1
Detective Kyle Petipas and Detective Mick Drake walked down the sidewalk between twin two-story apartment buildings. Kyle could hear the faint notes of ‘Fight the Power’, the lyrics floating on a light breeze: Listen if you’re missing y’all. Swinging while I’m singing. Giving whatcha getting. Knowing what I know coming from one of the apartments. It was two in the afternoon, the weather mild, maybe seventy degrees. They’d been called about a body laying on the sidewalk in front of apartment twelve on 1034 Holloway Drive.
As they approached the scene, already busy with a forensics team, Kyle said, “This is where they found Sal Mineo. Remember?”
“Before my time. I know I look old, but ...” Mick didn't look old, he looked like a kid in a band.
“They mentioned it during initiation.”
“I didn’t do that.”
“I see.” Kyle bit his lip.
“They said I was too old.”
“How old are you? You don’t look that old. You look like you're still in high school.”
The forensics team continued to collect evidence while they talked. There was some blood spatter on the sidewalk. Mick squinted at Kyle and nodded his head in the direction of the team.
Kyle smiled. “Yeah. They’re still working, aren’t they? I just figured we could spend the time talking about why an old guy like you is busy trying to break a hip?”
“Hilarious.”
“So?”
Mick didn’t answer.
“Might as well tell me. Sooner or later, you’re gonna open up. I am a hell of an interrogator-”
“Okay, okay. You don't have to do that.” Mick leaned in and started to talk a little softer. “I'm thirty-one."
"Wow. Ancient."
"For a guy in a band, I'm ancient. It’s really no big deal. However, I’d rather not spread it around. Here’s what’s happening. I’m in a band and I needed a day job to keep paying the rent, so I can keep up my dream, which is Nirvgarden. We’re getting some nibbles from the majors and it looks like I ain’t gonna have this job very long anyway.”
Someone on the forensics team giggled.
“Probably you talked too loud.” Kyle nodded at the team.
The giggling increased.
“You guys never had a dream?” Mick directed his question to the team. “We’re playing at Club Lingerie on Tuesday. Anyone wanna go, I’ll put you on the list. We’re called Nirvgarden.”
A few more giggles.
“What? The name?”
Kyle had been holding his notebook for at least five minutes. “Detective Drake, we have a murder to investigate. The victim had his I.D. on him.” Kyle handed Mick the I.D. “Hopefully this won’t interrupt your dreams.”
Mick held the victim’s California I.D., not a driver’s license.
“Why, no D.L.?” Kyle wrote a note in the book. “I mean, the guy had stuff to do, looks like, being a musician and all. You would know.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve known a lot of musicians who have ridden the bus, especially when they were new,” Mick said.
“Well, this guy ain’t new. He’s been in this apartment for ten years and worked at Licorice Pizza. ” Kyle looked down at the clipboard. “Doesn’t say anything about what band he was in.”
“Mick had been in two other bands since he’d been in L.A. The name on the dead man’s I.D. was Kaz Michaels. Mick studied the picture. He was pretty sure he was the drummer in Chef’s Kiss.
After showing the landlord Kaz’s I.D., they entered his place. Not much more than a drum kit against the interior wall on a platform, some makeshift soundproofing consisting of towels and a blanket surrounded the kit. A bare wooden floor with one comfortable chair nearby. The bedroom had a double bed and a nightstand. A prescription bottle sat on the table next to a half-empty glass of water. Above the nightstand was taped an 8x10 black and white glossy from the band, Chef’s Kiss, the drummer named Kaz on the picture.
“You know this guy?” Kyle laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“He’s not gay?” He was wearing a white muscle shirt and a tu-tu.
“I don’t know. I just know him as the drummer for Chef’s Kiss. I saw him play once maybe a year ago. Possibly you’re not aware, but rock guys do stupid stuff to get noticed, like wear tu-tus.”
“Besides, I’m fine with gay people. If he were gay, it would be perfectly fine. More chicks for me.”
“You don’t have to get into a whole thing. I just think his outfit was... kinda gay - okay I said it.” Kyle smirked.
“Cool, now I’m in the club, right? Mick rubbed his chin.
“What club would that be?”
“The one where I can make gay jokes about what people are wearing?”
Kyle glanced down, laughed. “Sure. Why not?”
“Cause that guy over there..." Mick pointed at another photo taped to the wall. "Those shorts, seriously, that’s enough to turn you straight and keep you there.”
“Maybe for you. Isn't that Freddie Mercury?”
“Yes." Mick laughed. "Okay, have we done enough bonding?”
“Sure, for now.”
“So, Kaz, our unfortunate victim who has slapped his last tom-tom, and we need to find who gave him his final drum-roll.”
Kyle stared at Dan, his mouth hanging open. “Yeah... I’m already played out on drum references. So far, we know very little. He appears to have been struck once on his cheek and the blow knocked him over when his head impacted on this small brick fence next to the sidewalk, where he bled out. Maybe that’ll change when they get the body back to the lab. He has an emergency number on the lease, it’s an Iowa exchange.”
“So, possibly not intentional. Maybe just a random altercation.”
“Maybe. A little early to tell. We should see the landlord. He’s in the front unit.”
“That’s me. You can see me.” An older man, fifty years old, the man they show'd kaz's ID to, stood in the apartment entrance. “This poor kid was a good guy, although I won’t miss those drums, I can tell ya. Nobody will.”
Kyle looked at Dan. “Think anybody’d punch him for playing the drums? Was he playing them today?”
“Well, yeah. He’s only allowed to play between and ten and five, when most people are at work. I did hear him, but maybe only a half hour...”
“And then you found him on the sidewalk at when?”
“It was just before eleven.”
“And you heard nor saw anyone else around that time?”
“That would be correct.”
“Anyone in the building in particular complain about his drumming?”
“No.”
Mick shook his head. “Usually, drummers spring for a sound-proof room. It’s worth it to avoid all the headaches.”
“Not to mention being hit with a baseball bat which undoubtedly causes headaches and sometimes early death.” Kyle looked down at a squatting Mick.
“We don’t know it was a baseball bat.”
“True.”
Mick carefully removed the Chef's Kiss 8x10. He pointed it at the landlord. “Know any of these guys?”
Pointing to the bass player named Joey Thumbs, he said, “I know that guy. Apartment twenty. Don’t know the other guys.”
“Joey Thumbs, eh? Good name for a bass player.” Kyle looked closer at the picture.
“Yep. The name on his lease and his license is Joseph Carlyle. Joey Thumbs was his stage name.” The landlord acted like a guy who maybe knew show-biz, possibly, not that it took a genius to figure out Joey Thumbs might be a stage name. L.A. was filled with people who’d done something in the business, even if it’d been awhile since they'd been active. “Didn’t hear Joey with Kaz. I think he’s at work.”
“Mind if we check anyway?” Kyle nodded at the landlord.
“Well, of course. Maybe he’s there.”
After a brief walk toward the street, Mick turned and knocked on apartment twenty.
“He’s probably at work, now that I think about it. Usually I hear him with Kaz. And I didn’t hear him today.” The landlord had followed them to Joey's place.
“We should call the number on the eight by ten.” Mick pointed the photo at Kyle.
They needed to check back in at the station.
Detective Kyle Petipas’s desk was in the middle of the main office. Mick sat on the chair while Kyle dialed the number listed on the photo.
After a few rings, a female voice picked up. “Edge Rockin’, can I help you?”
“Yes, you are the label for a band called, Chef’s Kiss?”
“We are. They are available this Friday. Can we set up a booking?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m with the sheriff's and the drummer from the band was killed. I’m looking to talk to his band members.”
“You mean Kaz?”
“I’m afraid so.”
"You need to talk to Cliff. He's their guitar player, singer, song-writer. He's the whole band. Damn. What happened?"
"Can't say much, still too early."
"How's Joey?"
"Far as we know, fine. Can you give us the various phone numbers and addresses for members of the band?"
After writing down the info on the photo, he hung up.
"Let's go to Tail of the Pup. Whattya think?" Kyle slipped the photo in his backpack, one he got from an army surplus store.
Tail of the Pup was a hotdog shaped outdoor diner that looked like it could drive away at a moment's notice only it always sat there on the west side of San Vicente, usually with a bit of a line at the window.
"Your dad worked for Hollenbeck?" Kyle was still arranging his napkin under his burger. They were sitting in his red Chevy convertible, top up.
"Works. Still there. Not quite done yet."
"Get to be a detective on day one. Pretty sweet." Kyle checked his carefully managed hair in the mirror.
"Not quite that easy, but yeah, it helped cut through the red tape."
"Cut right to becoming a detective." Kyle smiled.
"Is it a problem?" Mick cocked his head, eyes narrowed.
"Not yet. I guess we'll find out."
"How hard can it be? I've seen Murder She Wrote." Mick was nearly done with his burger. He dipped a fry in ketchup.
Kyle smiled. "I see you more as a Rockford Files sort, living in a trailer on the beach."
"Damn, sounds nice. Those trailer parks in Malibu. Little far from work and the strip, however. How'd that guy make money, anyway? That whole P.I. thing seems, I don't know..."
"Skeevy? I think that's the word you're looking for."
"I was gonna say risky. Waiting around for money. I prefer a regular paycheck. I'm already in a band with no steady income. That's why I'm here with you, Detective Petipas."
"Think you could spring for a proper suit coat, detective?"
"I'm sure I have something boring in my closet. We should get back to the station, don't you think?"
"Yes, of course. Then pay a visit to the rest of Chef's Kiss. You said you saw them. What'd you think?"
"Average is what I remember. Didn't stand out, but that's common. You only remember the good stuff, or the really bad stuff."
