Old Scores Read online

  “I think I see where this is heading,” said Gilbert.

  Lynn’s left brow twisted upward. “You know about Palo Alto, then?” he asked.

  “Only that it was more or less their doomsday concert,” said Gilbert.

  “Ah…” said Lynn, raising his index finger. “But you don’t know the details.”

  “No,” admitted Gilbert.

  Lynn’s eyes grew pensive as he gazed at his coffee.

  “Doomsday concert,” he said. “I like that. I venture we share the same sense of cynicism, Detective Gilbert.” He took a sip of his coffee. “In any case, it was…sad…particularly because it was so comical. Phil-invested a great deal of money into Palo Alto. The band got on one plane, and their equipment got on another. The band arrived at Palo Alto, and their instruments went to Miami. Whose blunder was that? I don’t know. Phil insists it was Glen’s. Of course they couldn’t go onstage without their instruments or all their other massive amounts of stage and lighting equipment.”

  “So what happened?” asked Gilbert.

  “They had to postpone,” said Lynn. “Phil drowned in an avalanche of refunded tickets. He thought fans would buy new tickets for the rescheduled show, but they never did. Glen still made a cut. He wrote the deal to guarantee an expenses clause for GBIA, so you can imagine how that made Phil feel. The rescheduled show was a bust, and that was the end of Mother Courage.”

  Gilbert made a note of all this in his notebook. “David Geffen backed out?” he asked.

  The lawyer nodded. “David Geffen backed out. So did the rest of the band members. For good. They’d made their last try, and now it was time to lay the thing to rest. The band’s breakup wasn’t particularly amicable, especially not for Phil. He thought they were all…well…you know…whatever he said, it wasn’t nice. He blamed it all on Glen. He didn’t want to end his musical career. He came to me and asked me if there was any legal way he could compel the other band members to continue.”

  “And was there?” asked Gilbert.

  “No,” said Lynn. “Then he asked me if there was any legal action he could take against GBIA. I advised against it. The contract wording favored GBIA. So Phil vowed to start a solo career. He wrote a dozen new songs, and toured small clubs, and the material itself was fairly strong. He’s a good songwriter. But he just didn’t have the pipes. He couldn’t belt it out the way Paul, Carol, or Michelle could. He tried for a record deal with a number of different labels. No one was willing to risk it. Not after Palo Alto. So he started his own label. If no one would sign him, he would sign himself.”

  At this point, Lynn’s phone rang. He picked it up, made a few pleasant excuses to the person on the other end of the line, then gently rested the receiver back in the cradle.

  “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” asked Gilbert.

  “My wife’s having trouble with the home computer again,” said Lynn. “She counts on me as her savior in that regard.”

  Lynn scratched his tanned forehead as he decided how to continue, then moved his coffee, for no apparent reason, two inches to the left.

  “Phil, of course, knew a good deal about the record business,” he said, “but he didn’t feel he knew enough to start his own label. He didn’t feel safe going it alone, so…rather rashly…he let bygones be bygones, and got Glen Boyd in on the deal. I don’t know how he explained it away to himself, all the bad feelings over Palo Alto, or if Glen finally apologized as a way to get his toe in the door on the new deal. Whatever the case, Phil sank a significant portion of his remaining savings into the label, and borrowed heavily from the bank. You think he would have learned his lesson by then. But he was desperate to resuscitate his rock-star status. Glen more or less agreed to manage the label for a token salary of one dollar a year plus forty percent of any profit. Phil went into the studio and recorded his solo album. They got initial orders for a hundred thousand copies, and sold them wholesale at ten dollars apiece. That gave them a million dollars. Glen wanted to invest that money. Phil went back to the studio to start a second record, and left Glen to find the best investment opportunities.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Gilbert. “I think I can see what’s coming.”

  “A crystal ball is hardly needed, Detective Gilbert. I daresay, Phil could have used one at the time. Record stores can return whatever product they don’t sell for full reimbursement. A prudent label typically banks money as a reserve against these returns. Following this model, Glen should have banked half the money from those initial orders to financially guard against any of those returns. But he didn’t.” Lynn sighed, sat back, and folded his hands across his trim stomach. “He invested the money in Campeau.” Lynn gave Gilbert an inquiring look. “Do you remember Robert Campeau, the junk-bond baron of the retail industry? Campeau stock was all the rage at the time.”

  Gilbert smiled grimly. “I lost five grand,” he admitted.

  “What a house of cards that was,” said Lynn. “A big financial quicksand pit. Trendy, yes, but still a disaster. Glen sank Phil’s every last penny into it. He didn’t hold anything back for returns because he was convinced he would make money. Then Campeau went bust, and the label lost all its money. At the same time, it became apparent no one was buying Phil’s solo effort. Think Yoko Ono, and you’ll have an idea of sales. When Phil found out all his money had been swallowed by Campeau, he was furious. He had to somehow raise the money to reimburse all these record stores. And because he was paying Glen a token salary of only one dollar a year, he couldn’t go after GBIA. Here’s where the restraining order comes in. As lawsuit after lawsuit failed, Phil physically threatened Glen.”

  Gilbert grew still.

  “How did he threaten him?” he asked.

  “He said he would get two of his Hell’s Angels friends to break Glen’s legs.”

  “And how long ago was that?” asked Gilbert.

  “Back in February,” said Lynn.

  “So things were said.”

  “It seems so. I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, Detective Gilbert, but I think Phil Thompson warrants more than just a brief look, don’t you?”

  The next morning, Staff Inspector Tim Nowak, Gilbert’s boss, caught Gilbert as he was coming into the office.

  “Joe’s already been in and out,” said Nowak, a tall, thin, gray-haired man in his mid-fifties. “Some old guy was found dead in a back alley in Etobicoke.”

  “Does Joe want me to come out?” asked Gilbert.

  “He said he’d call. Right now I thought we’d have a talk about the Boyd case.” Nowak’s gaze shifted. “In my office.”

  “Sure,” said Gilbert.

  Gilbert put his coffee and bagel on his desk and followed Nowak into his office. Nowak sat down. Gilbert followed suit. Out the window in the courtyard Gilbert glimpsed an odd piece of statuary, a bronze female police officer mortaring bricks. He’d never understood that particular sculpture.

  “Toxicology called,” began Nowak. “They looked at your drug list. Joe says you had it marked urgent.”

  “Right,” said Gilbert. “But even if you mark those things urgent, it takes a while. Has any of it been done yet?”

  “They’ve done some preliminary color tests, but they’re inconclusive,” said Nowak. “The guy had such a mishmash of drugs inside his system, it’s going to take Toxicology a while to sort it out.”

  Gilbert’s shoulders sank. “So I take it Melvin Blackstein won’t rule on the possible overdose until he gets the report back from Toxicology.”

  “No,” said Nowak. “And that frustrates me as much as it frustrates you, Barry. Especially because Ronald Roffey from the Toronto Star is calling me about the Boyd case. He’s actually stopped by a time or two.”

  Gilbert shook his head. “Shit.”

  “I know,” said Nowak. “I’d like to wrap this one up quickly.”

  “How are we going to do that if the toxicology tests are going to take a while?”

  “Well…I’ve sent the crime-sce
ne photographs to Deputy Chief Ling,” said Nowak. “Maybe once he sees them, he’ll call the coroner’s office.”

  “You know Mel,” cautioned Gilbert. “He likes to be careful. And it takes a lot to budge him.”

  “Yes, but if it swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it has to be a duck. I wonder if he’s ever heard that phrase. Maybe we can get Ronald Roffey to explain it to him. It’s a big sticking point. I intend to grease the works any way I can, so that’s why I’ve sent the crime scene photographs to the deputy chiefs office. I’ll be sending him regular updates as well, so keep me informed. In the meantime, we go ahead. We work with what we have.” Nowak looked out the window. “That means the preliminary DNA analysis on the skin scrapings taken from under Boyd’s fingernails. Joe received the report this morning.”

  “Really?” said Gilbert. “That fast?”

  “The new digital method really speeds things up,” said Nowak. “Bear in mind, the profiling is by no means complete. It’ll take another few weeks to individualize it. But Forensic has done enough sequencing to tell us that the left-hand and right-hand samples came from two different people.”

  Gilbert stared at Nowak’s much-thumbed copy of the Canadian Criminal Code. This was indeed significant, and changed the complexion of the investigation considerably. In trying to defend himself, Boyd had gripped his attacker, and trace quantities of the perpetrator’s epidermis had lodged under his fingernails. Only now there were two attackers, one coming at him from the left, the other from the right. Even more puzzling, Boyd’s arm was broken. Broken after his attempt at defense? Two attackers? The Hell’s Angels? Possibly. As Daniel Lynn suggested, Phil Thompson warranted more than just a brief look.

  “Thanks, Tim,” he said.

  Nowak contemplated the gold signet ring on his left baby finger. “Boyd’s a bit high-profile, isn’t he?” said the Homicide staff inspector.

  “Yes,” said Gilbert.

  “I had no idea,” said Nowak. “Roffey’s certainly interested. I’ve never followed the rock and pop scene much. I’m a jazz buff myself.”

  “What did Roffey say?”

  “Just that the Star’s entertainment section is running a feature on Boyd this weekend, and that he’d like to do a more in-depth follow-up piece on the homicide investigation to run with it. I think we have to be careful with this one, Barry. Roffey had that look in his eyes.” Nowak gave him an inquiring glance. “You know the one he gets?”

  “All too well,” said Gilbert.

  “Speaking of which, Joe tells me you knew Boyd.” Gilbert’s shoulders tightened. Nowak tapped the marble base of his pen-set a few times. “I’m just wondering if it’s such a good idea…you know…you acting as the primary on the case…especially because you knew the man. We don’t want to give Roffey more meat than we have to.”

  Gilbert sighed as his mood sank. “I knew him briefly twenty-three years ago,” he said. “He was an acquaintance. That’s all. A friend of my wife’s. I haven’t seen him since that time. If you want to yank me as the primary on the case, that’s your prerogative, Tim. But this is just another case to me, no different from any other. I’m capable of working it, and working it fast, as speed seems to be an issue.”

  A relieved grin came to Nowak’s face. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear, Barry.”

  Five

  After his meeting with Nowak, Gilbert went back to his desk and nibbled at his bagel.

  He tried to fit Phil Thompson into the existing evidence. While it was eminently possible he might have hired the Hell’s Angels to break Boyd’s arm instead of his legs, gang members would have done a more effective job strangling Boyd. Trauma was slight, so much so Joe thought the perpetrator might be a woman. And Hell’s Angels weren’t known for their delicacy.

  He took a sip of his coffee. Damn, but he was spoiled after drinking Blue Mountain.

  Then there was the blond hair. Judy Pelaez’s blond hair? Or possibly Stacy Todd’s blond hair?

  He concentrated on Judy Pelaez for a while, gathered some background information on the woman from the Internet.

  One web page recounted Judy Pelaez throwing a salad plate at a waiter in Barcelona back in 1973. Another mentioned how she had trashed a hotel room in Dallas because of cold soup. So. The woman had a temper. The most telling incident was from 1979, when, in Seattle on her “Lost in Love” tour, she’d smashed Glen Boyd over the head with a guitar. Boyd got seventeen stitches, and Judy got thirty days. Gilbert saved that particular Web page, cut and pasted it into the case file. If she was capable of smashing Boyd over the head with a guitar, mightn’t she be capable of strangling him with a silk scarf? The evidence, at least preliminarily, pointed that way.

  He phoned the Best Western Primrose Hotel, hoping to speak to her directly.

  “How may I direct your call?” asked the desk clerk.

  “Judy Pelaez, please,” he said.

  “One moment, please.”

  The clerk connected Gilbert to Judy’s room phone, but the phone rang ten times before the hotel guest voice-messaging system kicked in. He left a message. He thought he might as well drive over. It wasn’t that far. And a surprise visit sometimes had its uses.

  But first he went back to scanning the Internet.

  He found a photograph of Judy Pelaez. She wore a navy blue beret. Her lips pouted seductively at the camera. She had cat-green eyes and was stunningly blond. Her broad cheekbones gave her a Slavic look, and he wondered if she might have some Ukrainian blood. She certainly had no Spanish blood, despite her last name—her first husband had been Puerto Rican. She was a willowy woman, petite, and irresistibly appealing. With such a slender frame, no wonder she hadn’t caused much damage to Boyd’s throat. Only how had she been able to overpower the man in the first place, unless he’d been so stoned he hadn’t been able to defend himself?

  Lombardo returned from his suspicious-death call in Etobicoke a short while later.

  “You’ve been busy,” said Gilbert.

  Lombardo put his briefcase on Gilbert’s desk.

  “Traffic’s getting impossible in this city,” he said. As a student of feminine beauty, Lombardo immediately looked at the image of Judy Pelaez on Gilbert’s monitor. “Caramba,” he said. “What a babe.”

  “I know,” said Gilbert.

  “She makes you want to melt,” said Lombardo.

  “She’s a lot older now,” said Gilbert.

  “That makes me sad,” said Lombardo.

  “What does?” asked Gilbert.

  “That she’s a lot older now, and that all beautiful women have to grow old.”

  “Is that just another way of saying, ‘So many women, so little time’?”

  “Something like that,” said Lombardo. He gestured at the photograph. “When was that one taken?”

  Gilbert glanced at the photograph. “Twenty-five years ago.”

  “I didn’t think she was that pretty.”

  “She’s a great songwriter,” said Gilbert. “And a great singer. I’m going to her hotel. We have to talk to her. I thought we could do a plain-view search.”

  “Sure.”

  “And by the way, what happened in Etobicoke? Did it turn into a homicide?”

  “No,” said Lombardo. “The guy choked to death on a veal sandwich.”

  “Really?” said Gilbert.

  “The paramedics tried to intubate him, but the respirator got blocked. They cut an emergency incision in his trachea, hoping they could get him to breathe. They found this big piece of veal sandwich lodged there. Plus a half-eaten veal sandwich next to his corpse. And you know what? Talk about a coincidence.”

  Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “I know this guy, just like you know Boyd.”

  “Really?”

  “Vito Pizzale. He’s an old family friend. From way back. When we first moved over from Italy. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “So he was a close family friend?” asked Gilbert.

 
“He helped my father a number of times,” said Lombardo. “He was well off. He would lend money to new Italian immigrants if they couldn’t otherwise get bank loans. He helped a lot of families that way. A real don, in the good sense of the word. And guess who else I saw?”

  “Who?”

  “Mike Strutton.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Gilbert. “From Patrol?”

  “Yeah. He was guarding the perimeter when I got there.”

  “I haven’t seen him in ages. You can always count on Mike to preserve any damn crime scene anywhere.”

  “And you know what he said to me?” asked Lombardo, now, sounding miffed.

  “What?”

  “He said I was losing my hair.” Lombardo fussed with his hair. “What do you think? Do you think it’s looking a bit thin? I sure hope not. My hair’s my best feature.”

  Gilbert stood up. “Let’s see,” he said.

  He looked at Joe’s hair. As he was a good deal taller than Joe, well over six feet, and Joe was a short man, he got a bird’s-eye view.

  “You might be losing a bit back here,” said Gilbert, tapping Joe’s crown.

  “Really?”

  “Have you ever thought about calling one of those hair club places?” asked Gilbert. “Some of them are fairly legit. I hear you have to start early and keep going if you want your hair to continue looking natural.”

  A panicked look came to Lombardo’s eyes. “Is it really that bad? I mean, hair-club bad?”

  Gilbert clicked off the picture of Judy Pelaez. “It could be worse.” He didn’t want to look at Judy anymore. She belonged to the boomer generation, the generation that was supposed to stay young forever, his generation. “I hear you told Tim I knew Boyd.”

  Lombardo paused. “Why?” he said. “Did he say something about it?”

  “He just mentioned it, that’s all,” said Gilbert. “No big deal.” Or was it? Gilbert couldn’t decide. He had to wonder why Lombardo would tell Tim about it in the first place. “Anyway, I guess I knew Boyd about as well as you knew this Vito Pizzale. So I can’t see where it matters.”