Ryan was exiting his car as I pulled in. I checked my watch as I parked, pleased to see that I’d managed to kill an hour exactly.
“Perfect timing,” he said as I walked up.
“You had doubts?”
“Never.” He grinned. He walked to the door and held it for me, then followed me into a cramped foyer that barely had room for a desk, a chair, and an artificial ficus tree in the corner.
There was no one in the foyer, but we could hear music coming from beyond a door on the far wall. It was unlocked, and so we entered to find ourselves near the back of a room about thirty feet by twenty, though at least half of it was taken up with various music equipment. There were double doors to the right and left—I assumed that the latter set led to the outside judging by the orientation of the room. Against the wall nearest us was a table with a variety of wrapped snacks scattered upon it. Beside the table was a battered white refrigerator, though it was barely recognizable as white since damn near every inch was covered with stickers and magnets from an impressive variety of music groups.
Lida, Michael, and Trey were at the other end of the room amid their sound equipment, slowly playing something that I suspected was one of their new songs since I didn’t recognize it from the concert.
Lida looked much like she did at her house, wearing low-cut jeans and a white tank-top, with only a few piercings and very little makeup. She caught sight of us and gave us a small nod but didn’t stop playing. It didn’t surprise me that Roger wasn’t there. I could hardly blame him after the rough couple of days he’d had. I was surprised to hear Michael missing notes. After the third time he fumbled, Lida called a halt.
“I’m sorry, Lida,” Michael said, clearly distressed
“It’s cool,” she replied gently. “It’s a new song, and we’re all trying to figure out how to make it sound right. That’s the whole point of rehearsing, okay? Why don’t you go get a Diet Coke or something.” He stared morosely at his keyboard, then nodded and stood.
Trey set his instrument aside. “I’ll take care of him, Lida. You go talk to the cops.”
It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Michael jerked his head up, seeing us for the first time. “Roger didn’t do anything wrong!” he announced loudly, features twisted in distress.
“Michael, they know that,” Lida said with a tired patience. “Roger isn’t in trouble, okay?” She gave us an apologetic look. “Give me a couple of minutes? I need to go take a walk with him and get him settled down.”
“Take all the time you need,” I replied.
The big man’s shoulder’s slumped and he allowed himself to be led outside, but not before shooting us another wary look.
Trey blew out his breath as they left. “Wow, the tension around here sucks ass.”
“How long has it been like this?” I asked, walking up to him. “Tense, I mean.”
He let out a dry bark of laughter. “Since we signed with the label?” Then he winced and shook his head. “That’s not really fair though. I was talking mostly about how things have been since Saturday night.”
“Can you tell me again what you saw?” I asked. I’d taken his statement after the incident, but I knew how useful it was to do follow-up interviews to see what was remembered, forgotten, or outright changed.
Trey tugged at the collar of his shirt before dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor. Of all the band members, he was the one who looked the most different in “regular” clothes. He’d been fairly gothed out at the concert, in a getup similar to what Ryan had been wearing. I was amused to see that Trey was now wearing khaki pants and an oxford-style shirt—again, similar to what Ryan had on.
“I hardly saw anything,” Trey said. “The lights went out and something big shoved past me. Then I heard a bunch of screaming and yelling.” He toyed with the end of his shoelace. “I stood still since it was so dark, and I didn’t want to trip over anything and risk messing up my bass. About a minute later the lights came back on and Roger and Michael were all freaked out, yelling about someone grabbing Lida. Michael took off, so I ran after him. I didn’t know what was going on, but right then I figured the best way I could help would be to make sure that Michael didn’t get hurt or lost.” He grimaced. “I love Michael, but I wanted to throttle him for taking off like that. I’m not supposed to do any running.” Then he sighed. “But I can understand why he did. I’ve never seen anyone closer than those two.”
“You’re wearing running shoes,” Ryan pointed out.
“Yeah, that’s because I gotta wear them all the time,” Trey replied. “I have plantar fasciitis. The doc told me to lay off the running for a while.” He gave a morose sigh that at first made me think he was joking, then I realized he was truly upset about not being able to run. Then again, he had that lean lanky build of someone who probably ran a hundred miles a week without breaking a sweat. And enjoyed it.
Sick.
“And I don’t wanna end up like Roger,” Trey added, shaking his head.
I frowned. “What do you mean? What happened to Roger?”
“He used to do a lot of running too, coupla years ago.” Trey looked at me, tragedy written all over his face. “Then he messed up his feet. He stopped running. Stopped! Never went back to it. Went with the weight training instead.” He shuddered. “Man, I can’t even imagine.”
I stared at him, unable to come up with any sort of response that didn’t include the words Are you fucking kidding me?
“How have things changed since you signed with the label?” Ryan asked, saving me.
A pained expression flashed across his face. “I don’t know. I guess it’s not what any of us expected, y’know? I mean, it used to be tons of fun, and now there’s a bunch of pressure to earn back the money the label invested in us. And ... well, it’s not that great of a label, to be honest. We should have had a lot more distribution. So now we gotta think about making it big and getting noticed so that when our contract is up we can get signed with someone bigger. Plus, our concert schedule for the coming year is insane. But concerts are where we make money, not CD sales.”
Ryan and I exchanged a quick glance at the getting noticed. “Has anyone in the band been talking about ways to get noticed?” I asked.
“Well, yeah,” he said, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “I mean we’re always trying out new ways to do promo and stuff. Lida busts her hump writing new songs, and doing appearances and interviews. And I put together the website. But Adam’s the one who’s doing most of the regular promo. He works his ass off, but I think he has a lot riding on us really breaking out.”
“Why is that?”
“Times have been tough, y’know? He owns the studio, but his business has been shit lately.” Trey’s gaze swept the room. “He’s been trying to sell it, but no one’s interested.”
Well, that confirmed what Roger had said.
The side door opened and we all looked over to see Lida coming back in without Michael.
“Is he okay?” Trey asked her with what sounded like genuine concern.
Lida nodded, frustration and fatigue flashing briefly over her face. “I figured it was better to let him sit outside for a bit instead of bringing him back and risk him getting all upset again.” She shot us a look of apology and I gave her a slight nod of understanding in response.
Trey stood. “You want me to go sit with him?” She gave him a grateful smile, but then he glanced back at us. “I mean, unless y’all need to talk to me some more.”
“No, we’re done,” I said. “I know how to get in touch with you if I need to talk to you again.” I handed him one of my cards. “And feel free to call if you think of anything that might be useful.”
He tucked the card into the front pocket of his shirt. “Will do. Thanks.” He moved to Lida and gave her a quick, sweet kiss, then strode to the door and left.
Lida let out a soft sigh that sounded like it was tinged with relief. “Trey is so good with Michael. Like his best friend and big brother all rolled into one.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Sorry about having to take him outside,” she said. “Roger came by earlier and told us about his client, and unfortunately, Michael heard him. He’s so sensitive that he gets really upset whenever he hears bad news. It’s like he doesn’t have the perspective to know that it wasn’t someone he was close to.” Sadness flickered across her face.
“Could Michael ever live on his own?” Ryan queried gently.
“No way,” she said without any hesitation. “And I don’t want him to go to a group home or anything like that either. He’s my brother,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly. “I can take care of him.” She sounded defensive.
“Has anyone suggested you do that?” Ryan asked.
Her defiant stance wilted slightly. “Adam suggested it once. As talented as Michael is, Adam worried that the stress of being in the band would be too much for him, especially with our current schedule. And Uncle Ben agreed with him, though he said Michael wouldn’t need to go to a home and said he’d hire someone to care for Michael at the house.” The frustration returned to her face. “I mean, I know they’re worried about me and think that I’m spreading myself too thin ...” She paused, then rolled her eyes. “Okay, my uncle is worried about me. I think Adam’s only worried that Michael will have a meltdown or something during a concert.” Anger flared in her eyes, but then she took a deep breath and seemed to push it down. “But I could never do that to him. It would kill Michael if he was taken out of the band. He loves it.”
“Follow your gut,” Ryan advised.
Lida gave him a firm nod. “Yeah, I intend to. Screw the rest of them.” She forced a smile onto her face. “Okay, I don’t need to be dumping on y’all. Sorry about that. You need to talk to me some more?”