Her face glows and her voice gets excited. “I can record my next album at home. Then, as far as tours go, I’ll figure it out as we go along.”
“Makes sense.” My biological grandfather clock gongs and for a moment, I picture a baby boy with Suds’ beautiful eyes, firm chin, and handsome nose.
The timing is all wrong but what if I were to get pregnant? I recall my overprotective male for the last few days and when I roll my eyes, Sienna peers into my face.
“Earth to Sam?”
Damn. The gummy bears? The decaf? The huge breakfasts? It all makes sense. “Oh my God, he is going to be so disappointed.”
Chapter Twelve
Suds
Andy, Slate, and I glance at the time as we stroll down the street to our old watering hole, Talon Bar. It’s warm out so the back garden should be open and at this early hour, relatively free from prying ears.
I nod to the bearded bartender, Bryan, who nods back. “What’ll you have, fellas?”
We order a couple of local brews on tap and carry our glasses to the outside where we park our asses down at a table for four.
“Shit. We got nothing.” Staring at the ivy climbing the brick walls, our exhausted friend takes a gulp and buries his face in his hands.
My boss frowns. “We’re just getting started. Don’t give up yet.”
Our friend clenches his jaw, his famous poker face back in place. “Right. What do we have so far?”
I lay out our meager findings. “I called the soundman. He verified the amp was humming right before the concert. He also confirmed Sienna missed their noon sound check because she wasn’t feeling well.”
Andy nods. “She’s had a stomach virus. To tell you the truth, I’m a little worried. She never throws up and yet I heard her vomiting again, this morning."
“She’s under a lot of stress.” Slate grabs a spicy chicken wing with his fingers while Andy pokes one with a fork, takes a bite, and washes it down with beer.
“This is Sienna we’re talking about. She’s a rock. Nothing bothers her.”
His wife’s symptoms bring Sam’s to mind, along with all my recent reading. “You don’t suppose your wife is pregnant?”
“Damn… it’s possible… Wehavebeen trying. But why wouldn’t she tell me?”
“Maybe the circumstances haven’t been the best.”
While my pal grunts, the lawyer’s eyes grow dark, his frown deepens, and he pounds his fist on the table. “We need to find the motherfucker who set up my wife.”
Me and my boss grin behind our beers. Now that’s more like it. Here’s the Andy Quinn we know and love.
I slap him on the back. “Tomorrow, I’m going to question Olafson in person. He’s the one with the biggest beef.”
Slate chugs his beer and motions for another. “Agreed. And now we have a timeline, we can find out who had access to the amp that day.”
He thumbs in a number, puts his phone on speaker, and sets it down on the middle of the table. “Hello Jason. I need video footage of anyone in and around the Brooklyn Academy of Music on last Saturday.”
“That may take some time. Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Slate?”
“Sure. Do you know who modified Calvin Peet’s amp the day of the concert?”
“No.”
“Thank you. So long, Jason.”
“Goodbye. I’ll be back.” The AI unit plays a sound byte from The Terminator.
