A Killer Groove: Lukas Boston - Private Investigator Book Three Read online

  About The Lukas Boston Mysteries:

  “A Killer Groove” (Previously published under the title “The Man Death Forgot” by G.M.Hague)

  Logan May is a pen name for G.M.Hague. Lukas Boston books are not episodes of a larger story and it isn’t necessary to read them in correct order, although the backgrounds to some of the characters and events will be made clearer if you do. If you’d like to be told when other Lukas Boston stories are available, I’ve created a newsletter at www.graemehague.com.au you can sign up—I promise not to send you anything except info on Lukas Boston, myself, my books and my music.

  This book is subject to copyright. Please refer to the pages at the end of this novel for all copyright information.

  DEDICATION.

  This one’s got to go to The Peaks, being Geoff, Mike and Pat. Before a gig, we sat around drinking pints and someone suggested this would be a good idea for a book. Also, apologies to bass players the world over—of which I am one.

  A BRIEF APOLOGY.

  My Lukas Boston Mysteries aren’t exactly totally devoid of obscene and (for some) offensive language. This book, being about rock and roll, bands, musicians and murder, gets even more salty at times. I worked in the industry for decades (not the murder bit, obviously) and let me assure you, most old rockers use profanity for punctuation. I’ve still dialed the bad language way back. Sorry for any offense.

  Very Important Note For Readers

  A Killer Groove was previously published under the title The Man Death Forgot by G.M.Hague. The story has undergone significant editing and some rewriting, and re-released under the pen name Logan May to separate it from my other works published in very different genres. While this release has been heavily reworked, the storyline and characters are essentially the same. If you’ve previously read The Man Death Forgot, I suggest you return this title for a refund.

  A Killer Groove

  ONE

  The bar room air was thick with smoke machine mist, the moving lights cutting coloured beams through the haze, splashing off the walls and ceiling. On stage the music faded away untidily as the band stopped playing one by one, each of them becoming aware something was wrong. In the silence you could hear the shocked whispering of the small crowd as it began pushing across the dance floor for a closer look. The place stank of spilled alcohol, body odour and a faint whiff of vomit—and now something else. The smell of burnt flesh. Stunned, they gathered around and stared in disbelief.

  The show was over. Killing the bass player in the middle of a song will do that.

  The group’s lead singer, a stunningly attractive girl half the age of the others, threw her hands to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, is he all right? What’s wrong with him?’

  The guitarist edged across to see. A mixture of revulsion and fear stopped him from bending down too close and touching anything, particularly not the body with its wide sightless eyes and frozen grimace of agony.

  ‘He’s cooked,’ he reported and glanced towards the bass amplifier. Wisps of smoke arose from it. ‘He’s been fried, I reckon.’

  ‘I told him to stop drinking and taking that shit,’ the drummer called from behind the kit, annoyed.

  ‘No, he’s cooked as in dead, Jimmy. Not cooked as in buggered.’

  ‘Oh... shit, are you sure?’

  ‘As a dodo, mate.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’ The guitar player, called Marco clicked his tongue in dismay and couldn’t help wondering if they’d still get paid for the gig. He needed the cash.

  The girl let out a sob. ‘For God’s sake, shouldn’t someone give him CPR or something? The kiss of life? He might not be properly dead yet.’

  They all exchanged a glance, not relishing the idea. ‘Nah, I think he’s properly cooked,’ Marco said. He was closest and most likely the one expected to do it. The bass player’s open mouth showed a string of saliva and tobacco-stained teeth. He’d always had bad breath.

  One member of the audience, his face animated with horror and excitement, said, ‘Is this part of the act? It’s just part of the show, right? That’s awesome.’

  It wasn’t an unreasonable question. All of the band members and many of the nightclub patrons wore gothic black clothing complete with grinning skull motifs and satanic crosses. Death was a common theme, but just not the real thing.

  ‘Well it is now,’ Marco told him ruefully. ‘But it’s kind of hard to follow.’

  TWO

  ‘Thank you for coming in so promptly, Mr Boston.’ Dan Wharman spoke smoothly, gesturing Lukas Boston to a chair. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  Lukas shook his head. The room was filled by a long table surrounded by leather office chairs. A small bar with spirits dispensers and a cappuccino machine was at one end. The walls were covered in framed gold records, awards certificates, autographed concert posters and pictures of famous musicians. Before he sat down Lukas did a slow circuit. Most of the faces meant nothing to him, then he saw someone he knew.

  ‘Hey, didn’t this guy go to jail for underage sex?’

  Wharman came to look, peering at the photograph. ‘Oh, right—was it him? For Christ’s sake, he shouldn’t be still up here.’ He took the picture down and placed it in the floor, facing the wall.

  Lukas pointed at another. ‘And this guy shot his girlfriend. Said it was an accident and he didn’t know the gun was loaded.’

  Wharman took that one down, too.

  ‘This bloke looks familiar,’ Lukas began, stepping sideways.

  ‘Lukas—do you mind, can I call you that? Can we sit down?’ Wharman herded Lukas away from the wall.

  ‘A real recording company,’ Lukas said, taking a seat. ‘I thought you’d all gone broke?’

  ‘We’re real enough, but yes, hardly in our halcyon days,’ Wharman said, dropping into a chair next to a pile of documents and CDs. Lukas sat opposite him. Wharman sounded like a veteran of the music industry, but he couldn’t have been more than twenty five years old. His trendy haircut annoyed Lukas immensely, the tailored suit measured to within a millimetre. Wharman’s face glowed with moisturiser and his manicured fingernails had a suspicious, glossy appearance. He went on expansively, ‘Piracy, the internet, plus every man and his dog’s got a damned home recording studio in their garden shed—and don’t get me started on those bloody independent labels. It’s almost impossible to make a dollar in music these days.’

  Lukas said, ‘Nothing to do with the shit music you’re putting out, then?’

  Wharman gave him a tight smile and tossed one of the CDs over the table. ‘Ever heard of these guys? They’d be around your vintage, I’d say.’

  Lukas picked it up. ‘Constant Black? Sure, I’ve heard about them, but that’s all.’ He turned it over. ‘This was about twenty five years ago? Hang on...’

  Wharman waited for him.

  ‘Now I remember. These guys had the lead singer who died in a hotel room in the middle of nowhere, right?’

  Nodding, Wharman said, ‘Zavier Dreamer.’ He shrugged at the flamboyant name. ‘He was ten times bigger than the band, so when he killed himself the group never recovered. They tried with another front man for a while, but it was a waste of time and the band didn’t go beyond the two albums they released with Dreamer. That is, until now.’

  Lukas looked up from reading the cover. ‘Surprise, surprise, they’ve reformed like every other band in the last fifty years?’

  ‘With a new singer, the daughter of Zavier Dreamer, called Kelli. Sounds mad, but who would have thought it? Things have been coming together and Constant Bla
ck has got a foot in the door of the business again. It helps to have a gorgeous girl at the front doing the singing. Put her in a short skirt and no knickers, and who gives a shit if she can hit a note?’ Wharman barked out a laugh. ‘I mean, especially if she takes the attention away from the old bastards behind her.’

  Lukas was looking inside the cover now and found a picture of the band. Two decades ago there was a lot of hair, black tee shirts, denim, studded leather and tattoos. Even so, Zavier Dreamer’s clean skin and boyish good looks stood out. ‘It’s all very interesting, but I can’t see what I can do for you.’

  ‘Ah, here’s the unfortunate thing, Lukas. You see, Constant Black’s bass player was killed last week, electrocuted on stage smack in the middle of a big performance and in front of hundreds and hundreds of punters. Tragic stuff, everyone loved him and he’ll be sadly missed by everyone here...’ Wharman searched through his documents. ‘Bill Pusham—Bill, the bass player. Great guy.’

  Lukas recalled seeing a brief news story somewhere. ‘So I guess that’s the end of Constant Black’s big come-back?’

  ‘Like hell, downloads are going through the roof, the video of the accident has gone viral and the band’s Facebook page has gained an extra two thousand likes. Constant Black could be bigger than the Rolling Stones by the end of the week, the rate this is going. We’ve already got someone to stand in for Bob and we’ll make it official when the time’s right.’

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘The dead bass player.’

  ‘You mean Bill. He was a great guy, remember?’

  ‘Right, Bill. We’ve got another bass player for him. It’s all systems go for a tribute show within a week.’

  ‘That’s very touching, Dan. I still don’t see how I can help you.’

  Wharman pulled a face. ‘The police have launched an investigation as a matter of course. It looks like just an accident and the guy was well known for messing around with his own equipment, trying different things, sticking wires and shit where you shouldn’t put them. He definitely cooked himself, if you ask us. Still, the cops aren’t saying much and we want you to make enquiries of your own on our behalf.’

  Frowning, Lukas said what he told everyone, ‘The police are far more equipped for that kind of thing than I am. I can’t do anything better.’

  ‘Maybe Lukas, but this is a death metal band we’re talking about or at least a heavy metal group,’ Wharman paused, deciding. ‘Maybe progressive rock with Kelli at the front... or new wave metal?’

  Lukas waited.

  Wharman shrugged to himself. ‘Whatever, the entire band and all their crew—and most of their audience for that matter—aren’t the type of people who will pass a drug test, you know what I’m saying?’ Wharman mimed smoking a joint and pumping a syringe into his arm. ‘No one’s going to say much to a policeman. On the other hand, you’re a private detective who only reports back to us and nothing goes any further. Everything’s in-house and nobody else needs to know, right?’

  ‘Okay, but what if I do find evidence of foul play?’

  ‘You tell us, we’ll pass it on to the authorities, I promise.’

  Lukas thought it over. ‘Why not leave it alone? You said yourself, the police enquiries should be just routine and they’ll go away. I might stir up more trouble than you want.’

  ‘Covering our bets Lukas, that’s all.’ Wharman tried to assure him with a wide smile, which switched to looking alarmed when Lukas got up to leave.

  ‘Sorry, something doesn’t feel right. Find someone else.’

  ‘Okay, okay, wait a second,’ Wharman waved him down again. ‘You’re a smart guy and you can see there’s more to it. That’s good.’

  ‘Then why don’t you just tell me? It’ll be quicker and cheaper for you.’ Lukas tapped his watch to remind Wharman he charged by the hour.

  ‘All right. Look, if Bob’s death turns out—’

  ‘You mean, Bill.’

  ‘Right, if Bill’s death turns out to be anything other than a terrible accident, we’ve got a big problem on our hands. The band is finally bringing in some bucks for us, like a return on our investment and they could hit the big time again, you know what I’m saying? The trouble is, if someone killed him, then all this extra money we’re seeing from the publicity...’ Wharman spread his hands and looked helpless.

  Lukas finished for him, ‘It might be considered as proceeds from criminal activity and you don’t get a cent. At best, it could be frozen for years while you argue about it.’

  ‘You’re good, Lukas,’ Wharman cocked a finger at him. ‘They said you were good.’

  ‘You don’t seriously expect me to cover up a murder for you, if I find one?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. Just give us a heads-up, if you find anything suspicious before the police do. Maybe some advance notice like a few hours and we’ll do any covering up—from a purely accounting point of view,’ Wharman added quickly.

  He watched Lukas keenly, nervously tapping his fingers.

  ‘I still don’t know, something tells me to forget it.’ Lukas gazed around at the rogue’s gallery of photographs on the walls.

  ‘Come on, it’s only rock’n’roll, Lukas. Anything you don’t like, feel free to take straight to the authorities yourself. In fact, I insist that you do.’

  Lukas thought some more, saying absently, ‘You know, I used to be in a band myself. I was the drummer. Everyone said we should have made an album.’

  Wharman slapped the table. ‘And I’d love to hear any demo tapes you’ve still got, Lukas. Seriously, retro is all the rage at the moment.’

  Lukas ignored the fleeting twitch of hope in his gut. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do.’ He got up, shaking Wharman’s hand and scooping up the CD. ‘About the bass player, I mean.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Lukas.’ Wharman hurried to get the door for him.

  As Lukas was leaving he stopped at another photograph, knocking the glass with his knuckle. ‘He did ten years for tax evasion and fraud.’

  Wharman sighed and took it down.

  THREE

  Lukas went home to his second storey apartment, which he owned in an expensive inner-city Melbourne suburb. The old red brick building had been converted into luxury units and the ground floor surrounded by trimmed lawns and sculptured trees, now tended by a groundskeeper.

  An ex-police detective who left the force voluntarily in front of a wave of scandal—taking much of the blame and saving many of Lukas’ colleagues a similar fate—and becoming a private investigator, Lukas shouldn’t have been able to afford such a home. However, his very wealthy parents had retired to a sun-soaked beach, and handed over the keys to a substantial income stream. Lukas couldn’t run out of money if he’d tried.

  Inside his apartment Lukas took a deep breath of fresh, free-of-any-commitment air. Just to be sure, he called out, ‘Anybody home?’

  Silence answered him and Lukas smiled to himself, pleased. He was living alone again, the way he liked it.

  Lukas was in a complicated relationship with a defense lawyer called Karen Roland. Since career-wise they frequently stood on opposite sides of the legal fence discretion was necessary. The deal was that Karen could sleep with anyone she wanted and Lukas wasn’t allowed to complain. In turn, Lukas was allowed to have sex with any woman he wanted, as long as Karen never found out. This was unfair, but arguing with a defense lawyer was difficult, especially when you’re naked.

  For the last four weeks Karen had been living in his apartment while her own flat was being redecorated. Finally, as promised, she had moved back out today. As an experiment in enforced domesticity it failed. Both agreed monogamy sucked and co-habiting seriously cramped your style. It was much better to meet occasionally, get legless drunk and bitch about work, then stagger into bed together.

  No doubt Lukas would find panties under the bed, cotton buds stuffed down the sink and chocolate wrappers behind the sofa, but she was gone.

  Lukas tossed his keys, phone and walle
t onto a divider, dropped a plastic bag of take-away Chinese food onto a table and rummaged in his fridge for a beer. A few minutes later, relaxing in his favourite chair, the food and beer within reach and the Constant Black CD in his stereo, Lukas prepared to do some research into his latest client.

  Then he realised he wasn’t alone after all. Someone was standing in the corner behind him.

  Lukas said easily, ‘You’re going to have to do a bit more than gate-crash my dinner, if you want me to help you out. You’re lucky Karen never saw you. She would have found some kind of legal thing to get rid of you. She has this weird, jealousy shit happening. Even being dead wouldn’t make any difference.’

  His visitor was a woman in her early thirties, attractive with long dark hair and a slim build. Her pale face was perpetually sad. That made sense—Lukas was yet to see a happy spirit since his grandmother’s inherited, so-called Gift had blossomed into regular conversations with the Dead. It was hard to know how long ago this girl had passed and nothing told Lukas why. Her clothing was modern, anytime in the last twenty years was possible. Usually the ghosts eventually said or did something to give Lukas a clue why they were bothering him. It was rarely a good clue. They could be annoyingly vague.

  Lukas turned in his chair, straining his neck to see her. ‘Have you got anything to say for yourself today?’

  Surprising him, she spoke. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing, you never get it right. You’ll kill someone, some day.’ Then the ghost faded into nothing.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, but it’s a start, I suppose,’ Lukas said, groping for his beer and pointing a remote at his hi-fi system. ‘Mind you, I don’t blame you for not hanging around and listening to this shit.’

  He was tempted to turn the music up loud enough to annoy his neighbour, Irene. She was the Chairwoman of the Owners Standards Committee and although everyone owned their apartments, standards of behaviour were expected. Irene regarded Lukas as disappointing in all respects. He considered Irene as an overweight, interfering busybody determined to make his life miserable, because she fed off his pain like some parasitic alien from outer space.