Secrets of the Demon

Page 9

I could only stare at him for several heartbeats as my thoughts floundered. Was he asking me out on a date? But he didn’t say it was a date, and if I assume it’s a date that could end up being totally awkward if he didn’t mean it that way. But should I play it safe, or jump on the chance that he meant it as something more? Though if I jumped and missed . . .
Uncertainty abruptly flickered in his eyes, and he reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. “I mean, just as friends, right? Two good friends going out and enjoying themselves.”
I managed to nod, though my smile felt brittle. “It sounds great,” I said, relief and disappointment doing the tango in my stomach. “For this I’ll even buy a dress.”
“Tight and slinky?” He gave me a comical leer again. “And stiletto heels?”
I smiled despite my inner turmoil, obscurely grateful for his attempt to break the tension. “Nah. Floor length. Long sleeves. Y’know: Amish.”
“Wear the stiletto heels with it, and it’s a deal.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Just drive.”
Chapter 6
Lida Moran lived in a house on the lakefront, almost directly across the lake from my aunt’s house. While my aunt’s neighborhood was comprised of older museum-quality houses that had been carefully restored and were meticulously maintained, the other side of the lake was for the people who simply wanted a big horking expensive house on the lake.
And big it was, though it wasn’t quite up to the level of some of the houses in Ruby Estates—the community for people with Too Much Money. Still, it was more house than I would ever live in. Two stories and sprawling, it took up at least three lots—and I knew that the price of land on the lakefront was nothing short of obscene. A mix of brick and stucco, it looked strangely like a scaled down ivy-league dormitory with a large central portion and two wings extending to either side along the lakefront.
I stood back and assessed the house. It had to be at least four hundred feet from one end of the house to the other.
“Weird-looking house,” Ryan muttered as we walked up the driveway.
“Great minds think alike,” I said with a low laugh. “They must really like living on the water.”
He gave a derisive snort. “Sure hope so. The house takes up most of the damn lakefront.”
Then we were at the door and had to carefully compose ourselves into a properly professional mien.
Lida met us at the door, barefoot and dressed in jeans and black T-shirt. She had little if any makeup on and about half her usual number of piercings, and my first thought was that she was absolutely stunning like this and why did she wear the crazy makeup and piercings when she was in public? Of course my second thought was that I was thinking like an old fuddy duddy and the makeup and piercings most likely had absolutely nothing to do with how “pretty” she wanted to appear and everything to do with her personal statement of style. Not to mention that the goth look was part of her persona as a performer.
“Ms. Moran, I hope you don’t mind us stopping by, but we were in the neighborhood and figured we’d see how you were doing and if there’ve been any further incidents.” I said it all with a smile, knowing full well that even though she was only nineteen she was sharp enough to know that we hadn’t dropped by simply because we were in the neighborhood. But she seemed perfectly content to go along with the fiction.
“That’s cool,” she said and stepped back. “Nothing else has happened, but we haven’t left the house either. C’mon in. We’re being kinda lazy today, so please excuse the mess.”
I had no idea what mess she was referring to. We followed her through a foyer and into an enormous living area, and the only things I could see that might be considered out of place were possibly the guitar on the couch or the shoes underneath the coffee table. Everything else was clean and orderly and about as far from the home of a singer of her “genre” as I could possibly imagine. Not a skull or black candle to be seen anywhere. Instead, the room had the unmistakable air of an interior decorator with too much budget. The furniture looked incredibly expensive and uncomfortable, and the few shelves on the wall held odd little decorative pieces that looked vastly overpriced instead of elegant. The art on the walls struck me as the sort of stuff that people murmured appreciative things over at galleries, but would never actually buy for their own home—colorful and intentionally abstract paintings that tried to be ever-so-slightly suggestive, but instead merely looked faintly sleazy.
I carefully hid my smile. I had an art history degree—an education that I’d always considered to be mostly useless, especially considering my line of work. But I know crap art when I see it. I also noted that I’d been right about the layout of the house. There were two hallways that led off to either side of the living room, and, oddly, two stair-cases that led to hallways on the second story. I couldn’t figure out where the kitchen or bathrooms might be, unless they were hidden in one of the wings. Whoever the architect was, I wanted him drug tested.
I could hear piano music from the upstairs hallway on the right. I’d automatically dismissed it as coming from a CD player until I heard the player pause and then redo a section. That must be Michael playing, I realized. I hadn’t heard any sort of flub or error, but I was no musician. However, even I could tell that he was phenomenally talented. I had no idea what the piece was that he was playing, but it was something classical, and it sounded complicated beyond belief.
Lida flopped onto the couch beside the guitar and I sat on the other couch with much less flopping involved. It was definitely as uncomfortable as it looked. Ryan remained standing, doing his best to look casual and relaxed. He looked about as casual as a Buckingham Palace guard.
“Is that Michael?” I asked, jerking my head in the direction of the music.
A proud smile spread across Lida’s face. “Yeah, isn’t he amazing?”
“Incredibly so,” I agreed.
“You’d never know it from listening to our gigs, would you?” Lida said, sitting up into a less slouched position. “I mean, our stuff isn’t very challenging. But Michael makes it all seem so effortless. It was pretty cool when the deal came through from the label and they wanted the rest of the band, which meant that Michael could keep playing with me.”
“That’s not guaranteed from the start?” Ryan asked.
“No way,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis. “Man, there’s so much about this business that no one ever really knows. People think that you get signed with a label and you’re set for life, that you’re guaranteed to be rich, a star.” A grimace flickered across her face. “Trust me, it’s nowhere near that easy.”
“Few things ever are,” Ryan put in with a wry smile.
“So how does it work?” I asked, curious. I counted myself in the camp of people who thought signing with a label equaled instant stardom.
“Well, usually bands are discovered by a manager or by a label person via clubs. Like if a manager spots a group or a singer, he’d approach and be all, ‘I think you guys have a great sound. You being managed by anybody ? I could easily get you a label meeting.’ At that point, they’d make a demo and it would get sent to the label and the label would most likely want to meet them at one of their gigs or even call them in to play acoustically at their office. It all depends on the circumstance.”
“Is that how it worked for you?”
She gave me a slightly rueful shrug. “Well, we had a bit of a leg up. Adam’s a friend of my uncle, and when he realized I was serious about doing this—and after we were getting decent gigs on a regular basis—my uncle called up Adam and asked him to give us a listen. And Adam had some connections with Levee 9 Records and before we knew it we had a contract.” She smiled, but there was a tightness around her mouth.
”But they’re a pretty decent label, right?” Ryan asked.
“Well, Levee 9 is pretty good, though it isn’t Sony or anything of that level. It’s an indie, which has its pros and cons. They treat us pretty good and we have more control over the music. But, like I said, we’re sure as hell not set for life or anything.” Disappointment shadowed her face for a heartbeat, then she straightened. “With a bigger label an artist is signed for a certain number of albums and on their first outing the label foots the bill to pretty much turn the artist into what they need to be. Styling, dance lessons, photos, all that. This money kind of becomes a tab of sorts and the artist usually doesn’t make any money until the tab has been paid back. The artist sometimes fails miserably and is let go, but if they’re successful, the label gets their return on the money they spent on the artist.”
“And you don’t get any money until that tab is paid off?” I asked, incredulous.
She smiled wryly. “Well, there’s usually some advance money, but we didn’t quite get that sort of deal. I guess one of the advantages of being with a smaller label is that they didn’t shell out a bunch of money on styling and choreography and stuff, so we don’t have to pay that off.” I could hear an edge of bitterness in her voice.
“And how does your manager get paid?” Ryan asked. “A percentage of what you make?”
Lida nodded. “It’s pretty much a big gamble all the way around.”
The sound of the front door interrupted any further questions, and we turned to see a man wearing a business suit enter. Lida brightened and bounced to her feet. “Uncle Ben! These are the cops who chased down the guy last night and got me out of the river.”
I stood, fighting back a juvenile smirk. Uncle Ben?
Ben Moran dropped his coat on a chair by the door and strode forward with a warm smile. “I’m so delighted to meet you both. I’m Ben Moran, Lida’s uncle, and I can’t thank you enough for watching out for her last night.” He looked to be in his early fifties, though his hair had completely gone to gray. His face was smooth and barely wrinkled, but a heartbeat later I realized that he’d obviously had a fair amount of plastic surgery to achieve that look.