Spiral

drinks, so I decided to hang around a while, sober up before driving home. Must have been twenty, thirty minutes later, we hear Tranh yelling from the pool.”
    Pintana had said most guests timed it as closer to an hour. ”You could tell the yelling was coming from the pool?”
    ”Well, yeah, with the echo. And his voice was in the right direction for it. Anyway, we all run in there—to the pool—and what do I see but Very lying buck naked on the tiles and Tranh running for the phone.”
    ”What did you do?”
    ”Me? I went back to the living room.”
    ”Why?”
    ”Get another drink.”
    ”I thought you were sobering up to drive home.”
    ”Not with the case of nerves that came over me.”
    ”From seeing Veronica’s body.”
    ”From dealing with somebody croaking her.” Eisen stopped. ”No, no that’s not right. I—we didn’t know then that it was baby-rape and murder.”
    ”The autopsy report showed cocaine in Veronica’s bloodstream.”
    ”I’m not surprised, the way she acted with that song.”
    ”Where do you suppose she could have gotten the drug?” He didn’t hesitate. ”No idea, John. But just the fact of Very being dead is bad enough for Spiral, you know?”
    ”Tell me, Mitch.”
    He shrugged. ”What happens to the band now depends on what spin I can put on it.”
    ”Spin?”
    ”Yeah. You know, like Clinton’s spin doctors in Washington, try to take all the shit he’s done and turn it around to his advantage. I mean, hell, Nixon tried it, too, but his keepers were Dark Ages compared to what—”
    ”You mean, put some kind of spin on Veronica’s death?”
    ”Yeah. I tried it with O’D when he bit the big one. Back then, it was almost fucking fashionable for a band member to die from drugs. Look at Keith Moon from the Who, or Jimmie Morrison of the Doors, or even—”
    ”What kind of spin can Spiral put on Veronica’s death?”
    Eisen stopped. ”Remember when Slowhand’s kid fell from that window?”
    Christ. ”Eric Clapton’s child.”
    ”Right, right. Now, I’m not saying the two situations are identical or anything, but he writes a number-one song about it. And then there’s Elton John with the Princess Di stuff.”
    ”Mitch, Spi Held is going to write a song about his daughter’s murder?”
    Eisen came forward in his chair, his hands nesting on the desk in front of him. ”Look, John, let me spell it out for you, okay? Spiral’s comeback didn’t just kind of ‘hinge’ on Very. She was the only hope of a comeback, pure and simple. But now that she’s history, maybe —just maybe—I can weave gold out of straw here.”
    I watched him for a moment. ”Are you saying that the band could have a better chance at a comeback now that Veronica’s dead?”
    ”No, I wouldn’t say that at all.” Mitch Eisen spoke very evenly. ”And neither would my lawyer.”

SEVEN

    Back in the Chevy Cavalier, I went over the list of names and numbers Justo Vega had given me outside the Homicide Unit. I used my cellular phone to call ahead to Spi Held’s house.
    ”Hello.”
    A woman’s voice, overlaid by an accent. ”I’d like to speak with Mr. Held, please.”
    ”He is not available.”
    With more words, she reminded me of someone from the Philippines I’d met in an earlier case. ”His father told me he would be. Tell him John Cuddy will be there in thirty minutes.”
    A pause. ”You are Mr. Cuddy?”
    ”Yes.”
    ”I look forward to meeting you.”
    She broke the connection.

    Held’s home lay northwest of downtown Fort Lauderdale, maybe in a suburb, since I noticed the street signs change suddenly from ”N.W.” to ”S.W,” as though I’d passed into another municipality’s quadrant system. The house itself was painfully contemporary, with white stonework on the exterior walls and a castle turret rising above the roof like the proverbial sore thumb. The lot couldn’t have been more than half an acre, though, so it looked as though the mansion-sized structure had been shoehorned into the space between its neighbors. As I entered the circular driveway, I noticed four other cars already parked, with two more at the curb. I left the Cavalier behind the last one on the street, a yellow Toyota Celica, and went up the path to the house’s front door.
    Or doors.
    They were the size you’d expect on a bam, with massive pull-handles in brass mounted vertically and shaped like a tornado. The logo of Spiral that Mitch Eisen had shown me.
    I pushed the bell on the