Spiral

identification yet with Spiral as a group.”
    ”So he could walk.”
    ”They all could.”
    ”Especially if your father turned off the money faucet.” A darkening. ”The fuck did you hear that from?”
    ”Was it true?”
    ”Hell, no. My dad was solid behind us.”
    ”Until the birthday party.”
    ”Why do you keep coming back to that?”
    ”It’s when—and almost where—your daughter was killed.”
    ”Yeah, I know. But who’s going to want Very dead? That’s what you don’t seem to get here. She was everybody’s best ticket in the rock-’n’-roll lottery, man.”
    ”Somebody killed her, despite that.”
    ”Yeah, well, I don’t know who. Jeanette doesn’t, either. So what can we tell you?”
    Since he’d mentioned his wife’s name, I said, ”Ever heard any of your family or friends mention a woman named ‘Wendy’?”
    ”Wen...?” Held seemed to mull it over. ”Doesn’t ring any bells. Why do you—?”
    ”Just a thought. I’ve seen the video of Veronica at the birthday party, and another at Mitch Eisen’s office.”
    Held looked at me. ”So?”
    ”I was wondering if there were any other videos lying around.”
    ”Other ones. You mean, of Very performing?”
    ”Or just interacting with other people.”
    ”Oh. Shit, yeah. Jeanette’s probably got a library full of them, from the time Very was a baby.” A troubled look. ”Don’t know how they’d help you with who killed her, though.”
    ”Anybody else have tapes of your daughter?”
    ”Not that I know of. Why?”
    ”Just another thought.” I stood up. ”I’ll let you get back to your work.”
    Held reached for the guitar plugged into his computer. ”That’s the hardest part of all, you know.”
    ”What is?”
    ”Having to be creative when you’re still grieving. It’s a bitch, man.”
    I watched Spi Held as he adjusted some settings on the keyboard and decided he was serious about that last comment.
    Serious, if not sincere.

TEN

    I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you pass without one of the members telling me you’re coming.”
    The gate guard at the tennis club wore a blue security uniform and matching ball cap. He also had the voice of a radio news anchor.
    From behind the wheel of the Cavalier, I looked up at him inside the little sentry box. ”My name’s John Cuddy. I’m working for Nicolas Helides.”
    ”Mr. Helides is a member, sir.” The guard gestured at a telephone on the counter in front of him. ”But I haven’t gotten an authorization call about you.”
    ”Could you try him now?”
    ”He lives off-site, sir.”
    ”I know. Could you call his house?”
    The guard nodded reluctantly, then picked up the phone. After a moment, he spoke quietly into it, nodded more comfortably, and hung up.
    ”Sir, you’re cleared. I’m guessing this is your first time here?”
    ”It is.”
    The guard stepped out of the gate house, and I could see the name Clinton on his uniform. ”The clubhouse is this first building on the left. You can park anywhere that doesn’t have another building’s name on it.”
    I drove slowly over the cobblestoned drive, partly because of the yellow speed bumps. I passed two residential buildings on the right, the miniature jersey barriers between the parking lines reading first brooks and then davis. The buildings were pastel peach, four stories tall, and U-shaped. Each sported an impressive mosaic twenty feet high of an individual player in tennis togs. Real people similarly dressed were walking or standing and talking, and I could see more residential structures farther along the road.
    Finding an empty space with no name on its barrier, I left the Cavalier and walked toward what Clinton had called the clubhouse. A series of staccato ”thwocks” resounded through the clear, dry air.
    Inside the high fence I found a pool with sky-blue water but only a few sunbathers occupying the lounges. Behind them were umbrellaed patio tables and chairs, all white and all empty. Beyond the furniture stood a rectangular tiki bar with only a couple of patrons sitting on the stools. About half a story below the patio itself, however, the eight tennis courts in sight were full, players of all ages, sizes, and skin colors pounding away at singles and doubles with a lot of concentration and energy.
    As I approached what appeared to be the main entrance, a dapper older gentleman in tennis shorts, V-neck sweater, and Kangol cap was coming out.
    Smiling broadly in a way that took twenty years