Bitter Pill by Price Jordan Castillo

Author:Price, Jordan Castillo [Price, Jordan Castillo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Paranormal, Mystery, Romance, Fantasy, Crime
Amazon: B082T1HPK8
Goodreads: 49321623
Publisher: JCP Books LLC
Published: 2020-01-20T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Another rave? At this hour? I checked my watch—not even noon.

Zigler and I found the stairs and headed up to the source of the music just as the song petered to a halt. There was a click of drumsticks counting down, a squeal of feedback, and then the same song started again. “A band rehearsing,” Zigler yelled over the noise. “Probably cheaper to rent storage than actual rehearsal space.”

Probably so. Because a real rehearsal space would’ve had some soundproofing.

The band wasn’t too worried about disturbing the lockers full of furniture from people’s deceased family members, all the stuff folks might not want to part with, but didn’t have the mental energy to sort through. The door to the band’s locker was propped open with a rickety box fan blowing in air.

Inside the eight-by-twelve space, three pimply twentysomethings were getting their metal on, shirtless, and most likely jobless. They all had short hair, but they swung their heads as if they had something meaningful to twirl. When Zigler pushed open the door, he caught the drummer’s eye and the rhythm faltered. The guitarist screeched to a halt and yelled, “Dammit, Kyle!” But the bass player already realized they had company—and he was more concerned with trying to hide the conspicuous roach-filled ashtray.

When the guitarist finally noticed us, he announced, “We’re not breaking any rules. This is our storage space. We pay rent. And there’s nothing in the contract that says we can’t jam here.”

“Calm down, Metallica,” I said. “We’re not here about the noise.”

The bass player edged the ashtray under a set list on the floor. I restrained myself from rolling my eyes.

Zigler flashed his badge, introduced himself, and said, “We’re investigating a party that took place two weekends ago.”

“The rave?” Defensive Guitar Guy said. “As if we’d have anything to do with that kind of techno-crap noise.”

We both stared at him. His amplifier gave off a steady, low-pitched drone. Hopefully there was nothing binaural in the sound. I checked my white light. Seemed normal.

The drummer cleared his throat and piped in, “Stylistically, electronic trance has totally different roots from rock and metal.”

Says the guy who can’t hold a steady rhythm for more than thirty seconds. “So,” I said, “were any of you here that night or not? Keep in mind that we have access to surveillance footage, and if we find out you’re massaging the truth, we can stick you in an interrogation room a lot smaller than this until your memory jibes with the evidence.”

Guy three said, “We didn’t jam that day, but I swung by to re-string my bass. And then I stopped down for a beer.”

“Dude,” the guitarist muttered in disgust.

“What? They had a keg.”

I focused on the bass player. He had the sallow look of someone who’d get winded standing up from the couch. Either he was trying to grow a mustache, or he hadn’t quite learned to shave. “Approximately what time were you here? Did anyone try to sell you drugs?”

He nudged the set list a few inches to the right.

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