Page 13 of Killer Knows Best

“Seven o’clock,” Jack says with a nod and I look in that direction.

There he is. Seated alone and sucking the foam off his beer is a large gentleman with dark hair that’s frosted at the tips.

Nikki shot us a picture of the guy along with last night’s interview from the sheriff’s department. He’s in his late fifties, he has a smarmy yet no-nonsense look about him, and judging by the fact he hasn’t hightailed it to Mexico, he doesn’t look like he has a lot to hide either. But I learned long ago that sometimes evil hides in plain sight.

Jack and I head over and land on a stool on either side of him, and Buddy pops up between the big guy and me.

“What do we got here?” Rush Simmons perks up at the sight of Buddy. I’ll admit, he’s been the best icebreaker for me both professionally and socially. “What’s cooking, buddy?” He gives the lab a friendly pat after inadvertently tagging him with his proper moniker.

“Fallon Baxter,” I say. “And you hit the nail on the head. His name is Buddy.”

“Well, howdy-do.” Rush pulls his shoulders back and I get a better look at him now that his ego is on full display. His lips are bloated, his cheeks and nose are lost in a sea of crimson veins, his forehead has a greasy sheen, and ashen gray chest hairs are poking out the top of his button-down shirt. “Rush Simmons at your service, doll. What’s cooking with you? If you’re looking for a good time, you came to the right place.” His demeanor downgrades, and he’s as serious as myocardial infarction when he says that last bit.

“She’s with me,” Jack grouses and Rush nearly flips right off the back of his stool while trying to get a better look at him.

“Oh?” Rush looks momentarily confused. “You two looking to book a band? Got a special occasion coming up? A daughter’s sweet sixteen? A twenty-year class reunion? A wedding, perhaps?”

I don’t know what to be offended at first. The fact he thinks I’m old enough to have a sixteen-year-old daughter, the fact he thinks I’ve got twenty years under my belt since I’ve graced the common halls of some run-down public high school—Jack qualifies for that, by the way—or the fact I’d defer to his wisdom when it came to selecting the music I’d play on one of the most special days of my life.

I look over at Jack and wonder if he’ll be taking part in that day before blinking back to the present.

“How many bands do you manage?” Jack asks, seemingly undeterred by our suspects greatest hits list.

“Six,” Rush says as his chest puffs with pride.

“Who do you call when you need to book them a gig?” Jack goes on.

“This place.” Rush rolls his eyes as if he wasn’t pleased with the menu options, or any other options there might be, when it came to booking anything.

A thin smile plays on Jack’s lips. “And who do you call when you want to wrangle up some ladies of the night for the boys in the band?”

Rush swivels his head in my direction as if trying to ascertain if I heard Jack get right to the point. Or at least one of the points. It’s a good one to start with, in my opinion.

I nod to the man next to me. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

Rush pushes himself away from the bar. “Look, I don’t knowwhat the two of you are into, but you’re on your own when it comes to booking yourselves a good-time gig.”

“We’re not on our own,” I say, whipping out my badge. “Special Agent Fallon Baxter. We’re with the FBI.”

“Special Agent Jack Stone.” Jack flashes his badge as well, so fast it was more of an idea than a solid fact.

Rush blows out a breath. “Listen, I told that detective last night everything I know.” Beads of sweat line his forehead as if on command. “I don’t know who killed those girls, but it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t anyone in any of my bands. The guys I booked it for were right here on stage from eight to midnight, and those poor girls met up with someone else before my guys ever stepped out of this place. From what I understand, the bodies were already discovered by that time.”

“Who are the bandmates looking to have a good time?” I ask.

“Jerome Navarro and Ricki Page.” He grunts as he says it as if it pained him to do so. “They’re in a grunge band called Social Disorder. And in an effort to live up to their band’s name, they bring disorder to my brand on the regular.”

“Where were you?” Jack asks.

According to last night’s report, he was planted right where he is now.

“Front and center.” He points toward the darkened stage that I hadn’t noticed when we walked in. “And boy, am I ever glad I sat there like a statue until the night was through. The guy who runs this place has me on his security camera, too. I checked. And I already asked him to forward a copy to the sheriff’s department.” He shakes his head, rife with animation. “I’m glad I didn’t ditch out that night. No offense to the guys, but I’m not big on their music.” He shrugs as he says it, and that’s the only thing I’m prone to believe him about.

“You didn’t get up to leave at any point?” I press on.

Rush glances to the exit. “I took a leak or two.” He nods tohis beer. “I’m a guy of a certain age. I can’t go ten steps without having to look for a bathroom. I got up, but I always came back.” He dots his finger to the counter as if proving his point.

“Who did you use to book the girls?” Jack insists.

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