“Will I be living with you?”
“We’d expect full-time service,” Milton said. “Is that a problem?”
“No, I’m used to it.”
“How soon can you start?”
“As soon as I phone my office.”
Matt Milton smiled. “I believe tomorrow morning will be satisfactory. Krista has a recording date then. This is her address.”
As he wrote it on a card, Krista stood up. “You’d better be worth the money,” she told Libby and walked out of the office.
Libby turned to the agent. “One thing I don’t quite understand, Mr. Milton. Do I get fired for doing a poor job, or for doing a good job?”
Krista Steele lived in a fourteenth-floor condominium near the center of the city. The doorman looked like an ex-wrestler and there was a television camera in the elevator. It was obviously a place for people who worried about security. Her apartment was large and well furnished, with a fine view of the river, but Libby’s first impression when she entered was the sweetish odor of marijuana smoke that accompanied the leather-jacketed young man who was just leaving.
He passed her without speaking and Libby asked, “Who was that?”
“Sonny Ritz, an old pal from before I hit the big time. I figured I needed one last night of kicks before I went on the wagon.”
“Did he supply the pot?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he your pusher?”
“I told you, he’s an old friend.” She hadn’t yet gotten around to making up her eyes and the rest of her face, and Libby saw something sweet and almost innocent about her face.
“Is there any more pot around?” Libby asked her.
Krista shook her head. “Search the place if you don’t believe me. Want some breakfast?”
“I already ate, but I’ll take another cup of coffee.”
Krista was wearing a lounging robe that had started to come open, and she seemed to have nothing on beneath it. “So tell me about yourself,” she said in the kitchen. “If we’re going to be together all the time I guess I should know what I hired.”
“I used to be a policewoman,” Libby said. “Now I run this protection business.”
“Are you married?” Krista opened a can of food for a large aggressive white cat that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Libby shook her head. “My boyfriend was killed. He was a cop, too. He was involved in a cocaine scandal and smashed up his car.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Krista asked, pouring some coffee.
“Because you asked me. Because I thought maybe you’d be interested in knowing that cocaine almost ruined my life, too.”
“I get all the lectures I need from Matt.” Krista went into the bedroom and started to dress.
Libby followed her. “How old are you, Krista?”
“Twenty-four. I started out in a Greenwich Village club and hit it big with the theme from August Heat. They did a neat video of me dancing around a fireman while he squirted his hose at me. The kids went wild with it and the album sold a couple of million copies. Now I’m doing more albums and I’ve got the concerts coming up. Maybe you saw me on that late-night show last Friday.”
“No, I’ve never seen you. But I’m sure you’re good.”
“Fox wants me to star in a movie after my tour. I’m thinking about it. That’s one reason why Matt wants me off the stuff. He says it’s ruining my career. God. he’s worse than my father!”
“Where are your folks?”
“They live outside Chicago. I haven’t seen them in a year, but I send money home once in a while. You grow away from them in this business, you know?”
She had pulled on tight jeans and a blouse, which Libby supposed must be her recording costume. “What time are you due at the studio?”
“Whenever I get there.” She started combing her hair. The earring had apparently stayed in her right ear all night. “Do you carry a gun?”
“Sure,” Libby said.
“Where?”
“In my purse. Sometimes under my clothes.”
“Where under your clothes?”
“Strapped to my thigh.”
“That must be a real kick.”
“It’s damned uncomfortable, if you want to know,” Libby said.
They rode down in the elevator to the basement and walked directly to an underground parking garage for tenants. Libby saw no sign of a parking attendant and decided the security wasn’t that great after all.
Krista insisted on driving and took the wheel of the little white sportscar as if she’d been born with it in her hands. Weaving in and out of the morning traffic, they arrived at the suburban recording studio in fifteen minutes. ”Matt keeps telling me I should record in Nashville, and I’m going to after this record,” she said as they entered the building. “But Shawn Gibbs has been good to me. His setup’s the best in town. Here are a couple of full-sized-studios and behind this blank wall is another one he rarely uses.”
Gibbs, a tense, balding man with hornrimmed glasses, was pacing the corridor awaiting Krista’s arrival. “The musicians have been tuning up for an hour,” he told her. “We have to pay them, you know.”
Krista kissed him lightly on the cheek. “This is Libby Knowles. She’s my bodyguard.”
He shook Libby’s hand limply, not giving her a second look. Inside the studio, Matt Milton seemed relieved to see Libby. “You’re late. I was worried,” he said.
Krista dropped her purse and sunglasses on a chair and accepted some sheet music from a bearded young man with an electric guitar. “Fill me in on some of these people,” Libby said to Matt.
“The beard with the guitar is Zap Richards. He’s Krista’s arranger and composes some of her songs, too. He did the August Heat theme. They’ve been friends for years. The rest are local musicians Shawn hires for the sessions.”
Libby glanced around at the expensive equipment. “He seems to be really big time.”
“He is now, since Krista hit the top. He’d be lost without her.”
“Do you know someone named Sonny Ritz?”
The agent frowned. “That crud! Has he been around?”
“He was at her apartment when I arrived this morning.”
“Don’t let him near her again.” Milton said firmly, “or sure as hell he’ll slip her something she shouldn’t have.”
They started recording the first number and Libby settled back to enjoy it. Krista Steele’s voice was a surprise, deep and mellow and assured. She needed very few tricks to put across the song. She built to a climax that brought enthusiastic applause from Matt and Shawn outside the recording booth, and Zap Richards put aside his guitar to give her a hug. But she wasn’t satisfied and insisted that they run through it once more before it sounded right to her.
The second number was just as good, but on the third one she started having trouble. Twice she stopped in the middle, and the third time she still wasn’t satisfied. Finally, she called for a break and picked up her purse, heading for the ladies’ room.
“Go with her,” Milton told Libby. “Make sure she doesn’t take anything.”
Libby was following Krista when Zap Richards emerged from the studio to block her path. “She just needs to freshen up,” he said. “She won’t be a minute.” His long slender fingers caught Libby’s arm but she brushed them away.
“Neither will I,” she said.
Krista was standing on one of the toilet seats, reaching up through a ceiling panel. Her hand reappeared with a plastic envelope full of white powder. Libby quickly crossed the tiled floor and grabbed it from her. “I’ll take that.”
“No! I need it to get me started for this next number!” Krista tried to claw the envelope out of Libby’s hand, but Libby ripped it open and poured the cocaine into the toilet.