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“Yes, I've heard of him. Can’t say that I have really followed his music, but I know who he is, more or less.”
I flex my wrists and smile thinly, wishing I could take it all back now.
“Well… just… let me look into a little bit, okay? There might be an opportunity there,” I suggest, trying to conceal just how out on a limb I am. Who the heck do I think I am?
“Look into what?”
She pushes her hair behind her ears, obviously intrigued. I think I see a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. Maybe she suspects how unlikely my offer is, or maybe she's just glad that I'm trying to be such a team player.
“Well to be honest, I'm not sure there's anything there,” I confess. “But I have it on good authority that he's here, in town. He does these secret recording sessions. Maybe there's a protection detail or something like that. I will try to find out.”
Tipping her head to the side, she regards me for long seconds. I almost want to tell her that I don't know what I'm talking about, that I'm just repeating something that August said even though I have absolutely no right to do that. Or maybe I should just bolt out of the room. I should just clean out my desk and hustle my ass back down to my little Escort and leave. But instead of that, I sit up straighter, trying to pretend like I even know what I'm talking about.
“Dahlia, that sounds like a good idea. Why don’t you to look into that for me, see if there’s something there. Don't tell anyone else — are we understood? Just between us, for now.”
I nod tightly. “I can do that.”
She smiles, one of rare times I've actually seen a smile on her face that didn't look false and sculpted. A real smile.
“All right then. I’ve got a lot of work to do here. Let me know what you find out.”
As I hustle back to my desk, I wonder, just what the hell do I think I am doing?
Chapter 27
August
Empty Chair Recording Studios was founded by a rap artist from Los Angeles, who took the advantages of his meteoric rise and parlayed them into an entire empire. Clothing endorsements, a line of Adidas sneakers named after him, the occasional HuffPo article, movie walk-ons, multiple walks on the red carpet. Your fairytale rags to riches story, personified.
Since you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a recording studio in LA, he decided to distribute his home base all over the United States. He founded several discreet recording spaces in secret locations, letting people in on the secret one by one.
Outside of Chicago and Minneapolis, I know there are three more scattered around the southern United States. This is the only one on the eastern seaboard. It's one of those secret locations that everybody seems to know about, but nobody seems to have all the right information.
From the outside, it looks like it might even be a parking garage. It's a four-story structure, with geometric concrete lines fitted into each other. It almost looks like one of those Soviet-era cons
tructions, or maybe a private prison. Windows are small and inset, like the archery outposts in medieval castles. From the ground level, a casual passerby wouldn’t even be able to find the way inside.
There’s no sound, no lights, no way to know even if there are hundreds of people in the building. It’s a fortress. I really do admire this building quite a bit. Couldn't have designed it better myself.
After punching an access code into the hidden gate, I roll my BMW into the underground parking garage. There are two vehicles in here that I don't recognize, indicating that Kirkman has been distributing the security code to visitors, which he is not supposed to do. Anyone who's brought in is supposed to go through the metal detector and retinal scanner, as well as being checked by a security guard against the manifest of approved persons. They're certainly not supposed to be given any of the codes. I'm going to have to remember to change those.
The building is four stories, plus the basement which houses the swimming pool as well as the parking garage. The first floor is a large performance space, complete with a fully stocked bar and closed-circuit video displays. There is luxurious stadium seating as well as a lighted dance floor. That was installed after Prince performed here the second time. Prince always loved for people to dance at his shows.
The second two floors are all recording studios. From what I understand, they are state-of-the-art, with rooms designed in various sizes for the kinds of artists that are going to be recorded. There are tiny, coffin like rooms for particular kinds of singers, then slightly larger rooms for groups, then cavernous spaces for ensembles to play while they stare at each other, like an old-fashioned theater arrangement.
The mixing boards are extravagant, with thousands of knobs and dials. There are two qualified sound engineers that I'm aware of. Two of them are on the personnel profiles that I received, anyway. Kirkman bought his own, but he left shortly after, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task.
And then the top floor is the matching penthouse suites. That's where I need to go first. That's why I received a phone call at five-thirty this morning.
I thumb the button for the penthouse and wait for the elevator to shoot silently to that level. I know instantly which one I'm supposed to investigate: the door is still ajar.
I don't see Kirkman. As I walk quietly from room to room, careful not to disturb anything, I take mental notes. Sofa cushions are strewn on the floor, two end tables lay on their sides with the contents spilled.
The granite countertops in the kitchen are littered with near-empty glasses and bottles, even red plastic cups for some reason. Looks like they attempted a game of beer pong at some point. One of the light fixtures flickers erratically.
But Kirkman is not present. I head back for the elevator and decide to try the second floor. As soon as enter the hallway, I see a light is on in one of the control booths. Clenching my jaw, I head that way.
Kirkman East sits — or rather, lays — across a lilac leather sofa, the heels of his boots digging dents into the cushions that I hope will eventually reinflate. It’s not my sofa,or I would tell him to move his feet.
