Page 1 of Layla

John

I’ve been sitting in this drab, cluttered office in the bowels of a rundown theater for less than five minutes and I’m already starting to think this whole thing is a bad idea.

I try to tell myself that I’m just tired. I’ve been going from assignment to assignment for months now, it’s only natural that I would start feeling rundown.

But I can’t seem to shake the nagging voice in my head.Is this really how you want to spend your time?Funny how that voice sounds an awful lot like my father’s. It’s a legit question though. When I mapped out a plan for my life, never in a million years did I imagine I would end up here.

A burst of noise startles me as the door behind me swings open, and my uncertainty jumps up another notch. The persistent clamor of this place is not helping to calm my agitation.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” The man looks frazzled as he steps around my chair to the rickety-looking desk in front of me. “Heaven forbid we make it through one show without all hell breaking loose.”

I don’t really get the sense he’s talking to me, so I don’t respond. In my experience, a man can get a much better sense of a situation by keeping his mouth shut.

“Sorry,” he says again, sitting down. His eyes meet mine across the desk. I’m pretty good at reading people, and my earlier impression of him being frazzled seems dead on. He’s definitely stressed. But there’s something else there, too.

Fear. This guy is legitimately afraid.

“I’m Louis Pander.” He holds his hand across the desk and I shake it. “How much do you know?”

I straighten a little in my chair, eager to get down to business. “The label gave me the basics. One of the band members has been receiving threatening letters,” I say. “Which have now escalated to phone calls and at least three incidents where he got close enough to photograph her.”

He nods and for a moment the fear in his eyes sharpens. “This kind of thing isn’t uncommon in our line of work,” he says, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “But we had an incident with another band member a few years ago…we take this seriously.”

Of course, I know about that, too. I did my research before stepping into this room. Apparently, the lead singer attracted a stalker several years ago, which culminated in an armed kidnapping attempt. But this case isn’t about the singer.

“Can you tell me about your current security measures?”

He rubs his forehead again. “Venues provide general security. We also employ two full time bodyguards to travel with the band whenever they’re somewhere besides the venue.”

“They travel on the tour bus?”

“On the crew bus, yes.”

I frown. I don’t really like that distance between the subject and the security.

“Where else might the band be required to be?” I ask. “Besides the bus and the concert venues.”

“Sometimes we spend the night at hotels, obviously. The band might visit restaurants or bars before and after shows. Sometimes they do some sightseeing. They also typically have promotion stops on their schedule—radio stations, local TV, things like that.”

“And the security team accompanies them to all of this?”

He shifts a little. “Usually only when they’re all together. Or when one or more of them are doing something in an official band capacity.”

My frown deepens. I don’t like that, either.

“Obviously we’re looking to step things up,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Like I said, we take these things seriously.”

“Can I see the letters?”

He reaches for a file on the desk, sliding it across the chipped laminate towards me. “These are copies. Originals are with law enforcement.”

I flick through the letters. They’re all typed on unmarked stationary. It’s the usual kind of thing in cases like this. Lots of compliments, assurances of the sender’s devotion. Begging to meet her. The last few letters are more aggressive, angry comments about her promiscuity, promising her they’ll be seeing each other soon. Detailed accounts of out will happen when he gets to her.

Each one is signed the same way.See you soon, your Wicked Lover.

I put the strange moniker aside for the moment and flip to the last few letters. These came with pictures.

“This is her?” I ask, peering down at the somewhat grainy image, focusing on the details. The woman in it is tall, maybe five nine judging by the placement of the bar behind her. Then again, she could be wearing heels. Long, light hair. The pictures were taken in a dim bar, so it’s hard to tell for sure but I think she might be blond. Her face is half turned away, but she seems to be laughing.